It's All Up To Us

By Kevin Warrick Fitzgerald

Saturday October 16, 2004

Brian looked out over his Secret Service barrier. Eight large men stood between him and his audience of forty reporters: thirty were seated and ten operated the video cameras on the far wall. Two agents stood on either side of him, four feet away. Ten more agents were out in the crowd, watching, waiting, on guard. The five other agents that had been assigned to him after the latest attempt on his life were pacing up and down between the reporters and the podium.

"I'd like to make a few statements, then I'll be glad to take your questions." He took a deep breath. "As you know, there have been several attempts on my life. From now on, I'll be staying at this hotel and speaking to you and answering questions from this podium. I'd be grateful if you would carry my message to the country from here. My traveling days are over, for obvious reasons." He paused and reestablished his handholds to keep himself from swaying.

He put everything he had into his words. "We are embarked on a great crusade. It cannot be won with one mighty stroke. This fight will be won by winning the majority of the battles. Battles can be lost, yet we can still emerge victorious. Victory is only achieved if there are enough of us that, should our banner be blown into the dust, another of us picks it up and carries it forth into the struggle. Should some of us not make it to the final victory, let their names be used as battle cries as we keep fighting until—"

A sharp explosion rang out. It was instantly followed by another.

Brian's chest exploded. An all-consuming pain engulfed him. The world tilted and keep turning. His vision turned white hot. He didn't realize that he was falling until he hit the floor. Through his agony he heard screaming and a great commotion. He rolled up in a ball, his arms over his chest.
Was that blood all over his front?

He concentrated on breathing.

Couldn't. No air would move in or out of his lungs.

He realized that that strange sound was his own gagging. He recognized Amy's voice cutting through the din, screaming and crying. He wanted to call out to her, to touch her, but couldn't move. His chest felt like two spears had transfixed his torso, shattering his ribs and shredding his lungs. He tried to inhale, then exhale.

Nothing.

Marshalling every scrap of self control, he gulped some air into his lungs. He blew it out and forced a little more down his throat. After a minute he was breathing in short tortured puffs. His lungs felt like molten glass.

Another minute found him breathing shallowly. Through the incredible ringing in his ears, he heard Amy talking softly to him, saying something he couldn't make out. Then everything went black and the pain blissfully vanished . . ..

. . . but his consciousness remained sentient. He was a disembodied entity floating in an eternal sea of blackness. No noise. No feeling. Just being.

Then something appeared. Oval. Blurry. It floated and bobbed up and down in front of him. He tried to pull it into focus. The more he tried, the more it eluded him. Then the image crystallized into the face of his father with that all too familiar red-eyed, slack-jawed, drunken expression. His old man opened his mouth to speak. Brian knew exactly what the old man was going to say and hated him all the more for it. But, all of a sudden, his father's eyes cleared and he looked profoundly pained, and he said, "Son, I'm sorry . . . for everything."

Something snapped deep inside Brian. "I forgive you, Dad!" he screamed into the universe.

The face smiled sadly and dissolved, and as he sunk more deeply into unconsciousness, Brian found an odd kind of peace that had always eluded him.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Kevin Warrick Fitzgerald
• Release date: Dec 23, 2010
• ISBN: 9780982951231

Kevin Warrick Fitzgerald

Mr. Fitzgerald lives south of Columbus, Ohio, and is hard at work on his next book.

Book preview

410

IT’S ALL UP TO US

by Kevin Warrick Fitzgerald

* * * * * * * * * * * * * * * *

It’s All Up To Us

Copyright © 2018, Kevin Warrick Fitzgerald

About 139,000 Words

* * * * * * * * * * * * *

IT’S ALL UP TO US

BOOK ONE

HIS AMAZING RISE TO PROMINENCE

Saturday, January 4, 2014

Brian Connelly shook his head in disgust, then reached over and hit the eject button on the remote. His BD player ejected a copy of JFK with a slight hiss. He called out, If the people of this country don't take control of their own government, the American civilization won't last twenty more years. He stared at the blue TV screen as he nestled down into the soft green blanket covering his reclining chair. It sat directly in front of his TV and right in the middle of the 7.1 speakers. He called it the spot. The world's most comfortable place.

Thunder rumbled. It had been raining all afternoon, the first hard rain northeast Pennsylvania had seen in a couple of months. Brian had hoped it would snow, but it wasn't cold enough. He wondered what had happened to winter.

