by Tim Lockette
Taleesa took me to meet Gov. King, and she lost a freelance job because of it. She was supposed to cover a bicycle race in Anniston for a sports magazine, but somebody had to drive me to Montgomery, and with Dad working a death penalty case, his job came first.
I know Taleesa was mad, because she was in comic book mode. Taleesa has never sold a comic book script, or even completed one, but when she’s frustrated with Dad she starts coming up with ideas about superheroes and their screwed-up families.
“So there’s a family with two moms,” she said as we turned off the interstate. “Or at least, it seems like there are two moms. One is a superhero and the other one is a normal. But here’s the thing: nobody, even the kids, ever sees the two moms in the same place at the same time. If Super Mom is taking care of the kids, Normal Mom is at the dentist. And when Normal Mom gets back, Super Mom just flies off to save the world. It’s like Clark Kent and Superman. They haven’t been in the same room for years. Are they the same person? Are they complete strangers, hired by some secret government agency to guard these super-kids? Do they even have a real relationship? And the biggest question: why does Normal Mom have to do so much of the work?”
Hey, I’ll play along.
“So,” I said. “What if Normal Mom is actually a super, too, but the agency decided her powers aren’t as good as the other mom’s, so they make her stay home with the kids?”
“Thank you,” Taleesa said. “That’s exactly what I’m talking about. We need to write this down.”
And then we turned onto Dexter Avenue, the main street of downtown Montgomery. It was breathtaking, at least to me. Down at one end of the street, there was a fountain and a bunch of empty three-and four-story buildings, like some city street in a cop show. But you look up the street and there’s the capitol building, big and gleaming white like a moon too close to earth.
“Oh man,” Martinez said. “It looks just like the capitol in that movie, Selma.”
“It is the capitol in the Selma movie,” Taleesa said. “The same building. Martin Luther King stood right there and gave the speech. And look over to your right. That’s Dexter Avenue Church, where Dr. King preached.”
We came to a stoplight. I turned and, like, twenty feet away was a little brick church.
“Whaat?” I said. “Martin Luther King’s church this close to the capitol? Good Lord, you could just about throw a rock from here and hit the capitol.”
“You’d have to have a really good arm,” Taleesa said.
“I could do it,” Martinez said. “I could stand right there at Martin Luther King’s church and throw a rock right through the capitol window and hit George Wallace right in the head.”
Sigh. Little brothers.
“Let’s set up a ground rule now,” Taleesa said. “No talk about hitting any governor of Alabama in the head while we’re in the governor’s office. Promise me you won’t say anything, Martinez, unless you’re spoken to.”
We parked right at the foot of the capitol steps, white steps that seemed to pour down the hillside like a waterfall. From the bottom of those steps you look up and you realize that the capitol is really, really big, like the giant’s house at the top of the beanstalk.
“I’m just a bill, yes I’m only a bill,” Martinez sang as we climbed the steps.
A giant’s house. There were massive white columns, and on top of them a clock in a cube-shaped box. It looks like a normal wall clock at first, but as you approach, you realize that the clock is probably six feet tall. The capitol is a three-story building , with windows, but as you walk up you see that they’re giant’s windows, maybe fifteen feet tall. We walked past a statue of Jefferson Davis, glaring down at us and wearing a ridiculous cape. And there was a statue of some old-fashioned doctor in a lab coat that buttoned on the side.
“Cool,” Martinez said. “They have statutes of Dracula and Dr. Frankenstein. I gotta get a picture of this!”
We walked right between the white columns to the front door—a big wooden door tall as a basketball hoop. From here, the capitol seemed to hang over us like a massive cliff.
“I can’t do it,” I said, stopping. “I forgot what I’m going to say. I had a whole speech ready and now I’m blank.”
Taleesa put her hand on my shoulder. “Don’t let it intimidate you,” she said. “This door is big so you’ll be afraid to knock. Remember, this whole thing was built during slavery times. It was built as a palace that neither you nor I were supposed to set foot in, except as servants. But it’s our palace now. You just have to knock.”
