This is my attempt at a fictional narrative.
President’s Day Politics
She was in awe; she’d never seen anything like this before. The limestone and marble columns looked regal; the broad stone steps to the front door seemed like a mountain. As she approached the steps on that frozen winter day in February, she felt intimidated. The bodies surrounding her on the street were much more deserving than her. What could she possibly do? Who was she to say anything in this arena? The older, more experienced crowd pushed forward, but not in a hurry. The clumps of people seemed to bond together as one — maybe to keep warm, or maybe to unite as they merged from separate districts. Everyone must work together today, for the common goal. What would she say? She didn’t have a script written, although she pulled out her cell phone and opened Evernote. “A few well-known phrases to remember,” she thought, giving herself some confidence to face the next step.
A half an hour later, she was pushed through the wide-welcoming marble doors. “Were those open before? It’s so cold!” she whispered aloud. No one answered. Inside, through the checkpoints and down the long hallway. She kept up with the crowd, peering to see where the path would lead. From the center of the lobby–the atrium–(this wasn’t a cheap hotel, so it wasn’t a lobby), she saw a sea of red shirts. The media said there would be hundreds, but this looked more like a thousand! They gathered to change things — to scare the demons that surrounded this house. The purpose was to expose truths, ignite fires, face fears. She was there — in the middle of it all — and all of a sudden she thought she saw a ghost! She turned to run away, but the crowd kept pushing her forward.
Wait! He caught her eye! Those dark eyes fixed on her green ones, and she could only move slowly forward, as if pulled by some magnificent force. He walked slowly toward her. His face seemed kind enough, his attire rather nice for President’s Day. (He almost looked like the president.) As he placed himself next to her, he deliberately turned from the crowd. He looked intently at her. She pondered, “Why me? Why am I the chosen one in this congregation?”
Maybe because she was young. Maybe because she looked anxious. Maybe because he could get to her first, coax her to join the table that he had prepared. He reached out his hand.
“Welcome to the State House. I’m Governor Pence. What are you doing here on this frigid day?”
Surprised and unprepared for her own response, she replied calmly, “I’m here to stand with Ritz.”