Hell Bent

By L.A. Frank

Helen Benton has had it up to here with the government and is determined to fix the corruption, money laundering, and pandering at all levels. No one is in politics for the people. They are in it for the money, or so it seems to Helen. Unexpectedly, in a fluke election she finds herself in the oval office and, as President of the United States, in a position to actually enact change, if only she could get the attention and cooperation of those in Congress. Battling apathy and impeachment threats, family scandals, and a kidnapping, she learns how to bring forth the corrections this country needs. She may be only one woman, one with doubts and flaws, but she's determined to make things right for her country. She's Helen Benton and she's hell bent on change!

• Language: English
• Publisher: L.A. Frank
• Release date: Jun 26, 2019
• ISBN: 9780463200339

Book preview

Chapter One: God Gave You A Mouth. Use it!

What are we waiting for? Why aren’t more people demanding that we run a better country? Our good old U.S. of A. is going to H-E-double-toothpicks in a hand basket! Why aren’t more people out there screaming like me? What are we going to do about it?

I typed as rapidly as my fingers permitted. It was my blog, so what the heck? Writing about anything I wanted, today I decided to focus on politics. Television dramas, the best places to eat in my favorite cities, and, my personal favorite, where to find the best breweries and beers, were all recorded in my blog and previously discussed. Today, I decided to switch things up a bit and focus on a new topic. It was becoming more and more evident to me that the country was heading downhill faster than a coaster with no brakes.

Are all politicians corrupt, immoral, or irresponsible? So far, in today’s political arena, I recognized few that actually worked by the people and for the people. While they could all put on a good show, acting like they really cared about us, most worked by the money and for the money, lining their pockets, accepting bribes that were loosely disguised as gifts, doing insider trading, and pandering. If they weren’t in it for the money, they were in it for the publicity and to make money. It was sick, today’s politics, and it didn’t only happen at the federal government level. Plenty of corruption existed on a state and local level, too, but today my focus seemed to stick with the Feds.

After a few more paragraphs about corrupt goings-on at the highest level of the political arena, in Washington, I concluded the ravings with my signature phrase, I’m HelBent on change! Throughout much of my childhood, I loathed my first name and all the horrible teasing that went along with it, all some sort of variation on hell. Now, I rather liked my name because I could use that first syllable to my advantage. It fit well with a shortened version of my last name, Benton, and gave me a gender-neutral byline. Most on my blog, though, interpreted my shortened moniker mistakenly and elongated it to two words, hell bent, or combined those together as hellbent. They didn’t know I made it up because of my name. They thought I used it because of the word hell-bent, which meant determined to do something. I was determined, all right, with everything I blogged about on my site.

Are you sure about getting into politics? It seems like everyone and his brother has a political blog, Helen, Jon, my husband, said.

I blog about what I want. You are well aware, after being married to me for thirty-five years, that I don’t hold back much when it comes to my views on subjects. I think I’m ready to test the political waters, so-to-speak.

Jon chuckled thinking that his wife was exactly correct in her description of herself. She really didn’t hold back when it came to voicing her opinion. He’d met that voice many times, exponentially. It did not pay to anger Helen. She was like a volcano, simmering under the surface and ready to explode at a moment’s notice. Beware the eruption!

She also didn’t hold back on well-meant criticism. He’d received advice, over the years, about his diet, blood pressure, state of his downstairs office, nasty habits, even his thinning hair line. The latter, though, she was always kind about, joking how the two of them were getting old, he with his approaching baldness, she with her graying hair. It didn’t quite equal out. While she possessed a few gray hairs, they were barely noticeable among her dark, brown tresses.

Just be careful. You never know what crazies are out there on the internet. I don’t want you getting hurt, Jon said.

Thanks for the advice, but, for the moment, I don’t care if any crazies comment…all the better, I think. Perhaps I will stir someone up enough that they take action! I could use a few more comments in my blog, because, at the moment, no one really pays me any attention. My site isn’t visited much, and those that look, rarely leave anything. I think I’m safe writing whatever I want, I said. Besides, I can always take my site down if something unfortunate happens. I’ll be careful, but thanks for looking out for me, Jon.

