Open Primary

by A. C. Fuller

  Satisfied that the conversation is happening. A conversation free of partisanship, free of hypocrisy and lies.

  I have no idea where this conversation will end, but I'm happy it has begun.

  24

  Later that night, Steph and I meet back in my suite for a quick glass of wine before the cocktail reception, where we'll introduce donors, fans, and journalists to the candidates.

  I set my laptop on top of the entertainment console. "Music?"

  "Yeah, we need to unwind for a minute. That was…incredible. I've waited my whole life to hear politics talked about like that. Real people with real ideas. Even the shitty ideas at least didn't sound boring. Well, except your boy Axum. He's boring as hell, but he's for real. You were right about that."

  While she speaks, I plug my laptop into the sound system, which has six speakers mounted in the corners of the room, then open it up to find a playlist.

  The moment the Wi-Fi connects, a few dozen emails download, and I give them a quick scan, determined not to get bogged down in any bad news right now. I'm still riding high from the success of the rally.

  In the middle of the batch of emails, there's one from Malcolm, who, as far as I can remember, has never emailed me. The subject reads: Congratulations.

  Despite the fact that you left me with a terrorist cat who attempted to eat my Marvin Gaye LPs, I made you a little something.

  Below the message is a link to a YouTube playlist.

  Steph walks up behind me. "What is it?"

  "Malcolm sent us a congratulatory playlist. He did remixes of a bunch of patriotic songs. The Ray Charles version of 'America the Beautiful,' the guitar version of 'The Star Spangled Banner' that Hendrix did at Woodstock. Tom Petty's 'American Girl.' It's got like ten songs."

  "Ooooh, he made you a mixtape. When I was in high school, it meant one thing when a boy made you a mixtape."

  I roll my eyes. "It's a playlist, and you're a filthy-minded woman. He's just congratulating me."

  "Right. Yeah. That's it. Sure."

  "C'mon, he knows I'm with Peter."

  "Does he?"

  I think for a moment. "I'm not sure."

  "Well then?"

  I start the playlist, which begins with a 90s-style chunky hip-hop mix of the Woody Guthrie classic, "This Land is Your Land." Following Steph to the couch, I kick my shoes off and swing my feet up onto the coffee table.

  We sit quietly, listening as the beat slows and transitions seamlessly into Elvis Presley's "American Trilogy," slowed down and backed by dozens of layers of epic synth.

  Steph sips her wine, eyeing me over the glass. "You don't remember making mixtapes for your crush?"

  "I never did that."

  "Well, most people did."

  "They did?"

  "When you can't say how you feel, you get someone to say it for you. Someone famous, with a better voice and a better team of writers."

  "You think Malcolm's flirting?"

  "If he is, he's doing a good job. This playlist is fire."

  Elvis's voice fills the room. The moment is just about perfect, but, of course, it's interrupted by a text. But it's not my phone chirping. It's Steph's.

  "What is it?" I ask, noticing the shocked look on her face.

  "David Benson just entered Ameritocracy."

  "What do you mean?"

  "Just what I said. The David Benson, star of the Atlantis movies, friend of Peter Colton, and all-around stud who stood in your bedroom a few weeks ago, is now a candidate."

  "Who texted you?"

  "Benjamin. He's on the site right now."

  "He's serious?"

  "That guy doesn't know how to joke."

  I leap off the couch and open up our homepage on my computer, and there he is. He's got a full profile page and, of course, a handsome photo. I open Twitter and find that DB is tweeting about his candidacy from his verified Twitter account.

  Sitting back on the couch, I take a long drink of wine and stare blankly at Steph.

  "Pace yourself," she says. "We have a long night coming up."

  "I know, but…David Benson."

  "He's smart, handsome, and famous."

  "I never thought that an actual, real celebrity would enter. It's gonna—"

  "Shake things up?"

  "That's putting it mildly," I say. "When we re-open the voting after the rally, he's gonna be number one with a bullet."

  "Maybe, but you know what?"

  "What?"

  "David Benson is a problem for tomorrow. Right now we're celebrating success, listening to Elvis, and enjoying the night. In a few minutes, we'll be wining and dining a bunch of rich donors, famous journalists, and our candidates. Just enjoy it."

