The Thumper Amendment

by BRUCE EDWARDS

  Then he ran off.

  Talk about a roller coaster of emotions! I was totally confused, and didn’t know what to think, or who to believe, or what my next step should be.

  Alan finally caught up to me. “You ready to come back?” he said.

  “No, sir!” I said, wiping my nose on the back of my hand.

  “Love isn’t fair,” he said. “It hurts. I know that better than anyone. You’re experiencing the worst pain a human can endure. Oddly enough, it’s usually not as bad as you think it is right now.”

  I held my head in my hands. “I want to die.”

  Then Alan placed an object in my lap: the What’s-next-specs. He switched it on, then quietly walked away.

  I stared at the helmet’s blinking lights, afraid that putting it on would make things even worse. But, put it on, I did.

  The contraption took me to a dark place. I was surrounded by black smoke that thickened, then melted into an ugly brew that swirled like a deadly potion in a witch’s caldron. A lightening bolt lit up the dark. The loud thunder that followed faded into an eerie stillness. I was afraid to go on, but then a sweet taste touched my lips. Raindrops cascaded down my face. No, they were teardrops. Little by little, as I blinked away the tears, the layers of darkness were wiped clean.

  Sunlight broke through, rimming the crest of a small dirt hill. A sad, little tree sat on the top, its branches bare. The teardrop rainfall ended, leaving behind little, white clouds that glided across a blissful sky. The dirt-brown hill turned emerald-green, as grass broke through the bleak soil. Tiny buds burst from the tree’s branches, then exploded into fragrant blossoms. My ears were filled with the cheerful songs of chirping birds, that swooped and danced in the tree, now leafy and full.

  It was a peaceful scene, but my emotions were still overcome with sadness. Then a voice called to me from beyond the hill. “Hold on,” it said, ever so faintly. “Hold on, Amy. Hold on.” My heart didn’t ache quite so badly now. I breathed in the fresh, moist air, and was whole once again.

  The soothing voice had healed my heart and restored my courage, and I was glad that I heeded its advice. But then, why wouldn’t I?

  The voice was my own.

  Chapter 14

  The Great Debate

  There’s nothing like touring our nation’s Capitol to make one feel patriotic. From the window of a local tour bus, I got an up-close look at the home of American democracy: Washington D.C. The monuments to Lincoln and Jefferson, and the tributes to fallen soldiers were humbling.

  Okay, enough of the touristy stuff. I wanted to see the real Washington inside the Capitol building.

  For history buffs like me, it was a real treat. Historical documents were so close you could reach out and touch them, had they not been sealed behind thick sheets of Plexiglas.

  After seeing the statues in the visitor’s center, I moved on to the “statues” in the House and Senate chambers. No, not the bronze type, I’m talking about the representatives themselves. I think I saw more movement from the marble Lincoln than from Congress in session. It was like watching C-SPAN in 3-D—a real snooze-fest. The reason why nothing gets done in Washington is because nothing moves but the ceiling fans. Alan would have gotten a kick out of seeing this, but the hectic show schedule left him no time for sightseeing.

  My final stop was the most inspiring tribute of all: the Washington Monument. Imagine my shock to find it plastered with corporate logos on all sides, from top to bottom. Turning the historical landmark into a giant, commercial billboard had been ordered by the sponsors of The Race For The White House. This is where the Great Debate, and final show of the reality series, was to take place. I was glad that the real George Washington wasn’t alive to see this.

  A stage had been erected in front of the monument. Overhead, metal girders supported sophisticated stage lighting and a sound system loud enough to fill an Olympic stadium. TV cameras on raised platforms were scattered throughout a sea of folding chairs.

  Thousands of lights on strings that were fixed to the monument’s pyramid-shaped top cascaded to the ground, like a Christmas tree for Godzilla. They were probably for some special effect, I imagined. I wouldn’t learn what they were for until after dark.

