The crowd cheered although not as loud as for the taxes statement.
“Now here is Dr. Theron Aravant, Chief Executive Officer of The Bank of Draydon, to say a few nice words. Oh, and before I forget, remember me on election day next year!” The Mayor gave an exaggerated wink, his big politician smile, and an artful arm flourish with his tall hat to the next speaker.
Dr. Aravant stood and approached the podium. His dark wool three piece suit fit him with perfect tailoring, his head topped with a matching bowler hat. Sharply groomed black hair streaked with white swept back under the hat. Dressed like a Victorian Banker he put his hands on the podium like a professor. A vivid blue thin tie sparkled in the sunlight as the only color about his body.
“Thank you, Mayor,” he spoke with a studious European accent, “I don’t have such wonderful news as giving tax money back. But that is indeed a theme of my talk. Everyone here likely has friends or family in towns around Detroit or other parts of the country effected by this recession precipitated by the housing crisis. And no … ” a grim pause of his lips, “The Bank of Draydon did not participate in that foolishness of the other banks. We mark our age in centuries. We tend toward stodgy since we originally came out of England and Central Europe before the founding of Livix but that conservatism kept us from writing bad loans. We’ve assisted companies and homeowners caught in tough binds with other banks to right their rafts.”
Theron paused and looked across the quietly assembled people. They recognized how powerful and prominent a figure he stood in this region. Many of their homes and businesses paid monthly mortgages or working capital loans to the Bank. Or if not directly the other scattered banks around did business with Draydon. So those in the know knew how long the fingers of The Bank of Draydon stretched, and the conservative grip Aravant enforced.
“We recognize the impact of the compounding work that the Mayor is doing. If you are paying thirty percent of your income and a percent or two of your property value and six percent of everything you purchase on sales tax along with extra taxes on fuel every year for government services,” he leaned forward, “you are not buying things. Nor will you have excess money to invest in small businesses to make and sell things and create jobs. You may not be able to afford college educations for your sons and daughters and then they will not bring back the necessary skills to invent something to change the world.” He looked across the audience, “Taxes underpin the whole economy. It takes hard choices, very hard choices, by our government officials but that’s why we elect them – to work hard for us. If taxes go down, and not by increasing debt but true cost reductions in the government, the system gets more attractive,” he turned and nodded toward the Mayor. The Mayor half stood and waved to the audience. Dr. Aravant lifted his arms, “Livix is more attractive. We’ve lured corporate headquarters and plants into our town. They recognize the educated workforce we have means they can immediately produce products without expensive training. They understand the games other towns play with tax rebates. Livix didn’t have to give any short term rebates to attract new business. Our Total Cost of Operation is more attractive and on a reductive trend. We are bringing manufacturing back from Asia and Central America. We are the new Low Cost Town.
“I want you to remember to stay diligent about system costs in our government and even your own businesses and jobs. How much more competitive can your business be if costs are cut in half? Can you use two steps instead of four? That’s the audacious goal to challenge your thinking – chip away at the minor wastes as well as the major costs. Think what you do for the town. Your costs go down so you can sell to your neighbor for less. They build on that keeping their costs down and so the town is more competitive and thrives.” Dr. Aravant paused, scanning the audience, “I want, and we need, the town to thrive. Thank you.”
Clapping started low and then rose in volume as many in the audience stood to emphasize their approval.
Garin leaned into me, “You should see the data Livix is sharing on costs and the number of companies with planned facilities projects in town. They can hire more people to do value added tasks that increase sales. It’s not cutting wages but structural costs.”
I said, “That sounds really promising.” Maybe the work I do at Marilyn’s firm has a lot more future growth potential than I guessed.
The mayor grabbed the microphone off the podium, “Thank you Dr. Aravant. A town must work together so it can play –” And in his loud circus voice he shouted, “Here’s the Livix High School marching band and the start of the parade!”
The clapping became louder and everyone moved to line against the parade barriers. Some took places in the parade as the marching band streamed from behind the Mayor’s stage and went around the town square. The band made three loops around the town square allowing people to join in their positions in the tornado of sound.
Garin and I laughed at the little kids on scooters with driving hats and suspenders. Church groups eased by on floats. Old time tractors chugged along pulling a threshing machine. Wagons pulled by horses advertising a local riding stable. The police rode horses. A group of outlaw cowboys clicked by with their spurs ringing to the beat of music having also affixed heal and toe taps to their boots. Ten feet tall guys and girls on stilts strode by with teens on skate boards and unicycles weaving among them. A low pair of mid-century cars with excessive tail fins drove by. Placards hung on the sides by the local dentist offered kids coupons for every pound of candy brought to him from the parade. Right behind the dentist a big ring of little old ladies in lace tossed fistfuls of candy at the kids on the curb. Some kids from the crowd darted out between the dresses and lace and snatched up the bits of candy that fell.
The low rumble of a local Harley-Davidson rider group rode by on highly polished bikes. Most of them wore modern riding leathers but riveted tall stovepipes on top of their helmets. “How tall do you think those hats are?”
Garin squinted, “Must be at least five feet tall.”
