by A. C. Fuller
When I arrived, the park was littered with empty beer cans and paper plates. Lynyrd Skynyrd's "Simple Man" blasted through a Bluetooth speaker on a park bench. I've always loved that song, but now it's ruined for me because it led to the first fight of the night.
People always argue over the music selection at parties, but I would have assumed that Skynyrd could unite a Tanner Futch crowd. Wrong.
It turns out the band recently supported the removal of Confederate flags from statehouse buildings in the south. This fact was enough to make a Futch supporter in a black tank top smash the iPhone of the woman who'd turned on the song. The woman then threw a beer on the man, who brought his wife over to fight the beer-throwing woman. Police broke up the fight before it got any uglier.
The second fight of the evening was about barbecue. You see, the catering company Futch's team hired served mostly hamburgers and hot dogs. There were a couple platters of ribs and chicken, but those had been baked hours earlier. In the park, they simply marked them on the grill, then slathered them with bottled barbecue sauce. Any Food Network addict will tell you that's not real barbecue.
One man had come all the way from Tennessee for Futch's event and he pointed out loudly—and rightly—that the fare was anything but "real American barbecue," which is cooked slow and low in a real smoker.
Another Futch supporter countered that "real American barbecue is whatever real Americans eat," then questioned the Tennessee man's skin tone.
Things did not improve from there. The event ended with a half dozen arrests and a small group of survivors marching from the park to the Federal Reserve building.
For Futch, all press is good press. When word of the arrests made it back to producers at the cable networks, they cut into live programming to show the remaining attendees standing outside the Federal Reserve chanting, "Audit the Fed, or off with your head."
Futch even did a live interview from the sidewalk, extolling his supporters for being willing to "Shout the Truth" and blaming the inauthentic barbecue on "un-American forces within the catering company who wanted to sow discord within our campaign."
Desperate to clear my head from the three-headed monster of the Futch rally, the fight with Steph, and the Peter Colton campaign, I do twenty minutes of yoga, following along to a YouTube video on my cellphone. I'm terrible at yoga, probably because I only practice once or twice a month, but it calms me.
Setting aside my nightmares about Peter becoming president, his campaign still bugs me. It has since he entered, but it intensified at the debate when I saw his contradictory statements in plain view. Yesterday, my suspicion intensified.
How is it that he's not getting called out more in the press?
I have an idea. First, I check Peter's official Ameritocracy profile and click on his issue page, something I've avoided as much as possible. I want to choose an issue that the country is divided on, something that has a black and white answer.
I scan the issues, then click on Gay marriage.
Peter has a short statement on the issue, supporting gay marriage as both the settled law of the land and a step forward toward equality under the law. Unequivocal support.
I run a quick Google search, combining the words "Peter Colton" with phrases like "gay rights," "marriage equality," and "LGBTQ issues." Just like on the official Ameritocracy page, he seems to be strongly supportive of LGBTQ rights in general, and marriage equality in particular.
Next, I text Bird at The Barker. He's a happily married gay man active within the LGBT community.
Me: Trying to figure something out about my computer. Can you tell me where Peter Colton stands on gay marriage?
Bird is on his phone for work constantly so I expect to hear back soon.
While I wait, I text my mom's brother, Uncle Hippon. He's usually a sweet old man, but let's just say that he would not approve of Bird. He's a devout member of the Greek Orthodox Church and, from the few times I've spoken to him, I know he believes homosexuality of any sort, at any time, to be deviant.
I send him the same text I sent Bird, but it bounces back immediately.
90008000422: You have texted a landline #. Reply Y to send this TXT message as a voicemail for a 0.25/msg + std msg fee + any applicable international fees.
I call, and the lady who answers tells me I have the wrong number. At breakfast I'll ask my mother how to contact him.
I take a quick shower and dress again in my power suit. The one I wore at our first rally, a navy-blue Versace with two columns of silver buttons down the front of the jacket. Every time I put it on I feel like I'm either in the Union Army or Starfleet, and either way I'm awesome.
By the time I'm dressed, I have a message.
Bird: Strongly supports it, as far as I can tell.
An hour later, the sun streams through a high window into the trendy cafe where I wait for my mom. I shift my sunglasses from the top of my head to my eyes when a pair of college-aged women stare at me a little too long. I'm in no mood to make small talk with fans of the site.
"Mia!"
I look up to see my mom across the restaurant. I haven't seen her since the Ameritocracy rally in the fall, by far the longest space between visits we've ever had. Without thinking, I leap up and cross the restaurant to hug her.
My mom is a plump woman, a couple inches taller than me, with graying hair that was once luscious black. I hold her a long time, too long probably because I sense the eyes of the hostess and the other diners.
I don't care. I need this right now.
When I pull away, my mom gives me her Is-Everything-Okay? look as the hostess leads us back to my table. After we order, I fill my mom in on the latest Ameritocracy news and our plans for the final debate. I leave out the most upsetting topics, like the possibly-fake David Benson suicide note and my suspicions about Peter's campaign.
