The Competitors

CHAPTER EIGHT

“Rubio? The basketball player? I thought he was out with an injury.”

“No, no. Not Ricky Rubio. Marco Rubio. A senator from Florida.”

Two Republican strategists are going over selections for the Veep Olympics, a series of competitive events which will be used to choose the Republican’s vice-presidential candidate.

“The candidate—Mitt, I mean—has given special instructions that his running mate be the blandest person we can possibly find,” one of them says.

The Veep Olympics, of course, will be rigged so the ultimate winner will be the person they want anyway. Isn’t everything in America rigged in some way? As the two strategists discuss those available, a nondescript middle-aged middle-class white man stands to the side. He raises his hand to speak, but they don’t notice.

“How are they preparing? Have you heard?”

“Sure. Most of them are training. Paul Ryan is furiously chopping down trees in Wisconsin. Chris Christie is playing tennis—none too well, from all reports, but we can’t, er, overlook him. Ricky Rubio—I mean Marco—is swimming off the coast of Florida.”

“But we can’t have those guys! Ryan and Christie especially have too oversized of personalities to be alongside Mitt. They’d overshadow him. This Rubio—yeah, he’s bland, especially for a Latino. But not bland enough! Geez. Can’t we do better?”

They scratch their heads as they scan their brains for names. Meanwhile, the man to the side raises his hand again, waiting for an opportunity to speak.

“Mitch Daniels? Well, we’re getting closer. But I hear he can be sharp at times. The nutballs who ran against Mitt are out. Definitely out. All of them—the pizza guy, the religious guy, the wacked-out chick who’s always yapping like a small terrier. None of them are acceptable to the big guy. To Mitt, I mean. But come on! Let’s get our thinking caps on. We can do better. Let’s have some names.”

“Well, if you want to go for ultimate bland, there’s the guy who was in the race briefly but dropped out when Bachmann gave him a dirty look once on stage. No one even remembers the guy! I mean, he’d be perfect. Even Mitt would have some charisma standing next to him. Or at least some personality. Putting Mitt next to Christie or Ryan would be political suicide. It’d be as bad as Palin and McCain. Who cared about McCain once Palin was in the race? People don’t vote for a veep. Obama did it the right way—got some stooge Senator who no one would ever take seriously. It worked out perfect. But we have to do better. Even Biden has too much going for him compared to what we need. But who was that guy, anyway? The media took him seriously for a week, but he didn’t exactly light up the stage. He lit up nobody. Spent the few million from his backers then exited stage right. Backmann barked at him and he ran away. Do you remember?”

“Kind of. I agree, someone like that would be ideal—would meet all of Mitt’s criteria. Timmy? Was that him? Tim-something, I think. A former politician of some kind. Tommy? No. Timmy. Definitely Timmy.”

Both strategists scratch their heads and furrow their brows as they attempt to come up with the name. The uninteresting man standing to the side, whose eyes became more alert at the mention of the “Timmy” name, raises his hand again, with a trifle more intensity. They’re looking for someone. He was sent here today to meet them for that very reason. But they continue to ignore him, are not aware the person they seek has arrived.