by A. C. Fuller
"Mia?"
I look up slowly.
"Mia, why do you look far away? Are you fantasizing about the rally again?"
She's the only person I've shared my vision of the rally with. "I am," I say. "But don't worry. It's not a fantasy anymore. We're doing this."
"What's next?"
"We finish our wine, and start bright and early tomorrow. It's time to get to work."
Part 2
10
October 2019
Two months later, Steph and I stand side by side, grinning like fools at the large flatscreen TV Benjamin recently installed in my office. The TV displays the Ameritocracy leaderboard, mirrored from our homepage, and shows that Destiny O'Neill has just dropped to number three, down from number two.
She lost the number one spot to Wendy Kahananui a few days ago, and now she's been bumped down another notch by the recently-joined radio host Tanner Futch. I'm not rooting for Futch or anyone else, but I haven't trusted Destiny O'Neill from the beginning.
"She's still top five, though," I say.
"It's not like Futch is much better," Steph counters. "Worse, if you ask me."
"At least he actually wants to be president."
"I guess, but would you want him as president?"
"I'm committed to neutrality. I'm Switzerland."
Steph just rolls her eyes.
Futch took the site by storm when he launched his campaign a few days after the press release. The son of West Virginia coal miners, Futch is a jowly, smooth-talking radio host in L.A. who represents the views of alt-right conspiracy theorist types. His key beliefs are that the government needs to be taken back from the oligarchs who own both parties, that 9/11 was an inside job, and that most mass shootings are false flags aimed at curtailing the second amendment. His Candidate Statement reads: America is being destroyed by its political ruling class. States' Rights. America First. Don't defend; attack!
He's not a candidate I could support, but he represents the views—or shapes the views—of many Americans, and his entry caused quite a stir.
Steph walks around my desk, sits in my chair, and puts her feet up. "We did it."
I sit across from her and match her smile, though I don't know what she's talking about.
"We made it over the first hurdle," she says.
"What do you mean?"
Post-it jumps onto Steph's lap and presses his body into her. Steph pets him slowly. "When I got here, I had a few benchmarks in my head, things that needed to happen over the first couple months. Benchmark one was staffing."
She gestures into the main space through the window of my private office. Across a dozen scattered desks and tables, Benjamin works with his team, joined by five new full-time staff members. Two interns, an office manager, a social media manager, and a secretary. "We succeeded at that."
"You succeeded at that."
"True enough," she laughs. "I handled all that. But you handled benchmark number two: get some good press."
"We got more bad press than good."
Over the last month, Ameritocracy was the subject of quite a few articles and even a newscast or two. All but two had a mocking tone similar to the piece published by The Washington Insider. Most of them mentioned Destiny O'Neill, because if you want to mock our seriousness, she's tailor-made.
"True," Steph says, "but we got good coverage from The Barker and, what was that one site?"
"Buster's Political Scoops dot US. Not quite the same caliber as The Washington Post."
"Still, a rave review."
"I guess. What was your third benchmark?"
"That we stay friends."
I look up, and she's still smiling. I feel crummy about my inability to generate more positive coverage for the site, but as always, Steph's reassurance makes me feel better. "So far, so good."
"Seriously, though. Running a company with friends destroys the friendship a lot of the time, and we made it through a rough period. We may not be in love with our candidates yet, but if we keep doing what we're doing, amazing human beings are going to start walking through the door."
"Or maybe just registering online?"
"It was a metaphor," she says.
"I know what a metaphor is. I majored in English for two semesters and…Steph?"
She's stopped listening. I follow her wide eyes to the corner of the office, where Benjamin and his crew have set up four tables and covered them with twenty grand worth of computers. But I don't see Benjamin.
I see Destiny O'Neill.
Steph stands suddenly. "What the what?"
"You took the words right out of my mouth," I say, also standing.
