| The First Minister's Hat by Wayne MacDonald Despite the way the press had torn yesterday's white paper on the deficit to shreds, First Minister Anham Bentley was in a playful mood, arriving at his office earlier than usual. He decided to further surprise everyone by making a statement to the press without first consulting his advisors. In fact, he'd been up most of the night, in conference with himself, preparing for the occasion. He knew full well anything he might say was bound to be misconstrued by someone or other, representing, or thinking to represent, some cause or group, body, party, bloc, coalition or faction... but really, he wondered, did it much matter? When the press had gathered outside in the hallway (a summoning giving them reason to believe something strange might be in the wind) - and all jabbering away at once, First Minister Bentley said good morning to them and, rather than answer their questions, tossed his hat (a grey one his wife had bought for him only a week before) onto the floor at the feet of Pete Duggan, one of his favourite journalists. The jabber of deficit questions stopped, and a spate of new ones began. The First Minister ignored them, waiting for Duggan, whose instincts told him it might be best if he got right to the point. "What's this?" he asked, toeing the object on the floor an inch or so back toward the First Minister, who replied with a chuckle, "It's a hat, Peter. A fedora." Pete Duggan nodded. "Is there some kind of ring there I'm not seeing? What's it all about? Say, you're not calling an election, are you?" The flurry of questions rose again, levelling off as Bentley shook his head. He was smiling. Duggan thought he looked more tired than usual. "I would like you people to listen to me for a change, that's all. I have something to say on this bright and cheery morning. Isn't it a lovely day? The birds are singing in the trees out there. And I don't want any interference, no questions when I finish. Hear me out, and draw your own conclusions, as I'm sure you will. You're very good at that, I'm told." "We always listen, sir," said a junior reporter from the Star Times. "Yes, I know," said Bentley. "And you report my every inflection. Well," he continued, looking back to Duggan, "this is what you will report me as having said. The First Minister and his cabinet are doing away with the press gallery." He reached out with a foot and nudged the hat back toward Duggan, and put his hand up to quiet the stunned crowd. "Yes, you heard right. This will be our final meeting. No questions, I said, please. "I am also dissolving parliament this afternoon. I have already had a head count taken, and have issued an order that all of our people be present for a vote in the affirmative. There is not even an outside chance of failure. "Prior to dissolution, the Honourable Minister of Cultural Affairs will tender his resignation and the post will be disbanded." He put his hand into the air again for silence. "I am not going to reply to your questions. One of the major problems with you people is you want to manufacture the news, but I am under no obligation to oblige you in your quest for sensationalism." "Now wait just a minute, sir," said Duggan. "You know that's not true." "I don't know anything of the sort, Peter. All I know is that today, I am going to manufacture the news. Now, may I have your undivided attention, please?" "I have been doing some thinking. You all know I have followed your directions most faithfully, concerning the wishes of our population. You have repeatedly, over the past four years, asked me to find out what the public wants. I have gone to great pains to accommodate you, to the extent of channelling a great many tax dollars in the process, into a fund set up to create the Poll Bureau, which, as you know, was designed specifically in order for the public to have its say. And do you know what we found? "If you'd read your own papers, you'd know. But you've been too busy trying to overthrow this government." He had to quiet them with his hand again. "We discovered only fifteen percent of our citizens had anything to say at all. They certainly didn't come out to the meetings in droves. And we found the same groups travelling from meeting to meeting, to try to get their points across. So, from today, we're going to go about things differently. Excuse me ladies, but you fellows have not been following what's going on. "Personally, I think you've been wasting your time, chasing down stories that are really no more than advertisements for others. One would have thought you would have more smarts than that, but apparently you don't. And I'm not trying to insult you here. You do that well enough yourselves. I'm merely pointing out to you that since you're so well-equipped and eager to dish it out, to have my head on a platter, it seems to me it's time things worked a