A toast to Change

“Do we have a deal Mr. Daniels?”

He in a black tailored suit with a red handkerchief in his left breast pocket that matched a red bow tie worn comfortably around his neck, stared at a piece of paper in his clean, smooth hands. They tremored slightly when he met the gaze of the coarse haired man sitting opposite of him in an armless chair. This man’s hair was a light brown cut short revealing all of his square face clean shaven except for a well groomed mustache. He stared back wide eyed, focused, and unyielding. 

Mister Daniels looked at the paper then to its twin lying on the desk then back at the brown haired man whose mustache was a slight shade darker and said. “Yes we have a deal.”

“Good,” The man replied eagerly as Mister Daniels picked up a fountain pen from a small case that held two more pens of similar look and design. The only difference between the three was a slight variation in stain of the wood grain grip of each. The one he held was a rosewood that glided smoothly as he spelled out his name Ammaron Daniels. No middle initial.

“I can’t wait to see you in your new office.” The man grinned as Mr. Daniels capped the pen and returned it with its kin.

“I the same,” He replied wiping his sweaty hand casually on his pant leg before shaking an outstretched hand. He noted how tough a hand it was. “You’ll be making the formal arrangements?”

“I’ll make sure the right people are in their prospective places.”

“See you in the Capitol then.”

“Until then,” he said lighting a cigar with a match he flicked too life from a small matchbook. He took a few puffs and rose from his chair and walked to the door where he stopped. “I’ll bring the cigars if you bring the brandy when we celebrate.”

“Of course. A reception. A ball maybe. To usher in a new era.”

“I don’t know about all that but you do what you think is best. Now take care.” The man blow smoke like a train as he exited the room. His boots could be heard long after he was out of sight fading away as they grew more distant.

Mr. Daniels stood for a moment behind his desk waiting. He waited until he could no longer hear the faint clacks then stepped out his office and rested one arm on the door while the other engulfed his forehead shielding his eyes. He was dizzy all of a sudden as if the effort of standing was too tough a task.

“Mr. Daniels?” said a buxom women with long auburn hair that was done up into a bun. “You look unwell.”

“I feel unwell.”

“Can I get you anything?”

“A glass of water.”

She hurried away, though he didn’t pay attention to her wide set hips that swung with each step further extenuated by a tight skirt. He normally admired this when he set her to task, but now he was too preoccupied and dizzy. He checked his forehead for a fever. Nothing he thought some perspiration which he wiped away but his forehead was the same as he always had remembered. He retreated back into his back into his chair, a lightly padded heavy oak chair that swiveled on its base. It was the same comfortable as it was when he first sat in it. Not too soft as to induce sleep but just enough to allow prolonged sitting without the need to adjust or stretch every half hour as some chairs did. He looked down upon his flat-top desk. Everything as he had left them. His pens, his bible tucked in shelf between two books, a dictionary and a law book, the Statutes of Deseret: Volume I. The other four volumes rested on a built in book case filled with a collection that went from the floor to the ceiling with few open spaces. Most of the books were anthologies, voluminous books, encyclopedias, philosopher’s ruminations, one was of European History, another of the United States, and a recent publication of the short existence of Deseret. They were all for show except the law books he referenced sometimes. Conversation pieces used mainly to give a facade of a well-read man or an intellectual of which he was neither.

The buxom secretary returned with a glass of water delicately held with both hands. She handed the glass to him gently with a smile that hid some but not all of her concern.

“Thank you, Rachel,” He said. “I’ll be all right. I just need to eat something. I missed breakfast this morning,” he assured her.

“An early dinner for you sir?”

“Yes. That would be nice,” he answered and took a sip of water. She walked back to her desk with the same swing in her hips. He admired them slightly this time but was too distracted and looked back to his desk reviewing a small plague with his name. It read ‘Senator’ before his name same as his office door and same as the bronze placard on the front of the building. Three names were listed along with his: two House members’ names below his and an old Senator above. This senator, who had occupied the same office on the east side of the building with a window that looked out to the street, had done so for quite a time more than him. The other two only slightly more.

He walked to a waist high stand. He picked up a decanter from the same stand next to the book case and poured himself the same brandy he liked into the same glasses he was gifted when he first became senator. He took a sip. The taste was the same strong taste of alcohol that sprung an almost instantaneous feeling below his belt. It rose to his head with consecutive sips until they faded and something else was there. A focus and internal presence of himself in his head. He finished the glass quickly and poured another.

He began to ponder quietly to himself. Muttering under his breath. “What have I done? What have I agreed to?”

He looked down at the piece of paper, the only thing different in his entire office, this piece of parchment with his name securely bound at the bottom. Its twin signed by him as well was with the strange acquaintance of a man. A business man with deep roots in the mechanisms of politics. The contract, that paper, he brought before him was the first agreement, the first topic of conversation to ever truly make him sweat. This man was the first to crack his calm, collected exterior. He was not assimilated to this nor the proposal. It lacked regularity. Not its composition nor its focus, politics, but the proposition it entailed. He was fond of regularity, consistency, and similarity, not the minute type. He hated that. Same meal for supper. The same mail man delivering the same letter from the same constituent complaining about the same inextricable problem that none of his words could explain no matter how many letters he wrote back. His same seal enclosing each. These daily items needed variation, but the core, the foundation of his understanding and growth as a person, he was afraid to lose. A loss or merely a change he wondered. An entire generation, his, and the next they fathered, him one of few exceptions, will no longer have what they had their entire lives. Permanence. It would be different, at least for a time, or maybe forever. Not changed but lost. Lost into a world of uncertainty where there is no structure no order. Just chaos. He perspired more thinking about it. Now his underarms were wet as well as the arch of his shoulder blades as if he had been laboring in a field under a blazing summer sun. Would the seasons still pass the same? Would the laborers labor the same? 

He took a sip of his brandy but it was doing little to rebuild his composure. It was belittled further when he read one sentence in particular. One sentence that defined the act, the power, and the change he feared. It read, I hereby assume the office of President of Deseret on the Fifteenth of April, 1905, upon the lawful discharge of Joseph Fielding Young from the Office of President for unlawful acts against the sanctity and well-being of the State.

His name was signed a few lines below declaring his position same as the original crafters of the Declaration of Independence did so.  He could inform the president now, he thought, let him in on this scheme and stop now. Everything would remain just where he felt them as comfortable. He might even be able to avoid imprisonment or be granted a presidential pardon for his bravery. Just a simple letter away.

He stared back at his case of fountain pens. His hand hovered over each before picking up one with the mahogany grip. He squeezed it then rotated it. He couldn’t bear to look at the rosewood grip and closed the case then pulled a piece of stationary from the center drawer of the desk and wrote ‘Dear President Young’ in his cleanest script. The next moment passed with the steady sound of pen on paper paused only once for a sip of brandy. He signed his name and returned the pen to the case. He read and reread the letter. Then called for his secretary. She opened the door and entered only halfway

“Yes Mr. Daniels,”

“Could you please see that this letter is delivered to the President?”

“Right away sir,” she said. He rose from the desk boldly this time and handed it to her. She glanced down at it as she walked to the door reading some of its contents before sating. “Sir?”

“Yes?”

“I could have written this for you if you were feeling so unwell.”

“I felt I should have done it myself.”

“It’s a shame. The celebrations would have been such a fine event to see. I’ll send a bottle of wine, a gift basket, with this apology in it. A celebratory gift.”

“Thank you, Rachel.” She walked out letter in hand while he picked up the glass of brandy and took another sip. A toast to change.