by A. C. Fuller
"The second reason we'll have a chance is that we're raising money. Registered users can make donations, and the unique thing about our platform is that the donations aren't made to your favorite candidate, they're made to our organization. The understanding is that, after we pay operating costs, we'll give one hundred percent of the remaining funds to our winning candidate in July. No matter who wins."
"Celebrity and money," Chang says. "Good thinking. How much have you raised so far?"
"We're still in the beginning stages and—"
"Seven thousand three hundred dollars and sixty-two cents," Ruff says, looking down at a stack of papers she seems to have pulled out of thin air.
"So far, but—"
"So, what you're really looking at is a long-term play here," Ruff interrupts. "You have no chance of impacting the 2020 election, even if we award you a Project X grant, so maybe 2024, 2028?"
I know she's probably right. Even if I win the money, it could take years to gain traction, given how little attention we've gotten so far.
Before I can respond, Chang says, "Tell me more about the candidates. You said there were a few dozen?"
"Thirty-eight, to be exact, mostly from the fringes. Far right and far left, plus a couple total crackpots. The idea is that, as the site grows and more Americans begin to pay attention and vote, more serious candidates will join. And if the idea gets some traction, and more credible candidates enter, more donations will come in, which will make more candidates want to enter because the idea itself will begin to seem viable."
We're running out of time and my audience is restless. Chang stares at his phone as Ruff puts papers into a briefcase on her lap. I wonder why Peter Colton hasn't spoken, but I prepped a closing statement, specifically geared toward Colton, so I may as well deliver it.
"If you don't have any more questions, I'll finish with an analogy I heard recently." I lean forward and lock eyes with Colton. "For decades, very few people climbed Mount Everest. Only the best trained, most professional climbers dared make the trip. Recently, new technologies have allowed amateur climbers to reach the summit at amazing rates. Smaller and more efficient oxygen tanks, better routes, well-trained assistants, fixed ropes and ladders. Technology allows people to do what, just two decades ago, would have been impossible. Technology should do the same for democracy. It should give voice to the voiceless, challenge entrenched power, and allow the best ideas—and the best people—to rise to the top. With your help, I hope Ameritocracy will play a small part in that."
There's a slight change in Colton's expression, something more like a regular smile. He stares right at me, and I hold his gaze, gathering all the courage I can muster. "I know this idea is just starting out. I know it may take some time. But I've spent the last six years managing the day-to-day operations of The Barker, an online magazine with seventy employees. If I'm lucky enough to win Project X, I know I can turn Ameritocracy into something that will make a dent in our broken political system. I hope you'll give me the opportunity to try."
Despite the interrogation, I closed strong, and I'm proud of myself as I wash my hands in the palatial bathroom outside the meeting hall. Pressing my palms against my neck, I allow the cool to spread through my body, which calms me.
I walk back into the lobby and nod at Malcolm as I pass his desk. "Nice to meet you. I'll check out your YouTube videos."
"I'll keep an eye on your website," he says, picking up his ringing phone.
Waiting for my Uber, I survey the Colton Industries campus. From where I stand, I see three other large buildings, all glass and silver and curves, surrounded by green grass and new sidewalks. Everything screams "new wealth."
When the Prius arrives, I slide in, pulling out my phone to make sure my flight is on time. I feel calm and accomplished, the way I always feel when I've done something hard, something I was afraid of. As the car pulls away from Building 7, I glance back wistfully, like people do in movies.
That's when I see Malcolm, running through the front door and waving at my driver to stop.
The driver doesn't see him.
"Stop," I say. "Stop for a sec."
I roll down my window as Malcolm rushes up.
"What?" I ask. "What is it?"
"I just realized something important," he says. "If Willie Nelson runs for president, they'll probably drag up his old tax scandals. It's never gonna work."
I blink for a moment, confused. "You're right," I say eventually. "The single flaw in an otherwise perfect candidate. Um…is that why you flagged down my car?"
