The Unknown
1.0
It is four thirty-six when I hear from my lawyer that the judge has declared a mistrial. Apparently, Bush’s outburst went viral and prompted a media storm that affected the jury. Somehow, someone discovered personal information about multiple jurors and people began sending messages, pleas, and threats to the jurors’ friends and relatives. “We’ve got left-wing and right-wing nuts threatening all sorts of shit depending on how the jury rules,” my lawyer tells me. “The judge has no choice but to end the trial.”
I wonder if Educorp is behind this. After Bush’s outburst, fearing a verdict in my favor, would they use their immense wealth and contacts to cook up some jury tampering? Probably. Hell, since a third of the nation’s kids go to Educorp schools, they can look up info on just about anyone. Better than the NSA, even.
By six-thirty, I’m well on my way to getting good and drunk. I have not heard from my wife, though she has undoubtedly seen the news. Every major network is going full-blast about the mistrial and what it means for everyone. Pundits are talking about education, children, and teachers. Nobody is talking about me, and it hurts.
My phone buzzes and I discover that I have received another email from a well-wisher, a former colleague. In defeat, everyone hopes I am well. None of them, of course, are offering jobs. And why would they? I lost. Not only am I blacklisted, but I’m a loser. Literally.
A voicemail comes in, and I listen as my lawyer talks about filing appeals, seeking a change of venue, et cetera. In my soused state, I cannot bother paying attention. I know that we will not win. Educorp was Goliath, and I was no David. I was nothing but Goliath’s unwanted henchman.
The last of my warming margarita goes down my gullet and I begin wandering around my cluttered home, which has not been cleaned since my wife left. Almost laid low by daily stress, from both the trial and my likely divorce, I have not been motivated to use the vacuum cleaner or a dustcloth. The lawn looks hideous. Fortunately, due to daylight savings time, I don’t have to see it much.
I spy the last of the tequila and margarita mix on the kitchen counter and concoct another drink. Since I don’t have work to go to tomorrow, why not? The drink is lukewarm, but that’s fine with me. After several slugs, more things are fine with me.
The buzz helps make everything okay. Helps you give in.
Don’t give in. Fight it.
Returning to the couch, I grab my tablet and begin looking for job openings. Time to get back to it. I sued and I lost. Gotta get a job. I see my Human Capital profile tab and ignore it, not wanting to see that my share price is worthless. I go to job search engines and begin seeing what’s out there. As long as I’m tipsy, things seem to be looking up. With one hand I hold the tablet, and with another I hold my margarita. Good times.
I search for education and Midland. Angrily, I let out a “blurgh” as I see that Educorp dominates the market. A few positions are open at the public schools, but I ignore them. I type in education administration and Midland and try my luck, hoping for something at the local university, maybe.
Someone is looking for an applicant with education and education administration experience, and I impulsively thumb the button to give the job-poster a call.
1.1
I tell the man on the phone who I am and he is silent for a second. “Really? Or is this a joke?” he says after a few seconds.
“It’s really me,” I say, not knowing how else to respond.
“If that’s true, then we would love to talk to you,” he says, his voice eager. “Anytime you can meet is fine for us. We would love to talk.”
“Not like I have anything else going on right now,” I laugh. I ask if I can meet him. I don’t know who he is, but I don’t really care. A job is a job, especially in my state. He begins telling me an address. I recognize it as a big building downtown.
“We’re on the first floor, northeast corner.” I tell him that I’ll find him. Embarrassed, I ask what name I should be looking for on the door. He tells me that it says Progressive Party on the door and that it’s just to the left of the Democratic Party offices.
“We’re across the street from the Republican Party offices, so you can’t miss us. They’ve got the big red elephant stickers on everything.”
Progressive Party? What the hell? Politely, I thank him and end the call. I pound the rest of the margarita and decide that it’s a good night to catch an early bedtime. I am undoing my belt when I decide that I’ve got nothing to lose. I re-buckle my belt and summon an Uber to my address. The app announces that a white Ford Explorer will be at my door in minutes.
What the hell am I doing?
2.0
There is a poster of an old guy with wild, wispy white hair on the wall and I stare at it. The guy is familiar, but I cannot place his name.
“That’s Bernie Sanders,” the young guy tells me, noticing my stare. “He ran for president, remember?” I shouldn’t have had that last margarita, because I can barely respond. But maybe being drunk was the only way to get myself here. If the young guy notices my intoxication, he is too couth to say anything. I am, after all, a celebrity now.
Well, if I am the victim of a monopoly giant, I guess I’m in the right place.
