Giving Up Appearances

• Evan Poolep, Grade 11, Epping Boys High School
• Short Story
• 2014

Excellence Award in the 'Write As Rain 2014' competition

“So,” began Garret Gild, gazing over his weaponry of advisors. “How are we looking?”
“Uh, well,” one of them began fumbling through his paperwork, “After last night’s debate, you jumped three and a half points but…” the advisor grimaced, “you’re still behind as preferred Prime Minister.”
An uncomfortable silence gripped the musty room. Garret Gild rose from his chair and began pacing.
“We’ve got to think…Something new…Something…to take them by surprise…” he murmured.
“What’s going to take them by surprise now?” asked another advisor, raising a sharp eyebrow. “We’re three days from the election.”
“Any dirt on the opposition?” Gild asked hopefully, looking around conspiratorially at his advisors.
“Nothing we haven’t already made up,” replied another advisor, frowning solemnly. “We do have a guy on the job, though. He’s disguised as an electrician in their hotel across the street.”
“Good, good…” breathed Gild, raising his hand to his chin. “What are the big issues? Come on, read me the stats again.”
There was more general fumbling for papers. An advisor to his left cleared her throat and began reading hurriedly.
“Cost of living is the biggest qualm among voters, followed by unemployment, then immigration, then the new tax…” She looked up. “We’ll home in on that. The new tax: where’s the money really going? What are you going to see for it?”
“It’s nothing we haven’t said already, though,” piped another advisor, sounding grim. “I agree with Garret; we need something new.”
“That’s right, and I’ve got it,” said Gild suddenly, despite a heavy sigh. “How about…we just tell the truth.”
For the second time a commanding silence took the room prisoner. Gild looked at his advisors, and they looked warily back at him, as if he had just succumbed to some horrible confession.
“Well?” asked Gild in exasperation. He wiped some sweat from his brow with palm cards, then, glancing at them, tossed them down on the table with disdain.
“The truth?” repeated one of his advisors cautiously. “How much of the truth?”
“All of the truth,” answered Gild darkly. “The ugly, unvarnished truth. Just to see what happens.”
“How?” asked another advisor, sounding like a literary student who had accidentally stepped into a quantum mechanics lecture.
“We just say it,” said Gild. “We just say…you know…yeah, we aren’t great. We’ve stuffed up in the past, imposed taxes you didn’t want, made deals you didn’t ask for…”
His advisors were visibly flinching. Some had gone pale, a few had even stood up and were pinching themselves, gazing around as if to check the cabinets weren’t going to grow faces and start dancing as if in some absurd dream. Or nightmare.
“Tell the people: the economy’s in bad shape. We’ve spent too much and we’re not sure how we’re going to pay our way out of it. That we’re going to have to increase taxes and levees, increasing working hours, lower wages…”
“So is this some kind of…double bluff?” asked the advisor to his left.
“Yeah,” nodded Gild. “We could call it that. Besides, they probably won’t believe it anyway.”