Make The First Move

"SHUT. THE FUCK. UP," Themba yelled into the debate microphone, the room instantly falling into a stark silence. His voice felt like it echoed off the back of those walls for hours before the next few seconds passed. It was starting to feel like every presidential event he'd attended had some tense silence. It was a miracle that people weren't too afraid to debate him in the first place, let alone allowing him time on a nationally broadcast stage.

"If you interrupt me again, we're going to have a problem," he sternly continued. "I don't know if you noticed, but there's a little timer down there, and a moderator will tell you when it's your turn to speak. And when you do, you'd better address it to the people, cause if you utter another word towards me-" he stopped his sentence, doing everything in his power not to leave his own podium. "I relinquish my time. I need to calm down before I re-answer the question," he said to the moderator, gritting his teeth through a tight grin. "That means it's your turn to talk now, dickhead."

"Actually, we'll be taking a brief recess," the moderator announced.

Themba calmly exited the stage, walked straight toward me, took their water bottle from my hand, and sat in their chair just behind me, all in one fluid motion as if they were on autopilot.

"You really said that," I almost whispered, still processing what I just heard. "You really said that on the air."

It felt like the air itself was thick and heavy in the still room. Themba's outburst had changed the very atmosphere around us, and the power shift bore all of its weight on Themba's caved-in shoulders. His foot tapped fast enough to shake his whole chair as he cupped his face in his hands.

"I don't know if I'm more angry or scared," he stammered, his words falling over each other to get out. "I got so heated, I just. I couldn't stop it. Fffffuck!"

"Themba!" Malcolm yelled as he danced through the crowd of stagehands and reporters being guided by security guards. "Are you okay? Fuck. Um," he panicked. He did a spin and scanned before his eyes landed on the craft table and its assortment of snacks. It took like three stretches of those long legs of his to reach the table; unfortunately, he ran into Themba's opponent, Candidate Bullhorn. I saw him grimace before he turned, flipping his ponytail and taking two steps back, pulling a pack of gum out of his purse. "I tried to get something more substantial, but they don't have separate tables for each party, and one party doesn't wash their hands," he reported while holding a stick of gum to Themba's lips.

As Themba chomped on that gum, the smacking was loud enough to get a noise complaint under normal circumstances, and his foot slowly stopped tapping. "Thank you, my love," he sighed as he held Malcolm's hand, massaging around the ring he'd carefully placed there.

"Anything for you, Honey," Malcolm cooed, leaning down to kiss Themba's cheek, intentionally leaving a mark. "Now, you go back out there and keep that same energy, fuck that man's life up. You're doing phenomenal."

He took another sip from his water bottle and passed it back to me. We dapped as part of his stage routine, and he was off to continue the debate in style.

I remembered watching Themba run for class president in high school, years before having that talk by the trees, and I remembered him losing. The sadness that he then hid behind a smile, telling his supporters he'd try again the next year, only to lose again. In our entire high school careers, he'd never have had the chance to be a president, no matter how hard he campaigned. It seemed like he was destined to fail, not even being the captain of the sports teams he was a part of. No matter how hard he tried, he was never given those positions of leadership, but as soon as he graduated high school, something shifted.

I'd remembered seeing (roasting) pictures of him at Harvard in the library, before he was a student officially, after he'd finished his self-assigned homework, taking notes on whole textbooks. (Nerd) He studied every book he could get his hands on, to the point he'd sucked our local library dry of information and had to outsource his knowledge. At one point, he was ordering them online, which he said made his "soul itch". He'd collected a mountain of books by the time the White House staff showed up to carry off our things from Detroit to D.C.

Now, as he calmly sat behind his Oval Office desk, I could hardly see that "monster on tour" that terrorized his debate opponents to the point some refused to show up. As his face softened, the Presidential chefs kept him fed, and his campaign mask was safely tucked away where it would sit for at least three years, he returned to being the nerd I loved the most. I almost felt bored now as I watched him carefully proofread the document that his poor keyboard had suffered to produce.

"I think I'm done," he sighed. "I still need to proofread it and I want you to spell check me, but... It's done." He rubbed his face, lifting his glasses right off his tired eyes just as his printer roared to life, printing off another final copy of the short version of a much longer document.

"What did you decide to write first?" I yawned, pausing from taking notes on his journal.

"My plans for a standardized minimum wage," he bragged as a sly grin stretched across his face. "This is just a temporary relief bill," he continued. "To 'save the economy, '" he mocked.

Within a few days, he was already signing his first executive order.

The Anti-Slave Labor Act (ASLA) went into effect under President Themba Morris three (3) days after his inauguration. ASLA provided a standardized minimum wage that would fluctuate with the value of the dollar ($) and ensure that a family of four could live off one full-time job, and protected that rate by executive order. President Morris also ordered that companies couldn't freely decide prices for their products, and that power was instead given to the economic administration. The very long version of the order ensured no loopholes for companies that the President felt would attempt to exploit any flaws left in this order. All companies are, under this order, required to release all tax information, as well as the tax information of all major company heads, to the public. This order also helps support the foundations for a Standardized Workers Union that would have an annual summit where representatives in every sector could have their voices heard from around the country.

Within hours, there were so many calls and messages coming into the White House that we considered cutting the lines. The number of entitled ass, rich ass, snotty ass, white boys who called my phone whining about having to pay their employees honestly filled my heart with a little joy. I had never heard so many slurs in one day on a recorded line, yet I relished every moment of it.

Themba, on the other hand, felt sorry for me. He showed up with that big sappy face of his and my lunch tray, flashing me the biggest puppy eyes I'd ever seen.

"I'm sorry you're getting stuck with all these phone calls," he whined honestly.

"First of all, they were gonna call regardless, that's nothing for you to be sorry for. Second, thank you for letting me hear these sorry bitches in peril. Do it again," I giggled nefariously. "Besides, remember your tiny campaign manager?"

"Yeah," he rightfully worried.

"She's fielding my calls," I giggled harder.

We sat and made fun of the messages for a while, knowing the people had to give their legal names before their message and putting some of them on a list for threatening he president.

Suddenly, Themba grew quiet. His eyes seemed to glaze over as he stared off into the distance. Next to me, I started to hear the subtle thump of Themba's foot on the carpet. It grew louder and louder as he seemed to sink further and further into his mind. I noticed he'd started to pick at his nail bed and reached out to comfort him right when a small can soared into my window and fell to the ground.

"Fuck," I hissed as I slung my jacket around Themba's head and guided him out of the room a second before a thick yellow cloud spilled from the small can, filling the small room in the seconds it took Tony to close the door.

Dani was already alerting the other guards while I kneeled beside Themba, protecting him like I would a wounded comrade in the field.

"I'm sorry. I knew something would happen today, but I couldn't-" Themba stammered, his hands shaking as he cupped them over his mouth to slow his breathing down, a technique he'd taught himself in middle school.

"Someone just tried to assassinate you, and you're apologizing?" I sighed. "Don't worry about what you could've done. Be grateful you're still here to continue your work, Mx. President."

It wasn't long before the Secret Service caught the dumb bitch who tried to kill my best friend. While in interrogation, they tried to get them to reveal who hired them, and that same night, they took their own life to keep their silence. The entire situation had us hot boxing the sun room twice a day. The stress pressed so heavily on Themba's shoulders that I could see him dragging his feet, but he continued to push forward each and every day, bearing that weight and eventually making it his strength. Even while in distress, he continued to write and draft his next orders, stabbing each letter with the conviction to change this country into the place he dreamed it could be when we were young.