6:00 A.M., and the little bastards arrived right on time. There must have been at least fifty of these tiny intellectuals. Breakfast always started at six, and despite my role as “front desk agent,” I was burdened with preparing this feast on account of the breakfast people calling in this morning.
That doesn’t sound quite right. I suppose it should be “breakfast agents,” in the parlance of our business.
These young debaters needed their protein. It was the day of rhetorical reckoning, and I was caught in the path. They all wore matching T-shirts that read, “it’s okay if you don’t like to debate, it’s a smart people thing.” They varied subtly in weight and height, although they all looked roughly the same age.
A young boy approached me with his glasses pulled tight across his skull, as if trying to sink into his eye sockets and finish the job that way. He said nothing, only pointing at a bowl of Cheerios which needed time to rest on the marble flooring.
He reminded me much of myself at that age. So separated from practicality he could barely tie his shoes or grasp an object. Dialectically gifted while only flirting with ambition.
As I looked at him, I began to almost cry but remembered what my agency hired me to do: serve and protect my fellow hotelians from a lapse in infrastructure.
“Don’t cry over spilled milk,” a passerby said. The sheer audacity of this plebeian nearly floored me.
Was this woman aware that at any moment the future supreme leader could make his descent and bear witness to the unacceptable mess that had been created and perpetuated by my negligence?
As I was still seething, one of the general secretaries climbed onto one of the wooden tables (an aesthetic choice) and began his speech.
He was not wearing the standard-issued Gildan T-shirt like his fellow comrades. Instead, he was dressed in what appeared to be a recently pressed three-piece suit, 14-karat Cartier cufflinks, and a pair of Jordans to maintain the relatability ruse. It was navy blue, with sleeves slightly too long, making one think it may have been passed down.
He cleared his throat, placed his right hand just over his handkerchief, and began.
“Fellow debaters, I humbly accept your nomination for debate club president and all of the responsibilities expressed within this role. A new era is officially underway, characterized by strength, courage, and determination. These virtues are not typically possessed by our peers and can only be maintained by a strong leader driven by ethical standards. To humble beginnings, and a glorious future!”
A quick toast of the orange juice and I knew the transition was complete.
I could only assume that the previous premier had either been executed for treason or sent into exile, but he was old news. I found myself contemplating both a salute and a formal apology for the junior officer’s clumsiness and my own lack of intuition.
I was admittedly captivated by every word of the new policy proposals. I waited for a single solecism to break the spell, but it never came. Or perhaps for a young man to speak up and challenge this philistine, but I suppose they knew better.
The four-eyed klutz from earlier looked at him with the same awe, the same wonder, and the same hope that maybe one day power could be cultivated.
He just didn’t get it yet. Rats are good at winning the rat race.
They won yesterday when we had omelets. They win today when we have bacon.
They win the spelling bee on Tuesday. They win the tug-of-war Wednesday.
They fuck Samantha in High school. They fuck Josie in college.
Little Timmy goes to Princeton. Little Bobby goes to Brown. They meet back up in Washington and run the whole town.
They beat me and they beat four-eyes too.
I sweep Cheerios and they sweep the ballets. This is the just the way things tend to go.
The end