At Risk of Winning (The Max Masterson Series Book 1)

by Mark E Becker

  Sara interrupted again. It foretold the strength of her personality, and although most of her friends found her brilliantly lively, they also found her to be tactless and confrontational at times. “But Max, if you’re not a politician, what do we tell them you are? They will ask, and we have to be ready for that.”

  “Tell them I’m new and different. And tell them I’m not a politician, I’m just a man who’s running for president.” The excitement and danger of this plan, to be different from every political campaign ever run, had them fascinated with possibilities, and that was how he wanted it. Their youth and enthusiasm was the engine that would drive his campaign.

  u ChAPTER ThIRTY-NINE

  Max you have got to do this for me!” Andrew Fox was apoplectic. For days on the road, he had been drafting sound bites on every

  important issue in the campaign, and he was attempting to persuade

  Max to rehearse them. Max would read them once, shrug his shoulders as if bored, and attempt to deter Andrew from his mission. At

  every opportunity, Max changed the subject and drew Andrew into

  conversation, all to end the rehearsal. Andrew didn’t realize that Max,

  having already written and revised each subject, had only to read the

  final version once and it was memorized. he was done learning. “I don’t care if you think you have it all in your head. You can’t

  get your message out unless you tell it.” Andrew was easing into the

  most difficult part of the encounter. he had to tell Max that he had arranged for a small test interview to be held in D.C., and he knew that

  Max would complain mightily about it.

  “Andrew, it doesn’t take a genius to stand in front of a group of

  strangers and tell them that you are in favor of life, you think that everyone should be entitled to be healthy, or that you are against crime. I want to get out there and tell them that everything’s going to be better than it was, that we need to decide what is the best way to resolve problems, and that most of what politicians talk about, they have no power to change anyway,” Max barked back.

  This time is probably as good as any, thought Andrew. “Max, this afternoon, a dozen members of the press are going to interview you, and I want you to use it as an opportunity to get all of these sound bites out there for people to talk about.”

  Max responded as predicted. he feigned a heart attack and dropped to his knees.

  “My own press secretary has stopped running interference for me and has thrown me to the snarling press! I can’t trust any one of my minions to protect me!” he lay on his back and signaled that he had been stabbed in mid-chest with a sword. he lay in this pose for more than a minute as Andrew kept up the pressure.

  “Listen, I’m just trying to get you to do something for once that isn’t out of the ordinary. Go give them a damn interview! It won’t hurt you to go out there and do something that has been done before!” Max moaned, as if he suddenly had recovered from his illusory life-threatening injury, and bounced to his feet. he hovered inches from his assistant’s face. “Ordinary is boring! Ordinary doesn’t set me apart. It’s a waste of time!”

  his voice was raised, and Andrew had no idea whether he would bolt from the room or show up as arranged.

  u ChAPTER FORTY

  he was an unknown, and even though his father was one of the most beloved and idolized politicians of the twentieth century, he, the individual, was a newbie.

  Max sat in the press room of the Capitol City Press Club with a small group of reporters from small-town newspapers that had enough money in their budgets to send a person to Washington, D.C. This was a big deal to the dozen or so who had come, and, for most, it was their first trip to see the nation’s political core. Dressed in their best suits, feet blistered from walking to see the sights, they clustered in folding chairs before this new low-profile third-party candidate. They were eager to bring home a “scoop” that would entertain their readers, many of whom still chose to receive a paper delivered to their door over simply directing their attention to the local website. The interview began as a simple list of basic questions, but it soon grew into something none of them anticipated.

  “Max, why are you running?”

  “Why does anyone run?” he responded.

  “how do you expect to win? You have no experience in politics,

  and you’re up against a president who is so high in the polls that he’s invincible.”

  “Well, you can’t always trust those pollsters. I figure that by the time people actually get down to voting, there won’t be much to choose from,” he smiled.

  “how do you set yourself apart from the rest of the candidates?”

  “I don’t really do that. They’re doing a good job at setting themselves apart from me.” he smiled again.

  “I tried to find some of your political speeches to view before I came here today, and I couldn’t find anything . . .” The balding, overweight young man in the front row leaned forward and a stack of note paper with illegible scribbles cascaded onto the floor at Max’s feet.

  “I don’t do speeches,” Max replied before the young man could reassemble his notes.

  “What do you mean? A politician who doesn’t do speeches? I suppose you’re going to tell us next that you intend to skip the primaries and stay home.” he looked agitated and perplexed, gathering his pile of notes.

  “Something like that. But I need to correct you on something. I’m not a politician. I’m just a man who is running for president.”

  They sat in silence. It seemed that those words confused them somehow, but it wouldn’t be the last time that they heard them.

  Recovering, a young woman in a black pin-striped suit broke in. “If you become president, what are your goals for America?”

  he thought for a while, until his silence made them think that he wasn’t going to answer. Finally, he spoke. “I believe that our country has been wounded by ‘politics as usual.’ The person you choose as president should be honest with you, clearly state the position that he

  AT RISK OF WINNING

  or she believes is right for America, and make that dream a reality.” “What is your platform?” They weren’t there to debate. They were

  there to gather information.

