The iCandidate

by Mikael Carlson

  “Some of us have to work hard to look good,” I say, soliciting another fake smile from Jessica. “Some of us just do.”

  The smile disappears from her face as fast as it appeared. Mine, however, lights up the room. “Nice chatting with you, Jess. See ya around.”

  I drop a twenty on the counter next to the register and tell the man to keep the change. Not the smartest move for the budget conscience, but I was desperate to get out of the deli.

  “Thanks. Please come back again!” he says with a wink. I can only speculate whether it’s because he wants to encourage repeat business or a repeat show like the one he just got.

  As much fun as that was, I think I’ll avoid any further contact with the future Mrs. Bennit. I hate having my appearance criticized, but I hate having my integrity as a journalist questioned even more. If there was any good that came from this chat, it’s me realizing the need to keep some distance from Michael and the staff, at least publically.

  I am rooting for him, but to maintain effectiveness, people can’t think I am working for him. I don’t know if Jessica’s comment was based on what she’s noticed or what he has told her. Either way, the snide bitch may have done me a favor without realizing it.

  .

  -FORTY-

  BLAKE

  I am not content to watch the sunset from my familiar perch on the west steps of the Capitol. Today, just a couple of days before the debate, I need to walk.

  The National Mall is just shy of two miles long, offering some of the most beautiful vistas our capital has to offer. My thoughts aren’t dwelling on the beauty of the museums and monuments I pass them though.

  The two weeks following the decision to let Bennit in the debate shook out pretty much like I thought it would. The story about Bennit’s students drinking, cheating, and stealing had disappeared off the front page almost before the ink dried. Considering the media frenzy surrounding his campaign, accusing them of running a dog fighting ring or trafficking heroin would have yielded similar results. Many people put these kids on a pedestal, and they don’t want to hear about mistakes they made.

  For a former soldier and high school teacher, Bennit is a politically savvy guy. He’s smart enough to know voters start paying more attention to campaigns the closer you get to the election, so he shifted the attention away from the staff and onto himself. I’m not sure if it was by design or just an attempt to shield his students from the unwanted scrutiny we initiated. Either way, it has turned out to be a brilliant strategy.

  One reason Bennit is a major threat is because the Republican in the race is a complete idiot. How I wish this was a traditional two-party race. Dick Johnson can’t find a coherent campaign strategy with two hands and a flashlight. Beaumont would have given him a nervous breakdown by now if we had focused all our energy on him.

  Miles Everman instructed his candidate to harp on the attention the media was giving to the students for days after the Bennit camp had changed their strategy. Problem was, the media had already moved on to speculating about what he would say during the debate, making Johnson look like a bigger idiot. I didn’t think that feat was even possible.

  Fueled by teasers his staff was tweeting and posting on Facebook and Google Plus, the Super Bowl sees less analysis than this debate has. Every taste Bennit’s teenage workforce gave the press left reporters begging for more and provided pundits endless material to analyze on their political shows. Pure genius.

  The students are social media ninjas. They understand exactly what needs to be done to get the desired results. Their posts and tweets focus on big ideas while avoiding divisive issues. A politician bloviating about what makes America unique, and what it means to live in a free country sounds contrite, but the kids working for Bennit are sincere. It makes Johnson look petty, and worse, ill-informed.

  We fared little better. I tried to convince the congressman to start attacking Michael Bennit for not addressing the issues facing our nation, but I was ignored. Instead, Madison convinced him to go barnstorming through the district for a week with a message about the money we secured for each town. Despite my warnings, Roger thought the idea of this populist appeal sounded good. It turned out to be a disaster.

  Our own message foundered. The congressman wanted to portray himself as the Sixth District’s personal Robin Hood. Money talks in this country, but a politician dwelling on the pork barrel funding he bleeds from Washington is easy to spin as a negative. Michael Bennit never tweeted about that himself and stuck to the high road. His student’s weren’t shy about it though. Vince Orsini, the kid fast becoming the mouthpiece of their campaign, likened our leveraging cash for votes as ‘a parent threatening to take away a child’s allowance.’

