Streams Of Yesterday

by W.H. Harrod

This is getting to be a bad habit, I thought as I sat alone in the closed and darkened diner. Only this time I awaited the arrival of the Mayor whom I’d called the previous afternoon to inform I’d finished reading the material he presented to me a couple days earlier. My feelings were mixed regarding getting involved in any local political shenanigans. I told myself their political and civic issues were none of my business. I only stopped in Jonesboro for an extended visit and expected to move on down the road looking for something different to peak my curiosity for a while. Albeit hopeful that my inability to commune with my fellow humans might be somewhat improved by the experience, there was little doubt I would eventually view this entire community in life’s rear-view mirror.

  The Mayor’s insurance office building stood at the other end of town, so I expected him to arrive via his well-cared for, late 90’s Honda Accord. The same Honda Accord everyone in town knew by now approached the two hundred fifty thousand mile mark. If such a large number did not impress you by itself, he usually followed up by revealing how most of those miles were driven on roads within thirty miles of Jonesboro. I wasn’t sure, but it seemed conceivable that Mayor Jimmy Jenkins may not have ever ventured out of the state of Kansas.

  As if on cue, a faded bronze-colored vehicle turned into the lot and proceeded towards the front parking area adjacent to the diner. It was the Mayor, and he looked to be rifling through stacks of loose papers and documents typically residing on his vehicle’s front seat. By the time the Honda came to a complete stop not more than six feet from the diner entrance, the Mayor looked to be in possession of whatever he had been searching for.

  Exiting the car, he headed directly for the diner door and joined me at the window booth. “Do you mind if we sit away from the window?” he said while still standing.

  Though surprised, I concurred, and followed him to a table farther back in the dining area well away from the window. He sat down first and I followed, sitting directly across from him. I placed the documents on the table in front of me and waited for him to speak.

  “Well okay, what do you think?” he abruptly asked as if we were already deep into a discussion. “You ever run into anything like this? Does this strike you as a good idea? Does—”

  “Mayor Jenkins, why don’t you tell me what’s on your mind first, then we can proceed from there.” I’d learned long ago to be leery of giving advice when you do not know the position of the individual receiving the advice. I definitely held an opinion on the subject. The question is, did anyone benefit from my telling it to the mayor of a very small town in Kansas?

  The Mayor gave my request some thought. “You’re right. But I must rely upon your discretion in keeping our conversation between the two of us. That’s another thing Preacher Roy said I could count on. Come to think of it, the man sure thinks a lot of you. Seems kind of weird that he whacked you with that frozen roll of sausage if he likes you so much.”

  “But anyway, I don’t like the idea at all. I checked into it and discovered the company listed is actually owned by an organization located in Spain. Why in the heck would we want to turn our city water department over to a foreign company to operate for us? This whole thing seems strange to me. Sure, we have financial issues and constraints like every other small town, but I can’t see that as a cause to turn over complete financial and operational control of our water department to foreigners.”

  That’s what I’d hoped to hear him say. Now it made sense to ask him the next important question. Who exactly came up with this idea in the first place? Usually this information led to the crux of the issue, which was, who stood to profit from the deal? Like the guy said in the famous Mafia movie, “Whoever comes to you trying to set up the meeting is the traitor.”

  “Who brought this idea to you in the first place?” I asked the Mayor straight off. If my hunch was right, this answer might very well give a clear indication of where we needed to go next.

  The Mayor didn’t hesitate, “Councilman John Buford brought the idea up for discussion about a month back during an informal session. We had gotten together specifically to discuss future financial matters related to updating our deteriorating city water system. I was more than a little surprised when he presented a proposal from, as it turns out, a foreign company specifically directed to our town’s particular needs. Usually we solicit these types of proposals.”

  “What were they offering to do?” I asked.

  “It was comprehensive,” answered the Mayor, “and offered to contract with the city to provide for the complete operation and maintenance of our entire system. This included all hiring, firing, purchasing, collecting payments, maintenance issues, etc. They also offered to enter into long-term concession or sale agreements if we wanted to get completely out of the business. The other commissioners are very impressed with the plan, especially the part that took them off the hook of battling voters to come up with the tax money to finance all the millions of dollars of repairs and improvements needed to bring our system up-to-date.”

  I started to get a nasty feeling in my gut. With each additional word coming out of the Mayor’s mouth, the hair on the back of my neck came closer to standing on end. I expected to close the deal with my next question.

