by Chuck Redman
From across the field Granny shakes her head quite hopeless. There’s new life all around her grandson in this familiar spot, but: you can’t sing a prairie turnip to sleep or tuck it in with a kiss.
Monday
Some of the staff is at their work desks on the sides. Around the long concave dais the five council members’ places above their nameplates is vacant. Until Laura Ryder comes in and sets her Stucko Fasteners coffee mug down on the polished walnut where the official agenda awaits her. Then goes out again shivering. That was that.
It’s 10:06, this thing was supposed to get off the ground at ten, what’s the holdup? The public’s packed into the council chamber, abuzz with static electricity. One way or the other. Positive or negative. Where are them council folks?
Mayor Pro Tem Ted Racine and Gus Peters the lawyer enter from the back in serious conversation about something until they both shrug their shoulders and take their seats and start to shuffle papers and write notes and stare into space quite frequently and the mayor goes over and starts to chat with the assistant city planner and Gus Peters gets to joking with the city attorney and Laura Ryder comes back with a sweater over her small back and Dr. Daniel Huber comes in with that leading man hair of his and plainly itching to raise one of them shoulders where the suit is let out and still bulges and wave at everybody in the gallery but he don’t and Laura Ryder gets up to say hi to a friend in the audience and finally Ann Palmer scoots in and takes her seat who I’m pretty sure would much sooner be over at her flower shop primping primroses and who avoids eye contact with her frowning husband in the front row closest to her and at last they’re all five settled in their places like one of them plastic toys with the little silver balls you gotta tilt just right until all five is in their slot.
Mayor Ted Racine adjusts his microphone. Back of the mayor sits Tanya Portillo with a mound of papers and doing stuff on a computer. She’s wearing the exact same dress-up clothes she wore graduation night. “Good morning. I’ll call the regular meeting of the Cottonwood City Council of June 21, 2010 in session. I want to thank you all for coming out on this overcast Monday morning. We have a busy agenda today, and as you can see, a very full house, so we’ll get started.” The public has simmered down pretty good and is watching the proceedings like a courtroom drama. “Please rise for the Pledge of Allegiance.” Most of these folks actually remember the words. Even Milt Minsky, who stashes his semi-gnawed bearclaw back into the bag and covers it with the Caterwauler when he stands for the Pledge.
“Very good. We’re first going to take up some shorter and perhaps less momentous, shall we say, business before we get to the matter that I know most of you have come here to show your concern regarding. Could I have roll call, please.”
The city clerk calls council member Huber.
“Here.”
“Council member Palmer.”
“Here.”
“Council member Peters.”
“Present.”
“Council member Ryder.”
“Here.”
“Mayor Pro Tem Racine.”
“Here. Could I have approval of the minutes please for June seven?” Moved. Seconded. Five ayes, no nays. Carries. “First item?” The Mayor’s looking over at the clerk, who forgot she has a microphone. “Coats? Oh, goats. Yes, uh, Mr. Brummel, I think you have a report for us.”
With pert’ner no inflection the city engineer leans close to his microphone and reports, “Annual brush clearance by goats has completed, and they have left our city. We’ll need a re-authorization for next year, if the council is so disposed.”
“I just want to say,” says Laura Ryder, who has beautiful big teeth when she smiles. “Everyone in my neighborhood was very pleased with the goats. And it was very pleasant to look out the window in the morning and see the goats grazing so happy and peaceful. So, job well done.”
“Of course,” says Dr. Huber lifting his eyes to the public gallery, “Council member Ryder lives upwind of those goats. Some of us live directly downwind.” That brings little microphony chuckles from the city council folks and I spose they are a bit more tickled by stuff like that than the public folks. These city council meetings is always more or less of a love fest. At least that’s what you see reflected on the surface.
“Any further discussion?” says the mayor, pointing his bushy eyebrows and eyeglasses left and right at his fellow legislators. “Any motions?”
“I move that we vote to re-authorize the contract to bring in goats for annual brush clearance for fiscal year two thousand eleven.”