  But I was able to see another effect being tested. At the base of the monument, below the stage, two chairs had been mounted to the ends of long tubes, like the metal cylinders used on pneumatic lifts in auto repair shops. Fully extended, they reached all the way to the top of the 550-foot monument.

  I heard a great whoosh of air, and up one of the chairs rose at incredible speed. It was like watching a super-tall boomerang ride at a carnival. Then, the second chair whooshed toward the sky, alongside the first one. After a minute or so, they slowly descended back to their launch pads.

  Since I had an all-access pass from the show, Security allowed me to go behind the stage for a closer look. Against the monument wall was the effects control center, which was nothing more than an open area marked off with yellow caution tape. There sat the pneumatic chairs, beside tall equipment racks filled with electronics.

  Beside the equipment stood a young man, tall and thin. He wore thick glasses and a t-shirt with a cartoon character printed on the back, and looked like he hadn’t been out in the sunlight in years. Computer nerd was written all over him.

  He stood facing a video screen, tapping away on a tablet computer that he held in his hand. A copy of Schlock Magazine with my face on the cover was tucked under one arm.

  I walked up to him. “You run this thing?” I asked.

  “Hey!” he said, quickly hiding the tablet behind his back. “Nobody’s supposed to . . .” He fumbled to catch the magazine as it fell to the ground, then noticed the image on the cover. He looked up at me. “Oh, it’s you.” He nonchalantly went back to his tablet. “Yes, I run this thing.”

  Then the man turned to me and tilted his head to one side. “I don’t suppose anybody’s told you about this, have they?”

  “Nobody’s told me anything since I got here,” I said.

  “Well, I’m really not supposed to talk about it—but, see those?” He pointed to the two chairs I had seen rocketing up and down the monument. “Watch this!”

  He stepped behind a large console with buttons and knobs all over it, and flicked a switch marked Chair #1.

  Whoosh!

  Up it went! The ground vibrated from the rush of compressed air that propelled the chair upward.

  “180 feet-per-second,” bragged the effects engineer. “500 P.S.I. There’s a 1500 horse-power air compressor the size of a steam train boiler ‘round the back. Cooling systems, voltage regulators, power converters, the best of everything.”

  He swung opened a panel on one of the equipment racks, revealing stacks of computers. “These puppies control the chair’s ascent and descent ratios.”

  The chair fell back to Earth, gently as a feather.

  “Notice anything unusual about these chairs?” he asked, waving his hands over them like a game show model.

  “You mean, besides the fact that they belong at the Kennedy Space Center?” I said.

  “Look more closely.”

  The chairs were actually old-style barber chairs, the kind with a crank on the side to adjust the height. But to my horror, they had an accessory you wouldn’t normally find on them. They had seat belts!

  “You don’t mean people are gonna sit in these things!”

  “What do you think?”

  “Alan and Chester?”

  He grinned.

  “Isn’t this kind of dangerous?” I asked. “What if something goes wrong?”

  “The only danger is if we lose power.”

  “Then what happens?”

  “The chairs will be stuck up there, with no way to get them down. But that’s not gonna happen.” He pointed out a dozen power generators lined up like a row of cannons on a battle field.

  “Backup systems galore,” he said. “If the main one fails, the next one kicks in, the
n the next, and so on. But we probably won’t need them.”

  The operator reached for a switch on his console, then he flashed me a fiendish grin. “Probably won’t.”

  Whoosh!

  It was a quarter to show time. I peeked over the top of the stage and looked out at an ocean of humanity. It was a capacity crowd—one-hundred-thousand strong, I was told. The jumbo, video monitors that lined the perimeter came to life.

  To the naked eye, a candidate reaching the top of the monument looked no bigger than a flyspeck, so long lenses were mounted to the broadcast video cameras. Capturing emotions in close-up is a must in any reality show.

  The stage lights came up as the sun dipped behind the Lincoln Memorial. On stage, the U.S. Marine Band played patriotic tunes, and when they had finished their final number Brian Breadcrust took the stage.

