Meet and Greet

Meet and Greet 2019

I hate nylons! Whoever invented them should be shot. Straightening my elephant ankles, I hike my periwinkle sheath skirt up to a controversial height, while squatting in an attempt to force the pantyhose to where it was supposed to be.

Glancing around the parking lot of St. Alphonsus Catholic school, I pray no one important catches me in this not-so-professional display. No one does. Using my reflection in the driver’s side window, I smooth out my blouse, tuck my long brown locks behind my left ear and exhale. I drive a shiny, silver Elantra with windows just the right shade of tint I like to call “Middle Class Mystery”. It’s somewhere between “PTO President” level of importance and “Rock Star”.

Staring at the pavement, I focus on placing one heeled shoe in front of the other without my ankle wobbling. Flip-flops are back in the car, glad for the reprieve. I am counting the hours until I could vacate these European torture devices and put them back on. My second toe is hurting because the unnaturally pointy Italian pumps are causing it to overlap my big toe. It’s getting cut by a neighboring long toe nail desperately waiting to be pedicured.

Trying to text my boss, Are you here? the palm, tree-lined curb creeps up on me. I stumble, twist my ankle and fall to one knee. Crap, now I have a run in my stocking. I should just take them off.

“No!”, the little Italian grandmother yelled in my right ear.

I pause outside the doors of the school, not wanting to go in without her. My watch says it’s 10:43am. We only have 17 minutes until POTUS is due to arrive. Is that even enough time to get through security? Refresh, refresh. No email, no text, yes I have a signal,

Boss has not responded.

I don’t want to wait.

There is a makeshift security gate. I retrieve my driver’s license and open my bag to be searched.

“Good Morning,” I say with a smile that does not reflect my apprehension.

“Name?” the guard asks louder than the creaking that happens when plastic hits plywood in rhythm with the whirring sound of the rusty blades of the old standing fan.

“Eliza Loftin. I am a journalist from the Orlando Sentinel.”

The guard flips through pages on a clipboard. “Spell it.”

“L-o-f-t-i-n”

“You aren’t on the list,” the guard grumbles without making eye contact with me.

Of course. “I am here to meet my boss, Meredith Zilquist. “

“Zilquist. She already came through. You are her Plus 1”, he says.

“I guess that makes sense. I am an intern.” I admit, under my breath. The next person in line behind me sighs in a way that says loud and clear, he is in a rush and not in the mood to be held up here.

“Phone.” The guard says.

“I’m sorry?”

“You can’t bring your phone inside,” the expressionless man finally glances my way. (433)

Oh no, my lifeline! I check my texts which is moot because if Meredith is already inside, she doesn’t have her phone. The Samsung song reverberates through the room as it powers down. Reluctantly, I hand it over and sign in.

He hands me a lanyard with a visitor badge hanging from it. Looping it around my neck, I ask the second guard, “Any idea where the bathrooms are?”

He was roly-poly and a smiley old gent with a yellowy-gray handlebar mustache, “I saw some girls going in through a door at the end of the hall. I think it’s down on the right. When you’re done, come back this way and I’ll show you to the gym. That’s where the meet and greet will be.”

“Thanks,” I respondedrespond. Meet and greet? Did he say meet and greet? Meet who? Not POTUS, I hope. Probably just the School Principal.

Pushing open a door with a worn sign that reads Girls. I flash back 20 years to my own elementary school. The white porcelain sinks are about 3 feet off the ground. Pink puddles of soap sit on the black and white tiled floor under each of the dispensers, one is still dripping. I don’t bother going into a stall. Holding onto the mini-sink, I slip off the heels. It takes a minute for my feet to expand back to normal. Removing the torn stockings, I toss them into the trash and jam my feet back into the shoes. Each time I pass a closed classroom door, I hear excited students clambering and the teachers trying to calm them.

The friendly security guard is waiting for me with three other people. Two of the men have large video cameras, one has a large orange sticker plastered to the side that says Orange Weekly. His red, curly goatee sticks out from his chin as he smiles at me. The other cameraman was dressed in a dark blue golf shirt and khakis but on his feet, were flip flops. I didn’t even need to look at histhis feet to know this — the flap-suck of his every step was proof enough.

“Hi,” I mumbled. The bearded guy answers, “Hey.” The other photographer smiles and the other tall, well-dressed man walks ahead of all of us. He looks important and vaguely familiar.

