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Authors: Janet Tashjian

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But as I looked across the field to the people pulling up tents and heading back to their homes across the country, I felt one thing—gratitude. We'd created something important, something real. When a young guy with a giant backpack spotted me and flashed a peace sign, I realized I was getting back more from the campaign than I was giving.
That thought almost offset the fact that we were being sabotaged, big time.
JUNE:
ON THE ROAD—AGAIN
Our tour bus looked more like it belonged to a rock band than a presidential campaign. CDs, soda cans, comic books, makeup, and videogames littered the aisles. The mess—and how many possessions they represented—drove me out of my mind. After lots of nagging and impassioned pleas, I finally gave up.
72
Beth didn't seem to notice.
What she did notice, however, was Simon's increasing popularity with the media. We all were happy with receiving mainstream coverage, but articles comparing Simon to Hugh Grant or describing Lisa as a “luscious lipstick lesbian” were not the kind of attention the campaign needed.
I looked out the bus window just in time to see a skein of Canada geese migrating in echelon formation. Traveling such distances is an enormous physical strain on the birds, but flying in a V lets them take advantage of the air from the bird in front of them. No such luck for the lead bird who has to wait for another in the flock to fly up and relieve him. Unfortunately, there was no such respite for me. The responsibility of
guiding the rest of us to our destination sometimes seemed overwhelming and impossible.
Janine had joined us on the Albuquerque-to-Cheyenne leg, bringing along her videocamera to document our campaign. She ran down the aisle of the bus and collapsed into laughter next to me.
“Simon's the best!” she said. “He's singing ‘wasted away again in my gorilla suit' at the top of his lungs.”
“Everyone on the planet knows it's Margaritaville,” I said. “I think it's all a giant put-on.”
“Oh, come on.”
Good old Janine, giving everyone the benefit of the doubt.
“He's flying back to Boston after today's speech,” she said. “We're riding to the airport together.”
“I thought you were staying?”
“Brady's acting up at the kennel. I've got to get back.”
“And Simon?”
Janine explained that he had to check in with his professor at Harvard.
I had been counting the days till Janine arrived, but now Beth was the one who would be around. Conflicting thoughts ricocheted through my head like hormonal pinballs. Beth/ Janine? Janine/Beth? I told myself I was being ridiculous. I was running for president; I had more important things to think about. Of course that didn't stop me from fixating on the relationship dilemma all day.
When we stopped at a sandwich shop in Santa Fe before the rally, I was shocked at how many supporters arrived carrying
LARRY/BETH signs and wearing Peace Party buttons. Same thing at the auditorium. Then it dawned on me.
“Flash mobs,” I told Beth. “They're all on their cell phones.”
Sure enough, hundreds of kids were using their phones' text capabilities to send each other messages on our whereabouts.
Simon reached the same conclusion. “People wonder how Prince Harry goes to buy a pair of shoes and there are suddenly a hundred screaming teenage girls at the store within minutes. Texting.”
“So this is good, right?” Beth asked.
“If you don't mind the whole celebrity business.”
73
I took the stage.
Top Ten Reasons to Vote for Me for President
1.
Every workplace will have mandated recess. How can anyone be expected to make good decisions if you don't spend any time outdoors?
2.
Lobbyists will be outlawed. Corporations will be given tax credits equal to the amount of time and effort spent on mentoring.
3.
No candidate can spend more than ten million dollars to get elected—no loopholes, no exceptions. Every candidate will be given the same access to television advertising free of charge.
4.
World opinion does matter. I vow to work with the governments of other countries for solutions that make sense for all of us.
5.
If kids under eighteen can't vote, why do they have to pay taxes? From now on, people who don't get to vote don't have to pay.
6.
Last time I checked, the airwaves belonged to the people, right? The government will no longer underwrite hatemongers who stir up negativity on their radio talk shows.
7.
Ten percent of the defense budget will be spent on projects for peace.
8.
To eliminate loopholes in the tax laws, all citizens pay a flat tax of 17 percent. Tax refunds are given only for time spent in community service.
9.
Any country with human rights violations cannot do business with any U.S. corporation. No exceptions.
10.
Since they're getting free advertising, clothing companies with logos must pay people to wear their clothes.
My speech was followed by a terrific roar.
74
Afterward, I shook hands with hundreds of students at the voter registration table. A group of Radical Cheerleaders kept up the momentum.
“It's time to clean house,” a young woman told me. “We need to get back to basics.”
“Don't let them shut you up,” a guy my age shouted. “Keep up the good work!”
I talked to several more people before hiding behind some placards to catch Simon and Beth's goodbye. I was happy to see there was much less groping than there'd been six months ago when I first saw them together.
When I turned around, Janine was watching me watching them. The sadness in her eyes pinched me with guilt.
“Call me,” she said. “Let me know how it goes in Wyoming.”
“You've been amazing,” I said. “I wish you could stay.”
“Yeah, I'll bet.” She hugged me goodbye and climbed into the volunteer's car with Simon.
I was loading the bus when someone came up behind me and covered my eyes. “Guess who?”
There was only one person who insisted on playing so many guessing games with me. “Peter?”
“Surprise!” He held up his garment bag. “Billy picked me up during your speech. I got sick of being at headquarters, wanted to hit the road for a few days and catch up on some work with you.”
Was this a cosmic practical joke? Beth was finally free for the night and Peter was here to work?
Peter dropped his bag when he saw the inside of the bus. “Josh, this isn't professional!”
I told him I'd given up trying to organize the troops. He took over, handing out trash bags and paper towels. Maybe he should be our candidate.
 
