The Overton Window

by Glenn Beck

  Noah was surprised by how different things appeared outside. Hours ago it had been stormy, bleak, and miserable, but now the sky was clearing with the soft lights of the predawn metropolis outshining all but the brightest stars.

  Something lightly brushed his arm and the contact shook him out of his reflections. As he turned to see who’d touched him he found himself needing to look up to make eye contact.

  “Just wanted to say my thank-you,” Hollis said. If he’d still had his hat he would have been clutching it shyly in his hands.

  “Hey, don’t mention it.”

  “No, no.” Hollis shook his head solemnly. “I’m in your debt.”

  “I’ll make a deal with you,” Noah said. “Tell me what time it is and we’ll call it even.”

  The big man looked up and seemed to take a bearing on a number of celestial bodies before ciphering a moment. “I’d say she’s nigh onto half-past four in the morning, give or take some.”

  “Four-thirty. Should I assume that’s Mountain Time?”

  Hollis smiled politely, as though a good friend had made a joke that wasn’t very funny. “Good night, now,” he said.

  “Take care.”

  Up the street a few blocks Noah saw his car round the corner. He raised a hand to make himself known to the driver and watched the Mercedes blink its brights and signal toward the curb.

  Noah took a step toward the car, but stopped when he heard familiar voices behind him. He turned to see Molly and her mother saying goodbye to the last of their departing compatriots. The two of them had apparently stayed back to make sure everyone made it out to the street. When they saw him standing there Molly whispered something in her mom’s ear and they walked up to him together.

  “We were never properly introduced,” the older woman said. “I’m Beverly Emerson.”

  “Noah Gardner.” They shook hands. “It goes without saying, but I wish we could have met without all this trouble.”

  “I understand we have you to thank for going to bat for all of us tonight.”

  “That makes me sound a lot more noble than I feel.”

  “I appreciate what you did, very much.” She gave her daughter a small motherly nudge with an elbow.

  “So do I,” Molly said. There was something hard to place in the way she was looking at him; it wasn’t quite an apology in her eyes, but something like it.

  For his part, he was feeling more and more uncomfortable with all the misplaced gratitude, as though he’d done any more than throw his father’s weight around.

  “I’ll pass your regards along to my lawyer when I see him again. He’s still inside cleaning up after me.” The car arrived, eased up to a smooth stop, and its door locks clicked. Given the circumstances he would have preferred less of a showboat, but the dispatcher had sent one of the silver S600 Pullmans from the downtown garage, a vehicle only slightly less ostentatious than a Richie Rich stretch limousine. “Could I offer you two a ride somewhere?”

  “Oh, that would be fantastic,” Beverly said.

  Molly took the seat across from him, with her mother beside. The interior of this particular car was designed as a four-person conference room and workspace. Even so, its amenities were every bit as over-the-top as any limo devoted to simple luxury. Every point of contact was hand-worked leather and rare polished wood. Each of the four seats, arranged two-facing-two, was bordered by glowing flat panels ready to provide access to a dizzying array of information or entertainment. Touchscreens were embedded seamlessly in the armrests and consoles, poised to order up any conceivable human need. The entire vehicle was a rolling monument to the comforts of First World business royalty; for the cost of the custom work alone within these few cubic feet, you could easily buy a nice house almost anywhere in the world.

  “I don’t always get to travel like this,” Noah apologized as the car got under way. “But just for perspective, my dad wouldn’t be caught dead in a Mercedes. He rides in an armored Maybach 62, or he walks.”

  It turned out that their destinations were all in nearly opposite directions. When the driver asked “Where to?” over the intercom Noah guided him first to the nearest of the three, the Chelsea Hotel. Meanwhile, the two women were looking around at their lavish surroundings, seeming hesitant to touch anything for fear that if they broke it they might have to buy it.

  “You’ll like this,” Noah said, as he opened a center compartment by his side. Behind the sliding door was a neat pyramid of Turkish hand towels, kept constantly warm and moist like fresh dinner rolls. With a set of tongs he passed one to each of them, and then unrolled his own and pressed the steaming cloth to his face, rubbed in the heat, leaned back, and breathed in the faint scents of citrus and therapeutic herbs. His riding companions did the same, and soon there were long sighs from across the compartment, the sounds of unrepentant indulgence, comfort, and relief.

  He knew exactly what they were feeling, though he was managing to keep somewhat quieter about it. The physical sensation was nice enough, but a great mental weight had also been lifted, and that was just now sinking in. The bad night had officially run its course and all three of them were still standing.

  For the next round of refreshment Noah opened the side bar and passed across a soft drink for each of them. Several blocks whispered past the long windows; despite the occasionally rugged pavement and the never-ending city noises outside, the car’s interior was pin-drop quiet and steady enough for major surgery.

  “Molly tells me that you’re a creative writer.”

  Noah had been in the midst of a sip, and nearly spit out his ginger ale.

  “Oh, is that how she put it?”

  “It’s such an interesting business you’re in,” Beverly said. “What’s a typical day like, if you don’t mind my asking?”

