Down the Road

Down the Road

by Peg Moran

copyright 2014 by Peg Moran

        The comtab skitters around the kitchen counter like a sand flea. Both vibration and blinking light call for attention. John Carbone flips the cover to get the morning news. 

          The crawl announces: SCHOOL SCHEDULE NORMAL THIS MORNING.  ALL APPROVED BUS ROUTES  ARE OPEN.  SIX INCHES OF SNOW EXPECTED BY NOON. WINDS FROM THE NORTHEAST  -- 20 MPH.  HAVE A GOOD 

DAY.  

           John Carbone opens the heavy drape over the kitchen window to confirm the weather.  Pat Carbone pulls the belt of her fleece robe tighter as she walks into the kitchen. John hands her a mug of hot coffee.  

           “Is the weather as bad as they said it would be?”  

            John points to the comtab.

           “Do you still want to make the trip to Hartford?” he asks.

           “It’s taken me weeks to set up the meeting with Richard! Besides, Hartford may not be affected at all.  This is probably just a coastal storm.”

           Pat stirs a spoonful of honey into her coffee.  

           John’s chair scrapes across the tile floor.  “I’d better get started. As of today we’re in a no-plow zone.”  His face clouds with resentment.  “I’ll have to mount the chains.  Otherwise, it will be impossible to get through the snowbank at Green Avenue.” 

         He shakes his head.  “I was never in favor of this no-plow concept. You can’t just abandon whole parts of this town because we ....”  His voice trails off.

          “ .... because the town can’t afford to provide snow plow services anymore?”   Pat looks at him directly.  It’s a challenge. She participated in Town Planning meetings. John refused to get involved in what he called “politics.”

           John pulls his parka and knit hat off a coat hook by the door. 

           “The train leaves at 9 o’clock,” Pat reminds him. 

           “Stranded in my own neighborhood.”  John grumbles like a bear in a corner. Then slowly, he straightens.

         “Damn!” he says. “Maybe I’m wrong.” He strides to the kitchen island and picks up the comtab.

            Using the keyboard, he pulls up the train schedule.  

            “Train. On time. Westerly. 9 a.m.”

            He checks the school bus schedule. 

            “Green Avenue and Wells Road.  7:30 a.m.”

            He checks the availability of Town Cars at the high school. Two cars are available at 8 a.m.

            John turns to Pat.  “Forget all this stranded nonsense. We’ve got transportation into town.  We take the bus to the high school then a town car to the train station.

            “Bus?” asks Pat.  “What bus?”

             “The school bus.”

             Pat begins to sputter an objection. John gives her a quick hug.

             “I’ll wake up Johnny A. We’ll all go together.”  He strides to his son’s bedroom door. “Up and at ‘em, Johnny A.  We’re off to school.  All of us.”

                                 ***************

            At 10 a.m., John pulls the Town Car into an empty bay at the recharge shed. Solar panels, tilted south, have already pitched the day’s snow.  After plugging the car into the recharge unit, he crosses quickly to a modern building which functions as high school and town government center. 

           “Nasty out there this morning!” John says as he hands the keys to a clerk. “The wind is causing a lot of drifts.”

           “The news calls it’s a clipper,” the clerk says as she hands John a voucher.  “Snow should be out of here by noon.”

            John stamps his feet to knock the snow off his boots. “I’m here till mid-afternoon. I’ll catch the school bus home with Johnny A.”  

          “Stop by the cafeteria for a cup of coffee,” the clerk suggests. “I’ll run a copy of Johnny’s schedule. It’s OK to drop in to a class.  Teachers like guests. Ed Harwick is in today.” She cocks her head. “Time with our First Selectman is always a bracing experience.”           

          It’s after 1 p.m. when John arrives at Harwick’s office. Ed Harwick is in his third two-year term as First Selectman.  During his first term Ed kept his office door open and paid close attention to everyone who stopped by. He attended non-profit fund raisers and high school sports events.  When he secured a second term with little opposition, he called the first Town Planning meeting and things began to change in Pebbletown.

    The door to Harwick’s private office swings open. The First Selectman almost bows as he says goodbye to his visitor. “Always charmed to see you, Mildred.”

          John turns his back hoping to avoid a confrontation.“Good to see you’re finally taking an interest in this Town.” The words are the kind of verbal swipe that John expects from his mother-in-law. 

         “Good to see you, too, Mildred.”

