by A. C. Fuller
Peter stands across the hall, dressed like Luke Perry from Beverly Hills 90210. He's gone all out—acid-washed jeans and a white t-shirt with rolled sleeves. His long, beautiful black hair has been cut short and dyed brown. I hate to admit it, but it bothers me. The fact that he's got sideburns doesn't help. Where do you buy artificial sideburns?
Steph breaks my stare. "I know you said he liked nineties TV shows, but…I need a drink."
"He looks cute," I say, trying to make my peace internally with his new hair.
"The boy can dress." With that, she hustles to a cheesy tiki bar that looks like something from the set of Saved by the Bell.
Across a hall decorated with overly-bright balloons and streamers, Peter makes eye contact and strolls toward me. Before he can speak, I say, "I see you didn't want to go the grunge direction with this party."
"That's right."
"And you steered clear of the hip-hop angle. Lotta good hip-hop from the nineties."
"Malcolm will bring the flavor later. It's been a long time."
I haven't seen him in over a week, a week spent dealing with subpoenas and lawsuits.
He reads my mind. "The lawsuits?"
"Yeah, but let's forget about them for tonight. We raised a ton of money and—"
He kisses me on the cheek. Though I was always more of a Brandon girl, he's pretty hot with his gelled hair and tight-fitting t-shirt. He even has Luke Perry's little scar over his right eyebrow.
I rub my finger over the scar. "Costume makeup?"
"If you're gonna do it, do it right."
We walk to a corner near the DJ booth and climb a platform similar to the one at the western party I attended the night I met Peter.
"There's something I want to tell you," he says, placing his folded hands on the table. "About that argument you overheard."
I'm relieved because, though I decided not to ask him about it again, I've been curious. "Okay."
"We were arguing that night, and I know Malcolm is your friend, but—"
A waiter appears from the shadows. "Welcome to the nineties, Ms. Rhodes, and Mr. Colton."
"Red Bull and a white wine," Peter says quickly. He seems eager to tell me whatever it is he's going to tell me. The waiter departs and Peter leans back in his chair. "You know how I work too hard. This company is everything to me."
"And?"
"Malcolm's been with me for a few years. He's been one of the best assistants I've ever had. Dude is usually on point. Lately, though, he's been letting things slip. Showed up late a couple times, lost some messages, was slow to respond. I'm thinking about firing him. I mean, I'm going to fire him. I have to."
"That's terrible. I'm sorry."
"It's okay."
"I meant for Malcolm."
He can tell I'm surprised, so he launches into explanation mode. "I pride myself on taking people who would have little shot in the tech world and helping them succeed. Look at Benjamin. And Malcolm was an out-of-work DJ living with his mom when I hired him. I hate firing people because I don't see it as their failure, I see it as mine..." He studies my face, like he's gauging my reaction. "I didn't want to tell you the night you asked me because it wasn't definite yet. But...."
"It's okay, but I'm sorry to hear about Malcolm. I had no idea he was messing up."
"A month ago I gave him a verbal warning, and HR issued a written warning a few days ago. We're going to let him go in the next week or two."
"It's so weird that he didn't say anything to me, or to Steph."
"Well, we haven't told him yet, and you can't either okay?"
I study the table. Peter takes both my hands in his and kisses them.
"You're gonna give him a few weeks' notice, right? To find something else."
"Oh, of course. This isn't about trying to punish him or something. We…" He trails off, but his foot rubs against my calf under the table. "Can we talk about something else?"
"I've missed you. We haven't had any time together for a while. Between DB and the lawsuits…" I reach for his knee under the table. I have missed him, and I wonder how soon we can excuse ourselves from the party without being rude.
Our drinks arrive. Instead of white wine, the waiter leaves me a small bottle of white wine spritzer.
"The nineties," Peter offers as explanation.
"White wine spritzer was the first drink I ever had. I think I was sixteen." I twist the cap and drink straight from the bottle.