Behind them circled a dozen classic big-wheel bikes. They zipped and turned and twisted among themselves so much I worried they would collide. A full fife troop came next dressed like they strode out of General Washington’s army. The snare drums rolled and struck the beat of the march. Exquisite uniforms covered them down to the long buttoned coats that trailed below the knee.
Garin poked my side a little too roughly. I glared at him. He said, “See those coats? I sense they’re coming back. A lot of Festooning there.” I poked his chest.
A group in full Civil War gear followed. First the Confederate States Army and then the Northern Union Army as if the North still chased the Southerners across Georgia, but in a gentlemanly way.
“Look at that.” I bumped Garin. “Every so often the front line of the Northerners and the back line of the Southerners break out and fight.”
Garin said, “They’ve been practicing a lot. That’s a completely choreographed brawl of sabers and bayonets with a lot of show. That’s new this year.”
“Amazing. Look at the guy on the end! He’s funny.”
Real veterans of recent wars followed the progression. The surviving World War Two soldiers now well into their eighties. They rode and waved from the back of a vintage pickup restored by the local produce store. Behind them followed the subsequent major confrontations. The audience stood and clapped and cheered for them. Local hopeful politicians ran behind with their wives and kids and friends handing out buttons and candy and fliers.
“This is the part I always liked,” I pointed behind the hardware store float that crept passed us. “The Parasol Ladies Dance Corps. Several dance companies get together and do this.”
Late high school, college, and younger women danced with parasols. An outer ring of the older women who wanted to participate but avoided the serious dancing wrapped around the real action of the group. About half the women dressed in shades of white lace while the rest wore dark colors reminiscent of Victorian peacock feathers with green, mauve, ebon
y, and chocolate brown.
They made a twirling dance of good and evil played out with parasols and sweeping skirts. Sometimes the hero and villain battled with folded parasols like swords. No words said amid the artful motions and marching feet. The story told in dramatic gestures of weeping and wailing when the hero was wounded and vigorous dancing when the villain stumbled and fell before the hero’s triumph. A swirl of parasols causing confusion like a moving herd of zebras enabled the characters to reset their little play.
The Parasol Ladies went out of sight and I said, “Every year they do a different skit.” I played with the straw in my drink.
“Maybe you should get involved with them next year? It looks like fun.” Garin said.
A flier appeared thrust in front of my face, bright green with splotches of camouflage and block lettering. “You should read this,” said the man. I took the paper carefully. His sharply creased dress pants made from camouflage material. He wore a long tailed tuxedo in the same brownish-black dark splotch markings as his pants. His head topped with a Revolutionary War type of trifold hat trailing long pheasant feathers. His shaggy beard and large mirrored sunglasses continued scanning my face. Like trying to frighten me or memorize my features. Creepy. He moved along to urge others in the crowd to take the slips of paper. The block of similarly dressed marchers stamped by, their eyes glanced hard at Garin and I as they passed. Military-like marching. A lot of camouflage carefully transformed into Victorian garb. I could have marveled at their costumes if less troubled.
A pair of banner signs followed the group, “Get prepared. Join your local militia. The Enemy will be here.” While the second said, “Do you want to risk guessing when? Do you know how to protect your Family?”
I said to Garin, “That looks like Brett from the coffee shop carrying a flag but I can’t tell without his flannel.”
Garin said, “Probably not him.” Then he leaned in whispering, “Not all but some of the militia know.”
I looked at the paper and then after the receding troop. The flier matched the message on the banners but also included phone numbers and a website to learn more. A list of projects like teaching your kids self-defense and gun safety, how to modify slingshots to shoot hunting arrows, free home security consulting and other topics filled a corner of the page followed by “Survival gear sources available”. I folded the paper into a small bent plug. I thought I’d find a place to discard it later. Maybe it would be good to hang onto it? I couldn’t exactly slip it quietly into my purse. I dithered.
“Here, let me put that in my pocket,” Garin offered. “We can throw it away after the parade when we get in the Art Fair.”
The clown parade approached next and took my mind from the flier. A happy face appeared and pulled a long series of handkerchiefs from my ear. The audience laughed hard. I laughed too but blushed. Garin scrambled for his phone and took several pictures of me. Everyone chortled as the clowns in their big feet tried catching their place in line. One danced about shaking his foot pretending to have stepped in horse manure. The audience laughed loudly.
We knew the parade ended when the police cruisers floated by with their lights flashing closely followed by the fire department trucks winding out the air-raid siren. Everyone flooded into the Art and Food Fair.
“I’m really hungry.”
“Me too,” Garin winked and squeezed my hand.
“Cut it out,” I bumped my hip into him in the crowd as we moved forward. I could smell thick greasy barbecue pork and roasted turkey ahead.
“I don’t know how many times I had a turkey drumstick at the fair,” he said casually by my ear. “They always looked so good and seemed like fun walking around as a happy-go-lucky Henry the Eighth eating them. But they never tasted quite as good as the story they promised.”
“Yeah, me too.” But I already spied the pulled pork wraps, “Not too Victorian?”
