Silver Currents of Change

Chapter 10

Marcus left Zarah deep in thought about everything he said to her, and, multi-tasking while checking email and texts on her mobile phone, she was also looking over her "To do" list for the day. Standing in front of her favorite posters, she started saying a silent prayer that the auditorium would hold all their guests, so she didn't notice when someone she should have noticed walked through the front doors and into the GCV lobby, and into the Gallery of Courage.

It took a man's deep voice coming from behind her saying, "Nice posters," startling her, to make her turn around fast, nearly bumping into the man; a tall, lightly stubbled, handsome man. Staring at him, she thought his light golden skin tone and five o'clock shadow—a miniscule beard and mustache,imbued him with unquestionable swag that whispered loudly a bit of a rebellious spirit. When she looked at him, something about his face seemed vaguely familiar, but she knew he wasn't someone she knew from campus. Very handsome, he smelled rich, was impeccably dressed, and, wearing a friendly smile, he still looked extremely important and distinguished. 

"Oh my God!" Her hand flew up to her mouth. "He's here. I mean, you're here." She felt like an idiot. It was none other than the star of the morning's events. It was the legendary hotel, business, and publishing mogul. It was Harvey Evan Wilson, the keynote speaker, the guest of honor she'd been on the lookout for, and he was there a full twenty-five minutes before his speech. She started feeling like she'd seen him recently but decided it was because she'd looked at photos of him all week long, in countless newspaper articles. He stayed out of the spotlight, but she'd performed a hard search and found several photos of him. One was in an old magazine at her mother's house. She studied all the pictures hoping to recognize him instantly as soon as he walked through the door, and after doing all that, he still managed to surprise and startle her.

"I didn't mean to startle you," he said, apologizing.

"Oh no, you didn't." Fibbing, she hoped she wasn't too visibly shaken. "Forgive me," she said, "for staring. It's just ... in person, you look a lot different. I've seen a few photos of you, and I was waiting ... I mean I've been waiting to meet you all morning." She gasped, unable to believe how flustered she felt.

"Then you must be Zarah," he said, reading her ID badge. He extended his hand for a shake. 

"Zarah Brion." She gripped his hand and couldn't believe how weak it made her feel when their hands touched. She hoped her grip didn't feel as weak and flimsy as the rest of her felt while his hand, to her, felt unbelievably confident and steady.

"Amazing way to welcome people to the event." He was looking around at all the posters. "Very impressive gallery."

"Thanks." She turned away from him for a moment. "It's okay, Zarah," she said, silently, to herself. "You're doing good." She turned back toward him, "Mr. Wilson ... ah, if you'll excuse me ... I'll be right back." He gave her a broad smile and military salute, which she thought made him look really cool. She had to get away, just for a minute, to catch her breath. She still couldn't believe he'd caught her off-guard. 

Walking to the welcome table to retrieve his name badge, she couldn't believe Harvey Wilson was a young, handsome white guy ... not the older, shriveled-looking white guy she was expecting. He had such a powerful presence, to her, the moment she looked at him, everything else around them stopped. She began to think. She'd written his bio for the event program and she knew he started his publishing company when he was twenty-two, and she knew the publishing company celebrated its tenth anniversary last year. That meant he was probably around thirty-two or thirty-three years old.

He wasn't at all what she expected. It was as hot as hell outside, and most folk walking into the GCV lobby looked like they'd lost a battle with the muggy dampness of the hot September morning. But not him. He looked like the crisp embodiment of cool, and what she felt from his spirit told her he was. He was the man Marcus described: a cool nonconformist. Cut against the grain, a man deeply committed to his convictions. One who did the right things, knowing he would shock other people, but did them anyway. It wasn't sitting well with her, because she hadn't expected to see, in person, the man Marcus described. She thought she would be meeting a jerk that day; a filthy-rich white jerk who published magazines she loved only because he had the nerve and the money to do it, and because he could make more money creating something no other white man had the brains or the courage to do. But now? She wasn't so sure. When she stood in front of him, her "jerk meter" hadn't registered at all, and she had to ask herself if Marcus might be right. It was all she could think about in that moment, because she couldn't remember ever standing close to any white man without experiencing a strong sense of loathing.