The wonderful aroma of broiling, marinated chicken breasts wafted in from the kitchen. Brian heard them sizzling over the rain slapping against the roof. He sighed, then stroked the Siamese kittens in his lap. Loud purrs erupted from Archie and Jughead, the ten week old brothers. Archie stretched, yawned and licked Brian's hand. Jughead swatted his brother's face twice, then rubbed Brian's arm with his chin.

Brian's girlfriend, Linda Thompson, walked in from the kitchen drying her hands on a yellow tea towel splashed with red. I don't know why you would let that movie upset you so. At least it's only fiction, and even if it wasn't, there's nothing we can do about it anyway.

You're wrong on both counts. Power brokers are influencing peddling our government into the poor house as we speak. I tell you Linda—

She threw up her hands. Please don’t. Kindly none of your conspiracy theories today. Dinner's ready. Let's eat. She walked back into the kitchen.

The cats bounded out of his lap as Brian rose from his chair.

Monday, January 6, 2014

You ready yet? It's time. Brian jammed his hands even further down into his pockets and let his shoulders sag all the way forward as he paced up and down the living room in Linda's apartment. The mottled orange carpet blurred past his eyes. The bass from the next door neighbor's stereo thumped through the wall, as usual. It never seemed to stop, day or night. It was weird that Linda couldn't hear it, and how his mind always focused on it when he was over here.

Not yet, Linda called from upstairs. Be a minute.

Brian plopped down on the electric pink couch with all the matching pillows, feeling miserable. There had been another blow up at work again today. He, thankfully, was not directly involved, but he was in the room when Tom and Hank started screaming at each other.

He found it odd that he could hate his job so much when it consisted of nothing but pushing buttons in the air conditioning. Between all the politicking and jockeying for power, management wouldn't get involved in all the personality disputes, yet they tried to mirco-manage him so closely that he couldn’t do his job efficiently. It had gotten so bad lately that every time he went to work, he literally looked for blood on the walls.

Just then, the image of his drunken father came unbidden to his mind, as it often did when he was despondent. He clearly saw the old man snarl at him, You're never going to amount to anything! as he had done hundreds of times while Brian was growing up. The memory of that sickening alcohol breath puffing over him in waves threatened to gag him despite the intervening years. Brian was glad the son-of-a-bitch was dead so he couldn't see how his number two son had turned out—a complete and utter profession failure.

Linda clumped down the stairs, searching through her purse. Seen my keys, babe?

Brian shook his head. He leaned forward, rested his elbows on his knees and let his head droop.

She scurried around her apartment until she declared, Here they are, from the kitchen. They walked outside and climbed in her car. She swept her long blond hair out of her face with a flick of her wrist and glanced over at Brian and smiled. Ready? Her smile fell as she looked at him. What's wrong?

Jim Kendle lost his job today.

The guy you work with?

Brian frowned and nodded.

Oh no, she whispered. I remember you saying something like this was possible. I can feel how depressed you are. What are you going to do?

I don't know. I need another job in the worst way. But I'm only seven years away from having twenty in at the company. He sucked in his gut and buckled his seat belt, hoping the movie would take his mind off his troubles.

Wednesday, January 8, 2014

Brian was home and deep in the spot. Linda was on the couch to his right with her back to him curled up in a red blanket. She might have dozed off already. The credits to a rerun of Seinfeld were rolling and he raised his hand to mute the TV when a newswoman appeared in the studio and an ABC News Update came on. The FBI announced today that Mrs. Betty Ogle, former FBI Director, J. Edgar Hoover's, grand niece, has turned over a personal diary that Hoover kept privately throughout his years as Director. A spokesman for the Bureau called the diaries, quote, 'a detailed account of Hoover's day to day activities,' unquote. None of those hinted-at details are known.

Sunday, January 12, 2014

Brian and Linda stepped into the Hanger 15 Tavern. World War II memorabilia consisting of propellers, GI gun belts, pictures of battles and framed drawings of prop-driven aircraft plastered the walls. Dozens of beer mirrors took up the remaining space. Dust-laden netting was stapled every three feet to the ceiling. Air conditioners chilled the air.

After his eyes adjusted from the harsh glare outside, Brian saw their two friends, Jerry and Paula Robeson, sitting at a table in the middle of the large room. The tavern was empty except for three other people at the bar watching the Pistons play the Celtics.

Hey there, guys, Brian said as he plopped into an empty chair at their table.

Linda sat down beside him. Good afternoon, you two.

