by Shem, Samuel
The final speaker was Amy Plotkin. She stood front and center at the podium and began. “‘The quality of mercy is not strained, it droppeth as the gentle rain of heaven, upon the place beneath . . .’” As she went on, color rose in her cheeks. She ended with a simple plea, “‘But mercy is above this sceptred sway, it is enthroned in the hearts of kings, it is an attribute to God himself, and earthly power doth then show likest God’s when mercy seasons justice.’” She bowed her head.
Silence. Then a shout came from the back—“Bravo, bravo, bravissimo!” Greenie Sellers stood on a chair and in Italian words and gestures was encouraging the New Yorkers and antiquers to rise and join in, which they did. Amy bowed to their applause. Even Columbians rose and applauded. After all, she was one of them, Milt’s daughter.
Flushed, Amy went on, “Please show the Worth some mercy. I’d like to close with a prayer.” She closed her eyes, bowed her head. “Dear God, please protect the beautiful old hotel where my dear grandma Selma was in fashion shows—from my father!”
It was Milt’s turn. He got up and said he was representing Plotkin and Schooner, Developers, who would buy the property “in a flash,” pay for a safe demolition, and erect not just a Price Slasher Supermarket but a whole mini-mall, called the General Worth Mini-Mall, an architect’s rendition of which he would unveil in a moment.
“Even my dear late mother-in-law, Selma Rose, declined to take part in Worth Saving. She wouldn’t even drive past the place these last few years. We need to remove the infected tooth and put a gold bridge in there,” he said, glancing at Basch the dentist, “and so forth. We have to destroy the Worth to save it.” Many in the crowd nodded. Milt introduced his state-of-the-art computerized projector with which he would show slides. “Blinky, could we dim the lights?”
The lights dimmed.
Milt clicked on the computer and there was a soft poof and the chamber went black. Nervous laughter, then catcalls. It was a definite breakage, and in the dark the anxiety rose. The janitor lit a butane lighter and opened the fuse box. Luckily there was a spare fuse. He replaced the fuse and the lights went on—to cheers and applause. But Milt had forgotten to turn off the computer, so there was another poof and the same thing happened again. Milt called out that he’d turned off the computer, but the janitor called back that that was the last fuse. Someone shouted that they should use a penny, but that was shouted down. They were in the dark.
After some scurrying, and a lot of shin banging, a few candles and flashlights appeared on the speakers’ table. The eyes of the crowd began to adjust to the dimness. An argon streetlamp outside threw in some light—pleasantly harsh, as if from a UFO—filtering down through one tall window. Soon, people could see well enough for the meeting to continue.
But as Milt went on—badly, without his slides—the crowd realized that the problem with the meeting wasn’t the light but the heat. For several days there had been a bizarre warm spell. Now the air- conditioning, which had kept the room cool, had been knocked out, and the ancient radiators were still on, blasting heat into the crowded room. The janitor went down to the basement and, in a desperate act, disconnected the boiler, but he told everyone that it would take an age for the old radiators to lose their heat. The room was stifling. Folks suggested opening the windows, but even with the long gaff and with the strength of heavy Columbians, the windows remained stuck, as if nailed shut.
Milt sat down, sweaty and defeated, and the mayor said the meeting was now officially open to discussion.
Things got ugly and then dangerous. One problem with having light only at the front was that the audience was in darkness. No one could tell who was shouting at, or cheering on, the speakers. Supporters of the mini-mall, who talked about how much it would mean to them to have their very own mall to shop at, and how it might lead to other business coming downstreet like, say, McDonald’s and Taco Bell, were cheered. New Yorkers, who tried to point out the priceless historic legacy and pledged to form a citizens’ committee and hold benefits and hire consultants and look into urban renewal, were shouted down, despite the mayor’s attempt to keep order. Mrs. Tarr, trying a rebuttal, was verbally attacked.
