by A. C. Fuller
She describes herself as half Japanese, half Caucasian, raised in four different countries, and fluent in five languages. After starting a successful yoga studio in Honolulu, she began teaching workshops on self-empowerment, which she now does all over the world.
With a few clicks, I learn that she has one of the top self-help channels on YouTube, where she teaches yoga and meditation to millions of people. That's why I know her name. I did one of her yoga videos in my apartment last year. Taken all together, she's a pretty big celebrity. She was even on Ellen once.
According to her page, "As President, I will bring higher values to the White House. I don't hold fast to positions or ideologies. Instead, I will respond to all problems and situations from within the moment. I will lead with empathy and compassion, but also with the sword of truth and justice, as personified by the goddess Kali."
Her page is short on specifics about policy or political involvement, but this is still great for the site. She's easily the most high-profile candidate we've had. I'm about to check her social media to find out if she's shared her Ameritocracy page when a knock at the door interrupts me.
My food and, more importantly, my coffee. I leap out of bed, jog to the door, swing it open and…Benjamin Singh stands before me, the only-sorta-creepy guy from the party. The one with the computer screen cowboy hat with miserable pickup lines.
He must be Peter's web guy.
"Um, hi," I say.
He looks at the floor. "Hi."
"Did Peter send you over?"
"Yes."
I step aside. "Come in, please."
He doesn't move.
"I'm Mia, and I think you're here to help me. Do you want to come in?"
He looks up briefly, then back at the floor. With his dirty jeans, plain black t-shirt, and unkempt hair nearly covering his eyes, he looks like he got the short end of an all-nighter. Then again, I'm in pajama pants and a tank top, and God alone knows what my hair is doing, so I'm in no position to judge.
Still standing in the doorway, he starts rocking back and forth from foot to foot.
"Are you okay?" I ask.
"Yes."
I step into the doorway and put a hand on his shoulder. "You're Benjamin, right? I met you at the party the other night."
"Yes."
"And you're here to help me with my site?"
"Yes."
He still doesn't come in, and I'm halfway between confused and frustrated. The door opens at the bottom of the stairwell. Coffee.
"Benjamin, there's a guy coming up the stairs with coffee and food. You'll need to move out of the way. In or out, buddy."
He glances down the stairwell, thinks for a moment, and steps into the office.
By the time I've paid for the food, Benjamin is already on his laptop at one of the desks. "4Chan," he says, not looking up.
"Yes! Thank you. What's going on?"
He doesn't respond, so I rinse out two Colton Industries coffee mugs and fill them from the large silver pitcher.
"Thanks," he says as I set one down next to him and peer over his shoulder at the screen.
"No problem. Are you feeling better?"
He doesn't respond to my question, but says, "Your site was the target of a botnet last night. They'd been planning it for a few days. This was probably inevitable because there's been a little more buzz about your site in tech circles the last week or so. There are posts about it all over the Chan boards. Nothing major. Just teenagers looking for attention. Can I have your passwords?"
I write my passwords on a Post-it and stick it to the corner of his screen. "How'd they do it?"
"Just registered their candidates, then sent an army of bots over to register fake user accounts and vote thousands of times."
"But you're not allowed to vote until your account is verified, which means providing proof of citizenship and identity. There's a whole process, that—"
"Yeah. They hacked that. Probably took them twenty minutes. Would've taken me five."
"Can you fix it?"
He sighs, but doesn't answer. One of the downsides of being a generalist who's trying to run a website is that I don't fully understand my own technology. He's already accessed the back end of my site, but I have no idea what he's doing. Until now, I've paid a freelancer forty bucks an hour to troubleshoot issues on my site, and I can tell immediately that Benjamin knows what he's doing.
"Benjamin, please. Can you fix it?"
"Yeah. That's the easy part."
"And?"
"And what?"
"What's the hard part?" I ask, annoyed.
He stops typing and gives me an irritated look. "Making sure this doesn't happen again. Look, I'm gonna need some time with this. I'm gonna need to bring in a few people, and we're going to need machines."
"Like, weed whackers or industrial wind turbines?"
"Computers."
"Of course. Order whatever you need. And thank you. Really."
I'm about to head to my office when he says something that surprises me. "I'd do anything for Peter."
I detect a whiff of human emotion from him, and put a hand on his shoulder. "What do you mean?"
"I owe him my life."
"Your life? Explain."
"Not my life, literally. But yeah, he hired me when I was sixteen. I'd only been in the States for six months, mom and dad mopped floors so I could go to a good high school in Palo Alto."
"How'd you meet him?"
"Interned through a summer program, then Peter hired me before my junior year. Never looked back."
"And where are your mom and dad now?"
Benjamin smiles for the first time. "Not mopping floors anymore." With that, his eyes are back on the screen.
Happy to have him around, but frustrated by my own helplessness when it comes to tech, I head to my office, the largest of the three glassed-in spaces in the otherwise loft-like office. There, I plan to get back to my notes and ease my frustrations by creating the mother of all to-do lists.
I freeze at the door when I notice movement behind the desk. My Post-it notes are scattered across the floor, some shredded. I step back and look around the office, which is empty except for Benjamin. "Hello?" I say quietly. "Hello?"