I reached out and knocked. Because Taleesa was watching, I knocked hard.
A hollow sound. No answer.
“Just open it,” Taleesa said.
I turned the knob and we went in. Inside, there was a big quiet room that smelled like floor wax and soap. A swirly staircase to one side, that looked like a princess should come down it. And a green and brown metal desk where an old white cop with a crew cut sat. He stood and smiled.
“People always knock,” he said. He was supposed to run us through a metal detector, but when we introduced ourselves, he waved us on.
“The governor’s expecting you,” he said. “Up the steps, turn left at the statue, and wait at the big doors.”
At the top of the steps, a round room with a statue of a lady with big hair. Lurleen Wallace, the first woman governor. I know because it said so on a plaque. We turned left, down a hallway with big portraits of guys in old-fashioned clothes in creepy dark rooms. Taleesa said they were past governors, but I think they had a loose definition of what it means to be a governor, one that went all the way back to French and Spanish times. A couple of the paintings were of guys wearing lace and armor and long, curly hair like 1980s rock stars.
“Bigwigs,” I said under my breath, just now understanding what that word meant.
“Dude, this is a full-on castle,” Martinez said. “When I’m governor, I’ll get my picture made with a fuzzy Russian hat, and a big sword, and a tiger sitting at my feet. Or maybe a wild pig, what do you call those?”
“A boar?” I said.
“No, no,” Martinez said. “There’s some other name. Dang. I can’t think of it.”
More big doors. Another cop, who nodded, picked up a radio and said: “The next appointment is here.”
I looked around. The ceiling was so tall, the wood of the staircase nearby was so shiny. Martinez was right that this was a castle of sorts. Fifty years older than our historic house, without all the creaking and mouse holes and carroty smells and darkness. If you lived here, you could start thinking of yourself as some kind of princess. A bigwig.
The door opened, and another cop led us down another giant hall, to an office.
And there he was, standing by his secretary’s desk. In white shirt and tie, without a coat, eating an Oreo and laughing with some guy in a suit. The governor of Alabama, Fischer King.
“Oh, hey,” King said, chucking the cookie in the garbage and dusting off his hands. He was tall, older than Dad, handsome in a dull kind of way. He was clearly losing some of his hair, but the brown hair he did have was poofed up in a way that must have taken a lot of time with a hairdryer.
He stuck his hand out. “You must be Miz Peale.”
I shook his hand, and, against my better judgment, kind of curtseyed a little. But after looking into his eyes I didn’t feel nervous at all. He had a way of looking at you as though you were a long-lost friend.
“Oh,” I said, grabbing Taleesa’s hand. “And this is my mom.”
The warm smile stayed, but King was at a loss for words for a second. He stuck out his hand at her. “Fischer King,” he said.
“Taleesa Peale,” she replied. “The evil stepmother.”
“Ah, I see,” he said. “Well you can’t be all that evil to drive the kids all the way up from Houmahatchee on a workday. Your husb
and should be thankful.”
A big grin from Taleesa. “You know, you’re exactly right.”
I pushed Martinez forward a little. “And this is my little brother,” I said.
“Fischer King,” the governor said.
Martinez took his hand and shook it.
“A peccary!” he said. “That’s the kind of pig I was thinking of. When I’m governor, and they make my picture, if I can’t have a pet tiger I’ll have a peccary.”
Taleesa buried her face in her hands. “He’s a little too excited, Governor,” she said. “We’re going to the Montgomery Zoo after this, and . . .”
“Whoa!” Martinez said. “We’re going to the zoo?”
King clapped Martinez on the shoulder. “We’ve got a great zoo, my friend.”
“Do they have a peccary?” Martinez said.
Me: “Stop it, Martinez. Nobody knows what a peccary is.”
“Oh, I know what a peccary is,” King said. “A nocturnal gregarious wild swine. And they do have one. Y’all want to come into my office?”