I vowed that I was going to talk about whatever I wanted. That’s why I created the blog in the first place. Why have one if I couldn’t speak what was on my mind? I settled back into my desk chair. Shadows from the rain pelting the windows behind me danced on my brightly lit computer screen. I could hear thunder rumble in the distance and wondered if we’d have a power outage. Seemed like we usually experienced some sort of inconvenience whenever a major storm washed through. What else was there to do on a day like today? Clean house, again?

I was fifty-five years old and, I admit, a housewife, but by choice. Jon worked as his own boss, when I wasn’t ordering him around. He was a computer consultant. Toiling for years in the technology industry, too, I gave it up when the executives where I worked, at the time, took the money and ran, selling the business to a major competitor. For them, the sale was planned for many months, and they all had their golden parachutes, ready to pop open when the company moved out from under their leadership. For us, as employees, we were abruptly shocked, as news of the sale was announced to the public at the same time we also learned of it. We had no time, at all, to comprehend the situation and no time to get another job or even a job prospect. Herded into the cafeteria, the only room large enough to hold us all, we were informed, on the day it hit the news, we could either take our chances on getting absorbed into the new buyer’s company, or accept a severance package. Either way, the transition would take place nearly immediately. Our old employers gave us only two weeks to decided our fate.

Like rats on a sinking ship, every day I came to work after the announcement, someone turned in their resignation. In the technology field, at that time, it was easy to jump to another company, and many did. Everyone, myself included, cut back on hours, working no more than forty in each of those last two weeks. Why put in long hours for an employer that no longer wanted or cared about us? The new employer tried incentives to entice people to stay during the transition, but we didn’t care anymore. Why perform the work when most would be let go? Those few that remained optimistic kept at it, and those few that still felt ownership of their work remained, hoping against all hope that the new company would keep them. I took the lump sum buy-out, reading the writing on the wall, and never looked back.

Used to working eighty-hour weeks and being on call twenty-four hours a day, seven days a week, the abrupt change in my life was dramatic. In my old job, it was not unusual for my pager or phone to buzz or ring in the middle of the night, waking me from an exhausted sleep. Problems with the software, a glitch with the installation, or a hardware failure greeted me as the support personnel on the other end of the line desperately hoped I could devise a solution. At the very least, they expected me to report the incident and become the scapegoat for the elite management. For weeks after I quit, I walked around touching my hip where my pager or phone was usually clipped to my waistband. One night I woke and frantically searched my nightstand for my buzzing pager, only to realize that the sound I heard was a bug caught in the window screen. After that, I laughed and lay down in bed, hugging my good fortune at being unemployed.

Good fortune? You bet! I finally had time to do anything and everything I wanted. I was like a sixty-five year-old who retired on social security, except that I was much younger and probably wouldn’t get any social security by the time I reached sixty-seven, my suggested retirement age. The government, our government, already spent all that money that I gave them, on good faith, from my paycheck for my retirement. The government borrowed against my retirement and was now in a poor situation because of it. Never borrow money that is designated for something else. I always told my fellow co-workers never to borrow against their 401k retirement nest egg. If they did, and failed to pay it back, they would be in a bad situation years down the road, when it came time to actually retire and the money no longer existed. The government hadn’t listened to my speech and did exactly this, anyway. Millions, like myself, might never see that money the government took out of our paycheck and set aside for our own retirement. It was funding something else.

Money aside, each day I delighted in the fact that I was now only a housewife. I took up volunteering and combined that with my old software management career to create a website for a friend’s charity. It was fun and no pressure to learn a new programming language. I moved on to gardening because programming was too close to my old job for long-term comfort. I created an oasis in the back yard, filled with vegetables and flowers, and grew produce by the bucketfuls. I became an expert at pickling and canning. When the cold months arrived and the garden was put to bed, I took up writing. I wrote three books and several short stories, distributing them to my friends and family. For fun, and to get my writing out on the internet, I created my website and my blog. As time went on, I found I loved the freedom of writing about anything and everything. I used my blog to express my thoughts and I quite enjoyed it.

Did Jon care that I was only a housewife instead of the major breadwinner of the family? Did he mind now having that responsibility placed on his shoulders? For years, my salary outshone his by thousands of dollars but he never let on that it bothered him. In fact, he claimed to be proud that his wife was a technology executive. Jon didn’t seem to mind that I quit the working world, either. Back then, whenever I came home exhausted, ranting that I was going to quit, he’d support me, telling me to do whatever made me happy and if that was quit, then go ahead and leave the company. Our family would get by on his salary. I was always grateful that he made the offer, but, when the next morning dawned, I got out of bed and went back into work for another bad day.

