“Goodbye, Mr. Granger.”
“Oh, don’t worry. I’ll be back.”
Exactly what worries me.
He moves to the door, pauses. “The fact is,” he says, “I run into situations like this all the time. Someone’s struggling with their weight, they’ve got self-esteem issues holding them back, maybe they’re afraid to fail again, so they’re stuck. They’re praying the right person will come along and help them change their lives. I teach them where to look.”
“Let me guess,” I return dryly. “You.”
“No. The mirror.”
With a satisfied gleam in his eyes and a spring in his step, he turns and walks away. I rap my fingernails against the paper he gave me as I listen to the swish sound slowly recede.
“Well, he’s good. I’ll give him that.”
Audrey looks at me, appalled. “You’re not serious about doing this, are you?”
“What? Accept Granger’s offer?” I make a scoffing noise. “Hardly. Call Dan Walker in,” I say, referring to the attorney the town keeps on retainer. “We’ll let him handle this whole mess.”
“Already done. He’ll be here at four o’clock. I reserved the conference room, in case you want the council present at the meeting.”
Absolutely I do. I want this thing done and over with. The sooner the better, so we can move on to things that actually matter.
“All right, then,” I say. “Back to business. What’s next on my agenda?”
Audrey gives an apologetic grimace. “The Pardoe brothers. They’ll be here any minute to talk to you about that zoning issue.”
I bite back a sigh. The Pardoe brothers—Peter, Paul, and Marty—lease warehouse space in a commercial district that fronts Route 315, a two-lane highway that’s the main route into Eaton. They make their living working with chainsaws, carving rustic furniture and whimsical animals from local lumber. All fine and well, except they’ve turned their frontage into retail space, displaying their goods for sale to passing motorists, a violation of the town zoning ordinance. They’re lobbying for an exemption, something I don’t feel comfortable selectively granting. I suggested they take up the matter with the zoning appeals board. Apparently the appeals board has bounced the matter back to me.
I settle back in my chair and attempt to focus my thoughts. Not the most auspicious start to my morning, but at least I’m back at work.
As the day wears on, my phone doesn’t stop ringing. A line of people forms outside my office, voicing opinions as to what should be done about that website and Granger’s challenge. Unable to promise any specific action, I spend hours making sympathetic (read: totally useless and politically non-committal) clucks and murmurs. By the time Audrey and I catch our breath, it’s four o’clock.
High heels clicking against the linoleum floor, we rush to the conference room for our meeting with Dan Walker.
Audrey says as we run, “Look, if nothing else works, we’ve got karma on our side, plus I pulled a tarot card for the town. We got the Wheel of Fortune, which is a major arcana. That’s really good.”
I pause at the conference room door to catch my breath. “You know I don’t believe in any of that mystic crap.”
“So what’s your plan? You think we’re gonna beat this thing?”
“Absolutely. My horoscope said today’s a great day for righting wrongs.”
FIVE
“Listen, folks,” Dan Walker says, “I understand you want me to wave my legal wand and make this thing go away, but that isn’t going to happen.”
“Why not?” asks Councilwoman Flores. “Can’t we just sue them?”
“Sue them?” Walker looks pained. “Okay, let’s assume for a moment we can even figure out whom to sue. There’s not exactly a contact button at the bottom of this website. But let’s assume Eaton is willing to pay thousands to an IT firm to track them down. Let’s further assume they’re not in Mexico, or Canada, or Europe, or Asia, or someplace we would have absolutely no jurisdiction.”
He pauses, letting that sink in, then continues, “Let’s say we do find them, and they’re based here in the States. Great. Except that under current internet law, hosting companies and websites are under no legal obligation to remove defamatory content without a court’s determination that the content is actually harmful and untrue.”
“What does that mean?” asks Councilman Tim Bridges, a stay-at-home dad with three little girls, the youngest still in diapers. Married to a physician’s assistant, he works part-time for the local cable company.
