In the wings, the speaker adjusted the almost invisible headset.
Only the thin, fleshtone-painted bit of plastic that held the fleshtone-painted mic in position near the corner of her mouth was visible at all.
She glanced down, smoothed her pantsuit, and waited as the band completed the final strains of their third song. It was lively and upbeat, a musical call to action.
A disembodied voice reminiscent of a ring announcer introducing a much-anticipated heavyweight fight thundered through the hall. “And now. Laydeeeze and gentelmennn. Right here in your town. On this auspicious night. On this very stage. The champion of the poor and the downtrodden. The absolute center of her own universe. The monster of the midway. Please give a warm Chicago welcome. To the undefeated. Undeterred. Unperturbable. Marvelous Mallory Clanton!”
The last few syllables of her name were drowned out by a crescendo of applause.
As she crossed the stage, she smiled smugly out across the audience. Now and then she nodded as if she recognized a long-time friend. The first time she pointed, then flashed a thumbs-up sign with the same hand. The next time and the time after that, she pointed, then wagged the fingers of that hand in a friendly wave.
“It’ll show ‘em you’re friendly,” Bill said in that friendly, semi-gravelly voice one night last week when they were talking strategy. Then he bit his bottom lip for a second. His eyes took on a glimmer as he said, “You might even say it’ll show ‘em you don’t actually eat your young.”
“Ha ha,” she said. “Very funny.”
He nodded gravely. “But seriously, Mallory. One point and thumbs-up, then two points and finger waves. You can also fold your thumb inside your fist and point with the second knuckle on your pointer finger.”
“Index finger.”
He frowned. “What?”
“It’s called an index finger. Not a pointer finger.”
“Oh, right, right. You could also show your sincerity by biting your bottom lip, but that won’t work for you.” He grinned broadly. “Seein’ as how you could eat an apple through a picket fence.”
“That isn’t funny, Bill. And it’s getting old.”
He bit his lip again. Past his boyish grin, he growled, “Yeah, well, ain’t we all. An’ by ‘we,’ I mean you.”
“Bill, that was just mean.”
“I’m sorry baby. I didn’t mean it. Really. You’ll do fine.”
“You really think so?”
He bit his bottom lip again, then released it and nodded. “You’ll knock ‘em dead.” He paused. “Well, not like Vance Foster.”
“You know full well no charges were ever filed.”
He flashed a thumbs up at her. In that same quiet growl, he said, “You’re welcome.”
They both burst out laughing.
But he was right. She was going to knock them dead.
She stopped at center stage and looked out over the audience, bobbing her head and smiling as the applause droned on. The flesh-toned apparatus was discernable only to those nearest the stage.
As the applause quieted, she pointed vaguely and flashed a thumbs-up to someone on the left. Then twice more, once in the direction of the center of the audience and once to the right, she pointed and curled a finger wave.
She scanned across the audience again, her head still bobbing, the smile still in place.
Then suddenly, she struck a pose, her right fist raised, her index finger pointing at the ceiling, and shouted, “Control!”
The applause thundered to life again, and again she settled for bobbing her head and pointing out imaginary acquaintances.
As it abated again, she said, “The Washington elite would have you believe liability is important.”
Some members of the audience began to boo.
“No really. The Washington elite would have you believe what matters is liability.”
The boos increased.
She held up her left hand, extended the fingers, and ticked them off. “Liability. Responsibility. Even accountability.”
The boos grew to fill the hall.
When they began to abate, she said, “They would have you believe what matters is not that lives are lost, but who’s liable. They would have you believe that what matters is not who has nuclear weapons or what they might do with them, but who’s responsible. And they would have you believe, my friends, that what matters is not what’s in our future, but the erroneous decisions of our past and who should be held accountable for those decisions.”
More boos were forthcoming, though not as many and not as loudly.
She pressed on. “They would even have you believe, in a world that is filled every day with completely incredible events, that what matters is not what lies were told for the good of the nation, but who is or is not credible!”
