Patriot Police

I wasn’t thinking about the course of human events as I sat unboxing the latest delivery from my distributor, the first shipment of virgin Soviet-era science fiction, freshly translated. No one knew how to pen a dystopia better than the Russians, though it probably helped that they’d lived one every day. Eisteddfods had helped back the original project on Kickstarter so this was part of our reward.

Officially, the bookstore wasn’t called Eisteddfods and never had been, even though that was the name that appeared on our website, our cards and above the painted hours on the door. The big sign near the street read Sessions, the closest English translation. When I’d applied to the city of Osceola for a permit, they’d said Eisteddfods sounded too foreign and had made me change it before they’d grant a permit. A backhanded favor since no one could pronounce it anyway. Such is the mutagenic nature of the Welsh language. Though the new name kind of detracted from a bookstore specializing in off-beat international translations. But I had to admit it didn’t hurt the attached coffee and wine café we’d opened last year where we hosted readings interspersed with live music that had a hipster, world-beat, one global village feel.

The concept was almost too avant-garde for even the most Bohemian enclaves in Piney Point County never mind the wilds of Osceola. But Osceola was where I lived. Ten years of driving the Beltway had made certain I’d always work close to home. If I never saw another library book stretched across a steering wheel in 40-mile-an-hour bumper-to-bumper traffic, it would be a day too soon. Juggled electric razors, double-fisted cell phones and lattes, wriggled-into pantyhose, and rearview makeup mirrors had all cemented that decision into a final answer.

Eisteddfods was wedged between the Liberty Liquor and Lottery Outlet on one side and Teddy’s Tea Party Consignment on the other. Down the row, the Lexington Green Payday Loans and The Star Spangled Strip Club anchored the plaza. A bunker-like building that housed American Heritage Pawn squatted across the street, sharing a parking lot with the Freedom Hall Worship Center. It might seem like an odd location but honestly it was the best that I could find. Every other empty strip mall suite in Osceola, and there were plenty of them, had an equally red-, white- and blue-bleeding neighbor.

Osceola’s streets were now littered with businesses with names like 2^nd Amendment Sporting Goods and Ammo, Minuteman Travel (and Instant Passport Photos), Fort McHenry Fireworks Depot, and Independence Square Senior Living. That was the city identity the Mayor had envisioned when she proposed her five-year redevelopment plan. Now her mandatory picture smiled down on me from the wall behind the counter in patient condescension as she reveled in her success. Lisa Rivers. Auntie Lisa. Osceola’s own little Papa Joe.

Eisteddfods brought worldwide tourism dollars to Osceola even if no one knew from where. We kept a list of our most literate cities on the wall behind the counter. People knew our name from Calgary to Cambridge, from Stockholm to Santiago. We saw collectors from Dublin and Hay-on-Wye. At least the locals mostly recognized that Portland was in the US. They knew Washington DC was as well, but marveled that anyone there knew how to read. They’d heard of St. Petersburg and Melbourne, too, but got confused when I told the ones on our list were actually in other countries.

Most of our business came off the internet. The brick and mortar storefront and café was a sidelight, my attempt to help convert this sleepy, semi-rural retirement community into a destination rather than a drive-by on the morning commute.

I was still trying to figure out how to incorporate a book bearing a giant red star into my summer reading display when the two goons walked in. They looked like a cross between enforcers for the mob and the Art Deco models for the great patriotic heroes adorning the dust jacket of the anthology in my hand. They were all chiseled chins and broad chests filling out the big and tall off the rack suits. Their lapel pins gave them away. Brightly enameled flags with diamond chips for stars. The Mayor’s Patriot Police, Osceola’s most recent addition to its code enforcement arm.

I’d seen both of them before but not together. I couldn’t remember either of their names. They moved through the store like linemen on a semi-pro practice squad, one clutching a brace of official Made-for-the-USA™ flags, the other a red, white and blue striped contribution can. The bigger guy had a no nonsense face that was authoritarian and austere. The smaller one was a nasty looking piece of work, brutish and short. That tickled a memory. That’s right, his name was Hobbes.

“Good morning gentlemen,” I said, pasting on my best professional smile. “The coffee shop is right through there. Today’s special is dark roast Ethiopian Yirgachefe, imported direct.” I could smell the aroma wafting though the connecting doorway. Like a morning slice of caffeinated heaven. I had to stop myself from reciting off the wine special that would start at noon. The last thing I needed was a couple of drunken Patriot Police regaling my international patrons with their equally drunken exploits as Darkmarsh contractors after the war while they sucked down all my best stock gratis like it was box wine at a distant cousin’s wedding reception. They struck me more like beer hall types anyway.

