“I like the periodic table,” said Perry, a little hesitantly. “But the doctor also said I’d outgrow some of it, and I think that’s true. Like, with the music. When I first started being interested, it was, like, the dates and who left what group and joined which other group, and who produced what, and which house band backed what song, and—like, I’m still interested in all those things. But the more I listened, the more I paid attention to what they were talking about. Like sex, obviously, but also like peace and civil rights and stuff? It’s how I ended up at that Walmart, actually.”
“Do tell,” said Sylvia. “I’d been wondering.”
“Well, one day I was walking on Church Street Mall in Burlington, and I heard a stereo playing ‘Say It Loud—I’m Black and I’m Proud,’ which is one of my favorite songs—James Brown, 1968, peaked at number ten on the Billboard Hot 100, listed by Rolling Stone as number 350 of the five hundred most influential rock songs of all time, which I think is ridiculous. I mean, ‘Walk This Way,’ the Aerosmith–Run-DMC version was 287? You think?
“Anyway, I went into the store where the song was playing, and it turned out to be the Peace and Justice Center there on Church Street, and I got kind of involved in their stuff. I mean, opposing the war and all? I’d sit at the petition table? And then I kind of fixed up all their computer systems, which they pretty much needed. And one of them asked me to analyze the storm water runoff from the Walmart because they were protesting. She was a girl, actually? Which is how I learned about the sewer. And the rest . . .”
“The rest we know,” said Sylvia. “And for what it’s worth, I’m glad you’re here. It’s not exactly a proper home with proper parents, but . . . well, anyway,” she said, shifting in her chair and turning her head quickly, “there’s stuff we all need to talk about.”
“Indeed,” said Vern. “We need a council of—not war, exactly. It doesn’t seem to me that we’re exactly warriors.”
“No, but we do need to figure out what we’re going to do. I mean, going home doesn’t seem like a great option for either of you, and I am already home. And maybe we’ve got something going. Pretty much everyone in the convenience stores has been talking about the kids getting out of school, and most of them were laughing, like they thought it was kind of cool. It seems to me we might actually be reaching people. People are so freaked out by Trump they’re looking for something to rally around.”
“Yep,” said Vern. “But what on earth do we do with it? Every revolution I know about, they start by robbing some banks. But we don’t really need much money, do we? I can’t get at mine, but I’ll pay you back for those cases of beer—that was a good touch.”
“Don’t worry about it,” said Sylvia. “This school actually makes good money—there’s really no limit what you can charge people arriving from New York. Anyway, the other thing real revolutionaries always do is take over the radio station.”
“Well, thanks to Perry, we more or less have,” said Vern. “Radio Free Vermont’s not exactly a fifty-thousand-watt powerhouse, but we’re on the air and people can find the signal. And judging by the e-mail, they are finding us.”
“The thing is, when we put up a podcast it’s not up very long before they find the server we’re using and shut it down,” said Perry. “But there are friends of mine spreading whatever we get up all over the place. I found yesterday’s webcast on, like, four thousand sites when I googled it this afternoon.”
“Which means we better come up with something to say,” said Vern. “None of us really started out to secede from the Union—when we called it Radio Free Vermont it was just because that’s what you call such a thing. It was the newspapers that started in on secession. We were just—making a fuss. Sure, I suppose independence might be the logical extension of what we’ve been saying about bigness. But frankly I have no idea what it actually means. Five or six years ago there were some guys—I had them on the show—who were going on about leaving the United States. They liked to dress up as Ethan Allen and issue proclamations and such, but they fell in with a bunch of would-be Confederates down South, and pretty soon everyone forgot about the whole thing, and just as well. They were idiots, actually.
“See, that’s the thing. If anyone’s ever going to take this seriously, we need some way to make it seem real,” he continued. “The beer stuff is actually good. We produce enough of it to satisfy our needs—we’re beer-independent. But food, and energy, and jobs, and arts, and all that kind of stuff. I think we’ve gotten so used to the idea of the big enormous nation that we’re a tiny part of, that it would scare most people to even imagine really breaking away. Like an eight-year-old running away. We need to convince folks that we’re eighteen now, and it’s time to strike out on our own. But it can’t just be stunts. It’s got to be facts, data, ideas.”
