by A. C. Fuller
Malcolm stands in a raised DJ booth, wearing the same black slacks and blue blazer as before, but now with a white Golden State Warriors t-shirt underneath. He's toying with the crowd, which works itself into a frenzy as the single high note continues for at least ten seconds.
Then, he drops the beat.
A chunky hip-hop track below laser sounds, beeps, hisses, and layer after layer of wavy synth. The small crowd in the center of the dance floor goes nuts. Dozens of onlookers rush to the center to join in the dancing.
Peter touches my hand. "Mia?"
His eyes are fixed on mine. He's been watching me watch the scene.
"What do you say to my offer?"
It might be the mention of my father, or the shock of Peter's offer, or possibly just the fact that I've had two and a half Blade Runner Cowboys and Malcolm is shredding the room with his mix, but there is no way I'm going to talk anymore.
"Do you dance?" I ask.
Before he can respond, I grab his hand and drag him to the center of the crowd.
Peter is a better dancer than I expect, and, for the first time, he seems to be having fun. But he hasn't relaxed his intensity. In fact, he's krumping like a madman. Arm jabs, stomps, and chest pops have taken over his body in an energetic burst that, when combined with the maroon lighting, make him look like the star of an energy drink commercial.
The scene is made even stranger by the fact that, twelve hours earlier, I was on the train to the airport, eating oatmeal out of one of those paper tubs from Starbucks, trying to decide what show to binge-watch over the weekend. Now I'm cutting a rug with a hot billionaire who just offered me five million dollars. And he can move, too.
I, on the other hand, dance like a total dork. My style is all jumping and flailing and shaking, but I don't care. I'm overcome by the music, by the strangeness and newness of the scene, by the five million dollars dangling in front of me, and by the topsy-turvy drunkenness that comes from mixing great tequila and lousy beer.
When the music transitions into a slow, distorted version of Ella Fitzgerald's "Blue Skies" blended with sweeping strings, I spin and spin at the center of the dance floor, giggling like a fool and swelling with a feeling I haven't known in years.
Possibility.
4
I stretch my arms and legs and roll over, reaching for my spare pillow. My right arm and leg drop into space, but there's no pillow there—no bed there—and I struggle to keep myself on the bed.
Crash.
On the floor, I wonder where I am. I blink a few times as I take in the tiny room, which is flooded with sunlight. It's maybe ten by ten, with a small desk, a flat screen TV, and an uncommonly narrow bed, which I now stare up at from a sparkling hardwood floor.
Malcolm brought me back here last night, I recall, standing stiffly. I'm in the staff dorms of Colton Industries, and the night comes back to me in dreamlike waves.
Colton and I danced. I had another cocktail, he had another Red Bull, and we danced some more. Each time he tried to bring up the five million, I changed the subject.
When Malcolm's set ended and another DJ came on, Peter said goodnight, promised to check on me in the morning, and asked Malcolm to set me up a spare room. The details are hazy, but I remember how tall he was, leading me down the hall and opening the door for me. He didn't come into the room, just got me a bottle of water and stood in the doorway, making sure I was alright. And he said something funny, too. Something about the money and booze and music of California corrupting me.
And now, here I am. Not hungover, exactly, but groggy and disoriented.
I find my phone on the nightstand and, by some miracle, I have no new calls or texts. Though I don't remember bringing them back, my work clothes are folded neatly on a chair. Still in my dress, I grab a keycard from the small desk and head out to the shared common room and kitchenette, a large round room with six hallways leading into it.
I'm thankful it's empty.
I like to have some time to myself in the mornings, and today I have a lot to think about. Plus, I don't do human interaction before my first cup of coffee. At the counter, there is cold-brew coffee on tap. I pour myself a large glass with heavy cream and take a seat at a small table.
The elation of the previous night is still with me, but also an understanding that I have a decision to make. In general, I try not to make important decisions before noon, but the coffee is exceptionally good, and I begin to get that tingling, alert feeling that tells me I'll soon be human again.
