“You should just drop out of this election and play Jeopardy, Mister Bennit,” Johnson says, throwing a lifeline to his embattled political foe. I have no idea why. I guess he is trying to become relevant in the debate again.
“So now I am too smart to be in Congress, Mister Johnson?” our teacher chides, sending Dick to slink back into the hole he dug himself earlier. This is seriously the most entertaining thing I’ve seen on TV in years. I wonder what the rest of America is thinking right now.
“Are you going to answer my original question, or just narrate for the History Channel all night?” Beaumont decries harshly.
“I will be happy to answer your question, congressman, if you answer this one first. Everyone is endowed by their creator with certain inalienable rights, among them life, liberty, and pursuit of happiness, correct?
Beaumont pauses in a moment of uncertainty. I am sure he doesn’t want to fall into a similar trap that ended his Republican nemesis’ relevance, so he takes a moment to think about it. Oops.
“A copy of the Declaration of Independence is in the book I gave Mister Johnson. When he’s done reading the Constitution, maybe you can borrow—”
“Yes, that’s correct!” Beaumont practically shouts.
“So, as long as I kill someone with a hammer, and not a Sig Sauer 9 millimeter handgun, it’s okay?”
“Of course not, that’s a ridiculous thing to say.”
“I agree. So gun control is not the real issue we are talking about, crime control is. When you, a family member, or friend is a victim of a violent crime, does anyone care whether the weapon was a gun, knife, or even a rock?” Mister Bennit says to the camera. “Yes, we ought to have sensible measures governing use and ownership of firearms in America. Washington’s approach only puts a Band-Aid on the larger issue. Violence is violence, and until we get serious about discussing how to deal with brutality in our culture, the murders, assaults and rapes plaguing our society are going to continue unabated.”
* * *
I was pretty optimistic coming into the debate, but now I’m downright giddy. Mister Bennit is absolutely killing it tonight. Peyton, a girl who only used to only get excited about boy bands and sales at the mall, is as caught up in the moment as I am. My other classmates are equally entranced with the beating Beaumont and Johnson are getting on stage.
The only exception is Miss Slater. I am not going to pretend to understand what is happening between her and Mister B, but she has not even cracked a smile the entire time he’s been out on stage. I thought they were the perfect couple from the instant the rumor mill reported they were dating. Apparently, even perfect couples go through rough patches in their relationships.
The debate is winding down, so everyone backstage is getting a little antsy. The pudgy Miles guy who runs Johnson’s campaign turned out to be all bark and no bite, his bluster replaced with a burning desire to find the bottom of a bottle of Jack Daniel’s.
The people with Beaumont don’t look much better. The handsome, older man is practically pulling his well-styled hair out. The pretty one who looks like a constipated version of Kylie is pacing back and forth, creating a rut in floor. The only one who is calm is the cute younger guy, probably because the creepizoid is more interested in undressing me with his eyes than the happenings on stage.
Male attention is not something I ever crave and rarely receive. Foregoing the daily makeup and hair rituals helps out with that, but tonight is a different story. Since this was our first public appearance for the campaign, Peyton pleaded to let her ‘spruce me up.’ It wasn’t a Princess Diaries level makeover, but even I was amazed what proper makeup application can do for my appearance. She also added some loose, sweeping curls into my straight red hair, and as a result, I look about five years older than I am. My father wasn’t happy, but compliments have been flowing in all evening.
Beaumont is stuttering through another response to a question on stage. He sounds like a complete idiot, even though Kylie keeps telling us he is one of the most articulate voices in Congress. Being caught up in the moment, I never realized the creepy, cute guy had walked over until he was standing next to me. Peyton must think he’s hot too, because she giggles a little before elbowing me gently in the side.
“Your guy is doing well,” I hear him say, catching him looking out of the corner of his eye at me.
“He is doing better than well. He’s kicking your guy's ass.” My harsh, frigid response should serve as a good deterrent to any flirting he wants to do with me.
