Smartystan

Hector Vergara continued his daily regimen. It was leg day. He prepared for the arduous task of squatting, pressing, and of course, before and after, stretching. Warm ups and cool downs found their way on his gym schedule. Once he finished, he gulped down an iced carrot and celery smoothie. His fitness routine permitted him the ability to stay fit and sharp despite his time constraints. It was why he got up so early in the morning in the first place. Upon showering and shaving, he donned sensible dress shoes, khakis, and a zip up sweater. He wore glasses. When his driver pulled up to his minimansion, it seemed as if Vergara had a burst of energy ready to spring forth and jump start the day. In his mind, he considered himself. As a reasonably wealthy man and head of the Average Capacity Association, he felt the singular itch that could never be scratched. His abilities afforded him the things that no one else could perform. No one in the ACA had a clue as to his acumen. All they knew was that he presented himself as a mouthpiece. He said all the speeches and integrated everything into the Association.

The driver whisked him away to the conference center where he would be giving an address.

“Thanks, Tex. I appreciate it.”

When he walked backstage, water bottles and fruit and veggies and towels laid out before him like a small banquet. He paced. Back and forth he found himself mouthing just what he would say when he stepped to that lectern.

It reminded him of his father who was a Baptist minister. He prepared his speeches on Friday, ready way before Sunday sermon. Still, he enjoyed going on the fly. He loved the fact he could continue his reign as the supreme leader of the ACA. It gave him a chance to write down his speech and to also freestyle most of it. What he wanted consisted of a loose, pointed delivery that could be understood by people who just seemed average. No fault of their own, they sometimes chose to be in the ACA to make up for any shortcomings. That’s what Vergara honed in on in all of this. While shadowing his own extraordinary skills, he distinguished himself by damning his own abilities and punching himself in the face for achieving.

The typed up speech dropped g’s and used the term “ain’t.” It featured double and triple negatives to make it seem homey and earthy. Vergara rejoiced at this. Every ounce of his frame wanted to speak of the ways of not excelling, not being great. By being just a small person, he could convey his message even with more intensity and fire now that the audience had been primed to believe that they were less than anyone else. A certain sadness crept into Vergara’s consciousness. It wormed itself into his thoughts and presented nothing but depression in which he felt in his core. Achingly, he struggled now, to get each word just right. On the digital tablet, he made the words dance, however. Through the anguish, he put all of the sense of truth to him in it. Nothing seemed spared. This would be his hundred and second speech over the last two years. Debates never interested him, he eschewed them with great vim and vowed to turn down every opportunity, even with money involved. That last fact actually gave him a boost. The ACA knew about his cash but they just rationalized. “Oh, he’s the leader, he should enjoy some dollars,” they’d refrain. Attitudes like this made it even more difficult for him to be in this place. He called his assistant who walked beside him. Sylvia “Syl” Bose walked up to him as he left his room. She was of mixed races with fair skin and curly hair. She could definitely pass for white but chose to darken her features and embrace her lovely curls. She stood at five feet nine inches and boasted a master’s degree from New Sweden University.

“Syl!”

“Good afternoon, sir?”

“Is it alr––I suppose it is. Good afternoon. What have you got for me?”

“We’re focused on this speech right now. This will be available on the Internet primarily. You’ve already amassed one hundred twenty million subscribers. Your views are in the billions––hey, this is good news. Why so glum?”

“It’s nothing. I think I pulled something in the gym this morning.”

“Anyway, you’re set to garner even more viewers and subscribers with today’s speech. You’re going to be on in less than an hour. You look great.”

“Thank you.”

“I’ve ensured that there will be no question and answer period during this speech,” Syl said.

“Thank God. I couldn’t stand the last bashing that I received on behalf of that heckler. I thought I could take the hostility, but it detracts from the message. Thanks.”

“If you need any more amenities, never hesitate to call me.”

“Roger that.”

Syl walked away, her heels clicking rhythmically against the tile floor. The sound receded like the knocking of hooves against the ground. Vergara looked poised. In all of his dealings, he had this position pegged. In former lives, he served as a busboy, a sergeant in the Army, and a project manager for a construction company. He performed all of these tasks with adequate precision. So, in his mind he could hide his massive achievements and point to how “just okay” he was in relation to his audience. He couldn’t be anymore ready to deliver this speech. It grounded and humbled him. Modesty coursed through his veins as he read aloud each sentence and paragraph to be stated for his legion of supporters.

With the time to go to stage winding down, Vergara gave himself an extra sense of meekness. He took off his glasses. For his whole life he’d always felt that glasses make you look smarter. He sat the tortoise shell frames down on his mirror and proceeded out of the door to his dressing room. His vision made blobs of everything but he didn’t care. He would get laser eye surgery in the weeks to come but tonight, he sacrificed and tried to pass off for something and someone he was not.