Hey ho! Jerry, who worked at the TV station with Brian, grinned and poured two beers from the pitcher of half Guinness Stout and half Harp Lager. Jerry was thin with curly, dark-brown hair down to his shoulders. A bushy, untrimmed mustache jutted out from under his nose.

Hot enough for you? Paula said with a grin. She was approaching plump with straight, very blond hair down between her shoulder blades.

Brian took a sip, swallowed and smacked his lips. Ah, black and tan. That's good. You know, the sign on the bank said it's sixty-two again today.

Yes, unbelievable, isn't it? Linda said. For northern Pennsylvania in January?

That temperature broke another record, Paula said. If this heat wave and drought keeps up, there won't be anything left alive in the entire state.

Worst drought this century, Jerry said. That storm last week helped some, but we need one of those every day for months to make an impact.

Even the evergreens are dropping their needles, Linda said. No one can figure out if it's the drought or some sort of chemical pollutant.

It was the worst fall I've ever seen, Brian said. The leaves didn't change color at all, they just shriveled up and dropped when summer ended. Hey, Jerry, you talked to Jim lately?

He told me yesterday that he and Sharon were going to try to come by today.

I told him I'd pay for their beer, Brian said. I know money's tight.

Is this the guy who got fired? Paula asked.

Not fired, bumped, her husband corrected her.

What happened? Paula wanted to know.

Our CEO, one Ralph Silverstein, has had this long-running hatred with Ned Terlick, an engineer at one the FM stations, a thirty-five year employee, Jerry told her. Since Ralph can't fire Ned because of his seniority, he dissolved Ned's job, then forced him to work in the TV station purely as an insult, hoping he'd quit.

Ned hasn't worked in television since the middle sixties, Brian said. He knows nothing about video or video machines, yet now he's the manager.

Rob, the old manager, got bumped back into the maintenance shop, Jerry continued. So Jim, who had the lowest seniority in the shop, lost his job. All because Ralph Malph is a pompous, vindictive ass!

But that's typical, Brian said. This is a place where, when they got their new transmitter delivered, it sat outside for three days and went through at least one rainstorm. Hundreds of thousands of dollars worth of copper that'll have a lot of electricity put through it, and they leave it out in the rain.

This is the very same place where a program director overspent sixty-five thousand dollars while the station manager just wasn't paying attention, Jerry said.

At one time they hired a cameraman from WGBH in Boston to be their Director of Engineering, Brian added.

Brian, remember when one of the station managers gave away the station's grand piano, and nobody cared. Jerry laughed.

Brian chuckled, then said, They left their brand new master control switcher in the box for over a year, so by the time they installed it, it was out of warranty.

That was nothing. It took them two and half years to put in the local insertion server. Then they bought three really nice Phillips 6 cameras, yet couldn't use them for over a year because they forgot to buy teleprompters. Jerry got a pained expression.

And yet Jim, a hard-working, knowledgeable technologist lost his job for political reasons. Brian said. It sounds ludicrous, but it's true. The sad thing is, we have to work there.

The place is a pathetic, hateful hole in the wall, Jerry said. Every day when I show up, I look to see if all the hatred has spilled over into any violence.

Me too, Brian said.

What about Sal, the Engineering Director, Paula asked. What's he doing during all this?

Absolutely nothing, Jerry said. He refuses to get involved.

Brian nodded in sympathy, then took a pull on his beer. I hope Jim and Sharon show up. I haven't seen him since he packed up his things and walked out. I know he took all this hard. They just finished closing on a house. I wonder what they'll do now? He took another swig, then heard a news story on the TV, something about William Blair, the Senator from Pennsylvania.

Brian noticed Jerry and Paula looking past him, up at the TV. What are they saying about him? Brian asked.

I'm not sure, Paula said.

Brian swiveled around in his chair so he could see the TV set. The channel had been changed and the local news had begun. The anchorwoman said, And now we take you live to Senator William Blair's reelection headquarters in Harrisburg.

The scene changed. A silver-haired man with an immense pot belly filled the screen. A diminutive hand held a microphone up toward his face. Of course, as Chairman of the Committee to Reelect William Blair, I'm pleased that Senator Blair might be running unopposed this time around, the balding, rotund man said. His named appeared in white letters low in the screen announcing, Willard Couch, Campaign Chairman, for a few seconds.

But that's only natural, Couch went on. Mr. Blair has the ability to represent all the people, all the time. He is the people's man; heart, mind and soul. Pennsylvanians love him, and for good reason. Everyone is looking forward to six more years.

