Glass

Your boasts may get you claps and clicks

among your faithful fans,

but out among the decent folk

you may not find much love—

especially when all you have

to say is hateful sneers.

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When hatred makes policy, the policy is hateful.

____________________________________________________

Glass

The gym reeked of floor wax and stale dust. Fluorescent tubes buzzed overhead, emitting a flat and merciless blueish light. Rows of folding chairs faced the dais. On the table, a glass of water sweated in the heat. Its rim was greasy from the handprint of a careless setup assistant.

At the side wall the custodian stood with broom upright. He had been told to remain in sight, keep order, say nothing. From his angle the stage looked brittle—plywood and plastic waiting to split.

The board member entered late. He adjusted his red tie in the reflection of a dark window, then strode to the center seat. He seized the glass, raised it into the lights until it glistened white, and held it high as if he were waving a flag, not a drink.

He began to speak, using the glass to emphasize his speech. “We are guardians of tradition,” he boomed. “We will keep our schools pure.” Each boast ended with the glass being lifted, each assertion with it slammed down hard. He ate up the crowd’s applause. His eyes darted, counting nods like notches in a non-existent pistol grip.

Suddenly a sharp voice from the back interrupted him. “You can’t erase history. Our children need truth, not conservative slogans.”

His smile curdled. He gulped half the glass and then banged it on the table. The microphone shrieked from the blow. Water spattered his notes. The ink spread out into blue smudges.

The last blow had cracked the glass. Still he raised it and lowered it.

“We will not yield to radicals!” he raged. He hoisted the cracked vessel again, faster. Water streamed down his wrist, slicking his papers. He shook the glass for emphasis, then slammed it down again.

The glass burst in his hand. A shard cut deep. Blood flowed from his palm and fell in bright drops onto the dais.

Water raced across the table, spoiling his notes. The official seal embossed on the top sheet blurred, bled, and vanished.

The custodian stepped forward to clear the mess.

Shards grated like broken teeth beneath his broom. Dust clotted with water and blood into a gray-red paste. Each rasp of bristles on wood sounded like bone being scraped clean.

The board member tried to shout. “This is nothing—” But his voice broke against the grinding scrape. Faces turned from him to the man sweeping.

He lunged for a soaked sheet. “Just a mishap!” The paper dissolved in his bloody hand.

The custodian lifted the dustpan. A shard caught the light and filtered the board member’s face like a prism: the grin split at sharp angles, the eyes fractured into bits. It looked like a cubist mask.

Instead of carrying the scraps away, the custodian mounted the steps to the dais. He set the pan squarely before the bleeding board member and straightened his back.

Blood, broken glass, and pap

The custodian tapped the broom once on the dais. Then he climbed down the stairs and walked out.

Without his notes, the board member had nothing to say. He sat down.

One by one the audience gathered their coats and left. Chairs scraped the floor to mark their passing.

When the last person pulled the door shut, he sat alone with the blood and the dust and the shards of glass.