“Thank you, Council member Ryder. Is there a second?” Seconded. Roll call. Carries unanimously. With that old business off the table, the council is ready to hear the biweekly reports of the city manager, city attorney, community service reps of the fire department and sheriff’s department, and the library manager. I’ll tell ya—these folks is all top notch. Smart, professional, equal to anything you’d see in Lincoln, Omaha, or any big city. I kid you not.
Special kudos from the council to the fire department for their quick response to that suspicious mobile home fire of undetermined origin, and for their successful open house tour at the fire station. Even bigger kudos from the council to the sheriff’s department for yesterday’s bust of a notorious meth lab, a daring operation which is still being mopped up as they speak. The mayor holds up today’s Caterwauler with its giant headline “SHERIFF: WE GOT THE FRICKIN BUMS!” And in the second row next to Cosetti’s two interns the half of Kenny’s lip that does most of his smiling for him has a kind of swagger. Somebody starts a groundswell of applause through the chamber. Mighta been Bill McCarmady in the third row, next to Milt.
“All right,” says Mayor Racine after a couple of special use permits is heard and voted on, and one or two budget items is tabled. He sits up straighter in his seat and adjusts his microphone. “I think we’re ready to begin the hearing on Zoning Petition seventeen and Council Motion One Eighty-eight to permit Euphemion Packing Company to construct and operate a meatpacking facility on a location that will require removal of our ancient stand of cottonwoods.” The public sits up straighter in their seats and adjusts their breathing. And their faces. “Procedurally, we will try to alternate pro and con. Time constraints dictate that not everyone who wishes to speak will have a chance to speak. But I trust that you all understand that we will do our best to insure as full, fair and open a discussion as possible. Thank you in advance for your patience and cooperation. Okay.” The mayor looks down at his paperwork and then calls up the first speaker which of course would be the petitioner.
The man, a grayer-headed and less grinny fella than Cosetti, introduces hisself to the council as Maurice Benman, Executive Vice President of Strategy and New Ventures at Euphemion Packing Company, exactly as the mayor read off the speaker card. “I am very happy to be here,” he says spreading his notes on the podium, “to present our petition to the City of Cottonwood. And I appreciate your allowing me to substitute, at the last minute, for our general counsel.” Well, the fella goes on to expound upon all the good stuff about his company and its plans here in Cottonwood. And then he sets about deflecting any kind of bad notions that might be brought up: how they ain’t going to hire no more illegals nor anybody with a criminal record of any kind, and they got systems planned to save the environment and plant cottonwoods, and health insurance and social programs for the workers, you name it they got it. And they’re aiming to grow with Cottonwood and partner up in all the future greatness that can be imagined. I think this feller has probly spoke once or twice somewhere or other on similar themes, cause he seems to know how to put the main ideas together and get em across in pretty good style.
Council member Peters wants to know what he means by Employee Life Satisfaction Initiative. Well, this Benman describes all of ELSI’s perks and amenities and services so pretty, I’m dang close to raising my hand and signing on right this second myself. I’d need a hand, though.
When there’s no mo
re questions Mr. Benman retakes his seat on the other side of Cosetti’s interns, and the next speaker comes up, which is the former mayor of Riverside. “Mr. Mayor, council members.” The gentleman has to twist upwards on the microphone just a speck, though his posture’s quite hunched as he stands there under the bright recessed lighting with as serious a set of features as the morning has yet produced. “Some of you know me, some of you don’t, but I’m sorry to say that I was mayor of Riverside, Nebraska, ten years ago when we welcomed Euphemion Packing Company with open arms. Before that, Riverside was a prosperous town, a good place to live, raise your family, good schools. But we wanted more. We got more all right.” Pointing skywards his thumb, and then fingers one by one, he counts off stuff like school overcrowding, a drain on public health services, groundwater contamination, DUI’s, crime, gangs, and neighborhood blight. He gives examples. Make your blood curdle. Worse than the nightly news. Sittin alongside Bill and Milt in the third row, Ray gives Babette’s little hand a brave squeeze. And tries his dangdest not to yawn any more than can’t be helped.