Questions arise and circulate in my mind, giving way to others, then circle back in new forms. I wasn't just avoiding Peter's offer because I was overwhelmed. I have real concerns about taking his money. Halfway through my coffee, my mind is sharp and I've landed on three distinct issues.
First, is Peter trying to sleep with me? I dismissed that question last night, and now it seems even more unlikely. He limited his questions to my project, to my motivations. There were no cheesy lines, no sketchy advances. Even while we danced, the overwhelming feeling was of celebration. It's actually pretty cool that a boss can party in such a carefree way with his staff. The more I consider the idea that the five million is some elaborate plan to flirt with me, the more ridiculous it seems. I stomp down hard on the question of whether that's a letdown.
My second worry is more amorphous, but when I put words to it, those words are "ulterior motives." Despite being known as a philanthropist, Peter is a cutthroat businessman, and it's possible he wants to use my site to gather data on users, or for some other reason I'm not thinking of. When I think of it in those terms, it seems like a pretty big conclusion to jump to, but that doesn't dissipate my slight hesitation.
Third, even if his motives are pure, the money feels like too much, too fast. Though I've had all sorts of fantasies about revolutionizing democracy, deep down I expected 2020 to be a proof-of-concept year for Ameritocracy. In my wildest dreams, I'd win Project X, expand the site with the money, get a few serious candidates, maybe a little media play, and try to build it into something that could have real impact by 2024 or 2028.
Five million dollars would change everything. I could quit my job, hire a staff, and build out the Ameritocracy website to accommodate more web traffic. Five million dollars would allow me to make this real.
As I contemplate, my phone chirps with a text message from a 510 area code. A number that's not in my contacts.
It's Malcolm. Hope you got some sleep and you're not too sore from dancing. I'm off today, but Mr. Colton made me promise to check in with you first thing.
I read his message twice, refill my cold-brew, and reply.
Me: Hey rockstar. Found coffee. Slowly coming back to life.
I press send, then immediately start typing another message.
Me: Can I ask you a question?
Malcolm: No preliminaries, remember?
Me: Sorry. Did you know Peter was going to offer me A LOT of money? That what you meant when you said I should be hyped?
Malcolm: Yes and yes.
Me: Canceling my PowerPoint was to see how I'd do under pressure?
Malcolm: Yes.
Me: Okay, bear with me…odd series of questions coming.
Me: Do you think he actually cares about my site?
Me: I mean…why me?
Me: Why this project? Why now?
Me: And why so much money?
He's typing a new message, so I walk a slow lap around the room. I don't know why I'm asking Malcolm. He's Peter's assistant. Do I think he's going to tell me his boss is a scumbag? I know he'll lie to me if his boss tells him to, because that literally already happened. But dammit, I have to ask someone. And he gave me his DJ card. He can't be a villain's loyal henchman if he's working a side hustle, right?
His message pops up.
Malcolm: He cares about politics and government. Dude's got a Twitter list he follows religiously. All the top journalists and commentators from the left and the right.
This reas
sures me. Maybe it's solidarity between the assistants of handsome rich guys, but I want to believe Malcolm. I'm still hesitant, though.
Me: Why me? Why my site?
Malcolm: Mr. Colton's a disruptor. Turned cloud computing on its head. He's trying to do the same with solar. Not a shock that he'd jump on an idea trying to do the same with politics. Your project is utterly badass. I'm guessing he just sees that.
Me: Thank you for the 'utterly badass' part.
Malcolm: What exactly did he offer, if you're cool with saying?
Me: Five million, office space, startup help, connections.
Malcolm: !!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!
Me: That's word-for-word what I said.
Malcolm: Knew he was gonna do something big, but DAMN.
Me: So…
Malcolm: So I guess what you're asking is whether he'll interfere, take over.
Me: And?