Mom was never especially political, but I think she's more excited about the finale than I am. She's proud, of course, and wants to see me succeed. But I sense another motive as well. She's aware of my lack of visits too, and she probably hopes my life will slow down when Ameritocracy ends.
"So, any men in your life?" she asks.
I squirm in my chair.
We're one or two questions away from the inevitable grandchildren conversation. I'm nowhere near ready for kids, but I'm her only child. Her only chance for grandkids, and I know how much they mean to her.
"No boyfriend, if that's what you mean. There is one guy I'm…well, we had a bit of a flirtation. Now he's gone and…it's complicated."
She sips a cup of milky coffee. "Well, who is he?"
"His name is Malcolm. He's a musician."
"A waiter, then?"
I pause, trying to figure out what she means. "No, a full time musician. He's on tour with Dolly Parton right now."
A look of recognition passes over her face. "He's not that cute guy who…oh what do you call it? The guy with the computer who stands in back?"
"DJ?"
"Yes, he's not that guy is he?"
"He is, but how did you—"
"He was on Conan last week. Both of them. Him and Dolly. They did that one song. What was it called? Oh, I don't know. He was cute. Can't say your Uncle Hippon would be especially fond of you dating a black guy. Hippon's retrograde views were one of the reasons I left Greece."
"We're not dating, mom, and you know I don't care what Uncle Hippon thinks."
She winks. "Neither do I."
"Malcolm is cute though, isn't he? Funny, too, but there's something else." I try to find the word. "He's just decent. Through this whole thing—the whole Ameritocracy thing—he's treated me like a person. Like he didn't want or need anything from me. You don't know how important that is until you get famous and everyone starts treating you like some preconceived version of you they ended up with because of an SNL sketch or whatever ten-minute interview they happened to watch most recently."
My mom's expression changes from interest to concern, then back to m
ischievous matchmaker. "Is he into you?"
I lean away and take a long sip of orange juice. "I think so. We text every day."
"So where are my damn grandkids?"
She says it a touch too loudly, and a couple at another table looks over.
Luckily, the waiter sets down our food, giving me an opening to change the subject. "Speaking of Uncle Hippon, do you have his number? I need to call him."
My mom pulls out her phone, finds the contact info, and hands it to me.
I say, "You know you can just share the contact page with me via text."
She shakes her head like she doesn't know what I'm talking about as I text the contact page to myself.
"Why do you want to talk to Hippon?" she asks.
"Hard to explain. Some system irregularities. I want to speak with someone in Europe to check how something appears on the site. No big deal."
She pushes her French toast around her plate for a moment, and I know the topic she's about to broach. "Speaking of big deals. Did your father ever get in touch with you?"
"I'm meeting with him tomorrow."
She stares at me a long time, saying nothing. I think she's upset with me.
I know their relationship ended badly. He pressured her to have an abortion, then pressured her to deny the affair once it became public. Clearly, she hadn't done the former. And though she'd never confirmed reports of the affair, she'd never denied them either.
For my whole childhood it was me and mom versus the world. She had no relationship with him, so I had no relationship with him. She wanted nothing to do with him, so I pretended to want nothing to do with him.
Her eyes well up and a tear rolls down her cheek, dropping into her coffee with a little splash.
"I'm sorry," I stammer. "He's in Philadelphia anyway and I—"
"Mia, I'm not upset. I'm happy for you. This should have happened a long time ago."
My whole chest relaxes, and now I'm crying as well. "Thanks, mom. It means a lot that you…I don't know. That you support me seeing him."
She spends a long time cutting and eating a piece of French toast, then looks up. "I've been thinking, honey. Why don't you stay with me for a while when this is all over? I love what you're doing. You know that. But maybe you need a month off. A month away from everything."
"I'll think about it," I say.
Life after Ameritocracy has been on my mind for months, and time at mom's house with no responsibility sounds good. But I can't think past the next few days in any useful way. If I'm right about Peter, and even if I'm wrong, the next two days will decide everything.
After breakfast, I walk my mom to her hotel, then head back to mine.
I check in on Steph, hoping to convince her to come with me to the Avery Axum event this evening, but she's gone. Probably trying to break into the offices of The Washington Post to convince them to send reporters to our debate.
I send her a quick text.
Me: Sorry about yesterday. You should be thankful you didn't attend the Futch rally. It was, well…you probably saw the news. Avery Axum thing at GWU. You coming?
Next, I call Uncle Hippon at the new number. To my surprise, someone picks up after only two rings. The problem is that she's speaking Greek.
After letting her finish what sounds like a memorized spiel, I say, "I'm sorry. Do you speak English?"
Without responding to the question directly, she gives the spiel again, this time in heavily-accented English. "Thank you for calling Athens Senior Living Community, how may I direct your call?"
"Oh, thank you. Is Hippon Dimakos available?"
"Please hold."
After five rings, he answers. "Hello?"
His voice is gravelly, his accent thick, like he's speaking underwater after smoking a pack of cigarettes.
"Uncle, it's Mia."
"Oh, Mia, how are you doing? How is your mother?"
