As I began to read deeper into the article, I discovered something odd. The newspaper story was not neutral, not even close. It had many digs and sarcastic remarks about a few naysayers who denounced the Mayor’s MAD decision. They characterized these loners as goofy oddballs who had no idea of what they are saying. The paper had marginalized these critics as idiots without minds of their own. The problem was, none of this happened. There was no opposition at the meeting. Nobody jumped up and spoke one bad word. Bizarre.
The newspaper used considerable space to lampoon these bellyachers as “losers who would complain about the sun rising in the morning.” It was a hostile editorial disguised as a news story. The article was completely one-sided and fixated on fabricated dialogue by phantom protesters. It was great fiction, but just that.
I hurriedly flipped through the rest of the paper. There was nothing but an overload of dazzling stories about the Mayor’s new initiative. They lavished praise on his insight while offering grateful homage to his bold new plan. He was the man of the hour and could do no wrong. Every page was heavy on photos but rather light and vague on what MAD would do. None of the stories mentioned that drivers were required by law to arrange their drivers route beforehand. Nor any word about big fines that were in store for lawbreakers. Those important details were somehow missing. I had a feeling that divers would soon be in for a shocking surprise. It was almost as if the newspaper writers wanted drivers to be stopped, detained, and arrested. Incredible.
When I reached City Hall, I perched myself near the front door. I was expecting an angry group to swarm to the building with pitchforks, nooses, and torches. Gazing over the landscape, I saw only a mail carrier and a stray dog. That was it. City Hall was safe for another day.
Well, if nobody cared, neither would I. There was no time to think about the rights or wrongs of the new directive. I had a job to perform. I went back to my office. My new assignment was to organize MAD as fast as possible. Of course, I had to hold my nose. I knew the problem. My conscience was eating away at my soul. Sure, I knew that my actions reeked of hypocrisy, but at least I could ignore my conscience. I’d done that before. What was harder to do was finding a way to hide the stench.
At least my long hours of work forced me to forget any loyalty to principles. In quick succession, I arranged furnishings for the new three-story DED office, interviewed a swath of young workers, hired the most qualified personnel, and signed computer contracts. Luckily, the new government building was just a few blocks away from City Hall. I could walk back and forth, organize, and find time for a leisurely lunch.
The workload was overwhelming my senses to the breaking point. I could not find enough qualified help. New workers streamed in like an army of busy ants devouring a dead animal. I had to keep purchasing truckloads of desks, crates of telephones, and stacks of large wall maps. I arranged for training and instruction manuals. Next, we had to update our software and memory to provide faster information to commuters. One of the biggest problems was gathering competitive bids. It took forever. I wanted the best deal. Big Al had a better idea regarding my dilemma: “Just buy it and forget about the cost.”
Sure, I could do that. I could do that all day long. I loved buying new expensive things, especially when I could spend other people’s money without shopping for the best price. That helped to unjam the logjam. In a flash, both Big Al and Mayor Quinn were impressed with my organizational skills. I was sure to win a commendation from City Hall as one of their best managers. I considered myself the Man of the Hour, the Hot Property of Hemet, the Big Kahuna. I was now driving an expensive new city car. Life was good.
To inform the public, I initiated a citywide mailer on the official City of Hemet letterhead, notifying citizens in incorporated areas that they must call us first to have their driving plans authorized. At first, we had a massive response from good citizens attempting to obey the new ordinance to the letter. However, our system became overextended and increasingly overloaded as more citizens participated. I estimated that it was taking 10 to 20 minutes to get hold of a DED operator. I kept adding more people and more lines, but I could not catch up with the demand. By the time we had reached a crescendo of sorts, we still found ourselves plagued by long waiting periods.
People got impatient. We were getting hate messages and a few death threats. Our flow of phone calls had flatlined in the third week. The chart was showing a steady decline in the number of requests for travel routes. I had predicted that scenario secretly to myself from the start. Nevertheless, I tried to pretend that 1,500 to 2,500 calls a day was a tremendous success, and I was proud of my staff of operators for accomplishing the impossible. I knew that euphoria would not last long.