  “My platform is presently a stool covered with some sort of

  Naugahyde cushion, but I expect I’ll be able to upgrade to a more

  comfortable platform once I get back on the plane.”

  The resulting laughter broke the ice.

  “Well, are you a conservative or a liberal?” The balding, overweight young man wasn’t about to let his victim pass without inflicting a wound. Max stared at him with an incredulous look on his face. “Those labels don’t work for me. I’m a conservative if I vote for

  jobs for people who don’t have them. When I vote to give businesses

  incentives to hire new people, I suppose the conservatives would call

  me a liberal, when all I would be trying to do was get the jobs for

  Americans. I guess you’d better just call me an American.” he paused

  and surveyed their puzzled faces.

  “. . . And another thing. When you think about who to vote for, is

  it better to trust the experience of the one who is doing a poor job of

  serving our country or is it better to trust the only one with new ideas

  for making our country better?”

  “Why should I vote for you?” A new question from a new face

  came from the back of the room from a short middle-aged woman

  who worked for the St. Petersburg Times. They had to get their questions in to justify the cost of the trip.

  “Stay tuned. If I do this right, you’ll be answering that question

  yourselves before long.” Max stood. “Thanks. It’s been fun.” he turned

  and walked out of the room.

  Andrew was waiting in the monito
ring room, where he had observed the interview on a large projection screen. he saw Max’s inexperience and evasiveness as toxic. “Max, that really sucked. You spent

  the entire time trying to evade, when you should have been trying to

  charm and impress. I have seen better interviews by convicted felons.” Max looked like he had just been chastised by his fourth-grade

  teacher for speaking out of turn.

  “I know. I don’t want to do that again. You know how much I love

  the press. They’re going to comment about how I was nervous and

  green.” he tossed his notes in the air. They floated randomly to the

  floor, where a sheet entitled “Talking Points” landed on top. he hadn’t

  touched upon any of the issues he was prepared to discuss. They were

  controlling him, and he felt helpless. What he had to say had nothing

  to do the agenda of his interviewers.

  Andrew could see his consternation. “If you want to control the

  press, you need to do two things. First, you need to make yourself

  available on a limited basis on your schedule, not theirs. If they had

  their way, your life would be one big interview from sunup to sundown, and they would spin every word to make it fit their agenda.

  Second, and you’re going to love this one, you get to pick and choose

  what you want to tell them. There isn’t a question that they can make

  you answer, and there is no rule that says you have to answer their

  way. I have an idea.”

  As a result of the government’s newly obtained ability to verify

  that a person was really who they were, voting took on a new identity,

  too. No waiting in line to pull a lever. No dangling chad. No electronic touch screens. When a voter wanted to vote, they voted, and

  they could do it from wherever they were, provided they all voted

  on Election Day, the first Tuesday of the fourth year after the previous national election. Max and his campaign staff knew that they had

  only one shot at being the top vote-getter on that particular day and

  attaining that goal involved setting himself apart from the rest of his

  competition.

  “There are a lot of truths out there. Just pick the ones we want.”

  u ChAPTER FORTY-ONE

  Max was in the early stages of his daily ritual, which began with a high-level meeting with his version of the incumbent’s cabinet. Present at the table were political consultant Luke Postlewaite, Chief of Staff/Press Secretary Bill Staffman, his media advisor, Andrew Fox, and Max. At this point of his campaign, that’s all there was. If it got much bigger, he thought, then the message would become diluted, and his platform needed to be simple, direct, and clear.

  “Before the next sound bite, I want to have a clear vision of America’s future, and I need to get it across to them. If they are going to remember and understand what sets me apart from the rest, I need to get it into their brains now,” Max declared to nobody in particular.

  Fox and Staffman weren’t talking. It was their time to listen. When Max was strategizing, they had learned to take notes and only contribute their ideas when he had reached the point of needing advice, and Max was far from finished.

  “One thing I noticed about the debate was the look on people’s faces when the speaker talked too long or went into too much detail. hell, even the moderator’s eyes began to glaze over. The time to explain is not when you introduce an idea. I’ll save the explaining for after I get into the White house.”

  “Then why don’t you tell them that? You have been thriving on unconventionality and big talking points. Just be clear and short. It’s working,” offered Andrew. he felt out of place in this room with two political veterans, but Max valued his ability to observe through the eyes of the regular folks, and that ability was more valuable to him than the old party political slant that his older advisors had staked their reputations upon.

  “Andrew, they don’t own me. They have no right to dig into my life and spread it all over the world,” pleaded Max.

  “I beg your pardon, but yes, they do.” Andrew was awed by Max’s fire and his ability to control people, but his attempts to maintain his privacy while running for the most visible job on the planet was beginning to chafe. he had to get Max to pull his head out of his ass and press the flesh with the common folk, and it was Andrew’s job to promote top-of-mind awareness.