I'm about to conclude that the movement was just my imagination, and that the carefully arranged Post-its were blown onto the floor by a random gust of air.
Then I see the cat.
8
I see its tail first, black and waving at me from behind the desk—my desk—like it's the most natural thing in the world.
"Hey," I say. The tail disappears, and I walk around the desk. "Kitty, kitty, kitty."
He's sitting under my office chair, as though that's a perfectly reasonable place to sit. The rest of the cat is also black except for four large white spots, two on one side, one on the other, and one on the top of its head. He looks up at me and blinks noncommittally, a look I interpret as something between "What are you doing here?" and "Your Post-it notes? I wouldn't know anything about those."
I crouch to gather my notes, and my heart drops when I see that most of them are mangled beyond repair. When you've put your brain on paper, and that paper is destroyed, it feels as though a piece of your brain has been destroyed.
I sit on the floor next to him, trying to piece together parts of notes and wet corners of others. I see words like "challenge," "democracy," "interns," and, for some odd reason, "pineapple."
It's no use. Half my notes are lost forever, the rest are wildly disorganized, and here I sit on the floor of my new office, a mystery-cat rubbing his ribcage against my leg.
"Benjamin!" I call out into hallway. "Is this your cat?"
He doesn't respond, but I know it's not. There's no way he snuck a cat in under his shirt. The cat doesn't have a tag, so I figure he's a stray who smelled food and came in when the door was open.
Or maybe he was here all night. Maybe he just came with the office. Maybe he's the spirit of a failed startup, reinc
arnated as a cat until he eats enough important Post-it notes to digest their informational karma. Maybe I need some food to go with this coffee, because I'm running three cartoons for president and starting to believe in ghost cats.
My first day hasn't gotten off to the start I'd hoped for, but just when I'm about to lose it, I remember that there's a box of warm French toast out in the main office space. Things could be much worse.
By noon, I've consumed two orders of French toast, accepted a delivery of eight new computers, and welcomed three of Benjamin's assistants, on loan from Colton Industries. Somewhere in there I showered and changed out of my pajamas and into jeans, a white button-down, and a blue blazer.
The computers have been set up and networked, and Benjamin assured me multiple times that he's doing everything he can to solve the 4Chan attack.
But still I hover behind his desk, watching over his shoulder. "Are you sure there's nothing I can do?" I ask for the sixth or seventh time.
The last couple times, Benjamin ignored me, but now he turns slowly in his chair, glaring. "I. Will. Fix. This. Don't you have a company to run?"
I retreat to my desk, where our mystery cat stalks around my ankles. It's not easy, but I settle into the fact that there's truly nothing I can do, that the fate of my site is in the hands of a dude with a computer hat full of offensive pickup lines, and three other tech people I just met.
One way or another, we'll get out of this mess, and I decide to write my list. As a pool jumper, I learned early on that I need lists. They help keep me from spinning out of control.
After a respectful pause to mourn my destroyed Post-its, I write down the big things—the must-dos.
1. Hire an Executive Director.
This is priority one because I need someone to hire personnel and manage the day-to-day operations so I can focus on the media strategy, fundraising, and other big picture tasks. Someone to hire interns, manage the staff, and handle at least a few of the crises that are sure to arise every day. Steph was my first choice, but she's in Seattle.
2. Create Media Strategy
Assuming Benjamin and his crew can get the 4Chan hack fixed, I want to launch a mainstream media blitz starting late this week. The more media we get, the more legitimate we will seem. The more legitimate we seem, the more good candidates we will attract. The more good candidates we attract, the more donations we will get and the more legitimate we'll seem. Starting with a bang in the public eye is crucial.
Wendy Kahananui shared her profile across her social media platforms, and even uploaded a video to YouTube to announce her candidacy. I need to figure out how to capitalize on that.
According to Benjamin, our number of unique visitors per hour has doubled since he arrived this morning, largely due to Kahananui's registration. Voter registrations have increased as well. Instead of getting new voters at the rate of five a day, we're getting five an hour. But we need mainstream print and TV media attention to hit the next level.
3. Build an app.
I didn't have the money to develop an app when I started Ameritocracy, but now I do. I expect that I can get Benjamin and his team to take care of this. Though the site works on phones, a dedicated app will be a crucial part of achieving the exponential growth I'm aiming for.
4. Create Fundraising Strategy
Democrats and Republicans often spend over $100 million on a general election campaign. For an eventual Ameritocracy candidate to have any chance, we need a campaign war chest of at least $10 million to start. That amount, combined with the celebrity I plan to create around our winning candidate, should be enough to compete. So, in addition to the donations that should come in with more candidates and voters, I plan to target individual donors around the country.
5. Find an apartment.
I look through my office window and across the office, my eyes landing on the bed in the corner. To my embarrassment, I didn't make it before Benjamin and his team showed up. My half-eaten Cobb salad is still browning on the floor beside it.
I'll need an apartment eventually, but I have a clean bed in a comfortable space and a restaurant that will bring me three meals a day. I've gotten by on less. Come to think of it, this is better than most of the places I've ever lived. Promising to make the bed tomorrow, I cross "Find an apartment" off my list and add "Deal with cat."