little differently." The hallway exploded indignant, only Pete Duggan keeping his composure. "Gentlemen," the First Minister said, "and ladies. If you insist on not listening to me, I believe your friend Mr. Duggan here would be delighted to have me entertain his curiosity in my chambers, with none of the rest of you present. Would you like that, Peter?" The hubbub subsided, and Bentley continued, without waiting for Duggan's reply. "How long have we been a nation?" he asked. "You all know the answer, but one may as well ask how long have we not been a nation. And do you know why we have never been a nation? Because out of that fifteen percent of our population who worked with the Poll Bureau, after all was said and done -and we considered every word that was put onto paper - a great waste of public money, by the way - Mr. Farquharson, along with the consulting firms we employed discovered, much to their amazement, the public really doesn't know what it wants and would be unhappy with virtually any course of action its government might take. Believe me, it was a very discouraging process. "So I have decided to take things to the limit. In view of the fact eighty-five percent of the population can't even take the time to express their ideas... I mean, even in the form, of a complaint; well, I hardly think it matters what we do." A new barrage of questions exploded in the hallway, only this time it was Pete Duggan whose hand went up to hush them. "Sir," he said, "I don't think we need the preamble. What is this all about? What's the bottom line?" First Minister Bentley was tired, Duggan decided, but even so, managed to look somewhat amused. "The bottom line, Peter? There is no bottom line. Look at what's happening in Russia, the collapse of Communism, and the resurgence of the diehards. The violence, the senseless murdering of thousands. But do you think any other system of government is much better? Let me tell you something. Marx was right. He just didn't foresee the consequences of trying to change human nature. You can force it to change, of course, but you only succeed in hardening it. "Marx was an economist, and he worked out ways that would, if implemented, benefit everyone in his system. He was an idealist, Peter. However, you can't change the way people think with an ideal. People don't want ideals. They don't want change. Most people, according to our findings, don't want much of anything. They want to live, that's all. They want a home, a job, food on the table, cable tv and a vehicle that operates efficiently. "Now you tell me, ladies and gentlemen of the press, and tell me in your columns and let your editors tell me in their editorials, what is best for our people. I won't listen to you now, but I look forward to listening to you then. I hope, for all of our sakes, the public listens, too. But I'm willing to bet it won't. Because there is no public. There never has been. The whole idea of there ever having been a public is a myth. It simply doesn't exist. The murmuring had begun again. It was, apparently, hard to keep a good press gallery quiet. Bentley stooped and picked up the hat, and holding it in his hands, continued speaking. A casual observer, of which there were none handy, might have said it appeared he was talking to it, as if there had been no-one else present. "...And so we are going to experiment. The new terri-tories will be given powers of autonomy, and they will set the pattern for the rest of us. After today, there will be no central power base in this country, if indeed, there will be a country." The shockwaves setting in slowly, and most likely, Bentley thought, they think me mad - but at least they're getting the message. They were hanging onto every word now, and they would report the First Minister verbatim. "Look at that great melting pot, the United States. Do you think for a moment its policies have much, if anything, to do with democracy? Come on now, you know better than that. Why keep up the facade? The melting pot boileth over, friends. What has been done in the name of democratic government is much the same as what has been done with its communistic cousin. Why, they've been living beneath the same roof. Was there ever more poverty in Moscow than in Washington? Or for that matter, in London or Paris? "No, of course not. And it's time for a change. That's what you people have always wanted. You've always supported positive change. Now you're going to have it... yes, Mr. Duggan? You have something to say?" He was breaking his own rule, he realized, yet he'd noticed Duggan's frown. He liked the man and so offered him an opportunity to respond. "Well, sir," Pete began, "I know this will seem highly irregular, but I would like to express an opinion to my counterparts here, if that is all right with you." The First Minister nodded his approval. He not only liked the man, he trusted