The anchorwoman appeared back at the studio and talked about yet another Amtrak derailing near Pittsburgh killing five and injuring twenty-six, but Brian tuned her out. He had never liked William Blair, but had hated him with a vengeance ever since his unflagging support of the Iranian invasion. He felt his temper rising.

How could the people of Pennsylvania put up that cretin for another term? he asked himself. Wasn't anyone paying attention to what was going on in Washington? Didn't the people care about their country anymore? Was it possible that Blair could coast to yet another Senatorial victory, and run unopposed no less?

Damn, Brian mumbled. I'm really sick of all the—

Uh oh, here he goes again, Linda said, leaning away from Brian and rolling her eyes. Soapbox time. Where are my ear plugs?

Why don't you challenge Blair, then? Paula said with a wry smile. Go down tomorrow and register yourself to run for the Senate. Go after the big money and corruption and cut them off at the ankles.

Brian became quiet. He stared off into space and thought about the uselessness of his life. Stuck in a dead end job, making lousy money, working for people he had no respect for.

He slammed his fist down on the table causing his friends to jump slightly in surprise. All right, I will. He looked at Linda, Paula, and then Jerry. I make you this pledge. I will run against Blair and do my best. And I'll see it through to the end.

What are you saying? Linda laughed.

Paula's eyes widened as she studied Brian. Oh my goodness. She grinned crookedly. I meant it as a joke.

Well, I don't, Brian said in a low voice with a sharp edge of sincerity.

If you're serious, my sister is president of the Scranton Woman's Club, Paula said. I could talk to her and possibly set up a speaking engagement.

Brian pursed his lips and scowled as an iron-willed determination consumed him. Please do that!

Monday, January 13, 2014

Brian woke up the next morning, crawled out of bed, padded out to the living room and took up his place in the spot. It took him ten minutes to collect his thoughts.

Okay, so how does one run for the Senate in this state? he asked himself. He pulled out the telephone book, easily found the blue-bordered pages and looked through the state agencies until he found the Bureau of Elections in Harrisburg. That sounded about right.

He picked up his phone and dialed the number. It was long distance from Scranton: 1-717-787-5280. Brian asked the person who answered, What are the requirements to become a candidate for the United States Senate?

The man told him that a person needed two thousand signatures, pay a two hundred dollar filling fee, and there were a bunch of forms to fill out. Brian thanked him and hung up.

He sat back in his chair. Whoa. Signatures, a filling fee and a lot of paperwork. This wasn't going to be as easy as he'd hoped. The trick would be getting those signatures.

But the more he thought about it, he figured that two thousand people would probably line up all night to help get rid of Blair. There's no telling how much ill will that man had accumulated through the years.

Then why has no one signed up to run against him? Is his position that strong?

How could that possibly be? How could a man who was such an integral part of the pathetic congressional gridlock even hold office in the first place, much less run unopposed? What the hell was going on?

Brian mulled over his decision to enter the race. He was a total unknown going up against one of the most famous and powerful men in the state—a man everyone else was afraid to run against. Could he accomplish a single positive thing?

He sat up in his chair, wide awake now, when he realized that he was already trying to talk himself out of running just because what he wanted to do was difficult.

A slow grin appeared on his face. Sure, he couldn't beat Blair, wouldn't get thirty percent of the vote. But at least he would've stood up for what he believed in. And if enough people did just that much, then maybe change could happen. He might raise an issue that would shake people up. That would be something to be proud of, even if no one else knew what he had attempted.

I'll do it, he said aloud. He picked up the phone and called Paula at work.

Scranton Federal Savings and Loan.

He recognized her voice. Hi Paula, this is Brian. Before she could say anything, he said. I'm ready to run against Blair. I'll need plenty of help, but I'm willing to throw my hat into the ring. Could you talk to your sister and see if I could talk to her group?

They're dying for speakers. Don't worry, I'll arrange it.

Great. Thanks a lot.

Saturday, January 25, 2014

A mind-numbing surge of anxiety hit Brian for the two hundredth time as he put on his one and only suit late that afternoon. He was about to speak in public for the first time and put his political beliefs on the line to a group of total strangers.

His hands started shaking so badly that it took him three attempts to tie his tie and get it right. He folded his shirt collar down, slipped into his jacket and looked at himself in the mirror. Not too bad. He gathered up his speech, folded the sheets lengthwise and stuffed them inside his coat pocket.