  Chelsea Stanton went a step further in a Tumblr blog post, writing how the congressman was treating voters ‘like they were something he could pick up on the shelves of Wal-Mart.’ I wanted to reply with a message explaining Winston Beaumont would never be caught dead in a discount store, but decided that would hurt more than help. It’s true though.

  Worse of all, everything they tweeted and said on Facebook went viral. Many of their quotes were incorporated into Internet memes and shared all over Facebook. If we spent every dollar our campaign had, we could still have not reached the number of people Bennit had the last couple of weeks.

  Things got so brutal, Roger actually floated the idea past me to hire hackers to take down Bennit’s Twitter, Facebook and other social media accounts. It was not a practical solution to the problem, and I finally convinced him the ensuing public relations disaster if we ever got caught wasn’t worth the short-term benefit. Think Nixon signing off on the Watergate break-in. It’s not something you want to be caught doing a couple of weeks before voters go to the polls.

  As the week began, we looked like pawns in some game of partisan squabbling while Bennit came across as a founding father, without the powdered wig and tricorne hat. Bennit proved ideas are more powerful and persuasive than cheap political platforms. So despite all the appearances and millions spent on television commercials, Beaumont was rewarded by polls that had the race tighter than Steven Tyler’s pants.

  The March of the Rookies had a few tiny missteps, but watching them run this campaign is a little like observing a neurosurgeon with a scalpel. Every move is precise and exceedingly effective. I have no idea how much Bennit is guiding them, but I get the impression that he’s letting the students do much of it on their own.

  If that is the case, I really need to meet Chelsea Stanton. She may be the enemy in this race, but at eighteen years old, she has an eight-term professional politician tied in knots and one of the most respected political operatives in the country searching for answers. No small feat as anyone who knows Winston Beaumont and Roger Bean can attest.

  So, for the last few days, we have devoted all our time to debate preparation. Why an eight-term congressman and lifelong politician would need that much time to prepare is beyond me. Maybe he needed it to review his own voting record, which is admittedly all over the place.

  As I pass in front of the Lincoln Memorial, I begin getting angry. Bennit has taken the opportunity to monopolize the media cycles while both our campaign and Johnson’s are in hiding. It’s embarrassing that a sixteen-year congressional veteran feels compelled to study, while a history teacher acts like he already knows all the answers. Pretty amazing considering the expectations the media set for him to deliver actual positions is so high.

  Am I working for the wrong person? I have never before questioned my loyalty to Roger and the congressman. Six months ago, I would have burned down Congress itself if they asked me to. However, watching Bennit and his students, I wonder if my loyalties are misplaced. Has my ambition blinded me to the fact that I am really working for a cheap salesman and not the distinguished lawmaker I thought I was?

  “Can I help you, son?” I hear a voice in front of me ask. Coming out of my trance, I realize I am standing in front of one of the veteran’s memorabilia boo
ths positioned between the Lincoln Memorial and the Vietnam Veteran’s Memorial.

  “You look like you have the weight of the world on your shoulders,” the grizzled, rather rotund man observes.

  “Uh, yeah, I sorta do.”

  “You ever serve?”

  “Uh, no, sir, my dad did. First Gulf War.” A pang of guilt hits me right in the chest. Dad always wanted me to follow his path, convinced the military was the best way to learn about the values every man needs in life – honor, integrity, and selfless service. “When were you in Vietnam?”

  “Hell, son, don’t be calling me sir. Never did meet an officer worth a damn. Call me John,” he says, removing the “Vietnam Veteran” baseball cap adorned with pins from his head and brushing his long, mostly gray hair back. He puts the hat back on and strokes his beard before continuing. “Sixty-eight to seventy. I did two tours.”