“The best thing would be to have a debate,” said Sylvia. “To get the governor on the other side.”
“Something tells me the governor might decide not to,” said Vern. “I mean, he only debates during election campaigns if he’s worried about losing, and I don’t think he’s actually all that afraid of us right now.”
“Well, we could stand in for him,” said Sylvia. “You could do broadcasts and Perry could raise the arguments we think might bother people, and you could answer them.”
“Better yet, I could raise the arguments and Perry could answer them,” said Vern.
“I . . . don’t like to talk?” said Perry.
“You are a facts-and-figures guy, though,” said Vern. “I have a feeling that if you boned up for a little while you’d be able to cover almost anything. We could make you into a champion debater. And it would be a good idea too, because it’s just possible people may have heard almost enough of me. I mean, I’m seventy-two years old and I talk on the radio every day. People expect me to be glib, and they expect me to be all choked up about the good old days and the small towns and the whatnot. You’re nineteen—if you’re making good arguments, it’ll be considerably more impressive.”
“I don’t think anyone would pay much attention to me? No one ever has?” said Perry.
“Hon, there aren’t many of us, and I can’t go on the air because they don’t know I’m part of this grand conspiracy just yet,” said Sylvia. “That leaves the two of you. And I think you’ll be great.”
“If I was going to go on the radio, I’d rather play music,” said Perry. “Could I play some after I talk?”
“I don’t know,” said Vern. “This should be serious—I mean, we’re talking about the political future of Vermont.”
“Actually, people like music a good deal more than politics,” said Sylvia. “I think you should.”
“But maybe not soul music?” said Vern. “Maybe something that’s more about Vermont?”
“I think we should have a contest,” said Perry, brightening. “An anthem contest. Every country has an anthem, we need one too. Every broadcast, we can play another possibility, and people can vote.”
“Um, what were you thinking of?” asked Vern.
“Well, I wasn’t. But maybe ‘I’ve Got to Go On Without You,’ William Bell, which never got higher than fifty-four on the R&B charts but it’s a great record. Or ‘Hey You! Get Off My Mountain,’ by the Dramatics. That sounds like an independence song, right? I mean, it’s perfect. ‘Hey you—get off my mountain—you’re just trying to bring me down.’ And people liked it—Top Ten Rhythm and Blues charts, crossed over to the pop Top Fifty. ‘Bring It Home,’ by Hot Sauce, topped off at number thirty-five R&B. Mel and Tim, the guys who did ‘Backfield in Motion,’ had a great tune for Stax: ‘Starting All Over Again.’ I mean, ‘Starting all over again is going to be rough, but we’re gonna make it.’ That’s what you want, right? I mean, Sam and Dave wanted to release the song on Atlantic, what does that tell you, but the label said no. Top Twenty pop hit. The Staples Singers, all by themselves, did ‘Be What You Are,’ ‘I
Got to Be Myself,’ and ‘If You’re Ready Come Go with Me,’ hit, hit, hit. Or what about ‘Release Me,’ Esther Phillips, which was actually a country-western song, Engelbert Humperdinck even recorded it, though I don’t think any of us would want to live in a country with an Engelbert Humperdinck national anthem.”
“Although when he released it, it kept ‘Strawberry Fields Forever’ out of the number one slot,” said Vern—and when Perry looked at him with sudden, startled respect, he said, “Remember, I was a disc jockey. And actually, I think you’re right—we need a contest. You can play your songs, but the listeners get to suggest their own too, right? I mean, this is going to be a democracy, isn’t it?”
“We haven’t talked about that,” said Sylvia, opening a bottle of Otter Creek Couch Surfer Stout. “When you’re drinking beer, go light to dark in the course of the evening,” she said to Perry. “If it’s a democracy maybe Governor Bruce will be elected president. Maybe we should have a monarchy.”