I think Jon now enjoyed not having the pressure of cooking something and getting it on the table for the family to eat each night. I took care of that after my retirement, even though it was only the two or three of us. We were nearly empty-nesters when I left my job. Our oldest had graduated from college and moved out, starting her first job in the D.C. area. Our youngest graduated from college and moved back home, temporarily. His return to us was only supposed to be until he found his first job.

It used to be Jon that cooked for the family because I never arrived home from work until later in the evening. Now, the tables were turned and I was at home all the time. I planned menus and shopped for ingredients. We no longer ate tuna noodle casserole, spaghetti, or stir fry during the week, every week, unless we really wanted one of those dishes. Before the buyout, those three meals were Jon’s only revolving repertoire. After I left my job, he was served anything and everything that I had a whim to make, after I finished updating my blog.

Today an article in the local newspaper sparked my thoughts. Were all politicians corrupt? It sure seemed like it. I read about a land developer that contributed thousands of dollars to the campaign of our current governor, supposedly in exchange for the rights to build a shopping mall. People living in the proposed mall area had been fighting its construction for the last four years. Secret documents now surfaced exposing the political bribe.

The county council of a nearby state had recently approved a new golf course on farmland, even though hundreds of people from the county showed up to protest. It was later revealed that the primary voting council members had been given significant monetary gifts by the new golf course owner. Was it an attempt to sway their vote? On the surface, it sounded like it.

A huge data center slated to be built across town sparked more controversy. Thousands of people, including myself, turned out to protest the center because it came with a rider on its proposal to build a power plant. Generating electricity using coal, that power plant would pollute the neighborhood via noise and air quality. The ironic part was that the power plant was scheduled to be constructed alongside another already existing power plant that generated electricity via solar power. The corporation owning the data center paid for the campaign of the brand new mayor. The new mayor said the proposed plant would generate hundreds of jobs, so we needed it. Yet, those hundreds of jobs were going to come from out of state and only last as long as the construction of the new plant. Go figure. Whom exactly did this new plant benefit?

Was I mad about all these and more? You bet! Bribes. Politicians shouldn’t take them, but they seemed to do so every day. They probably took bribes when the Constitution was created, too, if you really wanted to quibble about things. However, if politicians work for us, then why are we the ones that are continually being penalized in favor of the select few who line their pockets? Money talks, that’s why.

My mother always told me, God gave you a mouth. Use it! I took that advice to heart and started using my mouth for more than taking in food and nagging Jon. Today I began my HelBent campaign to put into words what everyone already knew. My courage was high until Jon bought up the crazies comment. I wondered if I needed to be careful not to get sued. I decided I would write, but be cautious about what I said. I wouldn’t point the finger at anyone specifically, but get the issues out, nevertheless.

That’s how it all began. That one small desire to voice my opinion, and, perhaps try to make our country a better place, was where it all started.

Chapter Two: Nocturnal By Nature

I stood in my bathrobe at the darkened window while lights danced around the house. At one time, I might have marveled at the fireflies as their yellow-orange pinpoints wove up and down, in and out of the tree limbs and across the open space of the front lawn. The beetles, nocturnal by nature, produce a bioluminescent light to attract a mate or prey. The lights encircling the house tonight were also nocturnal, plentiful, and designed to attract prey, but not so much a mate.

I remembered sitting at my daughter’s window when she was young, our eyes mesmerized by the sheer number of the fireflies flitting around in the dark. As the bugs danced their mating ritual, so my daughter and I performed our bedtime routine. Gazing at the night, outside her window, was calming for both of us. For me, it helped clear my head of all the problems at the office, all the tight schedules, the project budgets, the millions of dollars, and the senior executives with impossibly high standards that would be met, come hell or high water. It was a blessing that I was home in time to tuck my children into bed. For my daughter, it calmed her from the day at school, the work that was too easy for her, the boring classes, and the teachers that were uninspiring. It was our time together, a time I treasured because it allowed each of us an opportunity to reflect upon ourselves and a chance to bond. It was a time I never neglected to miss unless absolutely necessary, no matter what was happening at work. She and I both craved the quiet to unwind, reflect, and gather our psyche for the next day that would come all to soon, in a few hours. Sometimes we watched the fireflies, sometimes we talked about the stars, brilliant in the night sky, as we gazed out the window. I will always remember the night, warm or cold weather, fireflies or stars, loving my daughter and that special time we spent together, she talking about her dreams and wishes, me thinking about my own.