"Everybody dance now!" A woman's voice blasts the room, followed by an electronic hip-hop beat. Malcolm has just taken his place in the DJ booth wearing a bright yellow dress shirt with black sleeves and a single circle of black cloth on the left side of the chest. The shirt is tucked into black slacks and his four-inch fade has been trimmed down to about two inches.
I ask, "What's that outfit from? I recognize it, but—"
"Tre from Boyz in the Hood. Cuba Gooding Jr.'s role."
"Right, right. He looks good."
"You know," Peter says. "Most people think this song is called 'Everybody Dance Now.'"
It's actually called "Gonna Make You Sweat," which I know because Peter and I watched an episode of Jeopardy together, both getting two out of five clues right in a category about commonly mistaken song names.
"I know." I pull Peter out of his chair. "But she's telling us to dance, so I think we oughta dance."
After an hour of dancing and two white wine spritzers, I need a break. I spot Steph chatting with a guy across the room, and I don't want to interrupt, so I head back to the table and order another spritzer.
Last I saw him ten minutes ago, Peter had been dragged into the center of an impromptu, low-energy mosh pit after Malcolm put on Metallica's "Enter Sandman" mixed over a high-speed nineties hip-hop beat. I look out at the dance floor, but I can't see Peter.
I can see Malcolm, however, who's staring at me between changes on his turntables. Once, he seems to nod me over. But he's busy mixing the rock hits of the early nineties with booty-shaking beats, so I must have misinterpreted the gesture. As I ponder this, my phone chirps in my purse. A text from Malcolm.
He's got his phone in one hand, and I figure he tapped out the message between changes.
Malcolm: When Steph texted me the other day, did you ask her to?
Not what I expected.
Me: No. Sorta. I told her about the argument and then she texted.
He doesn't reply right away, and I see him changing a record and fiddling with a silver laptop. The music changes again, this time to a slow song with a distorted guitar opening. Bush's "Glycerine." The mood on the dance floor changes, too. Some people begin slow dancing, others just sort of rock back and forth on their own. I look for Peter, but can't find him, even as the mosh pit disperses.
Malcolm: You didn't hear anything more than what she said?
Me: No.
Malcolm: I want to tell you what the fight was about but it's kinda private.
Me: That's fine. It's no biggie.
I stare at my phone, where the three dots indicate he's typing a response. It sucks to know your friend is about get fired and not be able to tell him, but I promised Peter I wouldn't say anything.
As I wait for the incoming message, my phone rings and Gretchen Esposito's name appears on my caller ID.
"Hold on," I say as I answer, weaving my way through the crowd. I step into a hallway and the music fades behind the closing door. "What's up?"
"Did you see the piece?" The connection is choppy, Gretchen's voice hard to make out.
"What piece?"
"About the lawsuits. Check the homepage of the Times, then call me back."
Five seconds later I'm on the homepage of the New York Times. The headline jumps out at me.
Lawsuits Against Ameritocracy Dropped. "Mistakes" Cited.
Without reading it, I run into the hall to find Steph bumping and grinding on Benjamin. "I need her," I say, dragging Steph into the hallway.
"What's the four-one-one?"
Lawsuits Against Ameritocracy Dropped. "Mistakes" Cited.
By Gretchen Esposito
Over a dozen lawsuits filed last week against the online political competition Ameritocracy have been withdrawn. The lawsuits took aim at the website for a host of alleged violations of election and campaign-finance laws, and caused a public uproar among Ameritocracy supporters, including founder Mia Rhodes and Executive Director Stephanie Blackmon.
Though the exact reasons behind the sudden withdrawal of the lawsuits are unknown, sources within the Democratic and Republican national committees called the lawsuits "mistakes by overzealous staffers" and "regrettable errors by rogue employees who have since been terminated." According to one staffer close to the leadership of the RNC, "We panicked. There's no way around it. So did the DNC. This is an embarrassing episode and I'm glad it ended before we alienated too many voters."
Publicly, the DNC and RNC have admitted no wrongdoing. In a statement issued today, the DNC claimed to have "Minor ties to a few small lawsuits that have now been withdrawn to allow Democrats to focus on 2020."
