Green Lake Bones

by A. C. Fuller

  He also founded—and funded—Project X, a program that chooses ten non-profits per year and gives each one $150,000 to support its mission. Each non-profit also gets access to Project X's network of entrepreneurs and tech gurus. And that's why I used a personal day to fly a thousand miles south. That's why I'm staring down at Peter Colton.

  He stares back, his dark eyes fixed on mine, his smile both warm and serious, like he's concealing a secret I desperately want to know. On any other day, his look would have left me flustered. But today I'm locked in, ready to go.

  After all, I'm trying to save democracy.

  I wiggle my toes and rest my hands on the podium, not sure if I should speak first.

  Thankfully, Chang breaks the silence. "Hello, Ms. Rhodes. I'm Alvin Chang. To my left, Peter Colton. To his left, Eleanor Ruff. Behind us, well, the other judges of Project X." He gestures toward the board members, but clearly doesn't want to take the time to introduce them. "We apologize for the late change to the structure of the presentation."

  "No problem," I lie.

  "You have five minutes," Chang continues, "followed by ten minutes of questions. We've reviewed your materials, so our goal is to get to know Mia Rhodes, your passions, and your reasons for applying to Project X."

  This is the moment I've been waiting for. I stand as tall as I can at five foot two, throw my head back to get one of my misbehaving auburn curls out of my eye, roll up the sleeves of my white button-down, try in vain to smooth the creases on my black slacks, and say, as boldly as possible, "American democracy is broken."

  I pause for effect, scanning the eyes of my three primary judges and casting occasional glances at the five judges behind them. "When we're young, we're taught that the American political system is a meritocracy, that the cream rises to the top, that our leaders and representatives are the best among us.

  "That's a lie. What we saw in the last presidential election—and to varying degrees in state and even local elections—was a perverted popularity contest. The barriers to entry are so high that entrenched political power can and does retain its position. The state of campaign finance means that we live in a fundamentally corrupt democracy, where both parties are under enormous pressure to favor business interests over those of the people. We reward the best media manipulator, the biggest celebrity, or the candidate with the biggest ad buys, rather than the smartest, bravest, or kindest among us. Furthermore, technology is now moving at a rate at which politics and media cannot keep up.

  "Barriers to entry. Perverse financial incentives. A broken media system ruled by technology it can't understand, let alone control. As these trends continue to affect our elections, America will careen down a path toward becoming a failed democracy. A failed state."

  I step out from behind the podium and walk the stage, imagining that I'm the star of my own TED Talk. "America needs a new system for choosing a president. That's why I created Ameritocracy2020.org."

  "Yes," Ruff interjects, "we've read the materials, but what, exactly, is it? Some sort of website?"

  Her question throws me off, both because I'm only two minutes into my speech and because she says "website" like it's some newfangled fad. But Ruff is a technological wizard, so I assume she's speaking disdainfully about my concept, not the technology I'm using to bring it into the world.

  "Ameritocracy2020.org—or just Ameritocracy—is a web-based platform designed to find the best independent presidential candidate in the country, and to fund that candidate to compete against the Democrats and Republicans in the 2020 election. If the presidential election is going to be a reality show, I want to create the fairest, most transparent reality show in history. If our political system is going to be ruled by money, I want independent candidates to be funded as well as the established parties. If—"

  "Tell us how it works," Chang says, crossing his arms.

  The interrogation has begun, but I'm gaining confidence, so I walk a little circle around the podium, my heels tapping loudly on the wooden stage.

  "Think of Facebook," I reply. "Anyone can start a profile, write posts or upload photos or videos. Ameritocracy is like that. Any U.S. citizen can set up a profile on the site, as long as he or she will be thirty-five years of age by November 3, 2020—election day—and meets the other basic requirements to run for president. We have a brief form to fill out—name, background, and so on. Once you set up your profile, you are a candidate for president in 2020. From there, you can upload your issue platform, videos of yourself making your case to the voters, photos of yourself shaking hands and kissing babies, whatever. Essentially, it's a site on which anyone can run for president of the United States."