Destiny is hanging out near the bank of computers, chatting with Benjamin's assistants in blue jeans so tight I think they must be sprayed on. She laughs and pats one of them on the shoulder, then leans over a chair and points at one of the screens, her huge breasts almost spilling out of her ribbed white tank top.
"See her hat?" Steph says.
I hadn't noticed Destiny's trucker hat until now. It reads: MILFS FOR THE SECOND AMENDMENT.
"Oh no." I offer Steph a panicked look. "What's she doing here?"
"I don't know, but candidate relations is your department. Plus, I've got the CFO candidate interviews to prep for."
"So what you're saying is that this is my problem, right?"
Steph smiles and nods.
"In that case," I say, "benchmark three is still up in the air."
Steph pets Post-it slowly, then laughs like an evil genius from a cartoon. "You better get her away from Benjamin's guys before they lose their virginity without taking off their pants."
I scowl, but in a loving way, then turn on my heels and stride into the main office space like I run the place. I do run the place, but right now Destiny O'Neill is acting like she's in charge.
As I make my way around desks, I trip over a recycling container, catch myself, then continue my stride as though I hadn't. I hear Destiny's voice—flirty and sweet as high-fructose corn syrup—"Can't you just tweak the algorithm a teensy-weensy bit, for me?"
She's talking to one of Benjamin's assistants, whose name I knew last week but have since forgotten. "Well, possibly," he says. "It's actually easy, we'd just—"
"Oh, can't you do it for me?" she says, her voice a little twangy, like a northerner doing a bad southern accent.
"Ahem!" I say, standing up as straight as I can, hands on my hips.
Destiny sees me and turns. "If it isn't Mia Rhodes herself! I was just telling these sexy young men how unfair the algorithm is to your longest-running top candidate. I was saying that—"
"What are you doing here?" I ask, as firmly as possible.
Destiny takes off her trucker hat, puts it backward onto the head of the assistant she'd been speaking with, leans down, and pecks him on the cheek. "I'll be back for you later." Then, to me, "Walk and talk? Show me the office?"
Before I can respond, she's leading me around the office, touching the desks and windows, even running her hands over the leaves of the potted plants like it's foreplay for some weird fetish I've never heard of. I watch her and watch the rest of the staff, who are trying their best not to be caught staring.
"Destiny," I say when we're alone in the far corner of the office, "what are you doing here?"
"You heard me before. I came to talk about the algorithm."
"The…really?"
"Truly. I was in California to protest against the ridiculous anti-gun measures they're trying to get on the ballot in 2020, and to sign panties at a car show. Thought I'd stop by."
"Please tell me you weren't really signing panties at a car show?"
"They weren't, like, used panties. That expense was all on the car show. Paid for my flight, a $2,000 appearance fee, and a crate of my favorite white thong panties. I'm kinda known for them."
"That I did know," I say, still trying to wrap my brain around the fact that this conversation is actually happening. And worse, that I actually
did know that.
I glance through the glass into my office, where Steph is still sitting behind my desk, petting Post-it. The smirk on her face says she's been watching the whole scene.
"Anyway," Destiny continues. "Is there somewhere we can talk?"
It's almost noon, and I figure the only way I'll get through a full conversation with Destiny O'Neill is if food is involved.
I nod toward the door. "I know a place."
Steph and I have eaten at Baker's Dozen at least once a day since she arrived. Walt, the waiter who brought me the French toast and coffee on my first day, knows me well.
As Destiny and I take a seat, he says, "Welcome back, Mia. Cobb Salad and iced tea?"
"Yes, please." I offer him a weak smile. "But she'll need a menu."
Destiny looks at Walt with what must be her default look: seduction. "Are you on the menu?"
Walt, entirely uninterested in her charms, hands her a menu. "No, honey, but we are known for our biscuits."
Destiny laughs, scanning the menu. "Carbs? At lunch? I'll have the steak sandwich, hold the bread."
"Fries?"
"Raw carrots. For my skin."
Walt looks confused, but scribbles a note on his pad. "And to drink?"
