DIMENSIONS OF CONVERSATION

The alarm clock sounds yet again. I groan as loud as a person can groan, as if trying to make a noise worse than my clock’s obnoxious bell. I have been dreading this day for weeks. It’s November 7th, the day after the election, an okay day for half of the country, and an awful day for the other half. As if we’re not polarized enough! All the talk in the office will be about the election, and I am pretty sure that all of my colleagues are on the other side of the fence from me politically.

At least I won’t get any more political ads. That’s a big plus in my book. On that note, I finally drag myself out from under my warm comforter and into my soon-to-be-warm slippers. I lethargically prepare breakfast and get ready for work, which means I am very late leaving the house. The managers don’t care when we show up, though, as long as we put in our eight hours.

I slip silently through the glass door of the office building and dart to my cubicle before anyone notices. I overhear bits of the conversations around me, and my headphones immediately go on. My dubstep playlist seems like just the thing for the occasion. You can’t hear anything through that stuff, not even a melody.

I zone out, plugging in information by sheer muscle memory. I feel a tap on my shoulder. That can only mean one thing, but isn’t it too soon? My first reaction is to check the time. It’s already after twelve. I pull off my headphones and face the intruder, Justin. His is the next cubicle over. Today, he has on a blue, long-sleeve shirt and a matching bow tie. It looks strange. Ties are supposed to accent, not match.

“We’re headed to Rocco’s. Are you coming?” A group of us go out for lunch every Wednesday. Rocco’s is one of our favorite spots. It’s a hole-in-the-wall Mediterranean restaurant a couple of blocks from the office.

“Yeah, of course.”

As I gather my things, he offers, “You can ride with me if you want since I carpooled with you last time.”

I thank him and follow him out. In the parking lot, a nippy breeze competes with the sunlight radiating off the pavement. We’re not even halfway to his car, a tiny hybrid, before Justin brings up the dreaded topic. “Did you see the election results last night?”

In my mind, this conversation will be like a strategic game of cards or like a battle of facts and tactful speech. I can already tell that he’s trying to figure out my political viewpoint. He reveals where his own loyalties lie when he adds, “I can’t believe anyone would vote for a party that supports…”

He lays down two cards on the green, felted table, a pair of squires. I can counter it, or I can let him score his points. He’s hoping to bait out the set that I’m working on. No doubt, he is holding a combination that he thinks will trump anything I have.

I stroke my chin. The dim light flickers, giving momentary life to the shadows smeared on the wood paneling. I determine not to play Justin’s game, not to show my hand. I draw a card and pass my turn. I have a good idea of what he’s holding already, but I want him to reveal one of his key cards.

“If you’ve seen any news at all lately, then you know exactly why I say that!” Justin answers heatedly and jams his seat belt into the buckle. He’s not angry at me. It is a particular politician that has him worked up. “He obviously doesn’t care about our safety or our educational system. Don’t get me started about the whole…"

Justin’s green and black robe starts to flutter as if a mighty gust was blowing across this barren, rocky landscape. Then he casts three fiery bolts from his palms. Their target: me. With my spellbook floating before me, I scream out a string of magical words as fast as I can. It’s barely fast enough. The bolts freeze in time, one so close that I feel its warmth against my cheek.

“Also, it’s not that he’s against funding for education; he wants to restructure the system entirely. He has talked extensively about his ideas for making education more about learning and retaining core concepts and less about passing arbitrary tests,” I explain, calmly and quietly.

We pull onto the highway behind the large SUV that carries the rest of our lunch group. “As for the fiasco on Sunday, it turned out to be a misunderstanding. The journalist had a typo in his report and the editor was a bit careless. He accidentally changed the meaning of the sentence.” It probably wasn’t an accident, but I give the editor the benefit of the doubt for Justin’s sake. If I must have this conversation, it will be in a thoroughly restrained fashion. “The journalist confirmed that it was supposed to read…”

“Undygus kronox!” I shout the magical words meaning “reverse time” and thrust out my hand. The three energy bolts fly straight back at their originator. Justin dodges the first, the second skims his shoulder, but the third finds its mark. It hits squarely on his chest and explodes. The blast throws him back fifty feet. For a moment, he doesn’t get up.