“Spencer.” Big Al finally beckoned me to his richly decorated office on a Monday morning. I had a feeling this was more than a pep talk about planning my own office party to celebrate my success. I entered his massive office with thick Berber carpet. The room was the size of an Olympic pool that could have had its own zip code. I walked next to a wall and swore that the Rembrandt oil paintings were originals. He even had an engraved portrait of Niccolò Machiavelli.
“I’m disappointed.” Big Al sank deeper into his custom leather chair. Right in the middle of his desk sat an undisturbed box of creamy donuts and a large soda. Sure, he was officially on a diet, like almost everyone else, but I knew he planned to eat every single donut. He always did. When I eyed the donuts with a disapproving frown, he lifted up the soda and apologetically said, “It’s diet.”
As I looked out the window, I wondered what the problem was now. I could tell that he was restless, that something was not right. I suspected that he thought I was probably not doing all I could. I inched a little closer to his desk and flung my flat-palmed hands forward in a gesture of doubt. I pleaded, “You don’t think we are running on all cylinders? Correct?”
“Bingo!” Big Al exploded with delight. “However, that is only part of the problem.” Big Al stopped to swallow a donut in one bite. “Do you realize that we have no way to enforce our new law? That’s what we have to solve next.”
“I never thought about it. Just don’t have the time.”
“I understand. You’re not being paid to think about the big picture. That’s why I’m in charge. I’m the real brains in this organization.”
“I guess if you want to enforce our program, the police might be useful,” I said.
“You’re right, Spencer. The police must be part of this operation. Boy, you’re slicker than green fried snot. Thanks for the advice.”
With that disgusting image etched in my head, I backed away. No wonder Big Al could never land a job in the private sector. Nobody was going to pay someone teeming with such unsavory language.
Big Al sucked down another donut and swiveled around in his chair. He reached for the phone and started to dial, but stopped and turned back to me. “Oh yes, there is one more thing. We need to find a way to get tourists and the people outside our city limits involved in our program. Under state and city law, they are required to obey the laws of our city whether they know about them or not.”
“I see.” I never did like that idea of obeying laws that nobody knew about. I could not think of any means to get outsiders to obey our local ordinances. Tourists and occasional visitors were rather elusive. We never knew their itineraries in advance. So how could we control their traveling plans and patterns?
“Spencer, we need to get them aboard. Find a way to do it.” And with that, Big Al grabbed his box of donuts, struggled to stand up, and slowly walked to the door. I stood, lower my head and felt ashamed. What had I done? I slowly retreated to my office.
I kept feeling I was responsible for all of these headaches. I was the one who supplied Big Al with new, exciting ways to impose his screwed-up agenda. I was sure I was going to get a whopping dose of bad karma for all of eternity. I had given Big Al a do-or-die mission. He was going to get our law enforcement department involved in something that was ou
t of their jurisdiction. The city police had a tighter budget than most other departments. They were not going to spend time going after misbehaving drivers. They were preoccupied with felonies, not traffic misdemeanors. At least I hoped so. But what did it matter? I was destined to be reborn as a yellow-bellied banana slug.
As I entered my office, Tommy quickly rushed inside. He closed the door and fiddled with the doorknob, determined to lock it. There was no door lock, but that did not deter Tommy.
“Man, you have no security,” Tommy said in frustration.
“It’s an office door; there is no lock.”
Tommy leaned down, fingered and rattled the doorknob, and then shrugged.
“What do you want?”
Tommy wasn’t paying attention to me. He was watching Big Al’s every movement instead. It was not difficult. I could plainly see my bosses’ antics through my office door window. I knew his routine. When he felt restless, Big Al would lumber around the third floor, searching for a bowl of treats on employees’ desks. After catching his sugary prey, he would wolf down handfuls of chocolate M&M’s or jelly beans. After appeasing his sweet tooth, he would stroll between long rows of cubicles. As Big Al passed by each workstation, he waved his hand at the workers, acting like a victorious Caesar crossing the Rubicon River. After reviewing his troops, he would make a quick dash for the stairwell and disappear.