The audible exclamation point elicited more boos, and again they grew to a crescendo.
She bobbed, the smile absent, and assumed her best look of incredulity.
When the audience began to grow quiet once again, she tucked her right thumb into her fist and pointed with the second knuckle on her index finger to the mezzanine. She yelled, “But I’m not here today to point fingers.”
Light applause and a few whistles came from the mezzanine.
“I’m not here to talk about liability.”
The applause began to spread across the audience.
“Or responsibility. Or accountability.”
The applause grew louder.
“And I sure as hell—” She extended her index finger and pointed vigorously at the ceiling. “Am not here to waste your time talking about who’s credible and who isn’t!”
As the applause rapidly increased in volume, she shouted, “We don’t care!”
As the applause continued, the audience picked up the cry. “We don’t care! We don’t care! We don’t care!”
Again she waited, soaking up the applause. She bobbed her head, smiled broadly, and again pointed out imaginary friends around the auditorium.
As the applause began to wane, she pointed her finger toward the ceiling again and yelled, “My friends. My friends, I’m here. To talk about. Control!”
As the applause died down, she moved to the front edge of the stage and spread her arms as in supplication. “And really, ladies and gentlemen. Really, isn’t that what we all need?” She paused, took a few steps back, and said more loudly, “Don’t we need control” and she pumped her fist, “of our own” another pump, “lives?”
The cheers were resounding, and again mixed into overwhelming applause.
At the top of her lungs, she shouted, “Is that too much to ask?”
Through the applause, several people yelled, “No!”
She bobbed her head, pointed at them, smiled. Over the applause, she yelled, “Don’t we deserve something? Or someone? To help us bear the tiring, wearisome burden of our lives?”
The applause fed on itself and continued unabated.
She shouted, “Don’t we need someone to help us?”
The same few people pumped their fists in the air and yelled, “Yes!” and “You tell ‘em, Mallory!”
She grinned and yelled, “Don’t you need someone to deflect the slings and arrows of outrageous fortune?”
The applause fell off as if someone had shoved it off a cliff.
Many in the audience nodded, uncertainly. A few raised their hands in acknowledgment and agreement. Several turned to their neighbors and exchanged questioning looks.
Oops. “Don’t you need someone to defend you against those who want to make you responsible? Those who want to hold you accountable?”
Again the applause began, respectfully. Many in the audience began bobbing their heads, ala Mallory, their fists pumping in the air as they shouted, “Yes!”
Those with a propensity for checking with their neighbors did so again, this time with nods and quiet affirmations.
“Sounds right to me.”
“Truer words ain’t never been spoke.”
Like a benevolent mother figure, the speaker shook her head and smiled. “After all, we’re only human.” She raised her eyebrows and nodded encouragement. “Aren’t we?”
Again, many nodded or raised their hands. Several said, “That’s right” or “Yes, we are only human” as if the thought had never occurred to them before that moment.
“Sure,” she said more quietly, her head bobbing. “Sure, we’re only human. And in the course of being human—in the fullness of our imperfection, in the extent of our inadequacy—we make mistakes, don’t we?”
The audience responded, mostly to each other with knowing nods.
Some mumbled, “Oh yes. Yes, we make mistakes.”
A few flashed a proud, toothy grin in the direction of their neighbors. “I’ve made some doozies in my time. And you know that’s true.”
And the speaker said, “So now it’s time for the important question.” She paused to allow anticipation to build. “I ask you—all of you, because I’m nothing if not inclusive.” She smiled broadly. “Imperfect creatures that we are, is it inherently fair that we should be held strictly accountable for those mistakes?”
Imperfect? Inherently? Strictly accountable?
Unsure of what she expected of them, very few in the audience responded. Those few muttered, “Prob’ly not.”
The speaker suddenly took a step forward and spread her hands as if beseeching angels to come forth. More forcefully, she said, “Well, is it?”
