Sherwood Nation

by Parzybok, Benjamin;

  “Awesome. We’re doing awesome.”

  Leroy didn’t answer.

  “How much do you think people know they’re being governed by a dictator? Does it cross their mind that there’s no vote?”

  It was him and Leroy, and he hadn’t exactly managed to have any involved conversations with him yet. Though there was no denying that, though the man was reticent, he was highly attuned to the system. A memory like a Swiss watch. Exactly the type of person you wanted in the nerve center. At the corner of his list he penciled, “LR happy? Something we could do?”

  “It’s in the news, but I think we need to bring up the subject of dictator before it hits the street too much. I’ll write a letter.” Zach loved writing letters. Had there ever been a more personal way to reach people? He grabbed a fresh sheet of paper.

  “Instead of introductions, considering how many of us there are,” the mayor said, “could you all introduce yourself before you speak?”

  “Should I . . . then?”

  “Yes, thank you.” The mayor adjusted his reading glasses and stared down at the paper in front of him, and then looked up at the small, nervous man across the table. Around thirty people, he estimated, sat around the four large conference tables they’d fitted together in order to house this particular task force.

  “My name is Ernest Weatermeyer. I run—ran a small company that creates pet supplies. In Beaverton. We, you know, there was like for fleas and other pests, and also other chemical-based products to control animal smell and—I am still not quite sure why I’ve been asked to come here?”

  “I can explain that, Ernest, and—”

  “Please introduce yourself, Margaret,” the mayor said.

  “Household Efficiency Task Force, Sellwood Lead. You’re here because of the smell issue. You fabricate urine—what do you call it?”

  “Odor removal?”

  The mayor noted that Ernest was beginning to look alarmed, as if invited to his own inquisition.

  “How much can you make?”

  “Sorry, I—we haven’t been in operation for some time now and—is there something, is something wrong?”

  “Let me give you some back story,” the mayor said, holding up a hand in what he hoped was a friendly, sliding sort of wave to deflect Margaret who, being part bulldog herself, might need some urine odor removal afterward for her own use. “Did you not get the task force mission statement?” The mayor gestured to his economics development advisor to hand Ernest the one-pager. “Thanks. Read it on your own time, but essentially we’re looking at ways to improve household efficiency. One possible solution we’ve been looking into which would work in concert with our new simultaneous flush initiative is for—for, well, men specifically, and anyone who cared to take it on, to urinate in the back of the toilet tank.”

  Ernest held the one-pager and nodded eagerly but, the mayor could tell, uncomprehendingly.

  “You see where you might fit in, then? No. OK.” The mayor quickly rounded up facial expressions around the perimeter of the table, taking a quick read. Postures appeared dug in for an extended meeting. Unit gallons stood like small sentry robots in front of each participant. “Limited water resources puts an enormous strain on the sewage system, you understand. Wastewater needs to be recycled.”

  A hand was raised at the far edge of the table and the bearer spoke: “Anthony Brinestone from St. John’s, former corporate defense lawyer. They call it Savewater in Sherwood.”

  “Yes,” the mayor said and with his left hand he pinched the thigh of his own leg hard enough that his eyes watered, “thank you, Tony. Are you with us here, Ernest?”

  “You have a smell issue? Sir but—”

  “How much do you believe you could produce, and does it neutralize or can you describe what happens, on a chemical-level, I mean? You’re a chemist, correct?”

  The mayor watched it click in for Ernest, that a market opportunity had presented itself the likes of which he had not seen before. They were making progress now. But as with any thought of progress, the progress arms race with that other nation emerged, a race in which they were impossibly behind.

  As others took on the substance of the meeting, the mayor slouched subtly into his chair, letting his face swivel from speaker to speaker, in the oft-employed expression of attentiveness of which he was a master. It was difficult not to shake the sense that it was meaningless progress. He felt he understood more clearly than ever before how a country might go to war, envious of another’s prosperity, its citizens defecting or becoming restless. The urge to invent a mythology of evilness around that other, more successful nation compelling. Ernest, it appeared, had decided to fully capitalize on his supposed expertise and was now pontificating grandly and with self-importance. The mayor sighed and shifted a little more deeply into his seat. The phrase Task Force, to him, once noble with the ring of super-heroes, now felt more akin to an army of tortoises, wandering slow over the desert, aimless.

  For task forces, god love them, were full of citizens. He tilted his notebook so that he might sketch the three citizen archetypes, putting each in a heroic stance. There was the aging, inflexible do-gooder, who when pressed spoke in indignant barks, fervent and jaw-clenching, never satisfied, constipation incarnate. There was the unselfconscious rambler, whose thoughts littered the sea of her mind like flotsam, and who could be persuaded into nearly any viewpoint, provided the right eloquence. And finally the shiny-eyed optimist, usually young and idealistic, whose energy matched only her/his naiveté and who would, in time, morph into one of the two previous types. Once sketched he appreciated his work—he’d always been a decent doodler. He drew a TF emblem on the character’s chests, and gave them TASK FORCE boots and Zorro-style masks. And lo, he was their leader, surely manifested out of one of the types drawn, driven a touch further by ambition. This, then, was what made the world turn! Behind them, he sketched himself, his cape blowing in the wind. There were other ways to win, besides a war of progress.