“What is our big dude going?”
“Lunch.”
“At 10:30 in the morning?”
“Yes, and never complain about that to anyone. Never!”
Tommy smiled and put his hands forward, flashing a thumbs-up gesture. “Oh… when the cat’s away. I get it.”
I looked up and rolled my eyes. “What do you want?”
“Things are getting spooky. I mean crazy spooky. You know, it’s not easy navigating unchartered waters. Have you tried it?”
“Tell me something I don’t know.”
“Okay. So, what is Big Al up to? I sort of like to know what he is going to do before he does it.”
“Wouldn’t we all?”
“You must know something.”
“Believe me. You are talking to the wrong man. You need to consult a very good psychic.”
“Come on, man,” Tommy pleaded with a note of exasperation. “You’re almost his mentor.”
“No, I am not!” I took offense to that. “I’m just second-in-command.”
“Au contraire, O Capitan,” Tommy almost sang. “Big Al said you’re the big man who comes up with all the big ideas.”
I leaned back in my chair, feeling dizzy. I had simply told myself that I was just following orders, that it was my job to assist Big Al in any endeavor. I was a public servant who was trying his best to help others. Except maybe, my conflicted sense of duty to either my government or to my fellow man. I was not sure which one was more important. It was getting fuzzy.
“So, what’s the big dude planning to do?” Tommy interrupted my inner battle. I had trapped myself in a hellscape of remorse. I turned to Tommy to pull me out of despair. He soon rescued me with the aid of diversions. “So, what do you know?” Tommy kept asking.
“Well,” I paused to regain a sense of clarity. “Not much. Big Al is still working it out. He’s mostly kept me in the dark.”
“But has he found another nefarious means to force the numbers higher, to get more drivers to call us?” Tommy continued to pester me with harder questions. I began to appreciate his ability to distract me with trivial matters. I was starting to feel better.
“Nobody really knows,” I responded. “Big Al is like a large railroad train that has run off its tracks. You cannot predict where it will crash. You only know that it will continue to steam ahead until it hits something.”
I stared at Tommy. “Don’t you have somewhere to crash and burn?” I was the one who signed the paperwork to let Tommy transfer to my department. The office manager at city planning signed the transfer papers in record-breaking time. I was not privy to the office manager’s reasons, but I suspected that Tommy had screwed up big time and the whole staff wanted to dump him. Actually, it was my good fortune. I needed him around.
Tommy stared at me. “Hey, man. This is my job. You told me to help you corral Big Al’s ambitions. Remember?”
I nodded. I vaguely remembered saying that after downing a 6-pack of beer in my kitchen. Beer is a really good lubricant to push a babbling mouth into gear.
“I’m your little helper.” Tommy pulled out a small roll of duct tape from his knapsack. He cut off a few small strips and slapped them down on his hands and wrist.
I scratched my head and looked at him in a state of puzzlement. “What in the hell are you doing?”
Tommy looked up apologetically. “I’m trying to get rid of some warts. I heard that duct tape makes them go away.”
“You can’t believe everything people tell you.” I began to lecture a 25-year-old on the merits of modern medicine.
“No, it works, really. I read about it in a medical journal. It dissolves anything you don’t want.”
I began to envision Big Al all wrapped up in duck tap from head to toe. I wanted to hold that thought. I settled back in my chair, pushed away from my desk, and propped up my feet. Modern medicine or voodoo, Tommy’s disrespect for conventional wisdom did wonders for my mental stability.
I studied Tommy. He didn’t come across as an intelligential heavyweight, but he was equipped with a quick wit. If only he could concentrate on one thing at a time, he would go far, even in our little Podunk town of Hemet.
* * * * *
The trouble with leaving my door open—my general policy—is that it gives the impression that I am an open house to any riffraff who happens to be passing nearby. An hour later, Lenny was next to invade my sanctuary.
