The Speaker, After the Pope

by Eric Howerton


​The Speaker left the capitol teary-eyed and ready to reform. He was so lost he unlocked and entered the right side of the car.  Realizing his mistake, he climbed over the gearshift and nestled into the grooved driver’s seat. He blew his nose.
 
Hearing the Pope speak to Congress had clarified the Speaker’s thinking; the Pontif and his pointy hat had proven to the Speaker—with nothing less than a righteous elegance—that his party was one that had soured the punch. They—no, HE. Take responsibility, John! HE--had failed to protect his fellow man from the world’s foggy darkness. He had failed to care for the poor and feed the needy.
 
At a red light, the Speaker turned the radio on. “Blinded by the Light,” a near-classic by Manfred Mann that didn’t make lyrical sense before now bathed the Speaker in a clarity not dissimilar from the effervescent direction and resolve that filled him after the Pope bowed and took leave.
 
“Revved up like a deuce, another runner in the night.”
 
The light turned green, and the speaker knew what to do. The messages he’d received synergized him. He would call in sick tomorrow. And the day after. He would quit his job, cash out his bank account and be free of it all. All the arguments. All the entanglements. The favors. The guilt. Guilt for not passing this bill fast enough. Guilt for allowing these millions to be marginalized. First thing in the morning he would empty his bank account and head to the airport, retiring to the sandy beaches of Mexico, drinking and tipping generously. If he was going to be blinded by the light, ok. He could handle a little revelation. He’d take the heat of God’s wrath for the things he’d done. He’d sweat under rising temperatures and toss at night. But if the world was going to be so clear from here on out that he had to squint and dab his brow, he’d be damned if he wasn’t going to have a world-class tan.