MADRIGAL

Chapter 8

Peter Grimes admired his image in the mirror and saw an impeccable man in a bespoke suit. A sixty-dollar trim ensured not a hair out of place and the barber administered a shave that Peter felt would last for days, despite the reality of a five-o'clock shadow sprouting forth. The gold watch matched his cufflinks and tiepin. The striped motif echoed through the suit jacket, shirt, and even his socks, which had cost twenty dollars for just the two. The shoes recommended by the tailor had tassels, something he never would have considered wearing in his normal life. Peter smiled. The suit and accessories cost over twenty-six hundred bucks, twice what all the furniture in his apartment was worth, refrigerator included.

He removed each piece with care, hanging the shirt with the tie still looped around it, followed by the jacket on top. The pants were an issue to replace without spoiling the crease. All were shrouded once more under the dry cleaning bag with which they were sold. He pushed the clothes already in the closet to the furthest sides to provide a wide berth for this most cherished ensemble, and then pulled out his work clothes for the day, careful not to allow them to brush against his newest purchase. He donned his polo shirt and blue jeans, and checked his reflection again. It was the same outfit he had worn day in and out, but now the look seemed somehow wrong, as if the man in the suit was who he was always meant to be, and the man he had always been was but a disguise.

January nineteenth. Today was the day. Today was the day the world would change. All nations would be knocked off their axes for a time before being righted again, better, stronger. Corporations, too, would implode and burst at the seams from their gluttony and their greed. Soulless edifices built for pushing paper and ruining lives would crumble under the weight of their own bloat. Financial empires would turn to ash as captains of industry would sink into an abyss of their own making. Their futures would become as bleak as it had become for those whose lives they touched.

A new world was coming, and everything he needed to bring about this new world was in his front pocket.

Peter left his building and turned left towards the heart of D.C., if one could consider D.C. as having a heart. Peter walked two blocks to a reach a major street that taxis patrolled. He had sold his car last week for a song, as he had with most things in his apartment that he could turn into cash. He emptied his 401K and savings, and hid the money in envelopes taped under his bureau. He needed the money, meaning everything had to be sacrificed, car included, so now he walked. A small price to pay for a brand new world.

Passing brownstones and colonial homes, he noted trash piled curbside for pickup. He thought of Alan. Alan Campbell was a friend and an inspiration, and the government killed him. That's not what the papers had said. The government covered their treachery well, or else the media covered it for them. Alan was murdered, and his body was dropped onto bags of garbage like he himself was trash. He wasn't. His body should have been lying in state, not lying in a state of dishonor in the streets.

The government didn't even try to hide what they did. They at least could have been subtle, faking a car accident or the like, but they wanted to make a statement. He was stabbed in the heart with the knife, in broad daylight. Instead of disguising an agent as a bum or some young urban thug, they chose a woman in a dress suit, as if such a thing could possibly happen. A witness said she searched Alan's pockets, stole his wallet and other things, said something unheard, and was gone. Unlikely. This was a message from the government: Don't mess with us. Well, message received. Message received and ignored.

Peter caught a taxi to work. The town felt more alive today, or maybe he just noticed it more. There was always a greater vibrancy on the day of the State of the Union. Anticipation was never for the speech itself. It was more a show, and never bigger than this year. With the president's reelection and presumed mandate, he was forgoing the typical paper printout in place of a twelve-page manifesto outlining his next four years. Instead of copies fresh off a West Wing printer, a blue pamphlet was designed with the President in front of an American flag and an eagle, printed at the U. S. Government Publishing Office, the place where Peter worked. The announcement that the GPO would be creating the State of the Union document was a surprise that Peter slowly saw as a fortuitous gift from God. Even the title spoke to him; America's Re-Imagining: A Bold New Future. The State of the Union was going to be a three-hour diatribe illustrating the President's master plan for the country, but it was going to allow Peter to implement a master plan of his own.