Chapter Five
FOR BEN, GOING back to his off-campus apartment in the suburban neighborhoods of Gainesville after a hectic day was cathartic. It was a blissful time alone, a break from activities that required him to be the extravert he wasn’t – especially if the day involved the student press corps and other prying individuals.
The apartment was his sanctuary. It was his place to regroup, his place to let go of his protective shield - his place to vent his frustrations and avoid the distractions of his routine chores on the main floor of the student union.
At the end of the day, Ben could be more like himself. No agendas. No stress. No secrets. Opening himself up at home was the only way he knew how to keep the two facets of his personality apart – the ambitious and knowledgeable politician-in-training and the introverted, idealistic, amateur author. If either part came in contact with the other – such as enforcing an idealistic set of morals on his politics – it usually caused him pain, disappointment, or worse.
Some say the best leaders are conflicted like that. Others, including Ben’s best friend, used to say “you only need to find the real you” by deciding what he wanted and what he needed to do to get it.
The problem is that he was both ambitious and introverted. And there was no denying that...
MIKE SLOWED HIS car to a full stop in the parking lot of his apartment complex. He adjusted his seat and gathered his things from the beige leather seats. After stomping onto the ground outside his vehicle, a small beep from his remote locked things up.
With a deep breath and a flick of his keys, Mike stepped over the threshold to adobe away from home – the condominium was just a part-time residence away from his Victorian townhouse in the Washington suburbs that he’d bought a few years back.
The apartment had a chaotic feel to it, despite being rather empty and its décor was more bare-bones. Papers, books, and mail were found in lumps and piles across the apartment. Yet, it feels even emptier than usual these days, Mike thought as he rummaged through the stack of mail in the foyer. At least the mail service hasn’t given up on me. He dropped his briefcase and keys on the nearby sofa, and scooped up the mail that had collected.
What junk am I being sold today? Mike asked as he flipped through a couple flyers from some local businesses. He dropped down on the sofa and discarded the junk mail on the polished oak coffee table in front of him.
He pulled off his shoes before turning on the television. The large, flat plasma screen facing him came to life and was automatically turned to CNN. Mike ignored the main camera view and focused instead on the scroll of headlines at the bottom of the screen.
An ambassador from Australia proposed giving the United Nations more authority over international matters like space exploration. President Gary Schiff led his Republican challenger in a poll, 49/39 with twelve percent still undecided. The stock market soared on news of a budget forecasting a small government surplus for the first time in years. A terrorist plot against Westminster Abbey was uncovered and averted by local authorities. NASA authorized the development of a new class of space shuttles. And on and on the headlines went.
A lot is going on in the world without me being in the thick of things. That’s reassuring. Hopefully the media will be too distracted with real news to stick around for too long, Mike thought. He glanced down at the rest of the mail – most of it appeared to be fan mail, as it almost always was down here in Florida. One piece caught his eye, though – it was a small, orange-tinted clasp envelope with no return address on it. He separated it from the rest, and propped his feet up on the coffee table, still holding it.
Without as much as a second thought, however, he decided that the paper mail, even this interesting one, could wait until he sorted through the electronic video and audio messages left for him. He left the envelope on his coffee table with the rest of the mail. Instead, he jumped up to his computer and accessed his email and Call Pilot software. He prioritized the messages, deleting the advertising and telemarketing ones.
He had received a couple messages from fans and former constituents, and more than a few messages from local vendors wishing him luck with the movie and requesting a visit. To gain some quick, easy, and free publicity, no doubt. Ugh. Why can’t businesses operate with a better sense of personal space and social responsibility? A couple other messages were from people he didn’t know, lobbyists and publishers seeking his guidance or his business.
The only message he saw that was worth looking at closer came from Eastside High School. “Michael Adams, your graduating class cordially invites you to our 20 year reunion. A reception will be held honoring you and your fellow classmates on October 13th. As you know, you will be delivering a keynote address at the reception. This is your confirmation message and a reminder. We look forward to seeing you at your reunion evening. Good day.”
Wow. Mike was taken aback. With the hubbub over his movie, he nearly forgot all about the reunion, and it was now less than a month away. I haven’t seen these people in almost twenty years. A lump appeared in his throat. What can I say to them? Hi, remember me? The dorky student government guy? Well, I haven’t changed a bit! Except now I’m older, heavier, and I spend my time writing about dorky student government types. Meanwhile, no doubt, many of his classmates have gone on and became engineers and doctors and have probably changed a great deal since high school.
He sent a message to his D.C. office reminding his assistant Adrian about the reunion and asking for a status on the keynote speech.
He began pacing. I should have installed a thinking trail in this apartment he thought with a smile. He began rubbing his temples. This exercise, Mike has found over the years, was the best mechanism for deep thinking – much like some find in meditation, and others in typing at a computer. Now, what is the message I am trying to convey tomorrow? It doesn’t matter; it’s a thing for the press, nothing more than that. Should Adam do most of the talking? Sure, he’s the director and everyone already knows the story I’m trying to-
BEEP. BEEP. The computer was alerting Mike to an incoming text message. The break in his train of thought forced him to notice the light rainfall that had started.
The message, which came from a “Mr. Joe Citizen,” read as this: “Michael, I really think you should look in the envelope.”
What?!? How did this Joe Citizen even know I had one, and had not opened it yet? “Computer, run a trace program,” Mike said out loud even as he typed in the command. He then twisted around, scanning the room for possible video monitoring equipment. He didn’t see any in plain sight, but that did not mean that they did not exist. Nothing behind the treadmill. Nothing next to the refrigerator. Certainly not by the computer, or in front of the bedroom. Where could it be?
The computer blurted back its results a few seconds later, leaving Mike to mutter, “The text message was routed through multiple servers. I’m going to need more sophisticated tracing software.”
He made a more thorough search of his apartment. He checked all the sound equipment and lighting fixtures. Not a thing was out of the ordinary. Nothing was out of place. Nothing at all unusual to be found. God damn it, this is beyond troublesome.
Giving up on his search for the moment, Mike sat down at the sofa and grabbed the envelope. In tearing it open, he didn’t notice the now-broken circular seal on the back. Inside the envelope was a single sheet of tan stock paper, with a brief, typewritten message on it. How quaint, Mike thought, for an urgent message, they took great care in preparing it for me to read.
The message stated cryptically: “Hazelnuts could set the sun for a day. What will turn the lights off permanently?”
Why is it that all my lucky breaks always cause more problems than they solve? Mike thought after tossing the letter back on the coffee table. His heart had begun thumping loudly in his chest. Mike grew certain of one thing and only one thing. Tomorrow’s press gaggle will not be about him or his book. It will be about something else entirely
.