by A. C. Fuller
"Goodbye," she says into the phone as I make it to the door.
"Who was that?" I ask.
"Who was that? Where were you?"
"Peter's room."
"You didn't."
"I did."
Steph follows me into the living room and hands me a cup of coffee as I sit on the couch. "You look like you need this more than I do."
I take a swig. "I do. Thank you."
"We have a situation, but I've been handling it. First, you gotta tell all. How was it?"
"C'mon," I say, "tell me what happened with Destiny O'Neill."
"It's not every day you get some with a billionaire who looks like the model in a Rolex ad. Give me the ten-second version or I'm not telling you what happened."
"You know I can just check my email, right?"
She raises an imploring eyebrow.
"Fine. It was amazing. We watched the SNL sketch together. Turns out he was at the bar while we ate with Benjamin. I felt, I don't know how to put it, strong and vulnerable at the same time."
"The sex, Mia. How was the sex?"
"Remember my last boyfriend, Aaron?"
"That was like a year ago, but yeah."
"With him it often felt like he wasn't really there with me, like I could have been any woman."
"Like he was using you for sex? Oh, heavens! When has a man ever done that?"
"Not exactly that, but like he just had no idea who I was, what I needed."
"And?"
"Let's just say that Peter does not share Aaron's limitations."
"Ooooh, damn! I knew it."
"You promised to tell me what happened with Destiny."
"Fine, fine. Here." Steph hands me her phone, which is open to an email from a company called American Made Television Productions. "Read it."
It's a press release, dated today, issued on AMTVP letterhead.
For immediate release
Hollywood, CA
One of America's most popular and engaging personalities will be digging into the issues facing real Americans in the new AMTVP production, American Destiny, a ten-episode reality series slated to begin filming on February 1st, 2020.
Meet Destiny O'Neill: an idealistic, sensual Internet sensation who wants to open up the country to new possibilities. A staunch Second Amendment supporter, Ms. O'Neill is as serious as she is sexy, and her new show will send her across the country to talk to real Americans and engage in a series of wild awareness-raising stunts that will change the way people talk about the issues that matter.
AMTVP CEO Michelle Brierson is excited about the partnership. "Destiny O'Neill has been known to Americans for years for her inimitable voice on important social and political issues through her Instagram account, and her YouTube channel. Lately, she's become widely recognized as one of the top candidates on the reality political competition, Ameritocracy. American Destiny will mark her first foray into television, and AMTVP couldn't be happier with the partnership."
Filming of the first season is expected to last two months, and discussions are already underway for distribution with a range of cable stations.
The rest of the press release is a long bio of Destiny O'Neill and a shorter history of AMTVP and their many accomplishments, including their top-rated show, Death Pickers, a reality show about a team of Americans who traveled to Indonesia in search of the rarest flower on earth, the Corpse Flower. The team didn't find the flower, but one cast member nearly died from a violent strain of the flu and two others hooked up in the mud during a monsoon, so the show was a hit.
I hand the phone back to Steph. "She parlayed Ameritocracy into her own show?"
"Yup. She deleted her account on the site around five a.m., while you were on your booty call."
"So were you," I say, half-panicked that we're a candidate short, but half thrilled to see Destiny O'Neill out of the competition. "Wait, she didn't even let us know?"
"Maybe she emailed you, but she didn't email me or call the office."
"So after we quadrupled her fame, she let us know she was dropping out by having her production company email a press release. Classy."
"You're surprised?"
"I'm pissed." I walk a lap around the couch, fuming. "You know they're announcing it now to capitalize on the PR of the rally. She's trying to steal our thunder."
"Exactly. She's doing a live event at a shooting range at one o'clock today."
"The exact time the rally starts."
"Gotta hand it to her. She's smart. As much as I hate what she stands for, I'm not even mad at her. She's getting hers."
"I'm mad enough for both of us," I say. "We're gonna look like fools with nine candidates up there. Not only did she plan this to steal our media coverage, she did it late on purpose so we couldn't replace her."