The crowd understood. Many more responded, and more loudly, “Nah, that ain’t right.” Some turned to their neighbors again. “That ain’t right, is it?”
Arms still raised as he turned slightly on the stage, the speaker yelled, “Is it?”
And as one, the audience shouted, “No!”
In the back of the room on the left, a small group stood and began shouting, “That ain’t right. That ain’t right. That ain’t right.”
The speaker glanced in their direction and beamed a smile while bobbing her head. As she lowered her arms, she laughed and wagged her hands, gesturing for them to take their seats.
But pumping their fists into the air, they continued more forcefully. “That ain’t right! That ain’t right!”
Soon the chant spread throughout the auditorium as more audience members stood. Some raised their fists rhythmically. Others pointed toward the stage, their index fingers protruding from their fists. Over and over again they chanted, “That ain’t right! That ain’t right!”
Still smiling broadly, the speaker took a step back on the stage, as if that difference in vantage point would give her a broader perspective.
She bowed her head for a moment, as if overcome with emotion, then raised her head again and gazed out over the audience. She nodded like a mother might at an adoring child. Her head bobbed as she said quietly, “That’s right. That’s right. You’ve born enough burdens in your life, haven’t you?”
Almost everyone nodded. They began to take their seats.
As the shouts of “That ain’t right” diminished, the hall was filled with variations on “Mmmhmm” and “Yes we have” and “You know that’s right.”
Those utterances mixed with the dwindling shouts of “That ain’t right.” Beneath it all lay the rippling undercurrent of audience members affirming to each other that this woman truly knew them.
As the crowd began to calm down, the speaker shrugged. Quietly, she said, “So what are we gonna do about it?”
Her quiet utterance had the desired effect as the audience grew silent.
Again, throughout the audience, many turned to their neighbors. “Wha’d she say? I didn’t catch that.”
The speaker nodded. “What can we do about it?” She paused. “No, seriously. I’d like to know.”
She allowed her gaze to rake slowly across the audience nearer the stage, left to right. Then farther back, right to left. Then up to the mezzanine, left to right again.
Quietly, with overtones of sadness, she said, “We’re all in the same boat here, you and I.”
She looked down at the stage for a moment. When she raised her head, she looked up at the mezzanine again, then shifted her gaze lower. In the most heartfelt tone she could muster, she said, “We’re the same, you and I.” She paused.
“In fact, we’re exactly the same.” She paused again, then lowered her head and spread her arms as if to embrace them. “Just like you, I’m only human.”
The audience waited.
She repeated that. “Just like you, I’m only human. Just like you, I’m not perfect.”
Several in the crowd yelled, “No!”
She bobbed her head. “Oh yes. Yes.” She paused. “And just like you, I’ve made my share of mistakes.”
Laughter rippled through the audience.
She nodded, a wry smile on her face. “No, it’s true. Really.” She forcefully said, “That. Is why. I’m here with you today.”
Applause began rippling through the audience again.
“That. Is why. I can relate.” She bobbed her head again. Then she yelled, “And that. Is why. I am firmly on your side!”
The applause picked up, accompanied by nods and shouted affirmations from the audience. “That’s right, girl!”
“You tell ‘em, Mallory!”
“You get us!”
“My friends, I’m on your side in this war.
“I know where you live; I’ve lived there.
“I know what it’s like; I’ve been there.
“And I’m the one person who can deliver what you need!
“I’m the one person you can trust!
“I’ll lock up those who speak against you!
“I’ll lock up those who would foist responsibility on you!
“I’ll lock up those who would try to hold you accountable for your actions!
“Ladies and gentlemen, I will take control of your lives and you’ll never have to worry again!”
Then a house fell on her and the toes of her pumps curled all the way up to her pantsuit.
The audience fell silent.
They gawked at the stage.
Eyebrows raised and eyes grew large with disbelief.
And a murmur began and eventually worked its way around the auditorium. The most often expressed question was, “What will we do now?”
And the most often expressed response was, “Wanna go get a Coke?”
* * * * * * *