  “We’re going to rehearse your sound bites, and we are going to unleash your first one at the airport. Next, we’re going to Michigan, and then we’ll be in Florida. You always wanted to snorkel with the manatees, and I’m going to show you a place I found during spring break a few years ago. Your bags are already packed. I have advance teams in each of the locations we’re headed, and I’m going to post your daily message at 11:00 a.m., right about the time the stock exchange posts the morning earnings reports. I want to see if we can’t influence business with hopeful messages.”

  Max sat in silence while Fox rattled off his itinerary for the coming weeks. he saw the determination with which his young assistant was presenting his plan and realized that if he attempted to change anything, he was in for a blow up. Andrew had taken Max’s maxims to heart and constructed a plan of his own to put him in the White house. Experience be damned.

  “Andrew, there are a couple of things I’d like to add, but you’ve come up with a good plan, and I’m going to do my best to comply. If you see me doing anything un-presidential, I want you to tell me.” Max spoke quietly. he was sitting at his kitchen table, shirtless and barefoot, with pajama bottoms as his only garb of the moment. he cradled a cup of coffee that he prepared in his typical way, with raw honey indigenous to the countryside where he lived. his hair winged out to the side.

  Andrew looked at him in astonishment and noted that he was dressed in a dark-blue suit and tie, holding a briefcase stuffed full with notes and papers, while the future president looked more like, well, like everyone else looks at 7:10 a.m. he laughed. “Max, there isn’t much that you’re doing that is presidential, and I’m not the guy to be the judge of that. It would take me three lifetimes, at least, to tell you all of the things that you’re doing that are un-presidential. The interesting part is, I can see where you’re coming from. You have managed to get the women, including the old ladies, the youth vote, guys who admire you for doing what they can’t, old men who wish they were young again, and everyone who’s pissed off at a politician. That’s a lot of people. I’m devoted to taking this as far as we can go. It’s really all up to you. I’m just along for the ride.”

  “Well, for a guy who’s just along for the ride, you sure know where you have me riding to,” he muttered. “But I’m not complaining. I have to get out there, and I need to get my message across. A couple of things, though. I want all of these sound bites to be positive messages. Can we do that? And I don’t want to waste any time meeting with politicians unless they are going to support my campaign.”

  “Max, you’re a politician.”

  “No I’m not. I’m a man who’s running for president.”

  u ChAPTER FORTY-TWO

  Max and his political advisors wouldn’t even fill a compact car, but they were enough. While the other candidates canvassed Iowa and New hampshire and attempted to shake hands with every resident who lived there, Max rode with Bill Staffman and Andrew Fox to Reagan International Airport in Bill’s weathered Ford Focus. The intention was for Bill to drop them off at the terminal, and while he had their captive attention for the forty-five minute ride from staff headquarters, he was damn sure going to use the time for a staff meeting.

  “I have Sara in Iowa and Jerry in New hampshire, and they’re going to town meetings and attending all the speeches they can tolerate. Once you’ve heard one, it’s like watching reruns of the evening news, so I’m confining their agony to attending one speech for each candidate each day
. The president has a speech in Washington at the Library of Congress to dedicate something, and I’ll attend that one. Cunningham and his people are out at Arlington to do a press conference about the war, and they are really pushing to get a lot of press coverage. I have Richard and Janice out there taking notes,” rambled Staffman.

  “I don’t care whether they take notes. We already know what they are going to say. I want them to sit in front and face the crowd and time how long it takes for people’s eyes to glaze over and lose their attention. Then when the speech is done, I want them to poll the crowd and ask the same question of everyone,” said Max in an unwavering voice.

  Andrew was intrigued. “Why in the world would you want to do that? What question?”

  Max waited the appropriate time to create suspense, sensing their irritation at his silent manipulation and smiled. “I just want them to ask, ‘What did he just say?’”

  “Why?” Bill and Andrew asked loudly, their voices tinged with confusion.

  “First, I need to know how long the average person will listen to a politician before their mind wanders, because once you lose their attention, you may as well stop talking. And then I need to know whether they are getting through to these people. These crowds are mostly supporters, and they’re going to vote for them anyway, so I need to focus on the rest of the voters.”

  “Max.” Bill turned his head to his passenger and stared at him for what seemed like an eternity. They were stopped still in Washington traffic, and he could divert his attention until the line of cars on the off-ramp began moving again. “Max, you worry me. Why aren’t we in Iowa eating corn dogs with the locals? I don’t get it. You and Andrew are headed to Michigan, and I’m stuck here in D.C., and I don’t know what you want me to do, for chrissakes!”

  Bill was beginning to sweat with frustration, and Max knew that to campaign in the way he had devised, he needed to share his philosophy with those he trusted. “Bill, Andrew is going to post videos of me speaking on every subject we decide the voters want information about. The length of my talks will be shorter than the attention span of the viewers. I have no intention of being where all the other candidates are unless I’m debating. There will be a video assistant meeting me at each of my destinations.”