My daughter was a woman now, off on her own, making a name for herself in her chosen profession, filling her world with colorful friends and experiences, being anything but boring and uninspiring. She grew up strong, adventurous, artistic, beautiful, and, perhaps, a bit stubborn and headstrong. We had little time together unless I scheduled a weekend visit with her. I did this, occasionally, but not too often. I didn’t want to intrude in her life, too much. I wanted her to make her own friends, have fun with them, meet her potential mate, and build her own career, her own life.

My son, on the other hand, when young was totally independent at bedtime. Preferring to read himself to sleep, flashlight held under the covers, he pushed away the closeness that my daughter craved. Very much a loner, he buried himself in books, reading about far-away adventures, super heroes, and dragons that talked. He came out of his shell in a fantasy world of imagination. When he was young, he could recite, word for word, every phrase from any popular space movie, put together Lego creations that defied gravity, carefully cart stray frogs back to their habitat in the small pond on the edge of the yard, or tenderly try to mend the broken wing of a dragonfly.

We, my son and I, spent our time bonding in front of the television on rainy weekend afternoons when I wasn’t at work. We sat glued to the box, captivated with a space superhero movie that we both had viewed many times. Certain that the world was populated with super-beings, my youngest dreamed one day he and I would turn into our alter-egos and save the world. (I didn’t help tame his imagination any by claiming my own superpowers. I had eyes in the back of my head, able to see any forbidden activity that went on behind me, and a sense of smell so great, I could sniff out any dirty sock from three rooms away. How many times had one child or the other parted the hair on the back of my head looking for that extra set of eyes? They were always closed, of course, when they searched for them. Many a stray sock or dirty pair of underwear – yuck – had appeared, magically, from under or behind beds when it was room cleaning time, as well.) My son was my youngest, and would forever remain my baby, but was all grown up, now, too, and a man in his own rights.

As I stood in the darkened window, a tear dropped from my eye and I let it fall onto my bathrobe. My children had grown so quickly. I had gotten older. Where did those years go? Did I spend them all at work? I guess I would always have mommy guilt. I carried it around with me and it surfaced every now and then.

I wanted my daughter to be strong, but I knew she had a weakness. I knew she was not as confident on the inside as she pretended to be on the outside. She was beautiful, but she didn’t believe it. She was intelligent, like her father, and maybe a bit like me. Did she know about me?

I was the same as my daughter, never confident. I still am, I think, not strong enough. Unlike my daughter, I know I am not beautiful on the outside, even if Jon tells me I am. I look at enough photographs of myself to know the truth. Bless his heart for trying to sway my opinion. However, am I strong enough to face any oncoming situation? Am I strong enough for what’s coming? I’m unsure and I don’t know if I’ll ever find the answer. I wondered about the future as I looked out the window.

Unlike my daughter, who forged ahead, diving into her career with gusto, my son struggled. He hated college but tried desperately to hang on and graduate to get that piece of paper that so many employers required in order to step in the door for an interview. With a degree in liberal arts, not many employers hired graduates of that major these days unless one had connections. My son knew few. Jon and I couldn’t help him there, either. My son wasn’t looking for a job in technology, and neither of us, Jon nor I, were networking creatures outside of our profession. Like my son, we both were loaners of sorts.

My son faced a hard road ahead of him to find a job, but that wasn’t why I worried about him. Eventually he would find something, even if it wasn’t exactly his dream job. I fretted because I wanted to know where he was and what he was doing. I always felt a little closer to him than to our daughter because our personalities were similar – quiet and pensive, possessing enormous willpower, but prone to occasional, volcanic outbursts. As I gazed out the window, reflecting on my time with the children, or lack of time, my son’s absence stabbed me in the heart, again.

