Open Primary

by A. C. Fuller

  By six-thirty I've finished a glass of wine, and I'm worried about Steph, so I take the elevator up to her office, where something big seems to be going on. Door Knockers occupies a large, open space of about two thousand square feet, but the employees aren't on phones or at computers like normal. A few walk briskly back and forth between corner offices, and a crowd of around thirty are gathered in a corner, all craning to see a computer screen.

  I stand by the elevator, looking from face to face, but I don't see Steph.

  I haven't yet told her about the money. She knew I was in California for Project X, but she and I made a pact never to text about important things. We met at singles night at a bar filled with awesome ladies and far-less-awesome guys, and bonded over our shared belief in the power of face-to-face conversations in an increasingly digital world. Sure, we text to set up meeting times or just to say hi, but the big, life-changing stuff, we do in person.

  Which is why I'm bummed, and worried that I don't see her. I walk to the back of the crowd, not close enough to see the screen everyone is huddled around, but close enough to overhear some of the conversation.

  "It's final?" a man asks, sounding dejected.

  "Doesn't say," another replies.

  "When?" a woman asks from the center of the crowd.

  "Month, month and a half."

  "Why?"

  "Shift to digital," a voice says behind me, and it's Steph, who just walked out of one of the corner offices. "More and more political causes are shifting to digital. Facebook ads, email campaigns, even Twitter bots—though most won't admit to that. They just don't need people going house-to-house anymore."

  Ten people in the group try to speak at once, but Steph raises her large hands to quiet them. "We're not going to have any more information tonight, but I've just spoken with Mr. and Mrs. Baker, and they confirmed it. I'm sorry to say that Door Knockers is closing."

  Again, people try to speak, but not as many. A few groans and sighs come from the crowd as Steph steps up onto a chair. Shoeless and standing on the ground, she's half a foot taller than me, so now she looks like a giant.

  But it's not just her size that allows her to command the room. Steph has a deep, booming voice and a combination of charisma and authority that makes people listen when she speaks. Outside the office, she's a jeans and t-shirt kind of woman, but now she's wearing one of the six identical green pantsuits she wears to work, which I helped her pick out when she got the job.

  "People," she says, nodding at me to acknowledge my presence. "Listen! I know this is a shock, and I will meet with you one-on-one tomorrow, starting at eight. For now, go home. We. Are. Not. Going. To. Have. More. Information. For. You. Tonight."

  She surveys the crowd as a few more groans rise out of it, but the people quickly disperse and Steph hops down from the chair.

  "Bad day at the office?" I ask as she leans in to hug me.

  "It's complicated. A business blog reported that we're closing and I just found out it's true. Someone on the board leaked it before a single staffer heard."

  "Oh no, I'm so sorry. So are you just out of a job now?"

  I'm genuinely sorry, but I have to admit that the predatory part of my brain thinks that Steph needing a job is not the worst news from my perspective.

  "I'm not…it's complicated…" she replies uncomfortably. "I'll tell you, but…I was in my boss's office and…well…now I really do need that glass of wine."

  At the bar, we order wine—red for her and white for me, as always.

  "Before we get into my shitstorm," Steph says, "tell me how it went in California. You won't hear the results for a week, right?"

  She sips her wine and I wait for her to put it down. "Remember how I said that the winner gets a hundred fifty thousand dollars?" I ask.

  "Yeah."

  I smile widely, but I'm nervous to tell her about the money. Like saying it out loud will somehow wake me from the dream.

  She sees my smile and matches it. "What, girl? Spill it."

  "Peter Colton is donating five million dollars."

  Steph sips her wine again. "To what?"

  "To my site. To Ameritocracy."

  "Huh?" Her phone buzzes and she reaches into her purse to silence it.

  Clearly, she doesn't understand me. "Steph. Turn your phone off. Look at me." I wait as she powers down her phone. "Peter Colton is giving me five million dollars. I quit my job. Friday is my last day at The Barker. I'm moving to California on Saturday."