The big guy wrinkled his nose distastefully. “We didn’t drop in for a cannoli and an overpriced cup of Joe. We’re here on official city business.” He turned to his partner. “How many flags did you count outside, Tom?”

“I only counted three.” It came out like tree.

“I think you missed the official decal in the window.” I pointed. I resisted cracking a joke about him finally finding a partner who knew how to count. These guys were notoriously short on humor and long on taking offense. “Three’s the required number, anyway.”

The big guy just glared at me. “You must have missed last night’s Council meeting. They upped the required number to thirteen, one for every patriotic holiday, effective retroactively.”

“I thought there were only six patriotic holidays?” I ran through the additional possibilities in my head but came up empty well short of a baker’s dozen.

He shrugged. “They added a few more to commemorate the 4^th. Lucky for you we have surplus flags we can sell you wholesale before the Mayor starts her morning drive. After that my hands are tied.” He pulled his wrists together with an expression of mock sympathy.

So they were doing me a favor. And as long as I owed them, they’d never be broke.

“You aren’t a veteran, are you?” his partner asked. I shook my head. “Shame. That doubles the price, doesn’t it, Jerry?”

I wondered if the Mayor kept the price to round numbers so that even this pair could do the math in their heads. I was almost tempted to ask but discretion got the drop on valor and shot it dead as if it had just walked out of The National Guardian Tavern at 2 a.m. after questioning Will O. Really’s journalistic integrity or the truthiness of Coyote News. Instead, I took eight flags off their hands plus another decal and rang it up as petty cash.

The tall one’s face took on a pinched, somewhat pained expression as he accepted my offering, as if he had developed a gas cramp. He reminded me of a severe Presbyterian minister I remembered my girlfriend dragging me to see in high school. Right, Calvin. That was this one’s name.

“You sure you don’t want an extra for Moon Landing Day?” he asked as his partner slowly counted out my money. That was a possibility that hadn’t even entered the same zip code as any of the holidays on my list. “It’s coming up next weekend.”

Hobbes looked up as if hoping I’d say something he could take as a provocation, which struck me as nearly anything. I shook my head mutely. He promptly lost his count, cursed and started over, his lips twitching with each bill he carefully flipped past.

“You ARE patriotic, right?” Calvin leaned in across the counter to recapture my attention. “You don’t want to be the only one on your street not to participate.” That last came out as something between a concerned admonition and an extortive threat.

Mayor Rivers’ stated goal was one hundred percent participation throughout the city. Her last campaign platform had promised to make Osceola the most patriotic city in Piney Point County if not the entire state. Her re-election and the formation of the Patriot Police had brought a whole new meaning to the term “bully pulpit.” Even Osceola’s notoriously fractious and vocal Freedom Hall Worship Center had quickly fallen silent. It might have helped that one of their core tenets held that God was as patriotic as an apple pie eating contest. Though there was a certain twisted irony in their choice of an American flag as swaddling for the baby Jesus in their Nativity display.

The Mayor’s city identity plan was like a corporate bond drive without the returns. At least there you got back all you put in with a little interest even if it wasn’t a great investment. Back in DC, my participation helped our division vice president win a trip to corporate headquarters to pick up a bronze plaque to hang in the lobby, plus I got to keep my job. Now I was just trying to avoid a fine and one of the Mayor’s flag-waving parties. Osceola’s updated version of stocks in the public square.

I found my professional voice again, the one I use with Girl Scouts, Scientologists and other over-eager solicitors I don’t want to annoy. “Thanks, guys, but I’m all set on the home front. Looking forward to it in fact.” I gave a wave to one of my newly acquired flags.

Hobbes stared at me as if trying to sound out whether the words I’d said really meant no. Clearly he was low on limited mental ammunition. Calvin just glared, dubious but with you-better-hope expression.

It wasn’t until they headed for the door trailing one lone flag behind them like a retreating paramilitary convoy that I realized I’d made them miss their quota. Now I was certain mine was a face they were unlikely to forget.

---

“You’re tilting at flagpoles again,” my wife said, flipping through a crocheting catalog the same way teenage boys peruse gentlemen’s magazines for interesting pictures between the articles. “No one takes her seriously anyway.”