Two years ago, he surprised me. He ignored his inner-voice, or perhaps listened too closely to it, and left home abruptly. We heard from him regularly, every six months, when a postcard arrived in the mail, bent and dirty, and stamped several times. The postcard always originated somewhere in Bangalore, the silicon valley of India. Was he working at one of the large firms there? I had no idea. With no way to find him, we only knew he still lived because of the brief message scratched on the back of the card, always the same, some variation of I’m OK. Don’t worry about me. Love you.

Perhaps he should have attended a trade school instead of college. Good with his hands, when he was young, we used to joke that he was going to become a surgeon or a piano player, with his long, fine fingers. I remembered all those Lego creations, put together with infinite complexity, or the tenderness at which he held that dragonfly in those long fingers, wanting desperately to heal it. Where did he get those qualities from? Was it me? Did I have that inside of me? Where was he? Would I ever see him, again? Was he running from me? From Jon? From our family? Was he in trouble? So many questions circled in my head about my son as I stood in the window, questions that I had pondered many times over the last two years and still had not devised an answer.

I watched the lights circle the house. They weren’t dragonflies or even fireflies this night, but they buzzed around the house and filled the front yard, just the same. Swarming in groups, or some hunting alone, they were bright, lighting up the lawn in circles of florescence against the night sky. If there were stars out tonight, it was impossible to see them. The bright in my front yard blotted out the black of the sky. These were the lights from dozens of cameras and equipment. Reporters with the run of my front yard, trampled the grass. Some even camped out on my neighbor’s lawn.

I chuckled to myself, the only sound in my living room.

My neighbor in front of me probably steamed about someone trespassing on his property. For years he and I fought a mild feud. He parked his truck partially on my property, making a mess of the end of my unpaved driveway. I, in turn, to get back at him, after asking nicely several times to move his truck, now threw my garden debris onto the other side of the fence, into his backyard. I doubt he even noticed, but the revenge helped me feel better. Tonight he was, most likely, looking out of his window, as was I, and fuming at the people stepping all over his shrubbery and, behind his shed, relieving themselves. Revenge was sweet. So there, Mike! Fix my driveway and don’t park your truck on my property!

I laughed, again.

Are you going to stand at that window all night giggling to yourself? Those people might be able to see you, you know, Jon said.

He came up the stairs from the basement, turning out the lights as he went, careful not to attract too much attention from those outside. Standing beside me in the dark, he listened as I whispered, They won’t see me with the light off. I can’t sleep, yet. I’ve got too much running around in my head.

Jon, my husband, the night owl, holed up in his office in the basement and stayed up late. I, the punctual one of the two, usually went to bed early and arose with the crack of dawn. Up at four this morning, I should be exhausted and ready for bed, but my mind refused to shut down. I tried going to sleep at my usual time, but there were too many noises from outside keeping me awake. As well, my mind played the events of today over and over, once again, shocking me for the millionth time. How could I be President of the United States? Me?

It wasn’t like I hadn’t brought it on, me and my big mouth, and my blog.

Chapter Three: You Want To Do What, Dear?

Doesn’t all that spending make you angry? If I don’t have the money for luxuries, then I go without! I scrimp and save, shop at sale prices, and cut back on spending to try to save money. I don’t spend funds I don’t have, period. I try to avoid going into debt for anything that isn’t an absolute necessity.

So, then, why does our government continue to spend money it doesn’t have? Why aren’t they tightening their belts like we all are? The first thing I would accomplish, if I were President would be to institute a ten percent cut in budgets, across the board. I don’t care if it's the budget for the White House kitchen or Welfare, everyone tightens their belts. And I wouldn’t allow the government to pass the cut on down the line and make up the difference from the public. That sneaky trick has been done successfully for far too long. Everyone slides the buck on down the line until we, the middle class, or the poor, are the ones dipping into our pockets to pay the difference. Enough! We’ve got nothing left except lint in our pockets! We’ve cut back on our own households, why can’t we cut back on the Big House? It is time for change in this country. I’m HelBent, determined on change!

Hmm...was that too harsh today? No. I think it said exactly what I wanted to get out. The blog business was booming, only shortly after I began my campaign to write whatever I wanted on my online internet site. I never received so many comments as I did yesterday. It was great! I marveled at the number of people that agreed with me or argued with me. Who knew that voicing my opinion could be so entertaining? Yesterday’s count registered five hundred hits to my site. About two hundred of them left comments. It took me all day to go through those messages and read them, responding to a few. My little blog was becoming a full time job for me and I was receiving requests to post on other blogs, as well. I was branching out and I loved it.