“Barbecue goes way back.” The guy running the barbecue flailed two spatulas and a pair of forks in his hands while beads of sweat from the hot sun and scorching grill dotted his temples, “I’m the chef at Napoleon’s Cat and you won’t worry about what century they are from after you taste these.”
“What are you calling them?”
“Tennessee Hillbilly Pulled Pork and Peppers,” He tossed a couple of wraps on a big waxed paper sheaf and flung pork, peppers, and onions on top. He shuffled around more ingredients on his grill before flipping the wraps around with the forks and spatulas. A showman.
“You’re pretty amazing with the utensils!” said Garin.
“Hey, thanks,” he wiped his forehead on the side of his thick bicep. “I make these for the appetizers at Napoleon’s except cut up on pita wedges – but those are hard to eat at a festival.”
His assistant collected some money from Garin and we took the pair of wraps.
Garin waved to the chef as the walked away.
I bit into the end of the wrap. Walking in a skirt and heeled boots I almost never wore, eating food, and jostled in a festival seemed unwise. My first bite of the wrap amazed me, “Wow. He was right!” I turned to face Garin.
“Hold still,” he took one of his napkins and blotted my chin. “Smells great.” Then I saw he didn’t eat his. He watched my eyes drop to his hand holding his wrap still fully packaged in the wax paper. “Oh … yes.” I returned to watching ahead of us.
“I’m saving this for you for later. When I run out of poetry.” I put my hand on his and caught his eyes in mine. Then the crowd jostled us out of the moment. We went passed other stalls with more art and less food, “That’s a huge dragonfly!”
“Hi.” A tall intense dark haired guy with a vintage concert shirt rocked forward out of his fold-up canvas directors chair. Black wood side tables ran the length of the booth and a lot of wooden sculptures scattered the tent. The largest a dragonfly that looked more like a dragon than a regular insect. I see a “sold” tag on it. “That’s really cool.”
“I have some other pieces that are still for sale. That one, I’m delivering later tonight after the festival closes,” he spun around a book of pictures, “these are other ones I’ve done that are currently in happy homes.”
He showed us a few other pieces, “And rather than regular spray paint I’m putting powder enamel on them so these can last a lifetime above a fireplace, on an executive desk, or over a bar.” He pointed to the dragon, “That’s where the dragon is going. The buyer opened a new restaurant at the edge of Livix and wants it over his bar.”
“I really like this train engine,” I said, touching the almost iridescent metal paint covering the detailed model. I think it’s light but it’s not, “This is surprisingly heavy.”
“Yes. That’s from reclaimed railroad ties. Swamp oak timber rescued from a lost shipment in the Florida Everglades. The wood lay submerged in the water for a hundred and fifty years, originally cut from five hundred year old trees. So this piece of wood sprouted around the middle of the thirteen hundreds.” He picked the engine up and flipped it around with a practiced hand, “You can see how I cut these details by hand to give the look of old leaves with a Victorian embellishment.”
“That’s great,” said Garin, interested in the fabrication. “Are you milling those? Or hand fitting a lot of it? You’ve got tight gaps between these wheels and the guides and these rails. It’s nice.”
“All hand cut from a pattern. If I mass produced them I’d go with milling machines. But I’m doing unique art pieces for high-end judged art shows that frown on industrialized processes. So far it keeps me pretty busy.”
Garin asked, “The tree root lighting your wall and the night photographs are nice.”
“Yes, that piece looks ok during the day but in subdued evening light on a wall or over a fireplace it’s better. Hard to show that other than with a picture.”
Garin said, “Anna, you look like you might like the train?”
“Yes. It’s nice.”
Garin glanced at the tag and pulled some cas
h out of his wallet, “Here … for the train and the tree light.”
“Great! I’ll box them up,” The artist took the pieces and carefully but quickly wrapped them up in butcher block paper. He placed them in a box tied with stiff cord. “I made a handle out of the cord as that train can get heavy after carrying it for a while.”
Garin said, “Oh, that will be ok.”
I turned and gave a short wave to the artist, “Bye! Thanks.”
“Oh, here, I forgot to wrap this in the box. It’s my card if you’re looking for more pieces. I get most of my business through referrals.”
“Thanks!” I took the card and we melded into the crowd.
I caught Garin watching some of the girls go by. Face painted high school girls and young mothers that he’s too intense about. I elbowed him.
“Ouch!”
I leaned in close, “I’m not sure if it’s normal guy ogling or your affliction.”
“Oh, some of both,” he smiled but the smile dropped as he snapped his attention further ahead on the street.
I followed his sight line.
Leaning against the side of Maggie's Ice Cream store stood a figure in an old cowboy hat and a long western style coat as if actually pulled out of the 1850’s. A pair of modern sunglasses sat on his sharp nose incongruously. The ice cream in his hand dribbled uneaten and melted into the large number of napkins wrapping it like a mushy tulip. At seeing our sharp gaze he shifted his eyes across other parts of the crowd like he hadn’t been watching us. The cowboy crushed up a flier that I recognized from the militia. He dropped it on the sidewalk before cutting across the street through the throng of people. When he emerged on the far side he dropped the cone into a trash bin.
One Night Burns (The Vampires of Livix, #1) Page 6