He led us into a little hallway with a giant wooden emblem—the Great Seal of Alabama—hanging on one wall.
“That thing’s way too big, idnit?” King said to me. “It’s here for when guests come and want to have their picture made with the governor. And I’ll tell you a secret: I use it to get people out of my office. When time runs out, I’m like, hey, how’d you like to get a picture in front of the Great Seal? And then they’re halfway out the door.”
He led us into a dark-paneled office with a big desk and a long shiny table and leather-covered swivel chairs.
“And here’s my office. You can sit behind the desk if you like. I do some work at the desk, but mostly it’s a place for eating cookies. The real work is over here, at the table, talking to people. You want to sit behind the desk?”
“Thanks, Governor, but I don’t want to take up too much of your time,” I said. “Let’s go straight to the table.”
“I’m sitting at the desk!” Martinez exclaimed, and went straight for the governor’s chair. King, Taleesa, and I sat at the table.
“So what are your impressions so far?” King asked me. “What do you think of the capitol?”
“Honestly, Governor, I think I like you a lot more than I expected to,” I said.
King leaned back with a smile. “Well, I’m a politician. It’s my job to make people like me.”
“Well, here’s something that would make me like you even more. Call off the hunt for the alligator in Dead Beaver Swamp,” I said.
“Go on,” he said. “I know you have a case you want to make. Lay it out.”
I went through everything. As governor, he had the power to start or stop the hunt for the gator. Gators almost never bit people in Alabama, so there wasn’t a lot of past experience to go by. But there was no reason to think the so-called Swamp Monster was a danger to anybody unless they were dumb enough to actually chase down the gator.
“They do this in Florida,” I said. “A gator bites someone, so they go on a gator hunt. The first big gator they find, bigger than six feet, they kill it. And they claim they got the gator that bit. Even though they have no way of knowing they got the right gator. It’s just pointless killing.”
“I don’t know,” King said, no longer smiling. “I don’t know if it’s pointless. It makes people feel better. It makes them feel safe.”
“But does it actually make them safe?” I asked. “People are safe when they respect the gators that are there. When they know a gator’s there, and they stay out of the water. What happens if you kill a gator, and claim you got the Swamp Monster, and some other idiot goes swimming in the swamp? Surely if there’s one gator in there, there’s more than one.”
A tall, red-haired woman stepped into the room. “I’ve got your proclamation, Governor,” she said, and handed him a picture frame with a piece of paper in it.
King brightened again. “Ah, the moment I’ve been waiting for. Atty, I called you here to give you this gift. In honor of your activism for kindness to animals, and in respect for your admirable abilities in the law, I hereby appoint you as an honorary colonel, aide-de-camp in the Alabama State Militia.”
He handed me the picture frame. There it was, the same thing he said, but printed in calligraphy on a yellow sheet of paper, with a painting of the Great Seal of Alabama. It looked like a page in some medieval book, but there was my name: “Lt. Col. Atticus T. Peale.”
“Wow,” I said. “Governor, this is really nice. I’m honored.”
“No fair!” said Martinez, rocking in the governor’s chair. “I was part of all this. I want to be a colonel, too.”
“I’m so sorry, Martinez,” the governor said. “I didn’t know you were coming. Jen, how long will it take to make this young man an admiral?”
“I’ll be back with it in a minute, sir,” Jen said.
“Look at him now,” King said. “Your brother. I made his day. This is what I love about this job, having the power to help people. Maybe you’ll be in this same place one day, Atty. I don’t doubt it.”
“Governor, with all due respect, I’m all about helping people now,” I said. “And, you know, you have it in your power to call off this cruel hunt and educate people about the dangers of provoking alligators. All you have to do is give the word.”
King sighed.
“Atty, you’d be surprised,” he said. “You’d be surprised at how little power I really do have sometimes. If the legislature doesn’t like me, I can’t do anything. If the voters don’t like me, I don’t even have a job. And when people are afraid for their safety, it’s not time for me to experiment with new policies. I have to do what I can to make people feel safe. One day you’ll be in this job, or one like it, and you’ll see.”
