by Ron Charach
town hall meetin’
It’s on again—again for the sixth time someone worked up the nerve to get the townsfolk together to decide “once and for all” just what to do about the shoot-ups and the intimidation, the drunkenness and the late-night panda-monium. But this time it’s different. This time there’s town blood on the agenda. The blood of a young boy.
As usual the meetin’ is held in the huge wheat arena, an enormous drafty field of a buildin’ connected to the dome by a single-layer plastic tunnel—where everyone has to wear a warm coat, and indignation seeps out in steamy breath, condensin’ in the frigid air of the desert night. Again as usual the chairman is none other than harold galloway, MBA. LLD. Or, so he claims, the only man remotely fa-miliah with “pah-lamentary proceedyuh” who can talk about as pah-tickulahly as a Canadian weenie educated in the You-Ess-of-A at Hah-vahd Yahd or someone who jest come back from a stint at Ox-ford as a Rhodesy.
—Ahem. Let us now call the roll—galloway’s high-falootin’ way o’ sayin, Let’s jest have us a roll call. And the group of townsfolk at the head table—a couple of fold-out bridge tables set end-to-end topped by a long sheet o’ plywood covered over with a tablecloth—each nod as their names are called. At the foot of the oversize wooden stage, the audience of men matched by their respective women is shiverin’ but keen enough to call out or at least mumble Here! when their surnames ring out in the crisp night air.
Meetin’s keep everybody up late—even as late as the big ones stay out gamblin’, and no one will make any noise when they file out the arena doors afterwards for fear of drawin’ the big ones away from Carla’s fo’ some target practice. Everyone always comes away feelin’ real darin’ and rebellious fo’ even havin’ bin at such a meetin’: some of them are armed with only the keys to their quaint wooden prefabs—aluminum sidin’ really—where their children are hidden away dreamin’ o’ shoot-outs on creaky-springed mattresses, incorporatin’ day residue as dreamers are wont to do.
About half the fold-down chairs around the center aisle headin’ towards the stage are occupied by mutations in their Stryker-frames and wheelchairs—some o’ ’em makeshift affairs, some with fake plasma drips. None of ’em able to string together more than a half-dozen words.
—Mr. Shulberg...
—Here, mister “chairman,” said sarcastic-like. —And oh yes, lest I forget, age forty-five.
—Mr. Dodson...
—Right, age forty-five.
—Mr. Kelly and Mr. Mounds...
Kelly and Mounds in chorus: —Here. Forty-five and forty-five.
—Mrs. Birch, Mrs. Kelly, Mrs. Taylor, Mrs. Mounds...
Mrs. Taylor for the lot of them: —Here, mr. chairman; all ages forty-five, give er take...
And so on until: —Mrs. William Gordon, wife of the late William Gordon.
A lull then a murmur as a widow stands up blackly.
Sheila Gordon: —Here in body alone. Age fifty-five.
—I beg your pardon, Mrs. G., but you must have that incorrect. galloway tries to remember if he’d forgotten to come by and check her innoculation’ log...
—Alright then, have it your way, forty-five. But I’m feelin’ one hell of a lot older than the rest of these mid-lifers…
Which kind of queers galloway’s usual opener about how nice it is that the audience all have one thing in common—bein’ of the same generation o’ baby boomers—and how when he was that age... By-the-by he recalls that he did stop to check on Mrs. G.’s treatment—her pre-treatment personality must be breakin’ through. Only shows the limits of medical farm-ocology...
galloway hits the agenda runnin’. The first item is the Gordon double-funeral. He publicly offers to pay a substantial portion of the cost. Murmurs of How kind! from some, Stands to reason! from a few pair of well-chewed lips.
Next item is the methods to be used to prevent such tragic mishaps from occurin’ in the future, and the floor is open to suggestions.
No one says shit. No sense originatin’ ideas only to have ’em vetoed. All eyes riveted on galloway. A huge communal silence builds in the echo chamber.
—Very well, then. If there are no constructive suggestions, then I, uh, shall make a proposal. Ladies and gentleman—gettin’ it up now, he is—we should undertake Emergency Measures from this day on to scrutinize the residential as well as the downtown areas for bear traps and related hazards. Well-regulated minutiae being necessary to the security of our free state, I move that an assistant to Mr. Parkinson, who has to this day performed his duties so ably in the downtown area, be appointed to a second zone, and be put on town salary at once.
