The Spark II

The 2012 National Elections have been well and truly done and dusted for some time now and our “Pub Politician” from a few weeks back has been having a hard time coming to terms with his electoral demise. His foray into politics had left him both emotionally and financially scarred and he knows a quick recovery on both fronts will not come easy. He has been spending less time at his favorite haunt, the ever popular Fifth Floor, and although a welcome change as far his missus was concerned, a major setback for him and his “political advisors” from The Roundtable as it was agreed by all that planning for NE17 would have to start in earnest as soon as he had settled back in.

Along with his hopes of returning with the letters “MP” after his name, as well as the perks and privileges that materialize, dashed at the polls, he was also nursing a severely bruised ego at home and in the office. The occasional jocular shout of “member” or “daddy boss” from his colleagues at work was not doing anything to bolster his self-esteem to levels prior to the election counting stage. Neither was the fact that his home which had been turned into a care-centre of sorts during the election period had not seen any significant decrease in residential population. The strain on family life was more evident in the form of incessant nagging from his wife and children demanding for more of this, or a little less of that, so it was not surprising that PP was missing his usual outing to the Fifth Floor.

He missed the camaraderie of his advisors, their usual egging, general banter and off-the-cuff quips on some topic or other. The ambience created by the mixture of murmured voices competing with 80’s music usual for a Thursday afternoon, of heavy discussions under dimmed lights made hazy by cigarette fumes and the mixed scents of an Elizabeth Arden competing with a cheap imitation of Tabu flogged from that monstrosity (in his opinion anyway) just down the street, or that of someone who had gone slightly overboard with an Old Spice. Sitting at his desk this balmy Thursday afternoon, he resolved to go down for a “quick one” as soon as the clock struck 4:06pm.

Calls to several of his inner-circle advisors were met with a surprising tone of detached unfamiliarity. Was he losing his touch? Or perhaps it’s because it was only Thursday, and the week had been fairly slow anyway. But he did not want to spend an hour staring at that round table in the outer bar all alone. He needed the company of at least one advisor. If not to hear him shed some of the domestic burden accumulated over the last few weeks, then at least to dream together about “what could have been”. A cursory glance at his watched showed that the time was chasing 4pm in such a hurry, and with not a single positive response from any of his advisors so far, PP thought that he might have to forgo his usual haunt for today. Fortunately for him, his most ardent follower (AF) from the nearby Lagatoi building called with minutes to spare before 4pm. And yes, a “quick one” before 7pm would be on the cards provided PP does not go rambling on about lost opportunities or anything depressing. And so it was agreed, no reminiscing, and definitely no politics either.

PP sees the crowd of regulars already dropping back the handles and others going full steam on their typing lessons, some going at 35 words per minute whilst those more experienced or chancier going all out at 70 words per minute. A few were going frustratingly slow at 14 or 21 words per minute. He mutters softly to his AF about when he thought those aspiring typists would graduate. They both hold back sniggers and head to their usual spot. True to his promise, PP does not bore AF with lamentations on the latest nagging topic or politics. In fact, the session progresses well, heading towards 6pm and after a schooner or two, AF is feeling rather upbeat about this latest gathering. Surely more of the Roundtable Group should have turned up.

The music is turned down around 6pm in time for the news brought by the self professed number one television station and PP could hear some of the patrons who were clearly over the six glasses safety limit mouthing away at a piece on the latest parliamentary sitting. He paid a passing glance at one of the screens randomly placed around the inner bar and spots the very politician who had won the seat he contested, the person who had dashed all his expectations of perks and privileges, and dreams of grandeur, his ticket to the land of milk and honey found just before the country’s museum and art gallery. AF suddenly noticed with much horror a buildup of froth at the corner of PP’s mouth and the trembling of his hands and knew that any thought of enjoying this small interlude was well and truly over.

AF had known that it was difficult for aspiring politicians to assimilate back into “normal” society once their dreams are shattered at the polls, had heard of aspirants having difficulty settling back into routine life and getting on with whatever jobs they had prior to entering the race of all races that comes around every time a child turns five from the last run race. Nevertheless, it was quite disconcerting for him to sit there and watch his friend die a slow and tortuous mental death. Fortunately, the bar was not as crowded as it would have been on a Friday night so their quick getaway was inconspicuous and after a short drive over to the care centre, AF dropped PP off with a feeling of trepidation as to whether he would survive his family and be well enough for work tomorrow. But AF was not too big on fraternal empathy and so made a beeline for his home, thinking that politics was certainly not for those of lean pickings or small pockets, even more so those of the faint hearted kind. Because when the spark is doused, they will be embraced by more than just darkness.

*Disclaimer: Any similarities to persons, alive or deceased is unintentional. This is a fictional piece.