“Maybe someone should,” I protested. “I mean Moon Landing Day? What kind of patriotic holiday is that?”

She looked pensive for a moment. “Well, it was the first time we conquered another planet. And it finally gives you a good excuse to dress up like that cute little Martian in those cartoons.”

Now I knew she was trolling me. I didn’t do cosplay.

“And Statue of Liberty Day?” I asked, undeterred. I pointed to the article in Osceola Observer, the local throwaway paper that adorned our driveway every week. “Have you even read this list?”

“If you’re not careful, you’ll be celebrating that one dressed up in costume at one of the Mayor’s flag-waving parties.” She smiled at the thought. “Besides, I thought you’d appreciate that they picked Constitution Day.”

“Only if they learn to read it,” I sniped. “So I guess you’ll be out beside the Mayor with your flag on Boston Tea Party Day?” thinking that one might finally hit a nerve.

“I suppose you thought they’d go with something more meaningful like MLK or Emancipation Day,” she quipped.

“That would have required them to step out from behind their Confederate flags,” I quickly shot back.

She just rolled her eyes and went back to lusting after skeins of silk and bamboo yarn, clearly finished with the subject.

I directed my residual anger out the front window with a glare. That’s when the Mayor’s black SUV rolled into view, an extended version of the new Lincoln the after-hours crowd at Eisteddfods cheerfully dubbed The Hearse. Which made it even funnier when some joker tapping into our free wifi discovered that was exactly what it was.

“Of all the neighborhoods in Osceola, why did she have to pick ours for a spot check?” I wondered.

“You did put it out, didn’t you,” my wife asked pointedly, glaring up from her catalog. “You remember what almost happened last time.”

“Of course I did,” I snapped. “After the inquisition at the shop, do you think I’m looking for a fine?”

We observed a mutual moment of silence, holding our breath as the Mayor’s car slid slowly down the street, her entourage of Patriot Police huffing behind like an overweight Secret Service detail. The first time she’d toured the city, a year ago on Veterans Day, she’d only noted the neighborhoods and businesses where she hadn’t seen enough flags and reported them to the council. Now, the smallest flick of her wrist would send a legion of her minions knocking on the offenders’ doors like God’s own patriotic plague drawn to houses unmarked by a secret X.

The Mayor’s vehicle paused next to our mailbox. She rolled down a window, then reached out and touched our little cloth flag. What was she doing? She’d never done anything like that before. A minute later she extended her finger toward the Patriot Police and beckoned them like the Addams Family’s Thing. They trotted up beside the Hearse dutifully, leaning in toward the window to receive her instructions. Then that fateful finger pointed toward our door. Like the hand of Death choosing to its next victim to be claimed.

I killed the lights and dropped the blinds. We peered out between the slats of the dining room window like a couple of truants skipping school. Maybe she hadn’t seen us. Maybe her entourage would think no one was home.

No such luck. A pair of Patriot Police trotted up the walk. The blinds rattled as I let them snap back into place. We hid to either side of the window.

They knocked firmly on the door a moment later. “Open up,” someone called. “We know you’re in there. Don’t make us get a warrant.”

I put a finger to my lips as I glanced at my wife only to see her retreating back as she passed through the kitchen on her way toward some inner sanctuary deeper in the house. With a fleeting over-the-shoulder smile as she rounded the corner, she left me to deal with this pair on my own. Payback for the previous Saturday morning when I’d scurried for the bathroom as I saw a gaggle of door-to-door Witnesses pull up into our driveway. When I’d tried to convince her afterwards that answering the door in her silk bathrobe had been the perfect repost to their Watchtower proposition, she’d just smiled her sweetest, most innocent payback-knows-where-you-sleep smile, the gears in her head already turning on her revenge. I knew I should have claimed the side of the window the farthest from the door.

The pounding continued more insistently. I hung my head and shuffled toward it. Better to talk to them in person than have them tag us with a violation. At least then maybe I could spin a tale of woe. 

As I opened the door with my best imitation of a smile, I found myself confronted by the same pair from the bookstore the other morning. My mouth developed rigor mortis. I didn’t think my wallet would be far behind.   

“Well, if it isn’t the bookworm guy, again.” Calvin broke into an earsplitting grin as he recognized me. His partner just scowled as he traced a finger across the Roman numerals on the decorative sundial by the door as if he’d just unearthed an antikythera machine inscribed with Linear-B. “Guess you’ll be crying in your fancy wine tonight that you didn’t pick up that extra flag after all.”

