Failure. It's like cold water being thrown onto your face after a deep sleep just before dawn. The damp chills down your spine. Wet sensations all over with clothes sticking to the sheets. Then you look up for the millionth time at your Television Championship you've spent five weeks talking up, on your nightstand. The main gold plate glistens and softly echoes what you know already to be true. "You suck"... it faintly reminds, in a gentle warmth, just above where you lay your head at night. Restless and thirsty for some water you get up and walk to the kitchen. But there is no water. You open the cabinets. Nothing. The food, fluids, snacks, booze, all of it... gone. In a panic, settling for a little lead in your diet, you run to the sink and turn the faucet on. Nothing. Not a drop. It's gone. All of it. Because you can't trust wishing on a star for victory. Manifesting dreams comes down to earning their results. Talking up a Championship because you hold it, doesn't make it more valuable, it makes everyone else not want it. Because they might become like you. Desperate for reassurance. Needy for attention of their own victories over previously jobless foes. Failure isn't going to quench your thirst. The water is gone. But your failure will sure quench mine.
☆
From the back, a young man watches a podium where a speaker will soon give a speech from far behind a sea of on-lookers. The blue backdrop and presidential flag commemorate the occasion. A 17 year old, Gabe Reno. Careless whispers fill the air around him, something about the President being "a crook".
Gabe is holding a walkie talkie close by his side. In case anything goes wrong, that’s how he would receive the message from the others. 10am rolled around on a brisk morning, when President Nixon’s car inched toward the speaking area... escorted by black SUV's sure to be full of secret service detail. Reno is crouching in the corner on the roof of the adjacent building, with a cigar in one hand and a rifle in the other. He narrows in his sights. Then pulls up an old crusty lawn chair that had been left on the roof for God knows how long. He starts to whistle a tune to pass the time. Sipping on a juice pack, then crumples it up tossing it next to three others, by a 12 pack family value box at his feet. As he waits for his time to act, he begins to daydream. Momentarily lost in a whistling soliloquy.
I wonder what will happen if I go through with this...
☆
A gigantic scene. Black cars line the streets on boths sides for as far as the eyes can see. Well manicured grass edges sidewalks and beautiful well-kempt scenery. The overhead shot brushes by people in black ties, some holding umbrella's, others faces burried in tissue. Headstones seen by the few, then the tens, hundreds, and possibly thousands. Cemetary gates made of iron carved to the finest point. A group of reporters wait on the outskirts of the procession like wolves, baiting, pacing, practically purring to get an emotional response to print. In the close distance a sea of dark clothing stands out against the lush green landscape. People in the first 20 rows sit in gray fold out chairs. Just above a predug hole stands a mounted casket, waiting to be lowered six feet into the soil, likely never to be seen again.
Dearly beloved, we are gathered here today to say goodbye to a friend, father, and pillar in our lives. While he may never be replaced in the sorrowful gaze of emotion, he will live one like a beacon through our memories and the legend of stories passed on. In these trying days and weeks to come... we must lift each other up, as he would have wanted. To be an example. To stand for the very fights for which he fought. To continue a legacy that said to us all that giving back to each other is the best way, that us remaining here on this Earth, can lift the torch of humility and progress. To smile in the righteous forefront of the challenges ahead with supreme confidence in knowing that he gave us the tools to be a better you, and a better me...
The reverend pauses at the uncontrollable weeping of the widow in the front row. He walks over and places a hand on her hand. Family gathers close to her; he nods and returns to the center of the speaking circle just to the right of the coffin.
I cannot tell you it will be easy. I cannot ease your pain of loss in the endless torment of needing. I cannot make promises that God will alleviate that feeling, because it is there as a reminder. It lives within us as a token of appreciation toward what we have valued in life. Sadness is a naturally caused willfulness to want those things back. Striving forward into the delicate future over time will mend your pain, but it will never eliminate it. Today we give tribute. Today we give thanks. For a tomorrow that was made better, because of all this man gave.
