Smartystan

Nervous energy surged in Hayden Beckman’s apartment. He took to his mobile device to devise a first draft of his speech for President Goshen. He felt swamped. Numerous deadlines hung over his head like a thousand blazing suns. His parents had been begging him to find a nice girl to marry and pushed him to go out to start a family. His school bills mounted. His mind swirled. He stopped editing his speech. He phoned Dr. Strong.

“I wouldn’t be calling if I didn’t have something important to impart, sir,” he mentioned.

“It’s alright. What’s up?” the doctor asked.

“I’ve got a lot of things to juggle right now.”

“Drop your location, I’m coming over there.”

“Thanks, Dr. Strong. It means a great deal,” Beckman said.

Once Dr. Strong had arrived at his apartment, he noticed the piles of clothes and boxes that neatly sat in one space and then others that showcased a couch and a flat screen TV. Beckman had switched off the set to concentrate on the speech.

“This is the ideal bachelor pad. I remember the days,” Dr. Strong remarked.

“I have to have a rather interesting feng shui of the place, now, I know you’re not writing this speech for me. I know that you will offer your input.”

“Yes.”

“I’m just stuck on this particular part. I want to clarify why we should branch out to the rest of the country. I want to broadcast to the other states that we should be united, not just as a country-state…”

“Are you trying to unify the country under Smartystan or the rest of the US?”

Beckman looked at Dr. Strong as if he had an orange aura.

“That’s it! Oh, no. I don’t really know….”

“What is your main goal for trying to keep the Union together under the original documents of the country as established so many years ago?”

“I…I want to make sure the states stay together. I want to make sure that we have the best country in the world again, not just Smartystan. That’s what I want.”

“Why haven’t you put that into your manuscript?”

“You’re asking all the right questions. I’m just glad you’re asking the right questions,” Beckman admitted.

“So what is your main point? What is it you wish to convey most?”

“I want to show how the conditions of Smartystan can be applied to the other areas of the nation,” Beckman replied.

“Okay, so write that.”

“It’s not that simple….”

“Isn’t it? You just write the words you wish to say.”

“I know, but it’s all about trying to reach the people from the lowest levels of poverty which is about ninety-nine percent of the country.”

“Are you just talking with someone on the block or in the backwoods or somewhere else?”

“I’m making sure the president is speaking to everyone. I want this speech to launch him into the stratosphere in Smartystan and allow him to also appeal to Americans elsewhere.”

Dr. Strong stroked his goatee. The little flecks of gray in it bristled at his touch. He walked around the well-spaced condo. “What do you look for in a woman?” he asked.

Beckman’s face curled into a smile. “Well, she’s gotta be built and smart and…pardon me but what does this have to do with writing a speech for our commander in chief?”

“Everything. Now, please, answer in full, young man.”

“I want her to be beautiful in looks and never afraid to hit the books. Is that sufficient?”

Dr. Strong chuckled lightly. He looked out the window of the kitchen/dining room/ living room. “Will you tell me?”

Beckman never grew frustrated at Dr. Strong’s line of questioning. He kind of found it to be a game. A dangerous one, but it was a game nonetheless. If he didn’t deliver on his script to his boss, he would be scrapped and sent back to the level of city councilman in what was Wilmington, Delaware. He might be able to find loftier positions, but his whole idea was to ascend to the next level of being strategist and scriptwriter for President Goshen.

“If you had one chance to do this speech, what would you put into it?” Dr. Strong queried.

“I’d…I’d put everything I had into it.”

“Then why aren’t you doing that?” Dr. Strong’s voice raised slightly. Beckman didn’t take it as an affront. It was like a general addressing a major. Obviously there existed a difference in rank, but there still remained respect between them.

“Okay, so you’re saying I have to throw in the economy, and the borders, and the fact that Smartystan doesn’t have an issue with drugs because they’re legal…is that what you’re asking?”

“I didn’t ask that.”

Beckman wanted to fume. He wished he could swear at the doctor. He knew that would be political suicide. If he had just said one word against the president’s friend and confidant, there would be no future for him. His head became an ice cube.

“If you want to write this speech, write it,” Dr. Strong declared.

Beckman knew the subtext to this very direct and obvious command. He knew that he had to just let the words flow. Put it down, put it away, come back to it, edit it, and then start all over if that was required.

“Alright. I see what you’re saying. I see it. I have to just spill my guts all over these digital pages and just speak my truth.”

“‘Speak your truth…?’”

“You know what I mean. I know that’s a grubby cliché but I’m so out of touch with what the people of the rest of the nation are going through, it’s hard to imagine all of the stress and strife….”

“Should you be concerned with such? Shouldn’t this be a bright speech, one with character and wit and pathos?”

Beckman actually relied on a creative writing course he took in college to help him answer the doctor’s question.

“Yes, I see now.”