The video camera firing squad was in place, and their lenses were pointed at the back of my head, focused on the blue streak in my hair. The Race For The White House, USA was about to debut on TVs, computers, phones, and tablets all around the world, and the camera operators wanted to get the colors just right.
It was a morning filled with color: the soft gold of the sunrise; the lush green of the palm trees; the radiant spokes of the neon Ferris wheel. I admired them all, especially the deep blue of the Pacific Ocean. I was in Santa Monica, California!
Arc lights, brilliant as the noonday sun, poured over a city just waking up. Side streets were jammed with television equipment trucks. Video color bars popped onto giant TV monitors, casting a rainbow glow over the urban landscape. I waved at the TV news helicopters hovering overhead, as if they could possibly have seen me among the miles of electrical cables.
“Mic check! Mic check! One, two, three!” reverberated off the buildings, from the powerful speakers, suspended high above an enormous stage. Rows of bleachers grew out of the city sidewalks, like giant stalagmites rising from the floor of a limestone cavern. Spectators from all over the country began to trickle in, as the locals watched the human migration from merchant rooftops.
I was bursting with excitement. It had never occurred to me that this thing would be so exhilarating. I was energized, yet apprehensive, realizing that my face would soon flash onto those monster monitors.
My involvement in this extravaganza almost didn’t happen. Being underage, parental approval was a legal requirement before I could leave town, much less fly two-thousand miles out to the West Coast.
Getting permission wouldn’t have been a big deal, had I lived in a normal household. But I didn’t. We were once a close-knit family, before moving to the Midwest, but in our rush to leave the city, someone had forgotten to pack our family values. Mom and Dad were now full-time couch potatoes, and my brother and sister were techno-junkies. Finding any of them with a book in their hands was unheard of.
I remember answering the doorbell of our Shankstonville home, to find a slew of documents in a box from the show’s legal department. Convincing my parents to sign them wasn’t going to be easy.
My folks were sitting on a popcorn-stained couch, their eyes glued to our living room TV. Interrupting their TV worship was considered a no-no in our house. During a commercial break, I explained the gist of my plans to them.
“Out of the question!” screamed my mother, without even glancing at the legal forms.
“You’re grounded!” yelled my father.
“But it’s a chance to do something really important,” I said. “The result of this trip could effect the future of the whole country, and it would be a valuable educational experience for me. Don’t you want me to get a good education?”
“That’s what schools are for,” my mom said, without taking her eyes off the 60-inch plasma screen.
“And there’s no way we’re going to let you go gallivanting across the country with a bunch of total strangers,” added my dad.
You would think I’d be discouraged after a response like that, but there was one, sure-fire way to gain their approval, and I knew just how to do it. “But dad,” I pleaded, “it’s all going to be broadcast, live, to every TV set in the country.”
“TV?” My dad’s head swung in my direction, his eyes sparkling above his ear-to-ear grin. “Why didn’t you say so, Sweetie?” I quickly tossed the stack of papers in his lap and handed him a pen.
“Did you hear that, everyone?” cried my mom to the entire household. “Amy’s going to be on national television!”
The upstairs bedroom doors slammed shut at the announcement. My siblings were not impressed.
My dad signed on each dotted line on every page, as he leafed through the documents, never reading a word of them.
The rising sun cast long shadows over the thousands that had assembled in the standing-room-only venue. Vendors marched up and down the street holding printed programs over their heads. “Get your program here!” they barked. “Know your candidates before the show starts.”
VIP seating was provided at the back of the stage. I sat down and watched with amazement, as the magic unfolded.
A large digital clock showed that we would be on the air in two minutes. Directors and technicians darted across the stage as the seconds counted down.
Brian Breadcrust emerged from his portable dressing room and approached the stage, while the local police kept his ravenous fans at a safe distance.
“Four, three, two . . .”
“Ladies and gentleman, boys and girls,” spoke an amplified announcer’s voice, “Your host for The Race For The White House, USA . . .Brian Breadcrust!”
A man with headphones cued Breadcrust. The TV personality galloped to the front of the stage and grabbed a handheld microphone. “Good morning, America, and welcome to a new age in democracy!”
An American flag crept up a flag pole. Everyone stood up, as we proudly placed our hands over our hearts. It was an inspiring display of patriotic reverence, made a little less inspiring by the rap version of “The Star-Spangled Banner” we were forced to listen to.