him. Duggan turned to the crowd to speak, but his words were lost in a sudden torrent of questions and comments, everyone talking at once, no-one being heard. Bentley's hand went into the air, and the noise subsided. "Go ahead, Peter. You've got the floor." "I would like to address everyone here," Duggan said, "and what I have to say is very simple, although I'm sure it won't be appreciated by all of you." Now that he had their attention, he turned to Bentley. "Sir, may I borrow your hat, please?" Bentley grinned, nodding. "Surely," he said, handing the fedora to the reporter. "Thank you, sir. Do you mind if I, uh, scrunch it up a bit?" The First Minister cocked his head slightly, bewildered by the reporter's tenacity, but willing to let him have his way with the fedora. "Marion bought it for me," he shrugged, "and I'm more or less forced to wear it for the sake of appearance. Do as you will with it." Duggan brushed the hat off, though there was no need - the hallways were polished every night. Then he pushed the top of it in and pulled the rim down and put it on his head. "Now, it strikes me," he said to the crowd, "that everything that has been said here this morning must be off the record. For I haven't seen Mr. Arnsworth. Has anyone seen him? He usually organizes these things. I don't really know, as a matter of fact, what any of us are doing here, but since we are, I suggest we leave Mister Bentley go about his business. I imagine he has better things to do than..." A small volcano of noise erupted in the hallway, and Duggan had to shout to make himself heard. "We can't," he said, "report any of this. You know as well as I that what has been suggested here is impossible, and -" "Impossible?" said an angry-sounding voice from the rear. "Intolerable is more like it!" A chorus of heys and buts, not to mention a few curses, flew around the hallway for a moment before subsiding. One or two reporters were already on their way through the big doors leading to the phones. Duggan, looking ridiculous in the bent fedora sitting sideways on his head, repeated his suggestion. "Let's discuss this in a more civilized way, at the press club. I think Mr. Bentley has made his point very well. We can't use a word of what he's said. We have to wait and see what happens. If we're barred from the press gallery, well - maybe we should start with that. What led up to it? Can he legally do it? We'd better talk to our editors first, and you know what they're going to say. Don't run anything until we talk to the publisher. And the publishers are going to want to talk to their attorneys. You know how it goes." Someone pointed out that the Sun Times and Herald Express were already on the phones, but Duggan just shrugged. "So? I just told you what's going to happen. No-one in their right mind will publish a word of this until it's verified." "He's right," Patricia Holloway of the Star Daily said. "Let's get out of here. Pete, we've got to talk." Duggan worked for the Star Daily, too. "And take that silly hat off," she said. He removed the hat and began straightening it out, smoothing the crease back into its proper place. The crowd was beginning to disperse. "Sorry about the hat, Mr. Bentley," he said, holding it out to him. "Don't worry about it, Peter - and thank you. I knew I could count on you." "You... knew you could count on me? I'm not sure I'm following you, sir." "Please, call me Anham. And about that hat, Pete - do you mind if I call you Pete? - keep it. Marion, you know, she has a whole collection of them at home. I don't know why, but she thinks I should always wear a new one. Conditioning, I suppose." "Conditioning? Oh, uh, sure, you can call me whatever you like, but -" "You coming, Pete?" Patricia Holloway wanted to know. Bentley put an arm around the reporter's shoulder, patting him. "You come in sometime tomorrow," he said, "and I'll have some more news for you." "Sure, sir, Mr. Bentley, uh, Anham. I'll do that. Yeah, I'm coming, Pat." "You do that, Pete. I'd like that. We can talk about whatever you'd like. I'll bring you another hat." Shortly before noon Pete Duggan's mind went blank somewhere near the second whiskey and soda, and when it began filling up again, he went over everything he knew about First Minister Anham Bentley. A hardnosed character with tough policies, but a likeable guy, for all of that. Of course, what he had said to the press was patently absurd, and the thing about the hats, well - maybe he was cracking... "Wait a minute!" he said out loud, and to no-one, since by now most of the journalists had already packed up their notes and gone back to their respective papers. "Wait just a minute here! Bentley's just getting back at us." He picked up the First Minister's hat, punched it in again, twisted the rim and slapped it on his head. "Hey, Pat!" he shouted across the room, motioning to her to come hither. She