  "How will your winner be chosen?" Chang asks.

  "The final day to register is February 1, 2020. From there, we will have multiple elimination rounds, just like on The Voice or most other reality shows. Right now, we're using ranked-candidate voting. Registered users can rank their top ten candidates, and the votes are combined with a proprietary algorithm to determine our leaderboard. I've tied the key elimination rounds to the major party primaries. So, on Super Tuesday in March of 2020, we'll cut the field to twenty-five candidates. The Republican and Democratic fields will be narrowing around this time—and media attention will be at its peak—so we'll narrow the field to allow our voters to focus.

  "Through the spring and early summer of 2020, we'll have a series of debates and eliminations. Twenty five candidates to twenty, twenty to fifteen, and so on. On July 4, 2020, around the time of the Republican and Democratic Conventions, there will be a final debate, live on our website, featuring the final six candidates. We will then open the voting for twenty-four hours, and, at the end of that time, the top vote-getter wins our competition and all the money we've raised. At that point, we hope he or she will be in a position to compete in the general election against the Democratic and Republican nominees."

  "How many candidates do you have right now?" Chang asks, a hint of condescension in his voice.

  I planned for this question. Ever since I started the website in an espresso-fueled rage shortly after the 2016 election, Ameritocracy has floundered. Now, two and a half years later, I only have a few dozen candidates, and, frankly, most of them are too far outside the mainstream to have any chance of getting elected. I have no PR, no money, and no way to make the site seem credible. That's where I hope Project X will come in.

  "Only a handful, at this point," I say, "but interest in the 2020 election is picking up and—"

  "From the numbers you submitted," Ruff interrupts, "it appears no one is using the site."

  "We've grown slowly so far, yes."

  "We?" Ruff asks.

  "Just me, actually. I plan to staff up if I'm selected as a Project X winner."

  "When you crown a winner, they'll run as a third party candidate?" Chang asks.

  "As an independent. One of the rules about entering is that you cannot be an elected office holder from the Democratic or Republican party."

  "A third party candidate is the future," Ruff says, smirking. "And always will be."

  She and Chang laugh, and I glare at them. I've heard the joke before, and don't especially like being made fun of.

  "So, are there other rules?" Ruff asks, still chuckling.

  "Very few. We accept candidates of all backgrounds and political persuasions."

  "What about hacking?" Chang asks.

  "We haven't had any problems with—"

  "What I mean is, if the site grows, what are the risks of hacking?"

  "We will be developing solid layers of security." It's the first time I find myself sounding like the obfuscating politicians I loathe, but the truth is that I don't know what I'm talking about when it comes to cyber security. I plan to hire experts if the site grows, but it's not something I can speak about with any authority.

  "Okay," Ruff sighs, looking at her watch. "But a presidential campaign requires the candidate to raise a couple hundred million dollars, and that's not co
unting support from the DNC, RNC, or Super PACs, which your winning candidate won't have. Assuming more people enter your competition and the site grows, and assuming you crown a winner by vote around July Fourth, why do you expect them to have any chance in the 2020 election?"

  "Two reasons," I say. "Celebrity and money. As Ameritocracy grows, we expect the leading candidates to become well known, to attract mainstream media attention and massive social media followings. Their best posts and videos will go viral. If American politics must be a reality show, we will at least create one with a level playing field and a higher purpose."

  I smile at Chang and Ruff, but they don't seem impressed. Peter Colton, who hasn't said a word, stares up at me with that mysterious smile, chin resting on his balled-up hands.

  "The second reason we'll have a chance is that we're raising money. Registered users can make donations, and the unique thing about our platform is that the donations aren't made to your favorite candidate, they're made to our organization. The understanding is that, after we pay operating costs, we'll give one hundred percent of the remaining funds to our winning candidate in July. No matter who wins."

  "Celebrity and money," Chang says. "Good thinking. How much have you raised so far?"