“For the first time,” continued Breadcrust, “two fearless individuals—candidates for the presidency of the United States of America—will embark on a journey of mystery, wonder, and danger.” Stirring music played under his remarks to heighten the drama. “And who are these brave and dedicated men?”
A horn blasted, and down the middle of the street rolled a whale-sized bus. The roar of its diesel engine rattled the storefront windows. It was big, bold, red, white, and blue. Painted on the side, against a colorful field of stars and stripes, was the smiling face of Chester T. Fields.
The audience cheered as the bus charged down the street, to a rock ’n’ roll version of “God Bless America.”
With air brakes hissing, the magnificent bus came to a stop at the front of the stage. Fog poured out through the bus door as it opened in grand fashion. Out stepped Chester, flashing a two-fingered victory sign in each hand over his head, as he join Breadcrust on the stage.
I had never heard an audience scream that loud. They were so hyped up that they would have cheered Ralph Kramden, if he had stepped off that bus.
Then another horn was heard. Out from a side street came a second bus. But as it made its way between the grandstands, the cheering subsided. The music stopped. The bus slowly rolled passed the crowd at a brisk five-miles an hour. It was an old, decrepit, school bus with peace sign decals plastered on all sides. Daisy pedals rimmed the headlights. Paisley patterns swirled over its dented, yellow body. It looked like it had been resurrected from an auto graveyard. Even a 1960s, Haight-Ashbury hippie would be embarrassed to be seen in this thing.
Alan Freeberg For President was hand-lettered onto rolls of butcher paper that were duct-taped to each side of the bus.
Mouths hung open as astonished eyes followed the psychedelic bus.
Breaks squealed as the bus pulled up alongside Chester’s flashy motor coach. A joyous Alan Freeberg forced open the jammed doors and bounded from the bus, waving his white cowboy hat.
Silence.
Alan gleefully hopped up onto the stage before the disbelieving audience.
The Stage Director quickly signaled the music to resume, slowly reviving the stunned audience.
Breadcrust stepped between the two men on stage. “Ladies and gentleman,” he said, “your Awesome Party nominees for president!” Then he grabbed the hand of each man and hoisted them into the air.
A smattering of applause followed.
“We’ll be right back after this quick break,” said the announcer.
A commercial flashed across the video monitors.
Breadcrust switched off his mic and turned to Alan. “What the hell are you trying to do to me?” he yelled. “Don’t you have any sense of showmanship?”
“I wanted to make a memorable entrance,” said Alan. “What’s wrong with that?”
“You’ll be remembered, alright, right up till election day, when you lose by a landslide.”
“How do you know what’s going to happen? You haven’t fix the election already, have you?”
Breadcrust shot a surprised look of guilt over at Chester.
Chester laughed and slapped Alan on the back. “Relax, old man,” said Chester. “Since when have television people ever been interested in anything but ratings?”
Eleven minutes and thirty seconds of commercials later, Breadcrust read the rules to the worldwide audience as required by law.
“With the formalities out of the way,” said the TV host, “it’s time to have a little fun. As you all know, the actions of these candidates will be continually monitored throughout this entire race.”
A dozen or so workmen in coveralls ran out from the wings, wearing tool belts around their waists, and carrying orange-colored, aluminum ladders.
They converged on the buses at remarkable speed. Video cameras and microphones were mounted to the sides of each bus. Satellite dishes were installed on the roofs. After what seemed like seconds, the technicians retreated back off stage.
“For the next ten days,” said Breadcrust, “everything you say, everything you do will be observed by millions of television viewers around the world. Your location will be tracked through global positioning. The only privacy you will be permitted is while you are inside your buses.
“A GPS device has been installed on your dashboards, which will provide you with instructions on where to go, and how to get there. These devices will respond to your voice commands if you have any questions. During your journey, outside communications will not be allowed, so you won’t be needing your mobile phones.”
Breadcrust held out his hand. Alan and Chester looked at each other, surprised. I knew how they felt. My phone had been confiscated earlier.
Chester handed over his phone.
Alan started to do the same, but suddenly grabbed the mic away from Breadcrust. “These things should have never been put into the hands of humans, anyway,” he declared, holding his phone up to the cameras, “—like guns and the atom bomb.”
Breadcrust angrily grabbed his mic back. “With that enlightening observation,” he said, snatching the phone from Alan’s hand, “We are ready to begin. From this moment on, the American voters will see how well you meet the challenges that lay before you, and judge for themselves which of you is most worthy of your party’s nomination.”