  The Elvis song ends, and a wild banjo-fiddle tune takes up, backed by a throbbing bassline and some jagged yowls. I don't recognize it, but it kinda kicks ass.

  "I love this song," Steph says. "Dolly Parton's version of 'My Country Tis Of Thee'."

  Just as I'm beginning to enjoy it, my phone rings, and Bird's name shows up on the caller ID. "Hey there, calling to critique my performance on TV? I haven't watched it back yet."

  "You did great. You were great. But most importantly, you looked great."

  I laugh. "Seriously, did the cameras catch me crying? I bet my face got all red."

  "No," he says, "But we all noticed around the office when your face popped up on six different TVs. I like what you did with your hair, by the way. You looked like Nicole Kidman—good Nicole, not Eyes Wide Shut Nicole."

  I smile into the phone. Even a thousand miles away, I can count on Bird to notice my hair. "Except I'm half a foot shorter."

  "You were gorgeous. And you looked tall."

  "They gave me a riser to stand on. But thanks, Bird. I'd ask how things are going at The Barker, but I've gotta get ready for a party."

  "Cool cool, but I didn't just call to tell you that you looked gorgeous. Check your texts. I'm sending you something right now."

  I pull my phone away from my ear. "Not here yet."

  "Be patient."

  "What is it?"

  "Something you're gonna want to see. You know FiveThirtyEight, right?"

  "Of course I do."

  Taylor Swift's cover of Tom Petty's "American Girl" comes on, sped up and transformed into a distorted, EDM frenzy. Then Petty's original starts cutting into the mix, turning the track into a dialogue between the two versions.

  "They're doing a thing about you that's gonna run tonight," Bird says. "They called Alex to get a quote, and Alex passed them along to me. I gave them all sorts of great—flattering—stuff about you, but, more importantly, I got them to send me what they're working on."

  "How'd you do that?"

  "Reporter owed me a favor and I promised not to tell anyone. But I screenshotted it."

  My phone chirps with a new text, and I switch the call to speakerphone so I can read and talk at the same time. "Steph, come over here," I call across the room.

  "Steph's there?" Bird asks. "Tell her congratulations. I think I caught a shot of her on TV."

  Steph sidles up next to me. "Thanks, Bird. But why're you bothering Mia now? She's got Peter and a million reporters and ten presidential candidates waiting for her downstairs."

  "I forgot," Bird said, "she's famous now. Parodied on SNL. Soon she'll be on Oprah, or whatever the modern day equivalent is."

  "There isn't one," Steph says.

  I read the text, a photo of a headline and the opening paragraph from the FiveThirtyEight story. "You say this is gonna run when?" I ask Bird.

  "It's gonna be on their homepage later tonight. Multiple stories, including all sorts of polling data."

  "What's it say?" Steph asks.

  I hold up the phone so she can read the headline. "Holy hell!" she says. "They wrote that?"

  "They did," Bird says.

  I hang up with Bird and grab my wine from the coffee table, then walk back to Steph and read the story again:

  2020 Now a Thre
e-Way Race

  With the success of today's rally, a lackluster field of Democrats and Republicans eviscerating each other in the primaries, and a brand that seems to resonate with the American people, the theoretical winner of the Ameritocracy competition is now polling at 20% in a three-way race against a generic Democrat or Republican. With 28% supporting a generic Republican, 26% a generic Democrat, and 26% undecided, FiveThirtyEight will be modeling the 2020 presidential campaign as a three-way race going forward.

  Steph and I exchange a look. We both know exactly how big this is.

  "Thanks for coming to California," I say. "None of this would have happened without you."

  "I know," she says. "But we don't have time for self-congratulations. We have to get down to that party. You ready?"

  "Gimme five minutes," I say, sliding on my lucky T-straps. I stand to give her a short hug and a smile. "I'll be right down."

  At the door, she pauses. "Tonight's gonna be big. Tomorrow's gonna be bigger once news of David Benson goes wide. We're gonna get more votes than the Democratic and Republican primaries combined. The finale is in eight months."

  "And those months are gonna be bonkers."

  "Bananas."

  "Crazy."

  "So, you ready?" she asks again, but this time she doesn't wait for me to answer. Instead, she spins on her heels and walks out. Within minutes, she'll be chatting in French to a potential donor, glass of pinot noir in hand.