“I remember Bernie Sanders,” I say, trying not to slur. I look around the rest of the office and wonder why I have not heard of the Progressive Party before. Given the dilapidated furniture and obviously donated office equipment, I understand why it has not become a household name out here. Across the street, the Republican Party offices are elaborately decorated and have a fleet of new SUVs parked out front. Posters of president Trump adorn the lampposts.
A door to an inner office opens and a guy in his fifties welcomes me with open arms. He is big and jovial and, in my inebriation, I feel an instant friendship. Hell, anyone can be my friend tonight. Christ knows I need ‘em!
“I’m Jim Turner, the local party chief,” he announces, striding across the tiny lobby. He gives me a hearty shake and I try to smile. “I’m glad to have heard from you. We love anyone who can talk education policy with us.” He does not mention the trial, but I know he is going to. I wonder what he’ll say.
“Would you like to step into my office?” he asks, and I join him in a room that looks more like a graduate assistant’s office at a land-grant U than the office of a savvy professional. He offers me a seat in a donated office chair, and I wince when it squeals alarmingly at my weight. To be fair, I have gained more than a few pounds. My pants are tight around my waist, my love handles squeezed by waistband and belt alike.
“I’ll be frank,” Jim says, launching in. “You got a raw deal with that trial. We’ve been watching it on the news every day.” I look around for a television and Jim chuckles. He holds up his phone. “I know, I know. We’re a bare bones operation. No TV yet, but my phone gets six bars.” I smile politely.
“You’ve got an impressive resume, and we would love to have you on our team.”
A job offer? I can practically hear the angels singing, even with all the margaritas in my system.
“We can’t pay much, but we are proud to offer health insurance,” he says. There is a simple pride in his voice, and I dig it. “We take care of our own. Do you know much about us?”
I shake my head and tell him that I’ve been very busy recently. I’m sure he knows that this is a lie, shit everyone says, but he nods as if it is all understandable.
“We formed in 2016, when the Dems went with Hillary Clinton instead of Bernie Sanders. The Republicans went with Trump, which is still a shock.” As he talks, I begin pulling bits and pieces of headlines and video clips from my memory banks. My mind fights off the alcohol as it tries to remember the presidential election, and the cold of the room helps me sober up.
“Yeah, that was a shock,” I agree. Jim claps his hands together and smiles. “I fought like hell for Berni
e. I wrote editorials, put out signs, even went door to door. But, in the end, big money won. The Dems nominated Hillary and the Republicans ate her alive that fall. She was a flip-flopper, too many scandals, and all that jazz.”
This being Texas, I clearly recall there being no love lost for the Clintons. I nod along with Jim’s story, remembering the GOP ads from that September and October. The ad about flip-flops was funny. There was a woman trying to compete in one of those “tough mudder” contests in a pair of flip-flops, and failing miserably. Thorns in her feet, she sat down in tears. “America doesn’t need a flip-flopper” was the narration, or something like that. Then it showed a man in some trail runners and said that Trump was solid, unafraid of the mud, or something to that effect.
I did not vote that November. I think my wife did, but I can’t be sure.
“Yeah, I was no fan of Hillary,” I mutter.
“I’m guessing you’re a Republican?” Jim asks, and I shrug. “Usually,” I admit. Suddenly, I have to use the restroom. I ask where it is, and he tells me that it’s down the hall and to the left. I stand up, and suddenly I feel faint. My vision trebles and fades.
“Whoa,” I say, and I feel my foot slip on the linoleum floor. Before Jim can react, I am falling. I feel my head strike the linoleum, and it does not hurt as much as I would expect. “I’m okay,” I say, trying to laugh. Then
3.0
He is old but strong, with a sort of urgency keeping him keyed up. I am on a couch, an old one with lots of battered leather. The thing is enormous and overstuffed. Little bits of fluff and thread tuft out here and there.
“Would you like me to call an ambulance?” the man asks. He looks closely at me, trying to ascertain if I am okay.
My head hurts, bad, but I tell him that I don’t want to go to a hospital.
“You lost consciousness, so you better go to a doctor to get that checked out,” the old guy says. I nod and promise that I will. Tomorrow.
“I hear you’re our new education guy,” he tells me, and holds out a hand. We shake hands and his grip is firm.
“I don’t know if I got offered a job or anything,” I say sheepishly.
“No need. You’re in.” He winks at me. “You’ve been in the belly of the beast, son. We need you. America needs you. They need to hear you.”
“Nobody wants to hear from me,” I say, and I feel small. I want to stay on this couch forever, its bulk providing me a defense against the rest of the world.
