by Robert Schiff
The speech is drafted—brief, polite, gracious. Tradition calls for writing two. One for victory. The other for this.
Two are not necessary tonight.
Twenty five years ago: The last Fall practice wrapped. Jordan packed up gear. That was the freshmen’s job. Coach coming over. Jordan saw and walked the other direction. Coach trotted to catch up.
“We’re going in a different direction. Thank you for coming out. For playing as hard as you did.”
The train was going the same direction. Jordan was not welcome onboard.
Jordan is alone in the large hotel room. Intermittent sirens come in through the window. Party members fill the ballroom.
Jordan’s will be the only concession speech they hear tonight. The others have done what is expected of them.
A hotel-branded saucer and coffee cup sit on top of disheveled papers. Jordan picks up the coffee cup and throws it across the room. The cup and a full length mirror shatter.
Jordan always had a good arm. Jordan’s dad made sure of that. Sports were never important to Jordan’s dad, but he said that he thought of his dad every time he played catch. He wanted that with Jordan.
Sam is not here to clean up the mess.
Jordan and Sam have not had a real conversation since it happened.
Jordan has not had a cigarette since the first date with Sam. Sam thinks smoking is unhealthy.
That is only the view of someone who knows other ways to feel complete. The first breath in, it feels like anything is possible. And like everything can wait.
Jordan will smoke again after tonight.
Jordan did good with power. With proximity to power.
“To amend the Internal Revenue Code of 1986 to extend the exclusion for employer-provided educational assistance to employer payments of qualified education loans.”
That is all the legislation said. A tax incentive for companies to repay their employees’ student debt. Politically palatable to all. A real dent in inequality, funded by the private sector.
This is why Jordan stayed up late in high school. To get into a good college. To get into the best law school. To wait politely for a safe seat. To govern well.
The Chairman had refused to move the language out of committee. An old argument with one of the co-sponsors.
A committee staffer left their laptop logged in. The committee was moving another bill to the floor the next day. Jordan scrolled up to a section that had already gone through final proofreading. Knew the one sentence by heart, typed it in, scrolled back down and left.
By the time the Chairman learned what happened, he was being lauded for his leadership.
Jordan never heard what came of the staffer.
Now Jordan is leaning back in the desk chair. Feet on the desk.
Jordan glances back at the speech. Feet off the desk. Doubles over. Elbows on knees, looking straight ahead. The seated position of a focused bench player.
This position used to be uncomfortable. Big belly and heavy chest in the way. Constant back pain.
Jordan resolved several years ago to do something. Eat less. Exercise.
Jordan posted a picture one morning of the clock showing 5am. Time for a workout. More likes than any post before.
Jordan did it again the next day. Bigger response.
After a couple of weeks it became a thing for a couple of months. And then it was Jordan’s thing.
Just after Labor Day this year, Jordan was alone in the apartment near Capitol Hill. So tired. About to go to bed and desperate for more than a few hours of sleep.
Jordan adjusted the time on the alarm clock from after one in the morning to five. Took the picture. Used the “post later” option. Checked it four times to make sure it was done right.
There were no dreams that night. Just rest.
By lunch it was over. An engineer at the tech company posted what Jordan had done.
Jordan’s staff issued denials. So did Sam. Nobody checked with Jordan first. Jordan is still grateful for that.
Parents stopped taking their kids to Jordan’s campaign events. That is how Jordan knows only one speech is needed for tonight.
In the hotel room, Jordan disrobes completely, sits back at the desk. Bare butt and back on the leather chair.
Jordan pushes aside the typed words. Puts a blank piece of paper in the middle of the desk. Takes a hotel pen out of the drawer and places the pen next to the paper.
As a kid, Jordan would study at the family table. Paper and pen in front in the same way. Jordan’s mom would come from behind, lean over, put her head on Jordan’s chest, wrap her arms around Jordan’s torso.
Jordan would return the hug, back arched over the chair, arms stretched wide, reaching around Mom’s back. That is the position Jordan is in now.
Jordan takes a glass of water from the tray at the side of the desk. Raises the glass up and pours it out without getting up. The cold flows over Jordan’s chest, flat stomach and groin. Water pools between Jordan’s legs.
Deep breath.
And one more.
Jordan hears rising noise from the ballroom. Looks at the clock. The results are in.
Jordan stands up and lets the water drip for a few seconds. Walks to the bathroom, towels off and puts on fresh clothes.
Jordan turns on the TV and takes in the results.
Shoulders drop. Chest caves in.
Jordan leaves the room. The speech stays on the desk.
Things never feel like you think they will.
Jordan knows what to say.
Robert Schiff lives with his family in California. This is his first piece of published fiction.
January House Literary Journal 
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