“Yeah, I think I heard something about that,” Justin reluctantly admits. He lets the topic go for a moment. The traffic light turns green, and we roll forward. Will Justin ever accelerate? He seems more focused on maximizing his fuel economy than on making lights.

He reaches for the radio but then stops. With his finger poised at the power button, he probes, “What do you normally listen to on your daily commute?”

I can lie. I can tell him that I listen to classical music or comedy podcasts, something non-controversial. He doesn’t know me well enough to say otherwise. If I tell him what radio personalities I actually listen to, it will be obvious where I stand politically.

The felt muffles the sound of my fingers drumming on the table. Justin had just played an inspector card and called, “Flags!” I’m supposed to reveal all my cards of that type, but my whole set is in Flags! I can cheat and only show him some of the cards. That’s not me, though; I’m not a cheater.

“I normally listen to the Matthew Meltsner show,” I answer dryly. Maybe Justin hasn’t heard of him. There’s little chance of that. The other side loves to demean Mr. Meltsner for being a self-taught political analyst with no fancy pedigree or credentials.

“I knew it,” Justin mutters. “You’re one of them! I bet you believe in…”

He picks himself up from the rocks, his eyes glowing red. “Pyruss terrack!” Columns of fire pour from his hands. The flames rush over the ground beneath me like a wave crashing on the shore. As they crawl up my cloak, I channel my energy downward. Gradually, ice replaces the fire. I shiver. My teeth chatter, but I don’t let up. The flaming shafts that he’s generating will soon turn to icicles and give him a good poke in the hands.

As we bounce over the speed bumps in front of the plaza, I reply, “I’m so glad that we can have a civilized conversation despite our very different beliefs.”

Justin is taken aback. He knows the compliment is undeserved. He knows how angry his tone has been. “Yeah… That’s important.”

We join our coworkers inside the restaurant, in line more specifically. We all peruse the menu only to then order our usuals. There are seven of us, so we put two tables together and steal an extra chair from a third.

I’m not in the mood for small talk. I ask Shelly, our resident motor-mouth, about her recent trip to Hong Kong, and everyone is entertained. She’s the kind of person who can turn a simple run to the grocery store into a full-length sitcom. Here and there, Celia chimes in about similar experiences from her time in Tokyo, but that just keeps Shelly going.

On our way back, Justin and I start off chatting about some of our own favorite vacations. When there’s a lull in the conversation, however, he’s all too eager to jump back to our previous topic, “So, why do you vote that way?”

The question must have been simmering in his mind over lunch. I don’t sense any hostility, though. He sounds genuinely curious, challenging me to present my beliefs persuasively. I give it my best shot. “A lot of reasons. There is one issue, though, that I think outweighs the rest. Not everyone in my party wants to put an end to it either, but many do. You see, I believe that…”

“One, two, three, four…” I lay down my set one card at a time “…seven, eight.” Justin gulps. The set is worth enough points to win the game outright. He has to come up with something to counter it this turn. He draws a card and looks through his hand.

“I didn’t know that,” Justin says, “but I heard that experts are saying…”

It’s high noon. The sandy street is deserted save for a passing tumbleweed. He called for the duel, but I picked the venue. We stand out front the old, weather-beaten saloon. I listen to the spurs on my boots rattle in the wind and tip up my buckskin hat just enough to meet Justin’s stubborn gaze. Our hands hover inches from our holstered revolvers. Sweat beads down my face. Over and over, I mentally command myself, “Don’t blink.”

I blink, and Justin draws. I watch his bullet strike my vest as if in slow motion, and I watch it shatter without leaving a mark. Is that all he’s got? Now it’s my turn. I pull the trigger. The hammer claps down. Kill shot.

“You could’ve told me that before I voted!” Justin exclaims and puts the car in park. We’re back at the office in the same parking space we’d left from. They should write Justin’s name on it.

“Don’t worry about it,” I encourage with a smile. “Your one vote didn’t throw the election… probably.”