Alan looked back at me. I held my crossed fingers up for good luck.
“To your vehicles!” shouted Brian Breadcrust.
The music swelled as the show cut away to more commercials.
As we left the stage, Breadcrust took us all aside. “We’ll be off-air for a half-hour while the networks do their sports updates. Meantime, get yourselves settled. The Stage Director will cue you when we’re back live.”
Alan bent over to me. “Not starting out too well, are we?” he whispered.
“I wouldn’t say that,” I said. “After that little speech you made, you’ve got my vote, already.”
Alan and I arrived at our bus to find Chester admiring Alan’s yellow marvel. “Nice set of wheels you got here, Al,” he said. “Real . . . groovy.”
“Starting in with the insults already, eh, Ches?” said Alan.
“Right on, brother!”
“Just ‘cause you’re driving Buckingham Palace on wheels doesn’t automatically make you better then me.”
“Bummer!”
Exasperated, Alan climbed aboard his bus. Then Chester turned to me. “I don’t believe we’ve met,” he said, cordially. “You must be Amy.”
“That’s right,” I said, “and I don’t think I care for your attitude.”
“Aw, don’t be that way,” said Chester. “Here, let me show you my transportation, and see what a real campaign bus is supposed to look like.”
“Go ahead,” said Alan through the open door. “Just be sure to wipe the greed off your shoes before you come back.”
I followed Chester, feeling a bit like a traitor, but my grandfather had once mentioned that in any contest, it’s good to learn all you can about your competition.
The alluring smell of freshly-brewed espresso filled the air, as I entered Chester’s bus. Soothing music played over a perfectly-tuned sound system. It had tile flooring, granite kitchen countertops, and stainless steel appliances. His custom furniture was elegant yet cozy. TVs, gaming consoles, and all the latest electronic gadgetry were within arms reach.
“It’s eco-friendly, too,” said Chester. “Recycling water system, solar panels on the roof, and the engine runs on biodiesel fuel.”
“Amy!” It was Alan calling to me through his driver seat window. “If you’re through being pampered, the Yellow Submarine is ready to cast off.”
I thanked Chester for the tour, even though he didn’t deserve the courtesy, but I was taught to always be polite, even to scumbags like him.
As I stepped off Chester’s bus, I bumped into someone coming the other way. It was Peter, with a suitcase in each hand and a bag tucked under each arm.
“Excuse me,” I said.
“Oh, sorry,” said Peter, before realizing who he was talking to. Peter’s limo was parked alongside the bus. His driver stood by the open trunk, chuckling under his pulled-down cap.
Peter and I froze, and stared at one another. A long, uncomfortable few seconds passed. Then I stepped clear of the door, as we continued gazing at each other in silence. I considered making a snide remark of some kind, but not wanting to be the first one to speak, I simply turned and walked back to Alan’s bus.
Standing in the doorway, I couldn’t resist one last look at Peter. Toting his baggage, he charged the narrow door of Chester’s bus, only to crash into the door frame. Suitcases tumbled to the ground—and so did Peter. Brushing himself off, he caught me grinning at him. I promptly erased my smile, turned up my nose, then vanished into the yellow bus.
Now, about Alan’s bus:
The first thing I noticed was the orange shag carpeting. The paneling on the walls must have been salvaged from the set of the Brady Bunch. The kitchen was the same vintage: an avocado-colored oven under an orange countertop. A chrome napkin holder from a Doo-wop diner sat on a retro-boomerang, Formica table.
On the plus side, the bus was well equipped. It had a decent-sized refrigerator, a microwave oven, and adequate closet space.
“I know what you’re thinking,” said Alan, “but everything works.”
“Where are the (gulp) facilities,” I asked.
“Shower and commode are in here.” He slid open a pocket door. I breathed a sigh of relief to find an up-to-date lavatory.
“Look in there,” Alan said, pointing to a locked cabinet over the kitchen counter. “I think you’ll like what you see.”
After moving a green Lava Lamp aside, I turned the key and opened the cupboard door. Inside was the biggest, classic movie disc collection I had ever seen. It had all my favorites: Casablanca, Some Like It Hot, Mr. Smith Goes To Washington. I was in heaven!
“And what do you watch these on,” I asked, “a portable TV with rabbit ears?”
Alan slid open a wide door that separated the rear half of the bus. “Voilà!” said Alan. “Welcome to . . . The Lounge.”
