About Speech Man (A Novel)
Post 553:
Speech Man: A Novel
Chapter One:
It was never the plan. I was reading my old fingerprint-stained copy of Samuel Thatcher’s Orders From the Mountain, doing a decent job of shutting out the muted but unflagging sound of the crowd outside. He came charging in the tent, cumbersome, hands engaged in the rumpling of Clay’s suit. Clay was a good guy—well, not really, but he had been to me. I thought to engage the situation on some level, but it was complicated. The Secret Service was just outside, poking their heads in between the tent flaps every second or two, ever watchful of their charge and ever aware that he was far from typical.
I was on my back, feet up on an old couch. It smelled like a grandmother’s house. Old ladies liked him for reasons I more or less understood. It was probably a gift to the campaign—something thoughtful and sad.
Stay out it, I told myself, attempting to stay clear of the fray.
I drew the old novel closer to my face. My attempts at blending in were of course ridiculous, but I felt as frozen as a child caught out in a game of hide and seek. Samuel Thatcher and his wonderful prose couldn’t even save me; I thought I’d perfected the art of shutting out my surroundings, but the tent was full of anger and noise and the pushing and pulling of testosterone and male frustration. The nerves started to pile on; my toes were curled up inside my old 80’s-style Adidas as they hung over the end of the couch.
“You’re fired,” he said, letting Clay collapse to the floor. “It’s not cutting it. People want passion. Inspiration. Your approach doesn’t make me feel anything. If I don’t feel anything, how can they?”
It was a reasonable enough question. Sort of. Having the candidate worry about the feelings of others was double-edged. It meant he cared. That was good. It also meant he was thinking. Not so good.
Clay grabbed at his tie as he tried to gather his breath. Another peek from Mr. Thatcher told me the poor guy was on the verge of tears. I felt bad. He had a family to think about.
I tried not to think about it.
That I was quitting at the end of the week gave me some comfort. This was no place for a person like me. Me and the couch made sense together. Made for another time. I liked to read Mr. Thatcher and write novels with ideas buried so deep down, I wasn’t even sure what I was driving at. Sound bytes and sociopaths weren’t my scene.
Out of touch narcissists were more my speed. People with too many degrees and love for the people but no person in particular.
As Clay’s head fell at the candidate’s wingtips, I closed my eyes. He was crying. It was horrible. Male weakness—a fine thing—but better left in theory.
“You,” he said, snapping his giant thumb and giant finger. I swung my feet around and stood up with a straight back.
“Yes, sir.”
“What’s your name again?”
“Harold.”
“Is that your last name?”
“No—sorry, sir. Harold Cabot.”
“Do you want the job?”
I’d been around enough for the last few months to know that he didn’t like to wait for rejoinders. I took one more look at sad, snotty Clay, and gave as firm an answer as I could: “No, sir.”
He didn’t seem offended or surprised, which I found rather surprising. He smiled mischievously and asked, “Where is it you’re going?”
“Europe, I think. My first novel did okay. Trying to finish another.”
“That sounds ridiculous. You realize that, don’t you?”
“Yes, sir. I suppose it does.”
“We’re all stupid in youth,” he said. “But you’re the message guy. I need you. It’s time to matter. Europe and novels don’t matter.”
I should’ve been horrified. Nothing mattered more to me than novels, and I rather liked Europe. Loaded with all that, I still acquiesced. My resolve had flown. As Clay continued to cry at our feet I accepted his job, shaking Karl Connell’s red, hairy hand.
I thought about Mr. Thatcher and felt ashamed.
“Let’s go get a beer, Speech Man.”
“Are you going to call me that all the time?”
“I like it. You don’t like it?”
I didn’t answer.