"Fine, I saw her this morning. We're in D.C. I…I need to ask you something important and I only have a minute."
"Is everything alright?"
"Maybe, it's something about the site. Ameritocracy."
"You know, Mia, your ancestors invented democracy. Your grandfather's grandfather's grandfather's—"
"I know, Uncle Hippon. Cleisthenes, right?"
Family lore, which could be true but likely isn't, is that my grandfather was related to Cleisthenes of the Alcmaeonid family, who brought major reforms to Athenian democracy around 500 B.C. He's often called "The Father of Democracy." It's not that I don't appreciate Uncle Hippon's stories, but I really do have to get to Axum's event.
"That's right," Uncle Hippon says. "So it's fitting that—"
"Uncle, I need to ask you something."
"Fine, fine. But you really should study the past more."
"Do you have your computer nearby?"
"Yes, why?"
"Do you still have your profile set up on my site?"
"Yes."
"Can you pull it up and log in?"
"Hold on," he grumbles.
I hear distant banging sounds as he rummages around what I imagine is a small apartment in the assisted living facility.
From the beginning, Ameritocracy allowed international users to register, track candidates, and participate in the forums. To vote, users need to provide proof of U.S. residency, but allowing international users access to the site has raised our profile around the world.
"Ok, found it," he says.
"Click on Peter Colton's candidate profile, scroll down to his positions."
"Okay."
"Do you see a position on gay marriage?"
"I hope not, you know how I feel about that type of behavior."
"I do, and that's something we can argue about next time I'm in Greece, uncle, but can you look?"
I can see him in my mind, frowning at the screen through his black beard, scrolling down slowly.
"Hmmm," he says quietly. "Not bad."
"What?" I ask.
"He's a good Christian. Not Greek Orthodox—he has a kind of Spanish look about him—but I can't hold that against him. Says he strongly opposes gay marriage."
"Are you sure you're reading that right?"
"It says, 'As president, I would support a return to the Defense of Marriage Act.'"
I go cold, flashing on the version of Peter's position I read only hours ago. "Uncle Hippon, are you certain that's what it says? And are you certain you're on Peter Colton's profile?"
"Certain. If I lived in the U.S., he's a candidate I could get behind. Weren't you dating him for a while? Seems like a decent..."
I'm no longer listening. My head spins as I pace around my room.
When he's finished speaking, I walk him through how to take a screenshot and send an email of the image. He follows my direction with some reluctance and I end the call with a promise to visit Greece as soon as I can.
A minute later, my phone dings with the email. It's a slightly crooked picture of Uncle Hippon's computer screen, which displays Peter's position on gay marriage. It says exactly what Uncle Hippon told me.
Everything about the page looks normal, except that it's the opposite of the page I read earlier. That shouldn't be possible. Our system doesn't allow for multiple position papers on a single issue.
I grab my purse and call Bird on the way to the elevator. Like me, he's from the generation that prefers texts over calls, so of course he doesn't answer.
I feel rude even leaving a voicemail, but I do.
"Bird, it's Mia. I need your help. Badly. I need you to tell me where you got your info about Colton's gay marriage position. Social media, directly from our site, where? Next, send me a screenshot of Colton's position on gay marriage taken directly from our site. Directly. From. Our. Site. And please, do it soon."
13
I cross town to Avery Axum's event, an informal town hall meeting at George Washington University. To counter his reputation as a policy wonk and boring professor type, Axum called the event "The
Listen More Town Hall." He's promised to spend less time talking than listening.
It's already in progress when I sneak in and grab a seat in the back.
"That's a great question," Axum says to a young man standing in the front row, holding a microphone. "And first, let me say that it's wonderful to see you and the other young people in the audience. I know that centrist conservatism isn't exactly a Twitter-friendly political persuasion, so, well…"
He trails off and smiles warmly. After pacing a moment, he continues. "The question was, why is conservatism good? An interesting philosophical point because conservatism is often pitted against progressivism in the mainstream media, and we all want progress, right?"
He paces a small stage poorly lit by theater spotlights that Axum keeps walking in and out of. Typically, someone would work the lights to ensure that they follow him, keeping him well lit. His people dropped the ball on that one.
"In the United States, white men who do not own land have been able to vote for roughly two hundred years, the exact time frame depends on the state. Black men have been able to vote for a hundred and fifty years. Women for exactly one hundred. Ninety-six years ago, native Americans who'd previously been unable to vote were awarded the right.
"Fifty-five years ago, the Voting Rights Act expanded and protected some of those rights. And we have a long way to go. I wrote an entire book about criminal justice reform and the disenfranchisement of minority voters. A book that cost me a lot of friends in conservative circles. But I won't bore you with the details."
He smiles, but the audience doesn't respond. Axum can tell that he's already gone on too long.
"So why did I bore you with those statistics? We're making progress. Anyone who doesn't think so is either uneducated about history or is being disingenuous. History shows that gradual change works best. Revolutionary change leads to violence, famine, and suffering that even the Americans who are worst off today cannot possibly imagine."
