Political Science 101

Chapter Eighty-Four

CONSIDERING THE importance of this day, Ray Doyle awoke rested and refreshed. Considering how much Ray Doyle had riding on the outcome of this day, he'd slept soundly, softly, and through the night. His immodest rented apartment in suburban St. Louis — an apartment he kept strictly for the purpose of documenting his residency in his Congressional district — was well-furnished, comfortable, and barely used. But nonetheless, most of his time — most of his nights — were spent in his lavish (yet practical) apartment in Washington D.C.

The biggest drawback which Ray saw about his apartment in Washington D.C. was the ugly orange door on the front of the building. But today — Election Day — he would be in St. Louis, ready to give his victory speech, ready to shake hands, ready to give his constituents plenty of Election Day face time.

His victory was all-but guaranteed, his victory speech had long been written, but this morning, he did not wake with a smile. He awoke with the mind of a realist rather than an optimist. He fought the urge to be a pessimist, and simply resigned himself to a sense of realism which disappointed his sense of authenticity. And the irony of the situation was not, for a single moment, lost upon his thought process; Ray's intrinsic realism was the realization that almost nothing about him was "real." Ray Doyle was a manufactured politician, and he knew it. He was Robert Redford in The Candidate. And all he could think to himself was, "What do we do now?"

Ray turned his head and floated a glance out the window at this early November Tuesday morning. He was a little surprised at how bright it was outside, considering it was only 7AM, but then he remembered Daylight Savings Time, and "Fall Back" had only been a few days prior. But regardless, Ray just stared out the window.

It was raining.

It wasn't a hard rain, or a windy rain, or even a steady rain; it was a gloomy rain. There was nothing constant about the rain or the wind or the clouds or anything. The clouds weren't dark, they simply held their gray place like a vital (yet unimportant) member of the chorus in a Sophocles play, merely standing by, waiting, waiting for the drama — or the tragedy.

With a deep and hopeless sigh, Ray picked up the television remote from his nightstand and pointed it at the TV. But before he could press the POWER button, he reminded himself that it was Election Day. All the local channels would be packed with pundits and talking heads, trying to predict the outcome of the day's voting.

He dropped the remote onto the bed beside his hip, leaving the television off, and rolled over toward his clock radio. I wonder if people even still use clock radios, he thought to himself. Perhaps music would help his mood — then again, the last time he remembered listening to this clock radio, it was on NPR, which he normally enjoyed, but not today. Just, not today.

So when he turned it on, he reached for the knob in an attempt to find some sort of music which would be aesthetically pleasing. When the radio clicked on and Ray heard the familiar NPR morning voices, he gently rotated the tuning knob slightly to the next clear sound of reception.

And then, he closed his eyes.

Rising from the tiny speaker of Ray's clock radio was John Rutter's "Lux Aeterna," a song with which Ray was quite familiar, having actually sung this song (and Rutter's full Requiem) in his high school choir decades earlier. The choral melody rose gently from the small radio as its digital timer shined a deep red electric hue; the melody was sweet and soothing, and in many ways, freeing. And today, this song seemed to embrace Ray's soul, like the presence of a friend or lover in a time of despair; not an embrace which said, "Everything is okay," but rather, an embrace which simply said, "I'm here."

His mind gripped the coral melodies like a warm pillow and refused to let go. He had no idea what station he was on, he just happened to dial the knob to this particular song on this particular day at this particular moment. But whatever the happenstance may have been, Ray felt somehow thankful for this music. The soft somber melancholy feeling conveyed by what he was hearing seemed to fit perfectly with the dreary scene outside his window.

Ray closed his eyes as the music washed over him. He felt everything in his life harmonize. His mind felt as clear as a cool spring morning. His pulse calmed in comfort. His breathing slowed and deepened. As long as he kept his eyes closed, as long as this music played beautifully to him, his world was aligned and balanced, free of pain or stress or lies or deceit or reality. As long as his eyes were closed, his world was his own.

But the song would have to eventually end, his eyes would have to eventually open, the weight of reality would have to eventually resume. And, eventually, it did. It was followed by a radio commercial for a local judge who was running for reelection, so he reached over and (almost violently) turned off the radio, and sat in the momentary silence. The sound of the obnoxious political commercial was an unwelcomed jolt back to reality, like being ripped from Soren's Nexus.

Reality, at its keystone, will often be a disappointment.

Ray picked up his iPhone from beside the clock radio on the nightstand and turned it on. Ray kept his cell phone turned on at all times, but it was not on last night; it had not been powered-down by accident. And, as he expected, the completed start-up process of his phone revealed over a dozen text messages and seven voicemails. He sat up with reluctance — both physical and emotional reluctance — and began combing through his waiting messages.

The reality was, he needed to get out of bed. The reality was, he needed to answer these messages. The reality was, he needed to return these phone calls. There were speeches to be made, hands to be shaken, rallies to attend — and this was the reality of Congressman Ray Doyle.