Naturally, Lenny had overheard Big Al’s booming voice. He wanted to spend my time rehashing what our leader had suggested.
“You know,” Lenny said as he stood next to Tommy, “Big Al has good idea. People have nasty bad habits. Ignore this, ignore that. Most not knowing what’s good for them. So,… we force them. How you say? Put screws to thumb. Tighten down real hard. Make them scream like little girl.”
“What’s wrong with you?” Tommy chided Lenny. “Why can’t we just leave people alone?”
“They’re too stupid!” Lenny said nonchalantly.
“So, we’re all too stupid.” Tommy exploded in an angry outburst, discharging sharp shards of outrage across the continent.
I almost felt an impulse to duck behind my desk. It looked like the Cold War had returned in full force. I started to search for a sandbagged trench to endure the bombardment. Tommy’s hostility was not really about Lenny per se. It dealt with past Russian atrocities against Ukrainian farmers in the early 1930s. Many of Tommy’s ancestors were Ukrainians. After the collapse of the Soviet Union, documents were found proving a deliberate policy to starve millions of Ukrainians. Some of those victims belonged to Tommy’s Ukrainian lineage. To Tommy, Russia was a synonym for injustice. He even refused to eat beef stroganoff because of its Russian origins.
Lenny’s reaction to Tommy’s accusations was predictable. He simply grinned with a bright glimmer of self-satisfaction and uttered something in guttural Russia.
“If we’re all stupid,” Tommy responded, “then that includes you.”
Lenny folded his arms and scowled. “Not us, of course. We smart ones.”
“Naturally,” Tommy huffed.
“Don’t you know?” Lenny started to wave his hands in the air. “World is big mess. Riots, civil war, starvation. All very bad. Because nobody knows what they doing.”
“Maybe that’s due to a lack of human rights.” Tommy’s face was turning to an alarming shade of red. A vein in his forehead looked ready to burst.
“No. Attitude rather bourgeois. Never working. Know why?”
Tommy shook his head.
“Because bread more important than freedom.”
Tomm
y almost blew a gasket. “But you can’t grow bread without the right to grow it. The Ruskies tried that crap. Failed every time. Ask the Ukrainians. The people starved because there were more Soviet apparatchiks controlling farming than farmers.”
“Oh, those bad crop years,” Lenny shot back. “Besides, you cannot eat freedom.”
“Well, you can’t eat bread if nobody is allowed to make it.”
“Ridiculous.” Lenny moved closer and pointed his finger at Tommy’s chest. “You’re just anarchist. You want no society, no controls. Very bad.”
“So, this is why you don’t want drivers to control their own destinations? They want the freedom of movement, and you want to control their movement. Right?”
I suddenly stood up and stretched my hands out in an offer of peace. The bloodletting had to stop. Tommy had held his own, but I felt I had to stop it before it turned into another Stalingrad. Anyway, I had little time to listen to a debate that had already been settled with the fall of the Berlin Wall.
Tommy folded his hands and gave his parting shot. “So, if control is so great, why did the Soviet Union collapse?”
Lenny’s eyes narrowed. “I don›t want play game no more. No more talking. Besides, I came to see if workers have mailed their union dues. Is mandatory. Like most things.”
I could see that Lenny had retrained his gunsight on me.
“Spencer,” he turned and impatiently gestured for him to move closer. “I must tell something to you.”
I walked over to him and stopped an arm’s length away. Lenny was a man of political muscle and union power. When he told you to “jump,” you had better say “how high?” He had such a scary way of saying things that a few angry words could cause a person to pee down both legs.
“I hate to say this,” Lenny murmured with a pale smile, “but your future not so bright as you think.”
“Well, the lights in here are low voltage. Saves money.”
Lenny struggled to hold back a grin. “Okay, funny man. Listen to me good. I don’t want to,… what you call ‘bitch,’ but you’re not doing job right.”
We Are Them Page 9