  She stares, her look of confusion shifting to a skeptical smile. "You're serious?"

  "I am."

  "You're serious?"

  "I'm serious, and I want to hire you."

  Steph catches the eye of the waiter. "Champagne. Veuve Clicquot Brut Rosé."

  Her French accent is perfect and the waiter turns on a dime. I know she speaks the language fluently, but I'm consistently amazed by how confidently she moves through any situation, whether ordering champagne, telling thirty people they just lost their jobs, or covering Beyoncé at karaoke night, which she does regularly.

  She smiles. "Start from the beginning."

  By the time I finish telling her about my trip, we're each on our second glass of champagne. "And the timing is perfect," I conclude. "If Door Knockers is closing, you can come with me."

  Steph leans away. "Oh Mia, wow. I don't know, I—"

  "You're gonna be laid off anyway, right?"

  She closes her eyes, and I can tell she's trying to figure out how to tell me something difficult. "Not exactly," she says, opening her eyes. "Mr. and Mrs. Baker already offered me something new. Door Knockers is closing, but they have another company, a political…thing. They offered me a promotion. More money, more staff. It's a big deal."

  The air leaves my chest. Though my brain knew there was a chance she wouldn't join me, I never expected her to turn me down. I've been counting on having her with me. "That's why you said it was complicated?"

  "I'm really sorry."

  "What's the 'political thing'?"

  She sighs and stares into her champagne flute. "A Democratic super-PAC."

  "What?"

  "I know, I know."

  We've spent so many hours talking about the need to get big money out of politics that this is the last thing I expected. "Haven't you said that the super-PAC is the single biggest threat to democracy since Louis the Fourteenth?"

  "Louis the Sixteenth, but I'm a girl on a budget, Mia. They're offering me two hundred grand a year. That's a much better budget. Seattle rents aren't getting any…"

  She trails off, probably because she can tell I'm halfway between disappointed and disgusted. "Please tell me you're kidding. You're not going to work for a super-PAC. You can't."

  "They work on issues I care about."

  "Issues you care about?"

  "Poverty, environment, net neutrality, campaign finance reform."

  "You're gonna fight for campaign finance reform by running a super-PAC?"

  "We've gotta fight fire with fire and—"

  "I get it. I do." I don't usually interrupt people, especially Steph, but right now I don't want to hear her justifications. "You might be able to do some good there, buying congressmen before they can be bought by another super-PAC with competing interests. You've got the brains for it, and two hundred grand is not a small deal. All I've got to offer is that if you come with me you have the chance to do something people will be talking about in a hundred years."

  It's my best argument, and I'm afraid to look up at Steph because I don't know if she's gonna buy it.

  "We can't all run off and just do whatever we want," she says. "I've got my brother to think about, my mom. My kids, when I have them someday. I need to save money and—"

  "That's such bullshit." I'm embarrassed that I'm angry, and I go quiet. Instead of calling her a sell-out, I should be congratulating her.

  We sip champagne in silence, then Steph powers on her phone, and scrolls for a while. "Just out of curiosity," s
he says, not looking up, "what could you offer me?"

  "I'm thinking forty-two grand for me and the top few people."

  She scoffs. "You're gonna move to Silicon Valley on forty-two grand a year?"

  "I have savings."

  She scoffs again, louder this time.

  "Like, eight thousand." I know how ridiculous it sounds. Silicon Valley is one of the most expensive areas of the country, and my savings will barely cover the first and last month on a decent apartment.

  "Mia, take me out of the equation for a minute—and I'm saying this as a friend—are you sure about this? I mean, why not stay here, keep your job, think this through. If this five million dollars is real, why not pace yourself, build over time?"

  I have a theory, a silly oversimplification of human nature that I use to help understand people. At the very least, it's a good way to understand Steph and me. The idea is that there are two types of people, categorizable by how they get into a cold swimming pool.

