Do you think me handsome?

“Miss Winds, are you there?” now demanded the Mayor. 

“Yes sir, I shall be there in just a moment,” I called from the other side of the wooden paneled door. 

At this time of night, when the moon is high in the sky and the stars, though obstructed by gleaming apartment lights, are surely now visible, there is no other living soul haunting New York’s mayoral office aside from myself and, of course, Mayor Momo. I shuffle a few papers around on my desk to keep up the appearance of being busy, of being a good aide, and hurry into the Mayor’s private office. He is sitting beside the fire, a scotch in hand, and his usual stagnant expression is plastered on his face, not entirely different from a smile painted on a clown. Despite the seemingly unmoving curl of his lips, one fit for a politician who delivers both desirable and concerning news while maintaining popular support, he is not utterly ugly. The broadness he lacks is made up for in height. The only hint of his age is a slightly receding hairline and specks of white at his temples. Without fail, the Mayor is suitably dressed and, for the most part, charming; I find charming and cunning travel in pairs, with the latter whispering the directions of a warped moral compass.

I take my seat on the swivel chair across from the red plush couch in the center of the chamber where the Mayor is reclining. 

“Miss Winds, you act as though you are afraid of me. Why don’t you come sit beside me?” 

“I am quite alright here sir,” I knew to utter these words would be fighting the inevitable with an unloaded gun, so instead, reluctantly, I moved to the far end of the couch. For the first time, the Mayor turned his gaze away from the television broadcasting CNN news, a program I had learned was his favorite. 

“Do you find me handsome Ms. Winds for an older sort of man?” 

“Handsome sir?” I faltered mid-sentence. Did I find this man, this plastic statue, to be handsome? I would not declare it so. “No.” The words slipped from my lips before I was finished thinking about them. It was at this singular exclamation that the once impassive expression crumbled into a sort of smile or grimace; I could not be sure to either extent. He must be appalled; I will be jobless by morrow. 

“You truly do not find me the slightest bit handsome?!” he exclaimed. I attempted to interject, to apologize, to get on hands and knees, figuratively of course, but he continued speaking ignoring my fumbled interruptions. “In my career I have had many aides, yet, none so bold, none so honest. I admire your bluntness, though it is lacking in the proper confidence. To be blunt and honest is a liberty and one that I, as a wealthy politician, do not possess or have any use for. For these reasons, I quite enjoy basking in your unfiltered comments. Your candidness is refreshing and compensates, though barely, for your otherwise ordinariness.” 

For a moment the reasons I was here escaped me. I was bewildered. What steps had I taken to earn such a title: ordinary? Then I remembered I was here to have a purpose, to be useful, so I held my tongue. 

Shifting in my seat I mumbled, “Is there anything else I can do for you sir?” 

“For starters, you may speak clearly. I would most appreciate it if you would stay awhile and chat with me. It has been a long day and like I said I enjoy your company; it is in many ways a novelty.” 

“Sir, if you insist on my remaining here, with you, in this office on this plush red couch, may I pose a question?” 

“Go on,” said Mayor Momo presently. 

Choosing my words carefully, I was intent on restraining my impulsivity. I asked, “Would you consider yourself a politician of philanthropy, a man of and for the people you might say?” 

“Why, that is not a simple question. It makes sense you would inquire considering your age and undeniable innocence. A politician who is indeed a true philanthropist is just as real as fairies or Santa Claus. If this is enough to satisfy your inquiries and to earn me your continued support I will assure you I try my very best to be one of the good ones.” 

In return, I bestowed upon him a slight nod, one that alluded to approval but was in no way a presentation of enthusiasm. I did not believe him. I was ready to retire for the night, but I knew contrary to my heavy eyelids, the excitement of the encounter would entrap me in thought and hinder my sleep. The words “Do you find me handsome Ms. Winds for an older sort of man?” pounded relentlessly, creating engravings on the forefront of my skull; the phrase visible in my mind's eyes even when my droopy lids closed. 

