The Utmost

III

"He looks like an important black man," says Abe, holding the remote.
Em looks up from her copy of the High Desert Post.

"What?" she says. "What makes you say that?"
"He's got grey hair. Like Morgan Freeman," he drinks his pop and points to the television with the remote. "And he's wearing a suit."

Abe ignores the glare Em gives him. He sees her eyebrow raise in his peripheral.

"What?"
"Sometimes you should listen to how asinine you sound. Borderline racist."
"How is that borderline racist? I'm saying the man looks important. Good for him. Black people gaining upward mobility."
"Wearing a suit is upward mobility."
"Being on TV is upward mobility."

"What's that story about?" Em asks.
"It's about the local NRA chapter. Dude's president."
Em drops her paper on the floor and leans closer into the screen. "The man is holding a shotgun. Black man holding a shotgun on a station broadcast to the only redneck county in California. That's really going to appease the base."
"Let's go see if the neighbors are starting up their trucks, loading up on guns. Bringing their friends."
Em grabs the remote and mutes the newscaster.
"What?" Abe asks. "I think the guy's running for county sheriff." Underneath the candidate's image reads his name, "Kurt Weber."

Em and Abe watch the newsreel silently. Kurt shakes hands with some of the locals and the footage cuts to him at the shooting range, discharging the rifle at several targets.

"I fight red tape like I fight crime" is his one soundbite.

Em gets up from her seat and begins walking into the kitchen. "You need to stop watching the news," she says.