  There are people who ease in over a few minutes, slowly exposing more and more of their bodies to the water. Others run straight for the deep end and dive in head first.

  I'm a head-first diver, Steph is a slow easer. Some might think that the head-first divers are braver, but I don't see it that way. I know that if I feel how cold the water is, I'll run screaming in the other direction, but if I dive all the way in, I'm committed. No takebacks. I can block out the thought of the cold water just long enough to run and jump, and by then it's too late. Steph is more cautious, always thinking of long term effects and unintended consequences.

  Both ways have their virtues, and it's why we make a good pair.

  "Honestly," I say, "I can't stand another year of this. You're one of the smartest women in your field, and if you're selling out to run a super-PAC, to add more negative attack ads to the never-ending bombardment of bullshit on TV and online…well… I'm sorry, it's not your fault."

  I pause, hoping she'll say something, but she's stone-faced.

  "I'm sorry," I say again. "Look, the election is in sixteen months. Ameritocracy will crown a winner in under twelve. One way or another, much of the next sixteen months will be dominated by politics and political news. I know it might be stupid, and I know I might regret it, but I just can't get through another election cycle without doing my best to inject some hope into it. Some transparency. Some fairness. I just can't go through it all again without putting up a fight."

  "I get it," Steph says. "I really do. And I'm going to be your biggest fan. It's just too risky for me right now. I'm sorry." Her cheeks are tight, her lips held together firmly. It's a resolute look. Right or wrong, she's made up her mind.

  "It's okay," I say with as much optimism as I can muster.

  Without her, this will be a lot harder. But what's really killing me is that, when I jump into the deep end without Steph, I usually regret it.

  7

  A week later, I pull Bluebird into Santa Clarissa and park in front of Baker's Dozen. It's about to close for the night, so I order a Cobb salad to go, then grab my bag and stumble up the stairs into the second-floor office. I can unpack the rest of the car tomorrow.

  After fumbling around in the dark, I find a dimmer switch, but it only illuminates the corners of the office, giving the whole space a kind of haunted-castle vibe. The office looks the same as when I left it, except now there's a bed and a nightstand in the corner. On the nightstand is a small vase of red and yellow tulips with a card.

  Mia-

  My best web guy will meet you at nine tomorrow. Welcome to your new life!

  Peter

  I flop onto the bed, which seems to have been brought from the dorms at the campus because it's narrower than a standard twin bed. As I eat my salad, I contemplate Peter's note. There's something right about the phrase he chose.

  New life.

  Until now, I considered this a continuation of my old life. But sitting in the half-dark in a new city, eating a fancy salad on a crummy bed in an office that would likely cost ten grand a month on the open market, I can't argue that this isn't, in fact, a new life.

  In the last week, I quit my job, gave up my apartment, and moved a thousand miles with nothing I couldn't fit in the back seat of Bluebird.

  I dove into the pool head-first.

  I also tried and failed multiple times to hire Steph. After our talk at the wine bar, I emailed her pictures of the offices, a link to a story about Santa Clarissa, and a few articles about Peter Colton's philanthropy. I even sent her a link to the online menu of Baker's Dozen, promising her the best biscuits west of the Mississippi.

  None of it worked.

  I set the salad on the floor, brush my teeth in the large employee restroom, and curl back into bed. I barely paid attention to the site over the last week because of the ten-hour days at The Barker and evenings spent packing, canceling my utilities, and saying goodbye to friends.

  I toss and turn for nearly an hour, both because the bed is uncomfortable and because I'm teeming with excitement about tomorrow. There's so much to do that I'm tempted to get up and write a list, but I roll over onto my back and stare at the ceiling.

  I can't help myself. As I fall asleep, I'm composing a to-do list in my head.

  I wake to chirp after chirp, like a family of birds is having a discussion on the nightstand. My cellphone's text alert.

