The iCongressman, page 17
part #2 of The Michael Bennit Series Series
My father is one of the most frugal men in America. He has an old school work ethic and belief in saving your money that Americans, caught in the frenzy of materialism that defines today’s society, have long forgotten. He is a man who saves money by bringing his lunch to the factory everyday instead of eating in the cafeteria. A trip to the local Taco Bell would be an expensive night out for him on any other occasion.
“Excuse me, are you Chelsea Stanton by any chance?” a slender woman in her mid-thirties says when she approaches the table.
“Yes, I am,” I respond, to the amusement to my father.
“I’m so sorry to interrupt your dinner. I just wanted to say I see you on television and watched you during your first campaign. You are such an inspiration.”
“Thank you, that’s very kind.”
“Good luck to you and Michael Bennit next month,” she wishes before departing.
“It’s beginning to feel like old times again,” Dad observes once she is out of earshot, referring to our experiences in the first campaign run.
“After being invisible for over a year, I’ll take it.”
Not that we have had any problems with that since what we have come to call “the flip.” That day in front of the Ethics Committee changed our fortunes, and the failed attempt to expel the congressman turned it into a circus. Social media has turned out to be the driving force that propelled us to Capitol Hill and the anchor that managed to keep us there.
Over the summer, we were losing handily to both candidates from the parties. Now, barring another October surprise like the last one, we should have no problem getting reelected. I understand why the congressman wants more though.
“I know you had a tough year, Snuggle Bear. Do you regret your decision skip college?” Uh-oh. I already know where this conversation is going. I’m one parental lecture away from feeling like I’m in high school again. No wonder Peyton, Emilee, and the others never visit home.
“I know I disappointed you when I didn’t go to Yale, but it’s not like I don’t ever plan on attending.”
“I didn’t realize ya were. When?”
“Dad …”
“I’m just asking. I know you’re really busy down there. How do you plan on fitting college into your schedule?” he asks sincerely.
Busy is an understatement. Running one campaign as an eighteen-year-old was daunting. Helping run a hundred of them at twenty is ridiculous, especially since the congressman and Viano decided to target the most influential, senior, and well-financed members of the House. It is having a dramatic effect though.
Speaker Albright is fighting for his political life in his own district against a rather tenacious and aggressive icandidate there. It is much of the same over the other ninety-nine districts we are fielding virtual campaigns in. We are giving them as much expert guidance and social media advice we can. With three weeks to go it will only get busier.
“I don’t know. I’ll think about it after the election.”
“Then you’ll have the start of the next Congress, then some scandal or major issue to work, and before you know it you’ll be campaigning again.” Maybe not, but I’m not ready to tell him that yet.
“What’s your point?” I ask a little too sharply. Terse replies like that caused us a lot of tension during my senior year.
“My point is,” my father replies with a warning glance, “that it’s easy to get caught up with the reasons to forego school.”
“I know.” I’ll say anything to end this conversation. I’m sure he senses it, too.
“Snuggle Bear, I will always support you in whatever decision you make. Ya know that. But you also have to know that Bennit will not be a politician forever, and you won’t always be his chief of staff. I just don’t want ya to end up unemployed with no degree and no job. I don’t want ya ending up working in a factory like I did.”
His words break my heart. He is the hardest working man I have ever met. After Mom died, he dedicated his life to ensuring I wanted for nothing growing up. I don’t want to hear him talk about himself like that.
“Dad,” I say, reaching across the table to take his hand, a lone tear rolling down my cheek. “I’m not going to blow college off, but I had to do this first. I’ll make you proud of me. I promise.”
“You already have, Snuggle Bear.”
-THIRTY-SIX-
MICHAEL
“You were the first guy to crash through the political wall, so you were bound to get bloody,” one of the ladies says on my right.
“I agree. You are a true pioneer like Henry Ford or the Wright Brothers, or even baseball general manager Billy Beane, to use a more modern example. You redefined how the public elects their representatives in the first campaign and are taking on the extremes of our two political parties in an effort to change Washington now. You should be commended on that.”
“Ladies and gentlemen, Michael Bennit,” one of the hosts says as the audience’s applause reaches a crescendo.
“Thank you,” I say to the crowd, “and thank you all for having me.” As the cameras roll prior to commercial break, I shake the hands of my hosts. This is a new experience for me. As the iCandidate, I shunned anything resembling mainstream programming and focused everything on social media. Now I am finishing my banter with the ladies of The View.
This is a different election, though. When I ran two years ago, the idea of being an icandidate was unique. Running the campaign using nothing but social media created enough buzz and headlines without much effort. With one hundred two icandidates all vying for attention in the social media sphere, it’s a little harder to generate that level of interest.
Vince urged me to make a run on the talk show circuit to dial up the visibility for the rest of the icandidates. After focusing so long on using Google Plus, Facebook, Twitter, and Instagram to reach voters, dealing with television programming is a departure from the norm.