Why vote for those candidates at all? At this rate, I could write in my own name when I go to vote this November. Why not? I have about as much qualifications as any of these politicians that are spending all our money on campaigns. I can budget, I can manage, I'm sympathetic to the plight of the average household, and I know right from wrong. A plus side is that I wouldn’t waste a dime on campaign funds. If I wrote my own name on the ballot sheet, at least I would feel comfortable voting for me and not have to choose the least evil, the least worst candidate up for election. Why not write your own name down when you go to vote, or write my name, if you aren’t confident in yourself? I’ll back you up.

And speaking of campaign funds, why don't we encourage our people in D.C. to pass a law that all leftover campaign funds must be donated to a charity or to the government to go against the national debt? By charity, I mean a legitimate non-profit, not some hokey, made up organization where the funds will be deposited right back into the politician's pocket. Why not do something good with the funds that will help many?

Whatever the case, whomever is up for election, let's send them a message! Vote for yourself, vote for me, and either way it will tell those in D.C. that we want change. I'm Helbent on change!

Today’s post was short. Last night I dreamed that I went to vote in the elections and I entered my own name. It was difficult, because my voting booth is all electronic. I had to have my vote specially counted when I indicated that I wanted to write in a candidate. The look on the elderly lady that answered my upraised hand was precious.

You want to do what, dear? Write in a name? Are we allowed to do that? Why don't you just vote like I do and select the candidate that has the nicest suit. A patriotic flag pin on the lapel is a must for anyone that wants to become President. Vote for the one that wears the largest pin and a blue tie. It must be a blue tie, not red and definitely not white. Blue is my favorite color. What was that? You want to write a name on the ballot? Is that legal? she questioned.

Everyone is allowed to vote for whomever they want. I don’t want to vote for any of these people on the list, I said, so loudly that people in the gymnasium at the local middle school stopped what they were doing and stared at me.

Our polling location was always in the gym at the middle school down the road from my house. Every election day, after parking my car in the overflowing lot, sometimes on the grass and not in an actual parking spot, I dreaded the walk to the front doors of the school. In my dream, it had been no exception. The sidewalk leading up to the school was wall-to-wall local candidates. Stuffing my hands in my pockets to avoid having one grabbed and pumped, I walked, head down, toward the entrance. Candidates and their minions shouted, Vote for me! I’m the best! (At least there was no negative campaigning today.) Everyone put on a smiling face as across the sidewalk their opponent did the same.

I entered the gym and stood in the line labeled A-C, waiting my turn to sign my name at the head table. Manned solely by elderly ladies in patriotic-colored, crocheted vests, the line proceeded slowly, very slowly. Each woman chatted a bit with the voter standing in front of her. These ladies knew everyone, it seemed, or maybe they were only passing the time of day, waiting for their lunch break. Several crock pots bubbled on a folding table in the back, wafting up smells of simmering chili, sauerkraut, sausages, and other delectables.

Hello Agnes! How’s the knee today?

Brenda! Glad to see you out doing your civic duty. Where are the children?

Tom! What a pleasant surprise. No, now don’t tell me who you are voting for. You do that over in the booth.

When I finally reached the head of the line and told the white-haired official my name, she scanned the book and turned the page, then flipped back to the previous page. She read the book of names like it was the bible, passing her finger down each and every one in the list whose name began with a B. Finally she stuck her finger on my name and tapped it.

Here it is! Now why didn’t I notice that in the first place? I’m so sorry, Helen. Such a nice, old-fashioned name, too. I don’t hear that one much, anymore.

She printed out my voting ticket. I signed, and was directed to an elderly gentleman who led me to my voting booth.

Wait a minute while I check the procedures, dear, to see if you can do that, the little old lady said to me, pressing her hand on my arm, patting me, after I asked her how to vote for a write-in candidate. She walked slowly to the table in the front, using her cane to support her left side, and spoke with several of the others. Each, in turn, looked up at me and shook a head. Finally, she returned to my voting booth. This seemed to take ages, in my dream.

I’m sorry, young lady, she called me a young lady...at least something good came out of my dream. You are only allowed to vote for a registered candidate. Is there one that is missing from the list?

