NOT AN AMERICAN

by Stanley W Rogouski

  That spring, just after Memorial Day, Catalinelli miscalculated yet again. He not only brought David Sherrod into his inner circle, he brought him into his confidence. Too arrogant to realize that Sherrod already had a resignation letter sitting in his top desk drawer, and still guilty about the three days his young press secretary had spent in "The Dungeon," he invited him to a meeting of "The Cabal," his jokey name for a weekly conference he held with political and business leaders, and friendly people in the media.

  "So David," he said, after the meeting had broken up. "I've been thinking. Why don't we get rid of those two statues at the War Memorial?"

  “Mayor Catalinelli. There are four statues at the War Memorial."

  "I mean the two guys nobody's ever heard of."

  Catalinelli stood up, circled around his press secretary, and, as he gave him a neck massage, explained that he was planning to remove the statues of John Mitchell and John L. Lewis from the War Memorial, and replace them with statues of Ronald Reagan and Pope John Paul II. He would make the announcement on July 4th. If all went well, the demolition crews would begin work on Monday, and he would dedicate the new statues sometime over the summer. A local sculptor, his friend, already had them ready. Catalinelli left that evening believing that he had smoothed things over. A neck rub was a compliment, something he did to every staff member he allowed into his inner circle. Being the first to know about a new project was an even higher compliment. Being allowed in on the ground floor of this project was the highest compliment of all.

  The winter before, SEIU had tried to move into the Winterborn County to organize fast food workers. It had been a half-hearted, poorly managed campaign, ultimately costing them so much time and money they simply wrote off Poison Springs as a nut too tough to crack, an island they would have to hop around on their way to Japan, but it had also rattled the tourist and hospitality industry all out of proportion to the effort that had been put into it. The local economic elite had begun to see union organizers under every bed and around every corner. By removing the statues of Mitchell and Lewis, Catalinelli decided, he was going to show that, like Ronald Reagan, he was the strong man they needed, and, what's more, that David Sherrod was his trusted confident. It meant that he David Sherrod was now a made man, that he was guaranteed employment even if Elizabeth Felton did win the election. It meant that instead of facing a tough job market after he left City Hall, he'd be offered a position as a consultant, or as an efficiency expert, or as a fellow at a conservative foundation. That was good money. It was better than good money. That was hire a Swedish nanny and send your kids to Harvard money. How could he not be flattered?

  But Michael Catalinelli had underestimated David Sherrod. All Sherrod could think of that evening was the mayor's hands on the back of his neck. It made him feel like a stooge and a lackey, even a slave, and it was time, he decided, to rebel, to tip over the money changers tables in Michael Catalinelli's temple. He began making plans that evening, eventually deciding that he would go along with the July 4th festivities as planned, but, later that that weekend, he would return with 20 or 30 hand-picked men and occupy the pump house and war memorial until the mayor agreed not to remove the statues. He would send press releases to the media, and, more importantly, to SEIU, who, he assumed would be eager to jump on the opportunity to move back into Poison Springs.

  Early that July, when Cathy Chegoffgan noticed dozens of strange men milling about the fountain, she wandered over to the steps of City Hall, only to notice dozens more. She had recently moved from her mother's tiny house in Munitions Park into her apartment in the Aeolian Harp Building downtown. She was carrying her old Hasselblad. Reagan Plaza on a Sunday evening two days after the Fourth of July, should have been deserted, and yet here were almost 100 men, obviously organized, and obviously planning something. When she saw David Sherrod, whom she recognized from local TV news, flanked by 15 or 20 men, all of whom had tools, supplies, spare clothes, materials for signs and banners, laptops, and American flags, she decided she wanted to know more.

  "I know you from the news," she said. "You're the guy the Post calls Michael Catalinelli's butler, right?"

  Sherrod smirked.

  "Actually I'm the guy they call Michael Catalinelli's bitch," he said, laughing. "Why don't you come along? None of this will be secret tomorrow."