“A queen for sure,” said Vern. “If you can make radiologists pay you to cut down saplings with chainsaws, you can probably run a country.”
“I imagine I could,” said Sylvia. “But I imagine maybe we better have a democracy anyway. People are somewhat used to it.”
“There’s Ray Charles—‘The Right Time,’” said Perry. “Like, this is the right time for independence.”
“I don’t think that’s what that song was about,” said Sylvia. “‘The night time is the right time,’ if I recall,” and Perry blushed.
“It’s too bad we don’t live in Georgia—‘Georgia on My Mind’ would be a good song,” he said. “Number one, and the Grammy for best male vocal in 1960. But I guess it wouldn’t make much sense for Vermont.”
7
“Friends and neighbors,” said Vern, “it’s kind of you to tune in for the next in our Radio Free Vermont broadcasts. Today we’re starting something different—and you’ll be hearing a new voice. Perry ‘Sewerman’ Alterson will be delivering the first in a series of rigorous, straightforward, factual arguments for an independent Vermont—we don’t want anyone just carried along for the ride on currents of emotion. Before we begin, our thanks to today’s pseudo-sponsor, Kingdom Brewing, and their Lake Willoughby Lager, as refreshing as a midsummer dunk in that lovely lagoon. And if you’re hearing this before Saturday, remember to stop by the United Methodist Church in Hyde Park for the annual white elephant sale, ten to four in the fellowship hall. If you e-mail us your community announcements here at Radio Free Vermont, we’ll do our best to get them on the air.
“And now, Perry Alterson, on the question that’s surely occurred to a few of you: Isn’t little Vermont too little to simply strike out on its own?”
Vern swiveled smoothly in his chair and pointed at Perry, who lurched a few inches forward toward his microphone and began to talk—less talk, really, than blurt. He talked at the microphone instead of through it, like a man ordering from a drive-through, and there was a squeak at the top edge of his voice as he shuffled through the sheets on his desk.
“Vermont has 624,594 people,” he began. “Twenty countries belonging to the United Nations have smaller populations. One small nation is San Marino. It is the oldest constitutional republic on earth. It was founded in 301 by a Christian stonemason fleeing persecution. It has 33,285 people. Their average annual per capita income is $65,300. That’s twelfth in the world. Key industries are banking, electronics, wine, and cheese, also postage stamps.
“Another small nation is Luxembourg. It has 582,291 people. They average $102,000 annually, first in the world. They were a founding member of NATO, the European Union, and the United Nations. Because it is entirely surrounded by land, they have no navy.”
Perry stalled for a second as he shuffled papers, but kept himself hunched in front of the mike. “Another small nation is The Bahamas. Which has 327,316 people. Their average income is $24,600, which is seventy-eighth in the world and third in the Western Hemisphere.
“Another small nation is Bhutan, population 750,125. It has—”
“Whoa,” said Vern, punching the button on the digital recorder. “Slow up there a second, son. Let’s talk. You’ve done some excellent research here. It’s highly convincing stuff. It just needs a little more meat on the bones. People need to be able to imagine these places a little bit. You’ve got to get them using their imaginations a little bit.”
Perry looked a little blank.
“Well, let’s take San Marino. Like, how does it protect itself? Does it have an army?”
Perry shuffled through his papers. “It has a crossbow corps of eighty archers? But they just give demonstrations at festivals?”
“That’s perfect,” said Vern. “That would get people thinking. Say you didn’t have to support a real army, the way we do now. Maybe just some ski-soldiers. That would free up some tax money. Okay, Luxembourg. What’s weird about it?”
“Well, to graduate high school you have to be fluent in Luxembourgish, French, and German?” said Perry. “Also they have professional basketball, with a lot of guys who played college ball in America?”
“Okay, okay,” said Vern. “We need a little more of that. Shall we give it another try?”
He punched the Record button, leaned into his microphone, and began. “Friends and neighbors, it’s time for the next in our series of occasional broadcasts.”
