by A. C. Fuller
"Your employees call you Peter?"
"Most of them, but let's not make this about me."
"Fine, fine." I'm not a big drinker, so the cocktail has me feeling loose enough to press through my insecurities. "The idea came to me about three years ago. Just a tiny kernel of a whiff of a notion during the 2016 election cycle. I was disgusted by the whole process. The negativity, the superficiality. I was already thinking about what I could do to change things. Then we got the result, and I kicked into high gear. The morning after the election, I pulled out a blank yellow legal pad and wrote a manifesto."
"What was the first thing you wrote?"
"It's embarrassing."
He shrugs. "Tell me anyway."
"I wrote, 'America perfected the reality show, then became one.'"
He leans in, the light from the LED candles dancing on his face. "Well, America does love slogans. And how'd you come up with the word Ameritocracy?"
"I did what people do in the twenty-first century. I hopped online and started looking at URLs. I considered Third Party, America 2020, and a million others."
"Tell me some of the others."
"Some of them are pretty corny."
"Try me."
"President Freedom dot U.S., which I considered mostly because the domain name was available. Then there was…wait lemme think…there was The 2020 Election Show, Pick 2020, Democracy 2.0, Democracy: The Website and, my personal favorite: Democracy: The Game Show."
"Why didn't you go with that?"
"Too on the nose. And anyway, most of the URLs were taken. I needed something jazzier, something catchier. I liked the idea of implying America plus meritocracy. So I settled on Ameritocracy." I say the last word with a flourish, moving my hand through the air like Vanna White unveiling a new puzzle, a move I learned from my mom, who never misses an episode of Wheel of Fortune. "I thought Ameritocracy could be like 'Google.' A word no one knew before the search engine came along, and now it's a household word."
"It is catchy," Peter says as the drinks arrive. He squeezes a lime wedge into a champagne flute of Red Bull. "Tell me about the moment. Not just what you did, but how you felt. You wake up on Wednesday, November 9, 2016, and what do you feel?"
His smile is gone now, and I'm starting to feel the particular nature of his charm. It's an intensity of interest, a desire to know, and an impatience with superficialities. I consider myself a no-BS kind of person, so the moment I see this about him, I relax fully. And answer honestly.
"I cried. I'd been obsessed with the election for a year, following it on Twitter, listening to podcasts, occasionally checking in on cable news. By the end of it, I was emotionally worn out, then the big twist ending was like a kick in the stomach. I wouldn't have been thrilled with any outcome. The whole process was so screwed up and depressing, but riveting at the same time. It's the cliché of the car crash you can't look away from."
"And the car crash is America itself."
"Exactly. So I wake up Wednesday morning, check Twitter and CNN to make sure I hadn't dreamed it, then cried for thirty minutes. I wasn't just sad about what had happened. I was overwhelmed by the whole process. But mostly I was disappointed with how I'd handled it. I got wrapped up in the spectacle, in the horse race aspect of it. I felt like I hadn't done anything."
The lights dim throughout the hall, shifting from silver-blue to deep maroon. I look up, but Peter catches my eye. "Please continue."
"In those first moments, I hated the country. Hated the hypocrisy of generations of politicians. I wanted to firebomb the White House and the cable news stations and The New York Times and The Washington Post and all the podcasts and local papers and lying politicians and every goddamn congressman on earth, not to mention the lobbyists who line their pockets. The only person I hated more than all of them was myself. For my gullibility. For quitting. For taking the road of cynicism and defeat and hopelessness."
"What do you mean, quitting? It sounds like you followed the election closely."
We are getting too close to a subject I'd rather avoid, so I gesture toward the center of the room, where the mechanical bull is being wheeled out. "Is something happening? I mean, in the room?"
Peter studies the room, then looks back at me. "Dancing starts soon."
"Oh, is Malcolm gonna play his stuff?"
"Not sure. I don't get into the details of the parties."
"Okay," I say, a little disappointed.
Peter takes my hand softly, then waits until I look up. "Please," he says, "I just want to understand. What did you mean by 'quitting'? You have a full-time job, and I'd bet that you know more about politics than anyone in the room. You—"
"I didn't vote," I say, emptying my second drink and studying him for a reaction.
"That's not what I was expecting."
"Well, everyone knew who was going to win Washington State. So it wasn't going to affect anything, at least not in the presidential race."
"True enough."
"I don't know. I followed the presidential race so closely that I stopped paying attention to local politics, to ballot measures, my congressional rep. Everything else fell away. I became a spectator. A spectator at a car crash."
"That's understandable."
"Understandable, but not forgivable."
I hope he'll tell me, "It is forgivable," but he doesn't.
"The voting part is just symbolic," I say. "And I would have voted if I'd been in a swing state. I guess the reason I cried was that I hadn't acted. I'd consumed more news than anyone I knew, and I hadn't turned it into action. Not nationally, not in my community, not even filling out a damn ballot. Nothing."
"So Ameritocracy is your way of atoning?"
"It's not just that, but yeah. Too many people didn't do enough in 2016. I want to do my part to make 2020 different. Better. And if not 2020, then 2024, 2028. I'm still angry, still disappointed. I have been for years. But I'm not willing to let others make these decisions without putting up a fight. Not anymore."