  “Typical day,” he said, considering. “Looking at Friday, yesterday now, let’s see … I can’t really discuss what I did early in the morning, same with the afternoon, but at midday I wrote some talking points for a man, a U.S. senator from out west who’s about to become the subject of an ethics investigation.”

  “Did he do something wrong?”

  “Absolutely yes, he did. He helped set up a former aide as an unregistered lobbyist, and then he sat in some questionable meetings in support of that business, and while he was at it he was also carrying on a hot-and-heavy love affair with the guy’s wife for almost a year.”

  “Oh, my.”

  “Yeah, it’s all connected in some pretty sick ways.”

  “And what did you give him to say?”

  “You’ve heard it before—there’s been no wrongdoing, the charges are baseless, a pledge of full cooperation, faith in the process, a little slam at the motivations of his accusers—short and sweet, because he’s so eager to get back to serving the needs of his constituents. Believe me, this sort of thing is routine. It’ll be in the papers tomorrow night; that’s why I can tell you about it.”

  Noah had been through this introductory conversation many times and so he knew what the next question would be. He’d answered it often enough, at scores of cocktail parties and on hundreds of first dates, and his answer had become so smooth and automatic that he no longer had to worry much about it. Trouble was, though the words were basically the same, Beverly Emerson asked the question in a manner that no one else ever had.

  “But doesn’t it bother you sometimes, Noah?”

  It wasn’t asked in mock amazement, or as a high-handed moral judgment, not even as the (much more common) probe for good advice on how best to sidestep one’s conscience in a similarly shady career. Instead she asked the question with genuine compassion, as if she already knew what was in his heart. That gave him no real choice but to answer it honestly.

  “Whenever I make the mistake of stopping to actually think about it? Yes, it really does bother me.”

  The car had pulled up to its first stop, idling there.

  “This is me,” Beverly said. As the driver opened the side door she hugged
her daughter and whispered good night, then leaned forward to pat Noah on his knee. “My friend, it’s been an experience. I hope to see you again real soon.”

  “Good night.” He raised his soda bottle. “Here’s to a quieter night next time.”

  Molly watched her mother’s departure until she’d disappeared safely into the hotel lobby. Then the car was moving again; the driver would choose a scenic holding pattern while awaiting further directions. Oftentimes, he’d surely been instructed, his work was as much about the journey as the destination.

  “You’ve been awfully quiet,” Noah said.

  “I guess I have.” There was a display screen on a swing arm that was partially between them, and Molly eased it aside. “Do you have any music in this car?”

  “Sure.” He tapped a touchscreen near the door, and having no idea what she was into, let the vehicle decide on a playlist.

  “It was my twenty-eighth birthday today,” Noah said. “Yesterday, I mean.”

  “Happy birthday.”

  “Thanks. When I blew out the candle on my cupcake, I made a wish that we’d spend some time together tonight.”

  She smiled a bit. “You probably should have been more specific.”

  “You’re right. I should have said not behind bars.”

  A song began to play low over the speakers, just a sweet, haunting voice and a quiet guitar.

  “Noah?”

  “Hmm?”

  “I want to apologize.”

  “For what?”

  “I think I misjudged you.”

  “I don’t know if you did or not.”

  She looked out the window for a while. There was a scuff and a bruise on her cheek from the fight in the bar, but these marks did nothing to diminish the profile that he’d found so enchanting at first sight.

  “Where are we going?” she asked.

  “Nowhere right now. Do you want to go home?”

  She shook her head. “I’m hungry.”

  “Say no more.” Noah touched the intercom. “Eddie, could you take us up to Amy Ruth’s, on One-hundred-and-sixteenth? And call ahead, would you? I don’t think they’re open yet. Tell Robert we need some orange juice and two Al Sharptons at the curb.” Through the glass divider, he saw the driver nod his head and engage the Bluetooth phone system.

  “What’s an Al Sharpton?” Molly asked.

  “Fried chicken and waffles. You’re a Southern girl, right?”

  She nodded. “But I think the South may be a little bigger than you New Yorkers think. I’ve never heard of chicken and waffles.”

  “Then I guess you’re in for a treat, aren’t you?”

  On the way to the restaurant he learned a little more about her life. Her family had moved around a great deal when she was young, following her father’s job as a journeyman engineer for Pratt & Whitney. They’d ended up living near Arnold Air Force Base outside Manchester, Tennessee. When her dad was killed in an accident at the testing facility there, that’s where they stayed. Her mother then reclaimed her maiden name and started the patriot group they were both still a part of, the Founders’ Keepers, a few years later.

  “How old were you when you lost your father?” Noah asked.

  “Nine.”

  He sighed, and shook his head. “I was ten when my mom died.”

  “I’m sorry.”

  “You know what? New topic. Ask me anything.”

  “Okay. Who’s the most fascinating person you’ve ever met?”

  He didn’t hesitate. “President Clinton. Hands down.”

  “Really?”