 
At seven o'clock the next morning, Peter sat on the edge of my bed, shaking me awake.
“It's a good thing you're already lying down.”
I buried myself deeper into my pillow. “What is it—another lottery ticket?”
“That was peanuts compared to this. You ready?”
I sat up on my elbows, as ready as a person who's slept only four hours a night for three months can be.
“Because of the bloggers and the flash mobs, yesterday's speech is everywhere.”
“Good.”
“People all across the country are demanding change, demanding answers,” he said.
“It's about time.”
“They're also demanding a twenty-eighth amendment.”
“To lower the voting age to sixteen? People have been working on that for years.”
“No. To change the minimum age that a person can run for president from thirty-five to eighteen.”
“Get OUT of here!” I catapulted myself from the bed, suddenly charged with the pressure of 202 million eligible voters.
“Not because of me?”
“Of COURSE because of you! What do you think?”
“It'll never get through the House. It's not in their interest to pass it.”
“Every senator and congressperson's phone is ringing off the hook. Their teenage constituents are demanding it.”
I climbed back into bed. “This will blow over by tomorrow.”
“Kids are involved, kids are voting. The people in Washington finally have to answer to them.”
“It needs to be ratified by two-thirds of the Senate and House, then three-quarters of the state legislatures,”
75
I said.
“That'll never happen by November,” Peter responded.
“Never in a million years,” I agreed.
Still, the gravity of the situation hit me like a truckload of cement. Not only was someone proposing an amendment to the Constitution, they were doing it because of us. But more important—much more—if the amendment passed in a reasonable amount of time, I could legally run. And if I could
run,
it was statistically possible that I could
win.
I ran to the bathroom, missed the toilet, and threw up all over the tiled floor.
I thankfully cleaned up the mess before Beth walked in.
“How'd you manage without Simon last night?” I asked.
“Josh, don't be a dope.”
But when Peter told her about the amendment, Beth went from wisecracking to catatonic within seconds. “Oh my God, oh my God.” She looked me in the eyes. “Is it wrong if I tell you I don't want it to pass?”
“No, it's not wrong. It's honest.” I turned away from her gaze. (Not because I had just thrown up all over myself, but because of what I was going to say next.)
“Should we withdraw?”
“We've got so many people depending on us,” Beth said. “But forget it. The amendment will never happen.”
“It'll die a quiet death. It was a nice gesture, though.”
I washed up, then sat on the bed while Peter brewed coffee in the tiny pot on the desk. Beth stood in front of the television, transfixed by the image on the screen. The we-interrupt-your-regularly-scheduled-program clip showed thousands of teenagers at the Capitol waving signs and banners.
WE WANT A SAY IN THINGS.
VOTE FOR AMENDMENT 28 OR YOU WON'T GET MY VOTE NEXT ELECTION.
WE WANT OUR GOVERNMENT BACK!
“This is more than a flash mob,” I said.
“Nothing flashy about them,” Peter added. “They're organized and articulate.”
I was screwed.
JULY/AUGUST:
CONVENTION SEASON
Logistically, Boston would have been the easiest city for the first annual Peace Party Convention, but it was already hosting the Democratic National Convention during the last week of July. So we moved southeast just a bit and held ours on the beach in Plymouth near the site where the Pilgrims first landed.
76
I tried to block out the fact that the Sagamore Bridge was only a few miles away.
The normal pomp and circumstance of such an event didn't apply to our “Peace Party Party,” which actually ended up more like a rave than a national political convention. Janine created amazing compilation CDs—each song bringing cheers from the crowd and building on the song before it. We had invited all the Larry/Beth volunteers and told them to bring their friends. Plus, every Peace Party candidate from across the country was in attendance. The crowd spilled out from under several tents onto the beach.
“I'm guessing four thousand people,” Beth said. “It's incredible.”
I hated to interrupt the festivities with my “acceptance” speech, but knew it had to be done. “Testing one, two … testing.”
I spoke about the issues we'd been focusing on for months, but mostly I thanked all these committed, passionate people for their time and support.
They
were the ones changing the world, and they knew it too.
Four thousand people—give or take—cheered and partied into the night.
 
