Have you felt special in your dreams and grieved when the alarm rang? I have.
The security guard waved his metal detector across my arms. He moved close enough to whiff my aftershave. Our eyes met before he grimaced. The man searched my knapsack, taking out my expensive digital voice recorder. He then examined, with a raised eyebrow, the little bottle next to it.
“That’s my medication,” I said.
The guard nodded. “I’ll let him know you’re here.”
This meeting was achieved through years of hard work. This night would be the culmination of my career.
The guard opened the front door of the executive suite, presenting Mr. Smith, an older man who loved Italian cars and three-piece suits.
Mr. Smith shook my hand and said, “I appreciate you coming to the hotel in this bad weather. My campaign manager is a fan of your publication.”
“Is she here?” I asked.
“No, she had a family obligation.”
The silver-haired Mr. Smith somehow knew what to expect upon my arrival. The droopiness of my blind right eye, the loose skin, and the missing cheek bone didn’t faze him. His campaign surely had given him a current picture, even though my online profile only had the old images of me, a handsome man.
“Thank you for seeing me, Mr. Smith. I’ve wanted to interview you for years.”
We moved past his bathroom, which had clothes sprawled across the floor. On the sink was a tube of lipstick. The view into the real man ended as he closed the bathroom door.
Mr. Smith said, “I’m a strong believer in talking to a diverse array of voices. It’s always pleasant to converse with a curious mind.”
My pitch to his campaign for an interview highlighted the chance for Mr. Smith to be inclusive towards the disabled. When they finally agreed, my deformity made me an ideal selection to be the interviewer.
“Is Mrs. Smith on the trail with you?” I asked.
“No, she’s back in Grand Rapids. She’s a little under the weather.”
He motioned for us to sit at the mahogany table. His black water bottle was nearby. I’d overheard a rumor that Mr. Smith kept bourbon hidden in the bottle in plain view. A disgruntled staff member of his had made the wild claim.
Maybe my eyes had wandered for too long. Mr. Smith stared at me intently, as if he was trying to figure out a math equation. There were many opinions of this man, but most agreed he wasn’t dumb.
“The curious thing about interviews is I never know how they went until they’re published a week or month later,” he said.
“As the interviewer, I have an idea of how this night will unfold, but these things are always unpredictable.”
Mr. Smith leaned back in his chair and said, “I’ll tell you a secret. I can’t wait for election day to come and go. I’m the fittest 70-year-old you’ll meet, but I’m exhausted.”
“Are you anxious about the election results?”
He smirked and said, “We’ll win. It’s past time for the celebration.”
We both knew he hadn’t declared that statement “off the record.” It didn’t matter. The polls forecasted a landslide victory. His cockiness was justified. My face would never appear on a television station to report that or anything else.
Even so, I had a potential headline. I took my new recorder out and began. “If elected to the U.S. Senate, what are your top goals?”
“Health care is near and dear to my heart. I rarely speak about this, but I once overcame a brush with death.”
Mr. Smith reheated the same stale story in all his interviews. As a sophomore in high school, he had been afflicted by an undiagnosed illness. His parents couldn’t afford health insurance, and his ailment worsened. According to him, he had just stopped the school bully from picking on a freshman when he collapsed. At the hospital, a surgeon performed a “miracle” by removing his tonsils. As a result, he became a tireless advocate for obtaining health care for all people and pets as well. He said, “Mrs. Smith made me add the last part.”
It was at that moment he did what many curious people do; he hinted at my deformity.
Mr. Smith asked, “And have you been pleased with the care you’ve gotten for your own medical needs?”
“I’ve had my ups and downs.”
This politician was disappointed. He wanted details on my disfigurement, but I stayed quiet. Naturally, Mr. Smith must have thought I was hideous. In that way, he was just like everyone else.
There was once a woman with champagne-colored eyes. We each frequented the political science section of the local library. Whenever she passed me, her French lavender perfume permeated the aisle. Her interest must have been piqued because one day she smiled, introduced herself, and offered her soft, slender hand to shake. She asked about my profession. Everyone knew I was a freak, pretending otherwise wasn’t needed. I said I worked as a journalist and lied about being late for a meeting. I never entered that library again.
