About Speech Man (Added Content)

Post 561:

Speech Man: A Novel

Chapter One: Mr. Speech and Belief          

            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 the man lording over him 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, “I’ve seen you around, looking like you’re someplace else. 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 tentatively 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. 

            “What were you reading?” he asked, manhandling me through the trucks and tents, people I’d tried to ignore and who’d tried to ignore me for the last few months. They were all staring, thinking the same thing I was: What’s Harry Cabot doing on the arm of the big guy?

            “Orders From the Mountain,” I said, trying not to crumble at the hands that had just crumbled poor, unemployed Clay. “By Samuel Thatcher.”

            “Always liked that one,” he said, loosening the grip on my shoulder as we walked into a trailer. Inside was the campaign manager, Bridget Waterton. She had one of the most beautiful faces I’d ever seen. Her dark eyes and perfect olive skin made it hard not to stare.

            I buried my chin against my chest, looking down to my Adidas and their fraying shoelaces. I was sweaty khakis and rolled-up sleeves. My only salvation was my white dress shirt—it was days from the wash, but the color hid the pools starting to collect. Though the entourage was sitting in the shadow of a massive stadium, my skin was just about cooked from our hurried walk from the tent. “I’m sorry, sir?” I asked, having forgotten his last comment.

            “I said I always liked Orders From the Mountain. A real commentary on the dissemination of belief.”

            I looked at the candidate and tried my best for a poker face.

            “Or do I have that wrong?” he prodded deeper. A look over at beautiful Bridget told me she was interested in my response.

            I smiled and said he was right.

            “Then what’s so funny?”

            “If I’m being honest, most people know at least that much about the book. It doesn’t mean you’ve actually read it.”

            Beautiful Bridget’s beautiful eyes were as open as hangar doors. She was aghast at my cheek.

            The candidate put out a hand for me to take a seat. I buckled at the nonverbal request and gave Beautiful Bridget a look like tell my parents where they buried my body. It was then I realized she didn’t know my name.

            Shit.

            “Ms. Waterton. This is Mr. Cabot. He doesn’t want to work for me. I like that about him.”

            “Sir,” she answered. I guess it meant yes or that’s great, though you could’ve said it meant this guy’s a complete joke and it wouldn’t have surprised me.

            He sat down next to me. I scooted over. It was one of those L-shaped cushions that half-surrounded a small table. There was very little room. He was so big. The trailer didn’t seem appropriate. I thought of cruel, tiny cages at zoos where they keep magnificent beasts. I imagined them, to be more accurate. Like most people, I didn’t know much about things. Things like zoos and airplanes and political campaigns and talking to the most talked-about man in America. I’d just turned thirty. I was a great, undiscovered artist, and my greatness had just begun. Nascent. A seed. A seedling. Whatever.

            The candidate crossed his legs and looked away from my red face, staring at the little laminated wood table. His eyes went soft and his posture slackened. He was suddenly professorial—maybe even grandfatherly. It was weird. “I love the way Sam Thatcher ended up using Davis’ wife as the agent of his end. You could feel the irony coming all the way, but it didn’t make it any less horrifying.”

            “I agree.” I did agree. His assessment of the novel wasn’t bad, but I was still unconvinced. Maybe the wily bastard had read a synopsis on his phone. Part of prep for selling me on the job.

            “‘And with the flood that was their belief, it mattered little. He smiled and wept during his last breaths. The voice that had inspired a few and then millions was forever silenced. If he’d mattered more to a few, it might’ve been better. He slipped off, regarded by millions, regarding himself no more. She hung over him half-proud, half-remorseful, as he’d been during those last years.’”

            “Not bad, sir.”

            “I’ve read it.”

            I nodded. “The quote aids my credulity.” It did. He was still looking at the table. His strong jaw was disengaged. The candidate was holding to his avuncular settings.