“Hey, lady,” someone shouted from the dark. “You don’t even live here. You and your historical ladies are out having tea at Spook Rock, and I’m tryin’ to keep my kids out of that dump, away from the drunks, the drug dealers, and the perverts. And rats. When’s the last time you saw a rat?”
Before she had a chance to speak, someone else shouted, “Yeah, it’s our taxes, not yours. You don’t pay taxes in Columbia.”
“I pay my taxes in my public service. Given time, we can raise money privately to save the hotel. Fixed up, it can be a centerpiece for the whole downtown, the antique stores and homes—all of it, as well as for our bicentennial celebration next year. And the last rat I saw was two days ago.”
“But I pay taxes,” said Mrs. Follywell, founder of CATS, “and I and my antique store colleagues want to pay more taxes if it’ll save the Worth. And I would propose, for the first time here, a special levy to do so.”
“Yeah, ’cause you can afford it.”
“Order, order,” shouted the mayor, banging his gavel.
Orville stood up and talked about the Worth being an important landmark in his growing up. “It was a place Dr. Bill Starbuck used to take me for lunch. That was when I first decided to become a doctor. Your doctor, and—”
“’Til August!” someone shouted.
“Shut up!” someone else shouted back. “He’s a good doctor, so far.”
“He ain’t no Bill Starbuck!”
“Thank God for that!” Everyone laughed.
Orville was startled. It was the first time he’d been ridiculed by Columbians. He sat down, shaken and then angry.
Greenie Sellers rose and, in his dashiki and green hair, gave a fiery speech peppered with Italian and German words. He was passionately on both sides, supporting “the grand old lady hotel and my New York antico negozianti” as well as “my oppressed proletariat, my fellow Downstreeters. Ich bin ein Columbian!” He was shouted down most cruelly.
The meeting spiraled crazily out of control. The heat was oppressive. Breathing was tough. Body odor took over. The obese, the pink puffers and blue bloaters representing Columbians With Emphysema, and the claustrophobes, left in droves. From the dark came shouts and accusations and muffled racist and sexist and homophobic jibes and whispers, all of which Americo tried to control with his gavel. The threat of new taxes, and the notion of a brand-spanking-new not just Price Slasher but in fact a whole new mall led to the portrayal of the Worth Saving crowd as “outside agitators and hippies.” The crowd started to feel like a mob.
Orville watched Amy, sitting up front, and saw how terrified she looked. He stood and motioned her to come back and sit with them. As Amy stood up, a familiar voice rose from the front row.
“Your Honor? May I have the floor?” Henry Schooner was on his feet.
“Uh-huh.”
Rather than stay in his seat like the other speakers, Henry moved to the center aisle and stood before the small gate in the low-railed barrier. He turned to Amy, who was standing on the other side of the gate, trembling.
“You’ve got nothing to be afraid of, dear,” he said, and then held open the gate, took her hand, and led her back to his own seat, next to her mother. He returned to the aisle, stood facing the crowd, and said nothing for a moment. Then he took off his sports jacket and laid it across the railing and meticulously rolled up both shirtsleeves, smiling at the crowd.
Orville was rapt. Schooner had positioned himself just where the argon rays from the streetlamp were highlighting his white hair and round face. His sleeves were rolled up casually, but his regimental striped tie was still knotted crisply around his thick neck. He looked cool, in both senses of that word. The crowd was still. How does he do it?
“My fellow
Columbians,” he began. “Our lovely little lady there, Amy Plotkin, has the right idea in her choice of words. Mercy. Mercy.” He paused and then said, once again, “Mercy. Justice and mercy.”
The Voice, Orville thought. Husky. Mature. Sure.
“Let’s show a little mercy to each other. It takes all kinds to make a world.”
The crowd was still, as if transfixed. To Orville, to Miranda, to Penny, to the others, it was as if Henry were speaking only to each of them and paying attention only to each of their reactions, as if each were the most important person in the room. As if each were a TV camera.