Disclaimer: Any relation that this writing has to current events is merely a coincidence. This is simply an emulation of Jane Eyre. 

The Burger King

The President, one of the great men in power at the Capital, held his summer soirée at one of his grand towers in New York. The President lounged in his gold crested chambers awaiting the arrival of his nightly cheeseburger, the epitome of luxury within the President’s vast sustenance repertoire. His guests mingled in the outer rooms eagerly anticipating the arrival of their President, their king, the Holiest of Holy Ones. Alas, the guests would have to wait a little while longer in those gold-adorned rooms to be graced with the princely pompous presence of the President. The waiters, all four, hurriedly approached the bed of the President, who sat with his square orange-tinted head propped up on a silk, parrot stuffed pillow, tweeting. The wisps of hair on the President’s head spiked up creating the shape of a crown, but soon his hair and his crown would fall to the ground with great protest from the President and his assembled guests and army. Yet, on this sacred evening’s soirée, his wispy crown remained intact and prominent. 

The President’s burger was always accompanied by four wide-eyed waiters in black suits with the letter T embroidered in gold stitching on the breast pockets. You would have thought they would have gotten used to his foreboding crown and small lips that were always curled into a scowl even when he smiled, which was often at his own juvenile jokes. You see, they couldn’t get used to the President's holy appearance because at least one attendant was fired a night. The first waiter would lay the gold tray on the plump lap of the President. If laid down lacking the proper care his actions would be considered to be of the highest offense, and promptly, the first waiter would be sacked. The second waiter, with great flair, presented the bun, always homemade and always poppy seed, along with the pink meat which glistened with the reflection of the gold crested chamber and iridescent spiked crown. If it wasn’t homemade the President may have combusted and died. The third waiter offered the President fresh lettuce, which was always refused, leaving the fourth waiter to add the shimmering sizzling cheese which matched quite nicely with the President’s complexion. Finally, the fourth, and final attendant, squeezed and spread the ketchup with great concentration onto the top bun and placed it on the precipice of the growing tower on the President’s lap. The four waiters shuffled out of that gold crested chamber like their lives depended on their swift removal from the unrelenting gaze of that spiked wispy crown. The President, left to his own devices, sent his tweet, and with great ease swallowed his burger in three grand bites; he could swallow and claim many things with ease and was by countless liberals supposed to be rather rapidly devouring the Country with each grand bite and each holy tweet. 

It was important not to test the patience of the President; he got rather enraged when challenged and when things didn’t go his way. During those trying times, the four men, along with a fifth for french fries, were required to return to that gold chamber and allow the President to consume his emotions while he secured the crown on his head with soldiers of tweets armed with holy slurs. The world watched in dismay as he pounced on his prey, yet they were not blinded by his glinting gold or his “Holiness”; the liberals dreamed of battles armed with ballots. But it is not winter yet. 

Explanation of Emulation: 

If I only had a sentence to describe Dickens’s descriptions I would compare them to a stuffed suitcase where the zipper only closes by exerting extreme effort. His writing is overflowing with similes, metaphors, repetition, social commentary, and sarcasm. In this piece, I tried to emulate the first page or so in the seventh chapter of the second book describing the Monsieur and his chocolate habits in a contemporary scenario. With details of superfluous luxury, like four decorated servers, Dickens mocks the Monsieur and the way he lives. Correlating with this luxury I depicted five waiters serving the President. Dickens also says “the Monsieur” countless times throughout the passage, so I wrote “the President” in almost every line. I think by repeating their names their “importance” and their ridiculous expectations are emphasized. Dickens is sarcastic by referencing the Monseigneur's “Holiness” and with comments like; “Deep would have been the blot upon his escutcheon if his chocolate had been ignobly waited on by only three men; he must have died of two.” I emulated this sarcasm in my writing by also referencing the President’s “Holiness” and his “certain” death if not served adequately. Additionally, I mimicked his social commentary by including details about how the world viewed the President and how he is “devouring the country” like the Monsieur is “swallowing France”.