Of course, we didn’t stop there. The video of me doing the top ten on The Late Show went viral almost overnight and cracking jokes on The Colbert Report is all over Facebook. People share everything these days. The only question is, will all this be enough to sway people’s opinions on Election Day? We almost won without talking about a single issue, so I suppose anything is possible.
“You were great!” Kylie exclaims, giving me a big hug and kiss when I emerge from the dressing room.
“Thanks, hon. I feel like I oversold it too much.”
“No, it was perfect. It’s still a little strange seeing you on television though.”
I’ve never been comfortable in front of a camera. One of the benefits of running as the iCandidate is not having had to. Now, even with the iCongressman moniker, I know that avoiding them is impossible.
“I’m sure my Twitter feed will let me know if you’re telling the truth or lying to me once this episode airs.”
“Hungry?”
“Starving,” she says as we exit ABC Studios. “Let’s go to that little place in the Village we like.”
“You got it!” The studio is on Sixty-Sixth Street on Manhattan’s west side, so we need to catch a cab to travel the nearly fifty blocks to Kylie’s old stomping grounds. I move around the oversized UPS truck parked on the curb and extend my arm.
“Look out!” Kylie shouts as she yanks my other arm violently, pulling me off balance and into her in the process. A yellow cab goes screaming by, missing me by mere inches. I am definitely losing my Special Forces reflexes.
“Well, that almost sucked,” I say, catching my breath. “He came out of nowhere.”
“That’s a lousy way to get assassinated,” Kylie says, peeking around the truck and peering down the street before trying to hail another cab.
“What do you mean?”
“Call me crazy, but it looked like he tried to swerve into you.”
“Okay, yeah, you’re crazy. Do you really think someone is trying to bump me off on a busy Manhattan street on the off chance I need a cab leaving a studio?”
“Okay, probably not,” she says dismissively as a taxi pulls up next to us. Something in her voice tells me she is far from convinced.
-THIRTY-SEVEN-
CHELSEA
The house lights come up and the three candidates shake hands on the stage. Tonight’s debate wasn’t as entertaining, nor was it the epic beat down as the one two years ago, but the result was the same. The congressman owned it.
Scheduled three weeks ahead of the election instead of the week before it like last time, the debate was once again held at Western Connecticut State University in Danbury. They did a fantastic job hosting our first, so it was only fitting they hold it again. At least we knew what to expect this time.
The debate will probably land some good ratings because of the social media fervor we stirred up again. With the media presence, it feels like a case of déjà vu. The ten-point lead the congressman carried into tonight’s debate will grow overnight. No need to spend a sleepless night worrying about catching our opponent this time around.
Emilee, Brian, Amanda, Peyton, and Xavier all went back to school when classes started in September but still made it back to town for the debate tonight. Some of them had long drives here from school, but none thought classes were more important than being here for this. Even with the additional responsibilities of college life, each has been very active on the social media front in support of all the icandidate campaigns.
Congressman Bennit comes backstage and gives a kiss to Kylie. She embraces him, whispering something in his ear only intended for them. Kylie has been on edge since they got back from their NYC trip a week ago for the congressman’s interview on The View. She hasn’t said why, but her attitude has changed a little and she has been clingier then I have ever seen her.
Breaking the embrace with Kylie, Mister B doles out the hugs to the rest of us. Even Vince, Brian, and Xavier get in on the act with a sort of man hug that guys are known to engage in. As a teacher, he was always careful to avoid any physical contact with us outside of a high five or fist bump. Oh, how times have changed. He’s gone from a well-respected and liked teacher to cherished boss.
“How did it feel to come into a debate as the frontrunner?” Amanda asks.
“I wasn’t really looking at it that way.”
“You might not be, but I know I am,” Vince proclaims to the delight of the group. The congressman sighs, and shakes his head.
“You guys have been out of my classroom way too long. Let me share a little story with you.”
“Uh-oh. Here comes today’s history lesson,” Amanda says, channeling the old expression we used before the congressman’s lectures during our first campaign.
“You’re lucky you don’t have to live with him,” Kylie says, rolling her eyes.
“This is a short one, I promise. There was this kid who started his career by working paper routes, selling magazines door-to-door, and reporting for duty in his grandfather’s grocery store to earn money. Through those experiences, he learned the value of a good work ethic and to never take success for granted. Like us, he did the impossible, and made it when everyone didn’t think he could. He was a millionaire by age thirty-two, but he wasn’t content to stop there like many others would have. There was much more out there to accomplish, and he did.”
“So who was he?” I am trying to recall all the lessons we received from Mister Bennit, but this one isn’t ringing any bells.
“The Oracle of Omaha.”
“Who?” Peyton, Xavier, Emilee, and Vince all blurt out simultaneously.
“Warren Buffett,” Amanda says with a smile. “He runs Berkshire Hathaway, one of the most powerful investment firms in the world.”