"Already taken care of that."
"What's the plan? Maria Ortiz Morales was our backup for Morton. We don't have another backup in town."
"Not yet, but we have one on a plane right now."
"Who?"
A wry smile crosses Steph's face. "Your favorite."
"Axum?"
Steph nods. "Reached him in D.C. this morning. He said I just barely caught him on his way out the door. He's on a plane right now. Robert Mast is already in town for a speech at UCLA, but he said he could make it here with two hours' notice."
I look at the clock on my phone. It's eight a.m., five hours before the rally starts. "Will Axum be here on time?"
"Kinda depends on L.A. traffic, but I think so."
I walk a couple quick laps around the couch, glancing out the window at the hazy Los Angeles skyline. My mind goes in ten directions at once, and I eliminate them one by one, trying to focus in on what needs to be done for the rally.
Then something occurs to me. "Wait, you called Mast, too?"
"Technically he's twelfth, but I wanted a backup in case Axum gets delayed or something. Plus, c'mon, he'll be in the top ten soon. We both know that."
"Well, maybe," I say, "but right now he's twelfth, and I don't want him to think he can cut in line just because he bought some TV ads. I still can't believe he did that, but I guess it doesn't matter. We're getting Axum. Should I ask what the fallout from the Morton announcement was overnight? Have you read much of the coverage?"
"I read all the coverage I could get my hands on last night, and all the big papers ran pieces this morning."
"Give me the summary."
Steph taps her phone, then stands and hands it to me. "This WaPo piece kind of sums up the sentiment that's out there."
I glance down at the article, which is actually a Washington Post editorial. I look up at Steph, who's smiling. "Our first major Op-Ed?"
"Yup, and it's not half bad."
Ameritocracy Clears a Hurdle, But Does it Matter?
By Rachel Abramowitz
While conventional wisdom has dismissed it as an irrelevant fly around the tail of American politics, Ameritocracy may have just become a bee.
The online political competition that started over three years ago, but only began gaining traction after a $5 million donation from billionaire Peter Colton four months ago, announced yesterday that its voting system had been hacked. Candidate Thomas Morton—former ambassador to the Ukraine and, for months, their leading candidate—was eliminated in a sudden announcement backed up by reams of data compiled by Ameritocracy's impressive team of techies.
Many in the press are writing of Ameritocracy's vulnerability today, some even pointing to hacking as the potentially fatal flaw for the site. And we agree, to an extent.
Even though America's national voting systems remain inconsistent and vulnerable, the fact that American elections are run locally actually makes them more difficult to hack. So Ameritocracy must do more—much more—to protect itself from future digital disruption.
The way it handled this attack was impressive. Overcoming a sophisticated hack is no easy task, and they proved up to it.
More than that, the f
ounder of Ameritocracy, Mia Rhodes, displayed the ideals she founded Ameritocracy on as she took questions for over an hour, exhausting the reporters in the room. She herself is modeling the ideals of transparency that Ameritocracy set out to bring to American politics, and for that she should be commended.
Only time will tell whether a viable candidate will emerge from what until recently was a hodge-podge of misfits and fringe thinkers. But, for today at least, Ameritocracy appears to have cleared its first major hurdle.
I finish reading and hand the phone back to Steph, who's grinning from ear to ear.
"Not bad, huh?" she says.
"Not bad," I agree.
23
The conference room is packed, and I wonder whether Avery Axum got lost at LAX. I turn to Dale, one of the three interns who took the flight down with Steph this morning. "You're sure his flight got in on time?"
"Sure." Dale's squeaky voice makes me feel old. He holds up his phone as if to indicate that he checked it.
"And we're sure he doesn't have a cell phone?"
"Yup, he's one of the seven people left in the country without one."
I'm starting to freak out a little. "Keep checking," I say, unsure of what I want him to check.
