by John Brown
With the selection of the party nominee long a certainty, the crowds would roar their approval of the Anointed One, and the ratings would pop, at least for a time. “Momentum” was the word the campaign strategists were using. “We gotta get some momentum going, Benson,” they kept telling him. “Let’s step it up. We’re expecting strong voter turnout this time, it’s neck-and-neck.”
Beyond the convention, the party elites would have little further use for the rank and file. When the stage lights went down the convention delegates would drift away and go back to wherever they had come from.
As a campaign fundraiser, Benson was obliged to go to the party convention in the late summer. He asked Jane to go with him. It would be like a romantic vacation, he said, but she had declined — wisely, as it turned out. They wouldn’t have had any time together.
A very tall man stood next to the candidate on the podium, topped with a brightly colored hat bigger than his head, festooned with campaign buttons. The band stopped playing. Cheering and clapping erupted from the audience, rising to a dull roar. The lights in the audience dimmed, focusing all attention on the brightly lit center stage. Senator Mel Ziller beamed and put his arm around the candidate’s shoulder, who looked more like a youngster standing beside him than someone who just might become the most powerful man in the world, the hope of a generation.
Smiling broadly, Ziller waited for the noise to subside.
“Like some of you, I keep asking myself which leader running today has the vision, the willpower, and yes, the backbone to protect my family. Without too much doubt, there is but one man to whom I am willing to entrust their future, and that man’s name is Joseph King.”
The crowd went wild. The speaker raised his hand and the commotion died down.
“Now, the terrorists would kill us if they could. To quash that threat, Joseph King has told Americans that their private plans and private lives must be repealed by an overriding public danger.”
The audience leapt to their feet.
“King! King! King! King!”
The candidate waved to the delegates with a sheepish smile. With the mammoth senator looming over him, whose arm still hugged him close, King appeared somewhat uneasy. The speaker shook King’s shoulder back and forth in a comradely manner, apparently enraptured with King. King pretended to enjoy being roughly jostled, playing along like a good sport, even though his already creaky shoulder ached even more.
Stooping over, Senator Ziller spoke into the double microphones.
“Where is the bipartisanship in this country when we need it most? I remember when the other party believed it was the duty of Americans to fight for freedom over tyranny — but not today!”
The crowd frantically waved their signs up and down and back and forth.
“The world cannot afford an indecisive America. Fainthearted self-indulgence will put at risk all we care about in this world. In this hour of danger, Joseph King seems to have the courage to stand up, and I’m proud to stand up with him.”
Mel Ziller released his painful grip from King’s shoulder and stood up straight to his full, towering height.
“So may I introduce to you!” he shouted over the rising noise. “The man you’ve known for all these years! Joseph F. King—”
The audience spontaneously rose to their feet, exuberant with their applause, their shouts of joy thundering through the great hall and overwhelming the rest of his introduction. With a shrug, Senator Ziller walked off the podium, holding his giant hat with one hand to keep it from tipping over.
King saluted the audience in the formal military style, although he had never done any real service outside of a desk job, nor had any of his family going back several generations.
“Reporting for duty!” he said to tumultuous applause, snapping his hand back smartly to his side. “Hope is on the way!”
He wore his serious warrior’s face until the applause and cheers died down.
“It’s wonderful to be here, it’s certainly a thrill. You’re such a lovely audience, we’d like to take you home with us, we’d love—”
He was interrupted by applause and laughter, and he laughed good-naturedly himself.
“In all seriousness, our campaign is about more than replacing a president, it’s about saving the soul of America.”
He waved to the congregation, receiving their hoots and whistles.
“What brings us here tonight is love of country. We’ll find out just how great a nation we can be. My administration will create tremendous new opportunities for national service. We’ll fight growing challenges on all the issues, like jobs and education. I will ask for your service and your active citizenship when I’m president — and don’t tell me America is out of service. We’ve gotta rise about that. People of all ages, stations, and skills must serve a cause greater than just themselves and their families. The social welfare requires individuals to put away their narrow, selfish interests for the good of society. We’re all in this together. A world in which we’re only thinking about ourselves and not thinking about everybody else, in which we’re considering the entire project of developing ourselves as more important than our relationships to other people — that’s a pretty narrow vision. So everybody’s gotta sacrifice for the greater good. Everybody’s gotta give. Everybody’s gotta—”
He was interrupted by a standing ovation; a tumultuous clapping of hands and waving of flags ensued.
“Everybody’s gotta have some skin in the game.”
King became pensive.
“We can’t just drive our SUVs and eat as much as we want and keep our homes at 72 degrees and then just expect that other countries are gonna go, ‘Okay, whatever.’ That’s not leadership. That’s not influence. That’s not gonna happen.”
The applause rose and fell in a great wave.
“As citizens of the freest country on Earth, you should have the right to a good job, the right to a decent home, the right to adequate medical care, the opportunity to enjoy good health. You should have the right to a secure retirement, the right to a good education. You deserve it. We deserve it. So let’s give this to ourselves.”
The audience clapped away in delight, nodding in complete agreement.
