Faster on My Own: Chapter 16
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Steven’s neighbors still wanted answers. Even though he had called the police, the disruptive hooligans had originated from his apartment. At an emergency meeting of the building’s board, he stood before the largest collection of tenants he’d ever seen. He raised both hands like he was parting the Red Sea, and effected his most confident speaking voice. “I understand many of you are upset about last week’s events, when those awful degenerates vandalized our building and terrorized our residents. Many of you, I understand, have placed the blame on me. Because they were in my apartment. And you want me kicked out of the building for it. I can’t prevent that discussion from happening, but I can tell my side of the story. The true side of the story.” He walked to a spot a couple feet to his right– just enough movement to maintain visual interest, but not so much he seemed agitated. Steven wanted to appear solid, to seem as though it would be foolish to doubt him, as much as it would be to doubt a mountain. “When you ask for my removal from the building, you are advocating for even more misfortune to fall upon me, the primary victim of last week’s events. They broke into my apartment for my political beliefs. They threatened my life. And when I expelled them from my apartment, at no small risk to my own well-being, they took their anger out on the building. They were here to object to my political beliefs, and I will not apologize for that. Making those kinds of people angry is how I know I’m right. Still, I understand it was disruptive to all of you, and I do intend to seek more private residence in the near future because this is not fair to any of you, and this building’s lack of security is certainly not fair to me. But if you evict me, you will be muddying my reputation by making me complicit in those vandals’ crimes. Do I deserve, after facing down threats from those people, to be morphed into one of them by the court of public opinion? I think not.”
Steven returned to his seat and the president of the board arose. A middle-aged woman in a sweater and long skirt, whose lips were always pressed together into a thin line. She had the same kind of presence and command over the room as an influential parent at a PTA meeting, or a second mate on a doomed ocean liner. She summarized the list of infractions that Steven was supposedly responsible for: undesirable visitors in the building, disruptive noise, vandalism, unsafe conditions, and apparently Ashwin had shouted “I am a guest of Steven Williams,” over and over again as he left, ruining any chance Steven had of claiming it was a random break-in. The president of the board clapped her small hands together.
“I’m sure Mr. Williams is telling the truth when he says he was the victim of a break-in. And he has my sympathy. However, he said that they did this because of his show. I’m afraid that this won’t be the last time some thugs come in looking to send him a message. That reaction is a consequence of Mr. Williams’s political views and his television career. We should not have to share the risks of the life he has chosen for himself.” She returned to her seat.
A few witness accounts followed, ranging from “they walked into the building two-by-two, taking up the entire hallway and threatening everyone with some standard violence” to “they snuck in the building wearing suits but I could tell they were imposters because all of their ties had that antifa ‘A’ on them.”
Once these accounts were exhausted, Steven stood up to defend himself one last time. “I’ve already provided an explanation for what happened last week. Perhaps it is my fault, for provoking them.” Steven lamented that he could not use the device of victim-blaming to its fullest, which would have secured him forgiveness easily if this were his old life. “If you do decide I have to leave because you can’t stand the danger, I understand. That’s your right, to do what you have to in order to protect yourselves. I won’t fight that. But if you do decide that, I ask that you delay it by a month, to obscure the connection between those vandals and my eviction. Forget about sympathy for me, or what’s in my best interest. None of that affects any of you. Instead, ask yourselves: do you really want to hand a victory over to those hooligans who so brazenly disrupted your lives and smashed your buildings? Or would you rather strike back at them and deny them their gambit to ruin me? I hope you’ll make the right choice.”
The president of the board nodded as Steven returned to his seat. Then, in her nasal voice, said, “It appears we have three options. By board by-laws, this means that the top two results from the first round will be placed into a second-round runoff.”
“What?” Steven leaned over toward the table and tried to whisper, but wanted to shout, and so his voice emerged at normal volume, but warped like a soaked-then-dried piece of paper. “A runoff? Who said anything about a runoff?”
The president didn’t look at him, instead knocking a loose pile of papers against the table until they were aligned. She said, “It’s in the by-laws, Mr. Williams, which are available for everyone to view. Ignorance is not an excuse.”
A runoff. His whole plan was to siphon off enough of the eviction voters into the delayed eviction vote, in order to guarantee that the against eviction voters would outnumber either one of them. Now with a runoff, he might actually face eviction and hadn’t even gotten to make the best possible case to avoid it.
“This vote will take place by ballot. Each of you will write down your preference and put it in this vote bucket.” The president held up an American-flag-themed bucket. “Make sure it’s clear which option you are voting for. If it’s not obvious, we will discount it.”