Then silence as a big curly haired carpenter-type name o’ Gideon rises high on his shanks, walks t’wards the front and bellows in a boomin’ dare-all: —Ain’t that a trifle moderate, mister galloway?
Folks are wary of Gideon: self-named Bible thumper—still there’s mumblin’, buzzin’ and whisperin’. With galloway doin’ a Robert’s Rules of Order: —If I may answer Mr. Gideon’s question.
—Accusation, says Gideon.
—Whatever, be so good as to permit me to explain my reasoning.
—Would that your hand were on a Bible as you did.
galloway pays no more heed to this than to a belch. Bible types will be Bible types. —Now I’ve heard a lot of foolhardy talk floating around here lately about trying to run the big eight out of town or sending for some outside help, though from where that might possibly come is beyond the scope of this meeting. Think globally but act locally and all that. What I can say is: that kind of talk, that only leads to more deaths—more and more Bill Gordons.
—My son wasn’t killed because of town resistance, mr. galloway...
—Now, please, Mrs. Gordon. We all know what you must be going through, and we—
—He was killed because some godless hooligan laid an insane and purposeless trap… There are no bears here…never have been! And she breaks down with galloway hammerin’ his gavel to prevent the other townsmen from takin’ up the bit.
—Miss-us Gordon, bear traps in themselves do not kill people. Accidents and improper storage of bear traps are what kill people. Why blame the poor, inanimate bear trap?
—Where have I heard that before?
—Before I continue, let me apologize on behalf of our recently bereaved, for her understandably forceful language—now please! Let me finish what I have to say, then you can come to a decision as a town…
—Ain’t you part of the town too, galloway, or are you somewheres else?
—Or somethin’ else!
Cries of Sneak! Imposter! Accomplice! go ’round as galloway fakes losin’ it —I SHALL HAVE TO ADJOURN THIS MEETING AS ITS CHAIRMAN, UNLESS WE HAVE ORDER IMMEDIATELY! galloway’s version of Clam up, ciphers. Never uses five words when ten’ll do. —AND PLEASE, MR. GIDEON, TAKE YOUR SEAT OR WE SHALL NEVER REMAIN ON SCHEDULE.
—Thank you. Now, my point is that getting the big eight out of ma’s—or wherever else they decide to take over—will cost this town a substantial number of lives, whether it’s sheriffs’ or townspeople’s lives...
—Aren’t sheriffs paid to take that kind of risk? jeers Kelly.
—Unless, IF YOU’LL ALLOW ME TO CONTINUE, MR. KELLY, UNLESS we try to deal with the most mature, the most thoughtful of the big eight, a man who will hear us out AND who just might be able to talk the big eight out of their ways…
—Who might that man be, other than Jesus Christ? challenges Gideon, his remark followed by a wave of nervous laughter. None of ’em are used to laughin’ along with Gideon, who is always above needin’ support.
—Or maybe big ned? comes from some five-and-dimer in the back row.
Humor, last refuge of the helpless. Second only to astrology and lottery tickets. —As a matter of fact, this voice of reason in the eight is on his way rig
ht this minute to talk with us—
People’s heads turn towards the huge arena doorway, cranin’ to look for the mystery guest who terrifies by dint o’ bein’ a member of the eight.
Sheila Gordon calls out —Fool! What if when he comes in, he brings his friends with him! This is the chance they’ve been waitin’ for—kill us all at once! To which there’s a whole lot of nervous shufflin’.
—Now don’t go gettin’ hysterical, my dear—not a single one of the eight wants to harm anyone in this room, and that includes you know who. They have a pretty sick sense of fun—I’ll grant you that—but the only people they ever up an’ murder is each other. Why, if they ever did come after a town’s person, it’d be yours truly, since I’m the one taking up town causes…
Some spittin’ in the back rows. —Cut the crap, galloway and tell us who this special phil-anthrope of yours is, who can have a heart an’ still manage to ride with the eight. Somehow none of us can think of one...
—henry morgan.