“It means if we do take them to court, we have two burdens of proof.” Walker pauses and lifts his fingers to emphasize the points he’s making. “One. The allegations presented online are false. Eaton is not the ‘Chubbiest Town in America.’ We find another town with higher rates of obesity per capita and demonstrate in court that the superlative belongs to them, instead of us.”
In other words, publicly fat-shame another town. Oh, joy.
“Two,” Walker continues, “we prove that this was published with malice aforethought, with the direct intention of hurting the residents of this town or damaging the business conducted by this town. Further, we must show in quantifiable terms how we were fiscally injured by their actions.”
I lift my pen to take a note, just to be doing something, then set it down, exasperated. Definitely not the direction I’d hoped the meeting would go.
Dan Walker has been on retainer for over a decade and has a well-deserved reputation for offering excellent counsel on all legal matters facing the town. But the dramatic power play I’ve been eagerly envisioning all day, beginning with a scathing set-down of BestOfMyCountry.com and ending with Walker assuring the council he’ll have the site shut down by the end of the day, tomorrow afternoon latest, isn’t happening.
Walker scans our dejected faces. “I know this isn’t what you want to hear. But I’d be remiss if I didn’t point out that you’re not dealing with just one site anymore. This thing’s already spilled over onto dozens of other sites, including Facebook, Twitter, and Instagram. Not to mention the media. Shutting it down isn’t an option.”
Earlier this afternoon, I learned the story was no longer confined to the internet and our local cable channel. It’s been picked up by affiliates as far away as Detroit and Spokane. One of those so-called ‘fluff’ pieces news anchors chortle over at the end of a broadcast. (Although of course the news media couldn’t simply air the Chubbiest Town clips. That would have been distasteful. Insensitive. So they reframed the story, focusing on the angle of sensationalist fitness guru Jym Granger challenging an entire town to lose weight. Then they showed the fatty clips. Clever them.)
“So what do you suggest we do?” I ask, barely reining in my impatience. “Ignore it? Hope it goes away?”
“Actually, Rachel, just the opposite.”
“Meaning what, exactly?”
Walker leans back in his chair, temples his fingers over his stomach.
“I’m going to give you the same advice I gave a client of mine who came to me with a problem his son was having. The kid had gone to Mexico over Spring Break. Did the sort of stupid stuff twenty-year-old guys sometimes do. Drank too much tequila, danced on tables, swam naked, sang bad karaoke, judged a wet t-shirt—well, you get the idea. Anyway, the photos were splashed online with the kid tagged in them by name. Not a big deal when he was in college, but a serious problem when he graduated and prospective employers did a cursory online screening and that stuff came up. None of it illegal, per se, but it showed pretty poor judgment.”
“How’d you fix it?” Alper asks.
“I didn't. I couldn’t, for the same reasons I’ve just discussed with you. So I advised the young man and his family to bury it.”
“Bury it?”
“Yup. Get online and start posting every photo they had of the kid doing something right. College graduation, high school tennis team, acting in the school play, walking shelter dogs, visiting grandma in the hospital, filling a bag of tras
h on town clean-up day, whatever. That way, a prospective employer might still stumble on photos of him messing around at Spring Break, but they’d see a lot more of him as the person he is. In his case, a basically decent young man.”
“Did it work?” Flores asks.
“It did.” He glances around the table. “Listen, I know it’s not perfect, but it’s the only solution I’ve got.”
Silence fills the room, with the notable exception of a woodpecker-like staccato, which I’m embarrassed to realize is coming from me. Somehow I’ve got the pen in my hand again and I’m drumming it against my legal pad, an unconscious expression of my frustration.
All day long I’ve gone through the motions of doing my job because I thought someone else would step in and do my job. Namely, Dan. I never doubted that there was a legal remedy at our disposal. A button we could push to make it all go away. Clearly there isn’t. I’ve been mayor for less than two weeks and this mess gets dumped in my lap. I’m the one who has to fix it. Me. Isn’t that a poke in the eye with a burnt stick.
I drop my pen and rise, moving to the head of the table.