He had gotten a haircut a couple days ago in an effort to look good—and conservative—right after Paula had called back to say he had a firm speaking engagement to the Scranton Woman's Club. Paula had said that her sister and the Club were excited at having a senatorial hopeful be guest speaker. He had spent every spare second since then writing a speech and going over it.

He stopped by Linda's apartment, but she wasn't quite ready. Within a couple minutes, she came down the stairs wearing a pretty blue dress. He almost never saw her in a dress and feasted his eyes before giving her a hug.

I didn't think you'd actually go through with it, she told him once they were in the car.

I'm glad you're coming. I’ll need your support.

I wouldn't miss this.

Good Lord, I'm nervous, he said. Let's hope this isn't my first and last speech. Do you think they'll like me?

Of course. You can't miss.

But do you think they'll like what I have to say? You heard the whole speech yesterday.

I thought it was wonderful and so will they.

As he drove, the main elements of his speech whirled around in Brian's head. Fifteen minutes later, they came to a large, white, one story building with four, humongous, white pillars out front. Brian consulted the directions. This was North Main Street in North Scranton. The large black metal numbers, 1650, were bolted onto the wall beside the front doors. The Bomberger/Lesko Funeral Home was right next door.

This be the place, Brian said. He turned into the crowded parking lot. A small sign with his name on it was taped to the side of the building reserving him a parking place.

Brian pulled in and turned off the motor. Here we are. He climbed out of his car, donned his jacket, straightened his tie and nervously marched toward the entrance holding Linda's hand. He wondered how they would react to what he had to say.

With every step his stomach contracted even more. Sweat moistened his forehead and upper lip. A bead ran down his left temple. Brian and Linda walked up the five wide steps, opened one of the large white doors, entered the front foyer and hit the air conditioning. Air conditioners in January? What's this world coming to, Brian wondered.

A woman in her early thirties greeted Brian with a firm handshake. Mr. Connelly? Hi, I'm Amy Worthington. She had brown hair curling to her shoulders, a pretty face and a friendly smile. Her teeth were the straightest and whitest Brian had ever seen.

Pleased to met you, Amy. His voice came out in a squeak because every bit of the moisture in his mouth had vanished. Could I have a big glass of water on the podium?

Certainly. We're looking forward to what you have to say. So relax and have fun. If you're running against Blair, you already have some friends in this room. She smiled again.

This is my girlfriend, Linda Thompson.

The women shook hands. How do you do, Linda said.

It's nice to meet you, Linda. Amy glanced at Brian. Ready?

Brian nodded weakly.

Please come with me. Amy led them through another set of double doors and into the main hall.

Brian was amazed at the size of the place. The white ceiling arched thirty-five feet over his head. Folding metal chairs with purple cushions filled the wooden floor in neat rows. Amy escorted them down the center isle as everyone turned to look at him. At least one hundred people had gathered, less than twenty were men.

Brian's mother, who lived in town, had already arrived. Brian hadn't seen her in a week and gave her a big hug. While they embraced, Brian saw the scar on the back of her neck and the memory of that terrible night flooded back to him. Although Brian had never been physically abused by his father, beyond the harsh spankings that were regularly and casually dished out, his mother had been.

As a young boy at the age of six, Brian was out of bed late one night sneaking a drink of water from the bathroom faucet when he heard his mother shriek. He snuck downstairs and peered through the crack where the kitchen door didn't quite meet the jamb. He saw his father, in the grip of one of his alcohol-induced rages, grab a handful of hair and slap her back and forth across the face while shouting as loudly as he could, calling her all kinds of names, until she went flying leaving a wad of her hair in his fist. She slammed against the stove with a terrible, meaty smack, knocking her out. Blood gushed all over the kitchen floor. Brian raced back to his room and had nightmares every night for weeks.

Several other times during the next few years, he heard her screaming while he cowered under the covers in his bed. He was so young that he had no chance of helping her, which only added to his incredible frustration.

Amy led Brian up onto the front stage using the right-hand steps. Amy approached the podium and adjusted the microphone to suit her. She flipped the switch on the mike and said, Good evening, could we come to order, please. She paused as the members quieted and sat. We all know why we're here. Without further ado, I'd like to introduce senatorial hopeful, democrat Brian Connelly. He's challenging Blair. She moved back and waved Brian up to the podium.

Brian grinned, then stepped up to the podium, unbuttoned his jacket, pulled his speech from his coat pocket and set the pages out on the surface. He took a sip from the glass of water on the shelf underneath. It had no ice but was cool going down. He surveyed his audience, looked down and began reading.

