The Elephant, the Demon, and the Meeting

Everyone agreed there was an elephant in the room. It sat between the folding chairs in the town hall, sweating politely, its gray bulk pressed against the fire exit sign. The sign flickered. The elephant pretended not to notice, which was impressive, because it was crushing a Ficus and the Ficus was screaming in plant speak. The meeting was about noise complaints, which was hilarious, because the elephant kept clearing its throat like a guilty trombone. People shuffled papers. Someone coughed. The mayor smiled the way people smile when they hope smiling will distract from the problem. Nobody mentioned the rider. I noticed the rider because it waved at me. It was small, red, and neat, with the posture of someone who files taxes early. It wore a tiny suit and held a clipboard. It smiled like a customer service representative who knows your refund was denied. The demon tapped the elephant with a pen. The elephant took notes with its tail. This was alarming, but not enough to interrupt the meeting. We are a town that prides itself on decorum. Also, we had donuts.

Complaints rolled in. The bakery blamed the drummer who practiced at dawn. The drummer blamed the bakery for bakers who sang at the top of their lungs before the dawn rush. The school blamed the parents. The parents blamed the school. The demon nodded, checked boxes, and whispered into the elephant’s ear. The elephant nodded back, sagely, crushing yet another plant. At one point, the lights went out. The room went cold. A voice laughed from somewhere near the ceiling. People screamed. The lights came back on. The mayor apologized for the inconvenience. The demon wrote down “fear spike acceptable.” Funny how no one asked what it meant. The librarian stood up. She spoke softly, because librarians can weaponize silence. She said we should all listen better. Everyone clapped, because that sounded like a solution and required no real change. The demon clapped too, slower than everyone else, as if savoring each impact. A kid pointed at the elephant and asked why it was there. The parents laughed nervously. The mayor said the elephant represented a metaphor. The demon corrected him. It represented an opportunity. The elephant snorted.

The meeting dragged on. People argued. People forgave. People forgot what they were arguing about. The demon stayed busy, measuring sighs, counting eye rolls, and harvesting the small lies people tell themselves to sleep at night. The elephant grew heavier. The floor audibly creaked. I wanted to say something. I did not. I told myself it was not my job. I told myself someone else would handle it. I told myself it was probably fine. At the end, the demon hopped down, tipped its hat, and whispered one last thing to the elephant. The elephant smiled, which was the scariest part. Everyone went home feeling lighter. The demon did not follow them. It stayed behind, sitting comfortably in the part of the room that everyone failed or even refused to see, because the demon was not the mayor, or the librarian, or the kid, or even the narrator, and in the final accounting it had always been you.

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