 
A few days later, Beth and I decided to sneak into the Democratic National Convention downtown to check out some of the competition.
It was as radically different from ours as you could get.
How are you supposed to believe a party that says it's for the people, when its national convention is sponsored by corporations?
The Fleet Center showcased so many corporate logos, you'd think the Democrats were playing professional sports.
77
In my mind, I ran through the speech I'd given a few nights before:
I don't want to vote for a candidate who's endorsed by a corporation, do you? I want to vote for someone who's
fighting
corporate greed, not sucking up to it.
The nametags might as well have read HELLO, MY NAME
IS_______ , CORPORATE LACKEY AND PUPPET FOR_______.
______________
FILL IN THE BLANK. But weren't conventions created so delegates could come together and discuss ways to help
constituents
? (Or was I still being naive?)
Of course, the Republicans were just as bad. I'd read about then-Majority Whip Tom DeLay's blatant pimping at the Republican National Convention in 2000. He didn't even try to hide the fact that he was offering special-interest lobbyists different “packages,” charging from fifteen to a hundred thousand dollars for private meetings with the powers that be. It used to be that when politicians sold the public down the river it was behind closed doors. Now they were screwing us right before our eyes. All I could think of was Shemp from the Three Stooges going “nyaaah, nyaaah!” to the guys who chased him around the warehouse.
78
“Do they think we're blind?” Beth asked. “Or just incredibly stupid?”
“This is what we get when only a handful of people vote. We're paying the price for years of inaction. It just means more work now, that's all.”
“You're such an optimist. People don't give up this kind of power without a fight.”
We took our seats with the Massachusetts delegates, flashing passes two ex-Democratic interns had given us. The lineup of speakers was about as interesting as widgets going by on a conveyor belt.
“God, they're insufferable. I feel like I'm in a death chamber being smothered with rhetoric gas,” I said.
Beth agreed. “I'm imagining them with tattoos and nipple rings underneath their suits. It's the only way I can bear it.”
We got into an animated discussion about the electoral college with the guy sitting next to us. I told him that our rich, white, land-owning founding fathers hadn't trusted blacks, women, the poor, or the young enough to let them vote, so they set up the current system.
79
He said many people didn't go to the polls on election day because they already knew how their state's electoral votes would be cast. Beth argued that even though the system no longer worked, it would never be repealed because of the way it favored smaller states. Our private discussion was the only interesting part of the afternoon.
It was just a matter of time before our enthusiasm attracted a security person. When he realized who Beth and I were, he tried to escort us out.
“We have passes,” I said. “And every right to be here.”
“We're not here to speak,” Beth added. “Just to listen.”
“Out!” The guard summoned four others to usher us toward the exist.
80
Was the system so afraid of dissenting opinions that they'd violate someone's civil rights? It suddenly became not
only necessary but important to stay. Beth and I dug our heels in and grabbed the rail for support. We kicked; we screamed.
We were arrested.
81
The next day, our photos graced the front page of every major newspaper.
Unfortunately, they were mug shots.
 
 
The charges against Beth and me for trespassing at the Democratic National Convention had been dropped after much public outcry from the country's teens. Kids were getting more vocal and organized, placing pressure on their representatives in Washington to approve the Twenty-eighth Amendment. Both the Democratic and Republican National Committees filed briefs with the U.S. Supreme Court decrying the illegitimacy of my campaign.
82
None of the legal brouhaha interested me; as far as I was concerned, it had nothing to do with the issues at hand.
The media all but canonized the Democratic candidate after he won his party's nomination, and although the president still enjoyed a favorable approval rating, the pundits forecasted a real fight between them.
During the hottest days of summer, Tim and I pretty much had headquarters to ourselves while the other staffers took
the plum outside assignments. We'd work on the campaign, then cruise the Web for fun. (Tim's favorite hobby? Hacking onto the waiting list for the new Sony Play Station, then adding his friends' names to the top of the list.) I also used the time to catch up on my much-neglected ethology reading. The dog-eat-dog world of politics only fueled my interest in the animal kingdom.
One morning I was sitting alone reading and eating a bowl of raspberries when Beth shuffled into the office. The strap of her bathing suit peeked out from underneath her shirt. She held out the current
People
magazine announcing their “50 Most Beautiful People in the World.”
“I can almost empathize with the whole celebrity-worship thing you had going.” She turned to page fifty-seven—a full-color photo of Simon flashing a brilliant smile and six-pack abs.
“I knew they had talked to him,” she said, “but did he have to pose with no shirt on?”
I held the magazine up to the light, squinting at the rippled muscles on the page. “Did they airbrush this?”
She shook her head. “No, that's all him.”
I had to admit, the guy looked good.
“This is everything we're against,” Beth said. “I'm so embarrassed.”
“I know. Superficial and degrading.”
83
She tossed it into the trash. “You want to go to the beach?”
I threw my book in my bag and headed to Crane's with Beth.
I couldn't remember how long it had been since I'd had a day to do absolutely nothing. The sand, the sun, and the waves seemed miraculous—here to be enjoyed with no fuss or fanfare. I'd been working such long hours I'd forgotten to schedule time for what connected me most to my life—nature. As Beth and I dove into the surf, I thought about my platform point suggesting every citizen spend a few hours a day outside. Was it dumb to think the world might have many fewer problems that way? Hey, it worked for Thoreau.
Tomorrow Peter, Simon, Beth, and I would fly to Michigan and Illinois for more campaigning, but for now I covered my face with my baseball cap—possession #57—and let myself fall asleep in the sunshine.
 