“Yes, he is. I’m Blake Peoni,” he introduces, offering me his hand. He’s either into harsh and frigid, or at the very least, undeterred by it.”
“Chelsea Stanton,” I state, quickly returning his handshake. “This is Peyton and that’s Amanda.” They give the quick ‘hi gesture’ most teenage girls master in high school when they are talking to a hot guy.
“Can we talk in private?” he whispers to me, ignoring both my peers. I want to say no because I don’t trust him. If we learned one thing during this campaign, it’s Winston Beaumont and his staff are capable of anything. I am curious, and my delay in responding must have been mistaken for consent.
Blake grasps me lightly by the arm, guiding me to a spot near some double doors out of view from the stage and most of the backstage area. Peyton and Vanessa change position so they can see me, although out of earshot. I don’t expect to be attacked or anything with this many people around. Regardless, girls can’t be too careful these days, especially with any scum that works in Washington.
“What do you want, Mister Peoni?” I say to him as he checks behind the doors and looks back to the stage nervously.
“The name’s Blake,” he replies, in a near whisper.
“I have a question for you. Is Bennit a good man? I mean, is he doing this for his own benefit or—”
“I am his campaign manager, Mister Peoni. You knew the answer to that question before you even asked it.”
“Yeah, I probably did.”
“So what’s your angle? Why’d you really pull me over here?”
“No angle. At least, not this time,” he says with a smirk I almost mistake as sincere. “Let me explain why I asked. When we did the homework on your guy, I got a hold of his military record. Do you know what’s in it?” Okay, this guy is pissing me off. Does he think he will turn me on Mister B because of something he did in the army? Is that his plan?
“Let me tell you a little story Mister Peoni. When I was a freshman, my dad was stuck working long shifts at the factory. One day, I missed the bus and just had to wander the halls aimlessly until he could pick me up. The school was new to me, and so big, and I was scared to death. I was shy, and found it hard to make friends. None of them would have been there anyway.
“Mister Bennit saw me wandering down the hall in tears and invited me into his classroom to do my homework while his students were getting extra help. I’ve known him, or been a student of his, ever since. In all that time, he never once told even a single story about his time in the military.” Okay, that’s not entirely true considering his revelation at Briar Point, but this guy doesn’t need to know that. If this lackey is going to drop a bomb on me, I am not going encourage him by pretending I know anything about Mister Bennit’s time in the Special Forces.
“He's not the type to brag about his service, I get it. But the file on Bennit doesn’t lie. He’s a highly decorated veteran and his Distinguished Service Cross was a whisper away from being a Medal of Honor. This is politics and Americans love a hero. Why does he keep his military resume quiet?”
A Distinguished Service Cross? I’ve only heard of it because Dad was a Marine. Is that the medal Kylie was referring to? Damn, that’s not what I was expecting. I wonder what this jerk is up to. I look him directly in the eye to let him know I’m not intimidated, which of course, I am.
“You asked if he was a good man. I think you just answered your own question.”
Blake blinks a couple of times,
but his eyes search my face like a poker player figuring out if the guy who went all in at a hold ‘em table is bluffing. Or maybe I am reading him wrong because he exhales deeply.
“What? Don’t believe me?”
“No, I do,” he says before looking back toward Peyton and Amanda, who are doing a terrible job at trying be disinterested in our chat. “Here’s some inside baseball for you. Winston Beaumont plans to use this next term as a launch pad for a Senate bid, and has his eye on being the majority leader in that house someday. He’s not going to let himself get beaten by someone he considers an upstart.”
I feel my face flush with anger. It could be the word ‘upstart’, which we are, or the fact that this smug staffer thinks he’s so smooth. Either way, I’m getting emotional.
“If you think for a second threatening us is going to intimidate—”
He holds his hands up in surrender and then places a finger over his lips. I realize I’m shouting louder than I wanted and glance around to see if anyone noticed.
