The iCandidate (8 page)

BLAKE

I can get used to the life of the well-established Washington elite. I put my fork down after my last bite of the most perfectly aged and cooked piece of cow I have ever sunk my teeth into. It’s a magical Tuesday evening of steak, fine wine, and a seat at the table with a political wizard and one of the most powerful men in Washington. What could be better than that?

“
Did you hear what happened during Johnson's campaign announcement?” Roger asks.

”
No, what?” the congressman responds in a half-chuckle. The combination of a fine meal, and the brilliant political planning that accompanied it, has put him in a considerably good mood.

“
The audio cut out on his microphone. He was a third of the way through before he noticed,” Roger exclaims after losing his battle to suppress a devious smile.

The
congressman laughs heartily. “Did we plan that or was it just dumb luck?”

“
I wouldn't bother wasting my time sabotaging a campaign that isn't going anywhere, Winston.”

“
I didn't think the Republicans would cede victory quite so easily.” Congressman Beaumont is clearly pleased with the prospect of an easy election in the fall. He has a huge monetary war chest saved up for a demanding campaign, but every election he manages to save it makes the next one more secure. Money is the lifeblood of elections, because if you can outspend the other guy, your chance of winning increases exponentially. That’s the nature of contemporary American politics.

A waiter stops at the table to refill
our wine glasses and departs. Roger looks at me, and then waits until the server is out of earshot before speaking in a hushed tone.

“
Honestly, Winston, I am surprised they are too, given the allegations the conservative media leveled against you.”

Winston points a finger at his longtime ally.
“They have nothing on me. It’s all your typical unsubstantiated right-wing bloviating. No respectable organization picked it up.”

“
Sir, that’s only because of Blake’s tip and getting that
Times
reporter canned before anything got printed.”

“Blake, I thought you said she didn’t have much?” the
congressman asks, his eyes boring into me.

“She didn’t sir, but she was on the right track. Somehow she knew
you took money from the Lexington Group, but didn’t have enough to prove it.”

Beaumont
pulls the napkin off his lap and dabs the corners of his mouth. “There is nothing that exists that links me to the Lexington Group.” I fight hard to not smile. That isn’t entirely true.

Most people will say you can’t put a price on loyalty.
Hell yeah you can, it’s called security, and I own the ultimate insurance policy. As long as Roger and the congressman are loyal to me, those documents will stay secure and never see the light of day.

“There is always a paper trail
, Winston. Always. Even when you don’t think there is.” The hard look Roger gives the congressman makes him a little uncomfortable. Believe me, this is a rare moment, to say the least.

“I pay
you, and him for that matter,” the congressman says pointing at me, “to ensure that is not the case. If there is, in fact, some mysterious paper trail left behind, then find it and destroy it. I am counting on you, and even Blake here, to ensure nothing gets out that can harm us.”

“Of course
, Winston,” Roger concedes.

“Yes
, sir,” I say at the same time.

“Good.
Let Fox News and the idiot bloggers say what they want. My approval rating is higher than ever and even if it drops a few points, we should have no problem coasting into a ninth term. Just keep a lid on the important press. You have already done a good job with that, Blake.” Winston tips his glass toward me in a rare compliment.

Any lingering doubt I had about destroying Madison’s sister’s career vanished in this instant.
This is a Machiavellian world where the ends justify the means, and now I have a seat at the table. I may still hold the position of a very junior level staffer, but now I have the ear of the congressman himself. And as Roger’s go-to guy, it won’t be long before I am out of my corner desk and sitting at Deena’s. At least, what would be Deena’s old desk. I smile at the thought.

“
We will, congressman,” Roger says, holding his wine glass up in a toast. ”To a ninth term, and even better things to follow.”

Congressman
Beaumont tips his own glass and smiles broadly at Roger. “Nothing will stop us from winning in a walk.”

I follow suit. Nothing will stop me either.

MICHAEL

I sit
staring out the window in the same corner of the coffee shop I did a week ago. That day was bright and shining, but today is a better reflection of my mood – dark and dreary. And now it has even started to rain.

