The Thumper Amendment

by BRUCE EDWARDS

  It’s embarrassing!

  Tolerating political corruption had long been considered a part of living the American Experience—until now. The presidential primaries were coming up, and the American people had had enough! So, new campaign reform laws were proposed, put on the ballot, and approved by the voters. From now on, no candidate or political party could throw their weight around to sway an election. No eligible voter would be excluded from participating. American democracy would finally rise from the ashes—for the voters had unanimously passed:

  Propositions 7 and 18!

  Prop 7 lowered the voting age to 14, nullifying the 26th amendment of the Constitution, which gave 18-year-olds the vote in 1971. For the first time, high school-age kids could vote in public elections, and have a real voice in shaping the country they would one day inherit.

  Opponents of the proposition challenged its constitutionality. Legal arguments were heard all the way to the U.S. Supreme Court, but the justices ruled that it was indeed valid, under the Constitution.

  Political candidates proclaimed the new amendment a victory for democracy, even though we all knew they would use it to finagle more votes for themselves. They reasoned that teens, with their limited grasp of campaign trickery, could easily be persuaded to vote in their favor. Even a new political party was formed that targeted teens:

  The Awesome Party

  —so named to mislead teenagers into believing that their candidates were “hip.”

  Passage of Prop 18, however, was the real triumph. After suffering through decades of stomach-churning campaign TV commercials, the new law required candidates to do battle on a TV reality show instead. That’s right! The reality show format was the perfect remedy for an ailing America, desperate for change. Candidates could still bash each other, but now in a controlled environment. It was also a win-win for the political parties. The cost of these shows were funded entirely through a new federal tax, saving them millions in advertising costs.

  Voters would now choose their leaders based on how well they performed in this new political “arena.” Turning campaigns into entertainment would also draw more people into the electoral process. It’s well known that the more humiliation reality shows deliver, the better people like them. Applying this concept to political campaigning was certain to increase voter turnout.

  The provisions in the new law were pretty simple:

  1.The show would be broadcast live.

  2.The show’s writers were free to be as outrageous as they wanted.

  3.Producers were given immunity from prosecution, so long as the show was entertaining.

  All candidates running for public office were mandated by law to appear on these shows. The first one was scheduled to premiere during the upcoming presidential primaries. The show’s format was this:

  The 10-day, presidential “race” would start in California, and end in Washington D.C. Unlike those famous races in Daytona and Indianapolis, the vehicles charging toward the finish line would be campaign buses. Along the way, each candidate would face treacherous challenges, while the World watched in suspense. The contest would end with an extravagant finale to determine the winner.

  The only requirement to become a contestant was to be a U.S. citizen, provide your own bus, and have a commercial license to drive it. That was it!

  And so was born:

  The Race For The White House, USA!

  The Awesome Party would be first to test the waters of Prop 18, and the American People were delirious with anticipation. Imagine our disappointment to learn that only one person had entered the race, and would run unchallenged. He was considered so unbeatable, that only a complete fool would run against him. With no opposition, he was automatically declared the party’s nominee. So, the Awesome Party launched a nation-wide tour to show off their “winning” candidate, although he was taking a victory lap for a race that had never been run.

  Their final whistlestop was Shankstonville. Our town presented the perfect backdrop to sell the Awesome candidate as a “friend of the common man.” A flatbed truck served as a stage, and was parked in front of a tall grain silo. A free, chuck wagon-style feast fed the audience, while a carnival, complete with Tilt-A-whirl and Rock-O-Plane rides, entertained the little ones. Our local garage band, Billy Corne and The Cobs, performed—albeit severely out of tune.

  Everyone in town came out to get a glimpse of the shoo-in nominee. I was there, too, representing the S.Y.P.A., to report on the event for the association’s newsletter.

  The official host of Race For The White House was invited to M.C. the event. His name was Brian Breadcrust, and was internationally known for creating the most distasteful and sleazy reality shows ever made, such as Extreme Perversion and Who Wants To Be Executioner? He was a wizard at concocting outrageous challenges. Some involved impossible stunts and effects that defied believability. No one was quite sure how he pulled them off, but so long as his victims were put through the wringer, no one cared, either. His shows were enormous hits.

  “Hellooo, Shankstonville!” shouted Brian Breadcrust. “Go Sharks!” (Sharks was the name of the local high school football team, which, I’m quite sure, he couldn’t care less about. What a phony!)

  The Shankstonville townsfolk cheered wildly.

  “Now, the man you’ve all been waiting for,” continued Breadcrust, “a man of distinction; the cure to a dysfunctional country; a leader for a brighter tomorrow, and the next President of the United States:

  Chester T. Fields!”

  We all knew who Chester Fields was: CEO of Fields Industries, Fields Digital, Fields Foods, and dozens of other self-named enterprises. His portly frame had been photographed with captains of industry, world leaders, and giants in finance. He would have easily been the envy of the whole country, if he wasn’t such a sleazeball. Tales of his questionable business practices, and how he acquired his billions was legendary. But curiously, there are many who find deviousness a desirable trait in a political leader.