“I’m not threatening you. Please don’t get angry.”
“I’m a redhead. I’ll get mad whenever I damn well please!” Does he not know our reputation?
“Okay, okay. Look, I’m not playing games with you. I don’t expect you to believe that—”
“Good, because I don’t,” I blurt out truthfully.
“Miss Stanton, if Winston Beaumont knew I was talking to you tonight I’d be job hunting tomorrow. You guys are running a hell of a campaign. I never thought the race would come down to this. Three months ago, Beaumont was a shoo-in. Now…”
Blake lets his voice trail off just before a thunderous applause erupts from the audience out in the concert hall. I should be out there watching it instead of wasting my time talking to this guy. We both strain to hear what’s happening on stage.
“Now hold on! Just one minute, Mister Bennit!” I hear Beaumont stammer.
“Congressman, I am simply saying it would take a Blue Ribbon House commission six months of study to figure out the rules to musical chairs. Not every problem requires a new law to fix it.”
Blake shakes his head, almost in approval of the flogging his boss is getting. “Now the equation has changed, and I just wanted to warn you to watch your back, Chelsea,” he says, nodding over toward the stage where the debate is still raging. “And his.”
Is his warning sincere? Why would he level with me? He squeezes my shoulder gently and walks toward the stage past Peyton and Amanda, who try to check him out as discretely as they can. They look back at me with inquisitive faces, but I really don’t know what to say to them.
After tonight’s debate, Congressman Beaumont will be on the ropes. I may only be a high school student, but even a third grader recognizes a beating on the playground when he sees it. So if a storms coming our way, what benefit would he have in telling us? I can’t think of one. Blake Peoni can’t be trusted, right?
No use trying to convince myself. I will talk it over with the group and see what they say. Maybe Kylie can offer some insight on the matter later on. Peyton and Amanda have been joined by Vince, and I meet them at our original backstage vantage point. The closing statements have to be coming soon, and I don’t want to miss this.
“What was that about?” Peyton whispers.
“We were just discussing which woman was going to get the final rose on The Bachelor,” I reply with a hint of a wry smile as I go back to watching the screen we are all huddled around.
.
-FORTY-FOUR-
MICHAEL
“And furthermore, Michael Bennit told you nothing tonight about how he regards the issues facing America today,” Dick Johnson says, hoping the viewers at home tuned in late and missed the first eighty-five minutes of the debate. “All he has been willing to do is talk about ideas, and ladies and gentlemen, ideas aren’t important to how you govern. Thank you, and I hope for your vote on the ballot next Tuesday.”
The audience gives a polite, albeit weak applause. Johnson ad-libbed his final words, but after tonight’s performance, he had nothing to lose by doing so. A modern version of the Gettysburg Address would not be compelling enough to recover from his earlier gaffe, and Dick is no Abraham Lincoln.
Beaumont had scripted, or at least mostly scripted his closing statements and it showed. He sounded like a salesman offering up snake oil to treat whatever ails the American public. He keeps going back to the same well, not realizing it no longer holds water. We don’t need to convince the voters that the Beaumont campaign is old and tired when the man himself is so capable of doing it for us.
“Mister Bennit, you may make your closing statement,” the moderator deadpans.
I don’t need to stick the landing on this. I developed a good message long before I came onto stage and could simply stay on script. Eh, what fun would that be? If I can’t think on my feet when the pressure is on, I have no business being here.
“America is more than just a nation, it’s an idea. A radical idea that began years before the American Revolution and grew to become the gold standard of democracy around the globe. A glimmering hope of what a free society can accomplish in a world dominated by a millennia worth of tyrants, monarchs and despots. Our republic is reaching a crossroads though. The idea of America only works if we trust the people elected to represent us.”