“Glad to see the tuition dollars you are spending at UConn are well-invested,” I compliment with a wink. An accounting and business major ought to know about him.
“I’m not seeing the point.”
“The point is, Peyton, that Warren Buffett was a consummate entrepreneur and worked hard to become the billionaire and the world-renowned financial expert he is today. He could have retired decades ago, but it wasn’t in his nature. It’s not in mine, either. We may be leading our race, but this election is about more than winning reelection.
“The icandidates,” Kylie says, making it clear to anyone who had yet to figure out where we are going with this.
“Their success is our success. Without them, I will spend another two years in Congress like I spent the last one, and I refuse to do that. Tonight was a big win for us, but the fight isn’t over. You guys were mad at me for not including you in my plan to teach America a lesson about how they vote in elections during our first campaign. I’m not going to make that mistake again. I need your help, because the final surge starts tomorrow.”
* * *
We all went out to dinner following the debate, and it felt good having something to celebrate for a change. Now on my way home, I feel the need to stop somewhere first. I park the car and gingerly wander down the path as the large iron behemoth looms ahead. I hear the clicking of my heels against the metal decking once I reach the bridge, only stopping when I assume my traditional vantage point in the middle of the span.
Blake can lay all the claim he wants to my spot on the steps of the Capitol, but the old iron bridge across the river at Briar Point State Park is mine. The last time I was on this bridge this long after sunset, I was threatening him with my Dad’s old Ka-Bar knife. Now he practically works for our campaign. It’s amazing how times change.
I almost wish Blake had been able to come to the debate tonight. He would have enjoyed watching Congressman Bennit handle the issues with ease and respond deftly to all the questions about the censures and reprimands. There were no epic fails like Dick Johnson bungling the order of articles in the Constitution, but there were still plenty of one-liners to keep social and mainstream media buzzing.
I look out past the bend in the river to the center of the town I grew up in. So much has changed. Three years ago, I was a high school student just trying to figure out who I was and who I wanted to be. Two years ago, I was running an underdog campaign for my favorite teacher that became a media sensation. A year ago, we were trying to learn how to navigate the treacherous political waters inside the Beltway. Today, I feel like I have come full circle, again wondering the same things I did three years ago.
I’ve had moments over the past year where I felt … I don’t know, proud. Dressing down Senator Viano last summer was one of them, but the satisfaction I got was short lived.
I’m envious of my friends who went on to college—they work hard on the campaign without facing the crushing responsibility of working on the staff. They have been invaluable to our effort, but on their terms. It makes me wonder what would have happened if I chose a different path.
Who would be chief of staff if I had decided to go to Yale, Harvard, Princeton, or the dozens of other schools that offered me full scholarships? Would he trust Vince enough with that responsibility? I love him like a brother, but I’m not sure Vince is the right guy for the job. Maybe Vanessa could have done it. Eh, he probably would’ve hired a professional political operative who could have done a better job than I did.
Unless what Kylie said is true. That he does value me more than I know. I need to know what he thinks, but he’s not talking about it, at least not to my face. How do I ask him? Is it easier just to move on with my life?
I pull the thin, ivory envelope out of my coat pocket and look at it in the light of the moon. I received the letter in the mail earlier today but didn’t want to open it before the debate in case it was bad news. Breaking the seal and extracting the contents, I realize how much rides on what is written on this sheet of paper. I’m not sure if only seeing a single paragraph is a good sign or not.
Since the ambient light is not enough to read by, I flip on the flashlight feature of my phone. The seal of Harvard University jumps off the top of the page. The letter is short, to the point, and takes my breath away.
Dear Chelsea:
I received a notification from our Admissions Office that you were inquiring about the status of the scholarship you were offered two years ago. The short answer is, yes. There will always be a place for you at Harvard, and we would love to have you attend this spring. Please contact my office if you would like to discuss this further.
Warm and cordial regards,
Andrew Stemple
President, Harvard University
-THIRTY-EIGHT-
SENATOR VIANO
Tarrywile Mansion in Danbury is a beautiful example of the "shingle style" Victorian-era American home architecture. The gable roof with multiple dormers, large chimney stacks, and Doric columns constructed in a semicircular fashion around the veranda makes it no wonder it was entered on the National Register of Historic Places.
Virginia has its own beauty, but there are few places on Earth prettier than New England at the peak of foliage season. This estate is over seven hundred acres of red, yellow, and orange clad trees that scream autumn like no other place in America. The air is a cool fifty degrees and is invigorating without being frigid. There are dozens of trails here, perfect for clearing one’s head amongst the quiet serenity of drifting leaves and whispering evergreens.
There are two picnic areas in the park, and I make my way back to the one of which is located in the wooded grove off the lower Mansion parking lot for the meeting I set up. I find Blake and Gary waiting for me when I get there.
“Good morning, gentlemen. Blake, I hope you’re not too hung over after partying with Michael’s college-aged staff last night.”
“They’re not twenty-one yet.”