  The band played Chester onto the stage. He stepped up to the microphone and waved his chubby little hands in the air, as the crowd roared at having such a big celebrity in their humble town.

  “Howdy, folks!” said Chester, choosing just the right words to soften the local yokels. “As you all know, the primaries are rapidly approaching, and I am wrapping up my campaign. As I have traveled this great land of ours . . .”

  Blah, blah, blah, I said to myself.

  “. . . and as you also know, I am running unopposed. I regret that I won’t be able to participate in The Race For The White House program. Had a competitor come forward to challenge me, I would have shown you how determined I am to win this election—that no one beats Chester T. Fields in a fair fight. If only someone with a little backbone had—”

  “I challenge you!” shouted a voice from the crowd.

  People turned in all directions to see who had offered to go up against the richest and most ruthless cutthroat in the business world.

  Breadcrust immediately took charge of the microphone. “Who said that?” he asked the murmuring crowd.

  “I did!” said a man in a tie-dye t-shirt and white cowboy hat.

  “What is your name, sir?”

  Only the sound of the wind was heard as the anxious spectators awaited a response.

  “Alan Freeberg!” said the man.

  Unlike Chester Fields, Alan Freeberg was not well known—unless you lived in Shankstonville. He was thought of in these parts as the town weirdo. At 6-feet, 3-inches tall, with a long beard, and hair down to his belt, he looked like he had just returned from a Grateful Dead concert. No one knew where he lived, but every Thursday you could find him selling his organically-grown vegetables, at the local farmer’s market.

  Without question, Alan Freeberg was a strange individual, but his backstory was even stranger. He was once a successful entrepreneur in the early days of the Silicon Valley. A wiz at digital electronics, he was credited with inventing many of today’s mode
rn electronic gadgets. But Alan Freeberg never received his due. Through malicious, legal maneuvering, the rights to his inventions were stripped away from him. A huge conglomerate would go on to make billions off of his genius—that company was Fields Technologies!

  Humiliated and practically penniless, Alan retreated to Shankstonville. He bought a small farm, grew out his hair, and became a vegetarian. The World had all but forgotten this brilliant innovator, but we still saw him every Thursday, pitching his home-grown produce.

  Chester stepped up to the mic. “Al Freeberg! My old friend,” he said, sarcastically.

  “Old friend, my ass!” Alan shouted back.

  “I thought you were dead.”

  “Still kickin’, and just waiting for the chance to give you what for.”

  Chester belly-laughed. “Bring it on, pal!”

  “Just a moment,” interrupted Breadcrust. “Mr. Freeberg must first prove that he can meet the requirements for competition.” He turned to Alan. “Sir, you will have to show that you’re a United States citizen.”

  “Will a driver’s license do?” asked Alan.

  “It will. Do you have a vehicle you can use for a campaign bus?”

  “Sure do. I can drive it legal, too.”

  “Are you a member of the Awesome Party?”

  “I will be by day’s end.”

  “One final question: Who will be riding with you?”

  The rules mandated that each candidate have at least one assistant accompany him on his journey. Alan Freeberg was a loner. Everyone knew that. His widely-reported failures had left him utterly friendless.

  “No need for that,” said Alan. “I can handle this on my own.”

  “Sorry,” said Breadcrust. “The government will not accept liability for your safety unless you have someone with you. It’s required by law.”

  Alan turned around and addressed the audience. “Alright, you hillbillies! I’m putting myself on the line here. I’m willing to go up against a powerful man who thinks of this country like it was his personal property. Controlling half of America’s wealth isn’t enough for him, he wants to control you too. So, who’s with me? Who among you has the balls to keep the likes of Chester T. Fields from holding the highest office in the land?”

  The audience members moaned and looked at each other, but no one spoke up.

  A smirk washed over Chester’s face. “What’s the matter, Al?” he said. “No running mate? Well, I’ve got mine.”

  Chester waved on a long, black limousine. It slowly pulled up to the front of the stage as the band played “Happy Days Are Here Again.” The chauffeur opened the passenger door, and a young man stepped out. The audience cheered him onto the stage.

  Chester put his plump arm around the young man’s shoulder. “I’d like you all to meet my right-hand man,” said Chester, “a true American, with integrity and grit, someone who will follow proudly in his father’s footsteps. Meet my son . . . Peter!”

  Peter?

  Oh, no!

  It couldn’t be!

  Not that Peter!

  But it was. There, happily waving from the stage was the same boy who attacked me so brutally back in the 3rd grade!

  I could feel my blood pressure rise. The loud music echoed in my brain as my head throbbed with anger. I jumped up onto the back of the man standing in front of me and raised my fist into the air.

  “Count me in!” I shouted.

  I quickly jumped down and covered my mouth. What was I thinking? True, it was the perfect opportunity to get even with Peter, my long-ago nemesis, but exposing myself to an international TV audience was just plain crazy. Then I realized that there was a greater good to be done here. I reminded myself that I was committed to supporting lost causes, and there was no bigger loser than Alan Freeberg. My grandfather was tugging at my elbow that day.