I shook my head. “Governor, you said it’s your job to make people like you. And I do, Governor, I do like you a lot. But I’m not sure that really is your job. And I don’t ever expect to be in your position. I’d like it if people liked me. But there are more important things than being liked.”
“Atty,” Taleesa scolded, in a stage whisper.
The governor looked wounded, for just a moment, and I felt like a jerk. But then he brightened again.
“Who’d like to get their picture made in front of the Great Seal?” he said.
“An admiral outranks a colonel,” Martinez said. We were walking through the capitol dome, behind Jen Carter, the red-haired woman who worked for the governor. She had just shown us the room where the legislature voted to secede in 1861. Now she was pointing up at the inside of the capitol dome, which was a gorgeous pink, painted over with pictures of slaves loading cotton bales onto a boat and white people riding horses in front of a mansion with columns. The only person not looking up was Martinez, who had his phone out, frantically reading everything he could about the powers of a high-ranking naval officer.
“Dang,” he said. “They didn’t say anything about me being an admiral.”
“They who?” I said, still looking up.
“Look.” Martinez handed me the phone. “I’m in the picture, but no admiral.”
He was reading the website of the governor’s office. They already had a story up about our visit. Photos of me and Martinez with King, in front of the Great Seal.
GOVERNOR HONORS YOUNG ACTIVIST
Alabama Gov. Fischer King honored young activist Atticus Peale, 12, as an honorary colonel during a visit to the Alabama State Capitol today.
“Miss Peale, who is now Col. Peale, is a wonderful example of the kind of civic engagement that made Alabama the great state it is today,” Gov. King said.
Miss Peale and her brother, Martinez, are volunteers at the Strudwick County Animal Shelter, and have produced a series of YouTube videos and newspaper articles to promote pet adoption. She also wrote the governor recently
about his decision to direct state employees to capture and kill the alligator known to Strudwick County residents as the “Swamp Monster.” The Swamp Monster recently attacked and maimed a Houmahatchee man, and local residents tell of a long history of attacks by the creature.
“Col. Peale and I had a frank discussion about the Swamp Monster, and I think we came to substantial agreement that something has to be done to keep the citizens of this state safe,” Gov. King said. “I’m proud to call her my good friend.”
“Aaaah!” I shouted. It echoed through the dome. A group of fourth-graders, on the other side of the capitol dome, all stared at me.
“How can he say this?” I whispered to Martinez. “We didn’t agree to anything! This didn’t happen.”
“Is everything okay?” Jen Carter asked.
I wanted to say, no, your boss is a dirty sack of donkey poop. Something inside me, that Taleesa voice I hear in my head even when she’s not around, told me to just be chill and nod my head. “Some people don’t get to throw tantrums,” Taleesa often says to me, in her sad, wise Milwaukee voice. I’ll never know the whole story about where that voice comes from, but I’ve heard her talk about walking for miles in the snow looking for Old Martinez, her only real parent, when he went missing. I remember her speech at the PTO meeting, when she got all teary-eyed about librarians and how they would not only give a kid a book, but also feed them and listen to their problems and give a kid a place to stay during the day when there was nowhere else to go.
So I waited. We saw the Old House Chamber, with its big silver stove and a plaque honoring the vote to leave the Union. We saw giant portraits of George and Lurleen Wallace. For some reason I got the feeling that both of the paintings were about to fall right on top of us. And then Jen Carter dropped us off at the Goat Hill Store, a capitol gift shop full of books about the Creek War and the Civil War, models of the capitol and dolls in hoopskirts. I kept a polite smile on my face right up until the moment we stepped out of the gift shop and back onto the street.
“Effing coward!” I said, stuffing my honorary colonel certificate, frame and all, into a sidewalk garbage can. “This was all a sham! He didn’t want to talk! He just wanted to shut me down.”