  Cathy Chegoffgan followed David Sherrod and his companions over to the War Memorial. The key to the plan, she learned, was the date, Sunday afternoon and evening, July 6th, two days after the Fourth of July, which that year had fallen on a Friday. Since nobody worked on Sunday night, not even the police, careful planning would allow them to seize the pump house and the war memorial before the city could mount an effect campaign to evict them. It worked. Poison Springs woke up Monday morning to find that David Sherrod and 70 other men had lodged themselves in the pump house and war memorial. Most people shrugged, assuming it was a publicity stunt for the mayor's plan to replace the two statues. Catalinelli himself was slow to respond. The idea that one of his employees resented him and had decisively broken with his regime never really entered into his mind. He seemed to think that it would be a good way to let Sherrod, who he genuinely valued, to finally get out his anger over being held in The Dungeon.

  "He'll be back," he said to Joe Devanny, Chief of the Poison Springs Metro Police. "Let him have his little temper tantrum."

  But Michael Catalinelli had underestimated just how much the Comprehensive Citizens Identification Act (CCIA) had come to represent, not "protection from illegals," but "oppression by big government." With most of the Mexicans gone, the Poison Springs Metro Police were already begun using the now obsolete legislation as an excuse to target meth labs, marijuana dealing, off the books employment, and even violations of the city building codes. Many people in Poison Springs had also become aware that their city had become a laughing stock. The boycotts had fizzled but the jokes about toothless rednecks, leather jacketed bikers, trailer parks, meth labs, and ignorant hillbillies remained. An extended protest against the CCIA was, therefore, initially quite popular.

  Then there was Dan Sedgwick. Sedgwick, an Iraq war vet, and off again and on again professional agitator, had long been a vocal opponent of the Comprehensive Citizens Identification Act (CCIA). He had traditionally been reluctant to support anything he didn't start himself, completely sitting out Nicholas Felton's protests altogether, but he also had a better understanding of the rules governing Reagan Plaza than anybody else in Poison Springs, including Michael Catalinelli himself. He showed up at the pump house the day after David Sherrod had taken it over.

  Reagan Plaza, he explained, no longer had a curfew. In 2010, in order that America's Guard could maintain a 24 hour presence on the lawn in front of City Hall, Michael Catalinelli himself had pushed for its repeal. He had also added a codicil to the laws governing Reagan Plaza that any group holding any part of the park effectively had a permit as long as it had possession. Pleased, Sherrod invited Sedgwick to participate in what soon became known as "The United Coalition Against Xenophobia."

  Sedgwick who was known as a malcontent, was also very widely known as a malcontent. He had plenty of fans among the city's other malcontents, and they in turn, had contacts of their own. The media blackout that Catalinelli was able to enforce for the first few days, proved useless. The Saturday after the Fourth of July, over 5000 people showed up for their first big rally.

  Soon, tents and other makeshift shelters began to surround the pump house and war memorial, at first a few dozen, but, after a week, over a hundred, then even more. Local restaurant owners, who hated the CCIA, since it had deprived them of cheap Mexican labor, began to donate food. Someone converted the spare fire hydrants into showers. Media came from outside Poison Springs, and then from inside Poison Springs. The Poison Springs Metro Police, who had expected maybe 100 or 200 people, had no way of evicting several thousand, at least not without getting violent, and Michael Catalinelli, who didn't want bad publicity during an elec
tion year, and still believed David Sherrod would eventually come to reason, ordered them to stand down.

  For most of his tenure as mayor, Michael Catalinelli had an evening ritual. When the sun reached the point west of City Hall where it poured directly onto the circular garden around the Franklin B. Gowen Memorial Fountain Circle, he would stop, walk into the conference room next to his office, pour himself a drink, sit on the windowsill, and relax as the curtain of darkness lowered itself down over the broad expanse of grass. That summer, however, he would look out the window to see The United Coalition Against Xenophobia, soon renamed "The Barrio" by the editorial board at the Winterborn Daily Post, and a very large, artfully arranged banner

  "Michael Catalinelli," it proclaimed in letters three feet high. "Your Sun Is Setting."