The pair worked for three hours, till the light in the room made it impossible to see outside. Vern turned off the bulb, and with only the glow of the laptop, the end of the day was visible again—a soft gray, with a streak of pink high up above the tree line. “I think it’s pretty much a take,” said Vern. “I don’t know if you’ve sold everyone on a free Vermont, but I bet you’ll convince a few folks to emigrate to Liechtenstein. Only the fun part left—are you ready for the anthem contest?”
Perry rummaged through his bag and pulled out an iPod, which he attached to the laptop with a cable and then thumbed through a list of songs, squinting to see the tiny screen. “Got it,” he said.
“Friends and neighbors,” said Vern, pushing the Record button once more, “we’ve subjected you to a good deal of information in this little broadcast—if you want the links, we’ll stick them up on Radio Free Vermont. But before we go, something else new that we need your help with. Any nation needs a national anthem, so we’re going to organize a little contest here. You can write your own, if you want, and send it in, and we’ll play it on the air. Don’t think ‘I can’t write an anthem’—think ‘The United States of America made it two centuries with a terrible anthem that no one can sing. I bet I can do better than that.’ But while we’re waiting, we’ve got a few possibilities picked out for you too. My colleague Perry, besides his debating skills, is a virtual musical almanac, as long as that almanac is from the years 1960 to about 1978. Which were pretty good years, anyone would admit. Anyway, Perry, what’s your first contender?”
“Well, Vern,” he said, sounding considerably more relaxed than when the afternoon had begun, “I thought it might be appropriate at least to listen to a song by the great Mavis Staples. She was born in 1939 in Chicago, Illinois, and she sang with her family in the Staples Singers. You know them from their number one hits ‘Let’s Do It Again’ and ‘Respect Yourself.’ But Mavis sang solo too, and this is her first hit, from a Memphis recording session in the fall of 1969. I’m not sure it’s an anthem, but it’s the kind of song that—that makes you feel strong. Miss Mavis Staples, ‘I Have Learned to Do Without You.’”
8
The three of them were sitting around the kitchen table that night, deep in conversation about the small nations of the world (Brunei, population 436,620; Iceland, 335,878). “Malta has only 415,196 people but it qualified for the finals of the Eurovision song contest every year from 1991 to 2006,” Perry said. “And even then there was controversy—the computer may have counted Maltese votes for Greece.”
“Is there really a falcon there?” asked Sylvia.
“What?” said Perry, but before anyone could explain, a headlight flashed through the curtains.
“Basement,” hissed Sylvia, putting the two extra plates out of sight in the deep sink. Perry and Vern opened the door to the cellar and clambered down the stairs. Sylvia closed it behind them, just as the doorbell rang. She wiped her hands on a tea towel that hung from the oven door, pausing a second to collect herself, and then opened the door.
The woman on the other side was unfamiliar and at first glance undistinguished—middling height, middling-length brown hair, middling face. She looked up at Sylvia in the door and said, “Sorry to bother you. I’m looking for Vern.”
“Who?” asked Sylvia.
“Vern Barclay,” she said. “His mother said I’d find him here.”
“I don’t know a Mr. Barclay—maybe he was a friend of my ex-husband’s?” asked Sylvia.
“Maybe so,” the woman agreed. “But if he happens to drop by, tell him Trance was looking for him.”
“Trance?”
“Trance—and sorry to bother you.”
The woman turned and walked back to her rusty Saab, flipped the headlights on, and drove slowly out along the long drive.
Sylvia was shaking as she closed the door and returned to the kitchen. She waited a few minutes before she opened the door to the cellar, and when the pair climbed back out, it was to a kitchen darkened save for one small lamp by the sink.
“What was that all about?” asked Vern.
“Let me ask you something first,” said Sylvia. “You’re supposed to be a fugitive, right? You’re supposed to be a wanted terrorist, yes? And no one is supposed to be able to find you here because no one knows we’re friends, right?”
“Yes,” said Vern a little uneasily.
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