I walk to the side of the room and ascend the five steps to the stage, where my nine other candidates sit. Modeling our stage after the Democratic and Republican primary debates raging around the country, we decided to seat our two top candidates in the center, the rankings of the candidates dropping further from the center. Three podiums have been set up before the candidates, so no one has to walk far to reach to a microphone when it's their turn to speak.
With Thomas Morton eliminated, Marlon Dixon is now number one, and he sits center-left, next to Tanner Futch, our number two candidate, who sits center-right.
To Dixon's left sit our candidates ranked third, fifth, seventh, and ninth: Cecilia Mason, Orin Gottlieb, Wendy Kahananui, and Maria Ortiz Morales. To Futch's right sit our candidates ranked fourth, sixth, and eighth: Justine Hall, Charles Blass, and Beverly Johnson. To Beverly Johnson's right, there's an empty chair intended for Avery Axum.
The room is just as I imagined it, and I smile at the row of possible donors in front of the stage. Behind them, bored-looking journalists chat amongst themselves or tap at their phones. Behind the journalists, one thousand voters and fans of the site fill the conference room.
I walk from candidate to candidate, asking if they need anything and telling them that we'll start in a few minutes. Most just smile and nod, either nervous or busy with notes for their opening statements.
Wendy Kahananui sits with her eyes closed, apparently deep in meditation, but she turns quickly as I step behind her, as though she sensed me. "Mia, there's something that didn't get said upstairs, that just came up in my meditation."
"A question?"
"Gratitude. I want to say 'thank you.' Regardless of who wins, you've done an amazing thing for us, and for the world. I usually can't see the future, but, regardless of whether one of us wins in 2020, I expect great things from you. You've already reminded the world there are ways to be involved in politics that aren't cynical and spiritually debilitating."
"Thank you." I glance at the clock. It's one on the dot. We can hold off for another couple minutes.
When I reach Marlon Dixon's seat, he looks up with his usual big-hearted smile. "No need to comfort me, Ms. Rhodes. I was born for this."
I smile back because I love his confidence, and I know he's right. Of the nine people on stage, Dixon is the one I expect to get the biggest bump from an event like this. Possibly Gottlieb or Futch as well, because they're both compelling speakers, though as far from Dixon politically as one can get.
Behind the TV crews, a few of the producers stare at their watches, anxious to get going. I'm anxious, too. A late start isn't a good way to get cable news to break into their programming to cover the rally.
A slow stream of late arrivals have been coming into the hall for the last few minutes, and I take one final glance at the door, thinking I better just get started. Then I feel a tap on my shoulder.
Behind me, Dale stands with Avery Axum. "He waited for a taxi," Dale says, shaking his head in utter bafflement. "No phone to order an Uber."
Axum wears tan slacks, a blue shirt, and a brown blazer. His hair is mussed and he looks confused, like he's not certain where he is.
"Welcome," I say.
"Thanks, and please accept my most sincere apologies for my tardiness. It's all just a little…"
I follow his eyes as he scans the crowd.
"Overwhelming?" I ask.
"I did not expect to end up here. My students practically forced me to join the competition, and two of them had to help me enter my information on the website. I—"
"I'd love to hear the story," I say, guiding him to his chair, "but we really need to get going."
Before I leave, Axum clasps my hands in his. "By the way, thank you for the invitation."
I smile at him, then make my way to the center podium and step onto a riser that was set up just for me. "Ladies and gentlemen, we're going to get started…Ladies and gentlemen…As you see, our tenth candidate just arrived and we're going to get started."
The chatter slowly quiets as I survey the hall.
A few rows from the front, dressed down and trying to look inconspicuous, is Peter. Next to him, dressed up and trying not to spring out of her seat and wave to me, is my mother. She's in her best dress, a poofy purple-and-black thing she got for a wedding a few years ago, and her graying hair is up and recently styled. She stands out a bit from the casually-dressed crowd around her, but I know that today is a very big deal for her.
