Max stroked his chin, realizing that the pause in his lesson would be brief.
When Postlewaite was convinced he had covered the subject, he moved on. “The last trait of essence to become the most powerful politician in the world is the ability to persuade. This quality is the most important, and without it, a candidate can be too rich, oh so American, old enough, and still lose the election. The president of the United States must be able to stand in front of any group of voters and convince.”
Max absorbed the words and pondered their meaning. Luke instinctively knew when to talk and when to wait. If he moved on before Max signified he understood, the point of the message would be lost. Finally, Max nodded. “It is irrelevant what your political platform is or whether you actually believe the rhetoric generated by your campaign advisors. You are the spokesperson, the mouthpiece, the person who engenders trust. Americans need to believe in the image of the one they choose to lead.”
Postlewaite was spry for his age. Jumping up from his chair, he strode confidently toward the senator’s liquor cabinet, confident that his student was reaching the end of his studies. Extracting his favorite brandy from its reserved location, he deftly mixed himself a drink as he had done hundreds of times before. he took a long sip and continued. “There is a fourth trait that defies logic. It’s petty and never discussed openly by your handlers, but in private, they obsess about it. It’s ‘The Look.’ A presidential candidate must look like a president. Take presidential debates for example; the advance team spends weeks before the debate negotiating the height of the podium, the temperature of the room, when the candidates shake hands, what camera angles are most flattering to the candidate’s image, and the color of the lights that illuminate their faces during the broadcast. Over time, that look has changed. And Max,” he concluded, “you have ‘The Look.’”
u ChAPTER ThIRTY-FIVE
From the Oval Office, the view was magnificent. As many times as he had seen Washington from his pillar of power, Blythe never grew complacent about what that view symbolized. From the safety of the security-enhanced Plexiglas front window, he could look across the tidal basin, past the Washington monument, and see the distant profile of Thomas Jefferson seated in the Jefferson Memorial. he had survived most of his first term intact, and despite last year’s “Bimbo attacks” by his political adversaries, the president was secure . . . at least for the foreseeable future. The public opinion polls gave him a 41% rating, not as good as his rating before the latest blow-up in the Middle East, but the best since his infidelities became the subject du jour for the press to focus upon.
When the scandal became public, he took the advice of his closest aides and went on the attack, forcing his opponents to acknowledge that they, too, had secrets to hide. The Senate minority leader was delivered a dossier on the sex lives of five Ways and Means Committee members, three from the Judiciary Committee, and two from Finance. Within days, his opposition dissolved. The press turned its attention to abortion, education, and health-care reform. If my marriage hasn’t hit rock bottom because of the disclosures, certainly the American people will ignore them in the next election, he thought.
Sitting before the president were Presidential Advisor Ted Schoolcraft, Party Chairman Richard Portman, and White house Chief of Staff Roscoe Walsh. As the president blew cigar smoke against the armored glass of the Oval Office, Schoolcraft poured bourbon from a cut- glass decanter that had occupied the Oval Office since Grant’s administration. “I never stop thinking that ol’ U.S. poured his drinks from the same bottle. Things are more complicated now.” Schoolcraft spoke to nobody in particular, and nobody responded. Regardless, he kept talking. “We need to look like it’s a done deal. I don’t want to spend two seconds on these guys. You just need to sit back and let them chew on each other until after the primaries, then just act presidential. You can coast through this preliminary campaign on your approval ratings, and then we’ll see how you look after they get done bashing each other. We can focus on the front-runners and get ready to attack with what we have on them after we know who we’re dealing with.”
Portman took the pause as his opportunity to float his opinion. “I get nervous when we don’t act proactively. We have more money in our campaign chest than anyone out there, and we need to start doing some cozy ads that get people to warm up to you, Mr. President.”
Blythe ignored the advice of his party chairman and continued to gaze at the pink spring display of the cherry trees lining Pennsylvania Avenue. his mind was never really in the room, absorbed in the thought that his legacy would be intact for another four years. he turned and addressed his three advisors. “I want this thing to go off
AT RISK OF WINNING
without a hitch. From what I’ve seen, my competition looks like they were recruited from Clown College, and I want to keep it that way. Brief me.”
They took his request as a call to attention, and they all stood. These men were referred to by the press as the president’s spin doctors. They were his most trusted advisors and had direct access not only to the Oval Office, but to the offices of corporate heads and leaders throughout the world as well. The topic for discussion was the reelection campaign of Warren hudson Blythe, president of the United States, and it was, in their minds, their sole purpose in life.
Portman had just finished informing the group that the frontrunner, Representative Bob Cunningham of Massachusetts, had raised ten million dollars in contributions, making his party’s presence felt months before the primaries. In his attack ads on the president, Cunningham was the first to call for debates, and his handlers were turning up the heat.
Schoolcraft was the first to express his opinion. “Mr. President. You cannot afford to stand head to head with Cunningham in a public forum. To do so at this point would validate his candidacy and make him a sure thing for his party’s nomination. There are other candidates out there in his own party who can debate with him until they run out of things to say, but I think that you should stand behind the presidential seal and watch them duke it out.” he sat down and took another sip, savoring the smoothness of the sour mash.