—henry morgan! That turncoat! That overgrown yuppy with the silver hair—who was once a distinguished member of the human race—who left a lovely wife and a thriving medical practice to join these terrible-twos for little more than sex and cheap thrills! cries Mrs. Gordon herself from the front-row seat she’s moved up to. —He would know about indecency, all right. It’s his new way of life...
—Now, that’s just your opinion, Mrs. Gordon, says galloway, lookin’ to the rear door an’ moppin’ his brow with a hanky.
—Well, who else is talking, Joan of Arc? Point is: henry morgan is into scaring all his old friends, yet he’s the only one of the whole bunch of them that’s old enough to know better—why, some say he’s pushing your age.
—Checkmate, then, my good townspeople. So mister morgan’s a hound. Would you rather we all try an’ appeal to cabana? Maybe benefit from the bounty of his under twenty years of wisdom?
Silence. Stone-faced dread across their faces. cabana: the phrase that pays…Boko Haram…Islamic State…The ISIS crisis…
—Sometimes I think if cabana didn’t exist, you would’ve invented him.
—That will be enough of that, dear! Rest assured, good townsfolk, that one day we’ll have enough officers out there on the streets to be able to put behind bars anyone under twenty who handles a gun in an irresponsible manner.
—Why not just confiscate the guns…and the ammo...and while you’re at it…the bear traps? challenges Sheila Gordon. —You have the means...
—Nai-eve remarks like that don’t merit a response. We don’t have time tonight to review our long frontier past, or the meaning to a man of his personal piece.
—The right to arm bears, heckles some five-and-dimer. —It’s a mis-readin’ of the Constitution! The second half of the Second Amendment!
—Well, then, it was one heck of a mis-reading, says galloway, because it’s inscribed high on a wall at what’s left of NRA headquarters in Fairfax, Virginia. It helped put 300 million guns in civilian hands. The degree of gun control I’ve achieved for us is a damned sight better than that. But there, now you’ve got me using cuss words.
Just as a sullen silence floats through the arena—thick as a beer fart no one’s willin’ to take credit for—galloway sets to pour himself a glass of water an’ spills half of it as the huge oak doors suddenly swing open.
An’ there between aisles of nervous people shufflin’ their feet and mutations droolin’ even more than usual is henry morgan—coolly stridin’ in with not a trace of a stoop in his still-muscular back, hands far off his guns and an expression o’ determination on his face like he is thinkin’ about somethin’ far-off and important-like. If you look deep enough in concentration, no one’ll try to plug you or even pick a fight with you. Most guys will break a face sooner than dare to break a man’s train of thought.
As henry takes the stage, the town baker—who just watched the crease on the back of henry’s pants as he strode by—whispers into the ear of the town plumber sittin’ next to him: —If we get him in the back now, there’ll be only seven to deal with.
—N-naw, stutters the plumber who in a past life was a receivables clerk in a shippin’ room. —Let’s s-s-save it for on his way out, when he’s right up close—t-t-two bullets each.
morgan unwinds his bandana, wipes the galloway-germs off the Scandinavian cut-glass, takes a long swig o’ water—half-sensin’ how much his belly’d be leakin’ if he turned away fer long—and waves off the chairman who was fixin’ to introduce him.
—Listen good. I ain’t here to intimidate. I didn’t bring these guns for that purpose, but I figured I might need ’em ’cause I know I’m none too popular around here. An’ the first thing I want t’address is the reason why.
—My husband and boy murdered and you’re not popular! from Mrs. Gordon, who’s calmed down by Schulberg the banker—a mellow forty-five.
—I aim to get to that Sheila—though let’s keep things straight: your husband was not murdered, though yer son did die an awful death.
Murmurs: —How dare he...
—Y’see the reason my stock isn’t too high here—contrary to wide opinion—is not because I up an’ joined the eight. The reason is that at my age I should know better than t’be traipsin’ aroun’ with those hulkin’ specimens; I even heard your kid back there—points to the plumber Barker, who plans to plug him after the speech—your own kid sayin’ that nobody likes morgan because he isn’t half the gunman that cabana or big ned is—he’s a “poser,” nothin’ more than a promoted town man who’s kept his looks. Same goes for black amos barton. Now where d’ya think he picked up ideas like those? Mebbe you should start makin’ up yer minds—do ya hate me for bein’ a gunman or ’cause I’m not enuff o’ one...