In front of my mother is David Benson, who's wearing dark sunglasses, a Cubs hat pulled low, and a brown jacket with the collar pulled up around his cheeks. He must have flown in from New York as soon as SNL ended last night, and he's trying not to be recognized. I feel a shiver of some unnameable emotion go through me—the hottest movie star in the world is hiding his face because he'd rather people pay attention to my project than to him.
I lock eyes with Steph, who stands in the back of the room, then look at my notes. "Thank you all for coming. Ameritocracy began as an idea during the 2016 presidential election campaign. Like many of you, I was dismayed at the partisanship, the cynicism, the hypocrisy, and the negativity. Like many of you, I was dismayed at the failure of the media to cover issues, to provide a platform for substantive debate. But mostly, I watched the debates and asked myself, is this the best we can do?"
I make a sweeping gesture across the stage to my left, then my right. "I think you'll agree as you get to know our top candidates, the answer is a resounding 'No.' We can do much better."
It wasn't intended as an applause line, but claps rise from the back of the room and slowly catch on. Soon, the entire room, minus the journalists, is applauding. Some politely, some enthusiastically. Even though I realize the applause is for the candidates, the genuine gratitude of the audience moves me.
"I know you all want to get to know the candidates better, but first I want to encourage you to visit Ameritocracy2020.org. There you will find hundreds of other candidates, and it's not too late to register and vote. If you're inspired by the dedication and intelligence you see on stage this afternoon, if you're inspired by the idea that there must be a third option in the 2020 election, please consider donating."
I let the word "donating" hang in the air, then say, "And with that, let me introduce our moderator. Gwen Winters has been a political journalist in Washington D.C. for over twenty years, and currently hosts D.C. Today, which airs Sunday mornings at ten. She's also the author of Campaign Season, a rollicking memoir of her year covering the 2012 election."
I cast a look behind me, where Gwen has been waiting patiently. She's a stately woman with long blonde hair and a look that says, "I know more about this stuff than anyone in the room."
And she does. It's why Steph
and I worked so hard to get her.
To the audience, I say, "Please welcome Gwen Winters."
The audience applauds as Gwen takes my place and subtly slides the riser out of her way. At almost six feet tall, she doesn't need it. I ease away, standing against the wall to the front left of the stage, near enough that I can head back up if a need arises, but also in a good position to see the whole room.
"Thank you, Ms. Rhodes, and welcome to everyone here this afternoon and watching around the world. Welcome to the first-ever Ameritocracy rally. Today, you'll have an opportunity to meet the candidates and to hear them respond to your questions. Though I'll be the one asking them, I have drawn from questions taken from the Ameritocracy Forum, from email submissions, and from the questions the audience submitted over the last hour. But I know you're not here to listen to me, so without further ado, let's meet the candidates. Each candidate will have three minutes to introduce himself or herself, and I ask that you hold your applause for the full thirty minutes it will take to hear from all ten of them."
Pointing toward the back of the conference room, she continues, "As a reminder to the candidates, the large clock on the wall will count down your time, flashing at thirty seconds with a warning to wrap it up. And, please keep in mind, there will be no interruptions when other candidates are speaking. For anyone who's watched recent primary debates, this should be a welcome change."
Soft laughter fills the hall as people recall the wild west shitshows that most mainstream political debates have become.
"The order for opening statements was determined by random drawing. Ms. Johnson, you're up first. You have three minutes."
Beverly Johnson, who's about my height, has to adjust a riser in front of her podium, and even then must tilt the microphone down. I feel her pain. "Thanks, Ms. Winters. And thank you all for being here today. I'm a little surprised to be here myself. I know a few folks have cracked jokes about me, saying that I'm running as a full-time mom, but tonight my husband's putting the kids to bed because I'm making a speech in Los Angeles. Oh, and since I know you're watching, hi, Leo, and hi, kids. Listen to your dad and be good for him."