Open Primary

by A. C. Fuller

  In addition to her number one ranking, the top-20 list shows her age, 35, and includes a picture and a candidate statement. In her photo, Destiny is dressed in a low-cut tank top and a bright orange trucker hat. Plus, she's holding a rifle. Her candidate statement reads, "Taxation is theft. Death to the EPA and FDA. Guns and beer. Anti-feminist MILF."

  Peter has already clicked through to her Platform Page, and is scanning her answers to the standard candidate questions.

  "In the 'Candidate Summary' section," Peter says, "she wrote—and I'm quoting here—'Individual freedom. Individual liberty. If people want to call me the MILF candidate, I don't have the right to tell them not to. That's their right. And get government out of our bedrooms. I should have the right to do whatever I want to do in bed, with whoever I want. And if I want to smoke a bowl beforehand, I should have that right.'"

  He takes a long sip of Red Bull. "Is she serious?"

  "She's the kind of person whose beliefs change based on the number of likes a particular post or video is getting. Does she believe the character she's playing? Like most politicians, maybe, maybe not. But, whether she believes it or not, it's what she's choosing to put out into the world."

  "And she's ranked number one?"

  "Well, for now. It fluctuates. She's probably just in it for the PR, though she actually brings us more attention than we bring her. She already had a huge following on YouTube, Reddit, and Tumblr who are now voting for her on Ameritocracy. Mostly perverts and MRAs, I'm guessing."

  "MRAs?"

  "Men's Rights Activists. Anti-feminist guys who…it's not important. Anyway, like I said in the presentation, most of the candidates now are from the fringes. The Charles Blass and Destiny O'Neill types. The key will be attracting more candidates from the left, right, and center. I'm hoping that'll happen as the site grows."

  Peter navigates back to the top-20 list. "I see what you mean. Mostly oddballs, it looks like, which leads me to my big question. In your presentation, you said that the top-20 list is generated by a proprietary algorithm. How does it work?"

  The food arrives, and I have an excuse to go quiet while I try to remember all I can about the algorithm, which I paid one of our web guys at The Barker to create. He's a former Google employee, and told me that what he was setting up was similar to the way Google decides which sites to display first in their search engine. Except ours is a million times simpler.

  I bite into the best biscuit I can remember tasting, then slather it with jam and devour it. I finish my orange juice and, before I can set the glass on the table, the waiter is back, refilling it. "Free refills on fresh squeezed OJ?" I say. "This is one classy town."

  Peter laughs. "I know the owner."

  I take a quick bite of scrambled eggs, then do my best to explain our ranking process. "As I said in the presentation, for the early rounds we use ranked-candidate voting. Registered users pick their top ten candidates and a point value is applied to the candidates based on their choices."

  "And how do you assign points? Ten for first, nine for second, like that?"

  "No, we want to more closely mimic the one-person-one-vote system, while still retaining elements of ranked-candidate voting, so we use the Fibonacci series. One, two, three, five, eight, thirteen, twenty-one, and so on. So, if a user chooses ten candidates, their first place choice gets fifty-five points, their second place choice gets thirty-four, and so on down to one point for their tenth choice."

  "And what if they only choose, say, their top five candidates?"

  "We still use the Fibonacci, but it's a smaller series. One, two, three, five, eight."

  "Got it," Peter says between bites of eggs Benedict. "And users can change their votes?"

  "The rankings constantly change because users can change their votes every twenty-four hours." I finish my scrambled eggs before continuing. "But the algorithm also includes other metrics to generate the rankings. We track social media mentions as well as social media shares, memes, and so on. So, if someone shares a candidate's Ameritocracy Platform Page to Facebook, for example, that's a tenth of a point. Twitter mentions are a fiftieth of a point. We have bots cruising every website to get a sense of popularity."

  "Why do you do that?"

