Chapter Four
SIXTEEN YEARS LATER…
It was just another one of those days in the plaza. Dozens if not hundreds of busy college students were scurrying off from class to class, pondering what outfit they’ll wear later that evening at the night club, or nervously anticipating their next pop quiz in a class they avoided all semester. This was not an uncommon sight on campus, except, the plaza was now saturated with brightly colored shirts, posters, buttons, and screaming babies.
It was campaign season on campus, and the politicians-in-training were out in full force, pushing their agendas, and struggling to win the support of their classmates for nice-sounding job titles and what precious little power their Student Government is granted by the school’s administration.
Unfortunately for the politicos, they were campaigning in the dead heat of a spring day in this southern college town. Even the skinnier, good-looking candidates struggled to avoid unsightly perspiration as they fight, rather futilely, for the attention of their fellow, self-absorbed friends and classmates. Every once in a while, though, their persistence paid off by catching the fleeting interest of a would-be voter.
A cute little brunette popped up and down, and in so doing got a heavy-set, nerdy, sort of fellow to slow down...
“HI! MY NAME is Dawn Jennings,” the brunette said briskly as she stuck out her hand. “Did you know the Student Government elections are tomorrow?!?” Dawn Jennings asked, seeking his approval to continue the conversation.
“Well,” the guy said nonchalantly as he shook her hand, “no, not really. Is it that time again? What are the party names this time?” After all, it was widely known that every election bring out new political parties, even if they have the same behind them – it was a tactic to confuse voters and to avoid the baggage of previous group’s unpopularity.
“Well,” she said, smiling honestly, “I am a sophomore senate candidate with the Gator Party.” Dawn took off her sunglasses, exposing her sunburned face, and placed them on top of her head. “There’s also the Campus party, but I don’t see their candidate out here.”
With a shrug, and a devilish grin, the guy said, “Alright, tell me your top prior-” just before a gush of wind caught everyone’s attention. The guy’s glance flew over to the Campus Party campaign desk, where its banner came undone. The banner fell on top of the hapless desk jockeys, and made a mess of their papers. A voter carrying several cups of Starbucks in her hand slid on campaign literature, sending coffee out into the crowd.
“Bwahahaha!” came out of nowhere, quite unexpectedly, but not surprisingly, given the spectacle that just occurred.
A similar, out of sight individual yelled “CUT!”
AND WITH A familiar ring, the crowd relaxed, and the film crew revealed themselves from their duck blind. The director marched right up to the source of the outburst and began yelling at the actor. The disinterested male voter, on the other hand, wiped his forehead of sweat and demanded for makeup as he made his way out to toward the film crew, stationed across the campus street near a musical auditorium.
As someone he knew walked by, he grabbed him by the elbow. “Do we really need to be “on location” to do this filming? Why can’t it be all-digital?” he asked, with the earnest plea in his voice of a man clearly not accustomed to the ultra-warm climate of the South.
“I’m afraid so Roger,” the man said with a laugh, “I wanted to get the full effect of the weather down here. And besides, shooting in digital would be a costly waste of special effects in a movie that requires little to none.” The man then walked off, using the script in his hand as a fan to cool down his short salt-pepper beard. Even a Southerner cannot deny the uncomfortable weather.
The southerner made his way to the director, who smiled at him and said, “Mike! How’s it going? What do you think of this scene so far?”
“It’s going well, I think. The actor who plays Ben is sweating too much, and complains about the humidity, but like the other scenes we’ve done, it seems like we are keeping true to both the novel I wrote and the memories I have of this University.”
“I’m glad to hear it. Let’s just hope your several million readers think we are staying true to your vision, and tell all their friends,” the director said as patted his old friend on the back. He raised his voice, addressing himself to the film crew in saying, “The break’s over people! We’ve got a film to make!”
MICHAEL JEFFREY ADAMS, a man in his late thirties, moved aside, and nearly crashed into a middle-aged Italian American guy that was jogging past the plaza. Mike could have sworn he had seen that individual before, but shrugged the thought off.
As the crew resumed filming, he decided to make a beeline for the designated press tent, which was closer to the main library than the film’s location. A conscientious decision, Mike thought, which turned out to be a good one. It’s been hard enough to keep the cast focused without the paparazzi hounding them for gossip about me and the others working on the project.