  He looked up from his work and scanned the room and noticed that all eyes were on him, waiting expectantly.

  “Yes exactly,” he said, “an excellent point, and thank you.” He could see he hadn’t hit the required response yet. “Sorry, I was having an interesting thought—” he smiled absently, “—and so where were we, Margaret?” For a moment he’d given them complete control, his mental absence ceding the decision process to the citizen committee—and he could feel them all biting into the responsibility at hand more deeply for it.

  The Beginning

  July 22nd

  Hello Sherwoodites!

  Times are hard and we’ve inherited a mess here. Let’s not delude ourselves: things will be a mess for some time to come. The intention is to get Sherwood to a level of self-sustainment so we can transition to a more moderate form of government. You should never have on your lips the question: “Who’s in charge?”

  I’m in charge. Will I always be in charge? No. I’ve sketched out below the stages I would like to follow for transitioning the government. Help me achieve these tasks, and let’s move Sherwood forward!

  Governmental Transition Plan

  STAGE 1—CRISIS

  Dictator

  STAGE 2—WEAKNESS

  Maid Marian President

  with elected council

  STAGE 3—STABILITY

  Consensus Government

  with strong leadership

  We’re in the dictator stage! That’s a terrible word, right? Why do we need a dictator? It is nearly impossible to make radical change through consensus. The democracy—and I use that word in the loosest of terms—beyond our border is prone to corruption, ineffectual at real change, an instrument for keeping the status quo. It cannot handle an external crisis of this magnitude. But this is no ordinary dictatorship. You have a direct line to my office, via your water carrier. Use it! Your voice will be heard far more clearly than in the current “democracy” of Portland.

  Stage 1 “Crisis” goals

>   Establish independence from the city

  Establish security

  Establish water distribution

  Establish clinics

  Establish farms/begin intensive gardening

  Establish schools

  Establish central bank based on water

  Begin to generate revenue through sale of water (excess water acquired through efficiencies, tax revenue and trade)

  Country-wide skills and education training

  Stage 2 “Weakness” goals

  Successful harvests

  Expanded trade

  Minimum balance of 500,000 gallons of water

  Country charter

  Elect council

  Stage 3 “Stability” goals

  Governmental transition based on work in stage 2

  The gradual reduction of my role

  Erect gargantuan statues of yours truly (joke!)

  How long will all this take? Considering the substantial progress we’ve made already, I believe these goals to be attainable within a year or two. We are currently estimating a 200−300% drop in crime rates. One week in. I am enormously proud of this.

  Pin this letter to your walls, my countrymen, and help me stay on task!

  Thanks for your attention,

  Maid Marian

  Normally, it was dangerous not to ride your bike, Jamal thought. Best to be getting from one place to another quickly. Walking was something you did in your house, or within view of your house. Jamal considered this as he held the saddle of his bike in the morning. If you were walking, your slowness subjected you to all kinds of possibilities. Bike gangs could circle you like flies around a cow. You could pick up hangers-on, people the drought had made not right, their neuroses honed to single weird obsessions that they shared relentlessly with you as you walked, trailing along at your elbow, always within a comment’s reach of rage. You could be ringed by child beggars, gangs of four or five or six who pecked at you for a sip of water and waited for you to show a weakness. Your route might radically lengthen by some impassable obstacle: a block fire, a wall of cyclone fence, fighting.

  He looked up his block and saw trash blowing along the street, but the wind was mild and didn’t carry enough dust to sting the eyes. The summer was at its height and he could feel the heat start to swell into the air, an itchy sweat in his scalp. In the old days before the drought he’d sometimes walk a day away. At thirteen, fourteen, fifteen—if you had nowhere to go and were desperate to leave the house, there was no better way to leave it all behind. He’d steal a pinch of dope from the stash, plug into headphones, and take his body elsewhere.

  He was curious, mostly. For the feel of it. They were an island now, ringed in by a sea. In a handful of days there’d been a dramatic change to the street-level safety in the neighborhood. At least it felt that way. He was due for work—what a foreign word that was to him—and he knew it was idiotic to walk from King to Cully neighborhoods with no escape vehicle. There’d been plenty of times he’d cycled hard away from a hail of stones or down a side street dodging pursuers. And he was no easy target.

  He gripped the saddle of his bike and pushed it along and decided to walk a ways. It was a little past dawn and the streets mostly slumbered still. He knew nearly every burnt-out house, and he planned his route to avoid them. They depressed him—permanent decay, like teeth lost to cavities. In the world they lived in, they would stay charred hulks. No house got rebuilt.

  But in the yards of many other houses, he observed the hole and tarp setup that marked a condensation trap. Another Sherwood project implemented via the volunteer force. Like a nation’s factories, he thought, there was industry there.