  “You mentioned a commissioner by the name of Buford. Would he perchance be any kin to Big Bob Buford I’ve come to know and admire as one of our valued diner customers?”

  “Admire my ass!” shot back the Mayor causing me to raise my eyebrows in surprise at his frankness. Maybe I’d been a might quick to categorize His Honor. Of a sudden, he appeared a man with a similar disposition towards crooks and weasels as myself. “The man’s a loud mouth and a bully. He’s got most of his retired buddies so intimidated they are afraid to express any opinion less they get his approval.”

  “That is interesting,” I remarked mostly to myself.

  “Interesting my ass!” barked the Mayor. “John Buford couldn’t discuss anything as complex as this issue if his life depended on it. The man’s a turnip! It’s his brother Bob, or Big Bob as he’s referred to by all the butt- kissers in town who are scared to death of the man. That’s why John got reelected. People are afraid of his brother.”

  “But what would Big Bob know about the water department that his brother wouldn’t know?” I asked.

  “Are you kidding?” the Mayor laughed. “Bob Buford ran the water department here for twenty years. He retired about eighteen months ago. He knows more about the water department than anyone else in the whole town and probably the county. Why right at this minute his handpicked replacement, his brother’s son from up Topeka ways, is probably over at his house giving him a complete update of everything going on at the water department.”

  “It seems that I may have underestimated Big Bob,” I declared to the Mayor. “I’m more accustomed to seeing the real power residing in the hands of less conspicuous individuals. But it sounds as if Big Bob has an awful lot to say around here.”

  The Mayor shook his head side to side and closed his eyes for a moment before responding. “I wish I knew you well enough to tell you what I really think about the Buford cabal. They practically have their hands in everything that happens in the city limits of Jonesboro. I don’t worry so much about what my constituents think about local issues as much as I worry about how the Bufords are going to respond. They have a sizable number of followers who believe and do exactly as they say. I’ve gotten burnt more than once for supporting changes that didn’t sit well with the Bufords.”

  Before we sat down I’d felt somewhat confident I would be able to ferret out the real issues surrounding this affair. I would be able to offer the Mayor a few tidbits of wisdom and be done with the whole matter. As I said, what difference did it make to me if these people were incapable of making intelligent decisions regarding their public utilities? At least they had utilities, unlike billions of unfortunate people elsewhere in the world. But something about this felt different. For some strange reason, this became more personal. Ma
ybe that was it. I now had a face and a voice for the mischief-maker. As long as Big Bob Buford limited his stupid remarks to the diner, they were easily rebutted and his existence was tolerable, but not now. He’d crossed a line causing me to want to get involved in matters having little to do with my personal existence. Oh damn! Here I go again, I thought as my bad habit of helping the little guy surfaced.

  I needed to level with the Mayor. “Mayor, I hate bullies. And I especially despise arrogant bullies who prey on hardworking people. I see you are carrying more documents with you. Do you have additional information you want me to look at?”

  The Mayor did not respond immediately, but he looked me directly in the eye as if he were attempting to decide whether or not to tell me more. I decided to stay quiet and not influence his decision beyond what I’d already said.

  “So it’s come down to this,” he said more to himself than to me. “I’m left with the decision to either let my community be taken advantage of by some local thugs or ask for the help of a mendicant Democrat. Life certainly is strange.”

  I recognized the man’s dilemma, and I appreciated his quandary. I felt it would not be inappropriate to level with him about my true political affiliations. “Mayor, if you think you want some help with this matter but are concerned about the political fallout from working with a Democrat, let me level with you. I am not a registered Democrat. I lied to Preacher Roy in an attempt to dissuade him from encouraging me to take on the management of the diner. I vote on the issues and not arbitrary platforms designed to expedite the advancement of both parties’ elites and their moneyed supporters. I am not registered to vote in Kansas any longer, as I am presently a resident of the state of Texas where I have been legally registered as an Independent for several years. Plus, the very fact you are here talking to me tells me you are not pleased knowing the Republican Party is presently dictated to by corporate America and the evangelical religious sects neither of which, in my opinion, gives a crap about traditional Republican values that are centered equally between beliefs in fiscal conservatism and social responsibility. I am relying on your discretion in maintaining my charade. I definitely want Big Bob to keep thinking of me as a Democrat. I enjoy knowing it sticks in his craw. The man’s blood pressure must rise fifty points each time I come near him.”