"I wish," he says.
I raise an eyebrow, waiting for him to explain. Then he leans his head through the window slightly and, for one ridiculous moment, I think he's going to kiss me.
2
Instead, Malcolm does something even more surprising. "Mr. Colton would like to invite you to our Friday night staff party," he says. "And he's asked me to help you find a dress for the event."
"Why?" I ask, stunned. "I mean, what for?"
He looks down at my shirt and pants. "He just figured you wouldn't have packed for a formal party."
"I mean, why is he inviting me?"
"I'm just the messenger here, Mia. Will you go?"
I shoot him my best skeptical look, but I see from his stoic face that, even if he knows what's going on, he won't say. "Are you gonna be there?" I'm not flirting, though it may appear that way to Malcolm. I'm just nervous and like the idea of a friendly face.
"Sort of," he says. "I'll be DJing."
"Then sure. I'll go."
I apologize to the driver, hand him a twenty, and follow Malcolm back into the lobby of Building 7, trying to figure out what my first question will be.
He takes his seat behind the iMac and says, "The party is at eight, so we've got a little over three hours. I need twenty minutes to finish some things, then my replacement comes. Like I said, Mr. Colton asked me to take you shopping for a dress, but only if you'd like one."
I lean on the reception counter casually, trying to pretend that there are circumstances under which I'd say no to shopping with the credit card of a billionaire. "A dress?"
"The Friday night parties tend to be more formal than you'd expect for a Silicon Valley company with no dress code. Let's just say that these aren't your typical staff parties."
"And he asked you to take me shopping? For real?"
"If you're more comfortable in what you're wearing, that's fine as well. Mr. Colton is a bit of a libertarian when it comes to his parties. All are encouraged to dress up, and most do, but there's no requirement. Individual choice and all."
He's right that I didn't pack for a formal party. I didn't pack at all. I flew down on the 10 a.m. out of Sea-Tac, planning to be home by midnight. I didn't even bring a toothbrush. Speaking of which, "Where will I stay?" I ask.
Malcolm is typing fast, and he looks up from his screen. "We can get you a hotel room, or you're welcome to stay in Building 12, the dorm for staff who spend the night. The rooms are individual, pod-type spaces, but they're nice."
With that, his eyes are back on his computer, and I shuffle back to the chair I sat in earlier. I pull out my iPhone to check my email, scroll past a couple dozen work-related non-emergencies, and open one from my mother.
Dearest Mia,
How did your presentation go? I can't wait to talk with you.
Love,
Mom
My mom is a waitress at the same Greek diner in Connecticut where she's worked since before I was born. Her calls on Saturday mornings are the only reason I don't sleep until noon, and I need to let her know that I won't be there when she calls my landline tomorrow.
Mom-
Not sure yet. Good, I think. Strange things are happening. Staying over in California a night, so you won't reach me on my home phone tomorrow.
Love you,
Mia
I scroll for a few minutes, ignoring work and deleting spam, then realize the email Malcolm mentioned—the one i
nforming me of the change in presentation structure—isn't there. Not that it matters now, but I'm curious. I scroll again, look in my spam folder, then run a quick search. I have definitely not received an email from Malcolm or anyone at Colton Industries.
Malcolm is now standing behind his chair, updating a young woman who's taken his seat behind the iMac.
I step over, wait for him to finish and, when he nods toward the door, I ask, "Did you lie about the email to all the presenters, or just me?"
"It was a test," Malcolm says, breaking a long silence as we drive off the Colton Industries campus. "The committee wanted to see how you'd do under pressure."
"So, you lied?"
"I was told to lie. And you must have done just fine."
"I guess so, but can you tell me anything more about what Mr. Colton said?"
Malcolm takes a soft left onto a wide, two-lane road that heads straight into the small town of Santa Clarissa. "I can't," he says. "Not because I don't want to. I just don't know much else."
"Then tell me about the town."