“So what does it mean to be an American today? It means workin’ hard, prayin’ hard, and pledging allegiance. Sacrifice, duty, and loyalty. Paying your fair share, and service to country. We’re gonna energize the American spirit, restore our sense of pride and our national purpose — but that’s not all!”
Benson sat in the VIP booth next to Burton Chesterfield, a high campaign official. Dozens of party workers milled around wearing colorful campaign hats and buttons. Floor-to-ceiling one-way windows gave them a commanding view of the show. The crowd was cheering and whistling. Benson was glad he did not have to sit with the rabble in the bleachers. They’d cheer anything.
“Magnificent!” Chesterfield said. “People need something to believe in.”
He wore a proud smile.
“Tom, you helped make all this possible.”
Benson was thinking about what King had just said. He put it down to political hyperbole. King needed to say things, even if a bit sensational at times, that would rouse the audience and generate a few headlines. Once the election was over he could put some of the more over-the-top campaign rhetoric aside and become a true leader, more reasonable and more thoughtful. More presidential.
“Tom?”
“Yes, well, I like to think that I might’ve helped.”
“C’mon, you did more than just help,” Chesterfield said, giving Benson a slow, exaggerated jab in the shoulder. “You’re just about one of the best bundlers we have. You know, we were thinking about a place for you later on. We need someone with your dedication and talent; we like your initiative. Think about it, okay? Here, you need a ‘Win the Future’ button. Put this on.”
He handed Benson a WTF button and wandered off to the bar. Benson slipped it into his pocket.
“
We also care about healthcare,” King went on. “We care about children and seniors. Good jobs at good wages. Clean air and water. Immigration. The economy. Social Security. National security. Illegal drugs. Prescription drugs. Affordable housing. Fair taxation. Family values. Crime. Inflation. Education. Energy. Trade. And even warm weather!”
That brought down the house. A woman in the front row turned around to face the galleries, and, with exaggerated arm gestures, started up a chant that rolled through the hall.
“Time for a change!” she yelled, repeatedly whipping up her hands for everyone to follow her lead. “Time for a change! Win the future! Time for a change! Win the future!”
King jauntily doffed his jacket, loosened his tie, and rolled up his shirtsleeves. Grabbing a wireless microphone, he went out into the audience, shaking hands as he spoke. Yelling and cursing into their headsets, his security detail scrambled to keep track of him.
“And we’ll create a new kinda politics that’ll transform this country, change the world, and free this nation from the tyranny of oil,” King said. “The rise of the oceans will slow and our planet will begin to heal.”
King clasped the microphone under his arm and used both hands to shake those of his delighted and stunned audience, moving nonstop with the vigor of a much younger man.
“Details to follow!”
“Mine eyes have seen the glory of the coming of the Lord,”
“He is trampling out the vintage where the grapes of wrath are stored.”
“He hath loosed the fateful lightning of His terrible swift sword,”
“His truth is marching on-n-n-n.”
With considerable gusto, the band played the “Battle Hymn of the Republic” a few times. The conventioneers got to their feet and sang along. Even King marched in place to the beat, saluting the audience as he stepped. When it was finally over, cheers and clapping filled the convention center.
Just outside, a spirited protest was in full swing, held at bay by squads of battle-clad police holding their riot shields in an impenetrable ring around the building’s entrance. Demonstrators with signs marched around in a circle, while others paraded a crude, evil caricature of King; a giant, grotesque paper mache puppet on a stick that they twirled over their heads. They were calling King bad for working families, captured by the special interests, and a warmonger. At intervals, they would tire from their labors and stop for a break. Benson watched it on the monitors. The show outside seemed much more interesting to him than the one inside.
Benson laughed to himself. These soft pansies had been indulged all their lives, filled with a phony self-esteem that had left them mentally and physically unfit. They looked like they hadn’t worked hard a day in their lives. Wars are messy; there’s no such thing as a clean, quick War on Terror. Combatants are captured and tried, sometimes in secret. The worst ones are even executed. There’s collateral damage.
King clasped his hands together in front of his chest, a devout expression on his face. Thousands of euphoric people before him giddily jumped up and down.
“My friends, we’re gonna come together and restore the great American experiment.”
He looked skyward, as though he were about to pray.
“National unity! We’re gonna strive for national greatness, now how ’bout that?”
The crowd went wild. Another chant began rolling through the convention center in waves. “It’s our turn!” they yelled. As the wave hit each section, the conventioneers stood, raising their hands in the air, and then sat down. The effect was of an undulating ribbon going round and round.
“It’s our turn! We deserve it! It’s our turn! We deserve it!”
A blast shook the building. Billowing smoke blew out from the end of the convention center. Most of the partygoers ran madly for the exits, abandoning their plastic souvenir bags and convention kits, scrambling over each other in their desperation to escape. The security guards couldn’t resist the onslaught, giving up and getting carried along outside the hall with the streaming crowd.
King dropped where he stood, peering about while his security detail ran everywhere. One of the agents spoke into his shoulder radio. He got down on the floor and whispered in King’s ear. King got to his feet, looking around warily, brushing the dust off his shirt. He took his place behind the microphones again, watching the fleeing delegates.