  Alan Freeberg craned his neck to see what insane person had volunteered to march with him into the Lions Den.

  I battled my way through the ecstatic crowd over to Alan. “Mr. Freeberg,” I said, shouting over the noise, “my name’s Amy, and I wish the pleasure of accompanying you on your quest.”

  Alan looked at me like I was playing some kind of prank. “I don’t think you understand what you’re asking for,” he said.

  “I understand that nothing changes until someone gets involved,” I said.

  A hint of a smile broke through Alan’s stern face. “You sure you’re up for this?”

  “As sure as you want to see Chester Fields eat crow,” I said. “And I’ve got a score to settle with that rat-fink son of his.”

  The long-haired hippie looked down on me with a confident grin. “Welcome aboard, partner.”

  Brian Breadcrust observed Alan and I shaking hands, and signaled the band to stop playing. “Ladies and gentleman,” he said, “we have a race!”

  Chapter 3

  The Rules

  The video camera firing squad was in place, and their lenses were pointed at the back of my head, focused on the blue streak in my hair. The Race For The White House, USA was about to debut on TVs, computers, phones, and tablets all around the world, and the camera operators wanted to get the colors just right.

  It was a morning filled with color: the soft gold of the sunrise; the lush green of the palm trees; the radiant spokes of the neon Ferris wheel. I admired them all, especially the deep blue of the Pacific Ocean. I was in Santa Monica, California!

  Arc lights, brilliant as the noonday sun, poured over a city just waking up. Side streets were jammed with television equipment trucks. Video color bars popped onto giant TV monitors, casting a rainbow glow over the urban landscape. I waved at the TV news helicopters hovering overhead, as if they could possibly have seen me among the miles of electrical cables.

  “Mic check! Mic check! One, two, three!” reverberated off the buildings, from the powerful speakers, suspended high above an enormous stage. Rows of bleachers grew out of the city sidewalks, like giant stalagmites rising from the floor of a limestone cavern. Spectators from all over the country began to trickle in, as the locals watched the human migration from merchant rooftops.

  I was bursting with excitement. It had never occurred to me that this thing would be so exhilarating. I was energized, yet apprehensive, realizing that my face would soon flash onto those monster monitors.

  My involvement in this extravaganza almost didn’t happen. Being underage, parental approval was a legal requirement before I could leave town, much less fly two-thousand miles out to the West Coast.

  Getting permission wouldn’t have been a big deal, had I lived in a normal household. But I didn’t. We were once a close-knit family, before moving to the Midwest, but in our rush to leave the city, someone had forgotten to pack our family values. Mom and Dad were now full-time couch potatoes, and my brother and sister were techno-junkies. Finding any of them with a book in their hands was unheard of.

  I remember answering the doorbell of our Shankstonville home, to find a slew of documents in a box from the show’s legal department. Convincing my parents to sign them wasn’t going to be easy.

  My folks were sitting on a popcorn-stained couch, their eyes glued to our living room TV. Interrupting their TV worship was considered a no-no in our house. During a commercial break, I explained the gist of my plans to them.

  “Out of the question!” screamed my mother, without even glancing at the legal forms.

  “You’re grounded!” yelled my father.

  “But it’s a chance to do something really important,” I said. “The result of this trip could effect the future of the whole country, and it would be a valuable educational experience for me. Don’t you want me to get a good education?”

  “That’s what schools are for,” my mom said, without taking her eyes off the 60-inch plasma screen.

  “And there’s no way we’re going to let you go gallivanting across the country with a bunch of total strangers,” added my dad.

  You would think I’d be discouraged
after a response like that, but there was one, sure-fire way to gain their approval, and I knew just how to do it. “But dad,” I pleaded, “it’s all going to be broadcast, live, to every TV set in the country.”

  “TV?” My dad’s head swung in my direction, his eyes sparkling above his ear-to-ear grin. “Why didn’t you say so, Sweetie?” I quickly tossed the stack of papers in his lap and handed him a pen.

  “Did you hear that, everyone?” cried my mom to the entire household. “Amy’s going to be on national television!”

  The upstairs bedroom doors slammed shut at the announcement. My siblings were not impressed.

  My dad signed on each dotted line on every page, as he leafed through the documents, never reading a word of them.

  The rising sun cast long shadows over the thousands that had assembled in the standing-room-only venue. Vendors marched up and down the street holding printed programs over their heads. “Get your program here!” they barked. “Know your candidates before the show starts.”

  VIP seating was provided at the back of the stage. I sat down and watched with amazement, as the magic unfolded.

  A large digital clock showed that we would be on the air in two minutes. Directors and technicians darted across the stage as the seconds counted down.

  Brian Breadcrust emerged from his portable dressing room and approached the stage, while the local police kept his ravenous fans at a safe distance.

  “Four, three, two . . .”

  “Ladies and gentleman, boys and girls,” spoke an amplified announcer’s voice, “Your host for The Race For The White House, USA . . .Brian Breadcrust!”

  A man with headphones cued Breadcrust. The TV personality galloped to the front of the stage and grabbed a handheld microphone. “Good morning, America, and welcome to a new age in democracy!”