"Isn't much to it," he says, and I can already see that. We enter a small commercial district, no more than eight blocks long because I can see where the buildings stop and the road continues its path toward the rolling brown hills in the distance. The town looks like it was dropped, all at once, onto a huge patch of flat farmland. When Malcolm explains the history, I learn this is basically what happened.
"In 2012, when Mr. Colton built the campus, he wanted to provide everything his employees would need on site. Free food. Gyms. Child care. Bus service to and from San Francisco, Oakland and all the cities within ninety minutes. By 2014, enough people had relocated to the surrounding area that a small town popped up almost overnight. Other than the old post office, and a bank building that's now a yoga studio, every structure you see was built in the last five years."
"Wasn't that the plot of a Simpsons episode?" I ask.
"Yes it was, and I can't promise that's not where he got the idea."
Most of these baby buildings are modern, square structures of wood and glass, all between two and four stories. On the ground floors are a mix of juice shops, boutique clothing stores, and restaurants. On the upper floors are apartments and offices, most of which have wide balconies covered in plants and small trees. Taken as a whole, Santa Clarissa looks like a new section of Disneyland designed for rich Californians. Main Street USA, Silicon Valley style.
Not that I have anything against the opulence. Most Friday evenings I'm arranging last-minute weekend travel for Alex Vane, my boss at The Barker, or arguing with our web host about why the site is running slowly. If I'm lucky, by eight o'clock I'm on my couch, eating macaroni and cheese out of a plastic container while watching Netflix. Spending an evening shopping on Peter Colton's dime is a notable improvement.
Malcolm parks and we pass a couple clothing stores and a boutique cellphone shop before stopping at the window of a store called Mama Mia, which displays a variety of heels and flats, and even the occasional pair of designer boots. In the back, they appear to have at least a dozen racks of dresses.
"This is the largest store in town," Malcolm says. "Good mix of stuff, from what I hear."
Before he can finish his sentence, I'm inside the store, practically salivating. I'm not a clothes-hound. Not exactly, anyway. Would I spend lots of money on clothes if I had lots of money? Maybe, and I hope to find out someday. But I do love nice clothes, even if I can't afford to wear them.
"Mr. Colton said that it's on us," Malcolm says, finding me at a rack of cocktail dresses.
"Thank you."
It takes a good twenty minutes, but I find three possible dresses and Malcolm follows me to the dressing rooms in the back, where I step behind a curtain and he takes a seat on a round velvet bench.
As I squeeze myself into an emerald green, A-line, princess-style dress, I call through the curtain, "So if you can't tell me anything more about what he said, tell me more about Peter Colton."
"You read the blogs, don't you?"
"And yet, I asked you anyway. What's not on the blogs?"
"I've only worked for him for two years and, honestly, I don't know him that well. I was just starting to make a living with my music when YouTube changed their advertising rates. Then the club gigs dried up. I took this job as a temporary thing and, well…"
He trails off, the way everyone does when they're talking about dreams deferred.
"So what are these parties like?" I ask, worried the dress I'm trying on makes me look like a teenager at a junior prom.
"Kinda crazy. We work hard all week, often twelve or fourteen-hour days. Well, I don't, but the engineers and coders and managers do. Every Friday, Mr. Colton throws a party with a different theme."
This is important data. "What's the theme tonight?"
"Western."
I poke my head out from behind the curtain. "Seriously?"
Malcolm looks away awkwardly, probably because he thinks I'm naked behind the curtain, or is at least imagining that I could be. "Western," he says again, eyes glued to the floor.
"Western? And formal?"
"We leave things pretty open to interpretation. Like I said, Mr. Colton is a libertarian about these things. I wear the same black slacks and blue blazer every day, just swapping out t-shirts. But some people go all-out for these parties."
"Can you elaborate?"
"It's a mix. Some go super formal, some get all kinds of crazy with their outfits, some just show up in their work clothes."
"So you really can't help me figure out what kind of outfit I should get?"
"Sorry."