Have you ever escaped loneliness through isolation? I have.
“Let’s move onto the town hall from last week,” I said. “Why…”
“That’s irrelevant,” Mr. Smith said. “I never lied about my credentials. That person in the audience was trying for a gotcha question.”
“Just for clarity, you’re not a graduate from the University of Michigan?”
“As you know, the misunderstanding has been explained many times by my campaign. Yes, I’ve always said I went to Michigan. I never explicitly said I graduated.”
“The questioner was a former classmate of yours. I tracked him down,” I said. “He stated you were a serious drinker and an unserious student. He also claimed your breath always reeked of Old Whiskey.”
“Everyone who’s 21 drinks. Maybe I did too much, but that’s not noteworthy for your newspaper. Whoever that guy is you spoke with, I don’t recall. If he says he’s a classmate, fine. There were hundreds of classmates. And furthermore, my life worked out well between a successful business and a best-selling book. Are we done with this topic Mr.…I already forgot your name.”
“It’s not memorable.”
My childhood friend Aaron predicted my name would be famous and demand respect. Neither Aaron nor I had brothers growing up, so we filled that void for one another. As teens, Aaron and I obsessed over girls and made plans to see the world. His confidence in my dreams was unshakable. Aaron knew I’d interview big politicians like Mr. Smith. Even into our late twenties, we remained close. It was after attending a basketball game in Detroit that it happened. Aaron was the one driving the car as another vehicle smashed into my side. The other driver fled into the night.
Memories of those three months in the hospital emerged. I was in a coma for two weeks. Fortunately, Aaron made a full recovery. As for myself, the damage was permanent. The blindness in my right eye wasn’t the main concern. They removed the mirror from my bathroom. The doctor kept saying, “We’ll explore every option available.” My parents were by my side when I learned I was no longer myself.
Mr. Smith listed his many endorsements. He said, “Michiganders needed a man with big ideas. A prominent judge practically begged me to run. Feel free to quote me on that.”
“And will any of your big ideas reach the Senate floor?”
“I’m a master at persuasion. Within a couple years my health provision will be ready. People shouldn’t be poverty-stricken because of medical debt.”
My own insurance only agreed to cover a small portion of my facial procedure. It didn’t matter. A congenital heart condition prevented any anesthesia and thereby my reconstructive surgeries. For whatever reason, the surgeons said my life was too precious to risk. Regardless, the years after the accident weren’t all gloom. Maybe I didn’t make new friends, but Aaron never wavered. In between the pickup basketball games and nights getting drinks, he remained the loyal wingman. He insisted I could still date, and I appreciated his naivete.
“I’ll tell you,” Mr. Smith said, laughing, “I recently campaigned with the Michigan Attorney General, who’s a close friend. He stood in disbelief at the swarm of people waiting in the rain for my speech. You should have been there. Upon my exit, that crowd parted for me the way Moses parted the Red Sea.”
Despite his advisors being absent, Mr. Smith remained comfortable. Alone time with this candidate was rare, and my editor needed a scoop. I had to push him.
“You’ve touted a close relationship with law enforcement. The Police Officers Association of Michigan endorsed your opponent. Why?” I asked.
“I’ve donated a tremendous amount to various police departments. The disagreements I’ve had with their leadership are over minor ethical matters. Regardless, our interests remain closely aligned.”
“What would you say to those people, someone like me, who say the justice system is broken? Do you have any proposals to address inadequacies?”
Mr. Smith leaned forward. “What are we talking about? If our system has failed you or any of my constituents, I can investigate. That’s the job of an elected official. If something inappropriate has transpired, I’ll assist you. Let me help.”
“You would do that?”
“I’m a man who believes in using my resources for good. Even if I must ruffle some feathers, I get the job done. After we’re finished, reach out to my campaign manager with the details of your case. I’ll see what I can do.”
“A journalist can’t let himself become the story.”
Mr. Smith checked his Cartier watch. “If there’s anything I can’t stand to see, it’s someone in pain. Not to be too forward, but every man should have a fair shot at the pursuit of happiness, and you’ve been deprived of that.”