Happy to have a basic plan, though still a little irritated that the cat destroyed my notes, I stroll into the office to check on Benjamin, then stop dead in my tracks.
Steph stands near the doorway looking confused. She doesn't see me.
"Steph!"
She meets my eyes across the office and smiles. "Does a Mia Rhodes work here?"
I try to read her expression, but before I can, I read her outfit. She's wearing one of her green pantsuits, which means she's here to work. I jog across the room and jump into her arms. She hugs me hard, lifting me up like a mom with her kid.
"You came," I say.
She sets me down. "I heard this joint was hiring."
"Oh my God are you really here? Like, here?"
She scans the office. "Is this your staff?"
"I don't have a staff. These are computer guys and gals on loan. My first day is going…"
I trail off as the cat emerges from my office and brushes against my ankle.
"Poorly?" Steph asks.
"You could say we're experiencing growing pains, as I'm sure all Silicon Valley startups do."
"You got a cat, at least."
"Seriously," I say loudly to the room, "does anyone know whose cat this is?"
Everyone looks up from their screens, but no one speaks.
"What's his name?" Steph asks. "And when did you have time to get a cat?"
"It's a…strange story. His name is, uhhhhh…His name is Post-it.'"
Steph crouches down and reaches for him. "Kitty, kitty. Heeeeeere, kitty kitty."
Tentatively, Post-it strolls over and lets Steph pet him, but only for a moment before returning to my ankles.
"Are you really here to help me?" I ask.
"Mostly to try those biscuits you told me about, but yeah. I'm here. And, from the look of it, we've got a lot of work to do."
"Executive Director?"
"Is that an offer?"
"More of a desperate plea, but yeah."
Steph surveys the office, her eyes landing on Benjamin, who is huddled over his laptop, typing as two people talk to him at once. "What's his deal?" she asks.
"We got hacked this morning. He's helping, I think. I hope." I sigh deeply. "This first day has been a bit of a nightmare."
"He's cute," Steph says in a loud whisper.
I crouch to scratch Post-it behind the ears. "Yeah, he's cute. But, we have to call animal control or get him to the animal shelter, right?"
"I meant Benjamin, not the cat."
Standing, I say, "I guess. If you're into the disheveled-computer-genius look."
"Maybe I am, maybe I'm not," Steph says, eyes still on Benjamin.
"A couple girls I met at Peter's party last week warned me that he's mildly creepy, and he has this weird hat thing with pickup lines."
"Huh?"
"Then I saw the three of them leave the same room the next morning."
"So?"
"Just saying."
Steph is still staring, and I snap my fingers in front of her eyes. "Steph!"
She blinks a few times, then looks at me. "Executive Director?"
"That's right. We can work out the details, but I see this as a partnership. You handle the day-to-day, I focus on media and fundraising."
"So I get shit done, you tell the world about it?"
I laugh. "Basically, yeah."
She nods toward the glassed-in offices. "And one of those would be mine?"
"Yup."
She thinks, looks at Benjamin, then at Post-it.
Finally, she looks at me with a determined smile that makes me feel for the first time today like everything is going to work out. "
I'm proud of you, Mia. I accept."
We decide to iron out the details of her employment over drinks that evening, and though I'm eager to talk about big picture stuff, we're in crisis mode. Back in my office, I reach someone at the local Humane Society, who takes down Post-it's description, then regrets to inform me that their shelter is full.
I roll my eyes at Steph and agree to care for the cat until its owners reclaim him. I call to arrange for cat supplies, then Steph and I draft a couple press releases related to the hack.
Both convey roughly the same thing: the site was hacked, it's not a huge deal, and our crack team of experts returned the site to normal. The main difference is that the first version of the press release is dated today, and highlights the speed with which Benjamin and his crew solved the problem. This version downplays the significance of the prank.
The second version presents a picture of a more sophisticated attack and contains a blank space to insert the date, which we will fill in when we actually solve the problem. Both versions have spaces to insert technical language describing the hack and, more importantly, all the steps we're taking to ensure that this never happens again.
I don't know which version we'll need, but after another check-in with Benjamin—who shoos me away without a word—I admit there's nothing more Steph and I can do right now, so we split up.
I cross "Hire an Executive Director" off my list and watch through my office window as she introduces herself to Benjamin and the other tech people he brought in. It's clear from moment one that she's in charge, and it puts me at ease.
At my urging, Peter kept the donation quiet so I could announce it when I was ready, and now I'm ready. I begin by writing two more press releases. The first is from Ameritocracy, the official not-for-profit entity that owns and manages the website. In it, I describe the donation, lay out the expansion plan, the timetable for voting and debates, and the ultimate goal of the site.
The second press release is from the perspective of Colton Industries, highlighting that the donation grew out of a standard Project X application and that Ameritocracy will be 100% independent from all Colton Industries business interests and employees. In a sense, I'm marking my territory. In the media, you never get a second chance to make a first impression, so I want to ensure that the initial stories focus on the site, not on Colton Industries or on Peter. As happy as I am to use his celebrity to build buzz around the site, I don't want him to be the story.