Thinking quickly, I say, "There were a pair of red leather cowgirl boots up front. Can you ask if they have those in a seven and a half?"
I duck my head back behind the curtain as Malcolm heads to the front of the store. I try on a black crepe sheath dress that makes me feel like Jackie O, but it's too formal for a western theme. By the time Malcolm returns, I'm in a cream flare dress with three-quarter sleeves. It's not exactly a line-dancing dress, but it has a similar shape. It ends just above my knees and is the closest I'll come to a western look on short notice.
Malcolm hands me the boots, which are hand-stained and covered in fine decorative stitching. "Too informal?" I ask, doing a little twirl before sitting on the round bench and trying on the boots.
"You look great."
I walk a couple loops around the store, checking myself in the mirror as I pass. The boots are a little tight, but they accent my reddish-brown hair, and will break in over time. Also, they look really nice on me. I decide I can get through a night in them.
I gather my clothes and follow Malcolm to the counter. "If you can't tell me much more about Peter, tell me about you."
"Not much to tell. Grew up in Oakland. Still live there. All I ever loved was music, but I can type fast and be pretty organized when I need to be. Applied for this job when the music dried up and, for some reason, I got it. Now I take the Colton Industries electric bus out and back five days a week."
He pays for the dress and boots, the clerk bags up my business attire, and we step onto the sidewalk. It's past six now, but still hot since it's the middle of July, so we head straight to the car.
"What about you?" he asks as we drive back toward the campus. "What's your story?"
"I assume you Googled me."
"I did, but not much came up. I know you manage the offices at The Barker, and that you started Ameritocracy a couple years ago. Seems like such a cool idea. Why aren't more people signing up?"
"Why aren't you signing up?"
He goes quiet for a moment, and I think I've said something to offend him. Then he laughs. "I would be a terrible politician. Plus, I'm only thirty-one."
"Maybe in 2024?"
"Maybe. But seriously, I'm so sick of politics."
We're bonding a little, and I turn to him as he eases into the long driveway that leads into the campus. When he shifts his eyes f
rom the road to me, I ask, "Do you think Ameritocracy can work? I mean, get big?"
"With enough money behind it, over time, yeah."
"That's what I'm afraid of. I started on a whim, thinking I'd slowly build it into something. If I win the money, that'll…I don't know. I guess I never thought I'd win. Now I'm scared. Nervous. Something."
Malcolm slows the car and scans an ID card to open the entry gate. "Just because he invited you to the party doesn't mean you won."
"But you won't tell me what it does mean, so…"
"I won't," he says, pulling up alongside Building 7 and shutting off the car. "But I will tell you this. For the first five or six years, when I would DJ, I'd get hella nervous before every show. Every. Single. Show. Even when I knew I was prepared, knew I was gonna kill it. Then my mom told me something that helped. She said, 'Malcolm, nervousness is just excitement without the breathing.' It doesn't always work, but ever since then, when I'm feeling nervous, I take a few deep breaths. Turns out I'm usually just hyped."
"So you're saying I should be nervous?"
"I'm saying you should be hyped."
I laugh awkwardly, excited but not entirely sure what he's getting at. Before I can ask, his laugh fills the car and I hear it like I'm wearing fancy headphones—crisp and full of bass. But it's not just his laugh. The leaves on the trees are greener than they should be as they sway in the warm wind. I brush my hand on the leather seat and it feels softer and smoother than before. I still don't know exactly what he's implying about Colton, but something about the moment feels significant.
Then, just like that, it's over.
"I gotta go finish some work things," Malcolm says, "but you can hang out in the lounge, just off Conference Room D, which is where the party is. Restrooms are there, snacks, whatever you need."
He opens the car door, but I grab his arm. "Can I ask you something?"
"No need for the preliminaries. Just ask."
"There's something that's been nagging at me. You said that Mr. Colton wanted to see how I'd do in an on-the-fly presentation, that he told you to lie about sending me an email. And you said you lied only to me."