by Dan Gutman
“C’mon, Mrs. Syers. It’ll be fun!”
“Fun? Don’t you know that bein’ president is just about the worst job in the world? Everybody hates you no matter what you do. You can’t go anywhere. They watch your every move. You say one wrong word or do one wrong thing and everybody jumps all over you. Then in four years they kick you out on your behind. Maybe eight. What do you need that for?”
“I don’t expect to win or anything,” I explained. “I just think it will be a hoot to run for president. And I can’t think of anyone I’d rather do it with than you, Mrs. Syers.”
“Ain’t never been a lady vice president.”
“There’s never been a twelve-year-old president, either,” I pointed out. “Everything that’s ever been done had to be done by somebody first, didn’t it?”
“Why do you want me, anyhow? Why don’t you pick some pretty boy politician?”
“Because you’re the only grown-up I know who isn’t stupid,” I admitted.
“Well, you’re right about that. But I’m too old. Maybe thirty years ago …”
“You are not too old. You’re strong as an ox. And thirty years ago a female candidate would have been a joke. But now there are lots of them.”
“You don’t take no for an answer, do you, Judson Moon?”
“No.”
“Oh, all right. Vice presidents don’t do nothin’ more than sit on a porch anyway. And somebody’s gotta keep an eye on you, Judson Moon. I been doin’ it all your life. Lord knows your momma ain’t never home.”
“So you’ll do it?”
“I’ll do it. I’ll do it.”
“Mrs. Syers, I could kiss you!”
“Save it for election night, Romeo.”
And so I had my First Lady and my running mate.
“It’s time to talk turkey,” Lane said as we settled into the couch in my basement for our next strategy session. He was thrilled that Chelsea agreed to be my First Lady and June Syers said she’d be my running mate. But he had other things on his mind.
“We’re going to need money,” Lane said. “A lot of money.”
“I’ve got about two hundred dollars in my savings account,” I offered. I was saving that money up to buy a video game system, and hoped Lane would tell me we wouldn’t need it.
“You’re kidding, right?” he said. “You think you can run for president on two hundred bucks?”
“Maybe I can borrow a little more from my folks.”
“Two hundred dollars won’t even buy you a good suit, Moon!”
“Wait a minute,” I interrupted. “You didn’t tell me I would have to wear a suit.”
“Of course you’ve got to wear a suit. Presidential candidates always wear suits.”
“I hate suits,” I complained. “I had to wear a suit for my uncle’s wedding. It was awful.”
“Then you’ve already got a suit.”
“So I don’t have to buy one. That’s two hundred dollars we saved right there.”
“Moon, we’re gonna need twenty million.”
“Twenty million … dollars?” I gulped.
“That’s just to get started. We’ll need more as we get closer to Election Day.”
“What costs so much that we need that kind of money?”
Lane ticked off all the things that cost money in an election campaign — commercial time on TV and radio, airfare, office space, staff, telephone bills, printing. Plus bumper stickers, T-shirts, balloons, banners. I guess that’s why you don’t see poor people running for president.
“Hey, I’ve got an idea,” I said enthusiastically. “Why don’t we get a sponsor for the campaign?”
“What do you mean, a sponsor?”
“You know, like McDonald’s or Nike or some other big company. They give us twenty million dollars and I could tell people to eat at McDonald’s.”
“Are you out of your mind, Moon? What are you going to say at your inauguration — I do solemnly swear that I will faithfully execute the Office of President of the United States, and everybody should eat more Egg McMuffins?”
“Athletes endorse stuff,” I said sheepishly.
“Well, politicians don’t. At least not legally.”
“Wasn’t Herbert Hoover sponsored by that vacuum cleaner company?”
“Hoover was his name, brainless!”
“Lighten up, Lane. I was kidding about Hoover. So we need a lot of people giving a little money each, right?”
“Now you’re getting it. And it’s got to add up to about twenty million.”
“Oh, well, I didn’t want to be president so badly anyway.”