  “You were there for Tet,” I say, a measure of respect in my voice. The Tet Offensive was the turning point of the war, a simultaneous attack by the Viet Cong and North Vietnamese Army during their lunar new year celebration. They lost miserably on the battlefield, but scored a major victory on the American home front. Ho Chi Minh understood politics, too.

  “Yeah, but I was injured for most of it. Got caught in an explosion in Saigon on the third day and woke up in the hospital five days later. You visiting D.C.?”

  “Nah,” I say with a slight laugh. “I work up on the Hill,” I add, gesturing to the imposing marble structure on the far side of the National Mall that houses Congress. The magnificent building is now bathed in artificial light as darkness conquers the final light of the day.

  “Sorry to hear that. The only thing the bastards do in that building for me is raise my taxes and cut my V.A. benefits,” John grumbles in disgust.

  “Yeah. My boss always votes against the Veteran’s Administration.” I only realized what I said after the words left my mouth. John’s face contorts into a mix of disbelief and anger.

  “And you still work for him! What the hell’s the matter with you, son? The guy sounds like a real scumbag. What does your dad think about that?”

  The words cut deeper than any wound he could inflict by stabbing me with a knife. I have always been Beaumont’s loyal foot soldier – doing whatever he deemed necessary for me to do. I wanted to be the go-to guy on the staff and make a name for myself in Washington. Only once have I ever questioned his motives on a vote, and ironically, it was about medical funding for veterans. I only remember because I was ridiculed in front of the other staff because of it.

  Beaumont wants me at the table because I have no conscience. He doesn’t value my opinion. He just needs someone willing to do the unsavory things necessary for him to stay in power. He wants a soldier unhampered by integrity, honor, and a moral compass to execute his orders without prejudice.

  What would my father think about that? What would he think of who I have become and what I have been willing to do to get here? Would he be proud that my ambitions, drive and savvy have propelled me to achieve so much at such a young age in this town? Or would the man who served his nation with honor think of me as a cheap sell-out?

  “My father died two years ago. Gulf War Syndrome,” I tell John, his hard face instantly softening.

  “I’m sorry to hear that, son,” he replies, taking a moment to close his eyes and say a quick prayer for a departed vet.

  “John, can I ask you a question? What do you think of Michael Bennit?” I figure pretty much everybody in the country has at least heard of him at this point.

  “The teacher running for Congress up north?” he asks, getting a nod from me. “Don’t know much about him. But he’s a Green Beret and they don’t just give those things out. He’s gonna bring integrity and leadership to this town if he wins though. From everything I’ve read in the papers, I think he’s gonna fight for his district the same way he fights for those kids on his staff. Is your boss anything like that?” John asks, his eyes narrowing as if to take measure of my response.

  A few months ago, I would argue that Winston Beaumont was all of that and more. Whether I argued because it was true or I was programmed is another matter, one that I’m only now questioning.

  “Thanks for your time, John,” I say as I turn to walk away and start my trip back up the Capitol.

  “Hey, son? What unit did your father serve with in the Gulf?”

  “Second Armored Division out of Germany. Tiger Brigade.”

  John nods, then rummages through the collection of pins in the display cases behind him, pulling out and tossing me a familiar triangle-shaped pin.

  “Thanks,” I say, admiring the red, yellow and blue pin with ‘Hell on Wheels’ printed below it. “How much do I –”

  “On the house. My way of telling your father I appreciated his service to our country. Maybe it will help you find your own direction when the time comes.”

  PART III

  THE ELECTION

  .

  -FORTY-ONE-

  MICHAEL

  Red, white and blue bunting adorns the walls of the new ultra-modern Visual and Performing Arts Center at Western Connecticut State University. The debate is being hosted in the three hundred and fifty seat concert hall instead of the theater which holds an equivalent capacity. It really is a beautiful venue.

  Cameras are set up to cover every imaginable angle of the three podiums on the stage. The backdrop is a blue hue with a subdued American flag billowing across it. It is classy, and not distracting enough to command focus away from the men on the dais. A moderator's table is set up near the center, and people can be seen milling around it making their last-minute preparations for what has been promised to be quite a show.