  The massive crowd cheered, as a brilliant spotlight lit him up like a full moon. “Welcome to the final round of The Race For The White House, USA,” he said. “Tonight: the Great Debate.”

  A video introduction played on the huge screens, showing archival, film footage of small-town America. The soundtrack featured a charming, banjo rendition of “Oh! Susanna,” while Breadcrust provided the prerecorded voice-over:

  “Pick any time in our nation’s history, and you’ll find regular folks discussing the politics of the day in public squares, local pubs, and at civic gatherings. Jabbering about elections in hometown barbershops goes back generations. So, in keeping with that tradition, tonight’s debate will be held in just such a place.”

  The band’s brass section played a rousing fanfare as the strings of lights that draped the monument came on, transforming it into a giant barber pole. Animated red, white, and blue lights spiraled upward like barber pole stripes.

  Whoosh!

  The two barber chairs blasted midway up the monument, as the audience let out a collective, “Oooo!” Seated in the chairs were Alan and Chester—Alan on the left, Chester on the right.

  “You okay up there, boys?” called Breadcrust to the candidates.

  “Ready to kick some political butt,” said Chester.

  “Ready to put slime in its place,” said Alan.

  I was getting butterflies in my stomach just watching them up there. I waved to Alan from my front row seat, but I don’t think he saw me.

  Breadcrust then addressed the crowd. “Members of our live audience, if you look under your seats, you will find a small, handheld device with a dial on it. If you like what a candidate is saying, turn the dial toward the one you agree with: Mr. Freeberg to the left, Mr. Fields to the right. Computers will instantly tally your feedback, and the candidate with the more positive responses will rise higher up the monument. At the same time, the less popular candidate will go down proportionately.

  “And now, let’s meet our distinguished panel of quizmasters.”

  Distinguished, my Aunt Fanny! The panel consisted of an arrogant talk-radio host, the world’s most unfunny comedian, and an aging, 60s rock singer.

  After a gratuitous round of whooping and screaming from the audience, Breadcrust read the rules:

  “Each candidate has two minutes to answer each question, followed by a one-minute rebuttal from his opponent. The toss of a coin has determined that Mr. Fields will go first. So, let’s . . .

  Race For The White House!”

  A flourish of trumpets, and the debate was on!

  The first question came from the radio talk-jock:

  “Mr. Fields, our country is under a missile attack. Thousands of Americans have already been killed. Would you retaliate?”

  Chester wasted no time in answering. “Well, let me start by saying—”

  “By saying what?” Interrupted Alan. (So much for rules.) “I can’t imagine that anything coming out of your mouth would be worth listening to.”

  Breadcrust intervened. “One moment, please, Mr. Freeberg. Allow Mr. Fields to finish his—”

  “Don’t give me that, Breadcrust,” said Alan. “You know as well as I do that you’ll never get an honest answer out of this crook.”

  “Now, just one minute!” hollered Chester.

  But Alan refused to yield to him. “I think the American people deserve to hear the unvarnished truth,” he said. “The truth, Mr. Fields!”

  Alan’s chair began to rise.

  Chester’s lowered.

  Alan continued, “This country belongs to “We the People.” It’s time you and your rich cronies learn that America is not some plaything you can manhandle for your pleasure.”

  After a few more impassioned remarks, Alan had nearly reached the top of the monument, while Chester fidgeted a few feet above the stage.

  “And come election day,” concluded Alan, “I’m going to teach you what true patriotism really is.”

  Now, you would have expected the crowd to revel at such a rousing speech. Wild applause should have followed Alan’s courageousness, but the audience sat quietly, like they were waiting for something.

  Chester provided that something:

  “You’re full of shit!” he shouted.

  The re-energized crowd rose to its feet and roared back to life, cheering uncontrollably, like they had just witnessed a record-breaking home run at a World Series game.

  Chester zoomed upward.

  Alan plummeted downward.

  For the next hour and a half, the two men went at each other. Barber chairs were all over the place—up and down, down and up. Personal attacks flew back and forth between the two candidates, but for every accusation made by Alan, Chester always had a brilliant comeback.