I arrived for
the appointment with my old American History class forty-five minutes early, figuring I could pass the time behind this laptop and scribbling notes on a yellow legal pad. I have been teaching history for three years, and been interested in it for three decades. And the one thing I learned is, despite my knowledge of politics and the people elected, I don’t know anything about how to campaign or run for office. And I mean nothing.

I
scan the room again before looking at my watch for the hundredth time. They should have been here fifteen minutes ago. Maybe I am kidding myself. Jessica thought I was a fool to even think they would be on board with this, but like the Pied Piper of Hamelin, I played my tune and hoped they would follow. Well, not to their deaths, so maybe this metaphor doesn’t really work. Regardless, it looks like I was wrong again and will face the blunt end of Jess’ ‘I told you so’ speech.

I frown and return to my notes.
Fundraising, petitions, advertising, and a message are all things you need to reach voters. I guess that’s why everyone who runs for national office has personal wealth, connections, comes from a prominent family, or all of those traits combined.

As a high school history teacher, I certainly am not wealthy. Any teacher will tell you they didn’t choose their occupation for the money. I also have absolutely no connections that are of any use in an election. Fundraising is
also pointless since nobody in their right mind would give money to a guy with no track record in politics.

The only thing I can do is
craft a message nobody will hear. I need media support, but only mainstream candidates from the two political parties ever get coverage. They set up the rules, and the career politicians honed this game down to a science. If I try to play it, I’m going to get killed.

I tear off the page of the pad, crumple it and toss it on the ground at my feet.
This is stupid. I close my laptop in frustration and look up just in time to see a welcome sight. Chelsea, Peyton, Xavier, Brian, Vince, Emilee, Vanessa, and Amanda all walk over and stand in front of me like a phalanx.

“Did y
ou guys carpool or something?”

“Something
like that,” Vanessa says.

“
We actually met before we came here. We had some stuff to talk about,” Vince offers in the most serious mafia-like tone I have ever heard him use. Maybe that is stereotyping a touch, but that’s what it sounded like.

“
Like what?” I ask innocently.

“
Like whether we are crazy for thinking about helping with this,” Amanda defiantly states.

“
Well? Are you crazy enough?” I lean back in the chair, bracing for what I expect to be bad news. Amanda’s tone didn’t inspire a whole lot of confidence that they were buying tickets for this particular trip.

“It depends on how far you plan on taking it
,” Emilee says. I give a slight nod, but keep listening. I am not sure how to respond because, at this point, I’m not sure myself.

“We
spent a year listening to you talk about never half-assing anything. So we don't want to do all this work just for you not to give it your all and live with getting killed in November.”

“I understand.”
Nothing more I can say to that. Giving it my all or not, getting killed in November is a near certainty.

“Mister B, h
ow can eight of us possibly do this? Don’t people running for Congress have huge staffs? Vanessa asks.

I mean
like, none of us know anything about campaigning.” Peyton is dead on. What she doesn’t know is I have no idea either. Best not to admit that yet.

“She's right
,” Amanda says, looking at Peyton. “We don't know anything. I, like, don't really know what you expect us to do.”

“
I'm all about helping Mister B, but I just don't want to waste my summer.” Xavier is an athlete and is always training or practicing. I am not surprised, nor do I blame him for worrying about this being a futile exercise. Their insecurities are to be expected because I am having the same ones. But it is time to stop stalling.

“
I understand your concerns. The truth is, I have no idea either.”

“
Well, that's encouraging.”

“I know it isn’t, Brian,” I say, his sarcasm obvious. “You may all be teenagers, but I’m only a history teacher. We are all working on the same learning curve and we’ll figure it out together. As for wasting your summers, whether this proves to be worth it will be up to each of you.”

I reach
into my laptop carrier on the floor and pull out a small stack of papers. I hand each student a sheet and wait until they read them.

“
Permission slips?” Chelsea asks incredulously.

“
Of a sort, yes. If your parents don't sign it, you don't participate. Do not pass go, do not collect two-hundred dollars.”

