The Candidate

There was only one rule: don’t open the door.

They were preparing the candidate behind it, and any disturbance could ruin the process and annihilate all of our dreams. They were sculpting every centimeter to be smooth and glossy. They were pouring in meticulously crafted slogans and soporific bromides and smiling cliches that would be deployed so deftly as to appear to be fresh and tasty. They debated for months about the color of the candidate’s eyes and hair and skin; about the candidate’s height and weight and gait and vocal tones.

Committees were formed to design and manufacture the candidate’s wardrobe and biography and quirky, endearing habits. I remember Flemming, who was going bald and aggressively denying that fact, complaining that he had devoted a solid month to generating photographs of the candidate’s childhood. He muttered about the agony of simulating amateurish details—snapshots out of focus, those diabolical red eyes that certain primitive flashes produce—with state of the art, artificially intelligent tools that raced to obliterate the faults he desperately wanted to be plausible and permanent.

I found Brenda from the “soul squad” chain smoking in a stairwell and quietly talking to herself about the moral and spiritual consequences of forging the candidate’s baptism and confirmation documents and photographs. Prescott threatened to quit every night and was the first to show up every morning to pore over every comma and semi-colon in the candidate’s private journal, curated excerpts of which were scheduled to be “leaked” online at regular intervals during primary season.

Buskin bragged about his notoriety as a joke writer for several influencers and at least two of the stars of a blockbuster reality show. He came up with, “I don’t know what you mean, but I agree with you,” for rally use, the prick.