  “All politics aside, you’ve never seen so much charisma stuffed into one human being. And you brought up the subject of lying earlier—this man could keep twenty elaborate, interlocking whoppers in his head at a time, improvising on the fly, and have you believing every word while you’re holding a stack of hard evidence to the contrary. His wife might be even smarter than he is, but she doesn’t have any of that skill at prevarication, and Gore was pretty helpless if he ever dropped his script. But Clinton? He’s like one of those plate spinners at the circus: he makes everything look completely effortless. And obviously, in a related skill, he’s a total Svengali with the chicks.”

  “I never found him all that attractive.”

  “Oh, but it’s a whole different thing when someone like that is right next to you, as opposed to on your TV. If he was sitting here now, where I’m sitting? I promise, you’d be helpless. He wouldn’t even have to try. You’d listen to him recite from the phone book for an hour and swear it was written by Oscar Wilde. Clinton could read you a fairy tale and you’d be down to your panties by the time Rapunzel let down her golden hair.”

  “I’ll have to take your word for it.”

  “That being said, he’s also one of the most ruthless sons of bitches who ever walked the earth, and we won’t see another one like him for generations.” He briefly checked their progress out the window. “And how about you?”

  “Hmm?”

  “Who’s your most fascinating person?”

  “Oh.” Molly thought for a moment. “My mother, I guess. I don’t travel in the circles you do, but I’m a huge fan of integrity.” She took a last sip from her soda, leaned back, and put the bottle down. “Speaking of fascinating parents, your father would be a gripping subject.”

  “That he would.”

  “So?”

  “Let me think about where to start … Rhodes Scholar, that’s a little-known fact. He was studying anthropology at Oxford when he met a man named Edward Bernays—Bernays was an admiring nephew of Sigmund Freud, if that explains any part of this messed-up business—and Mr. Bernays needed some new blood, someone with my father’s skill set, to give a shot in the arm to the industry he’d invented a few decades before.”

  “Public relations.”

  “Right. Bernays got his start in the big leagues helping Woodrow Wilson beat the drums to push the U.S. into World War I. And my father’s first project with him was a massive propaganda campaign for Howard Hunt and the CIA, along with the United Fruit Company, when they all got together to overthrow the president of Guatemala in 1954.”

  “No.”

  “Yes. And the rest is literally history.”

  She frowned. “I just imagine armies and tanks in the streets when I think of a coup d’etat, not a bunch of posters and leaflets.”

  “No, no, it’s so much more than that—politics and war, it’s all social psychology, and maybe it always has been. Look at the PR push that got the American people behind going back to war with Iraq in 2003. That wasn’t our company, it was the Rendon Group in Washington, but they do the same work we do. And we don’t take sides unless we’re paid to do so. If somebody comes to us and wants to drum up support for a war, for example, we don’t ask whether it’s right or wrong, any more than the ad agency for McDonald’s asks whether their client is really better than Burger King. But in our case it’s not just words and pictures; that makes it seem too simple. Public relations is the scientific engineering of consent.”

  “I’m not sure I understand.”

  “Take a manufactured takeover, like Guatemala. We engineered the overthrow of a democratically elected president, and this guy was popular, he was going to take their land back from United Fruit and return it to the people. So he had to be demonized before he could be taken down. If you just march in one night, the people might rise up and resist, and you don’t want that. They have to be pacified, so their minds are the first thing you have to change.

  “Use our own country as an example. Eighty million citizens own guns in America, you’d never win if they all started pushing back. You can’t take away the freedom of an aware, informed populace; they have to give it up themselves.

  “So the soldiers come last, and if the PR job’s done right then there’s almost no fight left in the public at all. By the time the tanks roll in, the people welcome them. You know, the whole ‘hearts and minds’ thing. They submit to searches, give u
p all their rights, and forget about their neighbors that got taken away. Listen, the centerpiece on the bookshelf of Joseph Goebbels was a book by Edward Bernays, and I don’t have to tell you how effectively the Nazis used PR. Now, I know that’s a hideous example—”

  “I’m glad to hear you say that.”

  “—but from the very beginning, all of the old guys in this business and their friends in the ruling class, they really saw themselves as the new founding fathers. Seriously, they thought of themselves as shepherds, and the great unwashed masses as their helpless flock. Bernays especially, he believed it was the responsibility of the elites in society to manipulate the general public into decisions they weren’t smart enough to make on their own, by whatever means necessary.

  “His vision for this country, for the world, really, was a huge, benevolent nanny state, a plutocracy, where the people would be spoon-fed in every aspect of their simple, dreary lives. He’d show them how to vote, what to eat, what to love and hate, what to think, and when to think it. And, God help us all, my father took those lessons to heart and built on them. He does what he does better than anybody else ever has.”

  He realized he’d been going on and on, and noticed only then the bleak expression that had settled into Molly’s eyes. She looked like a kid who’d just been told what happens to all the unwanted puppies at the pound.

  “That whole subject was kind of a buzzkill, wasn’t it?” he said.

  “Yeah.”

  “Okay. No more shop talk.”

  The car pulled up to the curb outside the restaurant, the side window glided down, and a broadly smiling man in a white apron approached with a steaming serving tray.

  “Young Mr. Gardner.”