by A. C. Fuller
Destiny tries to get a word in, but I hold my hand up to stop her. Peter watches the whole thing, wearing that bemused smile I've come to expect from him.
"Seriously, think about it," I continue. "In a regular election, a candidate can build up all sorts of goodwill for months, but then a scandal breaks and she loses half of her voters overnight. All the great stuff she did or said four months ago is no longer relevant."
"But that's exactly it," Destiny says. "If you're tracking social media mentions, and you have no way of knowing whether they are positive or negative mentions, a scandal might actually help someone. Someone could just do terrible things and get people talking, and—"
"Maybe that explains why you've been number one for so long," Peter interjects.
I suppress a laugh by popping a black olive in my mouth. Destiny either doesn't get Peter's joke, or is just happy he's speaking about her. "I have been number one for a long time," she says. "And Mia, we need each other. That's my point." She shoots me a glance that says, Remember what I said about media coverage before the hot guy came in.
We eat in silence for a few minutes, but a couple times I catch Peter staring at me. Destiny's bosom takes up half of my peripheral vision and, though I hate to admit it, I'm surprised and flattered that Peter seems to have zero interest in her obvious advances.
Finally I say, "None of this matters. As we've said publicly on multiple occasions, we use social media points in our algorithm at the beginning, partially to reflect the pulse of what people are saying, but partially to generate discussion of our site. And as you know, Destiny, actual votes are weighted much more heavily. So, it's not like if Kanye West enters the race he'd suddenly be number one because of all the talk about him on Twitter. He'd need actual votes."
"And he'd probably get them," Peter says in between sips of Red Bull.
"You can't let celebrities enter," Destiny says, clearly terrified at the idea of trying to out-YouTube Kanye.
"Aren't you a celebrity?" I ask.
This time, she can tell I'm poking fun, and she gives Peter a wounded puppy dog look. "Are you gonna let Mia talk to me that way?"
"I'm just here because they have the best hollandaise sauce in the valley. And the smartest political mind."
I open my mouth to say something clever, but swallow hard as the compliment sinks in.
Destiny notices my hesitation, and Peter's flirtation. "Don't tell me you two…"
She looks genuinely hurt, and I'm genuinely uncomfortable.
Regaining my composure, I say, "The bottom line is that we're not changing the algorithm. Plus, and this is big, the social media points go out the window at the end anyway. At the end it will all come down to the vote."
"But how you get to the final ten people will be determined by the social media points," Destiny insists.
I've stopped listening.
As we finish our food over the next twenty minutes, Destiny tries a bunch of arguments and proposes a few ideas for ways to promote the site, all of which involve promoting her.
I eat quickly, eager to get back to work and distracted by Peter's sideways glances.
11
Not long after the unexpected visit from Destiny O'Neill, I'm in my office working on the plan for the rally, our first large Ameritocracy public event. It's only a month away, and will be held at a nice Los Angeles hotel called The Q. I chose Los Angeles because it's got more media than any other west coast city, and I chose November 3rd because it's exactly a year before the next election.
The rally is our coming-out party, the moment we introduce Ameritocracy to the nation. If it goes as planned, everyone in America will be talking about the site and our candidates by the end.
Exactly one week before the rally, we'll temporarily lock our voting system and invite the top ten candidates. I've already told all the candidates in the top fifty to hold the date open.
The question is, what should the public events look like?
My first thought is to present the candidates one at a time as the crowd and the press watch, but that feels wrong somehow. The more I think about it, the more I want all the candidates together on a stage, both to communicate the weight of the contest, and to give viewers a reason to check out the site. I don't know who the top ten will be at that time, but everyone watching will like at least one or two of them. I don't want anyone tuning out because the first five people are losers, and missing out on the two candidates at the end they'd have loved.
I consider making the event a debate, but it's too soon for that. Just getting all these people in a room together will be a herculean task. Trying to moderate a debate would be something else entirely.
Plus, I've already announced a series of debates for the spring and early summer, and I doubt many of my candidates would come out of a ten-person debate looking especially good right now. Debating is a skill, and the more time they have to prepare, the better.
What about a roundtable discussion? I put that in the maybe column, but even that could get weird. Someone like Tanner Futch, who talks for a living, would have a distinct advantage over someone like Beverly Johnson, a self-described housewife from the Pacific Northwest, who has been rising in the polls lately with a blend of fiscal conservatism, strident advocacy for children, and videos of herself demonstrating recipes from her Scandinavian heritage.
No, I think the way to go is a presentation by either Steph or me, maybe both of us, followed by a chance for the ten candidates to introduce themselves one by one and take questions from the audience and the moderator. That way, viewers will see the top ten candidates on stage together, each of them at their best.
After the presentation, we'll do a smaller event where candidates can meet members of the press and superfans of the site in a more intimate setting. And, of course, Steph and I will be meeting with them all before the public events to thank them for participating and talk them through the rules and the schedule for the rest of the year.
I'm about to start typing up a formal plan to send to Steph for feedback when shouting erupts outside my office door. Looking up, I see a handsome, broad-shouldered black man standing next to Steph. And he's got a GoPro video camera strapped to his chest.