  "During the last election, I read something about how memes are allowing a kind of ground-up political conversation, which is both a blessing and a curse. Either way, it's a reality. Up until a few years ago, the mainstream media provided a filter, shielding people from the oddest or most hateful ideas, from the far left and the far right. But now, everything from mundane political quotes to hate-filled propaganda can spread from the dark swamps of the Internet in real time. By typing some text on an image and sharing it with friends, anyone can spread a message that affects the political conversation. We wanted to make social media part of the initial rounds of voting to reflect this new reality. And, of course, the more shares, the more people hear about us and the faster we grow. As we grow, we hope that key speeches or position papers will go viral."

  "Smart idea. But in the final round it will be one person, one vote, right?"

  "Right. To register for the site, you must be of voting age by November 3, 2020, and you must prove your U.S. Citizenship. Essentially, you have to register to vote, but with our site."

  "Brilliant. The whole thing, I mean."

  Then I say something I don't expect. "I'm actually proud of it."

  "You should be."

  "I mean, it's not perfect, but it gives me a feeling of hope. Like we can hear from actual Americans, in real time, in the most democratic way possible."

  "Joining is free, right?"

  "One hundred percent free. The site has no ads, as you can see. Of course, it favors those with Internet access, but that covers almost everyone these days when you count smartphones. We've even considered ways to let people vote who don't have them."

  Peter pops a grape in his mouth. "You keep saying 'we,' but I thought you were the only staff member."

  "Steph," I say. "My best friend Steph is back in Seattle and I always thought she'd be the first person I'd hire, if I ever had the money to hire someone. She and I talked through a lot of this together and, though she's technically not part of this, she's a big part of it."

  "That raises the question," Peter says. "How will it be when you move down here?"

  That catches me off guard, and I take a moment to reflect while sipping my juice. Peter mentioned that offices would be included with the money, but I assumed he meant offices in a general way. Like, he'd pay for office space back in Seattle. Now I see that he meant office space he already owns.

  I'm still considering this when he says, "I'm sorry. I can tell I've surprised you. You were thinking you'd stay in Seattle?"

  Relieved, I say, "Yeah, kinda. Um, I hadn't really thought it through, actually. I just assumed…"

  After an awkward silence, he says, "It's up to you, of course, but I thought when I said office space—"

  "You thought I knew you meant down here."

  "Exactly."

  Peter goes back to his breakfast as I think it through, again struck by a feeling that everything is moving too fast. Of course, I'd had the thought that I could quit my job. Who doesn't have that thought when someone offers them five million dollars? But I hadn't decided it. And I certainly hadn't considered moving. What about the lease on my apartment, and what about Steph?

  The anxiety builds up in me, and I push a pile of homefries around my plate with my fork.

  Peter notices my unease. "Would it help if I showed you what I have in mind?"

  "I'm assuming it's back on the campus."

  "Oh, no. You need to be separate, totally independent. When I said I'd throw in office space, my thought was that it would save money and you could be in the tech hub of the world. No offense to Seattle, of course."

  I'm relieved because the campus would be too close for comfort, but I'm also confused. "Then where do you mean?"

  "Here. Upstairs. When I
said, 'I know the owner,' I meant I own this building."

  We finish our breakfast, then walk up a set of stairs next to the front door of the restaurant. The building is only three floors, and I get the sense right away that Peter intends to loan me floors two and three.

  The second floor space is beautiful: A wide open, loft-like common area with lots of windows, sleek silver and white office furniture, and a few glassed-in private office spaces. In the center of the room, a black spiral staircase leads up to the third floor, which is nearly identical.

  "You'd need to get computers and some other equipment, but the basics are already here," Peter says. "The office is the former home of a virtual reality company I bought a few years back."

  The sun streams through the tall windows, reflecting off the glimmering wood floors. I'm awed, but I try not to show it.

  "Anyway," Peter continues, "it's up to you. This is your baby. I was just thinking that I could give you this space through the end of your competition. You'd be surrounded by elite tech help, and tech is going to be a major part of your next phase of development."

