by A. C. Fuller
I pause just long enough to ensure I've shut him up. "Three things, Anderson. There are three things I want your viewers to know, and thanks for giving me this platform. First of all, to answer your question, Robert Mast is an excellent addition to our pool of candidates. His military service should be respected, and his ideas should be listened to.
"But no more so than our other candidates. Candidates like Beverly Johnson, a housewife from Washington state, or Justine Hall, the mayor of Denver, Colorado, or Avery Axum, who your viewers may not have heard of but who's served under three different presidents—Democrat and Republican. While your network was stoking the partisan fires for ratings, he served.
"Or Cecilia Mason, who started six different companies and brought billions of dollars into the New York economy. Or Destiny O'Neill, who…well…I hope you'll invite all of them on your show. Not just the candidates your viewers have already heard of, like Robert Mast. Or the ones who will say something controversial, like our friend Mr. Futch.
"If you care about democracy at all, and not just keeping the stock price of your parent company high, you'll spend a couple time slots you've set aside between ads for Buicks and pharmaceuticals to introduce our candidates to the world."
Anderson tries to say something conciliatory, but I'm on a roll. "Second, over half of Ameritocracy's top hundred candidates are women, whereas only twenty percent of nationally elected officials are women. I hope that's something you cover as well. One thing Mr. Futch and I agree on is that Ms. Morales would be a welcome addition to Ameritocracy.
"Third, and I can't stress this enough. As the leader of Ameritocracy, I will remain neutral. We've done everything we can to create a fair, neutral platform that allows the American people to decide. Only half of eligible voters voted in the 2016 election. Less than forty percent in the midterms. So I want to say this directly to your audience. The moms and dads on their couches at home, the business traveler standing in an airport, the teenager illegally streaming this online, go register at Ameritocracy2020.org." I pause for effect. "Do it. Right now. If you like Tanner Futch, vote for him. But take the time to get to know our other candidates. No matter who you vote for: vote. Don't let someone else make the decision for you."
There's something about saying what needs saying that frees a person. Something about not pretending to be small that makes me bigger than I could ever have imagined.
Now I walk on air as I leave the studio and cross the parking lot. I slide into the familiar leather seat of Bluebird and power on my phone, tempted to re-read the story about my dad. Instead, I open a series of texts from Peter.
The first text is a photo of a silver helicopter, the words "Colton Industries" painted on the side in black.
The second text is another photo, a little blurry, taken from high in the air, looking down on a sea of tall trees as a golden sun sets over them.
The third text is a note.
Peter: Nice job on TV. Handled Futch perfectly. Registrations will go nuts. On my way to Future Now. Chopper could grab you late tonight or tomorrow morning. Join me?
I wait to see if he sends anything else, then tap out a reply.
Me: Maybe tomorrow. Send pics when you arrive and I'll decide.
Before I press send, a new text arrives.
Steph: Oh my God you killed it on TV! Right now Anderson is like, "What the hell just happened? I thought this was AC360, not the Mia Rhodes hour of power." That article about your dad, tho…You okay?
I delete the text to Peter.
My performance in the interview made me feel better, but the truth is that I am anything but okay. I don't like talking about my father, but having other people talk about him is even worse.
I should have known that our history would come out, but I wall off my feelings about my past to figure out whether the revelation can damage Ameritocracy.
First, I decide to respond publicly, which I do via a one-paragraph statement I text to an intern with instructions to slap it on Ameritocracy letterhead and post to our Twitter account. The statement acknowledges that my father is my father, that he has nothing to do with Ameritocracy, and thanks the press in advance for respecting our family privacy.
If my father doesn't go on TV or give quotes to reporters, the story will go away in a couple days, most likely. Though he's well known around Connecticut, his name has long since fallen out of the national political conversation. If he lays low, our past will still come up from time to time, I decide, but won't do any damage to Ameritocracy.
But as I pull out of the parking lot and begin driving south, I know it's damaged me.
I've never spoken to my father. Not once in my thirty-one and a half years on earth. The total sum of our contact has been three birthday cards, each delivered through my mother, who kept my father at a distance since he broke off the affair when it became public.
The first card arrived the day I turned ten. It was a picture of a red and yellow clown holding a bunch of blue balloons. On the inside of the card, my father wrote:
Happy Birthday!
-Payton Rhodes
He included $500 cash, which I offered to my mom because she was struggling to pay the rent at that time. But she refused. We would not rely on his money for day-to-day expenses—not now, not ever.
She insisted I buy anything I wanted. I picked out a brand new scooter and a PlayStation, but lost interest in both quickly.
When I was twenty, he sent me $5,000. This time the check arrived inside a card with a picture of a bird on the front. It wasn't even a bird wearing a birthday hat or making a joke, like "Happy Bird Day." It was just a cheesy hotel-art bird with brown feathers. Probably the same design his secretary sent to Washington lobbyists on his behalf to thank them for helping him rig the health insurance markets.
Again, he wrote:
Happy Birthday!