What?! What do you mean? I shouted, still in my dream world. Every voter in this country is allowed to vote for whomever or whatever they want! If I want to vote for my pet gerbil, that’s my right!

She looked at me and frowned.

Not that I would vote for Clarabell, mind you, I said. She’s only a gerbil. She’d be no better at running this country than any of these other candidates. Still, it’s my right, if I want to vote for her.

I’m sorry, young lady, but you are going to have to leave, my granny said, shaking her head. You are creating a disruption.

All she had to do was raise her eyebrow and the policeman over near the door was at her side in an instance, escorting me out of the gym.

Wait! I can vote for whomever I want! You didn’t let me vote! It’s my right! I shouted as I was forcefully pushed out of the front doors of the school. Wait!

I woke with the word on my lips. What a dream! Who writes in a candidate, anyway? I never did, but the dream sparked my curiosity because I'd always heard about write-in candidates. How, exactly, did it work to write in a candidate? Was what the lady told me correct? Do all candidates have to register, officially, before the election?

I spent most of the day looking up facts on the internet. It was interesting, to say the least, and I learned many things that I’d never knew, and never wanted to know. From what I gathered, write-in candidates were allowed in most states, but some required that all be registered first, whether they were on the ballot or not, just as my granny had told me. Also, as I suspected, write-in candidates rarely won. Of those people that do vote for a write-in, many times they vote for a fictional character, like Clarabell.

However, there were several primary elections where candidates won via a write-in vote. Herbert Hoover, Franklin Roosevelt, Howard Taft, and even John Kennedy all won primary elections solely on write-in votes. Two or three senators were elected via write-in votes, as well. Most notably, Strom Thurman, was elected to the U.S. Senate in 1954 as a write-in candidate. The House of Representatives, as late as 2008, elected one official via a write-in. My research uncovered many more local elections in which a write-in candidate won office, so it was possible to win as a write-in candidate, just not probable.

The office of the President of the United States was never won by a write-in candidate. That office is not officially elected by the people, by popular vote, although the popular vote plays an important role in the election. Senators and Representatives are elected by popular vote. The city mayor and county council seats are elected by popular vote. Even the school board is elected by the people. However, the President of the United States is not, directly. That office is won by votes from the Electoral College. Each state has the same number of electors as it has senators and representatives, and the District of Columbia has three electors. From my research, I discovered electors are nominated by their political parties. Of course, there are some restrictions, including that anyone currently holding a federal, political office can’t be an elector.

Most states proceed with elector votes on a winner-takes-all method. Whomever receives the most popular votes for a particular political party in a national election, garners the elector’s vote, as well. It seemed a little bizarre to me. Why not skip this electoral college and let We the people determine the victor? This question, I also found out, has been asked many times in the past, but the rules never change. If an electoral college voter always voted as determined by the popular vote and as pledged to their own political party, was it possible for the Elector College voter to go against their pledge, and vote differently? Highly unlikely.

So what if the most popular vote isn’t one of the official candidates, but a write-in candidate? Does the elector then have to cast his or her vote for this write-in candidate? No. The elector normally pledges his or her vote for the most popular party candidate, not the write-in candidate, since the write-in is not a party candidate. In order for a write-in to win the Presidential election, the elector needs to go against his or her pledge, or be faithless, and cast a vote not for the most popular party candidate, but for the write-in candidate. Again, this is highly unlikely to happen. There are a couple of states where the electors don’t have to vote for the most popular party candidate, but they usually do.

I also found out that the Electoral College actually meets in December to elect the President and Vice President. The election doesn’t happen on election day in November. This makes sense, since the College members would know which political party won the popular vote only after the election in November. Besides, sometimes time needs to be added after the popular vote elections in November for recounts and such. Waiting until December allows for this leeway.

All candidates, popular or not, in a political party or not, have to receive two hundred and seventy votes from the Electoral College to achieve victory. If the candidate doesn’t garner at least that many votes, then the decision rests within the House of Representatives to determine the winner. If the House fails to elect a candidate, then the Senate votes on the election. I assumed, once the vote reached the Senate, if that ever were to happen, then the candidate receiving the majority of votes would win, since each state has two senators.

A write-in candidate, in essence, has little to no chance of ever becoming President of the