He gives the signal to a military band behind the seating area. They play a song, as the reverend steps to the side, and the next speaker prepares notes. Minutes pass, the band conductor instructs the band, who all bow, then get back into their original disciplined positions. Another man steps us to eulogize the deceased. A man who appears angry that this senseless act took such a difference maker.
Friends... I stand before you today sad, and upset. I am sad to lose the friendship of a loyal man. Sad that we will not talk again. Sad that he did not get to enjoy the full life he was meant to have. Upset that a mindless agenda made this decision for him. Upset that all of you bare the cross of suffering as a result. Upset that we could not come together as a pewceful society to embrace his words instead of end them. And sad still, to think of the times ahead in his absence. The wherewithall will feed our collective strength to go on. Though, we will do so only with the knowledge that we will never stop our goals do to fright. We will never bend in the darkness. We will shine more than perhaps ever before. Will you shine with me friends? Shiiiiinneeeeee? Shiiiinnneee onnnn... me heartiiiesss... shine onnnnn...
That's fine. Thank you.
The reverend gets up and thanks the man as the inpromptu song seemed a little out of place. He struggles the microphone away, then instructs him back out of the area. Turning back toward the somber audience, the reverend asks the widow if she would like to be the last to see him before he is lowered. She gets up weakly, he grabs her arm for support. Then slowly, they step toward the casket... he winks at a cemetary employee who opens the lid and removes the bunches of gorgeous flowers gathered on its lid. She gathers her strength for one final goodbye. After squinting to gain a moment of clarity, she opens her eyes. Taken aback, her mouth is agape. She looks at the reverend in a panic. He looks inside, as what was thought to be the former President of the United States, Richard Nixon, has been replaced with a man resembling Christian Bale. The reverend looks at the cemetery employee and asks him calmly under his breath how this could have occurred, as the congregation begins to buzz with what may have happened. Turning around, forgetting he has the microphone uncovered in his hand, the cemetery director lightly relays the information he has with a cupped hand into the reverend's ear.
What the hell, you lost the President's body?!
The crowd begins to boo. Some in fits of outrage, others burst into even more tears, while other get up grabbing the director and reverend by their jacket lapels and lifting them up for answers. Agents quickly seal off the immediate perimeter around the coffin as a crime scene and start escorting people out of the area. Thinking this would be an okay opportunity to try to calm the crowd, the second speaker grabs the fallen microphone, and begins to sing again.
Ohhhhh letttt, that liiighhht shiinnee on! Shinnnneeee onnnn, babbby, though your gonnneee... ooowww! Let that liiighht shhinnneee onnn...
An agent busts him in the mouth and drops the microphone in an evidence bag. The wide ranging dynamic offers a view of many cars in a traffic jam trying to cut one another off and exit the long winding cemetery streets.
☆
Gabe notices President Nixon arriving at the podium and shakes off his daydreaming trance. The young Reno wonders for a moment who the man in the coffin was in the daydream, and why he was in a box labeled for Nixon. He puffs on his cigar, and looks down the sights at the speaker, now beginning an impassioned speech.
There heeeee is.
Nixon begins to speak, and take occasion questions from the small allowance of top media chairs in the front row.
"I would certainly not be standing here answering these questions unless I had a firm belief that we could keep the republic, that we must keep it, not only for ourselves but for the whole world. I recognize that because of mistakes that were made-and I must take responsibility for those mistakes--whether in the campaign or during the course of an administration, that there are those who wonder whether this republic can survive. But I also know that the hopes of the whole world for peace, not only now but in the years to come, rests in the United States of America..."
His walkie talkie buzzes, but he can't quite make out what was said.
Say again, over?
He smacks it a few times, as sweat beads down his upper brow, imagining the command that could change history, and potentially caused the disappearance of a body. The walkie buzzes again. Clearer this time. It's a go order. Gabe takes a large gulp, and opens a new juice pack to coat his dry mouth.
"I have earned every cent. And in all of my years of public life I have never obstructed justice. People have got to know whether or not their President is a crook. Well, I'm not a crook. I've earned everything I've got."