Good afternoon. He was a little surprised his voice came out strong and forceful. He paused when a quick squeal of feedback peeled through the room. First of all I'd to thank President Worthington and all the officers for allowing me the honor of speaking with you today. I'd like to title my speech: The American Train Is Off The Track. He cleared his throat and continued.

"My name is Brian Michael Connelly. With your help, I'd like to be a candidate for the United States Senate because I fear for our country. What has happened to America?

"Somewhere along the way our people fell asleep, got too busy, or just stopped paying attention to what's going on in Washington. Now, we're waking up to find we no longer have control of our own government. The oil barons and power brokers have taken charge and are squeezing us out of the picture. They run things now to suit them, only them.

If we don't act now, we are in real danger of losing our standard of living forever. If we, the people in this room, he stabbed the podium with a stiff right forefinger. The PA system carried the thump through the speakers. "Do not get involved, get active, give of ourselves, and stand up and be counted in every sense, our way of life, even America herself, will not, no, cannot, survive.

If we aren't careful, our Constitution will be corrupted beyond recognition. The democracy our founding fathers set up for us will be gone. Vanished for all time. We must institute a new government with new policies for a new century.

Brian paused, looked up and studied a few faces. They were watching him. Alert. Mindful.

He resumed. "The system we have doing the nation's business out there in Washington is not working. It is corrupt, selfish and bumbling. It has severed itself from the American people and is doing its own business of over-spending, throwing away our money on worthless programs, getting themselves rich and their friends richer while maintaining the status quo. It is a law unto itself, reckless and pernicious. It's time to tear down the old system and build a new one.

Brian caught himself reading too quickly and slowed his pace. "God, I love this country. Yet, I see it disintegrating right before my eyes. The federal government is open to the highest bidder, yet hard-working Americans are denied access. This new Congress continually overspends, the deficit increases, the trade imbalance widens, and the two land wars in the Middle East we are engaged in that keep going and going and going.

"Why do we allow them to do that? Isn't anyone paying attention. Does anybody care?

Do you? Are there any Americans left out there? He studied a few more faces. No smiles or frowns. They probably hadn't made up their minds about him yet.

"The American Spirit. We hear that term all the time. I ask you to examine that phrase. What does it mean to you? My definition of 'The American Spirit' is what was born on April 19, 1775 at the Concord Bridge. The courage and determination, and the level of dedication of the men who went to the Concord Bridge to face the British Redcoats that day and who fired the ‘Shot Heard Round the World.’ The do or die mentality. That's what the American Spirit is to me.

My question to you is, quite simply, does that spirit still exist? If so, where? Because I see precious little of it around these days. Brian took a long drink of water.

"What is happening to our country? Why doesn’t Congress balance the budget? Where did the federal deficit come from in the first place? Why do we have such a whopping trade imbalance? Why and how is crack cocaine inundating our inner cities and shredding the fabric of our society? Why did we have to fight both of those Gulf Wars?

Military contractors are getting richer off our money while family farms give up the ghost. We buy airplanes and submarines that are completely obsolete in the new world order, yet our schools can't find enough money for good teachers, books or band instruments. Gulf wars protect that precious oil supply line and billions of dollars flow out of this country for oil every year, when we have the solar technologies available right now that we could be supplying to the world.

Brian looked up from his speech. Every pair of eyes was riveted on him. He took another drink of water.

"What's going on here? Lobbyists and foreign influence money are buying our politicians like so many pork bellies and ruling Washington. The deficit and trade imbalance are strangling us. Entitlements are going through the roof. We are clear-cutting the Tongass National Forest up in Alaska and selling our ancient, forest heritage to Japan for peanuts according to agreements signed in the fifties. We're cutting down our Northwestern forests, shipping that wood to Korea where they make matches out of it, then we import those matches because doing that is cheaper than making the matches in America from scratch. We are beggaring ourselves. Why?

"We, the people, have no say in our own government, that's why! I tell you what, if we don't take back control, if we continue to lose our competitive edge by exporting our raw materials and importing the manufactured goods from those materials, if we allow our trading partners to walk all over us and let the trade imbalance widen, if we allow crack cocaine to poison our inner cities, if we let race relations deteriorate, if we turn a blind eye as companies and individuals soak entitlements until our nation is bankrupt, we're going to end up a third, fourth, maybe even a fifth world country. As long as we let the money-grubbing pigs make policy, hey, our personal liberties become non-existent as the state takes over for the good of the people—police state! And all the while the oil barons haul in the profits.