Malcolm: I don't think so. He funds projects and lets them do what they do. Some succeed, some don't. Never heard of him being a micromanager, though.
Me: Thanks, but what I'm really asking is, can I trust him?
Malcolm: I think trust is something that only exists between two people, so I can't answer that for you.
Me: Do YOU trust him?
Malcolm: I do. He's never been anything but decent to me.
Me: Thanks.
Malcolm: Sure.
I set my phone on the table, grab an apple from a bowl on the counter, and sit back down.
When I was a teenager, my mom taught me how to make decisions, and I still use her method. First, I figure out all the possibilities. In this case, I have three: 1) Take the money, 2) Don't take the money, 3) Try to negotiate something else.
Next, I let all the options hang in my head while I ask questions.
I've never been a journalist, but I've worked with some good ones, ones who get the facts before they write the story. I try to emulate that habit, getting my information straight while I'm still agnostic on a decision. Once I've gathered all the information, I check in with the options. Usually one of them just feels right at that point. I like the process because it keeps me from going with my first emotional reaction, but it also keeps me from being too indecisive.
While texting with Malcolm, this process has been taking place in the background, and I know where I'm headed.
Me: I think I'm gonna do it.
Malcolm: Good. Wasn't going to tell you what to do, but I'm glad.
I'm trying to figure out how to read that, and how to respond, when I'm interrupted by loud steps clacking down the hallway. A tall blonde woman and short brunette appear in the room, then stagger toward the coffee. After a moment, I realize that they're Ms. Sexy Cowgirl and Ms. Cellphone Belt from the party. Behind them, without the tuxedo or computer-screen cowboy hat, is Benjamin Singh.
I smile, but their eyes are on the floor. They seem to need coffee even more than I did, so I turn back to my phone.
Me: Thanks for the help. Gotta run, but I hope to hear you DJ again soon.
Malcolm: Later, and congratulations!
Back in the room, I sit on the bed, ready to make a final decision. I think about calling my mom, or my best friend Steph back in Seattle, but I don't. Instead, I stare out the single window at the Colton Industries campus. I'm three or four stories up, and I follow a footpath with my eyes, past sprawling lawns, modern buildings, and empty benches. The campus is sunny and quiet.
Then I see him.
Peter Colton walks toward the building I'm in, alongside two men and two women, none of whom I recognize. I wonder whether he's coming to see me, and I glance around the room. For some reason, I don't want to talk with him in here. Maybe because it's small and cramped, maybe because it's too personal, or maybe just because I want to get some of that California sunshine before I return to Seattle. Whatever the reason, I throw on my work clothes, tie my curls into a bun, and take the elevator to the ground floor.
Stepping out into the bright sun, I see the group about ten yards away.
Peter is dressed in dark blue jeans, a black V-neck t-shirt, and black boots. He looks better casual, more like a person I'd talk to in regular life. Which is good because this is certainly not regular life. He parts with the group and walks toward me.
As he approaches, he sees me and smiles widely, but doesn't say anything.
My plan is to play it cool. I'll ask about the timing of the donation, discuss board positions, the location of the offices, ask for an assurance of total independence, and talk through a dozen other questions and concerns.
But instead, I smile back at Peter, do a bad impression of the krump dance he displayed the night before, and blurt out, "I'll take the money. Can we get some breakfast?"
5
Peter and I take a sunny sidewalk table at a bistro called Baker's Dozen in the small town of Santa Clarissa. I get the sense that, in Silicon Valley, extreme luxury often comes in down-home or even ironic packaging. He must be a regular, because a waiter sets down a champagne flute full of Red Bull within seconds of our arrival. As Peter pulls a silver laptop from his briefcase, I order orange juice instead of asking what kind of breakfast joint has champagne flutes.
On the ride over, I concealed my excitement. Emotionally, I was all-in, but I tried to be as professional as possible. So I loaded my "sober businesswoman" program and asked my questions. Peter assured me that he had no plans to interfere in the day-to-day management of the site, promised me the donation in full by Monday morning, and told me he'd put me in touch with his best lawyer to answer any questions that could arise in the process.