“Gentlemen, always a pleasure.” I replied as I desperately tried to revive my postmortem smile. “What can I do for you this bright, fine, red, white and blue day?”

“Oh, you know, the Mayor asked us to stop by and have a chat.” Calvin’s hands were clasped behind his back like an innocent schoolboy.

I peered around the pair of them toward the street but the Hearse had already pulled away to continue delivering the Mayor’s holiday cheer. “What seems to be the problem?” I asked.

“Your flag.” Calvin pulled his hands from behind his back to reveal are rather dirty, mud-stained little stars and stripes. It looked suspiciously like the one I’d hung beneath the mailbox that morning, silk-screened fabric, about a foot on the long axis, quarter inch dowel with a pointy, gold painted end cap. Only this one looked like it had participated in an Iwo Jima re-enactment.

“There must be some mistake, guys” I said, pointing.  “That flag isn’t ours.”

Calvin’s bushy eyebrows shot up in mock surprise. “Oh, so you’re saying you didn’t have one out today?”

“That’s a serious offense,” his partner chimed in. He looked up from examining the sundial as if eager to upgrade the encounter from a simple citation into an abject lesson.

“No, that’s not…” I started.

“I should mention that anything you say will be held against you,” Calvin cut me off. “Consider your next words carefully.”

I snapped my mouth shut and thought furiously. The best I could come up with was a dog-ate-my-homework excuse but it was the only one that fit.

“Someone must have stolen it,” I finally said. “It was as pristine as the day I picked it up from city hall when I put it out this morning.”

“And it just showed back up anonymously while you weren’t looking?” Calvin waved the dingy flag back and forth, idly watching it flutter in the artificial breeze. I had to admit it sounded ridiculous.

“If you’re going to lie,” he continued when I didn’t respond, “at least put in a little effort. I’ve got half a mind to fine you for a lack of creativity alone. So unless you’ve got something better?” He raised an eyebrow.

Admitting defeat, I shook my head as I stared at his mirror-polished shoes, trying to look contrite. Who wore brown wingtips with a standard-issue government grey suit, anyway? When I looked back up, a pad and an official City of Osceola ballpoint had magically appeared in his hands.

“Under Section 1.8.3 of the Osceola city charter,” Calvin’s voice turned official as he scribbled down my name and address, “I’m serving you with a violation notice for improper flag display. You’ll find instructions on the back for how and where to pay your fine. A smart guy like you shouldn’t have too much trouble figuring it out.”

He tore off the yellow copy of the triplicate citation and handed it to me along with the bedraggled flag.

Hobbes reached into his jacket and pulled out a business card-sized magnet, “Here’s a reminder from the Legion on proper flag etiquette and disposal. You might want to study it and keep it on your fridge.” He patted it against my chest.

“Happy Moon Landing Day,” Calvin added cheerily as they turned to go.

Yeah, same to you buddy, I thought as I stepped back inside. As I started to close the door, I spotted three towheaded kids peering around the corner of the house diagonally across the street, pointing and snickering. But as soon as I took a step back out to confront them, they disappeared like sin on Sunday morning.

I thought about going after them, but wasn’t sure exactly where they lived. So I went in search of my until-death-do-us-part instead. I found her crocheting in the back room we called the library.

“That sounded like it went well,” she said without looking up. “Though in hindsight, maybe you should go with a pack of wild dogs next time.”

She must have been listening from the top of the hall.

“Laugh it up, yarn ball,” I said. “It was those three lawn monkeys I always see skateboarding down the block. Larry, Darryl, and… what’s the other kid’s name?”

“Daryl,” she replied. Hadn’t I just said that? “I think they’re all related.”

“Anyway,” I rolled my eyes wondering if she was really listening. “I as much as caught them red-handed.”

“Tell it to the council, convict.” She scowled, whether at me or at the piece she was working on I wasn’t sure.

“Don’t tempt me,” I said, waving the citation in front of her. “I mean a hundred and fifty dollars for a dirty flag? That’s as outrageous as it is unconstitutional.”

“Just take the remedial class.” She glared down at her piece, scrutinizing it. “At least that will keep the points off our property record.”

