Lights

Politicians used to shy away

from making unfounded predictions and foolish promises

that they could never hope to live down when

the event turned out different from what they said.

More and more, they do not even bother

to hedge, to check their facts, to try to be

responsible in their statements, let alone

in their reckless, aggressive accusations

against their opponents, or even against those

who merely disagree with them. And that

is caused by the many fools among us

who think they are so right that nothing and no one

should ever cross them in the slightest particular.

Reality, though, is the final judge.

Those who stand against it will be beaten,

as will those who stand with it but don’t resist

the fools who believe that foolishness is wise.

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You can’t hold back the storm with bluster and talking points.

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Lights

The press risers buckled under the weight of cameras, and powerful floodlights dyed the air white. Behind the podium, the mayor dabbed his forehead with a handkerchief, squinting into the glare. The storm sirens wailed, like a train that never came closer. Reporters shifted, the live feed banner blinked red.

He began. “We are prepared. The city is safe. There is no cause for alarm.” His voice rose above the wind blasting the microphones. He spread his arms with confidence, although he was sweating profusely.

In the second row, the reporter clutched her notes. She remembered another storm years ago—the one that took her cousin—and felt her breath stop. She steadied it once, then again, before raising her voice. “Mayor, the National Weather Service projects a twelve-foot surge along the riverfront. Do you dispute their data?”

He smiled thinly. “Exaggerated. We are prepared. The city is safe.” He tapped his stack of talking points, lifting them in front of him like a shield.

The risers creaked. A voice muttered, “That’s not what the Coast Guard says.” Lenses whirred, narrowing in.

“Evacuation is unnecessary. Stay calm. Stay in your homes,” he recited again.

The reporter raised her voice over the din of the sirens. With determination she said, “Sir, you told us yesterday the carnival would go on. It is now under water.” She held up a photo—cotton candy machines submerged, a painted horse face down in the mud, teeth bared like a corpse, mane tangled like seaweed.

He jerked back, then slapped his papers down. “That was isolated. The overall picture remains stable. Panic helps no one.”

Behind the risers, residents clustered in the glow of their phones. Arms crossed, thumbs stilled. “I’m not staying,” one of them said, then turned and ran off. The others watched the press conference a little longer, then turned and ran as well.

The mayor’s chin lifted. “We are prepared. The city is safe. We will not run.”

But the networks had cut away. Maps filled the screens: red alerts covered most of the city, white arrows pointed at the busiest streets. The crawl at the bottom of the screens read: EVACUATE NOW. DO NOT WAIT.

The mayor’s hands were shaking now. The sirens screeched louder. Water surged against the square’s barriers. He dropped his handkerchief, which immediately disappeared into the current.

The reporter shouted, “Mayor, what do you say to families on the riverfront right now?”

He stayed on script, though everyone could see his fear. “Stay home. Trust us. The city is—” The first wave to strike the steps drowned him out. The cameras and the glaring lights stayed on him as he stumbled backward when the water covered his shoes.

Then everyone ran. The reporter shoved her notebook in her bag and clambered down the bleachers. As she sprinted away, she knew the headline on her story would damn the mayor.

His talking points floated beside the painted horse, its teeth white against the flooded grass.