  He's right about that and, honestly, it's one of my biggest concerns. I'm a bit of a generalist. I know a good amount about a lot of different things, but I'm not an expert in anything, and certainly not in the technology required to build out the Ameritocracy website. I'll need some heavy hitters from the web design and tech worlds to make sure the site can support what I hope will be a huge influx of users. Of course, I could find those people in Seattle, but Peter's help would be a load off my mind.

  I wander through the space, inspecting the bathrooms and kitchenette like a picky real estate agent. I stare out a window to the street below, to the table where Peter and I ate breakfast. If I worked here, I'd probably eat a lot more of those incredible biscuits.

  Everything is perfect, and that might be why I'm uneasy.

  Then I remember what Malcolm told me yesterday, that anxiety is excitement without the breathing. Peter watches me with a kind smile, not at all bothered by our little misunderstanding about where I'd locate the offices.

  I take three deep breaths and I'm immediately convinced that Malcolm's mother was right. My anxiety dissipates and I'm filled again with the feeling of possibility from last night. But not just possibility. I'm filled with gratitude, excitement, and a burning desire to get to work.

  I meet his smile with one of my own. "How soon can I move in?"

  6

  It's nine a.m. Monday morning, and Alex Vane is staring at me like I'm the girlfriend who just admitted to cheating on him. We're sitting in his office at The Barker, and I've done the first thing on my list of five things to do before leaving Seattle: quit my job.

  "When?" he asks.

  "I'll give my two weeks, but the final debate is less than a year away and, honestly, every day counts. If we can find a way to get me out of here sooner, I would really appreciate it."

  Alex does a lap around his desk, thinking hard.

  He's around forty-five, tall, and good-looking in a superficial kind of way. Not the kind of way I've ever been attracted to.

  Bird, Alex's number two, sits to the side of Alex's desk, trying hard not to look me in the eye.

  Since the moment I decided to move to Santa Clarissa—high on fresh-squeezed orange juice and drunk on the light from the floor-to-ceiling windows—I've dreaded this conversation. Alex and Bird know as well as I do that I'm a crucial part of The Barker.

  Technically, I'm not number three on the org chart. There really isn't a number three. Just Alex, the CEO and major decision-maker, and Bird, the senior editor and social media master.

  But I keep a hundred things off their plates every day, and they know it. I make it so they never hear about the broken printer, or our web host trying to raise prices, or the daily drama between employees. Even though I complain about the job from time to time, they've treated me well and offered consistent raises to acknowledge my value. I feel bad about leaving them, but not bad enough to stay.

  Alex finishes a second lap around his desk. "And this isn't about money, right?"

  "I told you, Alex, it's about my site."

  "I didn't even know you were down in California." He turns to Bird. "Did you know about this?"

  Bird doesn't respond.

  I say, "I didn't tell anyone I'd even applied to Project X. I didn't think I'd win, and I never expected to get…"

  I look back and forth between them, and I can tell they're in panic mode. They remind me of stereotypical sitcom dads, left alone with the kids for a day while mom is away. With no idea what to do, they feed the kids soda for breakfast, burn dinner before ordering a pizza, and destroy the house by the time their wives return. That's a crummy show, and it's even worse in person.

  I'm the wife who holds The Barker together, but I'm not leaving for twenty-four hours. I'm leaving for good. This is what they're worried about. They don't know how the office runs, and they don't want to know.

  I have a plan. "Gregory is ready to take over."

  "Gregory?" Alex's voice is weak. "I barely know Gregory."

  "He's been assistant office manager for a year. He already does half my job."

  "He's good," Bird says. "Smart."

  "But does it have to be Gregory? That takes so long to say. Why not just 'Greg'?

  Bird and I let out simultaneous sighs, then Alex sits, and I relax. I'm not worried that he'll be mad. He's not the type to explode in anger or anything. I just don't like disappointing anyone. At the same time, I can't let that stand in the way of saying what I need to say.