There actually were happy times. I loved Mardi Gras and those large, colorful masks I wore while partying in public. Last February I canceled my annual trip to New Orleans and traveled eastward. I sat starstruck in front of a holy Indonesian temple. The ancient structure caused people seeking peace and forgiveness to migrate from afar. I shared their goal. But no matter the nation, people averted their gaze. When I walked past any little child, their eyes would widen in horror before they cried. Young parents constantly apologized around me.
My research confirmed the police performed a lackluster investigation into the car crash. There were no fatalities. Just one totaled car. And my mangled face. It wasn’t a high priority.
Aaron preached acceptance: “We’re lucky to be alive.” I forced myself to never scream the obvious. That he can attend events without a second thought. Or go an entire day without pain medication. Or apply for any job he wanted. Or marry. Life was beautiful, for him.
I eventually learned whoever hit us drove a Maserati. There was a bar a mile down the road that had just closed when the accident happened. I told Aaron my theory. He pleaded to let it go. Eventually, he called me deranged.
The evidence I presented to Aaron was undeniable, but my plan scared him. That was why my only friendship ended.
You ever smash a bathroom mirror to make your reflection disappear? I have.
“People have lost all faith in their government,” Mr. Smith said. “But they’ve also lost faith in their neighbors, in their community, and to a certain extent, in themselves. When I’m elected, I’ll start to fix that. Sometimes we need good policy, and sometimes people just need a standard-bearer for decency. The people of this state are going to vote for me because they want to have faith again.”
“I gotta take a piss.”
He raised an eyebrow.
“Sorry for the crassness. I thought I could hold it until we finished. May I?” I asked.
“Just let me clean up in the bathroom. I don’t want the reporting to be I’m a clutter bug.” Mr. Smith entered the bathroom and closed the door behind him.
For the next thirty seconds, I was in his room alone.
The bartender from that night remembered a patron who had attracted attention from a couple other customers, almost as if he were a celebrity. The bartender said the guy left a mammoth tip as he stumbled out of the bar and got in a fancy European car. As for the name of this man, the bartender said his name wasn’t memorable.
For years, Aaron claimed I was bitter. His observation was apt. I’d been obsessed with the truth for years.
I stood when he reentered the room. “I won’t be long. Thank you.”
In the bathroom, I tried to focus. Any article I wrote was guaranteed to be the lead for my editor. Other publications would cite my story. Multiple quotes from Mr. Smith were headlines. This interview was my career breakthrough. I could go home. I had won.
While I washed my hands, I performed my ritual of keeping my eyes downward. Turning the faucet off and shifting to the right, never letting my eyes drift to the mirror. I knew what I looked like. There was no need for a reminder.
Mr. Smith stood by the window as he fiddled with my audio recorder, pressing every button carelessly.
“I see we have a few minutes left. I have one more question,” I said.
He glanced at his watch and nodded.
“Is there any ‘October surprise’ you’re concerned about before the election? Hypothetically, are there any…hit-and-runs in your past?”
“I don’t understand.”
“Let’s say from eleven years ago. Maybe at an intersection in Detroit after too much whiskey. Anything like that?”
Mr. Smith’s breathing became labored as he reassessed my mutilated face. He moved to his chair and collapsed onto the seat. The old man’s mouth opened, but no words came out. His water bottle remained untouched.
“Any statement?”
“Please leave,” he finally said. “Accusations aren’t funny. This interview is over.”
Mr. Smith snatched his water bottle and drank. The taste of ketamine didn’t register with him. The effects usually took minutes to hit. Not in this case. For someone of his advanced age, he became drowsy within seconds.
On his desk, I found my treasure. I picked it up and my grip was firm.
Have you ever swung a brass paperweight into another man’s skull?
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Alexander Kemp was born in Michigan. He graduated from the University of Southern California and works as a vocational counselor for adults with disabilities. His work appears in Santa Clara Review, Aji Magazine, and Rollick Magazine. He resides in Los Angeles.
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Edward Michael Supranowicz is the descendant of Irish, Russian, and Ukrainian immigrants. He grew up on a farm in Appalachia and he has lived in Washington, D.C. and Boston. He studied painting and printmaking at the graduate level. His artwork and poetry have appeared or are forthcoming in Fish Food, Streetlight, Straylight, Gravel, The Phoenix, and other journals.
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