He shook his head with a sigh, mentally preparing for the interview awaiting him. A Time magazine exclusive exposé on the “man behind the party,” as they’re calling Mike. Life certainly has been a whirl-wind for him in these last few months. He’d become a best-selling author, and quickly settled a movie deal. The phrase “selling like hotcakes” didn’t even begin to describe it. Apparently, his story of shady deal-making on a small southern college campus resonated like nothing else could these days.
And now he’s off to do an interview about this success, even though he cannot even explain it to himself, much less an eager public. After straightening himself up, wiping sweat off his brow, and running his fingers through his hair, he entered the press tent and was led to a small stage that was set up for him. He looked out at a small crowd of hot and limp looking reporters – local and national. He pointed at the first hand he saw stretched out.
“Your debut novel, ‘A True Gator Party,’ has already sold a staggering 2 million copies and 5 million digital downloads in the United States and the Euro-zone and you’ve written the screenplay. Now the movie is underway and filming right here on location in northern Florida. Where do you think this success is coming from?” inquired Time reporter Ashley Woodard, a political report more known for piercing through the daily spin of Washington.
Time made a good choice with Ashley. Maybe she’ll make this media frenzy calm down and act serious, Mike thought. He said, however, “I really can’t say for sure, Ashley. I believe my book speaks to a lot of the thoughts we have about Student Governments on college campuses. Campus politics can really be the darkest area of governing – it’s cute like the high school version, easily dismissed for its lack of powers, and yet can be very useful and impactful, like the real thing.”
After taking a sip of his favorite drink, Diet Dr. Pepper, Mike resumed his explanation. “Everyone has their suspicions about what makes these young politicians tick, and how exactly they got into their positions of authority in the first place. I wrote “A True Gator Party” to play up the common stereotypes, satirizing them, while at the same time acknowledging the well-known shadiness and darker side of things.”
Without even glancing at her notes, the pretty blonde asked, “Now, isn’t it true that you were the consummate insider? That you were just as involved as anyone else in what went on? You even lead one of the campaign efforts, a so-called New Democracy party?”
Lifting his eyebrows high and with a wide smile, Mike answered, “I haven’t been called that in years. Of course, it is all a matter of perspective on things, Ashley. This campus was like a haunted house of mirrors. You could be an intimate member of the inner Circle and yet far removed from it at the same time. That was probably the worst possible conception about Student Government. Even those of us who knew all the rules in the playbook could be out-maneuvered by those greedy enough and ambitious enough to guide themselves to power.”
Expanding his chest some and taking in all the reporters in the roo
m, Mike continued, “In one of my more well-publicized efforts, I sought a new democracy for the silent majority on campus – those who so desperately wanted – nay, demanded – more from student leaders and never got anything different. Innovation and substance had been ignored. Safe, non-controversial, recycled old positions held sway every semester and nothing ever changed. My effort did improve the platforms ideas each side ran in the next election cycle. But, unlike my alter ego, Ben Burns, I did what I thought was right in, not what was politically safe.”
“It certainly looks that way Mike,” Ashley said with a sly look on her face. “You’ve spent years working on behalf of others wanting an advocate on Capitol Hill, only to turn around and find a members’ only pin on your lapel.”
“Yes, I admit that a few years back I became one of “them” – a member of Congress. But I left after my first term, Miss Woodard. I couldn’t stand the stunning lack of principle and the mad, constant pandering for campaign contributions. It felt like Student Government all over again, except a lot less fun and with fewer like-minded friends to help me.”
“A follow-up question,” she yelled out, turning the press gathering into her own private interview, “You spent almost a long time writing this book. Did you have “ghost writers” helping you with the initial manuscript?”
“Absolutely not, Ashley! I knew if “A True Gator Party” was going to work, it’d have to be a fictional account on experiences only I felt I knew well enough to make fun of. Besides, I think hiring researchers and “ghost writers” as you call them, detracts from the fun adventure I had writing my book. The essence of the novel is about the characters, how they cope with this living thing they created, this monster of a beast; campus politics and student government ensnared all their extracurricular energy. As long as I made a fair representation of my milieu, the story takes care of the rest.”