  With all the confidence I can muster, I say, "I'd like Friday to be my last day."

  Bird responds before Alex has a chance. "This Friday?"

  "That's what I want, but I don't want to leave you high and dry. I'd be willing to chat with Gregory over the following week, talk him through any crises that might arise."

  Alex glances at Bird, who nods. "Okay," they say at the same time.

  After a long, awkward pause, Bird says, "Do whatever you need to train Gregory by then. Bring in temps, whatever. Sell him on the job, and we'll meet with him right after, to formally make an offer."

  Bird says it like it's the final decision, and Alex seems to agree because he stands and speaks in a wistful tone. "Three things I want you to know, Mia. First, you've been a huge part of the growth of The Barker, and we are going to miss the hell out of you. Second, once you get up and running down there, let us know. We'll write a couple stories, throw some traffic your way. Third, you have a job here whenever you want. If the website doesn't work out or whatever."

  That last one stings. It triggers that little nest of doubt that's been living in my belly since Peter offered me the money. I can't tell if it's Alex's passive-aggressive way of suggesting that my site won't work out, but it's too late to let doubt stop me.

  After a moment, Bird stands as well. "Alex, don't say that. It's going to work out, Mia. You're heading over the rainbow, and we're happy for you."

  "Thanks, Bird. Even if things go well, one way or another the site will probably end after July. Once we have a winner, the site is over."

  "But you might do it again," Alex says. "2024 or whatever."

  "Maybe, but I wouldn't be shocked if I'm back here in early July asking for my job back."

  "Either way," Alex says. "We're proud of you. I'm not super political or anything, but what you're trying to do is great, from what I know of it."

  He steps around the desk and we hug, then Bird steps over and hugs me tight. Bird is closer to my size and age, and he's the one I'll miss most of all.

  After work, I head over to Angelina's, a small wine bar on the ground floor of the office building my best friend Steph works in. I prefer cheaper, out-of-the-way places, but this is her favorite joint and I'm going to miss the chic glass tables, modern furniture, and bright lighting.

  Steph and I meet here at least once a week for an after-work drink, but today she's nowhere to be found,
despite the fact that she said she'd be right down when I texted.

  I sit at the bar and take out a Moleskine notebook. Even though I have twenty apps on my phone that would be better for keeping lists, I still prefer real paper and a classic Bic ballpoint. My mother has given me a ten-pack every Christmas since I was eight years old.

  1. Quit job

  I cross that one out right away, which gives me a tingle of satisfaction.

  2. Hire Steph

  That's why I'm here. Steph is the human resources manager for Door Knockers, a company that manages volunteers for various political causes, and I'm planning to convince her to join me in California.

  3. Negotiate end of lease

  I'm not too worried about this one. I only have four months left anyway, and if I can't talk my way out of it, I'll just eat the cost. It still blows me away that 'eat the cost' is something I can do now, but I've done the math and I can.

  4. Pack

  My plan is to pack two large suitcases and a box or two of necessities, then put the rest of my stuff in storage. When you're a single woman living in a 600-square foot apartment, that's not much stuff. When I rent an apartment in Santa Clarissa, I can have it shipped.

  5. Charge Bluebird

  Other than my designer leather T-straps, Bluebird is the only cool, extravagant thing I own. It's a baby-blue 1964 Mustang with a cream-colored, convertible top. But it's not just any Mustang. Bluebird is an electric hybrid and, as far as I know, the only electric 1964 Mustang on earth.

  On my thirtieth birthday, I got some unexpected money from my dad—about whom we do not speak—bought the car for twelve grand, then had it converted by a local electric car guru. That cost another thirty thousand, and now I can charge it at any Tesla-compatible charging station in the country. I know I could have just bought a Prius, but in a life dominated by safe choices, rational thinking, and the maintenance of efficient office systems, sometimes whimsy is required.