That was easy for her to say. It wasn’t her name on the citation. I started skimming my options in the fine print on the back. As a first-time offender, I could avoid the fine by taking a flag etiquette course at one of three locations: the elementary school, the National Guardian Tavern or a Speaker’s Bureau at City Hall. So my choices were slow first-graders, drunken security guards, or a personalized dressing down from Auntie Lisa herself. And I’d still have to pay for the privilege with $50 in instruction and convenience fees. There was no way I was going to let this go.

“These yokels don’t know who they’re dealing,” I muttered.

“Oh, I think they do,” my wife corrected. “Have you forgotten about your little War on Christmas?”

As if I could. Seven years later and I still couldn’t fly commercial. Plus the restraining order from even glimpsing Will O. Really’s show. But that memory only hardened my indignation like concrete under ice.

“At least those guys were professionals,” I shot back. “This crew doesn’t even have enough talent to make it to the state legislature, and those guys are the definition of yahoos.”

“A little advice, dear?” She interrupted my rant before it could properly kick off.

I waited patiently.

“You just don’t have the right equipment to pull off ‘Honest, councilor, the neighborhood kids beat me up and stole my flag.’” She batted her eyelashes over a shoulder with her patented Mona Lisa smile. “But I’ll lend you one of my bras it you promise not to stretch it out.”

I stuck out my tongue. She snickered and turned back to her needlework.

As I turned to leave, she swore under her breath and began tearing out the row she’d started when I’d walked in. Served her right.

---

I spent the next week crafting my appeal to the council. I knew I only had three minutes to state my case. First, I sketched out a solid draft then began to punch it up for impact. I read and re-read famous speeches, incorporating allusions to self-evident truths, and the values we hold dear. I channeled my inner Churchill, Kennedy and King. I threw in a touch of O. Really, Netanyahu and Putin just for spice. Those three always seemed to resonate with the local crowd.

Over the next few days, I edited and revised. When new ideas popped into my head in the shower, I ran to the office to incorporate them while trying not to short-circuit the keyboard. I scribbled inspirational lines on a notepad beside the bed as they came to me in dreams.

Between drafts, I reconnoitered. I watched online council meetings on my computer until I had every detail of the council chamber memorized. I calculated the camera angles with a diagram and a protractor. I triangulated the height of the podium from the streaming video then built a full-sized mock-up on our kitchen bar, right down to the tiny flag that adorned its right side.

The next four days I practiced obsessively. I rehearsed walking up the podium with my one-page speech, checking that my stride and posture conveyed just the right attitude of indignation. I marked the paper for emphasis and intonation, making notes on when to make eye contact with which member of the council. I revised the text each place I consistently stumbled. I shaved individual words until it came in exactly at three minutes. I downloaded a stopwatch app for my phone.

Finally, I forced my wife to sit in front of the stove to imitate an audience. At first, it threw me when I looked up to find her making eye contact but I strategized my way around that by looking past her ear. By the day the council meeting rolled around, she’d heard my speech so many times she could have delivered it herself. When she began feeling puckish, she mouthed the words along with me as if quoting a Monty Python routine. After that, she refused to sit and listen any longer regardless of how much I begged. By then, even the cats ran to hide whenever they heard my voice.

As I donned what had become my wedding and funeral attire that evening, I noticed she was still in the same jeans and summer sweater she’d worn to work.

“Aren’t you coming with me?” I asked, wounded by the thought.

“I’ll watch the streaming feed on the internet.” She adjusted my collar, straitened my tie and patted my chest. “I know you’ll do great.”

With that, she pushed me out the door like a kid walking to school by himself for the first time. An occasion marked less by misty-eyed tears than the patient anticipation of a little her-time once the door had firmly shut behind me.

All week she’d reminded me that while you could fight city hall you’d better choose your quixotic quests wisely. I knew she really wanted to be out of the blast radius and avoid any fallout if my speech turned pear-shaped.

I wouldn’t let that happen. I’d practiced for every conceivable contingency the council could throw at me, down carrying a courtroom diagram that showed the blind-spots of the house and the most likely approach patterns of three degenerates down the street.

As I drove along Osceola’s stagflation-era business corridors then past the deserted disco-epoch mall, I couldn’t help that think that all the hand-stitched, American-dyed, patriotic flags in the world could never cover up the blight. The best the Mayor could hope was that the incessant fluttering would somehow distract our eyes. I wondered if she was a political Alzheimer’s victim who was in constant danger of forgetting where she lived.