Is that what we deserve for all the hard work we've put in the last two hundred plus years? Is that where we're heading? It sure looks like it to me. And it scares me. The American train is off the track. It can't even find the rails anymore.

Brian paused, then let it lengthen. He took a gulp of water, draining his glass. "Okay, we all know what's wrong. So, how should we proceed? What can we do about the deficit, the trade imbalance, reforming the welfare system and every other department of the federal government that has turned against us?

"It's so simple. All we need to do is tap into the American spirit on a massive scale. Engage every person. That's the key! The people must wrest control, take back the government, do what must be done. Together we can work wonders. If the people lead, the government shall follow.

"Okay, I'm an optimist at heart. I know the American people desperately want a change. So how do we accomplish it?

"Easy. We defeat all incumbents. Get rid of those professional politicians. It'll only take us six years to replace every Congressperson. We send people to Washington who are part of the solution, not part of the problem. Step two. Then we raze the old government and build a brand new one.

"I have a vision of how it should be. We have the technologies to accomplish it now, today. It's no pipe dream. It's what the vast majority of Americans want. I know that to be true.

"I see an energy self-sufficient America powered mostly on solar energy, with electric, hydrogen and other alternately-fueled vehicles humming down our roads that are manufactured here, in the U.S. The gasoline powered, internal combustion engine is dead, a relic for museums. Service stations dispense hydrogen, ethanol from American-grown corn, and American natural gas to power our vehicles, maybe even electricity gathered from panels on the roof.

"We need to commit ourselves as a nation to high-yield solar cells. Let's get them up to well over ninety percent conversion. Every rooftop, home, car, building, deserted acre and empty lot can be paneled with them. The excess energy absorbed during the day is put into the utility grid to help pay for what we use at night.

"I see large-scale, solar-powered desalinization plants using solar-powered reverse osmosis pumps working up and down our coastlines supplying our fresh water needs.

"Just think. If we, as a nation, could nurture initiatives like these, our solar technologies could blossom into solar industries manufacturing products for the world. Our economy would boom. Money would be coming in from all over the world, and anyone who wants a job can find one. Plus the fact that all those petrol dollars would be staying here, in this country, to fuel our rebirth. To energized our inner cities. To drastically upgrade our educational system. We could erase the trade deficit.

Think about it. An employed, vibrant country and new pollution levels reduced to almost zero. Is that reason enough to get involved in the political process?

Brian grabbed his glass, realized it was empty, then set it back down. "I constantly hear how we won the cold war. I say that's not true. We lost the cold war too—only not as badly as the Soviets. Just think of all those billions, all those trillions, we've spent through the decades on defense, instead of our education, our infrastructure, room temperature fusion, or ninety percent conversion solar cells.

We should take care of the worsening race relations in this country. We need to bring the people with no hope back into the American family. How? First, we break the back of crack cocaine. Second, we overhaul the welfare system completely.

Brian reached for his glass and paused. His throat felt so scratchy it itched. He wondered if he could get through the speech without going hoarse.

"Here, I'm almost out of time, and I haven't even touched on our prison problems, the growth of entitlements, our sad and inconsistent foreign policies, the list goes on and on. The important thing is we get together, all of us, on our commitment to change, so we can root out and deal with our problems.

"I don't have all the answers. Neither do you. But I believe that together we can define the problems, find the answers, and implement the solutions. We can turn the American train around and ride toward a rewarding sunset. It's not too late—yet.

"That's the abbreviated version of my vision. A back to work America, manufacturing solar technologies for the world, keeping those petrol dollars at home. A whole, healed nation with leisure time on its hands and the money to be comfortable. A nation where all our children play together in safe neighborhoods and attend first-rate schools. A pollution free America where we can drink the water and breathe the air and leave the planet a safer, cleaner place for our children.

Do you have a vision of how it should be? Maybe your vision is better than mine. In order for any of us see our vision turned into a reality, we must get involved politically. Unless every single American gets that fire in their belly and is ready to go to the Concord Bridge to ensure we rule our own destiny, I guess my dreams, and your dreams, are just pipe dreams. Unless each and every one of you, in this room, now, becomes committed, it will never happen. Our civilization will unravel as surely the Maya, the Inca. Just like the Greeks, the Romans—the Americans. Yeah, they were mighty in their day, and they undoubtedly had the greatest military on Earth, even as they were crumbling from within.

