Eleanor
By: Amy Stapenhorst
At least four minutes have passed as the nose-breathing statue of a man silently studies
the young woman in front of him. He shamelessly observes the wisp of artificial blonde covering
her deep brown eyes, her low cut top and prominent collarbones, her nimble fingers twitching in
the lap of her plum skirt. The uncrossing and crossing of her spray-tanned legs is the only thing
that cuts the muggy stillness of the room. His perfectly shined shoe taps repetitively, echoing the
click-clack of the analog clock on the white wall behind him. He despises waiting, especially for
her.
“Do I need to repeat today’s schedule?” The man in blue finally speaks, grating the air
into uneven bloody shreds, a hangnail torn off too soon. Though confident, his voice is not
ruthless, not yet. It’s too early in the day. She has the urge to scream, hit, kick, tell him every vile
detail about the ways she wishes of mutilating him, but must keep her face stoic, unreadable.
“No”. Her faint voice brings a sinister smile to the face opposite hers. The secretary’s
eyes squeeze shut and the metal chair scrapes against the cement floor as she excuses herself
from the conference table. Her mauve mini skirt and blazer combination, more like a sexy nurse
Halloween costume than an official government uniform allow the men behind her to whistle as
her heels clack down the hallway to the Control room. The woman’s eyes flicker to the white
button just inside the doorway, but she doesn’t dare press it. Not now. She doesn’t want to see
the outside. Instead she turns around, slamming the heavy door behind her. She clacks down the
narrow hallway again, this time to the media room. Slumping down in her white chair, her hands
shakily move over the list, crossing out line after line. When she was “upgraded” to this room, it
was declared her office. But offices are places for sealing envelopes, for opening emails, for
cringe-worthy Christmas parties, not for lists and files and names and perfect execution of her
job. This is the worst part. Sometimes she covers the names with her perfectly manicured hand,
not wanting to remember any of them from her past or going forward in the present. She can
pretend they’re milk and butter and asparagus that will perish if not refrigerated. It’s nature’s
way, she tells herself. Today it is fourteen adults and nine children, one only three years old. She
waits. The woman doesn’t mind waiting, it gives her a chance to remember. Is she remembering?
She doesn’t remember. It is unclear whether she is making up stories in her head or if she
actually did sit on the porch swing feeling the juice running down her arm. Her chair swivels
away from the large portrait and she sinks down even lower.
If I could press the button, I wouldn’t just lightly tap it enough to nudge the metal window
coverings to their OPEN position. I would throw some punches at the button, smudging its pure
covering with dark smudges from my black stilettos. I would pretend the button was him, in the
conference room, eyes raking over my exposed chest. I want to knee him in the area I have seen
far too many times, I want to feel his nose crack in two under my bony knuckles, I want my
fingernails to squish in his eyeballs so he will never leer at my legs again. I want him to suffer. I
want him to feel as inhuman as a punching bag in a kickboxing studio that has been used by
generations. I want him to hurt as much as every single person outside. I want myself to hurt as
much as every single person outside, because it would at least be something. I do not want the
something that he makes me feel, like black widows in a fog traveling through my stomach. It is
not a nice morning dew, it is thick and dense and has the texture of watery hashbrowns.
The officers bang on the secretary’s sturdy door, right on time, every day. Two o’clock
in the afternoon. That gives them enough time to acquire everyone before dark. Not that it’s very
difficult with the small metal trackers behind their ears. A simple search through the system and
a dot shows up on the map- green if they’re alive, red if not. Today is no different. By the time
she hears the steady rapping on her door, the small sheet of paper with the day’s fifty-three has
been drawn up in her curvy handwriting. A grocery list: name, age, social security number,
location. Pictures if she can get them. But today the woman can’t even glance at the names as she
slips the paper through the slot in the door. The officers can’t see her, of course, that would be
taking advantage of her. Only the men in the conference room are privy to whistling at her plum
skirt and tanned legs.
I want a tomato. I want to sit on the porch and bite into the red flesh and crunch the
small seeds and feel the juice running down my arm. I don’t want to eat this protein powder that
tastes like chemicals. I long for the days where I would tug on my nanny’s frayed sleeve in the
grocery store, begging to buy chocolate or ice cream or even a fruit leather. I cannot slurp the
powder like I can slurp strawberry milkshakes with whipped cream on top. I eat the powder
because I need to stay alive. Do I need to stay alive? I want to sink my teeth into a fresh, juicy,
ripe scarlet tomato.