I don’t know where I’m going so I am content to walk behind the guard, who has a line of sweat marks down the back of his shirt and waddles as he walks, his feet angling out as he steps. Dirty shoelace bows hang off the sides of his worn uniform shoes. I had an uncle who was overweight. His shoelaces were tied the same way. A result of a belly too big to reach your feet properly to tie them so the bow is dead center of the shoe. His dirty shoelace bows hang off the sides of his worn uniform shoes. My Uncleshoes My Uncle had a heart-attack and died last year at 65. This guy’s time bomb is ticking, too.

Behind us, classroom doors were opening and lines of students began to fill the hallway. As we turn the corner, I see Meredith rushing towards me, dressed nicely but her hair was a hot mess.

My smile quickly fades as I see a panicked expression on her face. “Hi, everything okay?” I ask her.

“No, I need to leave,” she digs through her purse, retrieving her keys. “My son has had an accident at school. Broken arm they think. Maybe surgery. He’s pretty upset.”

I am relieved. Maybe I’ll get out of these shoes sooner than I thought. “Okay, well, family first, right?” and I turn to walk out with her. (1,039)

“No, you stay. Really. Our cameraman, Joe, is already inside. You can represent the Sentinel. There is no Q&A, you’ll be fine,” she says, backing away.

I say nothing. I am just supposed to observe, since it’s only my first week. I didn’t even vote for this guy.

Meredith is at the exit now, retrieving her bag. “Text me if you have any questions.”

“Can’t text. They took my phone,” I call after her.

“Oh, right. We’ll talk later. Gotta go!” and Meredith disappears through the guarded double doors.

Hustling to catch up with the group, we enter the gym that is far fuller than I anticipated it would be. I recognize Joe, the Orlando Sentinel cameraman. Nice guy, bad teeth and hair. He and Rowe could discuss combover gels, I think. He waves me to a seat on the bleachers but before I sit down, there is an announcement.

A middle-aged man in a blue pinstripe suit with brown shoes bellows, “Okay, everyone, the President is on his way in. He will greet all of you while the students are filing in. Governor, Chairman and Principal Sloan, please form one long straight line starting here. Teachers next. Media last — I will remind you there are no questions. This is not an opportunity for more fake news, People. Cameras shoot from the bleachers or from behind your reporters.”

Joe leans in and whispers, “Because, you know, when it’s caught on tape it’s fake news.”

Humph. I smile but don’t respond.

Am I seriously going to meet the President? Fuck! This President — of all Presidents. I don’t want to. Like a sheep, I follow the flock. I take a place in line, directly under the basketball net. What are the chances someone will shoot a basket so I get cracked in the head by a ball and knocked unconscious? The students file in. None of them have basketballs.

From a side door, the entourage pours in. The most suits this gym has ever seen I reckon. Reckon? Why did I think reckon? I never use that word. Then — he is here. The President of the United States. In this little under-sponsored school in the middle of gator country. He walks like a President, head high, arms swinging. He is dressed like a President, navy suit red tie despite the thick humidity of late spring in Florida. Thinning reddish-brown hair swirled into a spiral, sprayed to the top of his head. Tan but wrinkled. He smiles that broad, politician smile when the applause starts.

Applause! Who the fuck is clapping for this guy? You do remember that he proposed a $9 Billion cut to your budget, right? (1,486)

My eyes dart around to see who is leading the cacophony. It is the Governor and Chairman of the Board of Education — whose name escapes me. Nice journalist I am.

I turn back to Joe, “Are you getting this?” I ask but his camera is already panning the welcome line. He stops when he gets to the first teacher who is decidedly not clapping, and then pans back to the front of the line. Lens growing long as he zooms in on President Rowe meeting and greeting his comrades in the front.

My head swims with all I know about this man, this Leader of the Free World, this racist, sexist, ageist imbecile. Every meme I’ve ever read flashes in front of my eyes like a cartoon. Stomach squirreling, a tiny bit of SBD gas sputters out my rear. As he makes his way down the line, I feel myself getting physically ill.

So many times, I ran conversations through my head of this moment. What would I say to this man who very decidedly does not represent me or the values my country holds dear? Now is my opportunity to tell him how I feel. This is it!

I am a Taurus. It’s all over my natal chart which means I can bitch with the best of them. Not only will I snuff his handshake, I will say something so impactful that he will leave here with a new lease on life, not knowing what hit him. Think, Eliza, think! It needs to be something so profound and personal that it will save the country from a future of dictatorship by a lunatic. Eliza Loftin, America’s Hero!