Among political commentators, the withdrawal of the lawsuits is seen as a major win for Ameritocracy, which was forced to raise money to fight the lawsuits in court.
Over the last week, we've raised pledges of over two hundred thousand a month for our legal defense, plus an additional million in general-purpose funds. We've had public support from the Green Party, the Libertarian Party, the Democratic Socialists, and every elected independent in the country. We even won over some of the mainstream press. I knew we'd won over much of the public, but I never expected the lawsuits to be dropped.
"We won?" Steph asks.
"We did."
"Just like that?"
"Crazy."
"Bananas."
I stick my phone in my purse and jump into her arms. "Insane...in the membrane."
Smiling broadly, she sets me down and I press Send twice to dial Gretchen back.
"Steph's here," I say when she answers. "You're on speaker."
"You saw the piece?" Now the connection is fine, and she comes through clearly, even with music still leaking from the next room.
"Yup."
"You've been accusing the Times of bias since the moment news of the lawsuits broke. Want to make sure we get a little credit."
"You need credit from me? Are you serious?"
"I'm not, but I want you to know that we're neutral on the topic of Ameritocracy."
"We both know that's BS," Steph says. She's a bigger fan of the Times than I am, but she's been on a tear lately, accusing them of bias against us from the moment we got big enough to upset the status quo.
"Believe what you want," Gretchen says, "but to prove I'm not out to get you, I want to give you a tip."
Sometimes journalists offer "tips" when what they're really after is information, and I'm guessing this is one of those times. But that doesn't mean she doesn't have the information I want. "I'm listening."
"In my reporting on the lawsuits, I heard rumors that certain elements in the Democratic and Republican parties are trying subtler methods to affect Ameritocracy."
"'Affect Ameritocracy'? They tried to destroy my site with lawsuits."
"That's my point. They know that won't work now. I can't say much, but look into whether any groups connected to prominent Democrats are throwing support to Mast."
Steph and I step aside to allow a group of women dressed as the Teenage Mutant Ninja Turtles to pass into the hall, catching a few notes of Sir Mix-A-Lot's "Posse's On Broadway" as the door swings open. I try to make sense of what she said. If Democrats supported anyone, it would be Justine Hall or Marlon Dixon, not a traditional conservative like Robert Mast.
"I can hear the wheels spinning, Mia. Please don't tell me you can't see what's going to happen."
"You're saying that Democrats are offering covert support of Mast so—"
"So he'll win Ameritocracy and pull votes from the Republican in the general," Steph says.
"Yes," Gretchen says. "And Mia, believe me when I say: this is just the beginning. I've heard similar rumors about Republicans pushing for Justine Hall, Marlon Dixon, even Charles Blass."
"Can you tell me anything more?"
"No, but you need to watch out."
On that ominous note, she hangs up. Steph heads back in to find Benjamin and I check my texts, hoping Malcolm has finished his thought from earlier.
I have a new text, but not from Malcolm.
Peter: Had to step away for a quick meeting. Back in ten. Then you wanna get out of here? I've got a screener of the final season of Game of Thrones at home. You want to watch it in bed?
Me: You know me too well.
13
Des Moines, Iowa
In northern California, you can drive with the top down year round, and as January came to a close, that's what I did. A few times, to take a break in the afternoons, Steph and I drove Bluebird down the two-lane highway toward the brown hills surrounding Santa Clarissa, just to feel the wind in our hair.
I stayed at Peter's house every night for a week, often working through dinner before cruising to his mansion. After a hard day, the breezy fifteen-minute drive and a fancy sandwich at Peter's kitchen counter usually cleared my head. In Seattle, I would have counted the days of sunshine, but in Santa Clarissa I counted the rainy days. Six since my arrival in California last summer. Six days of rain in six months. To a Seattleite, that's heaven on earth.
The weather is just one of the things making my trip to Iowa a letdown.