"You can't film here!" Steph says, but he's not listening.
Instead, the man walks a lap around the perimeter of the office, a huge smile across his face, shaking hands with our staff members one by one. He's wearing a tan suit and shiny black shoes. I'm pretty sure I recognize him, though I don't remember from where.
He introduces himself to a pasty-faced social media intern, who looks terrified. "Marlon Dixon," he says, shaking the kid's hand vigorously before moving on.
"Marlon Dixon," he says to one of Benjamin's assistants.
When he makes it to Benjamin, he again says, "Marlon Dixon," but adds, "I hear you're the man in charge of the site, and you know I've got some questions."
Benjamin shakes his hand awkwardly, and sits, flummoxed, on the armrest of his chair before losing his balance and falling to the floor.
I've seen enough.
Scurrying across the office, I shout, "What's going on?"
The man helps Benjamin up, apologizing profusely, and I step between them. "Who are you?"
"The Reverend Marlon Dixon," he says, extending a hand and shaking mine so hard it nearly breaks. The man is only a few inches taller than me, but barrel-shaped and muscular. His face is clean-shaven and, the more I stare at him, the more I think I've seen his face go by on a meme on Twitter or Facebook.
"Are you? Wait, are you?" I'm trying to place him, but the little red camera light blinking on his chest throws me off.
"Marlon Dixon," he says again. His voice is full of passion and a slight accent I think of as southern, but can't place.
"I got that," I say, "but who? Why?"
"He's Marlon Dixon," Steph says, walking up next to me, reading from her phone. "Southern Baptist minister from Abilene, Texas."
Recognition hits me. "
Aren't you the minister who got arrested for—"
"For serving food to the homeless? Yes I did, and I'm proud of it! I've been smeared in the papers for bailing out prostitutes and preaching to junkies in the park in the wee hours of the morning. Yes I have, and I'm proud of it! I've been arrested for sheltering undocumented immigrants in the basement of my Church, and I'm proud of it! I even got hauled in for gathering with my congregation on the steps of the Supreme Court of these United States to read from the Gospel of Matthew. And you know what? I'm proud of it! Yes, ma'am, I've been arrested. Twelve times altogether—once for each of Jesus's apostles."
"Given that speech before?" Steph says.
"Once or twice," Dixon admits with a disarming aw-ya-got-me smile. "It's a question I've gotten before, and sister, any preacher who says he's never reused a sermon is lying."
I recall a profile of Dixon after his first arrest about five years ago. For two decades, he'd worked on hunger issues in Texas, but when Galveston passed an ordinance against feeding the homeless, Dixon kicked into action. Wearing his GoPro body cam, he gathered thirty members of his church on a Saturday, filled a van with food, and spent the day handing it out in a park while dressed in his white and gold preaching robes.
When the police dragged him away, Bible in one hand, wooden spoon covered in gravy in the other, he was reading from John, 3:17. "But if anyone has the world's goods and sees his brother in need, yet closes his heart against him, how does God's love abide in him? Little children, let us not love in word or talk but in deed and in truth."
The video went viral within hours of his release on bail. Dixon received a small fine, plus three months of probation and community service hours, but the episode thrust him into the national spotlight and sparked an intense online debate about Christian activism.
Since the arrest, Dixon had been wearing a GoPro most of the day, uploading thousands of hours of video on his church website, as well as to YouTube and other video sites.
He's much shorter in person, but his voice is the same—impassioned and loud enough to echo off the walls of the office. That raises a question: what is he doing in my office?
"Mr. Dixon," I say. "Welcome to Ameritocracy headquarters. First, I need to ask you to stop filming." I give him my firmest look, and, before he can object, I add, "Now."
"Happy to oblige," he says, pressing a button on the side of the camera.
"I'd like to hear why you're here, but my staff is hard at work. Will you come to my office?"
"Happy to oblige."
He follows me, Steph right on his heels. The three of us sit, me behind my desk, Steph in the chair next to me, and Dixon across from us. "Can we get you a water or a coffee or anything?" I ask.
"Thank you. A water, please."
His "please" comes with a dazzling smile that, to my surprise, doesn't look affected or fake. Steph hands him a water from the mini-fridge in the corner, and he drinks half of it, then wipes the glistening sweat from his bald head.
"So," I say, "how can I help you?"
He downs the water in three large chugs, then places the empty bottle on the desk. "I do apologize if the filming made you uncomfortable. It's just my habit. I believe in holding people accountable for their misdeeds, so I make it easy to hold me accountable for mine. More than that, if I can share with the world how beautiful and rewarding the Lord's work is, maybe a few more people decide to take part in that work. But my mission isn't yours, and I'm sorry if I filmed anything I shouldn't have."
"It's okay," I say. "But why are you here?"
"Well, Ms. Rhodes, I'd like to interview you and your staff, if you'll allow it. I'm thinking about running for President of these United States, and I came to see whether your site is the place to do it."
Half an hour later, Dixon has explained that he flew in from Texas that morning to make a surprise visit to the office. His plan was to interview the Ameritocracy staff to find out if we were "for real," and to let his tens of thousands of viewers around the world determine whether he should use our platform to run for president.