  An hour before the start of the debate, reporters are already filing live reports with their stations in the space overlooking the stage and seats from the rear of the hall. Some of my students set up camp backstage, securing a good vantage point for the show. Many others including Emilee, Vanessa, Xavier, and Brian are at the coffee shop, ready to conduct a live ‘iBlitzkreig’ over Twitter and Facebook.

  I can’t help but stand in the middle of the large room and soak up the atmosphere. I breathe deep, trying to settle nerves and calm the flock of butterflies in my stomach. I’m not the wreck I thought I would be, but I also understand the gravity of the situation.

  “Still clinging to hope that you can win Michael?” I hear a voice from behind me say, ruining my moment of reflection.

  “Still clinging to the hope that the all you can eat buffet is open after this debate, Miles?”

  I swear my students have a pack mentality, coming to my side and giving the large man a once over as only teenagers can do. I’m more than capable of fighting my own battles, but it’s also nice having a posse of sorts.

  “You’re Miles Everman?” Chelsea asks.

  “Yes. Were you expecting someone else?”

  “You’re just not what we pictured,” Peyton explains.

  “Yeah. Peyton, can you call the organizers of the Macy’s Thanksgiving Day Parade and tell them we found their lost balloon?” Chelsea says in her sweetest voice. Ouch. I thought I hit him below the belt when we first met at Briar Point.

  The students snicker and Miles Everman sneers at them before continuing. “You have no prayer in this debate, Bennit. Beaumont will be gunning for you, making you come across small and weak.”

  “Thus making him out to be a bully, me a pushover, and leaving your guy the Prince Valiant of the race, blah, blah, blah. Is that what you told Dick Johnson? Smile a lot and hope for the best?”

  “It's called a tactic.”

  “Actually, that would be the definition of a strategy. Tactics are how you execute the plan.”

  “So a strategy would be like not ever talking about the issues? Good luck with your ‘tactics’ in that tonight,” Everman says, shaking his head slowly and waddling away toward his candidate.

  Richard Johnson is not exactly what I pictured. I have see
n a headshot of him once, but he is more impressive in person. With his good looks, perfectly coiffed hair and Hollywood smile, a fresh face like his should command more attention in this race. The façade is not the problem with Johnson. What happens when he opens his mouth is.

  I roll my eyes to let Chelsea and Peyton know I am unfazed by the chat with Miles. They grin and we walk backstage to join Vince and Amanda. They scouted out the perfect spot to watch both the stage and televisions tuned in to the various media outlets covering the event.

  “This is the most intensely watched congressional campaign I have seen in my thirty years of political reporting,” one reporter from CBS comments. “Tonight these candidates square off not only in front of the people they want to represent, but an entire country caught up in the drama. The stakes are high. One mistake could spell disaster for the campaigns in the election only one short week away.”

  After burning a half hour with the debate producers reviewing rules and cues for our entrance, I return to where Vince and the girls are camped out backstage. The concert hall is packed, most people already in their seats anticipating the beginning of the political theatrics. Another producer is addressing the audience, explaining the proper decorum they will be expected to adhere to.

  A tap on the shoulder breaks my attention. I turn to see my fiancée standing in front of me with an expression prospective patients wear in a dentist’s waiting room. She kisses me lightly on the lips, a gesture executed more out of habit than love. Calling our relationship tense is like saying gangrene is a mild medical condition.

  “Hi, sweetie. Glad you could come.”

  “Wouldn’t miss it,” she says, lying. Not one for the limelight, she would rather be any place than here.

  Only then did I spot a guy in the Beaumont camp thirty feet away eyeing Chelsea like she is an item on a dessert tray. He is standing with Winston and a few others on the other side of the backstage area. I don’t know what they are discussing, but you would need a machete to cut through the tension.