-Payton Rhodes
At the time, I was broke and going into debt, so I considered using the money to pay for a portion of my junior year tuition at The University of Washington. Then I remembered my mom's admonition, so I used it on a three-month backpacking trip through Europe between my junior and senior years.
Ten years later I heard from him again, and by this point I'd studied political history and largely come to terms with my accidental role in it. A couple weeks after I turned thirty, my mom forwarded me a check for $50,000. Through a Google search for salaries of top insurance company executives, I determined that this was roughly one percent of his earnings that year. This time there was no card, just a handwritten note on a plain white piece of paper.
Dear Mia,
I hear you graduated from University of Washington with a degree in political philosophy. This makes me very happy. I hope you use this money to pay off school loans or otherwise advance your life.
Love,
Your father, Payton Rhodes
Thinking of it now brings waves of sadness.
Your father.
He never admitted to the affair in public, never acknowledged I was his daughter. Not to the press, not even in the cards he sent. He just slithered away from the '88 campaign and issued a vague statement about 'mistakes,' 'deep regrets,' and 'repairing the damage done to his family.' He meant his real family—Cecilia, Elliot, and Patricia. Not my mother, the striking Greek waitress he slept with for a year. And not me.
Worried for his political career, he'd pressured her to have an abortion, even threatened her with public shame and financial ruin. From his twisted perspective back in 1988, it made sense. He had a good shot of becoming president if I wasn't born. A rumored affair is one thing. A child out of wedlock who shares your last name is an entirely different level of scandal. One from which—in 1988 at least—politicians didn't recover.
Once I was born, he did offer to send money regularly, though not through the court system, but my mom refused. As she put it to me over and over, "If he didn't want you to be born, I don't want his money anywhere near our family."
The b
irthday cards were the only exception.
He probably had a team of political consultants sitting around him as he wrote the first two birthday cards, advising him against admitting parentage in case he ever wanted to get back into politics. It took him thirty years to write "Your Father," and it shatters me to think about it. Thirty years of deliberately obscuring the truth, a truth finally admitted in the most mundane way possible.
I sometimes wish I'd taken his advice to pay off my student loans, but my mother's admonition had landed deep within me. So I took his $50,000 and did the most magnificently self-indulgent thing I could think of at the time.
I bought Bluebird.
Or, more accurately, I had Bluebird built for me. The baby blue 1964 Mustang cost me $14,000, and I found an electric car pioneer named Rich to do the rest. For $36,000, he converted the car to electric, installing dozens of lithium ion batteries in the trunk and adding a Tesla charging kit.
As I pull into my usual spot in front of Baker's Dozen, I contemplate my decision to buy Bluebird. My most-beloved possession was purchased with guilt money from a father I know only through press clippings, grainy YouTube videos, and occasional denigrations muttered by my mother.
As much as I've tried to convince myself that I have no interest in a relationship with him, I wonder whether it's an accident that I spent his money on a car that constantly reminds me of his existence.
16
My mini-rant on AC360 went viral overnight. Tens of thousands of new voters registered, and over five hundred new candidates signed up, at least a few of whom are serious. The most serious is Maria Ortiz Morales, who sent in her official registration at 3 a.m. local time.
The press release about my father went out during my drive back from the studio, and this morning there are a few dozen messages requesting interviews and further comment. But I don't have time to bask in the afterglow of my CNN appearance. It's two weeks to the rally, and I've got work to do.
First, I email a schedule to Gwen Winters, the KPBS anchor I've lined up to host the main event, where our candidates will be introduced to the world. Next, I spend an hour with a team of interns, setting up a contest whereby representatives from each of our forums are selected to attend a special cocktail reception the night of the rally.
Finally, it's time to call the top ten candidates, the ones invited to the rally.
Thomas Morton—the I-Guess-He'll-Do candidate.
Marlon Dixon—on a mission from God to feed the hungry and house the needy.
Tanner Futch—the bombastic voice of the alt-right.
Cecilia Mason—genteel old money come to life, with a strong business background.
Justine Hall—the only top-ten candidate with executive-level political experience, but she's too busy to talk about it.
Orin Gottlieb—the rockstar representative of small-government libertarians.
Charles Blass—a modern-day Trotsky, with millions of millennial followers.
Wendy Kahananui—who believes that all political problems are spiritual problems.
Beverly Johnson—the queen of suburban moms, and a hell of a cook.
Destiny O'Neill—the cartoon in a 13-year-old boy's math notebook come to life.
After dropping out late in the summer, Blass re-entered the competition a week ago and rose quickly, propelled up our rankings by an army of young, idealistic voters, mostly from California. They'd created a Facebook group called The Blass Meme Repository, and memes featuring Blass are spreading like wildfire, announcing his presence as a sort of political Santa Claus, promising equality for all.
I spent the morning calling the candidates in reverse order, and besides the awkwardness when Destiny O'Neill asked me whether I was sleeping with Peter yet, things went as expected.