He stares at me for a long time, and his curious smile is back. "The reason I asked, the reason I was so insistent, is that I wondered if it had anything to do with your father."
I pull my hand away and lean back, throwing him a look that's half surprise, half angry glare. "We don't talk about my father."
"I'm sorry. I didn't know. I just—"
"No," I say firmly, waving at the waiter, who bolts to get me another drink.
Before the presentation, I assumed the Project X committee would look into my background, but now I know Peter has created a neat little theory about me. About how my father lost the 1988 Democratic nomination for president because of a tabloid scandal. About how the scandal erupted after his affair with my mother became public. And about how the affair never would have been public if I hadn't been born. Maybe Peter even knows that I don't have a relationship with my father, and assumes that Ameritocracy is some kind of Electra-complex payback.
I don't say any of this.
When Peter finally catches my eye, I just repeat, "Yeah. We don't talk about my father."
"I'm sorry I upset you," Peter says timidly after my new drink arrives. "Did Malcolm tell you why I wanted to see you?"
"Not exactly."
"He can keep a secret. That's important in an assistant. Would it surprise you to hear that you won Project X?"
In an instant, my agitation turns to excitement. I sit up a little. "Yes."
"Then this is gonna shock you." He pauses, clearing his throat. "Project X would like to donate five million dollars to Ameritocracy. We'd like to offer you technological help, office space, and connections with the people you need to turn your site into a major force in the 2020 election."
I study his face as the realization that he's serious spreads through my whole body. It's a tingling sensation, like my cells are infused with good champagne, but the feeling is immediately pushed to the side by a wave of trepidation.
My first thought is that he's just sayi
ng this so he can sleep with me. But that makes no sense. His life over the last ten years has been a parade of beautiful girlfriends, most of them richer and more successful than me, with an average height of five-foot-ten.
"What's the catch?" My tone is more accusatory than I intended. "I mean, thank you, of course. Oh my God, thank you. But—"
"But what's the catch?"
"Yeah, I guess I just don't…I mean…did you say five million dollars?"
He takes a small sip of Red Bull. "I did."
Like I mentioned, Peter Colton is known for giving away a lot of his money, so it isn't the money that has my head spinning. Well, obviously it is the money, but there's something else. It's…I don't know.
Something I can't place.
I'm thinking of how to respond when a slow and steady bass line fills the room, the opening notes of "I Walk the Line," followed by Johnny Cash's deep voice. Just as I start to get into the song, it changes, the word "line" playing on repeat like a broken record, faster and faster, higher and higher until it becomes a single screeching note like the high range of a police siren.
Malcolm stands in a raised DJ booth, wearing the same black slacks and blue blazer as before, but now with a white Golden State Warriors t-shirt underneath. He's toying with the crowd, which works itself into a frenzy as the single high note continues for at least ten seconds.
Then, he drops the beat.
A chunky hip-hop track below laser sounds, beeps, hisses, and layer after layer of wavy synth. The small crowd in the center of the dance floor goes nuts. Dozens of onlookers rush to the center to join in the dancing.
Peter touches my hand. "Mia?"
His eyes are fixed on mine. He's been watching me watch the scene.
"What do you say to my offer?"
It might be the mention of my father, or the shock of Peter's offer, or possibly just the fact that I've had two and a half Blade Runner Cowboys and Malcolm is shredding the room with his mix, but there is no way I'm going to talk anymore.
"Do you dance?" I ask.
Before he can respond, I grab his hand and drag him to the center of the crowd.
Peter is a better dancer than I expect, and, for the first time, he seems to be having fun. But he hasn't relaxed his intensity. In fact, he's krumping like a madman. Arm jabs, stomps, and chest pops have taken over his body in an energetic burst that, when combined with the maroon lighting, make him look like the star of an energy drink commercial.
The scene is made even stranger by the fact that, twelve hours earlier, I was on the train to the airport, eating oatmeal out of one of those paper tubs from Starbucks, trying to decide what show to binge-watch over the weekend. Now I'm cutting a rug with a hot billionaire who just offered me five million dollars. And he can move, too.
I, on the other hand, dance like a total dork. My style is all jumping and flailing and shaking, but I don't care. I'm overcome by the music, by the strangeness and newness of the scene, by the five million dollars dangling in front of me, and by the topsy-turvy drunkenness that comes from mixing great tequila and lousy beer.
When the music transitions into a slow, distorted version of Ella Fitzgerald's "Blue Skies" blended with sweeping strings, I spin and spin at the center of the dance floor, giggling like a fool and swelling with a feeling I haven't known in years.
Possibility.
End of sample. Continue the book here. Free in the KU program, a few bucks to buy.
Introducing The Alex Vane Media Thrillers
Remember Alex, Mia's boss at The Barker? He's got his own series: The Alex Vane Media Thrillers. If you enjoyed Green Lake Bones, I think you'll love them. Like all my books, they're just a few bucks each, and free in the Kindle Unlimited program.
The Cutline
(An Alex Vane Prequel 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
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