He also explained his politics, some of which I could have guessed, but pieces of which surprised me.
Dixon aligns with the left on taxes ("Let the usurers pay their fair share"), racial justice ("End the legacy of slavery that is the U.S. prison system"), healthcare ("Is anyone among you sick? Let him call for the elders of the church, and let them pray over him, anointing him with oil in the name of the Lord"—quoting James, 5:13-15) and the environment ("For the land is Mine; for you are but aliens and sojourners with Me"—Leviticus 25:23).
On abortion, he aligns with the Christian right, opposing it for the same reason he opposes the death penalty. "Life is absolute."
He explains how, in his early forties, the Texas Democratic Party tried to draft him to run for Congress, but he turned them down when they pressed him on softening his abortion stance. Unlike most politicians, he wasn't willing to cave on an issue that, to him, was a moral absolute. Plus, his openness in the form of his videos shows a radical transparency that makes me certain that he is who is says he is.
He speaks with a passion simultaneously practiced and unfaked, and though I disagree with about half of what he says, I like him more and more as he speaks. Above anything, what drives me nuts about politics is hypocrisy, and Marlon Dixon is one of the most genuine people I've ever shared a room with.
My respect for his sincerity is why I agreed to his request to interview the staff. That and the fact that I knew it would bring new people to our site.
So Dixon spent the last hour chatting with members of our team, asking them about the platform, asking why they support Ameritocracy, and how they see the competition playing out. The staff responded to his intensity and infectious enthusiasm, perking up and looking more alive after only a few minutes with him. Like he was drawing the best out of each of them as they spoke.
He even got Benjamin Singh excited when he asked whether it would be possible to stream live video from his GoPro straight onto his candidate page on the Ameritocracy website. That's a technology that, while possible, Steph and I decided not to pursue because of the potential legal implications of showing unfiltered live video.
During the interviews, Post-it followed Dixon from desk to desk, interview to interview, rubbing up against his ankles and slapping him with his tail lovingly. The cat's affection only affirmed my trust in the folksy preacher.
And now in my office, it's my turn in front of the camera. Sitting across from me, Dixon removes the GoPro from his chest and sets it up on the corner of my desk. "So, Ms. Rhodes—"
"Call me Mia, please."
"Alright then, Mia. Why'd you start Ameritocracy?"
Nervous, I fall back on clichés, offering the same answer I used during the presentation. "I wanted to make democracy more transparent, level the playing field, to get around entrenched interests and corrupt campaigns. American politics had turned into a reality show, and I figured that it ought to at least be a reality show without commercials."
I've said these words a dozen times to a dozen reporters over the last few weeks, but, in Dixon's presence, they ring hollow. It's not that they aren't true, but they're not what he's looking for, and I know it. He lives in a world of passion and emotion, of true belief. He wants me to join him there.
But instead of calling me on my canned answer, Dixon levels his dark eyes at me and reaches out a hand which, to my surprise, I take.
His hand is cool and strong, and he squeezes mine with just the right amount of pressure. "I want to know your heart," he says.
He holds my gaze another second, and my eyes well up. Before I know it, tears roll down my cheeks. Eyes unfocused, I gaze at my desk, its hard corners and glossy surfaces becoming merely a soft arrangement of earth tones.
Then I say something I never would have expected. "I love the world so much. I love this country so much." I wipe my eyes on my hand, then wipe my hand on my pants. "I honestly couldn't stand to live t
hrough another election and watch this country devolve." Gaining inner strength as I speak, I wipe my eyes again and there are no more tears. "I don't agree with all our candidates, and I don't agree with you, either. But that's not the point. The point is to have real discussion, hear from real people. I feel like America is about to split apart at the seams. Radical times call for radical new ideas. I don't know if this idea will work. I don't know if we'll make it to November, or even to the July Fourth debate. And even if we do, I don't know if we'll have a candidate with a shot of winning. I just needed to do…something. I love everything too much not to."
Dixon's eyes are soft as he hands me a handkerchief from the inside pocket of his suit jacket. It's soft white linen and smells like some sort of fabric softener that tickles my nose.
"Thank you," he says. "I hoped you'd say something like that. You'll be seeing these videos online by tomorrow, and you'll see my candidate page on the Ameritocracy page before that."
12
I'm on the third floor, in a small room in the corner next to the bathroom. One of Malcolm's YouTube mixes plays through my phone into a Bluetooth speaker I've just finished mounting on the wall of the room, which I've started calling "my apartment."
Soon after arriving in Santa Clarissa, I spent a day driving Bluebird around looking for a real apartment. Though I saw some nice places, they were all smaller than I expected and, for $3,000 per month, I decided I could live at the office a while longer. Plus, our staff isn't yet large enough to have spread to the third floor.
I stare at the basket of unfolded laundry, then lie on the bed and close my eyes, listening to Malcolm's dubstep remix of Ray Charles's famous version of "America the Beautiful."
With the bump from Marlon Dixon's videos, we saw an influx of new candidates over the week since he stormed our office. And his seriousness as a candidate brought a lot of new interest from certain segments of the left, who are describing him as "Jimmy Carter's heart and soul in Terry Crews' body."