"Watermelon juice with ginseng. For the libido."
Walt glances at me, eyebrows raised in his best is-she-serious? look, then frowns at Destiny. "We don't have that."
Destiny looks around like she might storm out of the place. "Iced tea will be fine. No sugar."
Walt leaves, and before Destiny can say anything, I try to take control of the conversation. "Do your followers know that you're so picky about your food and drink? Isn't it kinda off-brand to sub out raw carrots for good old-fashioned freedom fries?"
Destiny stares at me, but with none of the charm she heaps on every man in her presence. "My followers love me for who I am."
"Do you believe anything you say, though?"
She shrugs. "A lot of it. Look, for most of my fans, Government and Society are the same thing as Mom. Always telling them to stop smoking weed, stop being so disrespectful, don't use that kind of language, all those video games can't be good for you, eat healthier, I know what's best and I'm only trying to look out for you, so do what I tell you. And they hate that. So I give them a replacement. Instead of Killjoy Mommy, I'm Sexy Mommy who agrees with them about everything. And I've managed to make that a full-time job because I'm very good at it."
I'm simultaneously stunned at the depth of her cynicism and a little impressed at how well she understands her audience and her business model. "Wow, okay. And my site is a part of your, what, marketing plan?"
She smirks. "Lemme turn it back on you, Mia. Do you believe any of the stuff you say?"
"Of course I believe in Ameritocracy!" I say.
I'm about to continue when she cuts me off.
"I believe you can say the word 'Ameritocracy' with a straight face, which must have taken practice, but c'mon, Mia. It's just us girls here. You don't seriously think the next president is going to be anyone from your site, least of all me. And that's okay. Neither do I. But whoever your site picks is going to have several months to build your brand, to make you more famous. And when it comes to that, Red, I'm your best option. If you think I look good on YouTube, give them an excuse to point TV cameras at me. I'll get more coverage than dried-up old Wendy Whatserface or that creepy toad Futch, because I'll be better for everyone's ratings. That's millions in free advertising for your site. Your price on the speaking-fee circuit will be mid-six-figures before you know it. So let's talk about your algorithm. Just us girls."
Internally, I amend my earlier opinion of her cynicism, the depths of which I had wildly underestimated. My opinion of her business savvy remains, though. She's right that news programs would rather air footage of a well-endowed woman in a low-cut top than a jowly man in a suit. It's one of the exact things I started Ameritocracy to combat.
Swallowing my first several responses, I arrive at, "You think our ranking algorithm should be changed in your favor?"
"Yes. It's wildly unfair."
"We haven't even announced how it works."
"You must know people are trying to reverse-engineer it based on how it responds."
I do know that, though I'm surprised at how fluently Destiny talks about algorithms. She's not the person she presents to men, and I'm not sure I can hold my own in this conversation.
"What exactly are your issues with our algorithm?" I ask.
"Mia!"
When I hear my name from the front of the restaurant, I turn to see Peter, who strides in wearing a black suit and skinny red tie, like he's ready for the red carpet.
When he reaches our table, he says, "Steph said you were down here. I dropped in to see if you'd like to have lunch. And here you are, having lunch." He turns to Destiny. "And you must be Destiny O'Neill. I've seen you on the site. Your campaign has been truly…inspirational."
I think he's making fun of her, but Destiny doesn't notice, because she's switching modes. The scarily insightful woman is gone, and I'm back at a table with Libertarian Jessica Rabbit.
Sliding over, she says, "Have a seat, Peter. Join us. We've only just ordered. But I should warn you, they don't serve watermelon juice with ginseng."
Her accent is different, I notice. Gone is the slight twang she adds in her videos. In its place she's installed a more refined tone. Less Scarlett O'Hara, more Katharine Hepburn.
She leans toward Peter, and his eyes dart briefly to her chest, which strains at her shirt so hard I'm worried I might get hit with boob shrapnel.