“You can't be serious
,” Xavier says.

“I’m dead serious.
Name an extracurricular activity you participate in that doesn’t require one.”

“This isn’t school,” Amanda states.

“No, it’s worse. It’s a political campaign. Your parents must be okay with you being involved in this. Not to mention this is going to take up a lot of your time that could be devoted to academics and applying to colleges.”

“What’
s this part about maintaining a B average?” Peyton asks, pointing to the permission slip.

“
Self-explanatory, Peyton. You are all honors students so I know you can handle it.” Most of these kids are straight A students, or at least close to it. I didn’t think that would be controversial. They continue to read through the permission slip, making various faces at parts they don’t like, but saying nothing.

“These are the rules of the game
, guys. You are all volunteering to do this, so if you don’t like them, don’t play.” And that’s when it hits me. “If you don’t like the rules, don’t play,” I mumble to myself. The idea washes over me like a tsunami of pure inspiration, and I suddenly know how we can do this. The students pocket their slips and wait for me to say something more, but I’m lost in thought.

“
So, now what?” one of them asks. I am not really sure who.

“
Get those signed and meet me at nine a.m. tomorrow at Briar Point. Try to be on time,” I say as if on autopilot.

“We’re not starting now?” Chelsea asks eagerly.

“Not yet. I have to work something out first.” With that I open my laptop and start typing like a madman. They all talk amongst themselves for a minute, but I am not acutely aware of what they are saying. I look up just in time to see them heading for the door.

“Hey guys
,” I call out to them, causing them to turn. “Thanks for coming.” I smile, a gesture that is returned, and I get back to work. After all, if you want to change the rules, you have to understand them first.

CHELSEA

It is a beautiful mid-June day. We should really be hanging out with friends, or baking on a beach. Instead, we are poring over notes at a picnic table, trying to figure out how to start a campaign. We decided as a group to get here early, so when Mister Bennit showed up we could present something resembling a plan. After all, I think that’s what he’s expecting. But after an hour or two, the only thing we manage to accomplish is increasing our frustration. And now I have reached my limit.

“There is no way we can make this work
,” I exclaim to Mister Bennit as he walks up.

“Good morning to you to
o, Chelsea,” he replies, much too cheerily for any Monday morning. Summer vacation or not, we know he is well-caffeinated from a trip to the Perkfect Buzz to be in this good a mood. “Hit a little snag in the grand plan have you?”

“That’s, like, a major understatement
,” Peyton opines.

“We have no money for advertising, no experience in, well, any of this, and unless you plan on quitting teaching, no time to meet voters
,” Brian sums up with dissatisfaction.

“We can’t run a campaign like this
,” I state. And we can’t. There is no possible way to compete against a sitting member of the House with nothing. And the fact Mister Bennit is smiling at this makes me even more frustrated and annoyed. My head is starting to hurt.

“It is far worse
than you think, guys,” Mister Bennit says, claiming a seat at the picnic table. “You also have to look at who we are up against. Winston Beaumont has been in politics about as long as you have been alive. From what I’ve read, he’s ruthless, and the only person in Washington more politically savvy than him happens to be running his campaign. He has millions of dollars to spend on everything from advertising to opposition research. He has the resources to do a ton of polling and an army of people to customize his message into something every voter wants to hear.”

“We really need to work on your motivation skills
,” Amanda deadpans as we all remain silent, struggling for something to say.

This is hopeless.
Even if Mister Bennit were the world’s greatest motivational speaker, nothing could change that feeling. I’m sure that’s the emotion all over my face because it is over all our faces. After a moment, Vince, of all people, speaks up.

“We can’t beat
him.”

“No
, Vince, we can’t. At least not at his game,” Mister Bennit says with a hint of a smile.

“What do you mean?” Emilee asks.

Mister Bennit pauses, takes a sip of what is sure to be a gazillion-shot latte, and looks at each one of us. “Tell me, how do you beat Bobby Fischer at chess?” We all look at each other. Who the hell is Bobby Fischer?

