The Politician and the Journalist
Once in a distant land and time there lived a Politician in the capital city of the nation.
He loved the nation.
Or was it the stage on which he played leader of the nation? This is a subtle distinction, and we will not burden him with it.
Each morning he awoke with a crisis already being formed in his chest. It could be about borders. It could be about taxes. It could be about wars. It could be about a word someone used in 1997. The specifics do not matter. What mattered was the actual giving birth to the conflict. It just felt right.
By nine o’clock a.m. the Politician would step before a microphone — his favorite of all inventions — and announce that something was at stake. Usually civilization. Sometimes gas prices. Sometimes dinner. He had an instinct for stakes.
The crisis today was small. It lived mostly in him. It was like a melody hummed in the shower or on the toilet.
Across town, in a building made of glass and anxiety, there worked the Journalist.
The Journalist adored the truth. Except when money and the market was involved. He also had a hard time with long term relationships.
Or was it his own selection and fine arrangement of facts the Journalist most preferred? He had a great talent for lining them up in a kind of beautiful way and sometimes even exotic and surprising way.
Anyway, this is a subtle distinction, and we will not burden him with it either.
The Journalist rose early in the morning as well. He refreshed his coffee and fed on social media. He listened for that hum, just that right buzz.
And there it was — the Politician’s melody, drifting across the interwebs.
A melody alone is nothing. It requires harmony and rhythm. It requires someone to say, This is important. The Journalist was very good at importance. Actually, the Journalist didn’t need the truth. He had newspapers and television.
The Journalist would gather experts, opponents, historians, psychologists, even actors and comedians. He would line them up like a choir and give them the Politician’s tune and say, “Tonight, we ask: Can you all sing what this means to you?”
The Poltician’s crisis, at this point, was now mature. Several Journalists were orchestrating it. It had lower thirds. It had drums. The introduction was turning into a full overture.
The Politician watched and listened.
He would tilt his head slightly, like a composer sitting in the empty hall hearing his symphony played by a full orchestra in rehearsal. The strings were better than he imagined. The timpani especially. He had only supplied a four note melody, but here was a work of art.
He would then edit a note here and there, and make a comment about the violas.
The Journalist, being conscientious, would supply new richness on demand.
The Politican would say, “Everything is at risk.”
The Journalist would reply, “Panel, let’s examine whether everything is at risk.”
The Politician would say, “The experts are corrupt.”
The Journalist invited more experts.
The Politican would accuse the press of hysteria.
The Journalist would host a panel on media hysteria.
They were absolutely devoted to one another.
It would be unfair to say they were both cynical creatures. After all, they drove elections and the nation’s history. They were quite often sincere.
The Politician truly believed he was defending something fragile and magnificent. The Journalist truly believed he was defending something fragile and magnificent. They simply disagreed about what the fragile and magnificent thing was.
The Politician believed it was the nation’s soul.
The Journalist believed it was the facts. What is soul when facts are at stake?
The universe is full of facts, the Politician would say. And I have the best ones, the Journalist retorted.
There were evenings — rare, but not out of the question — when the Journalist considered silence. What if he did not amplify the day’s emergency? What if he covered instead the zoning board? The bridge across town?
On those evenings, the Politician would feel a faint loneliness. He would announce a crisis and hear only his echo.
It unsettled him. But silence was difficult to sustain.
The public must have its show. They had, after all, bought tickets.
Both could be a bit dramatic. Which is how they ran into each other that night.
They met in a public but still private toilet in the Politician’s residence. They were both escaping from “a situation.” The politician from a Senator and the Journalist from . . another Senator. “You twist my words,” the Politician told the Journalist washing his hands.
“I don’t need to,” replied the Journalist laughing mockingly.
“And you,” said the Politician, drying his hands slowly, “used to call me at night.”
The Journalist met his eyes in the mirror, just for a second too long.
“Off the record,” he said, softer now.
“You always preferred it that way,” the Politician replied.
A pause.
“You liked being heard,” the Journalist said. “Even then.”
“And you liked deciding what it meant.”
Their shoulders nearly touched at the sink. Neither moved.
“You were a woman then,” said the Politician looking at him directly in the mirror.
“And you were a real man . . . We were good,” the Journalist said.
The Politician smiled faintly. “We still are.”
They stood there a moment longer, both reflecting back, slightly editing the story in their minds, and then . . .
And then, because history is merciless and life interesting, the door opened and the Philosopher walked in and caught them kissing.
He stopped only briefly. Not in shock. More in the manner of a man discovering that the room he had hoped would be empty was, in fact, occupied by the governing class.
“Oh,” said the Philosopher. “Please. Don’t mind me. I didn’t see anything.”
He moved toward the urinal with the grave dignity of an incel.
“It’s nice, actually,” he added, unzipping. “To know there is still love in the world. Lord knows I’m not getting any.”
The Politician scowled, “you can’t say anything.”
The Philosopher glanced over. “About what?”
“About this.”
The Journalist looked physically ill, which for a journalist is saying something.
The Politician lowered his voice. “I’ve survived every scandal in the world, But this—” he gestured helplessly. “This would finish me. I’m the king of scandal,” he added, rather sadly. “But not this kind.”
The Philosopher nodded as if considering whether he’d have the chicken or the fish tonight.
“What are you offering?”
The Politician blinked. “A job. Money. Power. Influence.”
“What kind of job?”
“Chairman of the National Bioethics Committee.”
The Philosopher continued urinating. “At least Secretary of Defense,” the Philosopher insisted. “That’s the only serious job in your cabinet.”
The Politician considered it. “That can be arranged.”
“Look,” said the Journalist now able to speak, “you can’t say anything. I’ll lose everything.”
The Philosopher zipped up and turned toward them both.
“A Journalist’s name,” he said, “is indeed all he has. Which is unfortunate, because it is usually attached to a publication owned by a hedge fund.”
The Philosopher washed his hands.
“Relax,” he said. “I’m interested in the good of society, not merely in a good story.”
The Politician exhaled. The Journalist farted.
“But,” said the Philosopher, reaching for a paper towel, “I do want one thing or the story is out there. CNN, FOX News, Right Wing Influencers on YouTube.”
They waited.
“Quit being run around by the market.”
The Philosopher decided on the chicken as he exited.
This is not corruption, exactly. Nor is it purity. It is collaboration. Like love, it is sustained by misunderstanding and admiration.
Unlike the bird, the Politician needs his early morning melody to fall on someone’s ears.
And, also like the bird, the Journalist needs something to hear to begin his day.
The Philosopher claims he’s after wisdom—but only after Five O’clock!
Each morning in the capital city, the melody begins again.