Dylan Janos

Desiree

Thursday

A winding hallway is filled with representatives of the press, wannabe sleuths, and locals from this town and another, all dwindling. A lone employee is tasked with keeping them engaged until the conference begins. He is  holding his phone out: “Have you seen this? What a dumbass." They have, it’s why they came; Substra Corp paid off City Hall. A pair of aluminum doors are cracked open by someone on the other side, and just like that, their poorly-paid jester is off to help prepare. The ever-thinning crowd pays him little mind.

Stickers denoting position in the attendee hierarchy are attached to the bags and breast pockets of plenty, many still neatly laid out on a table by the entrance. “Maya Barone - Times Journalist” clings crudely to a utility backpack on a dusty windowsill. Its owner is perched against it, listening to the ambiance in her earbuds, drowning out the pain of  her braids being too tight. Some teens bounce a bald basketball by her on their way out, one swiping an unclaimed name tag. Sorry “Laura Johnston - Cleveland.com”. Her attention bounces around, one moment on a flickering ceiling light, the other on an adjacent bulletin board. 

R. Anthony Conwell’s mayoral campaign hangs from three strips of scotch tape. His warm grin is front and center with boldface letters bordering the portrait proudly proclaiming “WE R. CLEVELAND!” This is the face of Ward 6. Another flier invites all to attend his State of the Ward Address today at the Fairfax Recreation Center, a hop and a skip from downtown. Outside, sparse greenery adorns a parking lot, her attention drawn beyond the wide recurring windows of their improvised lobby area. A distant sign is barely legible, ”Joseph E. Glenville Center.” Natural sunlight fades to the murk of evening, the flickering light becoming more pronounced every second. A twisted key gets her hopes up, and creaking metal hinges confirm them. 

Unbalanced speakers blare, “We apologize for the delay, truly, the venue change necessitated it. Our address will begin shortly.” R. Anthony Conwell keeps an audience with bated breath waiting even longer as he looks busy seated on stage, adjusting alternating piles of paper to perfect symmetry. The jester balances on an extension ladder as he leans on a backboard, this flickering bulb just out of his reach. An interning peasant holds the court fool’s future with the steady of his carefully leveraged grip, though he is a twig.

Plastic folding chairs packed tightly fill the once-desolate gymnasium floor, their backs home to loosely hanging pieces of paper. These seats are for guests too trivial to sit beside Mr. Conwell, their names still scrawled out in perfect kerning. Even the logos of their employers are in color. Whatever purpose the duct-taped instructions held, an abundance of absences left only a spattering of people to fill them, most to their comfort’s delight. 

The third chair from the right, front row, “Maya Barone.” She passes it and keeps along the bleachers, finding a spot against a sidewall near the dais. Bleachers line only one side of the bunched furniture, giving locals a workable view of the performance. Most spots stay empty even as the two workers find theirs on top. They gave up on fixing the sky’s faulty glow, though it sits at their eye level. Cloth cascades off a folding table, the remaining speakers behind it, all except one. R. Anthony Conwell takes to the stand, quietly cursing every step up his soapbox. 

“Hello, Cleveland! I’m happy to be here. Now, as we always do, I wanted to start today by honoring those who have supported me all these years. Us, and all of you. Let's hear a big round of applause for Jonathon Adams!” 

A member of the press rises with youthful confidence. “I have a question, Mister Conwell.” 

“You, of all people, should know why we do questions at the end.” 

“I can be brief.” 

“Why are you being like this? Is it the thing with your mother? I apologized for that…” 

“What?” 

“You’re the politics journo, from Cleveland.com, right?” 

“Finance.” 

“Right.” A stranger stares at the layout of nametags, hers is nowhere to be found.

Conwell continues, knocking a few more names off the list. Adams gets the message. The stranger with no name tag finds a seat, “Maya Barone”. She is the real Maya Barone and had mistakenly waited in Fairfax before rushing to wherever this may be, without a moment to spare. Maya stands and pity-claps surround the Times journalist before she swiftly sits back down. The alleged journalist by the dais tears Maya’s name tag from her utility bag and stuffs it inside. Desiree was not caught, as it is unlikely anybody would remember the identity thief was even there, but it did not stop her from getting annoyed. Her words may now fall on deaf ears.

Name after name; some there, some not. Nobody gets up anymore, as there is no point. “...Damian Gray, Tony Grossi. Mackenzie Hall…” Tony is not here. He is vacationing in Florida, and Conwell knows it. His rapid-fire delivery leaves no room for raised hands. Desiree notices every seat lost to a new arrival. Lastly is “Todd Young.” Todd does not raise his hand.

