by A. C. Fuller
"Mia, what's wrong?"
As usual, Steph can read me. "You said there was a press release? About…about me?"
To my surprise, Steph smiles. "You're going to want to read it."
I head back to my office, shoo Post-it out of my chair, and open my email.
There I find the statement, released by my father, or someone in his office. It's on the official letterhead of Rhodes Insurance Consulting, LLC.
To whom it may concern:
In response to inquiries regarding the website Ameritocracy2020.org, and a recent article suggesting that the founder is the daughter of former Senator Rhodes, Mr. Rhodes issues the following statement:
"A little less than thirty-two years ago, my daughter Mia Rhodes was born. At the time, I worked to conceal her existence, as I was married and viewed the affair with Mia's mother as a shameful mistake and a political catastrophe.
Media accounts at the time made my deception impossible and forced me to resign from public office. Though I regret no longer being able to serve the people of Connecticut in a public role, I do not regret that I helped bring Mia into the world. And though she and I do not have a relationship, an arrangement I agreed to with her mother, I am as proud of her as I am of any of my children.
No child is a mistake. Ever. My greatest regret in life is that I ever viewed Mia as one.
As Mia enters the public sphere, I ask that you respect her privacy. I will have no further comment on her project, or our personal relationship, beyond this: In over twenty years serving in public office, both in the House and the Senate, I witnessed gridlock, partisan bickering, needless obstruction, and shameful political witch hunts.
There's nothing about Washington that won't be made better with some fresh ideas and fresh candidates inserted into the process.
Sincerely,
Payton Rhodes
I'm flooded with a mix of emotions that, until I was halfway through his statement, I didn't know could co-exist.
First, anger that he even mentioned my name in public. Though he is a powerful insurance industry consultant, he never appears on political shows and has largely fallen out of the public consciousness. Other than quotes in a couple books that chronicled the '88 campaign, in which he used the vague language of "regrets" and "mistakes," he hasn't spoken about me publicly since the announcement that he was dropping out of the race.
The second emotion is an odd mix of sorrow and gratitude. Sorrow at the fact that I'd lived nearly thirty-two years without knowing him, and gratitude at his kind words. Words I never knew I wanted to hear but, now that I have, feel like words I've needed my whole life. I am as proud of her as I am of any of my children.
Tears roll down my cheeks. I wipe them with a tissue, then close the blinds and pace around my office, crying softly.
Five minutes pass, then ten. Waves and waves of grief rise and pass through me, mixed with exquisite joy that feels as though it's caused by the grief.
No child is a mistake.
The words echo in my mind and leave me simultaneously bitter and hopeful.
The door opens a crack, startling me. "Hello?"
"It's me," Steph says from behind the door.
I'm more fragile than Steph, and she knows it. She gave me just the right amount of time on my own with the news, and now she's here to check on me.
"I'm okay," I call through the door. "Come in."
She walks in and leans on the desk. "You sure?"
"I'm fine," I say, just to say something. "Could people hear me crying out there?"
"Nah, Benjamin and his team are in the middle of a heated argument about video games. Something about franchise continuity."
I laugh. I've heard that argument two or three times since Benjamin and his crew started working in our office. "As long as they're addressing the crucial topics of the day."
Steph chuckles, walks around the desk, and opens her arms. "Get in here."
I stand before collapsing into her arms.
She bear-hugs me, and I cry for another minute before she gently eases me away. "Sorry," I say, "I'm getting your pantsuit all wet."
"I don't mind." She wipes her cheek. "But you're making me cry, too. Only one of us can fall apart at a time."
"New company policy?"
"Makes sense, right?"
"Yeah."
I check myself in the mirror I keep in my desk, and though my cheeks are almost as red as my hair, and my eyes a bit puffy, I don't care.
Steph looks at me, concerned. "Are you sure you're okay?"
"I think so. Maybe."
"Take your time," Steph says. "I read the press release, too, and I know it doesn't make up for…well, anything. It doesn't make up for anything. But it's better than nothing."