Just four teachers and the reporter from Orange Weekly are ahead of me. POTUS is approaching the non-clapping crew. How will the first woman respond? Wait! Is she really shaking his hand?

“Thank you for coming, Mr. President,” she says. I am blown away, wow! I can’t help but feel disappointed in her reticence. I was looking forward to the POTUS becoming shocked and appalled from the unexpected tongue lashing delivered from this meek, unassuming educator and from the missed opportunity of unleashing the “Oh Snap!” I was holding onto. Now there would be no celebration with my comrade later over high-fives and few rounds of “we sure told him, didn’t we?”

He smiles at her, ignorant to the hypothetical bullet he just dodged in my mind and moves on down the line. That’s pretty classy, actually. More respectful than he deserves. I guess she did the right thing. It’s an option. I can shake his hand and deliver my line. He will remember how clever I was. I may not change his mind. I may not save my country but I will have the satisfaction of letting him know that I don’t like him, didn’t vote for him. He is not my President.

What’s my line? Maybe I will compliment him on the size of his balls, showing up at a struggling school, with asbestos cracking and falling from the gym ceiling, rust-scarred bathroom sinks and teachers in limp, stained clothes, and shoes with peeling pleather heels; after cutting their budget down to the lowest ever. (2,022)

“Mr. President, I am Dan Levine from WFTV. Can you tell us please the origin of your Facebook post yesterday, about Chairman of the Orlando’s Department of Education, whose hand you shook only moments ago, where you said and I quote “I hope Chairman Rosas is wearing a dress tomorrow?’ end quote.”

What is he doing? There isn’t supposed to be any Q&A! Panicking, I realized that successful journalists ask questions whether or not they are allowed to. Oh God, I can’t! I’m not ready. It’s only my first week.

The President is turning red with embarrassment or anger, I’m not sure which. Fumbling, he is deciding how to answer the TV personality, when Blue Suit Brown Shoes intervenes, “I said, No Fake News,” and he ushers the President in my direction.

I want to run. I need to ditch this scene — pronto.

The reporter won’t be silenced. He holds up a phone, a phone he’s not supposed to have; with the Facebook post front and center. “Are you saying that the President’s Facebook account has been hacked. Someone else posted this?”

Rowe turns back, despite his cohorts urging him forward. Now’s my chance! Turn and run. But I don’t. I am rooted to the spot.

I am amazed at how asinine this reporter looks and now I know why he looks familiar. Not because he is a television news anchor, but because he won an Emmy for his coverage of Hurricane Matthew. This is someone I am supposed to emulate? A newbie journalist should learn from those who are successful in their field and Dan Levine is certainly that. But, I don’t want to be like him. I don’t want to be like the President, either.

I want to be like the un-clapping teacher with the older clothes and worn shoes. I choose grace. I choose humility. The President of the United States is standing in front of me now. I need to decide, right here, right now. What’s my line? His pink, unmarred, never-did-hard-labor-a-day-in-his-life hand is extended out to receive mine. What’s my line?

I grasp his hand. Full and firm. He shakes it once and tries to let go but I don’t let him. He stiffens as we make eye contact, as if waiting for the lashing that comes from every media outlet he encounters. Blue Suit Brown Shoes is about to intervene.

My left hand covers our handshake, encapsulating our grasp in an intimate way neither of us expected. POTUS is surprised, curious at my intent. The whirring sound of a camera lens zooming purrs in my ear, background to the murmurs of the children bribed into good behavior by their teachers.

“Mr. President. Regardless of celebrity taunts, news — fake or otherwise, tweets, Facebook posts, every time you give an American an opportunity to succeed, you succeed yourself. That’s all anyone ever wants. An opportunity to succeed in whatever endeavor they pursue. That is the American dream.”

He nods, contemplating, “What’s your name?”

“Eliza Loftin, Orlando Sentinel, Sir”

“Thank you, Eliza,” and he limply shakes the last reporter’s hand without meeting him or greeting him.

President Rowe turns to the students of St. Alphonsus and waves to them, “Good Morning, Students. You were so quiet, I didn’t even know you were here.”

Laughter. The President continues to talk to the children on their level. Not condescending or elitist, as far as I can tell. Pray that he says something worthwhile they will carry throughout their lives. But I’m not really listening to him. It’s the sound of my own breath that has my attention. My skin cools, my heart beat returns to normal.

The un-clapping teacher is looking at me. She is smiling. She understands. We both have won.

Email Gabrielle 518.867.9394