  "We're still in the beginning stages and—"

  "Seven thousand three hundred dollars and sixty-two cents," Ruff says, looking down at a stack of papers she seems to have pulled out of thin air.

  "So far, but—"

  "So, what you're really looking at is a long-term play here," Ruff interrupts. "You have no chance of impacting the 2020 election, even if we award you a Project X grant, so maybe 2024, 2028?"

  I know she's probably right. Even if I win the money, it could take years to gain traction, given how little attention we've gotten so far.

  Before I can respond, Chang says, "Tell me more about the candidates. You said there were a few dozen?"

  "Thirty-eight, to be exact, mostly from the fringes. Far right and far left, plus a couple total crackpots. The idea is that, as the site grows and more Americans begin to pay attention and vote, more serious candidates will join. And if the idea gets some traction, and more credible candidates enter, more donations will come in, which will make more candidates want to enter because the idea itself will begin to seem viable."

  We're running out of time and my audience is restless. Chang stares at his phone as Ruff puts papers into a briefcase on her lap. I wonder why Peter Colton hasn't spoken, but I prepped a closing statement, specifically geared toward Colton, so I may as well deliver it.

  "If you don't have any more questions, I'll finish with an analogy I heard recently." I lean forward and lock eyes with Colton. "For decades, very few people climbed Mount Everest. Only the best trained, most professional climbers dared make the trip. Recently, new technologies have allowed amateur climbers to reach the summit at amazing rates. Smaller and more efficient oxygen tanks, better routes, well-trained assistants, fixed ropes and ladders. Technology allows people to do what, just two decades ago, would have been impossible. Technology should do the same for democracy. It should give voice to the voiceless, challenge entrenched power, and allow the best ideas—and the best people—to rise to the top. With your help, I hope Ameritocracy will play a small part in that."

  There's a slight change in Colton's expression, something more like a regular smile. He stares right at me, and I hold his gaze, gathering all the courage I can muster. "I know this idea is just starting out. I know it may take some time. But I've spent the last six years managing the day-to-day operations of The Barker, an online magazine with seventy employees. If I'm lucky enough to win Project X, I know I can turn Ameritocracy into something that will make a dent in our broken political system. I hope you'll give me the opportunity to try."

  Despite the interrogation, I closed strong, and I'm proud of myself as I wash my hands in the palatial bathroom outside the meeting hall. Pressing my palms against my neck, I allow the cool to spread through my body, which calms me.

  I walk back into the lobby and nod at Malcolm as I pass his desk. "Nice to meet you. I'll check out your YouTube videos."

  "I'll keep an eye on your website," he says, picking up his ringing phone.

  Waiting for my Uber, I survey the Colton Industries campus. From where I stand, I see three other large buildings, all glass and silver and curves, surrounded by green grass and new sidewalks. Everything screams "new wealth."

  When the Prius arrives, I slide in, pulling out my phone to make sure my flight is on time. I feel calm and accomplished, the way I always feel when I've done something hard, something I was afraid of. As the car pulls away from Building 7, I glance back wistfully, like people do in movies.

  That's when I see Malcolm, running through the front door and waving at my driver to stop.

  The driver doesn't see him.

  "Stop," I say. "Stop for a sec."

  I roll down my window as Malcolm rushes up.

  "What?" I ask. "What is it?"

  "I just realized something important," he says. "If Willie Nelson runs for president, they'll probably drag up his old tax scandals. It's never gonna work."

  I blink for a moment, confused. "You're right," I say eventually. "The single flaw in an otherwise perfect candidate. Um…is that why you flagged down my car?"

  "I wish," he says.

  I raise an eyebrow, waiting for him to explain. Then he leans his head through the window slightly and, for one ridiculous moment, I think he's going to kiss me.

  2

  Instead, Malcolm does something even more surprising. "Mr. Colton would like to invite you to our Friday night staff party," he says. "And he's asked me to help you find a dress for the event."

