for his objection." A group coordinator wrote the judicial-type's suggestion. A fiscal-minded young Republican born and raised in a "blue state" cradled the growing budget bill and carefully leaned to put it back in the basonette. "OH no, not in there young man." The Observer pushed a clicker and a door opened and closed softly. "I spoke." The Observer confessed. "What did she say?" The Overseer asked another Observer.
"And not over there either," the Observer beckoned for the seven pounds of paper. "Everybody stay away from that corner," the overseer clicked on a PA and called for procedure protocol when an Observer speaks. The Observer visibly shrunk on the stool and face blazed red.
Keys unlocking a closet-looking door could be heard. Eyes only on each individual in the room. "What are you doing in here?" The question was asked of the room but the eyes landed on one person.
"Waiting for the young Democrat."
"May I ask why?"
"Because someone in this room is the young Republican. We're going to meet up with an IT Rep. Someone modified a version of Sim City to help all interested parties better pace their check writing."
"Hmmmmmm." The Overseer looked at the floor. "Did anyone else go near the table in the corner?"
"There's a table under there?" It was a pile of coats and jackets from floor to almost ceiling. "I can just wait in the hallway. Now that WE ALL KNOW I'll never be President." The young woman left the room.
A forseeable future family portrait type photograph had been taken when world-leading contemporaries had gathered. An eight month old Duchess and someone's kid brother were the cut off point for the security budget. All budgets not based on credit card power were considered transitory until. But my own parents forfeited hypothetically. A gorgeous Rugby player tried to salvage pre-voter age patriotic fervor amongst the rejects. But there was a disparity in the moment between belonging and being.
A neighborhood "friend", before the world split like an atom into blue and red, caught up. Framing people on the Lawn with hands like a film camera. "Are you a reject?"
"Why?"
"We're doing a postVisit Survey," the other girl turned and saw a knot of pre-teens far behind her. Blowing Bazooka gum bubbles and giggling. "Well we were a we, now it's just me I guess."
"What's a Survey good for?"
The girl took some typewritten and scribbled on notes from a Bermuda shorts pocket. "Were those mine?"
"What these?" She found Survey on a Process List. "My mother bought them for me."
"My mother gives some of our stuff away. And/Or uses some stuff in Art Projects."
"Like what? Says here that Surveys are not truly Sources but it's a way to gather opinions."
"Like old socks as stuffing inside Sneaky Snakes."
"That's a mouthful."
"Washed. Old socks."
The knot of teen energy was like a magnet sucking all kinds of people to itself. Glances over shoulders. Some don't be so obvious warnings. And the trading of Baseball Cards, postcards, gum, candy, broken cigarettes, and ticket stubs began.
"But it's not dinner anymore!" A kid broke into a crying, choking, hyperventilating fit. Men in tuxedos but shirts hanging out, ties askew or missing, just pants and white tees were offering bills of money for things women keep in their purses. Alkaseltzer?
Our mother was making the most money. Our father was still neatly shielded in his tux. It had been his elegant finger that poked the lapel of the winner of winners. His expressive Trumpian lips flapping out the Golden Advice. He'd had a Bible brought into the area. Suggested the men put up the whiskey for this round. Asked for a confirmation of being in agreement: God's in charge. And poked the advice into the man's lapel, "Don't forget who put you here!"
"We're going home," he told everyone. Our mother mumbled, I just told the other mothers we would stay. "I need aspirin." My father sat in a dainty stiff chair. Mom poured out two and ordered whichever of her kids had come into the room to go get Daddy water.
Walter Mathieu frowned and said, "I need a water too." Kids stared up at him. "Please?"
No comments:
Post a Comment