Fred Zevelman snorted scornfully and fretted the lapels of his suit. “I know what you mean,” he said to Arthur. “I’ve been following the progress of the country for years, and for the last five years it hasn’t been progress at all.” Fred was small, with an olive complexion and a round face that tended toward gloom. “Child of Saturn,” he liked to say. Fred had run four consecutive presidential campaigns, two successfully, two unsuccessfully. His last candidate, a Western Senator whose rough-hewn looks offset but did not obscure a brilliant mind (Rhodes scholar, practicing philosopher, chess grandmaster) had lost big. “People don’t want someone better than them,” Fred said. He gestured big to get Arthur’s attention. “But at this point, how can you give them someone worse?” Arthur jumped off the table. Arthur, a cat, licked his paws. Fred checked the clock. The reporter was due in ten minutes. That gave Fred nine minutes to forget everything he knew and instead manufacture optimism regarding the future of the nation. “And for that,” he said, “I’m going to need a drink.”
©2020 Ben Greenman/Stupid Ideas
No comments:
Post a Comment