“You have something to say. The Progressive Party wants to help you say it. A great injustice happened, but you were damn brave it that courtroom. You stood up for yourself, and you stood up for what was right. You fought back, and people need to see that.”
“Thanks,” I mutter. Then the old guy suggests that we take a walk. I don’t know what time it is, but I don’t have anywhere else to be.
3.1
Downtown is empty, but the lights are bright. It is cold and I wish I had another drink, something warming like rum.
“I’ve never been to this city before, but the trial brought me here,” the old guy says, starting to walk. “Let’s go get a coffee.”
“Sure,” I agree. Coffee sounds great, even if it’s with a stranger. We begin walking in the direction he points. I don’t know if there’s a coffee shop that way, but I feel like I can trust the guy.
“I want America’s public schools back. You okay with that?” I am surprised and pleased by his forthrightness. For all he knows, I still support privatization. Maybe my beef was just with Educorp for screwing me, not the whole system. But I do want the public schools back, the way they used to be.
“Yeah. I am.” I realize that he knew my answer all along, because he knew that I had kids.
“You have kids. I read all about it, and about you. Unbridled capitalism’s great, unless you’ve got kids. Or until you grow old. Or get sick. How old is your daughter?”
I tell him, and tears spring to my eyes. “It’s all falling apart,” I say, still walking. I sniffle a little, and I am embarrassed to show emotion in front of another man. He puts a hand on my shoulder, and it helps me feel stronger.
“I’ve been around a lot of years. I think you’ll pull through. I can tell. I’ve seen tough odds, and I know what it takes to beat ‘em. In court you were a fighter.”
“Not good enough,” I sniffle.
“Hey, you don’t always win the first time. It took me forever to win my first election. They called me crazy, and worse. But life is long and you learn some tricks. You’re still pretty young, especially in today’s day and age. Your future is what you make it, and I hope you’ll stick with us.”
“I don’t know anything about the Progressive Party,” I protest.
“We’re trying to make things fair,” he replies simply. “And it takes a fight. The system is rigged, and it’s rigged hard. It’s rigged to get the most money out of consumers, and give back as little as possible. Things didn’t always used to be that way, in the decades after World War II, and we’re trying to get back to that.”
I walk silently, thinking jumbled thoughts. Up ahead, there is a homeless man wrapped in a sleeping bag, propped against a Dumpster.
As the old guy and I approach, I realize that I know the homeless man. It’s Panamus, the substitute teacher. I let him go. I fired him. At the foot of the man’s sleeping bag is a cardboard sign, pleading for help. The man’s eyes are blank, past the point of shame. He does not care that we see him in this condition.
I feel ashamed.
“Any spare change?” he asks us gently, his voice humble. The old man smiles and hands him some money. He invites him to come with us to get coffee. I am beyond embarrassed, and I hope that Panamus does not recognize me.
“I’m sorry about the trial,” the homeless man says, revealing that he does know who I am. I begin to weep, and the old man puts an arm around me. He helps Panamus to his feet, and the man climbs, fully clothed, out of his sleeping bag.
“Let’s get coffee,” he says, and guides us along.
4.0
Panamus tells me his story over a tall cappuccino, and I suppose it is unremarkable in its tragedy. His descent was fast, but predictable. He couldn’t make enough money from the apps to keep his apartment, and then he got sick. With no health insurance, he lost his car when the hospital took it for payment of his bill. Nowadays, he picks up odd jobs when he can on Workflow, JobFill, and Bids.
“I find enough outlets to keep my phone charged,” he says.
“I’m so sorry,” I say again and again, but Panamus tells me that it was the system and not me. “We were all caught in it,” he says. “You did what you had to do. I don’t blame you, man. I would have done the same thing in your place. I was mad at your for a long time, but at some point I realized that you had your own boss to make happy.”
The old man has gone to get his car from the Progressive Party office and bring it back to us, since I took an Uber here and he wants to put Panamus up in a hotel.
A gentle squeak of brakes out front signals that the old man has arrived, and we look through the coffee shop windows to see a black sedan on the other side of the glass. The license plate is from Vermont. The driver’s door opens and the old guy bounds out, surprisingly spry. He enters the coffee shop and calls out for a large coffee, black.
“Can you two guys help out tomorrow?” he asks, sitting down at our table. “I want to strike while the iron is hot. We’re gonna take the fight to Educorp.”
“Aren’t you retired?” Panamus asks the old man. “I mean, you’ve left the Senate…”
“When the right opportunity presents itself, nobody stays retired,” the former Senator replies. His voice is firm, his eyes twinkling.