“Big night tonight, right Blake?” a volunteer asks me with a slap on the shoulder as he walks by. I have no idea who he is.
“The biggest,” I say, eliciting a smile of glee from the puffy man as he continues to the table with the donuts and coffee for an afternoon snack.
The people around me are oblivious to the battle I am waging with myself. Confused and lost, I have become my own worst enemy. The internal drive that pushed me to do Beaumont and Roger’s dirty work is the same drive pushing me to undo it.
This isn’t going to help Bennit much, but maybe it helps validate the denials they already issued. Too much damage has already been done, and our campaign can spin this tweet as hacking, a rogue staffer, or a practical joke. No, a tweet alone won’t get it done, and am I prepared to go all the way with this?
I look at the triangular Second Armored pin in front of me. My father’s old unit, a token of remembrance and a gift from an old, broken man with more courage and honor than I will ever have. He was ready to fight and die for the men next to him, just like my father was. They were warriors who fought their battle, now it’s time for me to fight mine. I affix the pin to my lapel, and once satisfied with its position, look back at the screen.
“Screw it.” I press tweet and watch as the message post to the feed for the world to see:
Bennit and media are asking who could be so deplorable as to fabricate an affair with a student. Simple. We are. I know because I did it. #Beaumontlies
.
-FIFTY-SIX-
KYLIE
I ignore my Twitter feed more often than I read it, and today was no different. I didn’t know it happened until a colleague covering the race showed me the tweet. That and the simple message set off a firestorm of activity around me within seconds of it posting.
For the last five hours, I have been with the media in the far recesses of Laura’s coffee shop parking lot trying to figure out who sent it and why. The Beaumont spin doctors immediately went into defense mode, offering a litany of excuses for the tweet that ranged from hacking, to being victims of a disgruntled campaign volunteer. While the excuses satisfied unobjective Beaumont supporters, the rest of us are on a mission to find the truth.
Media organizations rarely cooperate in the race to scoop each other, but reporters on the ground covering this campaign have created an atmosphere comparable to a fraternity. This tweet means ratings for everyone, and finding the source guarantees a huge audience going into Election Day. For that reason, I have been treated to the rare sight of reporters and journalists working together and comparing notes, two hours before the eleven o’clock news airs.
I am chatting with a young reporter from the CBS affiliate in Hartford when someone spots him walking toward us. Even under the glow of parking lot lighting, he looks sharp, decked out in a navy blue suit and a pin on his lapel. Blake Peoni makes it thirty feet from me before the mass of microphone-clad humanity blocks any further progress. No member of the Beaumont campaign would dare show up here, and I sense something special is about to happen.
Not being a television journalist, there is no need for me to be standing here. I also know that the staff inside is too focused to be watching the news. I run for Laura’s door and barge through, only to be greeted by Michael standing in front of me with a worried look on his face.
“What the hell is going on out there? Why are you running?” I hear Michael ask, as I brush past him to get to the counter.
“Can you change the channel to the news, Laura?” I ask, looking back to see half the students staring at me and the other half gawking out the window at the flurry of activity where members of the press are camped out.
“Sure, dear. Any particular station?”
“Just pick one. Any of the cable news networks will carry this live. You guys are going to want to see this,” I shout over my shoulder at the gang, beckoning them over to the large plasma screen hung on the wall with a sense of urgency.
Laura changes the channel to CNN and the unmistakable image of the Perkfect Buzz parking lot fills the television. Cameramen are rushing over to Blake like bees responding to a wasp attacking their hive, reminding me a little of how Chelsea, Bruce, and Michael were ambushed on her front lawn. The camera finally focuses on Blake when he begins to speak.
“My name is Blake Peoni, and I am a key advisor to Representative Winston Beaumont and the Beaumont for Congress campaign,” he says in preamble. “As you have reported, there was a tweet sent from our campaign Twitter account several hours ago accepting responsibility for manufacturing allegations of an affair between Michael Bennit and his student, Chelsea Stanton.
“Since then, the campaign has offered several plausible reasons why the tweet was sent in error, causing confusion among the media and the voters. I’m here to clear up any uncertainty.”
Reporters and journalists begin shouting questions, causing Blake to pause until he can finish.
“This ought to be interesting,” Vanessa mumbles aloud. “I wonder what fresh excuse they have this time.”
“I can tell you with one hundred percent certainty that the message in question was not sent by a hacker or a disgruntled staffer, Blake continues. “I know this because I’m the one who sent it.”
As a journalist, I try to hide my reaction when something surprises me. In this case, my jaw drops. Vanessa and Amanda gasp and even Michael looks like he can’t believe what he’s hearing. Even his Magic 8-Ball would never have predicted this.
The gaggle erupts with questions, and once again, Blake has to struggle to quiet them and continue speaking.
“Furthermore … furthermore, the content of the tweet is also accurate. The knowledge I have of the Beaumont campaign creating this story is not second-hand. I was in the room when the decision was made to pursue this course of action because we were struggling in the polls.”
