Scenes from a Vault, Pt. 1: Smear (Feb 2006)

This is the beginning of a short story I started in February 2006 and have probably not touched since then (except the last paragraph, which I just wrote).  I am going to try to finish a respectable draft in the coming weeks.

Smear

This is what you get when you mess with us.

I.

“Hold my calls for the next hour, Alicia.”

“But what if he calls, Senator Augustine?”

“I don’t imagine him calling, but if he does just tell him that I have nothing to say that he wants to know.” It’s touching that she thinks that the President—that anyone—has anything left to say to me or want from me, except my head.

Before I close the door to my office, I consider something; I turn back to my loyal secretary of eight years.

“Actually, Alicia, there’s really nothing left for you to do here. How about you take the rest of the day off. I am sure Leo would be elated if you picked him up from school.”

“Are you sure, sir?”

“I am.”

“Okay. Senator Augustine?”

“Yes?” For the first time during the conversation I look directly at Alicia and notice that her glasses are foggy. Her lips are quivering.

“I am very sorry that this all happened.”

“I know. Me, too.” I muster a half-smile, faintly patting her shoulder, hoping to relate my appreciation for her kindness. She is probably the only person left in this city who truly feels sorry.

Once in my office, I close my door and take a long and deep breath. Then, I grip my jaw with my right hand. I massage the wall against which I lean; the wall that was supposed to keep me safe. I move my head from left to right, taking inventory of the world that had become so commonplace, yet, in its sudden fleetingness, so spectacular: photographs with various world leaders, mementos I had collected from my diplomatic travels, the mahogany desk cluttered with bills on which I will never have the chance to vote, a framed poster from my first successful campaign in 2016.

In my weakest moments, I imagined this happening, but no amount psychological conditioning could prepare me for what I was now going through. I had unknowingly reached my zenith, and now it was time to atone for my sins.

After slowly removing my jacket and placing it on the rack, I fall into my chair, my eyes closed in a futile attempt to force myself to wake from this dream. I open my eyes and glance at the television that I must have left on before I left for the Senate chambers this morning. CNN is showing footage from the morning Session, during which multiple Senators threatened impeachment if I did not agree to immediately resign.

The caption read: Michigan Senator with Dark Past Accused of Corruption and Adultery.

A montage of speeches from various Congressmen, many of whom I considered good friends, flashed on the screen, providing the media with soundbites such as “How dare you, Senator Augustine, think that you could keep a veil over the American People,” “You are the kind of lowlife that gives this institution a bad name,” “If Senator Augustine is the type of man who the Democratic Party wants to support, then maybe we need to reconsider the leadership in Congress and the White House,” and, my favorite, “How long did you think that you could continue this charade before you were figured out?” This was followed by a shot of the Minority Speaker Wharton shaking hands and discussing the events with other Republican Congressmen, all of whom were coyly smiling behind their hollow condemnations. 

It was only when they cut to Sofia's press conference that she had given earlier in the week, the one in which she expounded on our past romance, my history with drugs, my secret bank accounts, and our rekindled affair, that I was forced to turn off the television.

II.

Sofia and I became acquainted under serendipitous circumstances. It was New Years Eve, 1999: the end of the world, or the beginning of a new era, depending on whose opinion you solicited. After hastily leaving my job at Endnote, a local record store, I picked up my good friend Walt and his girlfriend Amber, fellow burnouts just trying to make it through high school. It was already ten o’clock when I finally drove my 1988 Honda Civic away from the comfort of suburban Clarksville into the rural country just outside of metropolitan **.

“Dude,” Walt shouted from the passenger seat, “we are really cutting it close.”

“Hey,” I snapped, “I warned you yesterday that I got off at nine. You could’ve been ready sooner.”

“I had to get the pills. It wasn’t exactly easy to find a dealer who was home.”

“Why didn’t we just, like, plan to buy some at the party?” Amber, always late with her suggestions, whined, “I mean, Jake and Snowball are going to be there, right? We could have just scored pills from them.” I could picture her in the backseat, glaring past the windshield at the empty road that lay ahead, her blond hair with neon red streaks covering her pierced face.
“I don’t know about you but I am not going to take a pill from some skank dealer.” Walt, always a man of high taste, took out a pack of Camel Lights from his pocket, staring at it inquisitively before taking out a cigarette, “I want to ring in the year 2000 on pure MDMA, not some cheap mix of speed and aspirin.”

“Hell yeah,” I nodded my head, smiling, losing them to my own thoughts. “Once we get to the party everything will be cool.”

We sped ahead into the darkness, surrounded by farmland; rows of pastures were visible only by the faint moonlight. As the car pierced through the natural serenity, we were all hoping that the chemicals in our pockets would help us recreate that same sense of perfection inside of our corrupted selves.

I had once felt guilt for having to resort to these chemicals to feel at peace with the world, but quickly began considering it just compensation for having to grow up lacking the privileges many others around me viewed as rights. For each pang of anxiety I felt for knowing there was no such thing as unconditional love to save me from chance; for each moment of despair from living inside a vacuum where my emotional needs were unfulfilled; for each time I thought I should hear “yes” when all that I heard was “no,” I felt greater reinforcement that I had a right to seek fulfillment by any means necessary. In retrospect, it’s laughable how easily the love I craved in childhood transferred to the destructive euphoria I consumed in adolescence and finally to the money and power I willed in adulthood. Now, sitting in my dim office, I see that what I thought I was a place away from which I ran was instead my perpetuate shadow that would remain until I could find the way out of the cave; I needed real sunlight to truly exorcize this darkness.

III.

(I'll try to keep you updated on my progress)