“Discount it? Why not have a number system, or something? I don’t want anyone’s vote getting thrown out.” Steven feared vote tampering, especially as the president continued to make her disdain clear.
“It’s all in the by-laws, Mr. Williams. If you don’t like it, I suggest you run for the board. Assuming you still live here by the next election.” The other tenants filtered up, dumping folded pieces and scraps of paper into a bucket that looked very much like a trash can. Steven tried to identify which scraps looked positive and which negative, but he wasn’t altogether confident in his accuracy. After ten minutes, the president placed the lid on the bucket, shook it up, and removed the lid.
She picked up every scrap of paper like it was an ailing baby bird, examined it and set it gingerly onto the table. The vote counting process took another ten minutes, by the end of which Steven was digging his fingers into the armrest of his chair and tapping his foot to no discernible rhythm. After the bucket was empty, and the other board members verified that the president was correct that it was empty, she announced the results. “Fifteen votes for no eviction. Twelve votes for eviction with delay. Eighteen votes for eviction. Looks like your third option just wasted all of our time, Mr. Williams.”
“Please.” Steven forced out a weak chuckle. “Mr. Williams is my father.”
“The manner in which I address you is–”
“Yeah, I know where it is.” Steven hadn’t expected that he might actually be evicted. Some sanction or probation, maybe, but eviction might become a news item. He could spin it much as he had done in this meeting, but if that argument hadn’t persuaded a bunch of people dumb enough to spend their time at tenants’ board meetings, it had little hope with the general public.
As the next round of voting took place, Steven chewed on his right thumb’s nail and stared at a man in the back of the room who was eating popcorn. Not something usually worth intense focus, to be sure, but every three seconds, that man opened his mouth and stuck his tongue out, then placed a single piece of popcorn on it. From there, the tongue retracted and everything presumably went as normal. The repetition– tongue, popcorn, chew, tongue, popcorn, chew– hypnotized Steven. Time dropped away and he became part of the loop. Tongue, I’m going to get evicted, popcorn, my reputation is ruined, chew, can I salvage this? Vote-collection did little to assuage his fears. Too many of the people in the room looked at Steven as they deposited their scrap of paper into the basket, and he knew that meant they were voting against him. Or possibly for him. The president shook the bucket to shuffle the ballots, and counted them exactly like last time.
“Fifteen votes for no eviction, thirty votes for eviction.”
It wasn’t even close. Steven covered his face and groaned. He was rooted to the chair, but also needed to escape. The combination felt like he was suspended in a magnetic field.
Reading from a sheet of paper, the president said, “In light of the tenants’ democratic decision, we the tenants’ board, evict Mr. Steven Williams. Mr Williams,” here, she turned toward him and extended a hand, but did not take her eyes off the paper, “you have thirty days to vacate your apartment. Your security deposit will not be returned to you. If you attempt to stay in excess of thirty days, the police will be called to remove you. If you harass, accost, or in any way threaten those tenants you feel voted to evict you, the police will be called to remove you from the building no matter how many days remain of the thirty day period. That is all. Meeting adjourned.”
The other tenants– the tenants, Steven corrected himself after realizing he no longer fit as snugly into that category as he once did– filed out of the room. The president, last to leave, shut off the lights and left Steven sitting in the dark.
“So, there’s some news going around about my personal life. I try to keep it off the air, but if people are interested in what I’m doing day to day, that’s not up to me.” Steven smiled at the camera. “It’s true, I’m being evicted from my apartment. And it’s true, it’s because some punks showed up and trashed the place, after threatening my life. However, it has been reported that there is some link between me and these hooligans, these criminals.” Steven was careful to infuse “criminals” with just the right amount of venom. The key to the show was to keep the subtext buried– in a shallow grave, but buried nonetheless.
“This is an absolute mockery of journalism. The only link between them and I is that we both have been in my apartment. Only one of us, of course, legally. But that’s not what this is really about. They’re trying to destroy me. The other tenants in my building, all liberal, were threatened by my politics. The siren call of rationality was too much, and they had to banish me before I lured them all the way in. The media slandering my name knows I’m a threat too. More importantly, they know that you, all of you, will upend their rotten world if they can’t stop you from getting the truth. So no, I am not a secret lefty, or anarchist. I’m not in a punk rock band, and the only leather jacket I wear is a tasteful light brown. What you see here is the truth. I am a proud conservative, and I am sick of liberals and other radical leftists trying to tear me, and the rest of us down. I’m sick of it!” The lights shut off and the director, a tall, thin man with a beard lightly dusted onto his face, approached the desk. Steven said, “What’d you think of that one?”