Clinching the barrel with a finger on the trigger, just like a thousand times before when he had practice in the backyard with pictures of his abusive step-father on cans. Only, this wasn't the same man. President Nixon was not the most popular man ever to be elected, but he was under oath as the leader of the free world. This was a life changer, a history maker, the point of no return. The order comes across the walkie again, with urgency to take the shot now.
Okay! Okay! Here we go, Gabe... now or never.
Gabe squeezes the trigger and closes his eyes instinctively. Another shot rings out before he had a chance to pull it all the way back. He looks through his sights on the opposite rooftop, the man who had been giving the order decided the opportunity wasn't worth waiting for. He gestures to Gabe to run and meet him at the agreed upon home point. Reno in a flurry not knowing what to do forgets to remove his hand and drops the tip of the gun onto the ledge in front of him, causing it to fire by accident from the recoil to his finger on the trigger; everyone below looks up in his direction. Another man on the stage falls having been his square in the left of the buttocks. Agents begin to motion and head toward his direction. He picks up all the juice packets, and shoves them and the rifle in his bag. Within the following shots a beat ramps up like an 80's montage, featuring "Highway to the Danger Zone" by Kenny Loggins.
Oh... shitcrackers.
Reno finds himself running down to the first floor, peaking out the door, then proceeding all the way down to the parking garage while hearing a stampede of footsteps on the main floor. He drops his bag and gun in a recycle bin, the removes his jacket, and fixes his hair in the reflection of a stunning new BMW with perfect clean windows. He wipes his faces clean of sweat still catching his breath. The window of the BMW rolls down. An Amazonian looking hottie smiles at him, as if to ask what he thinks he is doing. He smirks, then shrugs his shoulders playfully. Gabe slides over the hood of the car as the woman yells at him, then out to street level.
Sorry!
He jogs down the street stealing a hot dog from the hands of a paying customer who just bought it from a street vendor. The man yells as Reno sprints down the street.
Thanks pal!
Behind him emerging from the same garage are agents wearing sunglasses, who have the woman in the BMW, and the guy who lost the hot dog pointing in the direction where he headed. Reno rounds a corner and leaps over a baby stroller but misses, tipping it over, his head turns back while running, to realize the spilled stroller was full of cans being pushed by a homeless man.
My bad!
At a pay phone down the block a ways, he stops to unscrew the dial cap, which he pulls a small folded paper with directions of the home meeting point on it. He screws it back on, then dials a cab company for pick up a few blocks away. Hanging up the phone, he pays the old homeless man five dollars to switch sweaters with him, then goes to put on the disguise and realizes he would rather be caught than to wear the filthy stained sweater of the homeless man. He takes his back and the money, and runs off to meet up with the cab. The montage trickles away with the end of the song. Moments later, Gabe gets out of the cab at the meet up spot somewhere near the edge of town. The other man is waiting for Gabe in an empty warehouse. Reno enters and slams the large rolling door, after telling the cabbie to get lost.
What tip? This isn't Bel-Air, bitch.
The cabbie speeds off. Inside, the man from the other rooftop looks disappointed. Putting his hand on young Reno's shoulder, and shaking his head in pity. He had failed. It was his mission and he chose to accept it, then couldn't pull the rigger when it mattered most. The pulled it accidentally at the wrong time. The man had entrusted to him with these responsibilities. Gabe didn’t even attempt to shoot at the President. The man then bursts into laughter. Young Reno looks up wondering why.
What, why are you laughing?
The man snickers, then rolls his eyes in disbelief.
You didn't fail! You think we were depending on you, a kid, to assassinate the President of the United States!? No! We needed you to do exactly what you did, distract from my location so I could escape, then getaway yourself. And you did it better than we thought! Firing that shot and hitting that guy drew the entire attention to you, they don't even realize there were two shooters yet!
Gabe takes a giant sigh of relief, and shares in the moment of laughter.
Oh my God... I thought I had failed, I thought you were gonna... gonna...
What, kill you? No, you saved the day! You aren't a failure... that's why we shot him, NIXON IS THE FAILURE!
The two burst into laughter for an exorbitantly long period of time.
☆☆☆
Sounds a lot like another Nixon, doesn't it? You may not be a crook, but don't kid yourself, you will be a failure on Wednesday Night.
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