Blythe turned, directing his gaze over the head of his advisors. “I can’t just sit here and do nothing. That may have worked for Nixon the second time around, but look at what happened to him.” Even though he wasn’t quite making sense, he was the president, and nobody, especially those in the room, had the balls to correct or contradict. “I’ll be damned if I’m going to sit in the White house and let the challengers take potshots at me.”
Walsh waited for a pause in the conversation. When it came, he injected his views. “Sir, the only way you are going to get through this election and stay in office is to attack. If you don’t get out there and mix it up with the opposition, every sound bite, every news clip, every editorial will be filled with their faces, their words, their voices—”
The president interrupted. ”how the hell do I face off with Cunningham without strengthening his shot at the presidency? If I open my mouth too soon, he might rocket to the top in the polls, and I’ll have a real battle on my hands.”
Seconds turned into minutes. Schoolcraft broke the silence by rising out of his chair. As he poured yet another bourbon, he spoke quietly. “I may just be paranoid, but if you’re going to debate, you may as well debate every lunatic who is running for president. Then, it’ll be you against them. From what I’ve heard, you can make a great showing by letting them pick each other off. We can prescreen all of the questions and structure the debate so that nobody gets an opportunity to address you directly. Remember Clinton, Perot, and Bush one? Clinton came out of it looking presidential, Perot got his licks in on the Republicans, and Bush tired himself out by trying too hard. We can do a series of debates after the primaries, each limited to subjects we decide to debate. Until then you can issue a statement that you will attend to the pressing issues of your administration until your opposition is defined by the voters.”
“That’s what we
’ll do. It’ll look like a three-ring circus, but at least I’ll be able to campaign again. Who is my competition, anyway?”
u ChAPTER ThIRTY-SIX
he was movie-star handsome. he glowed with sex appeal. he was single, and he was running for president. Most of Max’s adult life, and part of his adolescent one, were spent in the solitary pursuit of thrills. he never had to worry about holding a job or serving a tour of duty in the armed forces. The senator had seen to that. Those essential activities were meant for others. It was his single-minded goal, his job, to run for president, and he couldn’t be delayed or distracted from what he had been taught was his life’s purpose. Max was a president in training, if the truth be told, and he was comfortable with that label. After all, he had never done anything else.
By contrast, Postlewaite and Staffman were a seething bundle of nerves. They had never been down this road before. This time, the number of potential female voters outnumbered the males, and among that group, Max outpolled Blythe by a six-to-one margin.
u ChAPTER ThIRTY-SEVEN
Every Thursday night for the past six years, Bob, Phil, and Jerry met at Jesse’s Tavern, a sports bar and male refuge near the interstate. Occasionally, a woman dropped in, usually by accident or at the request of an unsuitable date. None of them found reason to visit a second time. Wives avoided the place, knowing that their husbands escaped to Jesse’s to get away from them and the kids for a few hours. If an emergency arose while the men were out, it would have to wait until the trio of political junkies had finished their weekly ritual. Jesse’s phone number was listed on the message pad near the ancient wall phone near the ladies’ room, but the regulars could not recall it being used for anything. Nothing ever seemed serious enough to disturb them, and the three men met each week to take up where they left off the week before.
As most sports fans know, Thursday is not a typical sports viewing night. Thursday at Jesse’s was reserved for politics, or as Jerry
AT RISK OF WINNING
liked to call it, current affairs. The battles of society’s overpaid and over-glorified gladiators are fought on the weekend, and Bob, Phil, and Jerry watched those contests on their high definition 3-D viewers from the comfort of their own homes. Thursday was their night away from home, and Jesse’s Tavern was their gathering place. Tonight, as always, they had the place all to themselves. The three men chose Thursday to tune in to WorldWeek, an interactive political program that polled the audience on issues ranging from abortion to assassination, the environment to genetic engineering, and any topic that was reported in the media during the prior week. These guys were as addicted to the trivia of the week as much as they were to the latest BCS rankings. To them, a presidential race was just another playoff, with the players wearing neckties.
Bob, Phil, and Jerry had direct access to every bit of information that the internet could provide. Much of what the candidates had posted on the issues came from their websites, but they could take it all in through Worldview. All of the information posted on the internet was available 24/7. The days of hunting for a candidate’s position on an issue were a part of the dust of history. All a viewer needed to do was ask a question, and the microprocessors of the Worldview interactive program looked for it, found it, and made it available. No typing of words. No searching YouTube for video clips. No hunting for web pages or e-mail addresses. If you wanted it, it came to you, tailored to your needs and interests. Information was filtered and sorted according to prior viewing habits, and the computer knew you. There was no possibility of fraud. A scanner viewed your cornea, cross-referenced it against data on file, monitored your vital signs, blood type and chemistry, fingerprints, body type, and dozens of other identity verification indicators. The system had become honest.