 
When we returned to our neighborhood that evening, the familiar sight of camera crew and reporters lined the street.
“What now?” I asked. “Can't we take a day off?”
But as I looked more closely, I saw Simon posing on the front lawn of Beth's parents' house.
“Is that a cricket bat?” I asked.
Beth cradled her head in her hands. “He's going to be unbearable.”
! told her she could stay at my house, and she looked like she was considering it.
84
“No, I have to deal with this sooner or later.” She got out of the car and cut through my yard to avoid the masses.
During the campaign, I'd seen firsthand how much Beth and Simon cared for each other. But I knew Beth well enough to know the scale of the relationship was now tipping toward the negative.
The next morning, the four of us left for the airport before dawn. When I checked out Simon and Beth at the ticket counter, they looked pensive and subdued.
 
 
Three days, thirty stops. By the time we finished supporting a Peace Party candidate at a hospice in Ann Arbor, emotions were frayed. When our motel lost the reservation to Beth and Simon's room, Simon launched into an embarrassing tirade. He and Beth eventually found a room at a bed and breakfast a few blocks away. While Peter ordered takeout, I checked our Web site.
Although the campaign's momentum defied anyone's expectations—especially most adults'—there were plenty of people eager to share their opposing views on our bulletin boards. I welcomed the chance to discuss the issues but was hurt when some people suggested that criticizing our country was unpatriotic. I remembered a Woody Guthrie tape my mother had played over and over in the car when I was young.
“This land is your land. This land is my land … .”
She used to sing it with gusto as I bounced in my car seat. I still couldn't hear that song without getting a lump in my throat, and not just from the
memories of my mom. I loved this country from the ground up—literally—and was disappointed others didn't realize my actions and words were rooted in devotion.
When I checked the e-mail, I discovered that betagold had gotten ahold of my personal e-mail address.
WELL, LARRY, I WAS GETTING BORED WITH THE WEB SITE AND THOUGHT I'D CONTACT YOU DIRECTLY HOW'S IT GOING ON THE CAMPAIGN TRAIL? ARE PEOPLE IN THE MIDWEST AS NICE AS THEY SAY?
I scrolled down, in no mood for betagold's chitchat.
THIS IS A WARNING, LARRY. PLEASE TAKE ME SERIOUSLY. YOU'RE IN OVER YOUR HEAD. WITHDRAW BEFORE YOU GET HURT I'M ONLY TRYING TO HELP YOU. YOUR PAL, BETAGOLD
The e-mail confused me. Was this a threat, or was she trying to warn me? Was she deflecting attention away from herself? And how did she get my new e-mail address? I called Tim back at headquarters.
“This is turning into a geek tragedy,” he said. “I have no idea how she's doing this. But have no fear: Lord High Fixer is here.”
By the time I hung up, Tim assured me he'd get to the bottom of things.
Late that night, I was awakened by a key turning in the motel room door. Like an animal on alert, I jumped out of bed, full of the same fear I'd had that night in Boulder.
Peter bounded into the room instead.
“I've been in the restaurant watching the news,” he said. “You'll never guess.”
I begged him just to tell me.
He shook his head no. “Come on, guess.”
“Okay, let's see. The
Enquirer
just hit the stands and I'm a gay albino with ties to the Mafia?”
“Very funny. Are you ready?”
Please don't let this be too mean-spirited. Please let it be something that won't derail us permanently.
“The Greens and the Reform candidates are throwing in the towel. They're telling their followers to support us instead.”
“What?!”
“They've been trailing us in the polls since the primaries. They've used up all their resources. Do you know what this means? Probably another three or four percentage points!”

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