  I wonder where I am. The first light barely peeks through the large office windows, and I realize that it wasn't a dream. I'm in a kickass loft-like office in Santa Clarissa, a half-eaten Cobb salad on the floor next to me.

  Stretching my legs, I remember the narrow width of the bed and carefully flip over into child pose. I'm not much of a yogi, but it feels good to start the day with a few stretches.

  Next, I check my texts, and that's when my pleasant morning ends.

  Mom: Is something wrong with your site?

  Malcolm: Odd candidate movement on Ameritocracy. What's going on?

  Peter: Is everything okay?

  I climb out of bed, almost falling again because it's not only too narrow, it's also high off the floor. After looking for coffee for a few minutes, I give up and grab my laptop, then slide back under my covers and open the homepage. I know right away that something is wrong.

  The number one spot is no longer occupied by Destiny O'Neill. She's all the way down at number four, and my top three candidates are all cartoon characters.

  Ranked number one—the leading figure in my attempt to transform American democracy—is a green frog, apparently named Pepe. His candidate statement, which I can barely understand through the bad writing and misspellings, reads, "FEELS GOOD MAN. SUPPORT OPOSING AN END TO NEGATIVE DEPLORABLE FACISTS AND THEIR FACES. DO MORE WITH LESS AND SHEIT."

  Ranked number two is a wild-haired cartoon figure named Rick Sanchez, who I vaguely recognize from T-shirts. I think he's a mad scientist on a show I've never gotten around to watching. His candidate statement promises to "Make Anime Real" and has a number of firm policy positions about video games I'm not familiar with.

  My stomach is in knots, my head spinning with the realization that Ameritocracy has been hacked.

  It gets worse. At number three is a crude drawing of an obese woman with glasses, her name listed as "Cupid Stunt." Her candidate statement is mostly about how she wants to be raped by various ethnic and religious minorities, but I can't even finish reading it before a dry heave surfaces.

  When I'm certain I'm not actually going to throw up, my first text is to Peter.

  Me: Someone hacked the site or something. Not sure yet. Can your web guy come any sooner?

  Peter: Don't know, but I'll tell him to get over ASAP.

  Me: Thanks.

  I check the site again, going through the pages one by one to make sure everything else is as it should be. As far as I can tell, nothing else has changed since last night.

  I check my email. Around one a.m., I received three messages, one right after the other, and I begin to understand what
happened.

  When I set up the site, I arranged it so new candidates do not need to be approved before their pages go live. All they need to do is fill out the information and their profile becomes visible within a few minutes. In the following week, we verify their identity, address, proof of citizenship, and age.

  Judging by timestamps on the three emails, three candidates registered in rapid succession, changing only the name to get around the site's requirement that candidates not register a name that's already in use. But how did they get so many votes?

  As I ponder this, a piece of paper slides under the office door. Startled, I look around feeling paranoid, then walk over and find that it's a menu from the Baker's Dozen downstairs. Stapled to the menu is a note: We don't usually deliver, but we'd be happy to bring you food anytime between 6 a.m. and 10 p.m.

  I order coffee, French toast, and a fruit cup, deciding to wait for Peter's web guy before freaking out completely. I'm going to have to pace myself if I want to stay sane through the next year.

  As I wait for the food, I arrange about a hundred sticky Post-it notes on my desk. Over the last week, I promised myself I wouldn't obsess too much about the site. Every time I had an idea, I just noted it and moved on. Now it's time to get organized. I break them into ten different categories, then rank them in order of importance.

  Next, I scroll through my emails and find that another candidate registered late last night. A real candidate. Her name is Wendy Kahananui, a name that sounds familiar. Her Candidate Statement reads: "Government must serve all equally. Self-empowerment, compassion, unity of all beings."

  In her profile picture, she appears to be around fifty, deeply tanned, and standing on a beach wearing flowing white robes. I click through to her Platform Page, where I learn that she's a spiritual teacher and yoga master from Hawaii.