“No, don’t say it,” Vanessa tries to warn.

“Who’s Bobby Fischer?’ Amanda asks at the same time, beating me to the punch.

“Cue this morning’s lesson,” Vince laments.

“He’s a master chess player who ... Okay, you know what, it’s not important. If you were to sit down and play a game with a chess master, how would you beat him?”

You can’t beat him
unless you are really, really lucky. Not likely though. You simply don’t beat a chess master at chess.

“You don’t.
Unless…” I stop mid-sentence.

“Unless?” he says, encouraging me to finish my thought.

“Unless you are playing Candyland.” I smile, enjoying the rare moment when I get his point before he makes it.

“Huh?” Vince asks, dumb
founded.

“I don’t get it
,” Peyton adds, even more frustrated now.

“I do
,” I say. “If you can’t beat them at their game, make them play ours.”

“Exactly.
There are two conventional wisdoms in campaign politics. Spend a lot of money and smear your opponent by going negative early and often. Well, we can’t compete in the money arena and I won’t go negative. We need to change the game. Don’t play chess with Winston Beaumont the chess master…”

“Play
Candyland with him,” Vanessa finishes, now getting with the program. She smiles along with me, but the others are not sold.

“
But that’s a child’s game!” Vince announces, exasperated and still unconvinced. “Why would a chess master play anything other than chess?”

“Because he has no choice
,” Brian says, now joining the ranks of the enlightened. “If we refuse to play his game, he has to play ours.”

I’m not completely sold on that being the case, but I go with it.
Most likely he would ignore us, unless we give him a reason not to. And I am having a hard time coming up with a scenario where a powerful sitting congressman would bother.

“But what’s our game? Do we even know?” Xavier brings up a good point, prompting us all to look to the soon-to-be candidate for support.

“We run the first modern-era front porch campaign.” Mister Bennit looks at each of our faces, all caught in expressions ranging from baffled to thoroughly confused. “Let me explain,” he adds.

“
Now
here comes today's history lesson,” Emilee says wryly.

“
In 1896, William McKinley ran a campaign with the help of an Ohio business tycoon named Mark Hanna. While his opponent traveled 18,000 miles by railroad, McKinley gave most of his speeches right from his front porch.”

“
Do you ever stop teaching?” Vince asks, exasperated.

“
Do you even have a front porch?” I ask rhetorically, or not.

“
Didn't McKinley get assassinated?” Amanda asks, grinning.

Mister Bennit exhales deeply. “No, Vince, I don’t.
No Chels, I don’t have a porch, but that’s not the point. And yes, Amanda, he did. Let’s hope we have a better result. My point is, we don't need to travel, or campaign, or make big speeches. We get the people to come to us.”

We all look at each other and fall into a fit of laughter.
A little later in the summer and I might think Mister Bennit had spent too much time in the sun or something. “Gee, here I was thinking this going to be hard!” I say, exercising my sarcastic streak.

“
I may be having a blonde moment, but like, how do we get people to come to listen to speeches when, on a good day, only like fifty percent even vote?” Peyton asks innocently.

She brings up a good point, and we
all look up at our teacher for an answer once again. He obliges with that smile we all love to hate. “It's the twenty-first century. There is more than one way to reach out and touch someone. Right, Brian?”

“The world has
the iPhone, iPad, and iTunes,” Brian states with a knowing smile. “Why not give it the iCandidate?”

I watch as
Peyton reaches for a yellow legal pad and jots down iCandidate. It is not a horrible idea. But not a completely unique one either.

“Okay, I get it.
You want to run a campaign on the Internet, but every other candidate does the same thing,” I add.

“That’s true, they do.
So let’s take it a step further. We’re going to campaign exclusively using the Internet and social media. No speeches, no fundraisers, no shaking hands and definitely no kissing babies. This will be the country’s first virtual campaign.”

“The new front porch
,” Vanessa states.

“Exactly.”

“Okay, that’s unique. But how will anybody notice us if all we are running is a campaign online?” Emilee asks.

“We
make it go viral,” Brian offers.