The questions from the council are mainly whether, like this guy Benman just promised, Euphemion mayn’t have learnt a lesson or two in Riverside and them other cities that will make things altogether different this time around. Well, the ex-mayor professes very little faith that such promises would really hold up, based on everything he’s seen of corporate behavior in his career. Hmmmh.
The only person in the room perhaps capable of lifting everybody’s spirits at this moment is announced, and the Chamber of Commerce Executive Director don’t really have to try or say anything very original to lighten the mood. Just her being there. In all her perfectness. Why all of a sudden am I seeing Kelly with pom-poms down on the sidelines at the big homecoming game?
“Thank you, Ms. Waligorski,” says Dr. Huber after Kelly’s five minute spiel which has more numbers than it has words, and himself the epitome of everybody’s homecoming king and starting quarterback. “Those population growth and area income projections are very impressive. I’m impressed. But has the chamber study accounted for any of the adverse side-effects, you know, that our last speaker has witnessed, personally, in Riverside? The things we’ve all been hearing about, or reading about, you know, whenever one of these plants opens up?” Well the chamber forecast is based on tangibles, not intangibles, and Kelly feels there are so many unknown factors both ways that would distort the economic theory of growth and investment. And as she says this and fields a couple more questions, you could almost forget about crime and pollution and start to think that the real debate here is over the relative depth of dimples. Some would vote left, others admire the right. Independents might go either way on the dimple question. But as Kelly gets thanked for her presentation, looks like there might be a council split on what she actually said and not just the way she looked when she said it: three to two, is where it stands, in favor of bunched lips over pleasant satisfied smiles.
“Dr. E.M. Tinker.”
“This is not about jobs,” says the retired history professor without any formal salutation after he comes down and clutches at the podium with two shaky hands, “or home prices or safety or beauty or even about history. This is about something deeper. This is about identity.” Professor Tinker happens to believe that small towns have identities. Or at least used to, he says. He happens to think that children need a sense of that identity—something they might not get in big cities. He’s became convinced, over time, that there’s a qualitative difference between young folks that grow up in smaller communities and them that’s reared in the big cities. Whether it’s trees, security, tranquility, what have you, it all adds up to one thing: a sense of who we are, where we belong. A sense of self. That’s his theory. And then he sits down.
Well, the owner of one of the feed and grain distributors speaks in favor. The president of the Sandhill Cranes Conservancy speaks against. The Catholic priest speaks in favor. The Presbyterian minister speaks against. A couple kids from the Future Cattlemen Club at the high school speak in favor. Two teens from the Earth and Arbor Day Committee speak against. Monique Todd from Todd’s Liquor Store speaks in favor.
“Our last speaker card is Harriet Curtis.” A short lady, pretty well up in years, wearing one of them protester T-shirts comes down from the back two rows which is filled with T-shirt wearers. That Theraflow stuff that she was desperate for last Wednesday night at the supermarket must of done her a whale of good. Mrs. Curtis looks robust and rosy today and her throat don’t hardly croak as she starts to tell the city council how she and many others feels about the things that is happening today in the world and how it used to be in the old days and everything is changing so fast, and boy plenty of folks in this gallery is nodding though they know it don’t have a whole lot to do with the actual petition before the Council. “Yes,” says Mrs. Curtis, “it’s so important to victimize those who cannot speak up for themselves. We need to victimize the plants and trees, we need to victimize all the animals, and of course we must victimize the children.” Her eyes appeal to the council with all the compassion of her venerable years.
Mayor Racine puts his head down and rubs his forehead. “Mrs. Curtis,” says Gus Peters in a voice a person might use if they wanna wake somebody from a nap without making them jump, “victimize means to deliberately persecute or treat unfairly.”