  The more heated the debate became, the more aroused the audience got.

  Chester dominated the debate for most of the evening, and in the end, Alan’s political inexperience would prove to be his downfall. The final question was so damaging to Alan, that his barber chair completely disappeared below the stage.

  From the tip-top of the monument, Chester waved his chubby arms in victory, like Moses to the multitude.

  Disheartened, I slowly rose from my seat, ready to console Alan backstage, when suddenly, Alan’s chair blasted back up, meeting Chester at the midpoint. But Alan wasn’t in the barber chair.

  It was Peter!

  He pointed his finger in his father’s face. “You’re the one who’s full of it!” said Peter.

  Chester’s high spirits vanished in an instant. He turned toward the audience. “My son,” he said, forcing a feeble grin. “Always the comedian.”

  “See how funny you think this is,” said Peter. Then he looked down to the stage. “Ready, Brian?”

  Breadcrust looked into the wings and got a thumbs-up from the stage director. Then he looked back up at Peter. “The stage is all yours,” he said.

  “What’s going on here?” cried Chester. “This wasn’t part of the deal.”

  “A little surprise, Dad,” said Peter. “Breadcrust promised me I could speak, and I promised him the highest TV ratings he’ll ever know.”

  The audience gave Peter their full attention.

  “Ladies and gentleman,” said Peter, “this . . . is a Fritter!”

  An image popped up on the video screens of a half-human/half-rabbit creature.

  The crowd gasped in horror.

  “As you can clearly see,” said Peter, “it is neither man nor beast, but a hideous mutation. It is the result of secret experimentation on animals that has been going on for decades.”

  The screens showed another example: a half-dog.

  “You may wonder why you’ve never seen one of these creatures before,” said Peter. “There are a number of heartless individuals who would rather that you didn’t. They’re game plan is to mass-produce vast legions of Fritterz to take over our country’s manufacturing sector, to use them as slaves to increase profits.”

  Peter’s chair rose as he continued. “And who’s behind all this? A lot of powerful people who will go to any lengths to earn an extra buck. And the ringleader of this ban
d of degenerates is right here: Chester T. Fields, my father!”

  “Boo!” howled the audience. The same people who had celebrated Chester only minutes before had turned on him.

  “You can’t prove any of this,” insisted Chester, his chair continuing to descend.

  “Ah-ha!” said Peter. “But, I can.”

  The video monitors showed a police mugshot of Dr. Vincent Gutstudder. “How many here remember the trial of Dr. Guts?” asked Peter.

  The photo then morphed into the smiling face of Chester!

  “That’s right,” said Peter. “My father and Dr. Guts are one in the same!”

  Peter’s chair swiftly reached the top of the monument, while Chester’s sank down below the stage.

  I was shocked and angered at the same time. Peter might have been justified in what he did, but I had my doubts. I knew what it was like to be on the receiving end of his mean streak, and I didn’t like seeing a repeat performance.

  I ran backstage. Chester was in his barber chair struggling to unbuckle his seat belt, while the effects crew restrained Alan from tearing him apart. Who were these men, acting like spoiled, rotten children? I’ve seen monkeys in zoos behave better.

  Chester finally broke free and ran off into the cold streets of Washington.

  I had seen enough! It was time to put a stop to this nonsense once and for all!

  While the backstage crew was busy with Alan, I leaped into Chester’s chair, buckled myself in, and clipped his microphone to my collar.

  The nerdy effects operator I met earlier saw what I was doing, and started toward me. I looked him straight in the eye, with a look of determination, then jerked my head in the direction of all the commotion. The operator stopped, observed the craziness around him, then looked back at me. I had suffered as much as anyone from this demoralizing, three-ring circus, and was now ready to have my say—and the young man knew it. He nodded, reached for a switch on his control console, then said, with a crooked smile, “God speed, Amy.”

  Whoosh!

  Peter and I met at the reset point, with eight feet between us, and a 275-foot drop to the stage.