  Chapter 8 - Stop Resisting

  Cathleen Mary Chegoffgan sat on a bench at the Franklin B. Gowen Memorial Fountain Circle reading over a letter she had written the evening before. She furrowed her brow when she realized it was almost 9 o'clock. That left her with plenty of time to meet John Avellanos at 10 and go to the press conference at 12, but not quite enough to go back home, boot up her computer, and correct all of the typos she had found in her writing.

  Dan," it began. "You are the most intelligent man I've ever met, so you've probably already figured out what I'm about to tell you. I suppose you saw what you wanted to see, wide-eyed youth and innocence. I guess you also knew that you had nothing to hide, and, of course, you didn't. But that doesn't excuse what I did. I'm an evil, devious, calculating little bitch. If I end up floating face down in the Scahentoarrhonon River, let's just say it's something I deserve."

  When the bells rang out that it was 9 o'clock, she put the letter into an envelope marked "for Dan Sedgwick." She put the envelope into her knapsack, left the fountain circle, and continued out onto the main path, looking over at the pump house and the war memorial as she walked along. The Great Lawn was crowded. There was a truck from a local TV station on Reagan Plaza West. The police presence at the gate was minimal, only a pair of quite obviously newly hired police cadets. When she noticed that people from the United Coalition Against Xenophobia were already beginning to prepare for the press conference, she stopped, waved, and walked through the gate as though she were already inside, but someone put his hand on her shoulder.

  "I'm sorry Ma'am," she heard. "The park is closed."

  She turned around, and looked at the two police cadets. An expression of contempt came down over her face when she noticed that one of them was a timid looking man in his early 20s. The other was a chunky, red headed woman, also in her early 20s. Both police cadets were wearing triangular, not round patches on the sleeves of their uniforms. That meant that they could not make an arrest without authorization from a superior officer, fallout from the David Sherrod affair. Cathy Chegoffgan had not noticed that only 15 or 20 feet away were two older, uniformed officers who looked as if they regularly abused steroids, and a plain clothes detective in his early 40s. He had flaming red hair, pale, almost translucently white skin. Both his companions seemed intimidated by his presence, even out of proportion with the arrogant way he carried himself.

  "What the hell are you talking about?" she said to the two police cadets. "There are people all over the place."

  "Ma'am," the male cadet said, "please. The park is closed."

  "Just go inside and get Dan Sedgwick. He'll identify me, or get David Sherrod. He knows me too."

  The female police cadet, who looked even more nervous than her companion, seemed ready to do just that. She turned to the red headed detective, and his now three companions, a third plain clothes detective with a video camera having joined them, to ask permission. But he ran his finger across his throat and shook his head no.

  "Ma'am," she said, realizing she had almost made a mistake. "I'm not going to tell you this again. The park is closed."

  "What if I just walk in?"

  "Then you'll be arrested."

  "For what?"

  "It's for your own protection," the male cadet said, taking over for his companion. "The western half of Reagan Plaza is a dangerous place. Extremists have been making threats against tourists. Please. Step back."

  "You think I'm a tourist?" Cathy Chegoffgan said, stepping over the line. "Oh my God, get out of my way you fucking idiot."

  Both cadets grabbed her and pulled her back outside.

  "You are being arrested for disorderly conduct and for failing to obey a lawful order," the male cadet said.

  "Get her for resisting," a voice, much louder and more authoritative bellowed out from a few yards away.

  Cathy Chegoffgan looked up to see the 40-something man with the red hair flanked by his two gigantic companions, and the fourth man with the video camera.

  "Get her for resisting," the red-headed man said. "Disorderly's only a violation. We need a misdemeanor."

  All at once, the two big uniformed officers rushed into her space. One of them took her knapsack. The other grabbed her under the arm, and slammed her to the ground. After she had been subdued, the man with the video camera followed them over.

  "Stop resisting," he said. "Stop resisting."

  Cathy Chegoffgan felt a pair of handcuffs locked tightly around her wrists. The red headed man lifted her up off the ground and stood on her feet.

  "You two continue patrolling," he said to the two police cadets. "Take this piece of shit out to the car," he added to his uniformed companions. "I want her booked for disorderly conduct, failing to obey a lawful order, and two counts of resisting arrest. Go."

