The Press Guardian #15
David Michael Newstead | The Philosophy of Shaving
Election day. Cynthia Blake could hardly sleep the night before. She had worked late and presented the plan for the next day to her team. Nathan Darms and Abner would be based out of opposition headquarters as the vote tallies came in. Perry Chase and Margaret would talk to people congregating in Capital Square, taking photos and capturing their reactions throughout the evening. And Cynthia would oversee operations at the newspaper itself, while Jack and Mort monitored social media channels and watched live TV for the latest updates. She should have just slept on the couch in her office, she thought, but Cynthia decided to go home on the eve of the election. She wanted to rest and clean up. The next few days, weeks, months were going to be a chaotic marathon no matter who won.
Except when she got home, Cynthia could only lay motionless in bed. It was like she was mentally preparing herself, meditating in the dark, but never really dozing off. At sunrise, her alarm rang and she leapt into action, dressed, and got ready. But as she was putting on her navy blue coat, Cynthia caught her own reflection in the mirror. Fear, anticipation, anxiety, and hope all mixed together across her face, hiding just below the surface. The election was finally here.
Perry Chase wasn’t answering his phone that morning. Cynthia called him again and again, but it kept going directly to voicemail. She tried for a fifth time as she was leaving her apartment building and heading to work. She stared down at her cell, frustrated. Again, Perry’s phone went to voicemail. Snow crunched loudly beneath her boots as she walked, then Cynthia looked up and realized there was someone in her way.
“Excuse me, Ms. Blake?” A man in a black suit said to her.
Cynthia stopped and was about to speak. Just then, a second and a third man appeared, hopping out of a black sedan parked beside her building.
“Ms. Blake, you need to come with us now,” The second man told her.
“Wait, what? What is this regarding?” she replied.
“I’m Agent Krasner and this is Agent Blotz. We’re with Special Office. We’d like to ask you some questions.” he told her, badge in hand.
Deep in the heart of the Ministry of Interior, Cynthia found herself confined to an interview room with an uncomfortable folding chair and a bland cup of coffee. It was freezing cold. For an hour, they had left her there alone, while her mind raced with every possible worst case scenario. Had they discovered the true identity of the Press Guardian? Were agents already interrogating poor Perry as she sat there drinking fucking coffee? They must have known everything, Cynthia thought. But when Krasner and Blotz finally returned, the men never asked anything about Perry Chase or the Press Guardian. Cynthia had overestimated their detective skills and severely underestimated their stupidity. These intelligence officers were morons!
“Make it easy on yourself, Ms. Blake. Just answer the questions,” Blotz said, lighting another cigarette.
“I’m trying to,” she told them, “I’m sorry. I’m just not clear on what you’re getting at.”
Cynthia’s brow furrowed and her lips twisted. She was completely annoyed.
“Do you support your country or not?” Agent Krasner interjected as he slowly paced the room.
“Oh god… We’ve going in circles for three fucking hours,” she sighed. “What are you even asking me?! Yes, I support my country. Can I go now?”
At last, it dawned on Cynthia what was really going on. This wasn’t an investigation. They didn’t know who the Press Guardian was. Special Office was now legally allowed to detained anyone for questioning for up to 24 hours, even if they weren’t suspected of a crime. These bastards, she realized, were just talking to her to fill time, to keep her from covering the election. They might be holding her entire staff in custody at this point, subjecting them to the exact same treatment. Agent Blotz, fat with a shaved head, would produce copies of random articles that Cynthia had written as supposed evidence of some misdeed and then he would question her about her “agenda” for thirty minutes straight before moving on to the next one. Or worse, Agent Krasner, with a horrific moustache and a combover, would read nonsense from some mystery file he had on hand and engage Cynthia in a ridiculous string of accusations and insinuations.
“Do you respect the flag?” he asked.
“Are you a patriot?”
“Are you a loyal patriot?!”
“Did you vote for the president in the last election?”
“Is it true that you had a Muslim roommate in university?”
“Are you a lesbian?”
“Are you an Islamic fundamentalist?”
“What party do you usually vote for?”
“Were your parents anarchists?”
She had never known until this instant how slow time passing could actually feel. Hours would grind by and Cynthia could feel her brain numbing from speaking to these men. Was stupidity contagious, she wondered at one point. Would death be preferable to this? She wasn’t certain.
When they did release her, it was nighttime. The whole day had been wasted. The election might already be over, she thought. The agents didn’t drive her home either. They just led her to their lobby and shoved her out. Had someone stolen her gloves? To Cynthia’s dismay, her screen was cracked now and absolutely no one she worked with was picking up their phones. That’s when she grew more concerned. The newspaper’s website was down. So was its mobile app. Cynthia ran across the city’s cobblestone streets and walkways. It was frigid outside and the wind felt like it was cutting her face apart, but she knew that she had to get to their headquarters. She had to locate her team, anyone, and find out what was happening. She ran until her lungs hurt from the cold and her fingertips were turning blue. Then, up ahead, she saw it and her heart constricted.
The Daily Review-Express was on fire. Columns of smoke bellowed out from the windows. Flames climbed high into the air. The Fire Department cornered off the block and tried their best, but it was already too far gone. Mort and a few interns huddled together nearby and yelled over to her to get Cynthia’s attention.
“I don’t know! I don’t know!” was Mort’s panicked response to most of her questions.
The majority of staff were unaccounted for, but they weren’t in the building, according to Mort. Jack never came into the office that day. Margaret had called Mort in the morning when Perry never show up. No one had heard from Abner or Nathan at all. Cynthia then tried to telephone Margaret, but that too went to voicemail. Within an hour, their newspaper’s home for half a century would be nothing but ashes. It didn’t matter, Cynthia immediately concluded. The people she worked with mattered and she needed to find them as soon as possible.
Suddenly, standing there, it all crystalized in her mind. Watching that inferno consume everything, she experienced a realization that was as clear as day. The hypocrisy, the cowardice. Their election, this election was only a show. The regime was just putting on a performance for the European Union and the rest of the international community. They were just going through the motions, but the election’s outcome had never really been in doubt. After that, Cynthia Blake could practically see a larger drama unfolding. Acknowledging democracy’s decline in the country would mean having to respond to it, but Brussels and London and Washington didn’t want to take any difficult actions or acknowledge the problem. They had other concerns and, in truth, always had. She let that dark feeling sink in and the expression on her face changed profoundly. Isolated. Abandoned. Under siege. Goddamn them, she thought as she watched the building burn.
