With My Eyes Wide Open

As the needle dropped and the record pirouetted in a formal dance, Ned Starmer felt like dancing himself. Slowly, the cluttered den he stood in came to life with the sound of music. He didn't like any of the new-fangled tunes. The tribal percussions underlying such vile and offensive lyricisms were a sign of the degrading ages to him. No, Ned Starmer much preferred the oldies. Respectful, artistic, gentlemanly—these were all things that he had in common with the likes of Frank Sinatra and Dean Martin. Their classy instrumentals and tempered lyrics were relics of a golden era in not only music, but Ned's well-lived life.

The beginning notes of "With My Eyes Wide Open I'm Dreaming" whisked his mind away as he prepared a B&B cocktail—one of his favorites—into his finest glass. As he stirred, he kissed a small framed picture of his late wife and set it back onto the bar cart. One perfectly cut cube of ice was stirred in before he collapsed into his fine leather armchair before a great crackling hearth.

"Here's to us, kid." He raised his glass to the mantle above the flaming logs before taking the first sweet sip. Rows of trophies and plaques adorned this mantle, souvenirs from every era of his successful life. Baseball trophies, speech and debate plaques, his Harvard University diploma, and countless others surrounding a single picture, immaculately presented and framed as the centerpiece to the whole den. He was young here, a dark head of mousse-lifted hair framing a youthful visage of ambition. There were no mirrors in his den. He didn't need reminders of his fading youth or the pestilent nature of time. No, in this room, he was still this bright-eyed valedictorian who all the girls fawned over.

Already feeling light from the brandy, he pulled out his cellphone, scrolling through long lists of texts, the majority of which held more or less the same message: some form of congratulations or celebration.

He paused when the notification of an incoming phone call popped out in the top of his screen. He scoffed at the caller I.D, and cleared his throat before holding the phone to his ear. There was silence for a time, until a stiff young voice finally spoke up on the other end.

"Congratulations, governor Starmer. It was a close race."

Ned smiled impishly, fingering the rim of his glass on the table as he replied. "Well, I appreciate your thanks. No hard feelings, Timothy. It really was a good effort. Don't beat yourself up, though. Incumbents can be a pain to beat. Lord knows I had my share of trouble winning over Stone when I first got in. There's always next election cycle."

"Well, Ned, that's kinda what I wanted to talk to you about..."

Ned despised the overly candid nature of his opponent's voice. The kid was young, but seemed to lack any sort of ambition or drive for politics. He didn't know how to play the game, and Starmer resented him for it—especially considering how close the polls were this year despite that fact.

"Well, kid, what is it you have to say?"

Another pause before Tim spoke again, prompting a silent chuckle from Ned. Though the guy never said as much, he knew Tim hated it when he called him kid. Even now he could imagine his eyebrows furrowing the way they did when he was perturbed.

"Ned. You won the election fair and square. I respect that, and I respect your position as governor, you know I do." The kid's voice was different tonight, more loose. Perhaps he'd been drinking as well. "But I'd like to let you know as your professional equal that I think you've lost the plot when it comes to your political duties."

Ned chuckled in surprise at the nerve of his opponent. "Oh, I've lost the plot, you say?"

"Yes." The answer came too quick. "I believe that it is a governor's duty to protect the interests of the common people of his state. This includes protection from federal mishandling of power. You're being walked all over, and you're too busy clinging onto your chair to even-"

"I'm going to have to interrupt you, kid." Ned clenched the leather of his chair, grinding his teeth in annoyance. He took a second to level himself before speaking. In a tender debate such as this, the person who remained calm the longest was the clear winner. "Now I understand being upset. You've lost, and you put up a good fight. But this is low, Tim. Just hang up the phone and call back when you're ready to have a civil discussion."

"For god's sake, is everything just about winning, man? Well you've won! You've had your time! The office needs to be filled by someone who actually gives a damn about the job! And doesn't use it as some sort of... some sort of trophy to be flaunted around! There are real people getting hurt because you're not protecting them! People who trust you and rely on you as their leader!"

Now Ned had had enough. "I'm going to give you the professional courtesy of hanging up before you embarrass yourself any further. I had expected better of you, Timothy. This lack of decorum will be forgotten, as I assume you've taken to the drink tonight. I do hope that our next conversation will be civil and amiable. Good-bye."

With that, Ned hung up and tossed his phone on the side table, shaking his head as he did so. "Christ." He muttered to himself. "When did it all become so personal."

He looked back on the mantle, at his newest addition to the trinkets and trophies that adorned the elegantly carved wood. There, settled to the right of a trophy engraved 1972 Regional Baseball Champions, stood a folded letter of white cardstock. Inscribed in fine gold calligraphy on the front were those words that enamored him more than twenty years ago:

Congratulations, Governor Starmer. - George W. and Laura Bush.

After a long moment of silent reflection, Ned snapped back into reality and realized that the record player had skipped a groove and been repeating itself in the background of the crackling logs.

Do I deserve such a break-

Do I deserve such a break-

Do I deserve such a break-

The disjointed melody stopped as he lifted the arm from the torn vinyl. He stood in the silent room, lost in his head as he regarded the museum of success around him. Suddenly, this room that was his safe place felt all too suffocating. He downed the last of his cocktail, glaring at that pristine picture on the mantle. Those young, bright eyes stared back at him, but they hardly seemed recognizable anymore. In the dancing shadows of the low fire, the picture warped and shifted, until a more familiar form came into focus.

There, standing straight and proud with the same bright and passionate eyes, was Timothy Hardin.

Ned scoffed and shook his head, dabbing sweat from his brow as he stomped out of the den and up his fine mahogany staircase. He was tired, that's all it was. A shifting of light and anger from the phone call warped his vision, making him see things.

Ned crawled into his ample bed, dreading all the things he had to do tomorrow now that the election was finally over. Again, that ardent and youthful gaze beckoned in his mind. An echo of emotion resounded within his memory, taking him back to that first election: the one where he beat Victor Stone in a landslide victory. He had not dreaded the duties of the office then. He'd gone to bed holding the sleeping form of his wife, dreaming of the future he could pave in his new office. It all felt like a lifetime ago.

He curled up under fine satin sheets, drifting off to restful sleep in the empty king bed. Ned Starmer hardly dreamed anymore. When he did, it was of baseball, and college, and that old lounge music from his youth.