Remarkable, thought Miranda. Truly.
Orville wiped a runnel of sweat out of his eye. He’s not even sweating, how come? His tie’s cinched tight and he’s not even sweating?
“Let me begin with a pledge of my neutrality. I am not for saving the Worth and am not for destroying it. I am for us, all of us. For Amy and Milt, for my family and yours, for Columbia, for America, and for the world.”
“Oh, yeah?” came a contemptuous voice from the dark. “What about Plotkin and Schooner puttin’ up the Slasher?”
“And the mini-mall. Don’t forget the mini-mall!”
“I’m glad you asked that question. As you know, I’m running for Congress. As a candidate to represent all of you, I do not want to be beholden to any special interest group, any monies.”
Orville was amazed—had he really said “monies,” not “money”?
“Thus Milt and I have agreed that, effective today, I am resigning from Plotkin and Schooner. I will put all my holdings in escrow. If I lose the primary in September, or win that and lose the election in November, I will rejoin my firm. I’m sorry to leave my dear friend and partner, Milt—he and I have batted this around in great depth—but I need to devote my full-time effort, one hundred and fifty percent, to serve my country in peace as I served her in war. I want to now publicly offer a hearty ‘Thanks, partner!’ to Milton Plotkin.” Henry applauded Milt. Others joined in. Milt looked like this was news to him, too, and not welcome news either. He sat there, waving limply to the crowd, and despite the wan smile on his face he seemed to be saying, I’m toast.
“And so, my fellow Columbians,” Schooner went on, “we have to learn to live together and to work together. This isn’t about I or you, it’s about we and us. We Downstreeters, like my friend May Carter, representing PALH. We antique sellers and lovers of antiques working our best to rejuvenate Downstreet through CATS. We SPOUTers, working for basically the same goal with different means. And we parents of terrific kids like Amy Plotkin, who can give such a stirring rendition of Shakespearean poetry. Not I or you, but we Columbians, we Americans, and, in this world where we are constantly threatened by dark forces with nucular weapons, we human beings. And so, my friends, I humbly propose the following solution. I make a motion we employ what my dear old friend the good doctor of Columbia, Orville Rose, calls ‘tincture of time.’ My motion, to the council and to this gathering of good-hearted citizens and friends all, is that we give the hotel a stay of execution, challenge our friends in Worth Saving to come up with sufficient monies to renovate within nine months, until the end of the year. If they fail, then at that time, we as a community will have no choice but to sell the rights to others. That’s the American way, through private-sector efforts, to raise the funds for the public good.”
“Ain’t they had enough time already?” someone shouted out.
“No, they have not,” Henry said firmly. “Tonight is the first night that we finally addressed the issue as a community. Together. We are processing this together. I have been informed that they require nine months, minimum, from tonight.”
“We wasted enough time on this!”
“Yeah, let’s just get it over with!”
“Let’s not rush anything,” Henry said, so softly that it was hard to hear him, but everyone strained to hear, so what he said next, though said even more softly, was heard by all. “Once destroyed . . .” Henry held up a closed fist, paused, and then opened his fingers like the poof of a magician making a live dove disappear, “gone forever.” He paused, letting this sink in.
Death, the crowd thought. He’s talking about death.
“Gone. Forever.” Schooner sighed, as if thinking of all the deaths he’d seen in war. “I make a motion we give the Worth Savers until the end of the year to make the hotel the centerpiece of a revitalized Downstreet. If they fail, Milt or other developers can extract it and make the Price Slasher—and the mini-mall—the centerpiece. Either way, we all win. Second, I propose we organize more police protection—if we can afford it—to ensure the public safety of all those who live near the Worth. If we can’t afford it, I propose we form a citizens’ patrol for safety, to make sure the undesirable elements don’t continue to inhabit the hotel, which, despite her rich history, has fallen so low. I for one am volunteering here and now to take the first patrol, tonight.”