"It is," I say. "There's something else I've been thinking about. Do you think you can handle the shop for the rest of the day? Maybe till tomorrow?"
A big smile breaks out across Steph's face. "You're going?"
"Thinking about it."
"You're going."
"I don't know. Maybe it's too late, and by now Peter is probably off the grid, doing peyote with James Franco and a couple Google executives."
Steph grabs my phone and shoves it in my face.
"If he invited you, he'll keep his phone around to see if you change your mind. I'm not leaving until you text him."
She watches over my shoulder as I tap out a text.
Me: Steph says my CNN performance earns me a day off. Invitation still open?
To my surprise, by the time I've dried the tears from my face, my phone chirps.
Peter: Drive to the heliport on the campus. Chopper will pick you up in an hour.
17
The helicopter passes over mile after mile of redwoods. I see the layout of the festival from the window. It's smaller than I imagined when Peter compared it to Burning Man, and clearly more decadent.
There are no tents, no vehicles, and no dusty plains. It's a long field dotted with boulders, surrounded by a winding helix pattern of about a hundred geodesic domes. At one end of the field there's a large stage. At the other end is a sculpture of a three-dimensional heart made of barbed wire that stands at least fifty feet high.
There are also inspirational messages, spelled out on the edges of the field with white rocks.
"Epiphanies Made Here."
"Diverge!"
"Make the Future!"
"Disrupt!"
"Transform Yourself. Transform the World."
When we land, I grab my overnight bag and climb out, hair swirling in the wind. As I approach, Peter smiles from between two women who are either festival staff or high-end prostitutes from outer space.
Peter is barefoot and wears a loose-fitting white shirt, tight black pants, and a black leather necklace with a white bear claw hanging from it. He's handsome as ever, but as the helicopter flies over us and we wait for the noise to fade, I try not to laugh at the self-parodying extravagance of this place.
He leans in and hugs me, the bear claw pressing against my chest. "I'm glad you came. You've been avoiding me."
"I haven't."
"You have."
I wasn't trying to avoid him—at least not consciously—but I haven't seen him since the kiss.
The moment is awkward, partially because I don't know what to say, but partially because I'm distracted by the women on either side of Peter, both about six feet tall and both wearing silver leather pants, low-cut white t-shirts made of shiny fabric, and black top hats.
He sees me looking at them. "This is Melissa and Dalia. They are our Transformation Assistants."
I laugh, but it turns out he's not kidding.
"Anything we can get you," Melissa says, "just let us know. Green juice in the morning, aura cleansing in the afternoon, an old fashioned cocktail in the evening."
"Cocktails?" I ask, surprised.
"Retro cocktails are making a comeback," Peter says as either Melissa or Dalia—I've already forgotten which is which—hands me
a circular black buzzer, about an inch in diameter.
"Just press the button and one of us will appear."
"Thanks," I say as Peter takes my hand and leads me along a path of blue stone that has been laid into the grass. Passing the performance stage, now empty, we enter a large white tent set up as a dining room.
"Absolution plays in an hour," Peter says. "I figured we'd eat dinner first."
I take a seat next to him. "What's an Absolution?"
"Remember? The best DJ on earth?"
"Oh right. As you've seen, I'm not much of a dancer."
"Look, I know you're here to get away from work, but I have to ask if you saw Nate Silver's piece on Ameritocracy?"
"Nate Silver did an article on us?" Nate Silver's site, FiveThirtyEight, has the best reputation on earth for reading polls accurately and predicting election trends. If he's writing about us, that's good news. "Did he say we're making a dent in the polls, or what?"
"No, it was just an analysis of how statistical modeling works differently with a ranked voting system. That's Nate for you. But it was very positive. He said that Ameritocracy will be an interesting test case of how ranked voting functions within American political dynamics."
I nod, pleased. From the statistics nerds at FiveThirtyEight, that's a ringing endorsement.
