I never thought anything on the planet intimidated me.
Not the mugger in East Boston who stole my laptop at 9PM in what all purport to be a safe, wealth-driven street.
Not the lame-ass human who stole the numbers from my credit card and drove up a $30,000 bill at retailers around the world for luxury watches, travel, and nearly $500 in gum and toiletries from Walmart.com.
Today, however, I am intimidated.
I can’t quantify the level of success I’ve achieved as it’s a wishy-washy metric. It depends. How big a case? How specific the evidence? Some say I’m the most successful prosecutor in all of Suffolk County. Some say I’m a miserable disaster.
I’ve faced mobsters, I’ve handled murders (a few). It’s not glamorous, it’s not fun, it’s method.
And I got tired of it.
People think that dealing with that all day is amazing. Soap opera material, if you will.
No … not even close.
Wanda Moreno, on the other hand … that woman is true soap opera material, more than anyone else I’ve ever met in my 42 years on this planet.
What a needy human.
Validation comes when one takes control. Today, I did that.
I stood behind the podium as Wanda and Sheriff Paul fussed with the microphones and amplifiers. “Friends, I need a pulpit! This needs to feel friendly and warm … I want to preach, for God’s sake!”
“Well, a pulpit, Miss Charlotte, is something special,” Wanda said. “A pulpit is a place where worship is cultivated. This … well, this day is all about peaches. I’m not exactly sure how we preach about peaches.”
“A pulpit, Mrs. Moreno. A pulpit.”
I stepped up to the podium. My feet were caving at the arches, as stilettos often do. I stood there, looking out at where the Peach Festival crowd had begun to mill about, most of them dressed as their favorite fruit. I could see a lemon, a lime, an orange, an apple. I had a gaggle of young people representing a bunch of grapes standing in front of me with a sign: “MICK LIVES ON.”
My hands, set on the messy wood that had, no doubt, felt the wrists of fingers of Middle Valley’s oldest regime. I listened, I took it in … the chants. I could see Bernie, taking copious notes. I could see reporter John, following suit.
So this is news here.
“Ladies and gentlemen of Middle Valley, we gather … let’s get together here. Come forward!”
The apple rose and spread his beach towel close to the stage. The orange, then the lime lined up behind their red friend (male or female, I was unclear). The grapes moved in unison to the left side of the stage, near where Bernie and John sat.
“You elected me your mayor so that I might bring leadership, benevolence, and truth to our beautiful existence here, in Middle Valley, along River Road and the banks of our great Cherokee.”
I could feel Wanda slide in to my left.
“It’s Chickotee,” she said in a loud whisper. “The banks of … the Chickotee.”
She backed away.
“Of course, I misspoke – the Chickotee …”
Imposter syndrome filled my psyche. No where to go but straight through.
“I am here, from New York City, to fight the influx of bad seeds,” I told them. “I know that system downstate and I cannot say you all are wrong.”
Light clapping from the lime and the orange.
“What I have to say,” I told them, “is that we must come together in this time of strife, in this time of worry, in this time of uncertainty, which is why …”
I looked directly at the grapes.
” … Middle Valley will be the home to the official Mick Righteous Memorial Statue right here in this park.”