Beyond the door was a stylish, contemporary room right out of Modern Home Magazine. Recessed lighting, soft leather recliners; a perfectly relaxing retreat. Then Alan flipped a wall switch, and up from the floor rose a full media center, complete with a big-screen TV.
“So,” I said, “you’re a citizen of the 21st century after all.”
“And now,” said Alan, waving his arms like a magician, “the pièce de résistance.”
He flipped another switch. Motorized shades blacked out the windows, and the lights slowly dimmed. As the room faded into darkness, the ceiling magically transformed into a beautiful, night sky. I gazed up into an endless midnight, sprinkled with a thousand twinkling stars. The effect was breathtaking! The stars appeared light-years away. I reached up, but couldn’t feel the ceiling that I knew was there.
“Pretty cool, huh?” he said.
I was blown away. Not only was I in heaven, but I could even look up at it!
“Two minutes!” shouted a man wearing headphones, out our windshield.
Alan and I took our seats up front, and waited for our cue, that the show was ready to resume.
The GPS device on our dashboard lit up as we sat down. A name was etched across the top of it.
“I’m Marge,” it said, in a pleasant, female voice, “I will be your guide for the next ten days.”
“Alright, you!” said Alan, firmly. “Let’s get one thing clear right now: I’m the boss on my bus.”
“Well, well,” said Marge. “Looks like somebody got up on the wrong side of the bed this morning.”
“It’s just that I’m not happy with how things are going so far, and I won’t stand for being ordered around by a computer!”
“Don’t get snippy with me, buster, or I’ll guide you right off a cliff!”
“Better do what she says,” I advised Alan.
“I suppose you’re right,” he said, tilting the GPS screen toward him, “but you better not be showing any favoritism toward my opponent!”
“On the contrary,” replied Marge, “I’m here to see that you each get an even break. A close race helps to boost ratings.”
“Great!” said Alan. “A profit-motivated app.”
A map flashed onto Marge’s screen. “Here’s your destination for today,” she said.
Our goal was Bravo, New Mexico. The route was clearly indicated.
“You’ve got about 700 miles to cover. The entire length of the Interstate has been closed to traffic, so there won’t be any other cars on the road.”
I looked out my window and saw Breadcrust behind us in the side mirror, addressing the audience: “Okay! Let’s get started, shall we? The first leg of this competition will be a simple race to a finish line. The first bus to reach its destination wins a trophy and a kiss from Miss Race For The White House. But above all, the winner will have proved himself a candidate with determination—a quality essential for serving in our nation’s highest office.”
Breadcrust walked to the front of the stage. “Gentleman,” he said, “start your engines!”
To give the proceedings some credibility, an elderly, Supreme Court justice was brought on stage to start the race. The frail judge struggled with the weight of a starting pistol as he aimed it over his head.
The frenzied crowd was on its feet.
Marge beeped. “Get ready,” she said. “As soon as you hear the gunshot, hit the gas!”
Chester revved his 560-horsepower diesel engine. The roar could be heard for miles. Alan put his fingers in his ears, and gestured for Chester to open his window.
“Trying to impress the girls?” shouted Alan to Chester.
“Just giving the crowd what it wants,” Chester shouted back, over his thundering engine.
“The crowd is probably deaf thanks to you. That bus is a menace to public health.”
“At least mine doesn’t run on Flower Power.”
As Chester closed his window, I saw Peter sitting in the passenger seat. We exchanged glances.
“Ten seconds!” shouted the phone-headed man, moving off to one side.
Alan pulled the lever to shut the folding door. “Better buckle up, Amy,” he said.
“Of course,” I said. “But I’m not expecting you to break the land speed record in this thing.”
“Five seconds!”
Alan smiled at me, then pressed a button under the steering column. The doors to the emergency exit at the rear of the bus opened up, revealing three large rocket engines!
“Two!”
“Ready to singe a few eyebrows?” said Alan.
“One!”
Bang!
Alan floored it!
I was immediately pinned against my seat, as flames roared out of the rear engines. My side mirror showed white smoke billowing out the back.
“Woo-hoo!” yelled Alan. “Eat my dust, Chester, you bloody thief!”
Through the smoke, I could just make out Chester, well behind us, shaking his fist. On stage, Breadcrust helped the frail, old judge to his feet, after collapsing from the recoil of the pistol.
700 miles away awaited an almost certain first-leg victory.
The game was afoot!