A male waiter appears, then another, and they almost look like twins. Pale skin, red hair, silver leather pants and white tank tops exposing large muscles and perfectly creamy skin. "Hello," one says. "I'm Jason. This is Brian. We'll be your dining coordinators today."
I stifle a laugh at the phrase "dining coordinators," but before I can launch my sarcasm program, Jason starts describing the meal, which grabs my attention.
"After the juice course, we'll serve a trio of raw vegetable salads, followed by a duo of sashimis, then either rack of lamb or grass-fed organic Wagyu ribeye. Most of the menu is pre-set, and designed to enhance the transformational experience of the festival. We will accommodate any special dietary need."
He stops talking, and Peter turns to me. "Lamb or ribeye?"
"Lamb."
"I'll have the ribeye," Peter says.
"Drinks?" Brian asks.
"Water for me," Peter says. "And a Red Bull."
"Just water," I add.
Jason and Brian nod in unison and as they walk away, I try to think of a way to make fun of this place without offending Peter. Before I can say something snarky, Peter stands abruptly and extends his hand to a woman walking towards us. "Margaret, so nice to see you."
She's a large woman, tall and stocky, and around my age. As she and Peter shake hands, a small, mousey man steps up alongside her. He's dressed in tight, 1980s-style shorts and blue cape with no shirt. He's wild-eyed and dripping with sweat.
"This is Dawson," Margaret says. "Dawson Gadschmidt. He's on my team at FMH. This is his first time."
"A Future Now virgin?" Peter asks.
Dawson steps forward and shakes his hand rapidly. "It's awesome!" he says, much louder than needed in the quiet tent.
Because I feel awkward just sitting there watching the handshakes, I stand.
"And this is Mia Rhodes," Peter says as I slide up next to him.
I shake Dawson's hand, which is cold and clammy, then Margaret's.
"FMH?" I ask her.
"Family Media Holdings," she says.
"Margaret is the youngest senior exec at FMH," Peter says. "And Dawson is…"
"Special Projects Assistant to Dewey Gunstott, the CEO," Margaret says.
"This is the most amazing party ever," Dawson says, walking a circle around the table before shaking my hand.
"Mia started Ameritocracy," Peter says.
Dawson steps closer than he should. He's sweating profusely, and his eyes don't seem to be able to land on anything for more than a couple seconds. "That's you? Very cool idea."
"What is?" Margaret asks.
"Mia's trying to save America," Peter says.
Margaret raises an eyebrow in my direction.
"Well, it's a sort of online reality competition to find an independent presidential candidate for 2020, and fund their campaign."
"Oh, that. I heard about that," Margaret says.
"It's awesome!" Dawson says. "Screw the two-party system." He walks another quick lap around the table, and I try to decide whether he's on ecstasy or peyote. "And with Mast's ad buy on CBS, that's gonna be some great pub."
"What?" I ask, thoroughly confused.
"Bobby Mast. His ad buy."
I'm still wondering what he means when Brian, our dining coordinator, returns and sets down the drinks. Dawson lunges forward, chugs my glass of water, then Peter's Red Bull.
"Thirsty much?" Peter looks at Dawson with concern, then at Margaret.
"He's had a…busy day," Margaret offers with a smile.
"Pace yourself," Peter says. "Absolution plays 'til dawn."
Dawson seems dazed now, staring at the ground. Margaret takes his arm. "Let's head back to the dome for a nap."
But before he leaves, I catch his eye and say, "What were you talking about? Mast? An ad buy? He just got in the competition."
As Margaret pulls him out of the dining tent, Dawson calls back over his shoulder, "Three hundred grand for spots during The Bachelor."
"That was odd," I say as Peter and I sit.
"Sometimes people go a little nuts at these things. I don't do any drugs, but I'm guessing he had his Transformational Assistant working overtime to find whatever he's on."
"That was weird, but I was talking about the Robert Mast ad buy thing."
"Any idea what he's talking about?" Peter asks, waving his empty Red Bull glass at Jason.