Blake still isn’t finished, but the reporters around them have been silent for thirty seconds longer than they usually can stay quiet. Another flood of questions ends with a reporter from the Connecticut NBC affiliate right in front of him, holding a microphone in his face, getting one in.
“Do you know who specifically in the campaign leaked the fake story of the affair?”
“Yes, I do.”
“Who was it?” a chorus of people sing out simultaneously. Blake looks around at the reporters and into the cameras. Only a few seconds elapse, but it feels like a lifetime.
“Me.”
.
-FIFTY-SEVEN-
MICHAEL
“It’s Election Day in America and people from across the country are heading to the polls in this pivotal mid-term election. There are a lot of tight races this year, and while the balance of power in Congress is at stake, all eyes are riveted on the Connecticut Sixth District.”
Video footage rolls of me at my polling place. As usual, I didn’t make any statements, but I guess seeing me out in public is enough for the media in this race. The highlight reel then shifts to the polling station where Winston casts his ballot.
“Both Michael Bennit and Winston Beaumont have been to the polls to cast their vote this morning, and now the people are lining up to do the same in towns and cities across the district.”
Compared to the orgasm the media had after the Blake Peoni impromptu tell-all last night, no coverage is going to seem interesting to me until after the polls close. Bored, I change the channel to see what other stations are covering. Fox News has a roundtable discussion of sorts on, and the subject matter is, not surprisingly, about the Connecticut Sixth. I flip over to CNN where an anchor narrates more video footage of towns in the district.
“It has been a rollercoaster week following the debate and the apparently fabricated allegations about an affair between Michael Bennit and his teenage student campaign manager. But the dramatic turn of events following the admission from a Beaumont staff member of making the incident up makes this the race to watch tonight. Winston Beaumont and Michael Bennit are in a
statistical tie according to Real Clear Politics, with Republican Richard Johnson a distant third.“
Police direct traffic and erect barriers to control pedestrian traffic on a city street outside one of our more urban voting districts. From the looks of it, the scene is probably somewhere in neighboring Waterbury.
“A record turnout is expected, and no one can predict the outcome of this race. What we do know is it will be a very interesting evening once the polls close here at 8 p.m.”
I change the channel again, much to the chagrin of the pretty brunette curled up in an overstuffed chair to my left.
“It’s two o’clock. Are you going to sit and watch TV all day?” Kylie asks.
“Coming from the girl comfortably ensconced in my favorite chair? I’m still suspended, remember? What’s your excuse? Is this how you always do deep background reporting?”
“Only with the cute candidates. Why, are you afraid CNN will report that I’m lounging in your favorite chair?”
“They probably would. Nothing stopped them from making the end of my engagement public knowledge.” And that’s true. I must have watched the video of Jessica storming out a few dozen time on Fox News.
“Would you rather have me sitting on Winston Beaumont’s couch instead?” Kylie asks, sporting a look of disgust.
“Why not? Beaumont doesn’t do it for you?”
“Okay, now you’re just making me nauseous.”
We share a laugh, because I know what she means. Winston has been stuffing himself with prime rib for years, and wouldn’t recognize a treadmill if I installed one in his living room. I can imagine that even in his younger years, a century or two ago, he’s not someone you’d expect to see popping out of an Abercrombie and Fitch catalogue. More likely he’d be confused for wildlife in Field and Stream or National Geographic.
I sit up a little straighter on the couch, realizing this subject must be broached eventually. Procrastinating all morning, I realize it’s getting too late in the day to delay any longer.
“Kylie, I have one more favor I need you to do for me, regardless of what happens tonight.”
“No, I’m not writing it.” Either the girl is psychic or has been waiting for me to bring this up for as long as I have been putting off asking.
“You have to.”
“If you win, and I write that, it will destroy any chance you have to be reelected, or even make a difference while you’re there.”
“Maybe, if I win. But if you don’t write it, this was all for nothing.”
“You are calling being a member of the U.S. House of Representatives nothing?”
She’s right. I am a history teacher, so I know exactly what she means. As a soldier, defending the people of this nation is a powerful motivator. But there is no higher honor than being elected by a group of citizens to represent their voice in government. Maybe I’m an idealist. I know Winston Beaumont thinks so, but that’s how I feel.
“No, you’re right, but I also told you it has never been the point. Promise me.”
Kylie nods, but I can tell she wants nothing to do with writing this article. “They’ll get it on their own,” she states, not sounding like she really believes it.
“Not in light of the scandals and post-election jockeying for power.” I lean forward, my eyes pleading with her. “You are close to this campaign. If it comes from anyone else, it’ll be dismissed as partisan reporting. I need you to do this. It has to be you. Promise me.”
“You’re asking a lot.”
“And you have already given more to this campaign than I could ever ask, but I’m doing it anyway,” I say, pleading with her with my eyes. “Promise me.”
“Okay.”
I smile. “Say it.”
“Fine, I promise.”
.
-FIFTY-EIGHT-
CHELSEA
On Election Day, 8 p.m. is when the magic begins to happen in Connecticut. Polls close and the laborious task of counting and certifying results starts. For this first time in months, there is nothing more that can be done. The tweets, Facebook posts, and emails are all for fun now, or to thank the many volunteers who took up our cause across the district.
