Smartystan

When he entered through the backway, Vergara knew that this was the right thing to do. He was flanked by his beefy security and looked confident. With the visibility and the sound of the crowd swelling, music blaring, he didn’t feel nervous at all. He sat down with his new confidant, Bicker Scott. Scott had trained for a professional football team, got injured, and went back to college to become a speaker and investor. After graduation, he had a decent home and a loving family with a wife and four daughters. This made perfect sense to Vergara.

“So, this is the way it’s going to go. You’re going to go out there and charm the hell out of that crowd. Start in with a few stories and make them laugh. Then you gotta make them feel. Say something about your struggle. Your low points. Then, come back with a tale of triumph, and you and the ACA will have won them over,” Scott explained.

“Okay, I’ve got most of that down pat. I can use the defense that I used in previous speeches and….”

“No, sir. You can’t defend yourself here. Wait for the press for you to do that. There’s no room for any kind of repartee with this audience when the question and answer period arrives. When we get there, everything has to be serious. If someone asks some odd ball question, respond with the severity of an undertaker.”

“No witty jousting…okay. What can I do?” Vergara seemed sincere, almost hurt.

“What you can do is show your seriousness. Show that you’re willing to be aggressive but not assertive. Usually, it’s the other way around but in your circumstance, you’re gonna wanna be as precise and even grave as possible.”

Vergara looked around the room. The thump of the music and the roaring crowd swelled. He felt the pangs of desiring to preach the word of the Lord based on Scott’s insistence. This wasn’t the ticket to heaven, this speech would be the option of experiencing fire and brimstone for going against the organization.

“Of course. That’s the best way to discover who will be the fairweather friends of the movement and those who really believe,” Vergara observed.

“Yes, that’s the idea. You have to be on the offensive the whole time. You have to launch missiles of thought at the crowd. They will respond to you with either silence or ringing applause and shouts. At the end, they should be on their feet clapping in favor of your message,” Scott leaned in a bit with these last words. He looked like he was about to huddle up with his boss.

“I want you to know that your performance out there will determine the next twenty years of ACA and the betterment of your own life.”

Vergara folded his arms. “I’m not fighting for me, though.”

“I know, it’s all about them. Your selflessness is your calling card. It permits you to be sacrificial of even your highest values. When you go out there, you will be engaging with a group of people who may have never heard you speak. That seems unlikely, I know, but there is always the chance that someone out there will be for merit and morality. They might be thinking of moving to Smartystan or already live there. You have to mold their mind, turn them into soldiers for this cause and this one only,” Scott replied.

Vergara smirked. He then leaned back in his chair and folded his hands behind his head.

“I see you’re relaxed.”

“I am,” Vergara said.

“That’s good. You should be relaxed. They should be anxious and about to jump out of their seats.”

“How am I supposed to know that they’re not going to turn on me? I’ve always cajoled and laughed with the crowd. I’d obviously say a few serious topics but then I would switch it up on them and they’d be giggling.”

“We don’t need that now. What we need is for you to be at a funeral. It is a funeral for the meritorious and those with a false morality.”

“I know the ACA will back this.”

“I know, too,” Scott mentioned. “And we’re going to be focused on the average. The average is the single highest form of virtue. It takes in nothing and acknowledges nothing. It is the status quo, the regular, the mundane.”

“That’s how we have to keep it,” Vergara replied.

“If we see that there is––” Scott started.

“Hey, shut that door…please,” Vergara commanded.

Scott didn’t miss a beat. “If we see there is a drop off in the crowd if anyone goes to the exits, you can make an example out of them.”

“They could just be going to the bathroom,” Vergara responded.

“This may be so, but droves won’t be headed towards the entrance to relieve themselves,” Scott reminded Vergara softly. A wry smile hung on his face and then slid away like scrambled eggs off a pan.

“I know what you're feeling. See, it’s not about thinking. It’s what you can feel. And how you will make those people feel. There are over twelve hundred folks packed in that auditorium. Your words will move them. But they have to feel it.”

Vergara looked at his watch and got up. He looked at Scott and shook his hand. “I appreciate you for doing this.”

“The pleasure’s all mine, sir,” Scott said and left the room.

Vergara got down on both knees and prayed. He prayed with an intensity that would befit an ancient clergyman who flogged himself. Though he didn’t strike himself with any straps, he did call out to the unknown and unknowable. He rocked and shook. He put all of his weight directed on his knees. Tears streamed from his face like water cascading from a conduit. He couldn’t stop it so he just kept going. Word after word poured out into the vacuum of the room with no one around him. He finally came to his knees and opened the door. He went out to the stage with great fanfare and then put his index finger to his lips. Silence.