  Chapter 9 - The Press Conference

  John Avellanos got off the Number 18 bus on Reagan Plaza North, walked over to the Franklin B. Gowen Memorial Fountain Circle, sat down, and took out his copy of the Winterborn Daily Post. When Cathy Chegoffgan didn't show up by 11:00, he decided that he had misunderstood what they had arranged the previous afternoon. He would wait for her at the War Memorial. He walked back out of the fountain circle onto the main path, and then through the gate onto the west lawn.

  "Good morning sir," the two police cadets said as he walked by.

  Avellanos walked the entire length of the Great Lawn, twice. He made a loop around the War Memorial and the pump house. He closely examined each banner, and each sign, looked over the various columns of tents, and barged into private conversations. But there was no sign of Cathy Chegoffgan, and by that time he was carrying himself in such an aggressive, obnoxious, albeit unconsciously obnoxious manner that he attracted the attention of the encampment's security. He briefly stopped to admire the four statues inside the War Memorial. John L. Lewis had the same belligerent power as the real John L. Lewis but the other three statues were less impressive, especially Kennedy, who looked like a crudely molded hunk of green putty. He felt a hand on his shoulder. It was Dan Sedgwick.

  "How are you doing? I'm Dan."

  "John," Avellanos said. "Call me John."

  Dan Sedgwick was about 5'10" tall, bearded, and about 35 or 40 years old. With his long blond hair, slim wiry body, and necklace that included both a peace sign and a set of dog tags, he looked a bit like a member of Vietnam Veterans Against the War who had jumped into a time machine and emerged 45 years later.

  “Are you here for the press conference?"

  "I'm not with the media. I'm looking for someone. Have you seen a girl about my age, short blond hair, probably carrying a backpack, maybe taking photos with an old film camera?

  "Do you mean Cathy Chegoffgan?"

  "Yes," Avellanos said, visibly brightening. "Is she here?"

  "I haven't seen her. What's she to you?"

  "She's just a friend. We were supposed to meet at the fountain, but she never showed up."

  Sedgwick shrugged his shoulders.

  “She'll show up eventually."

  Avellanos turned to leave, but seemed to hesitate.

  "What if I said I was interested in getting involved with your movement?"

  Sedgwi
ck frowned.

  "You were 11B?" he said, looking at Avellanos' dog tags, which were hanging on the outside of his shirt.

  "What?" Avellanos said. "Oh yeah, infantry, in Iraq."

  A skeptical expression came over Sedgwick's face.

  "You look a little young," he said.

  "And you look a little old."

  Sedgwick pulled out his wallet, took out a business card.

  "Don't put me in the nursing home just yet," he said, handing the card to John Avellanos.

  "Dan Sedgwick, any relation to the Civil War general?"

  "Nope, and no relation to Kyra either. There's my contact information. If you really are a friend of Cathy Chegoffgan, you two can come back together and I'll introduce you to David. In the meantime, no offense, but I need to ask you to leave. We have a lot of people with immigration issues, and strange 6'5" white dudes wearing boxy sport jackets tend to make them nervous. You can understand that right?"

  Avellanos assumed an aggressive posture. He towered over Dan Sedgwick, who had very skillfully manipulated him into getting angry.

  "This sport jacket's not boxy," he said, "and if you're accusing me of being a cop, fuck you."

  "Let's do this the easy way," Sedgwick said as two men positioned themselves behind Avellanos. "I don't want to have to send you back to the mayor with your pretty suit all scuffed up."

  "Fine," Avellanos said. "I'll leave."

  John Avellanos walked back across the western lawn in the direction of City Hall, both men following along until he exited by the gate at Reagan Plaza West. He turned around, ostentatiously waved goodbye, then turned around again, and looked up at the clock tower. Suddenly curious about what Reagan Plaza looked like from the top of the grand staircase, he dashed across Reagan Plaza West and made for the entrance. On the way up, he ran into a man coming down. That man was about 40. He was wearing a tan windbreaker. He had flaming red hair, pale, almost transparently white skin, and, even though he was a few inches shorter than Avellanos, he was so solidly built that Avellanos almost tumbled back down the stairs.