In his gaze, he included all of the reporters. With a wipe of his forehead and a sip of his drink, he continued. “But yes, it did take me quite a while to write the initial draft. I needed to find my own… my own voice, if you will, with which to write this story. It had to be authentic, without being documentary. It had to be fun, but detached. Humorous, but with an edge. I spent much of my time nailing down how I would tell the story, not what the story was, or how it would play out on the page.”
“How’s the filming going?” someone else asked.
“It’s going great. I think my director is terrific, and the cast is taking the script to heart. Unfortunately, everything else sticks in this kind of weather, so we are having some interesting challenges to overcome.”
“Why not go all-digital?”
“I’ve been asked that a lot, especially from much of the cast!” Mike quipped. After all, that’s the natural ambiance of Florida – hot and sticky. “What I’ve told the actors is that I just think shooting on location gives them a better feel of how it was like to campaign under the circumstances I remember. Fortunately, much of the story is in-doors, so we will return to the studio at some point to do the rest in sound stages.”
“One more question?” said the movie’s publicist, Deborah Henkley, moving up the stage to stand next to Mike.
“Is it true you’re thinking of doing a sequel?”
“I never say never about things like that. If I can find the time, I’d love to look into putting the same kind of novel together about my time in Congress, to help blow the doors open on a lot of the silliness that happens in downtown Washington. Yet, I also know that writing a good sequel is often hard to do. I’ll only write one if I think it lives up to the standards I set for this first book and it stays true to the characters of the original story.”
“Thank you all for coming, that will be all for now,” Deborah insisted.
As Mike was lead off the stage, reporters continued to throw questions at him and struggled to follow him out of the press tent. Ashley stood still, watching him exit.
FINALLY, THE MEDIA chore is done for the day, he thought. Of course, the bigger press conference is tomorrow, so I’ll just have to tough it out. Mike cleared his head as he returned to the plaza, eager to find out how the rest of the scene was working out. On pure reflex, he pulled out his handkerchief to wipe the sweat already building on his forehead. Now I remember why I left the South, he muttered under his breath.
The crowd was dispersing. All the day players, the extras, and even the principal cast were cleaning up and packing up their things. Given that it wasn’t even three o’clock in the afternoon, Mike knew instantly something was wrong, to be serious enough to shut down his aggressive director.
“Adam!” Mike said loudly, hoping to get the director’s attention. It worked. The tanned, muscular guy turned on a dime, looking for the fuzzy beard attached to the voice that called to him.
“Mike?” They greeted each other with a handshake before Adam asked, “I guess you’re wondering what’s going on?”
“Uh, yeah. It’s not like a Ruppesberger film to stop production in midday. After all, you are the one who reinvented the phrase “burning the midnight oil.” What’s up?” Mike asked jokingly.
“I guess I can be an old slave driver.” Adam gulped down the remains of his Diet Coke and grunted. “Well, this time health concerns overrode the production team.”
“What?”
“Apparently, Nicola Jackson, the girl that plays the Student Court Chief Justice, is allergic to hazelnuts.”
“Hazelnuts?”
“Yup. Miss Jackson had an allergic reaction to the hazelnut coffee that someone has given her from Starbucks. She’d said she needed something to keep her alert in this heavy climate. She was in the middle of the scene where she was quizzing Ben about his political loyalties when she started having trouble breathing and then she just collapsed. It was surreal. Now she’s over in the hospital getting treated. The cast, understandably, grew excited. They couldn’t or wouldn’t calm down so I decided to call of filming for the day. We’ll resume tomorrow morning.
With a sigh of relief, Mike relaxed. “That’s sensible. That will give me time to do some rewrites and prepare for the news conference.”
Adam looked at his friend and thought, “This guy just doesn’t know when to stop the work clock, does he?” Instead, he said, “Mike, listen to me. You’re being silly to give up an afternoon off in your own hometown! Go home. Get some rest. You deserve it. And more importantly, you’re going to need it for tomorrow’s feeding frenzy with our favorite skilled paparazzi.”
Mike shook his head. “Don’t remind me…” he trailed off with a disappointed sigh. This press conference couldn’t be timed any worse. All they will want to talk about are hazelnuts and a book I haven’t even written yet. “The press can be vultures sometimes.”