“Thank you for your time, Mr. Walker. And your legal guidance, of course. The council will need a moment to consider it.”
Walker takes his cue. He returns his papers to his briefcase and moves to the door. Hesitates before leaving. “If I may, I’ve got two final pieces of advice for this council. The first is probably obvious. Don’t even think about taking this case to court. Not only will it be expensive and embarrassing, Eaton will lose.”
I give a tight nod. “And the second piece of advice?”
Walker shrugs. “If Jym Granger is willing to pay $100,000 to help the town fight back, take him up on it. Why not? It could be fun, and it might even help generate a little positive PR. Besides, at least that’s something you’ve got a shot at winning.” He pauses, patting his belly. “I may sign up for the challenge myself.”
Oh, good Lord. Dan Walker, someone I like, someone whose opinion I actually respect, thinks Granger’s challenge might be fun?
When Matthew was five, Ed and I took him to San Diego, extending a police technology conference into a family vacation. On the plane west, we attempted to educate him on the dangers of swimming in the ocean. As it turned out, we needn’t have worried about Matthew drowning on that particular trip. He refused to go anywhere near the ocean. We unwittingly terrified the poor child when he heard undertoad, instead of undertow, and imagined a horde of scaly green creatures lurking beneath the waves, waiting to drag him away.
At the moment, I can’t help but feel one of those nasty little toads has me in its clutches. Struggling against this isn’t working. It seems my only course of action is to go with the flow, keep my head above water, and see where the current takes me. Ride this thing out. Well, all right then. Not only am I Eaton’s acting provisional mayor, I’m a single working mother. I know how to roll up my sleeves, delegate, and get things done.
I direct my attention to the town council. Six men and three women. Hardworking, dedicated people. If I saw them on a jury, I’d enjoy a reasonable certainty they were capable of delivering a fair and just verdict.
“So that’s our situation,” I say. “If we can’t make this go away and we can’t ignore it, then we take the advice of counsel and tackle the matter head-on. Who would like to sit on a social media task force? See if we can’t start putting a different face on Eaton’s online presence?”
Three people volunteer, launching enthusiastic conversation as to what they might be able to accomplish.
“And Granger’s challenge?” Alper says. “You want me to take the lead on that one?”
Brett Alper is a CPA with his own practice. He drives a late-model Lexus sedan and wears a showy gold watch. Objectively not a bad looking guy. Early-forties, dark green eyes and dark blond hair. Divorced. It’s rumored he drives to a salon fifty miles away twice a month just to have his hair trimmed. Given what I know of the guy, I’m inclined to believe it.
“What I would like, Councilman Alper,” I say through gritted teeth, “is for you to have shown enough respect for me personally, or least for my position as acting mayor of this town, to have brought the matter to my attention privately, rather than spring it on me in the middle of a televised council session.”
Alper opens his mouth to reply, but I cut him off. “The answer to your question, Councilman, is no. If I determine it is in the best interest of this town to accept Jym Granger’s challenge, I will lead the effort myself. Is that clear?”
“Up to you, Mayor Presley.” Alper holds up his palms in a gesture of exaggerated innocence and looks around the room. “If you think that’s a good idea, you go right ahead.”
And I’ll be sure to publicly attack you for your poor judgment, no matter which way you go, he may as well have finished.
“What about your meeting with Guy French?” Councilwoman Linda Mitby, a retired Air Force staff sergeant, wants to know. She runs Clipped Wings, the local hair salon. “How’d that go, Rachel? Did Canine Cuisine commit to leasing the warehouse space?”
“French hasn’t committed yet,” I hedge, “but I’m confident he will. The space is perfect for them.”
Linda lets out a sigh of relief. “Good. Because folks sure weren’t happy about your proposed tax increase.”
Nope. They sure weren’t. I make a point of lifting my cell phone to glance at the time. “I think that’s enough for today. If you’ll excuse me, I have another appointment.”
“Wait a minute, Mayor.” Councilwoman Flores sounds panicked. “What do we tell people who ask us about the SlymFyt challenge?”