When I arrived at city hall, the parking lot was completely packed including the adjoining overflow in front of the post office. A contingent of Patriot Police was directing vehicles to the community library across the street. I was glad I’d arrived early. Not that there was ever much traffic in downtown Osceola once the commuters cleared out. And yet it still looked like I might be one of the last to arrive.

As I approached the entrance to the council chamber under the portico of city hall, I saw my two favorite Patriot Police positioned beside the door like bouncers at The Star Spangled Strip Club on a Plush Limburger inspired Two-If-By-Tea Ladies Night.

I nodded an acknowledgement as I strode past. “Gentlemen.”

Before I crossed the threshold, Hobbes grabbed a handful of my jacket, spinning me around.

“Hey, mind the dry cleaning,” I complained. “This tie is imported Italian silk.”

“You can’t go in,” Hobbes said, dragging me farther from the door. “Orders from Mayor Rivers.”

“It’s a public meeting. I have every right to attend.” I felt his grip tighten, pressing wrinkles into my shirt. I hoped his sweaty sausage fingers didn’t leave a stain.

Calvin sauntered over. He pried loose Hobbes’ hand and smoothed my shirt and tie back into place, patting my chest gently not unlike my wife. I drew no comfort from the gesture.

“What my colleague is trying to say is that you don’t meet the council chamber’s new dress code,” he said.

Dress code? I looked down at my jacket, slacks and tie. What did they expect, an IBM three-piece suit? “What are you talking about? There’s no dress code for these meetings.”

“Oh, but there is.” Calvin smiled. “The council passed an emergency resolution at a city identity workshop just an hour ago. All attendees are required to wear a flag pin to show their civic pride.”

I pulled my wallet from my pocket, recognizing their signature shakedown when I saw it. “And I suppose you have them for sale?”

His smile broadened. “As a matter of fact, I have just one left. You aren’t a veteran, are you?” I rolled my eyes since he already knew the answer. “Then, Mr. Lincoln will see you through.”

I dug out a five and waited awkwardly as Hobbes pinned me like his prom date. Calvin thanked me for my donation, reminding me that all tax-deductible proceeds would benefit the Mayor’s city beautification initiative, and red, white and re-election campaign. Then he asked if I needed a receipt. When I shook my head, they finally stepped aside.

Inside, I found the council chamber just as full as the parking lot. It looked like I’d be delivering my patriotic invective to a full house. Every seat was taken and we were down to SRO. It looked like the entire patronage of the National Guardian Tavern had taken up residence. There was more camo in there than at an NRA convention during hunting season, which was slightly less than an old Soviet May Day parade.

The only veterans in the room were a gaggle of old men who had been drafted back before conscription had fallen out of fashion by way of perpetual deferrals that didn’t include the poor, and a handful of casually dressed volunteers of varying politics who had seen enough camo for one lifetime. Plus one registered Cold War Veteran, a spook who blended in with the Eisteddfods after-hours crowd and didn’t advertise her patriotic contribution. Yet for all her flag-waving glory, the Mayor didn’t figure among any of their number.

The audience wavered between antipathy and open hostility. The reprobates from Eisteddfods held down a block of seats on one wing as if preparing for a siege. Word must have gotten out about the content of my speech. Why did I suspect wife’s invisible hand at work? I knew someone had been busy when I spotted the editor of the Osceola Observer chatting with an intern from the Piney Point Press. It usually took a double-murder before one of their reporters would drag over to this side of the lake.

I found the signup sheet for Citizen Comments with the city clerk. Like a bi-weekly open-mic for conspiracy theorists, aspiring curmudgeons and general city cranks. As I penned my name with a Hancockian flourish, I noticed the Mayor had conveniently cleared the night’s agenda. Mine was the first and only signature on the list. I went to loiter by the door.

Precisely at seven, the city manager, the city lawyer and the council all filed in to assume their places around the horseshoe desk that dominated the chamber, Mayor Rivers in the position of a lucky nail. A full contingent of Patriot Police formed a phalanx in the front row of the audience which gave the meeting that authentic American hometown feel the Mayor had always striven for. Though no one appeared to be openly armed which I’m sure must have been a disappointment.

I lowered my gaze during the invocation but kept my eyes cracked in case the Patriot Police had prepared another nasty surprise. I placed my hand over my heart respectfully for the pledge but didn’t trust myself to say a word. My stomach flipped relentlessly.

After the pro forma protocol had been dispensed with, the Mayor opened the meeting with her gavel.