  This brought a smile to the Mayor’s face. He looked to be warming to the idea of my getting more involved in his town’s bothersome issue. “Mr. Clayton, I’m relieved to hear this admission of political neutrality, and I will guard your secret, but I wonder if your interest is great enough to bear the burden of knowing that there is possibly much more to be learned about the Bufords’ underhanded dealings regarding the community of Jonesboro?”

  “It’s your call, Mayor. That’s what you’re paid the big bucks for— making the big decisions.” I had nothing more to say.

  The Mayor laughed. I think at the big bucks remark. As I waited for his decision, I became aware of the slimmest hope on my part that he would take a chance on my being a straight up guy and let me in on this fight. As I said, I hate thugs who take advantage of those who work hard for a living day in and day out. This still came as something of a surprise to me as I labored acidulously during most of my early working life not to be one of those so-called blue collar types. Even more strange was the fact that once I became a corporate executive, I wanted to be one of those even less. I refused to decide where I belonged so I became a loner who wandered aimlessly around the country wondering how in the hell people kept living those groveling, ‘somebody please give me a job so I can buy more stuff’ dead-end lives.

  “You’re a strange bird, Mr. Will Clayton,” said the Mayor returning from wherever his mind had taken him. “I don’t know you from squat and yet, here I sit thinking about telling you things that could turn this small town upside down. If I go forward and tell you what I’m thinking, serious crap is going to happen, one way or the other. If I’m wrong, my life could be ruined. I have a family and a career to think about so I can’t make any mistakes. Are you following me so far?”

  I responded immediately. “No! No, I am not following you. This is cut and dried as far as I can see. Investigate the proposal to privatize the water system along with the company making the offer. If the proposed deal doesn’t withstand scrutiny get the proof and show it to the community. Your fellow citizens seem to me to be of average intelligence so they will understand which decision makes the most sense. Most likely, the Bufords will be shot out of the saddle and will end up looking the worse for it. How is that going to get you in trouble either way? That’s just doing your job.”

  The Mayor laughed again. “Mr. Clayton, there is more, much more. The privatization issue is important, but it’s far from the most important matter weighing heavily on my mind in relation to the harm I suspect the Bufords have been causing this community for years. What I asked you to review earlier was not the real reason I wanted to get to know you. I mentioned to you earlier that I wished I knew you well enough to tell you everything that concerns me about the Buford bunch. Well, I’m afraid I don’t have the luxury of unlimited time to get to know you better. As you said, I’ve got to make a big decision, which is, do I risk my political and economic life by going after the Bufords for the crimes I believe they are perpetrating on this community? And furthermore, is there anyone in this community who I can trust to help me, someone who is not afraid of the Bufords? Something tells me you’re that man. Are you my Paladin, Mr. Clayton?”

  All the while I’m listening I’m becoming aware of my toes tapping on the hard linoleum floor. I hate it when this happens because it usually means I’m going to get involved in something that is absolutely none of my business. All my instincts were yelling at me to get up and walk away. They were reminding me I’m a loner for a reason: I secretly suspect most humans are morons who are constantly getting into messes and often deserve what they get. In fact, they usually beg for it! ‘Oh thank you Mr. Corporate Executive or Mr. Senator for sending my job overseas so some poor foreign slob can do the work for a tenth of the cost. You see, I believe what you say about how we have to have free markets so our economy will work the right way and distribute most of the wealth to the top five percent no matter that it will put my family on welfare without any health insurance. And besides, they tell me I got Jesus looking after me and my family so we can do as the minister says and, more importantly, concentrate on helping prevent sinners from getting legal abortions and convincing all those homosexuals that they were not born that way. Those fine gentlemen at corporate America surely only want what’s best for the country.’

  “Most are not like that!” I blurted out before I realized I sat in the presence of another human being. “Sorry about that,” I said hurriedly to a now puzzled listener. “But I’ll admit, I do talk to myself occasionally, especially, when I start getting excited about something. I hope that’s not a problem.”

  The Mayor smiled, “Mr. Clayton, if that means you are going to try to help me protect this community from a couple of weasels, I don’t care if you talk to my deceased crazy Uncle Lester who had conversations with a pet pig he called Lucifer. What do you say?”

  “What I say is, you can call me Will, and I expect I better get busy looking over the new pile of documents you’ve got there.”

  Chapter Ten