He set his face in a fearless, squinty-eyed expression and tapped the microphone to check that it was still working.
“My friends, nothin’ to be scared of, don’t panic. Keep calm and carry on. A stove blew up in the kitchen is all. C’mon back, everything’s all right.”
Downtown, a band of protestors gathered at a busy intersection. Loudspeakers on their minivan played an old recording at a shrieking pitch.
“I’m proud to be an American…”
“’Cuz at least I know I’m free-eee.”
“And I won’t forget the men who died…”
“Who gave that right to me-eee…”
They waved their signs back and forth for passersby and film crews. The selections included “Support Our Troops,” “Freedom Isn’t Free,” “These Colors Don’t Run,” “No War, No Peace — Know War, Know Peace,” and “No Peace for Oil.”
Another band of demonstrators set up a counter-protest on the opposite corner, yelling nasty epithets, even hurling bottles and cans at their opposition across the street. Not to be outdone, their signs included “War is not the answer,” “Who Would Jesus Bomb?”, “Resistance is Fertile — Pick Fruit, Not Fights,” “Go Solar, Not Ballistic,” and “How Many Lives per Gallon?” They cranked up the loudspeakers mounted on top of a decaying old bus emblazoned with their witticisms. There was a loud, electrical hum, and then buzzing and static. At last it was fixed and the battle was joined.
“All we are saying…”
“Is give peace a chance.”
The simple chant repeated in an endless, hypnotic loop, enhanced by shrill tambourines rattled by the demonstrators trying to drown out the other side.
“All we are saying…”
“Is give peace a chance.”
Drivers brought to a standstill angrily honked their horns in a torrent of noise. Pedestrians held their ears to stifle the clamor. The demonstrators donned sandwich boards plastered with their slogans and moved out onto the sidewalks, banging their tambourines aggressively in people’s faces.
“C’mon, everyone, sing it loud, sing it proud! All we are saying … yes, that’s it! Is give peace a chance … again! Let’s do it! All we are saying—”
From out of nowhere, riot police in Bulldog X SWAT trucks careened onto the sidewalks. Protesters and spectators alike fled for their lives before the blaring sirens and brilliant red, white, and blue strobe lights. The police within jumped out awkwardly, their riot shields, helmets, tall boots, visors, armored vests, and weapons slowing them down. They immediately unloaded smoke rounds and flashbang grenades from their M4A1 carbines into both groups of protesters.
Temporarily blinded, dazed and deafened, the protesters stumbled in confusion. Their riot shields held before them, the police descended on the hapless protestors, surrounding them in a tightening circle until all the groping demonstrators were roughly corralled. Herded onto a fleet of unmarked school buses painted flat gray with steel mesh windows, they were handcuffed to the seats and promptly driven away, the engines rumbling and whining. It was all perfectly executed and over in minutes.
6
Let’s Make the Right Choice
JOHN CARP AND JOSEPH KING SMILED BROADLY and waved to the audience. Striding confidently from left and right stage, they warmly shook hands, clasped each other’s shoulders, and whispered something apparently amusing. They mounted the podium, each taking their assigned lecterns.
“Welcome to the presidential election debates,” the lovely moderator began.
She thanked the numerous corporate, union, farm, foundation, environmental, education, public relations, healthcare, spe
cial interest, and State sponsors profusely. She expressed her own deep gratitude to the candidates, seemingly awestruck to be in their presence.
“I would ask you to speak from the heart,” she said to the candidates, “about how you would navigate this country through the challenges America faces. Tell Americans what you would say personally, sitting in their living rooms.”
Upon directing her first question to King, she leaned forward in her seat, smiling provocatively.
King looked at the moderator for a long moment. Her blue eyes were fixed on his. She pushed back her long blond hair and played with her earring. Breaking her intent gaze, King peeked at his notes on the lectern. He peered at the audience, and then stared again at the moderator. She smiled invitingly back at him. He was suddenly lost for words, befuddled, his mind racing.
He took a sip of water, and then set the glass down carefully. He picked up a pencil and then put it down, lining it up exactly even with the lectern’s edge. He took another sip of water. He had vanquished all opponents for his party’s nomination, outmaneuvering and crushing every challenger. Now it was Carp’s turn to fall. Bolstered by this thought, his confidence returned as swiftly as it had vanished.
“You know,” he said, clearing his throat, “I’m glad you — see, we need, we need to lower those taxes. Americans in the bottom 25 percent, they need relief. Stimulate the economy so we can fund more programs. We’ll go line by line through the federal budget to reduce wasteful and ineffective programs. We’ll get tough on waste, fraud, and abuse. We need a president who is ready on day one to be commander-in-chief of our economy. I will be that president.”
Taking another sip of water, he glanced down surreptitiously, the glass having been placed next to his notes.
“We’ve journeyed into the heartland of America. I’m from the heartland myself and I know these people. We’ve met with real Americans and they’re telling us to get our financial house in order. Cut, you know, the deficit with all the money saved. Lower interest rates for working families so they can buy more washing machines and refrigerators and cars, and that’s good for jobs and it’s good for the treasury. Simplify the tax system, and we — that’s a priority. You can take that to the bank.”