the mayor

It was a bright August morning and the Mayor decided to travel.  On his itinerary is the local library, gathering place of the city’s scholars, the skating rink, social hangout for teenagers, city hall, where the legislators gather to discuss and debate and the fish market, depressing and poverty-ridden.  Mundane, boring, tedious, uninteresting but totally necessary, everything is as it should be until his arrival at the fish market.  He steps out of his plush, bullet-proof windowed car, out of the comfort of luxury into the dirty, bloody, inglorious world of fish processing.  There is something in the air, a smell, salty, fishy, the smell commonly found where the sea meets the land.  His bodyguards surround him at once but he pushes them aside for something has caught his eye.  Bystanders watch as highly polished leather shoes stride through the bloody water of the market, taking the Mayor to a stall, in order to seek that which he’d just seen.  A young girl, barefoot, teary-eyed and hungry, with filthy, matted hair stares back.  The Mayor bends down into a squat and asks the girl her name.  Darlene is the reply.  Concern etches his face and he sits down beside the girl on the floor.  Expensive formal pants are immediately ruined, somewhere in the city, a taxpayer realizes he needs to buy a new pair of pants and sighs, a long-drawn out breath as he solemnly counts out the money from his wallet and lays it aside.

Fish blood and guts, filthy water and bacterium all seep into and mix with cotton and polyester; the pants are now thoroughly ruined.  The Mayor asks the girl to tell him who her father is and follows the uplifted arm and the pointed finger to set his eyes on a woman, bloody apron, small physique, bloody knife in hand, white, filth-stained hat on head, sunken tired eyes.  The woman refuses to meet the eyes of the Mayor and instead turns away in shame.  Tears in her eyes form at the sight of her poor, unfortunate daughter sitting beside the glamour and luxury of the Mayor, his clothes, his watch, his well-groomed hair.  The Mayor then realizes the awkwardness of the situation and gets up to leave, walking away, only to turn back a few steps later to return to the girl and press candy – mint into her tiny hand.  Turning again, he gets back into the car and is driven away.

The show is over.  By tonight, the mayor won’t even remember any of this as he dines on rare steak and culinary wine with his wife.  The pants are on their way to the local incinerator.  The media strikes again.  Propaganda created, political campaign furthered, a “next term” ensured.

~ by anarhawk on June 13, 2009.