We probably have the money to host a fancy shindig at a ballroom or meeting place, but the Perkfect Buzz was where this ride started, and thus we decided that’s where it would end. Laura agreed to close the place down tonight for the occasion, and even found someone to cater the event.
Despite this being our operations center since the beginning, except for the ever-present media, the shop never betrayed that fact until tonight. The exterior is now adorned with red, white and blue bunting and a large sign that reads ‘Bennit Campaign Headquarters.’
Outside the locked doors, it’s bedlam. Red and blue flashing lights pierce the dimly lit street as police try to control traffic moving past. As has been the status quo for months now, there are news vans everywhere, and several reporters are filing live reports under the glare of lights. It may be a national mid-term election, but the epicenter of interest is the little town of Millfield.
Crowds of locals are gathering across the street and in the center of town, not far away, in a show of solidarity and support. It’s as if people sense history is being made tonight and everybody wants to be a part of it. If they can’t be with us when the results come in, they want to be celebrating at close proximity.
Everyone in the Buzz is there by invitation only, a group comprised mostly of students and volunteers willing to make the trip from across the district on the big night. Many of them are posing for pictures with Michael, who despite maintaining a near exclusive social media presence, has spent the last couple of hours working the room and thanking the dozens of people now filling the quaint coffee shop to capacity.
The sounds of idle chatter fills the space, but everyone is keeping an eye focused on the large flat screen television now tuned to one of the network news stations. Leading up until the hour the polls closed in many East Coast states, much of the discussion centered on Mister Bennit and the race against Beaumont. Now, as results pour in and other races are determined, we are only mentioned every few minutes or so.
I am standing in the back of the shop with my father when Mister Bennit finally works his way over to us. He shakes my father’s hand and gives him a respectful nod.
“Whatever happens tonight, Chels, I am extremely proud of you.”
“Be proud when we win, Mister B,” I state with excitement and determination.
“Whatever happened to that shy girl who used to sit in my classroom and study after school?”
“Some former Green Beret teacher she had in school brought her out of her shell and taught her to kick ass.”
My dad gives him a nod in respect. The Army and Marines may have their rivalry, but there is nothing except mutual respect between the two most important figures in my life.
Amanda, Emilee, and Vince try to shush people from the other side of the room. Brian turns the volume up on the television. Updates on races from across the country as graphics scroll along the bottom, but the split screen shows the anchor and a graphic of the CT-6 District.
“The race everyone in America is watching tonight is in Connecticut, where eight-term incumbent Democrat Winston Beaumont is in the fight of his life with Independent Michael Bennit,” the anchor says, the excitement noticeable in his otherwise professional voice.
“Enough with the preamble give us the numbers!” a voice from behind me calls out before being hushed.
“This contest has seen its share of accusations, counter-accusations, and wild point swings, with both candidates having double-digit leads at some point during the last month. Going into yesterday, it looked like Winston Beaumont was a lock for a ninth term with such a large lead.”
A chorus of sharp boos sound out around me, mostly from the many students here who helped with the campaign. Countless volunteers fled the campaign during our darkest days, a group Mister B came to call ‘sunshine pa
triots.’ Many others stuck with us, and we jammed as many of them into the Perkfect Buzz tonight as the fire marshal would allow.
“However, Blake Peoni’s admission of fabricating the allegation of a sexual relationship between Michael Bennit and student campaign manager Chelsea Stanton has tilted the momentum back towards the iCandidate. The only thing we need to learn now is, was it enough?”
“C’mon, get on with it. Geez!” Vince shouts in frustration.
“We will have to wait until a little later to find out. With fifty-six percent of the precincts reporting, the race between Democratic incumbent Winston Beaumont and Independent candidate Michael Bennit is a dead heat and remains too close to call,” the anchorman dramatically announces.
“The last count had Bennit down over a hundred votes, but he’s gained ground, now only thirty-seven votes separating the two. What we do know is Richard Johnson is a non-factor at this point, with only eight percent of the vote.”
A huge cheer goes up from the crowd at The Perkfect Buzz. Apparently, everyone is excited to only be down by a couple of handfuls of votes. I, on the other hand, am angry. We shouldn’t be losing at all. The story about the affair was a fraud perpetrated by the weak and the scared, yet it looks like not everyone in the district got the message.
My father must have read my mind, because he puts his arm around me. “It’ll be okay, Snuggle Bear,” he mouths to me with a wink. Maybe, but right now I’m not so sure.
.
-FIFTY-NINE-
BLAKE
“You have some nerve to show up here!” Deena screeches, her little arms flailing around her as I walk in the door to Winston Beaumont’s campaign headquarters.
Does the Ice Queen think I want to be here, especially on election night? As Roger eloquently pointed out, I’m still getting paid by the congressman, and thus will report to my appointed place of duty. Hindsight being 20/20, I should have quit before I decided to bear my soul to the press.
The iCandidate Page 26