"No, but if Mast made a huge TV ad buy, I would have heard about it. And, if he did, what is he doing? Running for President in 1996?"
Peter laughs, but doesn't reply, and I let it go. After all, I'm here to get away from Ameritocracy, not to find new ways to obsess about it.
We're quiet for a moment, and I ponder the phrase "Transformational Assistant."
"What do you think of this place?" I ask. "I mean, really."
He looks at me long and hard, then breaks into a wry smile. "Well, it's totally absurd, of course."
"Thank you," I say, relieved. "It's like, if the poorer people of the world knew that things like this existed, they'd storm this camp and it'd be guillotine o'clock."
"Ha!" Peter says as the first courses arrive, "and we'd probably deserve it."
The juice course is actually a trio of juices—because one juice would surely not suffice—served in small, thin glasses, arranged from lightest to darkest from left to right across a white platter. Cucumber aloe juice. Carrot passionfruit juice. Beet kale juice.
I shoot the first one, which is ice-cold and undeniably delicious. "It's just that, for someone who grew up using ketchup instead of tomatoes on her BLTs, this level of wealth is…jarring."
Peter shoots all three of his juices in rapid succession. "We do a lot of good amidst all the opulence, too. Alvin Chang and I came up with Project X after a three-hour hot yoga class a few years back. Now I'm funding you and you're saving democracy."
"So, you could say that the Future Now Festival saved democracy." It's a joke, of course, but at the same time I'm trying to convince myself to be okay with the level of luxury around me.
"I know you're making fun of it, and me. Relax a little and maybe you too will transform."
He says the last word sarcastically, but probably because he knows that's what I want to hear.
"Maybe," I say, downing my next juice, which is even better than the first.
Maybe I could get used to this.
"It's not just me," Peter says. "Most of the leading innovators and investors in solar and hybrid technologies have come through here. The team that perfected the batteries that run your precious Bluebird met at an ironic kickball game here back in 2008. And the lady who coined the term 'Universal Basic Income' teaches an advanced
hula hooping class on the east field. Tell that to your proletariat mob with torches and pitchforks."
Brian sets down our next course—three distinct salads arranged in small clumps on a giant platter. It's clear he's waiting for us to stop talking so he can explain them.
I look at Peter. "So you're saying that I can enjoy myself guilt-free for an entire evening?"
"Exactly."
After dinner, I step into what I guess is a porta-potty, because technically there's no running water at Future Now. But it's not like any porta-potty I've ever been in. Spacious, it smells of eucalyptus, and is cleaner than my bathroom has ever been. But I'm not there to use the bathroom. Despite my decision not to think about it, my father's response has been in the back of my mind since I arrived, and I want to see how it's playing online.
I open Twitter, then search for my father's name. He's not trending, but there are quite a few mentions of him. The article about us has revived old debates about the 1988 election, causing one blog to write a snarky like-father-like-daughter story. Their argument is that even though an independent candidate has no chance in 2020, one could get enough votes to tip the election in one direction or another.
For example, if a far-right candidate wins Ameritocracy—Tanner Futch or Orin Gottlieb—he might pull enough votes from the Republican nominee to tip the election to the Democrats.
If a left-leaning candidate wins—Marlon Dixon or Justine Hall, for example—and the Democrats pick a centrist candidate, that could tip the election to the Republicans by siphoning left-leaning Democrats.
If a centrist wins, things get weird in other, less predictable ways. Thomas Morton might pull from Republicans and Democrats alike, presumably by dominating the bland-gray-robot vote. Beverly Johnson, fiscally conservative but socially liberal, could throw the whole race into flux.
Like my father blew 1988 for the Democrats, I could blow the 2020 election for either party. It's pure speculation, of course, and nothing any major sites will pick up over the next few days.
I find what I'm looking for on my father's official Twitter account, which I've never checked and didn't know he had until now. The pinned Tweet links to his statement, which I re-read, savoring the key phrases.