  Back at my laptop, I restart the "American Girl" cover, cranking the volume until the windows shake. I walk to the balcony and gaze over the city, pondering Steph's question.

  Los Angeles is a carpet of lights all the way to the horizon, and the cars pass below, a gentle rushing sound like faraway waves. What does it feel like to be ready? I wonder.

  Ready for the explosion in coverage Ameritocracy will get from the rally. And from David Benson's entry into the competition.

  Ready for the increased scrutiny this will bring to me, and most likely to my past. To my father.

  Ready for what's developing with Peter, and ready for it to become public.

  The track fades out. I walk back into the suite, close my laptop, and head for the door. As I step out into the hall, I decide that "ready" isn't a feeling that exists. It's just what's left in the absence of doubt.

  I'm ready.

  I am.

  Author Notes, December 2017

  Thanks for reading!

  I came up with the idea for Ameritocracy in the summer of 2016. Like Mia, I was dismayed at the level of political discourse in the country, and yearned for a fantasy world free of hypocrisy and political speech.

  At first, I envisioned the story as a single novella, maybe 150 pages. But as I explored the idea, it grew into a trilogy. Books 2 and 3 are already in the works, and Book 2 is now available for pre-order.

  Ameritocracy, Book Two: OFF MESSAGE

  (February 2018)

  * * *

  Ameritocracy, Book Three: ECHO CHAMBER

  (Spring, 2018)

  Now, some thanks…

  I worked closely on this book with my brother, Noah Brand, and my wife, Amanda Allen. When we decided to expand Ameritocracy into a trilogy, the three of us worked together in Portland to create new characters and scenes. Though I do the bulk of the writing, many of the cleverest ideas come from them.

  Noah also wrote some of the funniest lines in this book, and pored over my drafts multiple times, making improvements each time. Many times I messaged him with a request like, “See what I’m getting at in that line on page 34? Make it funnier.” And he always did.

  As always, my wife Amanda deserves something more than thanks. In addition to the specific improvements she makes to all my books, she supports my writing tirelessly and enthusiastically. Without her, I’d still be “planning” to write my first novel.

  I also want to thank my dad, Robert W. Fuller, whose interest in politics and media inspired my own.

  Special thanks to my team of "Just in Time" readers: Chet Sandberg, Nancy Swanton, Chris Rhodus, and Bonnie Dale Keck. Their help in the final weeks made this a much better book.

  I spend a lot of time studying the American political landscape. I couldn't do this without the wonderful journalists, bloggers, and podcasters doing their best to make sense of the world in confusing times. Thanks to all of them.

  And to the readers who enjoy my books, thanks!

  A.C. Fuller

  Special Thanks

  I owe a great debt to Chet Sandberg, who offered invaluable feedback before this book came out. I tend to be wordy in my early drafts, and Chet stepped in toward the end to suggest thousands of small cuts that made the book more readable.

  Introducing The Alex Vane Media Thrillers

  Remember Alex Vane, Mia's boss at The Barker? He's got his own series. I call them The Alex Vane Media Thrillers, and if you enjoyed Open Primary, I think you'll love them.

  * * *

  The Cutline

  (An Alex Vane Novella)—Available free, and only though my website

  The Anonymous Source

  (An Alex Vane Media Thriller, Book 1)

  The Inverted Pyramid

  (An Alex Vane Media Thriller, Book 2)

  The Mockingbird Drive

  (An Alex Vane Media Thriller, Book 3)

  The Shadow File

  (An Alex Vane Media Thriller, Book 4)

  ***

  Or get books 1-3 together in the boxed set

  The Alex Vane Media Thrillers: 1-3

  About the Author

  Once a journalist in New York, A.C. Fuller now writes stories at the intersection of media, politics, and technology. He also teaches writing workshops around the country and internationally.

  Before he began writing full time, he was an adjunct professor of journalism at NYU and an English teacher at Northwest Indian College.

  He now lives with his wife, two children, and two dogs near Seattle. For a free copy of one of A.C.'s books, check out: www.acfuller.com/readerclub.

  And he loves hearing from readers.

  www.acfuller.com

  ac@acfuller.com