Peter and I landed in Des Moines last night during a four-hour window between snowstorms and checked into the top-floor suite at the Cornhusker Inn. He agreed to stay here even though the hotel is about three tiers below his minimum acceptable level of accommodations. Because our first live debate coincides with the Iowa Caucus, every nice hotel in town sold out months ago, leaving us five miles out of town at the Cornhusker. Our last live event was at The Q, a posh hotel in Los Angeles, so the Cornhusker feels especially shabby. He had things to do around Des Moines early this morning, so I'm alone in the suite as I wait for my candidates to arrive.
I crack the window slightly. The chill on my face is pleasant, and the crisp air clears the room's musty smell. Outside, snow is piled high around the cars in the parking lot and the sky is a drab light gray.
The weather and accommodations aren't ideal, but this debate is about the candidates, about casting them in stark contrast to the Democrats and Republicans, who are in the midst of their own battles. The Republican primary fight between establishment business conservatives and far-right extremists has gotten fiery enough to cause Gretchen Esposito to renege on her promise to cover our debate. It's only one less journalist covering the debate, but her presence would have added prestige to the whole event. No matter. This debate is about the candidates.
Outside, a tall, lean man trudges through the snow in a Russian ushanka hat made of bear fur. Charles Blass. He wears the hat every day at his job teaching linguistics at San Francisco State University, and I'm happy that he finally has an appropriate setting to wear his trademark article of clothing.
Minutes later, he's at the door with Marlon Dixon, who's in an immaculate midnight-blue suit. I lead them to the buffet, a sad folding table spread with bad coffee and Danishes individually wrapped in plastic. "This is the continental breakfast?" Blass asks.
'Sorry," I say. I never expected him to be a food snob. He's a scarecrow of a man who looks like he survives on nuts and leaves, in sharp contrast to Dixon, who could probably juggle a set of three Charles Blasses. On reflection, it's not surprising that life in San Francisco would give a man a taste for decent coffee and pastries, but snobbery is still odd from the voice of the proletariat.
Dixon offers Blass coffee in a small styrofoam cup, then closes his eyes as though reaching for a memory. "'Therefore I tell you, do not worry about your l
ife, what you will eat or drink; or about your body, what you will wear. Is not life more than food, and the body more than clothes?'"
Blass takes the coffee, but doesn't respond.
Dixon opens his eyes. "Matthew 6:25?"
"Yeah, I've read your book of magical nonsense," Blass says.
Dixon steps back. "You're lost, brother. I'll be praying for you."
I'm fascinated by the dynamic between Blass and Dixon because, on most issues, they lean furthest left among our top ten candidates. While Blass is an avowed communist, and has been for decades, lately he's proposed policies closer to the Social Democratic Party platform—income redistribution through government-funded healthcare and college, laws protecting labor unions, and aggressive proposals to combat hunger and homelessness. Given that Blass started to the left of Mao Zedong, this is a move to the right—a move that could peel away Dixon supporters.
On every issue besides abortion, Dixon would be at home on the far left of the Democratic party. He's still to the right of Blass, but not by much given Blass's recent pivot. Dixon is a Texas preacher who finds the philosophical underpinnings of his ideas in the Bible. Blass finds his in the work of Karl Marx and Leon Trotsky.
I'd love to hear them argue more, but we're interrupted by the arrivals of Avery Axum, Tanner Futch, and Orin Gottlieb. Actually, it's more of a storming of the room. Futch barges through the propped-open door first, followed by Axum and Gottlieb. They appear in the middle of a heated debate. "Settle down, you two," Axum says. "This is not a professional showing at all. Is this how you want to come across?"
"He's a buffoon," Gottlieb says. "A circus performer. He gives conservatism a bad name."
Futch, wearing a jean jacket and a bandana as red as his jowls, guffaws, then tries to get past Axum and into Gottlieb's face. "Go to hell you little globalist troll."
Gottlieb, in his usual black suit, smirks at Futch. "Globalist? I've never...oh, I get it. You just can't say 'Jewish' you fat, racist, joke of a man."