The woman in mauve has stopped reading the electronic newspapers that appear on her
HomeScreen each morning. Since she lives in Swetieoush, it is the same story every morning
about how the nation is rejoicing under his presidency. The editors don’t even try nowadays.
Maybe they half-ass a story of the heroic Nation and edit out the Outsiders from the aerial view
of the city. or change the Why even bother? Since they have no alliances to any other countries
now, worrying about what is happening across the oceans is unnecessary. The woman only
worries about what is happening to them, the ones outside. And she isn’t worried, really. She is
concerned, maybe. Frightened, but not enough to push the white button and uncover what is
going on behind the sturdy metal doors. It is neater for the woman just to click clack down the
halls and record the names and numbers on the sheet of paper and ignore the news on the
HomeScreen. At least the walls are wide enough to protect her from bullets and the conference
room is private enough so she can be ashamed of her actions without people watching. At least
she is not waiting, waiting, dying, fainting, waiting in the lines outside just for the few doctors
left willing to help anyone free of charge.
“It makes it easier,” he had once said. They were in the conference room. The woman
shifted in her seat, the July humidity causing her bare legs to stick to the metal seat.
“Makes what easier?” she timidly spoke up. Her stomach dropped. Though she knew the
answer, she hoped she was wrong just this once. His ominous gravelly chuckle snapped her out
of her dread.
“The list, of course! Fewer green dots on the map means faster deportation and that’s the
goal, right babe?”
The mauve woman didn’t say anything to that. She focused on the grating voice coming
out of his chapped mouth and dug her toenails into the hard soles of her stilettos. It seemed like
hours of listening to the steady tick-tock before the man had huffed, nasally excusing her to go do his dirty work, to make everyone in the country-his country- exactly like him.
The woman wants to get out. She wants to move to Canada, Australia, anywhere, like every other citizen. She is a good person. She is a fine person. She needs to survive. She needs to be safe from the unthinkable, or many unthinkables. She would rather be safe than free. This is the one thing the man gives her that she actually wants. This is what he gives everyone who lives in Swetieoush
. In exchange for doing his dirty work, the man shields her from the horrors of the
outside. She will not be deported, she has access to healthcare, tasteless protein powder, the
ability to decide who gets killed rather than be killed. The woman is unsure. The man is so
certain in his insecurities that he needs to control the woman in mauve just to show he can. He
has to hold up his image, of course. For who, though? The starving, lonely, frostbitten, isolated,
cramped, desperate people Outside? For the select few that have the “honor” of working for him the ones he decided would be a good addition to his deep purple sheets for a while?
The president savors their daily conference room chats. Once again, Eleanor has
click-clacked down the hall to write up the daily list of names. His eyes are as glued to her
endless legs as his toupee is glued to his head. He never questions his decisions. He never
questions grabbing women by the pussy. That’s what they’re there for. He never thinks twice
about discussions with other nations, even after one landed him in a nuclear war. As the
president of the United States of America, as a rich white man, he can do anything.
I need to get out. I need to leave but I need to survive long enough to do so. I need to hurt
this man but I cannot break the law. I need to hurt him but I cannot give up my safety or my life.
Not when I am one of the few. I need to be respected, but more than that, I need to be protected. I
need to help the people suffering outside, but more than that, I need to be safe. I need to form my
own opinions about news and events and the world, but I need to accept this bubble I live in if I
want even an ounce of freedom.
She must have click clacked down the hallway hundreds of times by now. Thousands,
maybe. It took exactly nineteen steps to get from the Conference room to the media room, where
she has learned to appreciate the blinding brightness of the walls. They stare blankly at her,
unlike the men’s miniscule blue eyes boring into her backside as she leaves the daily business
meetings. Today the woman in mauve is a whiteboard, void of emotion, waiting for someone to
write an uplifting message or untasteful red drawing. Anything is something. She has found that
it’s easier to increase the number of names as the week drags closer to Sunday. It gives more
people more time to step up and fix this situation. That one person she leaves until Saturday will
be the one to fix everything. But today is Saturday, and her heels still click clacked down the hall
as the president’s eyes lustily traveled up her legs, his tongue running over his already chapped
lips. As usual, the secretary pulls the thick weekly file out and begins mindlessly copying,
crossing off. Copying, crossing off. She always finds it interesting to see numbers that are close
to hers. She daydreams of a juicy mango this time as she seals their fates with a runny ballpoint
pen and perfectly manicured hand.