The audience for WorldWeek grew exponentially over its existence. What once began as a pilot program on C-SPAN, telecast to a limited audience, became a standard component when interactive TV became popular. When the conversion to 3-D digital programming became standard technology in households throughout the world, a true “electronic town hall” was created.
Each week, the number of viewers grew until WorldWeek was the number-one program in its time slot of five hundred channels. The topic of the evening was chosen interactively by the viewers, who chose from a list of ten topics that appeared on the screen. As the viewers voted, the total score was listed alongside the choices. While the choices were displayed, each viewer could change the previous vote until the time to choose had elapsed. The votes were entered on a wrist pad worn by most adults in America; the device was a timekeeper, a computer with a wireless modem, and a way of accessing information by way of an expanded internet system. The only exception was the restriction of access to personal information protected by Senator John Masterson’s Gatekeeper Project.
u ChAPTER ThIRTY-EIGhT
The campaign shifted again, this time caused by the voters. The clamor for public appearances by Max Masterson came in by e-mail and phone. Fox was forced to begin hiring staffers by the dozens just to keep up with the demand. Once the messages were received, they proceeded to the screening room, where higher-level staffers, some with a full two days’ experience, began to sort out the high-profile public appearances from the run-of-the-mill easy-to-avoid demands.
When Max entered the room, he was immediately besieged by his trusted assistants all talking at once. he backed toward the corner, raised his arms, and demanded silence. As if rehearsed, everyone sat down and waited for him to speak.
“I don’t do speeches.”
There was silence, as if they had heard the words, but maybe spoken in a language they failed to understand. They silently pondered what they had heard; a politician who doesn’t do speeches. Each of them began to think that their decision to work for Max was a brief lapse in judgment and began to consider all of the job possibilities that they had passed up to join the campaign.
“I could have had that job working for Senator Newman if he hadn’t resigned after the men’s room incident,” thought Sara.
“Mom could probably use me for a while back on the farm since Dad got sick,” thought Andrew Fox.
“I coulda been a stand-up comedian,” mused Phillip Touya, a redhaired new hire from somewhere out West.
As the seconds turned into minutes, the impact of Max’s words turned into shocked acceptance. When he realized that the full impact was being taken like the first half of a joke, Max made things worse by continuing to outline his strategy, which was sounding more like his philosophy of life.
“I don’t do public appearances, either.”
“I don’t do campaign lunches or dinners . . .”
“I have no patience for people who talk too long and neither do the voters.”
“I have prepared some rules for all of us to follow. If you don’t adhere to them, you will be asked to go home,” he mandated in his most serious tone. he passed the five-by-seven cards to them encased in a Cutter and Buck leather case, which each staff member was to carry like a wallet and memorize. The private themes were embossed on a card in gold and were to be carried by members of Max’s inner circle. They were only reviewed in private and never in the vicinity of the press. The press would be provided a revised set of “maxims” when the time was right and only if their existence was somehow leaked or inadvertently revealed. he wanted to avoid the tendency of reporters to pick apart rules for inconsistency and report on any “violations,” thereby creating news where none existed. The simple messages were to be followed without contradiction. The card was simple:
AT RISK OF WINNING
No speeches.
No fund-raising events.
No messages over two minutes long.
If you bore the listener, they can’t hear you.
Keep each message simple.
Every statement is a sound bite.
The message is available 24/7.
It is better to say nothing than to say something stupid. It is better to confess you d
on’t know than to lie about it. The message is more important than the image. The image is more important than the candidate. Don’t quote a statistic unless you can back it up with facts. Educate people before asking them to decide an issue. American interests must prevail over world interests. Never lie to promote the interests of the minority. Always present an idea in a positive way.
If you can’t commit to an idea, don’t try to sell it. The perception of reality is more important than reality. It’s not what you say. It’s how you say it.
The thirty pairs of eyes reviewed the card then looked at Max. he sat expressionless, his eyes scanning the room for dissent. After a long silence, a small woman, no more than a girl, spoke up from the back of the room. “But I thought you were running for president.”
The eyes shifted from him to her and back again. No one knew what would happen next, so they stayed silent, waiting. Max stood up so that everyone in his line of sight looked up at him. he didn’t convey anger by his expression. It was more of a kind, determined look. The silence stretched much longer than was comfortable. he stared at the girl, his eyes narrowing slightly, but never betraying his thoughts. She began to back away, a frightened look spreading across her face. Then he smiled. She stopped, finding approval of her words, but not comprehending why.
The young staffers erupted in spontaneous laughter, and he knew they were on their way. It was no longer Max against the world. It was a movement.
“As you can tell, this is not your usual campaign,” continued Max. “And there’s one more thing. I’m not a politician. I have never held public office, and I have no intention of running for president the usual way. If it isn’t fun, we will make it fun. If the way they have always done it is not the best way or we can’t find the benefit of it, we figure out a better way.”
At Risk of Winning (The Max Masterson Series Book 1) Page 11