—If you look at yourselves real-hard you’ll find you have a secret admiration for the eight, and mebbe it’s that admiration that’s standin’ in yore way—mebbe that’s what gives the eight their power over you.
Righteous rumblin’s permeate the room as morgan goes on.
—Mebbe it’s yore secret love of gun-totin’ warriors ’at brought this whole world to ruin in the first place, ’at makes you despise li’l ole chicken-hawk here. Points to galloway who’s sweatin’ from his hair to the tassels on his dress shoes and who sticks a small white fast-acting Xanax under his tongue for extra pluck. —You made him yore chairman because you admire his pee-kyoo-liar ability to survive around the eight.
galloway ghostly white, sits his bony ass down on a bridge-chair, relieved that morgan didn’t say that he made himself your chairman’, which would blow the democracy ruse. A fine point, and yet…
—Cut the parlor-Freud pep talk, morgan...
—Now, I ain’t tellin’ you this so’s you’ll understand yoreselves—’cause quite frankly it was my boredom with you-all that drove me to join the eight in the first place—er, the fust place. But if you think about it you’ll decide yore as responsible for the murders aroun’ here as the eight are.
—My, my, my...mister glib-and-slick morgan, how con-venient, calls out Sheila Gordon, who’s turnin’ into a mighty effective heckler in her widowhood. —When in doubt, share the blame—is that it?
—Share the responsibility is more like it. Don’t gimme yore helpless victims shtick—
—What are you suggesting mister, not Doctor Morganstern? challenges John Gideon. —That we all look into our deepest, darkest selves, as a way of more effectively going after the eight—that we forgive them as a bunch of godforsaken numbskulls, even forgive the one man among them who ought to know better, but who just needed a bit o’ relief from a real bad case of boredom… You’re just as godless as Hollywood ever was… I happen to have with me this worn Bible, and just the right passage from Corinthians...
—Spare us your Gospel of bygone days… It did nothin’ to keep us from gettin’ t
o the mess we’re in today. It didn’t stop the milit’rization of earth or the heavens! I respect a man of yore obvious physical abilities for not joinin’ the eight—though there haven’t ’xactly been any openin’s lately...
henry pauses. —I’m not advocatin’ that you take up arms against the eight, ’cause I know you’d all be deader ’n door-stops if you did. But I think you’ve got some homework t’do, so you can git some kind of co-llective power equal to what the eight now have. I mean, you got to get rid of the things that keep you little people...lookin’ at gideon... Here’s one who’s well over six feet tall, yet lugs a Bible with ’im everywhere he goes—like a security blankie.
—What do you carry with you? chimes the pit-bull diva Sheila Gordon. —Your precious piece? Your re-issued “man card”?
—Is that why Gary Gordon was killed? Because he was a little person? coughs up ole Doc Halverson, another one who looks real old but has managed t’keep his marbles.
—The death of Gary Gordon was a tragic thing—it kept me up for nights on end wishin’ I was dead myself an’ feelin’ about as guilty as a man might feel...
—Without doin’ beans about it… How could you just sit there inside ma’s while…
—Because Sheila Gordon, ain’t no great good gonna come from me gettin’ blown t’bits by cabana. It wouldn’t put back your son’s leg and it wouldn’t have made his pappy Will Gordon any more sensible…
More righteous indignation: How dare he…
—henry, our own Doctor Morganstern, how in God’s name can you remain a member of those…
—Because Sheila, bein’ one of you and bein’ powerless is not an option. The old world order is over. Even if they used to call it the New World Order an’ our ole prezeedent was smack-dab in the middle of it—hey! Now, you jest set back now Hal, ’cause I see what you’re up to—ask y’selves not what gives me the right to be big, but why you all are so determined to stay small. Why not corral papa galloway here and ask him how he manages to get from the eight whatever the hell he wants—get him to twist around his methods ’til they’re straighter forward, then you’ll see how powerful a whole town can be, even if half its citizens are sick an’ gettin’ sicker.