Brian massaged his throat. He could feel his voice going. Scanning his audience, he saw some smiles and heads nodding. Most just looked confused. He sighed and smiled.

"Here I am, putting my face, my reputation, my ideas, my past and my future on trial. With your help, I can become an official candidate for the United States Senate from the great state of Pennsylvania. I'm putting my all on the line to change things, to make a positive difference, to help my fellow citizens maintain their standard of living, to employ everyone who wants a job and make a healthy planet. To that I pledge my life, my fortune and my sacred honor.

Won't you help me? Won't you stand up and be counted? We'll be invincible if we stand together. We cannot expect others to save us. We have to do it ourselves. He spoke slowly when he said, Do it for yourselves, for your children. Do it for Mother Earth.

Brian focused on the far wall, took a deep breath and without looking down, he recited from memory: "‘I look forward to a great future for America. A future in which our country will match its military strength with our moral restraint, its wealth with our wisdom, its power with our purpose. I look forward to an America which will not be afraid of grace and beauty, which will protect the beauty of our natural environment. And I look forward to a world which will be safe not only for Democracy and diversity, but also for personal distinction.’ The words of John Fitzgerald Kennedy ringing down through the years to us today.

With you it can happen. Without you—never! Brian Connelly for United States Senate. Thank you very much.

Brian paused, not sure whether to walk off, or just stand there, or what. A smattering of applause broke out. He was pleased that at least a few liked it. Then several people stood and clapped, followed by others until about ten women were standing and a third of the audience was applauding.

The unexpected reaction to his speech was overpowering. Brian was stunned into inaction. All his nervousness had long since evaporated. Confidence soared. This wasn't so scary after all.

He was fairly happy with his performance. It wasn't electrifying, but he felt he'd delivered it competently. With one exception, he didn't get tongue-tied or trip over his words. Of course, he read the whole thing, looking down the entire time, except when he paused for effect or to scan his audience. All in all he was pleased. His mother was standing and clapping like mad. He found Linda's adoring gaze and smiled back. He had felt their strength all during the speech.

Amy Worthington jumped out of her seat, bounded over to him and pumped Brian's hand with enthusiasm. Wonderful, she said. Very moving. I can safely say you were a hit with some of us. Here, let me introduce you around. As she led him down the steps and into the seats, Brian could see some people filing out the rear doors muttering to themselves.

As soon as he hit the floor, his mother rushed up and gave him a big hug. You were wonderful, she whispered in his ear. I have to go now. I'll see you and Linda tomorrow for dinner, right?

Right, Mom. Thanks for coming.

For the next few minutes, Amy introduced Brian to a couple dozen people. Many asked how they could help his campaign; others wanted to know more about him. He was inundated with faces, names and fragments of questions, and couldn't respond to anybody.

When the confusion subsided a bit, he held up his hands. If I could have your attention, please. Thank you. If any of you would like to volunteer to help my campaign, please stay a few minutes.

Amy asked, Brian, would you like some coffee or orange juice and a donut while we wait?

Please. Juice and a donut would be great.

Amy hurried off and returned less than a minute later with a chocolate donut and a glass of orange juice. Brian munched while the hall emptied until about thirty people remained, all of them women. Brian stood before them and gave a brief outline of himself: age, education, work history. Then he said, "I need you. Everyone of you. I need an organization if my campaign is to go anywhere. The bottom line is I need two thousand signatures and two hundred dollars in cash and a lot of paperwork taken care of. You've heard what I stand for—a fundamental change in the way congress does its business. If you agree with me, join me. Our grass roots movement could begin, here, tonight.

First of all, I need pavement pounders. People circulating signature petitions. Then I need my speaking schedule organized and someone to handle whatever money I can raise.

You can count on me, Amy said.

Brian said, Thank you very much. My first volunteer. Great.

Some other women said, I'll help, or Me too, or raised a hand and nodded, or mumbled something Brian couldn't understand.

Then Amy said, I can contact the presidents of the Woman's Clubs around our area. I'm sure you can speak to most, if not all of them. It's a start. Then as you get better known, we can spread out. Clubs, groups and organizations will contact us. The sky's the limit.

This is wonderful, Brian said. Thank you. This could be the start of something big. Maybe we can put a scare into Blair.

A women wearing a red dress said, Maybe we can give him the pasting he so mightily deserves.

Brian laughed. So did others. He pointed to her. "That's the spirit. Maybe he has spread so much ill will, that all I'll have to