“We are losing faith in our elected officials. Politicians have never been regarded as scrupulous, but the rise of the information age has shown us our representatives are no longer instruments of the people, but of themselves and the special interests that finance them. We have allowed it to happen, so maybe that’s what we deserve to get.”
You could hear a pin drop in the concert hall.
“I stand before you as a simple teacher, an Army veteran, and a candidate that is beholden to no one. I have no political action committee polluting the airwaves on my behalf, nor am I in the pocket of big oil, big tobacco or big business. Mayors and councilmen from around the district do not come out to support me because of favors I have done for them in the past.
“Despite my lack of political connections and experience, I am not naïve enough to think I can sweep into Washington and change the face of politics there. I can only offer to change it here.
“What you see is what you get. I have no hidden agenda, nor any special interests to placate. Like I did in the military, I simply want to serve the people of my district and this nation in the manner the Framers imagined. Not as a career politician or wealthy elitist, but as the people’s voice in the house created for them.
“So I am not going to make promises up here I have no intention of keeping, or pledge my support to bills not yet written to win your vote. I only promise to represent you the way you were intended to be represented. After all, that’s what the people of the Connecticut Sixth District really deserve. Thank you for spending your time listening to us this evening.”
The slow audience applause grows into a deafening roar and standing ovation as the moderator turns to the camera to close out the debate. I’m on an adrenaline high, exhausted, and exhilarated all at the same time. This has been an amazing experience, but I’m also thrilled my ninety minutes under the lights is over.
I move with the other candidates to the middle of the stage and we all shake hands. Winston Beaumont is sweating like he just finished a half-marathon. I’m guessing more than the heat of the lights is causing that reaction. Dick Johnson may appear physically healthy to the camera, but his voice has the downtrodden tone of a defeated man. This was his coup de grâce. He understands his race is over.
Sneaking a quick peek off stage, I make out Chelsea, Amanda, Peyton, and Vince all gathered together just off stage in barely stifled enthusiasm. Jessica is standing behind them wearing a look of complete indifference. She could at least try to look happy for me, even if she isn’t.
I walk over to the edge of the stage and shake hands with the moderator. Beaumont comes up on my right and follows suit. Johnson has al
ready fled the scene, happy to put this debacle behind him, I’m sure.
“You think your sarcastic wit and empty rhetoric gained anything tonight?” Beaumont says under his breath from beside me. He’s waving to the audience like he just finished his third curtain call to an enthusiastic crowd at a rock concert. “You are clearly not cut out for this Bennit. You sounded like a fool.” Yeah, says the eight-term incumbent so popular he is waving to empty seats.
“Talking about America is hardly ‘empty rhetoric’, congressman,” I say, giving a wave to a throng of people in front trying to get my attention. “Nor is being true to what was produced in the summer of 1787.”
“You think that matters? You’re naïve.”
The cameras covering the debate go dark and the lonely stage once occupied by just the three of us now feels like a subway station at rush hour. The house lights are turned back up, reducing the glare of lighting coming from the rear of the hall as reporters begin their on-scene analysis for their respective news organizations.
“Half the country is polling this race tonight, Winston.” I turn to gaze him dead in his reddening face. “Guess we’ll see just how naïve come tomorrow.”
.
-FORTY-FIVE-
KYLIE
After watching tonight’s bludgeoning, there’s pep in my step as I head out of the concert hall and into the parking lot. Debates are challenging, mentally draining, and often disasters for first-timers. Squaring off against a seasoned incumbent, like Winston Beaumont, makes the task much more daunting. Winning under those circumstances, without taking a definitive stand on a single issue, registers as impossible.
Somehow, Michael did it. He won over the audience and the vast majority of the press covering the debate pronounced him the clear winner. I lost my objectivity weeks ago, but there is no wishful thinking involved when hearing reporters use words like ‘landslide’ and ‘drubbing.’ The performance tonight is going to mean a significant bump in the polls for him. Winston Beaumont is in serious trouble, and that’s like emotional bubble wrap for me.
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