“I’ll post an online sign-up sheet on the town website for anyone interested in accepting Granger’s challenge. If you receive calls inquiring about the matter, direct them there. Our first step will be to see if we can get two hundred townspeople to officially agree to participate.”
There. A token gesture signaling my willingness to proceed. But ultimately unnecessary, I think. With any luck, the whole episode will blow over.
SIX
Except it doesn’t. If anything, the buzz surrounding Granger’s challenge grows louder. To my amazement, we’ve even got a few media crews stationed around town taking location shots and filming interviews with local residents. Matthew’s been tracking our cyber-celebrity status. Apparently the story’s been picked up by affiliates stretching from Portland, Oregon to Portland, Maine. I’ve learned there’s a Portland, Texas, and a Portland, Tennessee, because we made the cut there, too. The little town of Eaton has vaulted to national news.
Incredible. It must be a slow news cycle. Thanksgiving Day is right around the corner, Congress is in recess, and the president has already done his pardoning the turkey bit, so there’s not much going on. Still, I can’t help but feel surprised when I drive down Main Street and see a news van parked on the corner and Myra Kushner holding a mic in front of a group of local residents, hoping to egg one of them into making some outrageous three-second sound bite that might vault her to the top of the news cycle. (Myra Kushner. My god. She’s positively giddy. Nothing this exciting has happened to her career since that freight car carrying fertilizer ran off the rails. She’s grabbing her shot at celebrity and holding on with both hands.)
As I drive by, I resist the urge to stop my car and rearrange the shot, even though Myra’s cameraman is facing in the exact opposite direction he should be. From where he’s standing, the background is empty retail space—a For Rent sign clearly visible in the window. All he has to do is turn the lens slightly to give one of our local merchants a little on-air boost. Not that there’s much to choose from in that regard.
The tenants consist of a furniture consignment shop, used book store, gift shop, and a shoe store that’s been there since the town was founded. Better than the empty storefronts, but not by much. With the exception of Esme’s bakery (the Queen of Tarts rocks an awesome purple and gold, grown-up Alice in Wonderland theme), most of it look
s tired and worn.
It’s so obvious what the downtown should be. I’d love to divert traffic, brick over the street and make the core pedestrian-friendly. Bring in more tenants like Esme. I envision outdoor cafes, upscale shopping, quirky kiosks, planters brimming with seasonal greenery, and local musicians to entertain weekend crowds. Ambitious, but it could be done. I’ve seen similar revitalization projects take hold in other towns. It’s just a matter of resource dedication and political will to make it happen.
And time. I’m savvy enough to realize the state of the downtown core is an offshoot of Eaton’s problem, not the problem itself. The town isn’t floundering because there aren’t enough trendy shops or fusion cafes to select from, but because residents lack the income to spend on the types of stores I envision occupying the downtown core. The first step is to fire up the town’s economic engine and give its citizens spending power. Hence my determination to bring in jobs. The rest will fall into place.
I make a mental note to follow-up with Canine Cuisine and get Guy French to commit. Then I pull over and park. Main Street ends in a T-intersection, where Eaton’s town green is located. Just beyond the green sits the stately First Presbyterian church, its towering white steeple visible from nearly anywhere in town, making it the focal point for the original town planners. The building is as simple and sturdy as Eaton itself, the only hint of pride being the massive white wooden columns that flank the main entrance, which add a bit of pizzazz to the otherwise staid structure. I enter through the rear vestibule and pass through hallways so familiar I could navigate them blindfolded, then take the stairs to the undercroft. There I pause to survey the bustling activity taking place.
Although the clunky black letters on the exterior announcement board list my father, Paul Presley, as presiding pastor, I’m privately convinced that my mother is every bit as instrumental to the church’s success. Dad might preach from the pulpit, but it’s mom who puts those prayers into action. Once a need is identified, Carol Presley organizes, rallies, and with the tenacity of a bulldog refusing to let go of a bone, gets stuff done. She is the force behind everything.
The Thousand Pound Christmas Page 4