“Oh,” says the lady turning pale and looking so stricken she might have to go back on Theraflow. “I didn’t know that. I’ll sit down.” Gus Peters opens his hands but don’t seem to know what else he can speak into his microphone that will undo what’s been did. Nevermind, the two last rows welcome Mrs. Curtis back like a hero.
“Mr. Benman,” says the Mayor, “would Euphemion like the last word, by way of rebuttal?”
They would. In fact, they think they have answers to every legitimate concern that has been raised. Because they don’t take these concerns lightly, let them be perfectly clear about this. And because their managers and employees have to live in the community just like everyone else. And they start to give well-constructed examples on every bone of contention. But the Mayor’s eyes has slit up and his head has poked forward on his neck.
“Mr. Cosetti.” The mayor ain’t the only one agape in the direction of the public entrance to the council chamber. “Mr. Cosetti, my goodness. On behalf of the city council I want to say how very sorry we are for your—injury.”
“Nothing to be sorry for, Mr. Racine,” says Cosetti leaning on Laertes’ arm. “I’m just glad to be here.” By the sound of it the feller left half of his voice in the hospital, and the half that’s here is coming through a strainer. Laertes sticks a open water bottle into Cosetti’s free hand and the barrister swallows some, enough to slake some of that parchedness.
“Well, you’re certainly welcome.” Brent Portillo gets up, and then everybody in his row starts to move down a couple empty seats to make room. “Please,” says the Mayor, “have a seat, Mr. Cosetti. Your colleague was just—”
“I was hoping to say a couple words myself. If Mr. Norris could just steer me to the podium.” Laertes looks like a offensive coordinator watching his third string halfback run the wrong way down the field.
“Well, I don’t know Mr. Cosetti, are you sure you’re—”
“Just a couple words, Mayor.” The council all trade funny looks with their hands turned up, and their heads afflicted with a rare palsy. Laertes cuts toward the sidelines once his boss is within a football’s length of the podium. Benman surrenders the outpost peaceably, but perplexably. When he seen his fellow honcho this morning the dude was eating hospital eggs with a spoon. Cosetti gropes around in the air above the podium. That wiry little microphone can be dang elusive, if it wants to.
Sittin right there in the front aisle seat next to Rossiter, Janet flinches. And flinches. Like part of her wants to spring up and help the dude with his struggle. But she don’t, being primarily froze and stuck to her seat cushion. “The thing is,” and with
that there little wire finally in his grasp, whether out of order or not he’s got the floor, “the thing is, if I were a resident of Cottonwood with a fondness for trees, I’d file for an injunction so fast it would be signed and sealed before they figure out which end of the courthouse is up. My friends, the language is right there in your own city charter. But that’s a moot point,” he says. What he really come down here to say is, there’s a young person in this community—and he don’t know if that young man is present or not—who loves this town and those old trees so much he was willing to hurt the thing he loved to save it from destruction. “I don’t condone it,” says Cosetti. “But at least what the kid did was motivated by some higher moral purpose. And god help us, it shows how much those old trees mean to people around here. Go figure.”
While Tanya cries at her little desk behind the mayor, Cosetti halts for a moment to swig water and mess with his eye patch. Then, like he’s taking inventory of his face, he feels with both hands all around his bandages. Not that there’s anything he can do about them. Now you gotta look close but plenty of these folks watching has gradually took on that burning squintiness of the eyes: the one that means they’re thinkin real hard what it must be like to actually be the poor cuss underneath those dreadful bandages. Then some will realize they better abandon that particular trail of thought before they get to the point they have to put their head between their legs and do deep breathing. And then there’s a few always thinking See, Mom, I told you I wasn’t cut out for medical school.
Cosetti himself on the other hand admits he done one of the lowest things a person could do: tried to subvert the democratic system, and not for any honorable cause, but for selfish interests. “I’m not asking for anyone to forgive me, it was unforgivable. All I ask is for this council to think about that young man and all the other young people who will inherit whatever legacy this town sees fit to leave them. It’s not that, uh—”