“Tonight, I want to confess my sins, I do. Apologize to the people who matter. I am guilty of their charges; by no courts of man, mind you, but those too will follow. My name was on that list for a reason, what they’re saying is true. Was I coerced? Does it matter? This mistake will stain my family name forever, even when that douchebag at ESPN, Grossi, forgets it. He writes about ball, why does he have to be an asshole about it, and to me? Why me?” He steps away and says under his breath “Wasn’t somebody supposed to fix that?” while gesturing toward the blinking sky; this court’s jester and his prideless peasant grin from ear to ear.

His growing group of visitors is once again waiting with bated breath. “I am sorry, Tony.  A family friend approached me three years ago. They wanted to fund me, with some caveats, so I refused. I was penniless next to my peers and still, I said no, but not for long. I will answer the questions I know you all have by the end of this, alright?” A seat Desiree wanted but never sat down in is taken. Her annoyance compounds. “Can we move on now? I’m moving on.” The crowd has made no commotion. “Substra facilities create jobs, right? I don’t know. I understand your disappointment and don’t expect to repair the trust I broke with you all. I wished to speak with those who would follow me. Those who would wait for me.

“This may have been a mistake.” He has a moment of clarity. “The truth is, I don’t know where the money comes from, but like most of you, I have my theories. I read the headlines, too. My endorsements, who endorsed me, what I was told to say. We may never know, truly.” Then, there is doubt. “Some of that was a lie.” Rowan Anthony Conwell rocks back and forth, an anxious child once again. “I want to say something before I depart. It will be brief, as I know you are all busy. Three years ago, I was a boy. Do you see a man standing before you today?” A smile comes to his face as he studies the gym, a nostalgic fondness. “I have held you for long enough. Let's open the floor.” Rowan scuffles through a jetted pocket and pulls something out.

The flickering light glows no longer as shattered glass rains, a bullet’s explosion still resonating throughout the room. 

Panic erupts, but most do not move. Self-inflicted. A handgun slips through his fingertips as he hits the ground. Shared anxieties simmer to a stagnant, indignant hum, resignation taking hold like contagion. His glimmering grin mocks them as they exit the winding hallway, he takes no questions.

She gets no answers, pulling the door shut behind her. The mass of vehicles encase her in an asylum. Desiree finishes massaging her scalp before the thoughtless urge consumes her. Struggling to collect disparate feelings, she picks her phone up to call “Dad.” Relishing in the silence a moment longer, as Ignacius Laliberte does not pick up. Again, he does not pick up. While her Dodge Husky takes some time, it roars too. A line of cars block her exit. 

This lot is not designed for traffic, an odd engineering decision many disagree with, a group including the people in this line. Desiree pulls Maya’s balled-up name tag out of her utility bag, crumples it more, and tosses it to the passenger side of her vehicle. Another automobile’s ignition wakes her from despondent catatonia, a distant memory from under the podium having crept back into focus. It’s time to go home. Getting a glimpse into her far mirror, Desiree sees an opportunity and seizes it, forcing the other driver to stop.

The court jester is ahead in line. He rolls down the window of his rust bucket as he brakes at the final turn, just past a church. Escape is near, but the peasant directs traffic. “What are you still doing here?” He pulls out an earbud, “Working?” Everybody goes home eventually.

Desiree pulls her Dodge into the garage, a small building shared by her dad’s Cadillac. They live together in a generically affluent suburban home in Beachwood, a tolerable drive to get there. She unlocks and enters to find Ignacius lying on the living room couch, Candyman playing on the movie channel. “Catch me up.” He cannot, waking up only moments ago. “Where were you? You know it's late.” “Yes, I know.” She helps him off the cushion and toward his room, him mumbling about stories he read fearmongering about the city, her agreeing. Mr. Laliberte and his daughter share a brief familial embrace, the withered one subsequently turning in for the night. “Goodnight, my Dear.” “Goodnight.” Desiree closes the door behind him.

She means to go across the hall and into her room, where medical and legal documents are scattered across the floor of an otherwise packed-away space. Instead, she walks over to their kitchen, grabs leftover Chinese food from the fridge, and throws it in her microwave. Before eating or dealing with bags, she turns down a hall toward the television. Their wall is bare where a familiar frame once hung. Desiree pushes a button and ends the classic flick.

Friday

A desperate Desiree is perched in front of her bathroom mirror, still awake. She leans on the countertop and studies every feature of her exhausted visage. There is something absent from her gaze, gone and never to return. Splashes of cold water fail to procure it, so she turns the knob and grabs a can of detangling spray from the cupboard. Over the next hour, she meticulously undoes her tightly woven hair. When the final braid springs free, she lets loose. Each nail glides across her scalp as she scratches without care. Desiree finally finds relief.