“You give up too easily, Moon. I know how we can raise twenty million dollars with two phone calls.”
Lane opened up his laptop and Googled “The Cap Times,” which is the name of our local newspaper. He found the phone number, picked up the phone, and started to dial. I noticed he had a copy of the paper next to him on the couch. I didn’t know what he was up to.
As the phone was ringing, he motioned for me to go into another room and pick up an extension.
“Capital Times,” a lady answered after almost ten rings.
“Give me the news desk, please,” Lane said.
“I’ll connect you.”
“News,” a gruff male voice said after the transfer was made.
“May I speak with Pete Guerra, please?” Lane asked.
“Where’s Guerra?” the guy shouted. “Guerra, phone!” He put the receiver down and I could hear the buzz of a newsroom in the background.
Finally, another guy came to the phone. “Guerra here. Whatsup?”
“Mr. Guerra,” Lane said in his most grown-up voice, “I saw your article about the baby seals in the paper today and wanted to tell you that you did a terrific job.”
“What are you, ten years old?” Pete Guerra didn’t sound impressed by the compliment.
“I’m twelve,” Lane said.
“Kid, I’m on a deadline. Whaddya want?”
“I think I have a story for you, Mr. Guerra.”
“What are ya sellin’?”
“I’m not selling anything.”
“Kid, everybody’s selling something. You might as well learn that while you’re young.”
“Mr. Guerra, what would you say if I told you there was a boy my age who is running for the office of president of the United States?”
“I’d say it sounds like a fake. Sonny, if you like pranks, why don’t you call Pizza Hut and tell them to deliver a pie to the house across the street from you? ’Cause I got a lot of work to do.”
“You’d have less work if you followed this story and won a Pulitzer Prize in journalism.”
“Okay, kid,” Guerra said wearily. “Don’t tell me, let me guess. You’re runnin’ for president because you think it’ll get you an A in social studies, right?”
“I’m not running. The candidate is a remarkable young gentleman named Judson Moon. He’s in sixth grade at the Georgia O’Keeffe Middle School right here in Madison, and he’s quite serious about his candidacy. He already has two thousand signatures on a petition, which qualifies him to be on the ballot in Wisconsin next November.”
“One problem, kid,” Guerra said. “Ever read the Constitution? Kids aren’t allowed to be president.”
“Oh yeah?” said Lane. “Well, women and African-Americans used to not be allowed to vote.”
“Who are you, the kid’s campaign manager?”
“As a matter of fact, I am. My name is Lane Brainard, spelled just the way it sounds. I think Moon’s bid for the presidency is a great human interest story, Mr. Guerra. It’s at least as interesting as a bunch of baby seals.”
“Hey, don’t knock the seals,” Guerra warned. “They lost their mother.”
“And when Judson Moon wins the election in November, you’re going to feel pretty dumb for not breaking the story when you had the chance. Because, Mr. Guerra, as you and I both know, everybody’s selling something. What you’re selling
is your reputation as a journalist. And the story of a kid running for president of the United States will be the biggest story of your career.”
Man, Lane was smooth. Guerra didn’t say anything for a moment or two.
“Put Moon on the phone,” he finally barked.
“Mr. Moon is unavailable to speak right now. But he will give you an exclusive interview if you come to 301 Spaight Street tomorrow morning at ten. Unless, of course, you’ve got to cover another animal story …”
“I’ll be there,” Guerra said.
“Good. You might want to bring a camera with you. It will be a nice photo opportunity.”
“Hey, kid?”
“Yes?”
“I like your chutzpah.”
“Thank you.”
I ran into the den as soon as they hung up the phone. “Man, you were awesome!” I told Lane. “What’s chutzpah?”
“How should I know? The important thing is, he’s gonna be here tomorrow.”
“But there’s one thing I don’t understand, Lane. How is this gonna get us twenty million dollars?”
“You’ll see,” he said with a gleam in his eye. “You’ll see.”