“It’s better. I think we’ve got the words right now. Your energy, though. I’m worried if you’re too angry, the viewers will think you’re acting, and then you’ve lost them. I need to believe that you’re being victimized by a vast liberal conspiracy.”
“I am, Joe. Hand to God.”
“Yeah, I don’t care about any of that. I don’t need to believe you. They do.” Joe looked around at his crew. “Why don’t we take five and then give it another go? I think we’ll get it.”
This was the first time he’d ever done more than two takes, and those times were always because he’d flubbed a word or accused the wrong person of being a pedophile. Not that this wasn’t more important than all of his other shows. He knocked his hands on the dark brown desktop. A set of three people he hadn’t seen before, two men and a woman and all in dark gray suits, appeared from the right side of the studio. “Hey,” he said, “this is a closed set. Who are these people?” The man in the center, tan with bright white hair slicked back, looked like a budget plastic surgeon. He said, “We, Mr. Williams, are the people in charge.”
“Please, call me Steven.”
“No. We’re here to discuss your recent controversy.” The man sat by the side of the desk, where Steven would interview a guest if he ever had one on the show. “Did you know that a third of your audience believes that you are a secret leftist?”
“A third? We don’t have those numbers.” Steven tried to get the attention of his director, but couldn’t find him among the staring crew.
“Yes. A third. We expect they will become your former audience in short order. Which means your ratings will drop from acceptable to dismal. If that happens, we will cancel you.” The executive raised a hand toward the other man, who dropped a handkerchief into it. He wiped his hands off with it, though he hadn’t touched anything since he arrived.
“You’ve gotta believe me, none of those rumors are true. I am the real deal, and this is all a set-up to destroy me.”
“I’m sure they are. But your ratings are terrible. I don’t care if you’re Ronald Fucking Reagan, if you lose as much of your viewership as our numbers suggest you’re about to lose, you don’t have a place on this network.” He arose from the seat and tilted his head to the left, and his two companions walked in that direction.
“Wait. Can’t we discuss this?”
“There is nothing to discuss.” With one last look, in which Steven saw complete and utter derision, the man left.
After he was sure they were gone, Steven banged his fist on the desk, accomplishing nothing except possibly breaking a bone in his wrist. The pain throbbed and Steven hunched over, grasping it and muttering curses to himself. His director appeared out of nowhere. “So, the bosses told you, huh? I thought that might happen. We had a good run.” The director consulted his clipboard, which Steven knew didn’t have anything on it. “Well, it was an okay run, I guess. Not that long. Kind of disappointing. Anyway, ready for another take?”
All of the justification Steven had done in the previous take now seemed pointless. If a third of his audience did think he was a secret leftist, it would accomplish nothing. Those viewers were gone and he wasn’t going to get them back. So instead of giving the same little tirade again, Steven got up from his desk. “Fuck it, we’ll do it live. I need to think about what I’m going to say.”
“That’s a very bad idea, but hey, it’s your show.” The director ambled away, still looking at an empty clipboard. Steven wondered if he might have had a better chance with anyone else directing his show. Probably not.
As he approached the desk right before air, he looked at the crew. They were milling around, probably discussing their impending unemployment. As soon as he stepped into the lights, they all disappeared. In their place, a wall of darkness lined the stage, kept at bay only by the floating boxes of blinding light. All Steven could see was the camera. The director’s voice sounded out from beyond the wall. “We’re live in five, four, three...”
“Some of you have heard the rumors about me. I’m not going to address them except to say that they’re absurd. All of you watching know who I am and what I’m about. But this might be my last show. And if I only have five more minutes to reach you, I’m not going to waste them defending myself. That’s not what any of you want, and it’s not what you deserve.” Steven took a deep breath, and plunged off of the cliff. “It’s all an excuse. They are afraid of the truth, because the truth doesn’t keep them in power. They stay in power by manipulating and coddling people, by promising them the world will be given to them. It won’t be. It never is. The world is something you take in your hands. You make it yours. So they can take my show. But they can’t take my power because my power is in my hands. They’re afraid of these hands. They’re afraid of yours. Because those hands can rip free the fruit of your labors, which they want to give to others."
Steven continued on in that nature, careful to skirt the line of specifying who he was blaming. Let them come to their own conclusions and leave Steven with clean hands.