Political Science 101

Chapter Seventy-Six

RAY DOYLE sat, surprisingly nervous, in the "Green Room" where he flipped through note cards with talking points and go-to rebuttals which he would be using in the thirty short minutes for his first (and likely only) campaign debate with his Democrat and Republican opponents. The room itself was a make-shift space with a mirror and desk in a locker room at the gymnasium of Stephens College in Columbia, Missouri where the debate would be taking place. It smelled like a locker room, including the smell of cleaner and disinfectant, aimed at making it not smell like a locker room, but it was still a locker room.

As he sat there, focusing seemed impossible, no matter how hard he tried. Because the more he read through the issues and answers written on his notecards, it bothered him that only about half of the information he would be using was his own knowledge, opinions, and viewpoints. The rest was information given to him — perspectives and opinions that were studied, polled, and manipulated to in order to appeal to as many voters as possible. And it didn't matter if these were or were not his actual opinions. He was instructed to have those opinions by a panel of experts who claimed to have their figurative fingers on the metaphorical pulse of the Missouri electorate.

"A politician's stated opinions do not reflect his morals or viewpoints; they merely reflect the perspectives that will best get him/her elected," wrote Mitch Bradley in his book, Politics of Poison. Ray had recently reread Mitch's book — again — and was really beginning to truly understand how much political insight and genius was in the mind of his former best friend.

Ray was in a longstanding battle with himself — a crisis of conscience. He wasn't even sure who he was anymore, how much of him was authentic, and how much of him was crafted and fabricated by his political team of "experts."

Was he real, or was he fake?

What was fake about him? Or, even worse, what was real? Was the real person the man he used to be? Because it seemed as though this man did not exist anymore. Instead, he was replaced by this politically researched ideal mold of a candidate. So, since that's who Ray was in front of the cameras (and therefore was the man perceived by the American people), was this the real Ray Doyle now?

Everyone carries two people: The person on the inside — in the heart, in the mind, in the soul — who only the individual knows; and the person on the outside — in words, in deeds, in choices — who the world knows.

Every person has their Jekyll; every person has their Hyde.

What is the real person? Who is the real person? Is the person on the inside more real than the person on the outside? Kurt Vonnegut once wrote, "We are what we pretend to be, so we must be careful about what we pretend to be." No one sees the person on the inside — the person in the mind, in the heart, in the soul — except when that internal individual manifests into an outward action or behavior. But when a person's outward behavior is carefully crafted to fit a mold, portray an image, and/or emanate a specific message — this is the individual perceived by the observing individuals. So, is this the real person because this is the person operating within the context of reality rather than within the confines of the person's mind? Abstract concepts like morals and values are internal attributes, and are thus never seen on the outside until they either manifest into action or manifest into betrayal.

So what is real? Is the real person the one on the inside — in the heart, in the mind, in the soul?

Or is the real person the one on the outside, walking step-by-step through the context of our observable and interactive reality?

Ray smiled. This string of daydreaming reminded him of the conversations he used to have with Mitch after several helpings of

However, when logic didn't help, Ray defaulted to his emotions. And he knew for a fact that he didn't feel real. He felt forged; he felt false; he felt fake. He felt bogus, artificial, inauthentic, mass-produced, and generic. No one knew who he really was anymore; perhaps, not even Ray. If a man lives long enough, does the lie become the truth? Does the fiction become the fact? Is life based on reality, or is life based on the perception of reality? Because none of his life felt real — but then again, that didn't necessarily mean it wasn't.

He took a breath and flipped through his notecards once again, each card populated with his specifically researched, specifically polled, specifically worded stances on each key issue. It didn't matter that some of these points differed from his own actual personal views. These were his political views — the views which would enable him to keep his job. So, for the moment, these were his real opinions and viewpoints.

"Hey there," a voice said from the doorway of the room. Ray hadn't heard the door open, but looked up to see his campaign manager, Bernie, poking his head in the cranium-sized gap between the open door and the doorframe. "You about ready?" he asked in a chipper tone which sounded genuinely fabricated, but then again, that was how Bernie sounded all the time, so perhaps his genuinely fabricated voice was his real voice — or was it? He opened the door further and stepped his pudgy mid-fifties frame into the Mitch's "Green Room" (locker room) and sat down in a chair near the corner of the room.

Ray painted a brief smile across his face.

"Okay, listen," Bernie began, talking at a very caffeinated pace, "as the Independent, you'll be standing at the center podium. The Republican will be on your left and the Democrat will be on your right.

"Ha," Ray chuckled, "that seems backwards." Then again, everything about, well, everything seemed backwards.

"Well," Bernie said, "it'll look right to the viewers. The way the viewers will see it, you'll be in the center with the Democrat on the left and the Republican on the right."

"Ah, yes, of course," he said, reminding himself that real, in this context, was the way he appeared, not who he was within his own context of himself.

"Indeed," Bernie said, looking down at the contents of a manila folder in his grasp. "Okay, so, you lead in the polls but the two of them will probably end up at each other's throats since, you know, they're a Republican and a Democrat. But they'll both target you since you lead in the polls."

Ray wondered momentarily if Bernie saying, "you lead in the polls," twice in once sentence was deliberate. "I see," Ray said.

"Remember," Bernie continued, "our campaign strategy is to not be on the attack. Let them do that. Let them dig their graves. Let them be the argumentative assholes. You want to look like the nice, calm, level-headed, smart guy of compromise who doesn't need to attack to be heard. Remember that, okay?"

"Understood," Ray said in a voice which relayed his comprehension while also trying not to be rude and appeasing, considering he was already fully-aware of this debate strategy.

"Okay, good luck," Bernie said, getting up and wobbling his pudgy frame toward the door.

"Where is this being broadcast?" Ray asked to the back of Bernie's bulbous head.

"State-wide," Bernie replied from the doorway without turning around, closing the door behind him.

Ray took deep breath. He hadn't yet decided if he was nervous or not.