camera, and …”
“Forget about how you physically performed the act. What I meant was: don’t you worry about obstructing their monitoring system?”
Cranston grinned. “I’ve been part of this hoax for so long that they don’t watch me too closely these days. They focus on newer teachers who haven’t proven their loyalties. Besides, how can they blame me for their faulty equipment?”
“Will playing dumb like that actually work?”
“All of us play dumb. It’s the only way.”
Shortly thereafter, thirty pairs of eyeballs stared at me. They belonged to ten and eleven year-olds. The boys wore dull white shirts and black pants; the girls, checkered skirts.
“Hello,” I said, feeling the heat. “I’m Sebastian R. Flemming the Third. I work for the Ministry of Miscommunication and Misdirection. Have any of you heard of the Ministry?”
A girl with blond pig-tails in the front row raised her hand.
I stepped closer to her desk. “Yes. What is your name?”
“My name?” she said, making a strange face. “We don’t use our names. That might encourage favoritism. My student number is 23876644.”
“Quite a number. You’ve heard of the Ministry of Miscommunication and Misdirection, is that correct?”
“Yes. My daddy works for them.”
“What a coincidence. What does your daddy do for the Ministry?” I said.
“My mommy says that he tells lies.”
“Lies? Uh, well, uh – that can’t be right. Are you sure about that? Perhaps you misheard your mother.”
“Oh no. I heard her fine. She said that just because daddy tells lies at work doesn’t mean he tells them at home.”
Jolted, I eyed Cranston standing in the back. He flashed me a sardonic smile.
I said, “Well, I don’t know anything about that. I probably don’t even know your father. It’s a big department and I can’t vouch for everything that goes on there. I assure you that I do not tell lies. That kind of misconduct is not in my job description.”
The children appeared to believe that (somehow). I asked them nothing further, plowing through a humdrum monologue about some of my work assignments. To my relief, the students quickly lost interest.
In conclusion I said, “I trust that none of you has anything to ask about any of this. You’ve been a fine audience. Thank you for having me in your classroom.” Though hardly entertaining, the speech was not a disaster.
The period ended. The students filed out of the room. Cranston – and his sardonic smile – approached me.
“Nice recovery there,” he said. “When Amy made that remark about her daddy telling lies for the Ministry, I thought you might lose your breakfast.”
“Amy? You know her name?”
“I know all their names. Sometimes I use them right in the middle of class.”
“Damn. Isn’t that risky?”
He winked. “Breathing is risky.”
****
“My candidacy for Grand Premier will be a false memory by the time you read this,” wrote Gabriel Manchester in his underground memoir, A Man of the Regime . “I am gone. Evaporated. A nonentity.”
As Lawrence Alister predicted during my hallucination in the tavern, Gabriel Manchester mysteriously vanished from public life. A month before I obtained A Man of the Regime , Manchester stopped appearing in the film footage I reviewed for work. The other three Premier contestants remained. No one acknowledged Manchester’s departure.
I had scrutinized the man for six months. His speeches were consistently masterful. He was handsome and supremely confident, yet understated. His brilliance never smacked of elitism. I could not forget him.
A Man of the Regime confirmed Alister’s drunken prophecy. Manchester wrote the book for posthumous publication in the underground. He foresaw his grim finale:
My existence has become superfluous. I will not be Grand Premier. The ruling forces will cleanse the name of “Gabriel Manchester” from public consciousness and relegate it to the confidential files of the Office of
“Forget about how you physically performed the act. What I meant was: don’t you worry about obstructing their monitoring system?”
Cranston grinned. “I’ve been part of this hoax for so long that they don’t watch me too closely these days. They focus on newer teachers who haven’t proven their loyalties. Besides, how can they blame me for their faulty equipment?”
“Will playing dumb like that actually work?”
“All of us play dumb. It’s the only way.”
Shortly thereafter, thirty pairs of eyeballs stared at me. They belonged to ten and eleven year-olds. The boys wore dull white shirts and black pants; the girls, checkered skirts.
“Hello,” I said, feeling the heat. “I’m Sebastian R. Flemming the Third. I work for the Ministry of Miscommunication and Misdirection. Have any of you heard of the Ministry?”
A girl with blond pig-tails in the front row raised her hand.
I stepped closer to her desk. “Yes. What is your name?”
“My name?” she said, making a strange face. “We don’t use our names. That might encourage favoritism. My student number is 23876644.”
“Quite a number. You’ve heard of the Ministry of Miscommunication and Misdirection, is that correct?”
“Yes. My daddy works for them.”
“What a coincidence. What does your daddy do for the Ministry?” I said.
“My mommy says that he tells lies.”
“Lies? Uh, well, uh – that can’t be right. Are you sure about that? Perhaps you misheard your mother.”
“Oh no. I heard her fine. She said that just because daddy tells lies at work doesn’t mean he tells them at home.”
Jolted, I eyed Cranston standing in the back. He flashed me a sardonic smile.
I said, “Well, I don’t know anything about that. I probably don’t even know your father. It’s a big department and I can’t vouch for everything that goes on there. I assure you that I do not tell lies. That kind of misconduct is not in my job description.”
The children appeared to believe that (somehow). I asked them nothing further, plowing through a humdrum monologue about some of my work assignments. To my relief, the students quickly lost interest.
In conclusion I said, “I trust that none of you has anything to ask about any of this. You’ve been a fine audience. Thank you for having me in your classroom.” Though hardly entertaining, the speech was not a disaster.
The period ended. The students filed out of the room. Cranston – and his sardonic smile – approached me.
“Nice recovery there,” he said. “When Amy made that remark about her daddy telling lies for the Ministry, I thought you might lose your breakfast.”
“Amy? You know her name?”
“I know all their names. Sometimes I use them right in the middle of class.”
“Damn. Isn’t that risky?”
He winked. “Breathing is risky.”
****
“My candidacy for Grand Premier will be a false memory by the time you read this,” wrote Gabriel Manchester in his underground memoir, A Man of the Regime . “I am gone. Evaporated. A nonentity.”
As Lawrence Alister predicted during my hallucination in the tavern, Gabriel Manchester mysteriously vanished from public life. A month before I obtained A Man of the Regime , Manchester stopped appearing in the film footage I reviewed for work. The other three Premier contestants remained. No one acknowledged Manchester’s departure.
I had scrutinized the man for six months. His speeches were consistently masterful. He was handsome and supremely confident, yet understated. His brilliance never smacked of elitism. I could not forget him.
A Man of the Regime confirmed Alister’s drunken prophecy. Manchester wrote the book for posthumous publication in the underground. He foresaw his grim finale:
My existence has become superfluous. I will not be Grand Premier. The ruling forces will cleanse the name of “Gabriel Manchester” from public consciousness and relegate it to the confidential files of the Office of
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