"You know what?" He stands. "I'm just gonna…" He sits next to me. "Is this alright, Mia? I think, yeah. I'll just sit here."
"Fine," I say.
Peter catches Walter's eye and nods, his sign that, as usual, he'll have the eggs Benedict and a champagne flute of Red Bull. Then he turns to Destiny. "So, what are you doing in town?"
"She came to complain about the algorithm," I say.
"It's unfair," Destiny pouts.
"Why's that?" Peter asks
"Well, I know that you haven't officially announced how it works, but we know that you're using ranked candidate voting and that somehow you're taking social media mentions and shares into account."
"Right," I say. "That's nothing we haven't talked about publicly. Hell, that's on our website."
"But," Destiny says, "it's clear you're missing a key metric: longevity."
"How do you mean?" Peter asks.
Destiny leans across the table toward Peter, again exposing her cleavage. "I'm so glad you asked, Peter." She practically breathes his name, and I get a sense of the person she's become for Peter. Tech-savvy, but submissive. Smart, but never smarter than the man she's talking to. "What I mean is that it's clear from the algorithm, and from the way that prissy ass guru Wendy Kakablani or whatever rose in the standings, that there's a recency bias in your algorithm."
"It's not my algorithm," Peter says. "Complaints like that are Mia's department."
"What I mean—"
"I know what you mean," I interrupt.
Walter arrives with the food, and I'm glad to have a moment to collect myself. The recency bias Destiny is referring to has to do with how we choose to weight the value of social media shares and mentions over time. And, though we could debate whether we were right or wrong to set it up the way we did, to my astonishment, Destiny is right about the basic facts.
Social media mentions are worth a fraction of a point in the algorithm, but it's not cumulative. So, let's say that someone gets ten thousand Twitter mentions on a Monday, that's worth about six hundred points in our algorithm. Combine those points with actual votes, and you get their total score, and their rank is based on that.
But they don't keep those points forever. We assign a half-life to social media mentions, whereby every week they lose half their value. So, the next Monday, the mentions from last Monday only add three hundred points to t
he total. The next Monday, one hundred fifty points, and so on. All the while, of course, new mentions from that week count for full points.
Destiny stabs at bits of her steak-hold-the-sandwich, making almost imperceptible growling noises while staring hungrily at Peter. For a woman like Destiny, landing a man like Peter, even for just an hour, is social media gold. If she managed to get a photo of his butt sticking out of some unkempt sheets in a hotel room, it would make the mainstream tabloids.
And hell, there's always the chance of a quickie marriage to a multibillionaire—and everything that comes with that—especially if she can talk him out of a prenup. She's laying it on embarrassingly thick, but I've come to understand her thinking. Peter's a lottery ticket. Odds aren't great that she'll win, but the payout is huge, so she's making the most of what might be her only shot.
Peter isn't biting. In fact, unless I'm crazy, he's been giving me little looks, the kind that tell me he might be interested in more than my algorithm. Come to think of it, he did show up out of nowhere to have lunch with me.
"So," Destiny says loudly between bites of a carrot. "I don't see how you can justify dropping the weight of all the social media I've gotten over the last six months—which, by the way, has driven a ton of traffic to Ameritocracy. You let some Gandhi-come-lately stroll in and use her YouTube fame to bump herself up in the standing overnight. And—"
"First of all," I say, "you don't know the algorithm as well as you think you do. Most of Wendy Kahananui's rise was due to votes—actual votes. All her YouTube fans are real fans, and she has a lot more of them than you. Secondly, Tanner Futch isn't big on social media, and he overtook you this morning, so you really don't know what you're talking about."
"But I'm right about the way you weight social media over time?"
"It's not something we've talked about publicly, but we were going to release a statement about it anyway, in response to inquiries we've gotten. All I'll say is that, yes, we weight social over time. It's not just one big accumulation of points. Why do we do it that way? Because it more closely reflects practical election dynamics. Think about it. No, don't interrupt."