“According to state statute,” she intoned, “Citizen Comments to the City Council are invited on items that are on this evening’s agenda, as well as any general comments you may wish to make. Comments are limited to three minutes.”

The clerk then called my name. I strode to the podium with all the confidence I could muster, which amounted to concentrating on not sprawling face first down the aisle.

“State your name and address for the record,” the Mayor said through a plastic smile with a mixture of curiosity and disdain.

My stomach sank lower then desperately tried to crawl back up my throat. Somehow I managed to get the information out without looking at my notes. I was glad I’d practiced even that.

I pulled my speech from my jacket pocket and smoothed it against the faux-wood podium to calm my nerves. When I looked up, I found Mayor Rivers staring at me expectantly as she flicked the button of her official timer. I froze when she looked me in the eye. I paused for a second. Maybe two. Three at the very most. Then I set off into my reading. 

Initially, I was tentative but gained self-assurance after the first sentence came out ungarbled. Within a paragraph, I found myself delivering an impassioned speech to an enraptured audience. The words fell off my tongue like polished silver.

Halfway through and I was belting out my argument like the prima donna in a Wagnerian opera. Babies hushed, women swooned, grown men wept openly. I have a dream… ask not what this city can do for you… the only thing we have to fear… we will fight them on the beaches… Mayor Rivers: Tear. Down. This. Wall. I emphasized each point by pounding the podium with my shoe.

An eerie silence fell across the chamber as I concluded. The councilors sat frozen like deer in a hunter’s spotlight, knowing their collective electoral fate depended on which way the crowd turned and whether they turned with them. I slipped on my loafer and folded my speech, trying not to shake as I prepared my exit.

Behind me, the Eisteddfods’ crowd burst to their feet, cheering madly. An instant later, the rest of the audience joined them in a standing ovation, whistling and stomping, hooting and hollering as if begging for an encore at a Lynyrd Skynyrd concert. If I turned around, I almost expected to see their lighters had emerged.

My face flushed as I lifted my gaze, basking in the crowd’s approval. The council members nervously joined them on their feet, as did the clerk, the lawyer and reluctantly the city manager. Only Mayor Rivers remained seated, her hands patiently folded on the desk before her. I wondered if my wife was now regretting not experiencing my triumph in person. That thought died as the Mayor met my eyes.

She smiled her perpetual political smile and casually flicked a finger. Suddenly, I found a pair of Patriot Police looming by my side. Calvin and Hobbes. Naturally. They each latched onto an arm. The crowd and councilors fell mute, uncertain now.

“You can’t arrest me for speaking my peace at a public meeting,” I protested.

The Mayor’s mirror-practiced smile never wavered. A twinkle crept into her eye. “But I can for exceeding your allotted time.” She held up the official timer for everyone to see. It read 3:02. “Get him out of here. This meeting is adjourned.”

Her gavel echoed when it fell.

---

My wife bailed me out the next morning. Turns out she was right to keep her distance or we both would have ended up needing bond. When I finally got home, I found a Warholesque study of perfect sandal prints now adorned the office desk. She’d said she’d been trying to kill a spider, but I knew better. When I’d been released into her custody, Calvin and Hobbes ducked beneath her steely glare like parochial school children shying from their least favorite ruler-wielding nun. I knew to let her answer the door next time.

She told me that as I’d been hauled away my Eisteddfods’ compatriots had quickly melted into the crowd as if that sea of camo would hide them. Not that I could blame them anyway. In a small town game of sociopolitical Darwinism, we were all woefully underclassed.

It took time for the after-hours crowd to fully reassemble, but when they did, I found they granted me folk hero status. Even a handful of the National Guardian Tavern patrons graced me with respectful nods each time I walked past to serve out my sentence.

I’d pled down from Obstruction of a Public Meeting to Defamation of Public Property for my exuberance with my shoe. Combined with my original citation, I’d been sentenced to twenty-four hours of community service at the Mayor’s weekly flag-waving party.

So for the following month of Saturdays, you could find me at the intersection of Osceola’s busiest business corridors. I was the one dressed in the court-ordered Statue of Liberty costume complete with a foam torch crowned by a sparkler in one hand and a rippling American flag in the other. Despite the chorus of catcalls and honking horns, I thought I might have underestimated the Mayor’s initiative. Dancing like a discount tax preparer, I’d never felt so free.

© 2015 Edward P. Morgan III