Now, we can move on to the fun part. The website itself.
After the waiter sets down my juice and we order breakfast, I slide my chair over to Peter's side of the table, where he's already logged onto the Wi-Fi and pulled up my homepage: Ameritocracy2020.org.
"First question," Peter says. "Why that URL?"
"I also bought Ameritocracy 2024, 2028, 2032, and so on," I say, sipping my juice, which is the coldest, freshest orange juice I've ever tasted. "I envision it as seasons of a show."
"Walk me through the site," he says.
I start with the main menu, which has six options.
1. Register
"Anyone can view any portion of the site," I explain. "They can read candidate profiles, watch videos, and so on, but only registered users can vote. Registering also allows users to sign up for email or text alerts, such as general news from the site, updates from their favorite candidates, or reminders to vote at key deadlines."
2. Search All Candidates
"This is where users find candidates who don't appear in the top twenty on the homepage. They can search by home state, key issues, age and gender, ethnicity, and a dozen other variables. The one thing they can't search for is Democratic or Republican party affiliation."
3. The Rules
I'd summarized many of the rules during the presentation, but I now explain that this is where the fine print lives. "This is where we keep the candidate rules, which, in addition to including the basics required by the Constitution, include two key provisions. First, candidates may not have held any elected position as a Democrat or a Republican in the last ten years. Second, candidates may not accept funding from PACs, Super PACs, or any other outside campaign contributions. Not even individual donors. This rule is crucial because it levels the playing field. I want candidates to have free access to the site, and I don't want candidates to be able to sway voting with money from outside sources."
4. The Schedule
"This is a more detailed version of the schedule I explained during the presentation, the key dates being February 1, the last day candidates can register, Super Tuesday in March, when we narrow the field to twenty-five, July 4, when we hold the final debate, and July 6, the final live show when we crown a winner and award the money."
5. Donate
"Because we're a non-profit, donations are tax-deductible. Users can choose whether to
donate to Ameritocracy the company, which helps pay for operating expenses, or to the award fund, the money that will go to the winning candidate to finance their campaign in the 2020 election."
6. About Us/Contact
"This section gives a brief history of the project, and how to get in touch."
After I take Peter through the menu, we focus on the homepage, the bulk of which is taken up by the list of our top twenty candidates, and this is where I get embarrassed. "We haven't exactly attracted the best and the brightest."
"Do you mind?" Peter nudges my fingers off the track pad and scrolls through the list.
"What happened to Charles Blass?" he asks.
"Dropped out a couple days ago. Heart condition."
"Kinda liked him."
I'm surprised, and my face must show it because Peter says, "Not his politics, but he had pizzazz."
"Like I mentioned in the presentation, we need to attract more mainstream candidates if we want to be taken seriously."
"Blass is to the left of Karl Marx, but, you have to admit, dude has style."
I laugh because it's a rare bit of cleverness from Peter, but also because it's true. Blass is a seventy-year-old linguistics professor at San Francisco State University, and a self-described "warrior poet." A member of the Communist Party, he's a long, skinny scarecrow of a man who wears a Russian military ushanka hat year-round. He first chained himself to the UC Berkeley administration building in 1968 to protest the war in Vietnam, and has been doing it for various causes ever since. He attracted a following of devoted students and former students early on, and led the competition for a couple weeks earlier this summer.
At the moment, our top candidate is Destiny O'Neill, who bills herself as a "South Park Conservative." A few years ago, she blogged for The Barker for a short time before branching off to do her own thing. We were still Facebook friends when I launched the site, so she was one of the first to sign up. She's a camgirl, a YouTuber, and—as neutral as I promised myself I'd be about the results of Ameritocracy—someone I desperately hope will soon be replaced at the top of our leaderboard.
