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Simon Pure, the chief headhunter at the Important People Placement Agency, wiped his weary brow and went back to shuffling among the papers that sprawled across his desk.
The National Democratic Party had engaged him to find an acceptable presidential candidate, and the Reagan White House wanted him to locate a justice for the Supreme Court of the United States. Simon Pure had been putting in some exhausting 100-hour weeks lately, and yet he could report little progress toward filling those vacancies. His clients were growing impatient.
He scanned the presidential list. Once it had been filled with brilliant, forceful people, the kind that could inspire and lead a nation that lately seemed rudderless and depressed.
But the problem was that they were all humans. One promising candidate couldn't keep his pants zipped up. Another sometimes borrowed other people's prose without giving due credit. Some had been seen weeping in public.
They all had the problem of being imperfect humans, Simon Pure mused. His predecessors had an easier job, he figured.
For instance, all Democrats pay homage to FDR, who led the nation out of a depression and through a world war. But FDR would last about twenty seconds in presidential politics today. He chain smoked Camel straights, which would offend the health zealots. He kept a mistress, and had a loud-mouthed wife, too, who was always poking into things that weren't really her business. He said brutally insensitive things about political rivals, and certainly hurt their feelings.
Simon Pure's strained eyes moved over to the Supreme Court folders.
One promising candidate rejected, even though he was a brilliant legal scholar. Another, not so promising, tossed out because he'd smoked marijuana a few times, years ago. Any more, that wasn't much more of a criminal offense than running a stop sign. And it was getting pretty hard to find anyone who had never smoked, smelled or seen the substance.
Simon Pure's intercom buzzed, and he told his secretary to send in the next applicant for an interview. He rose and greeted the candidate, a middle-aged man named A. Pauling Mediocrity.
Tell me, Mr. Mediocrity, what brings you by?
I'm looking for a job.
Oh, you must have been a stockbroker.
No, not exactly.
Then what do you do?
Simon Pure demanded. What
have you done?
Nothing. On both counts.
What?
I've gone to college and graduate school, of course,
so I have ample credentials. But I don't know how to do
anything, and I've never done anything. I've never even
known anyone who might have abused a controlled substance.
I've never winked at a waitress or fudged on a test. I've
never gotten drunk. I always obeyed my parents, my
teachers, and the authors of
How to Succeed
books.
You mean you've never ordered coffee instead of iced
tea at a power lunch?
Simon Pure's excitement began to
build.
No. And I've never worn a hat or a bow tie. I've
never done anything that might be considered
eccentric.
Do you have a sense of humor?
Simon Pure
wondered.
Of course not,
Mediocrity replied. I've never
told a joke or laughed at one, because humor, after all, is
a form of cruelty. Making sport of other people's
misfortunes, that sort of thing. I wouldn't want anyone to
think I'm insensitive.
Great. You're just the man we're looking for. Which
do you want, the presidency or the Supreme Court?
But I don't know anything about public policy or
constitutional law,
Mediocrity protested.
That doesn't matter,
Simon Pure rejoined. This
is America in 1987. What you know or do isn't important.
It's what you are that matters. And the less you are, the
better.
Mediocrity would take the Supreme Court vacancy, they decided. With a happy heart, Simon Pure knocked off for the day. One down, one to go. Somewhere in America, he knew, there was another Mediocrity, and he'd find him.
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