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, most interestingly, Walmart.com for nearly $500 in gum and toiletries.
This is decidedly unglamourous.
Peaches, as I’m told … peaches, however, are not.
I am intimidated. I can’t quantify the level of successs 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 glamourous, it’s not fun, it’s method.
And I was tired of it.
People think that dealing with that all day is amazing, soap opera material, if you will.
No.
I’m afraid Wanda Moreno is more soap opera material than anyone I’ve met in my entire … well, I’m not old … my career thus far. (Being in my somewhat 40s is completely treacherous. I’m not appreciative of this confessional format, but I’ve agreed to it, so we persist.)
What a needy human.
Validation comes when one takes control. Today, dear reader, I did that.
I stood behind the podium as Wanda and Sheriff Paul fussed with the microphones and amplifiers. “Hello all, I need a pulpit! Someone help me get a pulpit!”
Wanda did a double-take.
“Well, a pulpit, Miss Charlotte, well, a pulpit is something special. A pulpit is a place where worship is cultivated, drawn, made real.”
“Right,” I said, “a pulpit.”
I stepped up to the podium. My feet were caving at the arches, as stilletos often do. I stood there, looking out at the Peach Festival crowd, most of whom were dressed in 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 cub reporter John, taking copious notes.
Come on, who gives a damn.
“Ladies and gentlemen of Middle Valley, you elected me your mayor so that I might bring leadership, benevolence, and the truth that is our existence here, in Middle Valley, along River Road and other tributaries on the banks of our great Cherokee.”
I could hear the likes of Wanda and Marjorie and others suggest imposter syndrome in their heads.
“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.”
“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 announced the commissioning of a statue commemorating Mick.
You can let my hair do the talking after that one!