  A few blocks up, Jamal stopped in front of a house with blankets laid over their dust lawn. The habitants smiled cautiously at him as they scurried in and out their front door, bringing objects of every kind and laying them out in patterns on the blanket.

  “Everything OK?” Jamal asked a woman in her twenties in army cutoffs and a tank top.

  “Hello, Ranger! Yard sale, open everyday now.” She smiled. “Come on in.” She gestured with a sales flourish and a wink at their collection.

  Jamal wandered among the items, some on tables, some laid out on the ground in organized piles. For the most part it was ordinary garage sale fare—from the old days—for white roommates in their twenties: books and records and electronics, toasters and silverware, trinkets, movie posters, a spattering of unlikely furniture, cables that no longer had a place to plug into, semi-used art supplies, clothing of various discarded fashions. There was a heap of greenish cloth with a sign that poked out: “National Pride!” In it he found a pair of children’s army-green walkie-talkies, the price marked both in US Dollars and water units, but the batteries had been robbed from them long ago and the chance of obtaining more was slim. He hovered over a handsome accordion with shiny ivory keys and a case with purple velvet lining until a bone-skinny man with a thick beard called out from the doorway that it wasn’t for sale. The bearded man, shirtless and dressed in some kind of—Jamal didn’t know, circus pants?—brought out a lawn chair and parked it next to the accordion, and then began to play a mournful tune. Jamal felt a brief nostalgia for an old Portland, or rather not his old Portland, rife with dime bags and family power, but the city’s self image. With its sea of whimsical musicians and artists, bike shops and gluten-free bakeries, living up to the nation’s stereotype of them, at least on the surface, before need and fear had either driven them away or made them serious.

  There was a whole spread of makeshift weapons, fashioned largely from broom handles, duct tape, and nails.

  “Very cheap,” the girl said.

  “You made them?” He’d seen the style.

  “Yeah, we made them, we used them,” she said quietly. She pointed up the block where a woman dressed in Ranger green sat in a lawn chair at the intersection. “But, you know? Somebody is there all the time. We don’t need so many anymore.”

  Jamal stared up the street and wondered if he knew the Ranger. Cops had inspired scorn and hatred in him before, but here he was, dressed same as her.

  “They’d look good on you, Mister,” the woman said about the weapons. “I could strap one to your back like a samurai. Very handsome,” she said wryly.

  Jamal chuckled. “How much?”

  “For you, a unit each. You could strap them to your handlebars like horns. It’s in style, big time.”

  “You’re a hard sell,” he said.

  She curtsied. “I’ll go get a measure.”

  He picked out two and talked her into finding some more tape in order to attach them to his bike. She took the job seriously, and he could see that in the way she’d worked, she’d once done this scared, that at one time they’d huddled in their basement fabricating weapons. After she finished, she admired her work. They were tightly holstered there but could be pulled off in need.

  “Thank you,” he said. He pulled out his canteen and poured two units into her unit measure and admired the enterprise.

  At Alberta Park he stopped and watched the farming operation. The fields were tiny, using as little water as possible, and he couldn’t imagine that they would do more than provide a slice of carrot to each. It’d be one proud carrot, however.

  A sign asked for unit donations and for the second time he pulled out his canteen and, after being directed by the gardener, planted the two seeds that were given to him and split a unit over the seeds once they were in the ground. He admired the dribbles he’d made over each of the plantings. The gardener placed small plastic bottles cut in half over each of the seeds. These were his to care for now. I’ve got a stake planted down, he thought. Roots here.

  He shared the road with many other walkers and bikers. There was a new feeling everywhere, an industriousness, as people looked up from their misery after a few days straight of peace and began to pick together scraps of their lives. There were goods to be sold, projects to work on, Sherwood volunteer work to be done, wate
r to be delivered.

  By the time he arrived at HQ, his body was vibrating with hope.

  Zach made a paper representation of their water supply. On a piece of paper he drew a large box with a Sharpie and labeled it “Water Supply (100,000 gallons).” Then he placed a piece of paper he’d colored with blue crayon inside of the box, adjusting the level by sliding the blue paper up and down through a slit in the bottom of the paper. He pinned the thing to the wall and he and the two Rangers who’d been assigned to help him admired his work. It was about as rudimentary as it came. Each morning he instructed his employees to check the supply in the various tanks throughout the territory with a bamboo pole.

  He made indicators for money and the number of Green Rangers. He created an arm-span-sized map of all Sherwood that he outlined neighborhood by neighborhood. Over these he pinned colored indicators that he fashioned out of construction paper. Fire, gunshots, death, sickness, news van, rioting, city, unrest, party, miscellaneous. He could use the stream of incoming news and pin a visual representation to this map, so that a quick glance could show where the trouble was. He wanted them all to know exactly where they stood, and he was assigned the manpower to tally and change his meters. Over time he would graph them all and compare them to a history of policy decisions.