He turned to the low railing, picked up his sports coat, and slung it over his shoulder, looped around one finger, an ordinary guy ready to fight the good fight against evil until he won. He turned back to the crowd.
“We need to pull together. We need to have our differences add, not subtract and divide, us. We can be an example—and not only for our children, but for each other, and for others. We Columbians, we Americans, we who inhabit our dear planet Earth for a brief moment of . . . yes, mercy under God. God bless you all, and God bless America.”
Henry bowed his head. There was thunderous applause, stompings, and full-throated cheers. Henry made his way back to his seat, squeezing into a remarkably small space between Amy and Nelda Jo, who put her arm around his shoulders and kissed him.
Henry sat looking straight ahead.
“Do I hear a second to the motion?” the mayor asked.
“I second it!”
“I third it!”
Laughter.
The vote wasn’t even close.
Everyone left the meeting feeling up, high.
Orville and Miranda got into the Chrysler. They were due to pick up Cray, but they found themselves just sitting there, not moving or talking, stunned by Henry Schooner.
· 20 ·
“He even smells good!” Orville finally said. “Smells like breakfast cereal—‘Schooner Flakes’ or something. The most compassionate of the Columbians, Henry Schooner?”
“Amazing,” Miranda said. “I’ve never seen him do that before. Something’s happened. Whether we like it or not, the boy’s got it. He’s launched. He’s on his way.”
“Smooth as puppy shit. A total fake.”
“Maybe not.”
“That smarmy, patriotic God-goop, are you kidding? C’mon, I know the guy—he’s a bully, a brute, a fake. At best a fake.”
“You knew him a long time ago.”
“I know what I’ve seen since, too. Look, I don’t mind fake, if I know that underneath the fake is more fake and more fake—but not evil.”
“What?” She was stunned. “Wait a second. How can you possibly know that?”
“You know right here,” he said, tapping himself on the sternum, “in the center of your chest. You know when you’re a kid and you wake up in the middle of the night in terror and realize you’re seeing his face in a nightmare. He was a bad kid, he’s a bad adult. A total phony. He doesn’t really care about anything. Nothing.”
“So?”
“So?!”
“What difference does it make?”
“A lot. I’ve seen the damage. When I went around the world trying to patch people up, I’d run into guys like Schooner—I’m sensitive to them, the hollow ones, the ones who don’t care. And one thing I learned. People who don’t care about anything can do anything! Suppose, under all that fakery, instead of nothing, there’s really bad shit? Suppose, deep down inside he’s so vacant and . . . and untethered th
at he’d do anything? Suppose he makes it look so good that you buy it? That everybody buys it?”
“And?”
“And look at the effect! Look at the town, the country! Come spend a day with me—no, no, first, spend a night watching TV, seeing what Reagan Inc. is putting out as ‘normal’ American life, then come spend a day, come see what I see—the poverty, violence, racism, gay hating, the fear of commies, of bad guys with bombs! You saw it tonight—they hate these antiquers not because they’re rich or successful but because most of them are gay or Jewish or ‘liberal.’ It starts right here!” He tried to cool down. “So when I see it happening on a small scale here, people falling in love with Schooner, I get very wary.”
“So do I. But the country’s tired. People want a rest. After the sixties—civil rights, Vietnam, the assassinations, Watergate—people don’t want to face things, they want to believe. So they believe in Reagan, they believe that ‘America’s Number One.’”
“Reagan’s screwing them, emptying their wallets and handing it to the rich, and they’re saying, ‘Oh, thank you, Mr. President, for screwing us and handing my money to the rich. Thanks for the denial—and thanks for giving us permission to hate.’ Think I’m crazy? Where did he kick off his first campaign? Philadelphia, Mississippi, where the local Great Americans tortured and murdered the three civil rights workers. It was a clear racist message, sent subtly—brilliantly disguised. He’s given them license to hate.”