It was a bright, sunny Saturday morning. Lane showed up at nine o’clock, wheeling June Syers, who was holding an enormous basket of lemons on her lap.
My folks were already gone for the day, attending seminars to help them sell more carpet tiles and cardboard boxes.
“I hate suits,” I said, pulling at my collar.
“You look outstanding,” Lane said. “Very presidential.”
Lane and I set up a long table at the edge of the lawn and Mrs. Syers got to work making lemonade.
I dug some long sticks of wood out of the basement and nailed cardboard to them. Lane has nicer handwriting than I do, so he painted three signs: MOON & JUNE FOR PRESIDENT, HELP US!; WE NEED $20 MILLION!; and LEMONADE 25 CENTS.
“Twenty million dollars?” whistled Mrs. Syers. “I’m gonna need more lemons.”
“It’s just a symbol,” Lane explained, blowing up balloons to hang on the booth. “Grown-ups get all misty-eyed when they see lemonade stands. It reminds ’em of the good old days.”
“There were no good old days,” harrumphed Mrs. Syers. “The good old days is anything that happens before you’re old enough to see the world as it really is.”
I live on a pretty busy street. Cars started pulling over right away and soon our lemonade stand was surrounded by people.
“Hi!” I said to each person cheerfully. “My name is Judson Moon. I’m twelve years old and I’m running for president of the YOU-nited States.”
“Keep smiling,” Lane whispered in my ear. “And don’t say anything that will make anybody angry. Kiss some babies.”
“I’m not really into kissing,” I complained. “Do I have to?”
“Then hug people.”
“I’m not very good at it,” I admitted. “I never know which side I should put my head. If I put my head toward the left and if the other person puts her head toward the right, we bump heads. Can’t I just punch ’em on the arm?”
We never had the chance to solve the problem. A beat-up PT Cruiser pulled up, followed by a minivan. A sloppily dressed guy got out of the Cruiser. He was carrying a pad in his hand and a pencil behind his ear.
“Judson Moon?” he said, sticking out his hand. “My name is Pete Guerra, with the Cap Times. I figured you wouldn’t mind if I brought a few of the TV newsboys with me.”
A couple of guys got out of the minivan lugging video cameras, still cameras, a tripod, tape recorder, and microphone. They took a bunch of pictures of me serving people lemonade, and then Lane ushered us off to the side so Pete Guerra could interview me.
“So why ya running for president, kid?”
“Well, I figure grown-ups have had the last one thousand years to mess up the world. Now it’s our turn.”
“That’s a good quote,” Guerra said, looking up from the pad he was scribbling on. “Did you think of that yourself or did your campaign manager feed it to you?”
“Lane’s job is to run the campaign,” I explained. “My job, as a candidate for the highest office in our nation, is to come up with good quotes.”
“Ya got any pets, kid?”
“A parakeet,” I replied. “Her name is Sn — Cuddles,” I lied.
“Okay, let’s get down to more serious business, Judson. People are going to want to know what positions you take.”
“I play third base,” I said. “Sometimes I’ll play the outfield if the coach needs me out there.”
Guerra rolled his eyes and shook his head from side to side. “No, I mean your positions on the issues. Your opinions. Like, what do you think about gun control?”
“Guns don’t kill people. They usually just cause serious injuries.”
“What about race?”
“I love all the races. My dream is to see the Indianapolis 500 and the Kentucky Derby someday.”
“What’s the first thing you plan to do when you become president?”
“Install a skateboard ramp in the Oval Office and redecorate the White House with hip-hop posters.”
“When did you decide to run for president, Judson?”
“When I found out the White House had a bowling alley.”
When Guerra had enough of my wisecracks, he moved over to June Syers, who was dispensing her worldview for free with every cup of lemonade.
“Mrs. Syers,” asked Guerra. “How did you become Judson Moon’s running mate?”
“Musta been my good looks and sparkling personality,” she said.
“Does Moon have what it takes to lead the country?”
