Lesson Five - Writing Assignment

         

Lesson Five Dialogue – Subtext

‘The Deacon’          



         Wearing his official, pleasant, plastic smile, Rolland Donaldson stared at the woman across the desk from him beneath his half-closed eyes.  He slid even further down in the plush leather of his oversized desk chair and waited for her first question.  She fussed over the little tape recorder, seemingly unaware of his intent gaze.  After an eternity, she switched it on and looked up at him. 

         “Interview with Mr. Rolland Donaldson,” she said.  Then, clearing her throat, she asked, “Mr. Donaldson, you have recently returned from New Orleans, where you were helping in the horrible aftermath of Hurricane Katrina.  Could you tell our readers’ what it was like?”

         “I don’t think I could adequately describe the devastation left behind.  Previously, I had only seen such horrors, several years ago, when I volunteered for Habitat for Humanity and built houses in Haiti.”  He sat up, stretched and asked his own question, “Excuse me, but do you mind if I smoke?”  Without waiting for her answer, he opened the humidor, selected a cigar, and lit it.

         “Ah,” the woman answered, “no, of course not.  It is, after all, your office.”  She scooted back in her chair.  She pursed her lips, consulted her notebook, and returned to the interview.  “To begin with, perhaps you could describe what you found.”

         “A swamp, Ms. Jennings.  Of course, the whole place is built on a stinking swamp, so what could you expect.”  He leaned forward and blew smoke towards her.  He had to hold back the smirk.  “We were forced to move around in boats, the water was so high in places.  And, of course, the sewage plants had overflowed as well.  So, we needed to be very careful of inhaling or ingesting any water accidentally.  And the outlying swamps had also overflowed, so we had to watch out for poisonous snakes.  Hell, one of the workers got bitten by an alligator—took off his hand.”  The woman cringed, forcing him to choke back a laugh.  “It was okay.  We caught the ‘gator, and got the hand back.  They were able to reattach it.  Of course,” he said, looking up at the woman, “it isn’t pretty, or work like it used to.”

         He watched the blood drain from her already pasty face before he continued.  “I won’t lie to you.  It wasn’t a nice place to be.  Garbage, sewage and rotting flotsam of objects destroyed in the flood, all swirled together to form this fetid, festering pool.  The stench was awful.”  Once again he blew smoke in her direction, adding, “But then, those people are used to living in filth.”

         The woman sat back even further and stared at him.  He wondered what it was she saw—or thought she did?  She swallowed several times, then asked, “If it’s so terrible, why do you do it?”

         He stared up at her again, the hooded snake-like lids of his eyes lifting a bit and answered, “That’s simple.  I do it for the incredible amount of personal satisfaction it gives me.”  He then turned away from her, picked up a folder, and announced, “I’m sorry, but that’s all the time I can spare for you.  I hope you have enough for your story.  I have some letters to answer before the end of the work day, and then I have a church board meeting.” 

         He began studying the papers in the folder, signifying the interview was finished.