  "Why?" I ask, stunned. "I mean, what for?"

  He looks down at my shirt and pants. "He just figured you wouldn't have packed for a formal party."

  "I mean, why is he inviting me?"

  "I'm just the messenger here, Mia. Will you go?"

  I shoot him my best skeptical look, but I see from his stoic face that, even if he knows what's going on, he won't say. "Are you gonna be there?" I'm not flirting, though it may appear that way to Malcolm. I'm just nervous and like the idea of a friendly face.

  "Sort of," he says. "I'll be DJing."

  "Then sure. I'll go."

  I apologize to the driver, hand him a twenty, and follow Malcolm back into the lobby of Building 7, trying to figure out what my first question will be.

  He takes his seat behind the iMac and says, "The party is at eight, so we've got a little over three hours. I need twenty minutes to finish some things, then my replacement comes. Like I said, Mr. Colton asked me to take you shopping for a dress, but only if you'd like one."

  I lean on the reception counter casually, trying to pretend that there are circumstances under which I'd say no to shopping with the credit card of a billionaire. "A dress?"

  "The Friday night parties tend to be more formal than you'd expect for a Silicon Valley company with no dress code. Let's just say that these aren't your typical staff parties."

  "And he asked you to take me shopping? For real?"

  "If you're more comfortable in what you're wearing, that's fine as well. Mr. Colton is a bit of a libertarian when it comes to his parties. All are encouraged to dress up, and most do, but there's no requirement. Individual choice and all."

  He's right that I didn't pack for a formal party. I didn't pack at all. I flew down on the 10 a.m. out of Sea-Tac, planning to be home by midnight. I didn't even bring a toothbrush. Speaking of which, "Where will I stay?" I ask.

  Malcolm is typing fast, and he looks up from his screen. "We can get you a hotel room, or you're welcome to stay in Building 12, the dorm for staff who spend the night. The rooms are individual, pod-type spaces, but they're nice."

  With that, his eyes are back on his computer, and I shuffle back to the chair I sat in earlier. I pull out my iPhone to check my email, scroll past a couple dozen work-related non-eme
rgencies, and open one from my mother.

  Dearest Mia,

  How did your presentation go? I can't wait to talk with you.

  Love,

  Mom

  My mom is a waitress at the same Greek diner in Connecticut where she's worked since before I was born. Her calls on Saturday mornings are the only reason I don't sleep until noon, and I need to let her know that I won't be there when she calls my landline tomorrow.

  Mom-

  Not sure yet. Good, I think. Strange things are happening. Staying over in California a night, so you won't reach me on my home phone tomorrow.

  Love you,

  Mia

  I scroll for a few minutes, ignoring work and deleting spam, then realize the email Malcolm mentioned—the one informing me of the change in presentation structure—isn't there. Not that it matters now, but I'm curious. I scroll again, look in my spam folder, then run a quick search. I have definitely not received an email from Malcolm or anyone at Colton Industries.

  Malcolm is now standing behind his chair, updating a young woman who's taken his seat behind the iMac.

  I step over, wait for him to finish and, when he nods toward the door, I ask, "Did you lie about the email to all the presenters, or just me?"

  "It was a test," Malcolm says, breaking a long silence as we drive off the Colton Industries campus. "The committee wanted to see how you'd do under pressure."

  "So, you lied?"

  "I was told to lie. And you must have done just fine."

  "I guess so, but can you tell me anything more about what Mr. Colton said?"

  Malcolm takes a soft left onto a wide, two-lane road that heads straight into the small town of Santa Clarissa. "I can't," he says. "Not because I don't want to. I just don't know much else."

  "Then tell me about the town."

  "Isn't much to it," he says, and I can already see that. We enter a small commercial district, no more than eight blocks long because I can see where the buildings stop and the road continues its path toward the rolling brown hills in the distance. The town looks like it was dropped, all at once, onto a huge patch of flat farmland. When Malcolm explains the history, I learn this is basically what happened.