On our call, Blass assured me that his heart condition was under control and that he was in Ameritocracy to win it. Futch called me "little lady" three times and praised Destiny O'Neill as a "true patriot." Wendy Kahananui tried to convince me that she'd be more informed on the issues at the rally.
I saved Thomas Morton for last, and I dread the call.
Steph and Benjamin are still working on figuring out what's going on with his voting, but we decided that, for now, we have to keep up the appearance of normalcy.
Sitting behind my desk, Post-it curled up on my closed laptop like it's some kind of throne, I dial Morton's D.C. cellphone.
He picks up after just one ring. "This is Tom Morton."
"Mr. Morton. Mia Rhodes from Ameritocracy."
"Yes, my assistant said you'd be calling."
"Yes, yes. Good. Are you aware of the public rally we're planning in Los Angeles?"
"Yes."
"And are you aware that you're currently the top-ranked candidate on our site?"
"Yes."
"And are you planning to attend?"
"I am."
Under normal circumstances, his short answers wouldn't seem especially odd, but I feel like a woman who's just found out that her husband is cheating so she reads way too much into every little word and gesture.
I'm sure he's hiding something, so I try to draw him out. "We'll give each candidate a couple minutes to introduce themselves to our audience and, most importantly, to the dozens of TV cameras we hope will be there."
"Yes."
"Any idea of what you'd say? I'm trying to get a sense of each candidate's public speaking ability for the…for the cameras."
"I'd probably say something like, 'I believe in America's most cherished dreams. I believe in the America that once was, and the America that will be once again. A vote for Thomas Morton is a vote for freedom, equality, and justice. A vote for Thomas Morton is a vote for America itself."
I give Post-it a look, hoping maybe he can decipher some of the gibberish Morton just spouted.
"Excellent, Mr. Morton. I should tell you that there will be a moderator, Gwen Winters from KPBS."
"Yes."
"What I mean is, she may ask follow-ups. She may ask for a little more specificity."
"Alright."
"Here, let me try." I adjust my voice a little to sound like a news anchor, an annoying habit I picked up from my old boss, Alex. "Mr. Morton, recent Pakistani incursions into northwestern India have raised tensions in the region. As president, what would your policy be on India-Pakistan relations?"
After a short pause, he answers, his voice smooth and robotic. "The conflict between India and Pakistan goes back hundreds of years and stems from deeply rooted religious and cultural differences. I believe America must be a leader in India-Pakistan relations. The security in that region affects us all. But, at the same time, we must focus on Americans first and not lose sight of America by placing our attentions halfway around the world. As president, I'll ensure the safety of all."
His voice is empty, as though he's reading off a cue card he doesn't fully understand. The words are all correct, but carry no meaning.
Post-it can probably sense my unease because he gets up off my laptop and starts prowling back and forth along the edge of my desk. "How about a domestic question?" I ask. "Healthcare costs have risen by over thirty percent in the last five years, and show no sign of slowing. As president, what would you do to stabilize the market?"
"That's a great question, and the American people deserve a straight answer. Healthcare costs are out of control, and I believe that every American can and should receive the affordable care he or she deserves."
Like I told you, I loathe hypocrisy. But almost as much as hypocrisy, I can't stand mealy-mouthed politicians. Folks who take five minutes to say nothing at all. "But what would you do?" I ask.
"A Thomas Morton administration would lower costs and raise the quality of care for all Americans."
"How?"
"By working closely with both insurers and the states to ensure that we achieve lower costs and a higher quality of care for all Americans."
I'm squeezing the phone so hard my hand is red, so I switch the
call to speakerphone. One of the nice things about Ameritocracy is that even when I think the candidates are nuts, at least they're specifically nuts. At least I know what they actually think. Morton is a computer that's been programmed not to offend anyone.
And I'm out of patience. "What's your favorite kind of ice cream, Mr. Morton?"
"Why do you need to know that?"
"Uhh, dinner. We're arranging catering." It's a lie, but I'm on a mission to get him to give me a straight answer.
"I'm fine with anything."
"Chocolate or vanilla, Mr. Morton?"
"I really don't see how that—"
I lean into the phone and almost shout. "Chocolate or vanilla?"
There's a long pause, and I picture Morton, surrounded by a team of advisers, flipping through binders as they try to determine which flavor of ice cream tests better with moderate voters between the ages of 28 and 62.
Finally, he says, "Is Neapolitan an option?"
After hanging up, I storm out of my office, ready to rant about Morton to anyone who will listen. Steph is at Benjamin's desk, one hand on his shoulder, watching him type.
She looks genuinely happy, so I pause halfway across the office, unsure whether I want to interrupt their moment. But she looks up before I decide, and meets me in the middle of the office.
I'm about to launch into my diatribe about Morton when she says, "Did you see it?"
"See what?"
"Your dad's press release. I forwarded it to you an hour ago."
"I've been on candidate calls all morning."
"Are they all coming?"
"They are, though I think Morton may actually be a robot sent from space to bore us all to death so aliens can take over the planet."
"It was that bad?"
"Worse than that. It was…" I trail off, the phrase "press release" floating through the back of my mind.