“He can’t hardly do any worse than the fools who are runnin’ it now, can he?” she said. Then she proceeded to give him a capsule history of the United States, which basically consisted of saying the Indians were fools, the Pilgrims were fools, the Founding Fathers were fools, the Union and the Confederacy were fools, and every politician except Franklin D. Roosevelt was a fool.
“And I oughta know,” she concluded, “’cause I lived through all of ’em.”
As soon as Guerra and the TV guys left, Lane began tearing down our stand. Mrs. Syers counted up the money, and proudly announced that we had raised sixty-five dollars. There was a lot more lemonade we could have sold, but Lane wasn’t interested.
“The idea wasn’t to sell lemonade,” he said. “The idea was to make news. The money will come later.”
“Turn on channel three!” Lane shouted breathlessly into the phone that night while I was eating dinner.
Dad and Mom didn’t seem to be paying attention to the TV, so I switched channels.
“After these messages,” the anchorman bellowed, “we’ll tell you about a twelve-year-old boy who says he’s running for president. Stay tuned.”
“Where do they get these stupid stories?” Dad muttered from behind his newspaper.
I didn’t say a word. I wanted to see the look on his face. After three commercials, the news anchor came back on.
“Well, they say that in America any youngster can grow up to be president. But at least one youngster isn’t going to wait. Twelve-year-old Judson Moon of Madison is throwing his baseball cap into the ring right now.”
Mom and Dad actually lowered their newspapers and looked at the TV. My face filled the screen and Dad’s jaw fell open. Mom dropped the glass she was holding and it shattered on the floor.
“Grown-ups have had the last one thousand years to mess up the world,” I heard myself say. “Now it’s our turn.”
“Moon will be running as a third party candidate representing ‘The Lemonade Party’ for the presidency in November,” the anchorman continued. “The sixth grader and his running mate — an elderly African-American woman named June Syers — have already collected the two thousand signatures they need to get on the ballot in Wisconsin, and they’re raising money by selling lemonade at a stand in front of Judson’s house. We asked Mr. Mo
on how he plans to get around the Constitution, which clearly states that a candidate must be thirty-five years of age to run for the presidency.”
“I’m actually thirty-six,” I said to the camera with a smirk. “I’m just extremely young for my age.”
“That’s our news for tonight. Good night and may all your news be good news.”
Before Mom or Dad could say a word, the phone rang. It was my aunt Lucy.
“Am I hallucinating!?” she shrieked. “Or did I just see you on TV?”
The instant I hung up the phone with Aunt Lucy, it rang again. It was one of my teachers. When I hung up with her, the phone rang again. Kids from school were calling. Mom’s friends were calling. Total strangers were calling. Finally, Dad took the phone off the hook.
“Is this one of your pranks?” he asked. I wasn’t sure if he was angry or amused.
“It’s sort of a prank,” I replied. “I don’t expect to win or anything. You’re always telling me I should get involved with extracurricular activities. Well …”
“I meant you should join the chess club or the school paper or something!” he said, his voice rising. “I didn’t mean you should run for president!”
“Why didn’t you tell us, dear?” asked Mom.
“I did tell you, Mom. You just weren’t listening.”
“Well, I think it’s cute, honey,” she said, “as long as it doesn’t interfere with your school-work. Remember, homework first, running for president second.”
Dad just rolled his eyes and shook his head slowly from side to side.
In the morning, I got up early and rushed outside to get the paper. There I was on the front page, with this big smile on my face, pouring some lady a cup of lemonade. There was an article to go with the photo:
MOON MISSION: 12-YEAR-OLD ON QUEST FOR WHITE HOUSE
By Pete Guerra
While other boys his age are flipping baseball cards and dyeing their hair purple, Judson Moon has other things on his mind — like running for president of the United States.
The 12-year-old from Madison says he is disillusioned with the Republicans and Democrats and has decided to mount a campaign as a third-party candidate in November’s election.