The Exclusive
by Jeffrey Conolly
Brigham was on the radio.
It shouldn't have surprised me, really, he was everywhere now, but it was still odd. It isn't everyday you get to hear a blind mute on the radio.
The blind and mute prophet's fame had grown rapidly in the last few years. I had first seen him a year ago. I didn't actually watch that famous Today Show performance live, but my brother showed it to me on YouTube.
Three weeks later, when a famous rocker overdosed on the night the prophet predicted he would, I got chills.
That week I went to church for the first time in years.
And now, as I drove towards the conference center, he was on the radio.
Bringham only communicated in Morse code. His father, a navy man is the one rumored to have taught him, although he isn't revered as any type of miracle worker.
What came out the radio was a series of clicks as Bringham tapped his cane on some unseen surface. His interpreter, Ben Mason, ever at his side, talked over the clicks in a smooth but pleasant voice, delivering the words of the great prophet.
It made the reality that I was on my way to meet them for an exclusive interview that much more real. I tried to dry my face and hands of the nervous sweat. I tried to calm the butterflies in my stomach.
This was my big break.
I arrived to the conference center in good time, and was able to sit in the car and hear the rest of the radio show. Callers told the prophet how much they appreciated him and everything he'd done for the country (having the best economic strategist born and bred on American soil was doing wonders for the dollar). Callers asked life questions, ethical questions and even deep philosophical questions. And for everything he had an answer that came in a series of clicks with his cane and Mason's translation.
When it was done, I made my way into the conference building, where I was quickly ushered into a charming little office suite filled with colorful plants.
“You get five minutes with him, Mr. Graves, that's it!” The assistant said. He wore a wire receiver in his ear like he was FBI.
“Okay,” I said, looking at the colorful plants. I found it so interesting that the man with the best human insight in the world could never see such beauties.
“Five minutes,” the assistant said, as if I hadn't heard it. He left the room, propping the door open on his way out.
I tried to calm the butterflies in my stomach, but it seemed to only increase their gusto.
Mason led the prophet into the room, and sat him down in one of the leather chairs. He slid the coffee table close enough that it could be tapped by the prophets emerald cane.
Brigham's figure was withered and old; his face seemed to be almost closing in on itself.
In contrast Mason was young and handsome, standing proud in a custom three-piece suit. “William Graves?” he asked, extending his hand. His smile was enchanting.
I took his hand, “Benjamin Mason, glad to meet you.”
“You too.” It seemed an odd thing to say, but Mason's face showed sincere. “I've spoken with your brother, but never directly with you, I'm honored.”
“So you're going to try and be a senator?” I said. My brother was well connected, and his endorsement of Mason was how I'd gotten the interview. “Isn't that going to be difficult while being a full time interpreter?”
“Is that a question for your interview?”
“It could be.”
Mason seemed to consider it.
Brigham stared forward.
“I believe it's time for me to move forward in my political career, but Brigham will always be by my side.” He looked at the withered profit, then back at me and smiled, “and I will always be by his.”
“And do you see yourself doing anything beyond that…I mean politically speaking?”
“You mean beyond senator?”
“Like president?”
“I'll fulfill any office to which the people of this great country will allow me.” Mason smiled and leaned back into a chair. “Now, any questions for the prophet?”
I had thought about these questions for weeks. I would never truly get a chance like this again to define my career with a high profile interview.
“Will America always be a prosperous nation? Will it ever cease to be?”
Mason began tapping on the coffee table while I was midsentence. At the first tap the prophet perked to an alert position. After Mason was finished, Brigham seemed to consider a moment, then began tapping himself with his cane.
Mason, well practiced, started interpreting seamlessly, “America will be prosperous till its end, which will be an end of peace. It will cease to be, when all countries and dividing lines between men will cease to be, and that time is sooner than you think.”
“And what of religion, which one is right?”
More tapping. More consideration.
“All of them and none of them. It's what's inside each and every one of us that really matters, and what we believe is right, as an individual.”
“And these Christian rumors, claiming you, that is Mason, are the Antichrist and Brigham the false prophet…is there any truth to them?”
Mason's smile dimmed.
“Mr. Graves?” The assistant had reappeared in the doorway, noticeably disturbed, “Your five minutes are up.”
“It was nice to meet you, Benjamin Graves,” Mason extended his hand, “but we really must be going. Terribly busy schedule, you know.”
He smiled.
I took his hand and smiled back.
He wheeled Brigham out of the office, their assistant trudging behind.
I sat back in the chair, trying to piece together my article from the limited material, the butterflies in my stomach replaced with a sick feeling.
He had never answered the question.
~~~~~ <~
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