tried telling him she was working on something, but he couldn't answer. He was laughing too hard. All he could do was wave with his arms for her to come and join him. "Well, what is it now?" she asked, sitting down next to him. "Bentley send you another hat? Look, Pete, I just had Grafton on the line. He's talking to Walters... they're still in conference and we've got to come up with some decent copy for this thing... what are you laughing at?" When he was able to talk, Pete Duggan told her what he knew, and slowly, the reality of the situation took hold and she, too, began to laugh at the craziness of it. "It's beautiful," she said. "and not one of us realized what was going on. Pete! Are we the only ones who know? Do you really think so?" "I think so," he said, "and we'd better get in to the office. We've got a story to write. Grafton's just gonna love it. What time is it, anyway?" "Oh, that, well," Pat said, smiling and looking at her watch. "well, a little more than, say, twelve hours before the first day of April...?" Mister Twister A Yankee poodle went to town Walking with a donkey His mood'll change, Mr. Twister said Because he's just a monkey That Yankee poodle arrived in town Still walking with the monkey His noodle's cooked, Mr. Twister said Because he's that aardvark's flunkey Have you ever met Mr. Twister? Oh, he's sharp, that one - sharp as a dull butter knife with a rubber protector wrapped around it. Cool, though - colder, in fact, than the bottom of an iceberg. And, he's on top of the world. At least, he'd have you believe that. One minute. The next, he might deny having ever said a word to you. Then, according to the gospel of Mr. Twister, you're supposed to be in trouble. You're a liar. You don't tell the truth. And you always twist the facts. Because it's clear in his mind now that you're all of these things, he feels free to offer up other choice goodies. Take the night he came home drunk and went into the wrong house. He vaguely remembers how bewildered he was when the police dragged him out of the kitchen, but somehow, because you happened to show up and told the police not to arrest him, suddenly, you're to blame for the whole incident. You're no good at all, he says, because if it hadn't been for you he would never have stumbled into the wrong house. Even if you weren't even there at the time. And just to distort things even further, he adds between cursing you, he wasn't drunk and what makes you think he could ever be drunk? You're the one who's drunk! Even though you live in the basement apartment of the same house. Even though you have to put up with his constant bellowing, as if he owned the place and everyone in it. And his inane complaints, his nonsensical charges against everyone he meets, the never-ending pre-judging, the hatred of everyone who doesn't see things his way, his constantly-changing-into-an-ever-worsening way. Mister Twister. Mister Twister takes offense at every word uttered by everyone - a blanket statement? A true statement. He argues, on the surface, with everybody except himself. And he could never do that, because he's always right. Mister Perfect. Sorry. Mister Twister. No-one is perfect, though if anyone is, it certainly isn't Mister Twister. Sing a song of tuppence Suddenly it's threepence Two dozen blackbirds Baked in a pie Become a thousand eating cake In Mister Twister's eye * * * * * * * * * Now, what can be done about this? How can Mister Twister look reality in the eye and see it for what it is rather than what it isn't? For to him, a snowy night turns into a sunny day and vice versa. Right is wrong, except for our hero, who is never wrong. So, what can be done about this person? How can he be helped? How can he be brought to see the light in such a manner he calls it not something other? Maybe his friends will help him? He has none. One moment. The next, everyone is his friend. It depends on what he wants, how he is feeling, how his self-esteem is at the instant of your asking. Though you'd never ask. Because you know it would rile him inwardly, and he would become suspicious, and begin to harassing and grilling you about why you would dare ask such a thing. I can hear his reply: "Never mind me! You're the one without friends!" The truth is, he is jealous. It's true - I do have friends. I don't get drunk and go into the wrong buildings. I don't hate people, even if I may have a reason. I don't discriminate against others. I don't call people names, and turn the facts around. I tell the truth, the same as you do. There's no motivation or justification for lying all the time about everything. I don't break things and blame it on the neighbours. I don't upset the applecart and start throwing the apples at everyone who passes. =======READ THE (PAPER) BIBLIOFANTAIAC FOR THE REST OF STORY =========== |
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