          Harwick puts his arm around John’s shoulder and leads him toward his office.  “So how did it go this morning at your place? With the no-plow zone?”  Harwick always faces problems head on.  He played forward in lacrosse at college. Though he has gained weight since, he still likes to keep the ball moving down the field. Now the moves are more metaphor than reality.

        Sunlight pours through corner windows made of triple-paned glass. The room is a sharp contrast to Harwick’s wood-paneled office in the old Town Hall. When cost-cutting doomed the outdated building, Harwick moved the massive mahogany  desk and a set of swivel chairs to his new office at the high school. 

         The chair creaks as Harwick seats himself.

         “I thought I’d have to put on chains and slog out to Green Avenue,” John says.

“These no-plow zones are a pain .... for anyone. I listened to a lot of grief this morning.”  Harwick heaves himself away from his desk and looks out the window to check the weather.

         “I’m convinced the no-plow zones are a necessary change. I reminded callers this morning that it was the Planning Committee, not me, that came up with the idea.  When the committee took a look at the report from Public Works...high price of gas ... no money in the budget for equipment repair. Costs were killing the department. It was just a matter of time.” Ed chuckles. “Actually, John, you’ve been lucky.  You missed the first two innings of the no-plow game.”                

          John shifts uneasily in his chair. “Pat brought that to my attention this morning.”             
Harwick pours himself coffee from a carafe and offers some to John. 

          “Pat’s been on the Planning Committee since the start.” Ed remarks. “Smart gal.  Tough, too.”

          “Yes,”  John agrees. “It’s important to her.  She likes to be involved in politics.”

           “And you don’t?”  Harwick places his mug on the tooled leather surface.

           “No.  I don’t.  Politics is a shell game played at the top.  I’m always waiting for the curtain to be pulled back so I can see the real players.”

           Harwick is thoughtful. “Maybe that’s the way it used to be. But not anymore.    Washington is all but out of the picture.  Hartford is still bumping around trying to make things happen. But politics is local now.”

           John is stunned.  “But how is plowing fewer roads going to get us back to normal?” 

           Harwick folds his arms and drums his fingers against an elbow.  “We’re not getting back to anything, John.  We all need to understand that.  We need to move forward. We need more programs like the no-plow zones.  Like the Town Cars.  Like the firewood diversion project at the Dump.”

          A bell rings in the hall signaling the end of the school day.

          “Like public school buses used for public transportation?” John asks.  “Now that’s an idea I’d like to work on!” 

          Harwick seems confused.

         “School buses, Ed.  Public transportation in the neighborhoods. It’s a good idea. That’s how I got here this morning.  That’s how Johnny A  and I are getting home.”

          A cloud passes over Harwick’s face but he quickly recovers.

         “Good idea, John.  Let’s think about it.”

                               *****************

           A friendly bells jingles as John pushes on the door at the Re-Use-It Shop. He pours himself a cup of coffee from an ancient, multi-cup brewer.  Hot coffee supplied by Gerry Felder helped turn the small shop from an accumulation of junk into a meeting place where people trade repair tips and town news.

         “John! I haven’t seen you since Mercer Inc. went belly up!”

         “Yah, no machine orders. No job. Finally, no company,”  John says. It is a common story in Pebbletown.    

           The phone rings.  Gerry holds up his hand and takes the call.

           John scans the shop. Tables created with pine boards and saw horses are covered with boxes and coffee cans full of spare parts:  nuts, bolts, screws of various sizes, electrical cords, remodel boxes, switch plates, toilet flush handles, short lengths of hose, kitchen faucets. 

          Gerry holds the comphone against his chest.

          “John, you ever unplugged a toilet?”  

           John nods, “Yes.”

           Gerry lifts the phone to his ear.  “I’ll have someone out to you today. You want to use Lucky Bucks? Good.  Your repair person will take the usual 50/50 split.”

           After Gerry completes the call and lays the comphone on the counter, John protests. “Now, wait a minute!  I don’t deal with that funny money.  I might be unemployed but I’m not stupid”

           Gerry laughs.  “Tell me, were you a Boy Scout?”

           “Nope.”

           “Did you take shop courses in high school?”

            Gerry folds his arms across his chest and shakes his head.

           “So where did you learn to unplug a toilet?”

           “Oh, that.  Pop was a plumber.  I worked for him weekends and summers during high school and college.”

           “So, what else do you know about plumbing?”

           “I guess just about everything.  Pop still sweat some copper pipe but mostly we used plastic.”

            Gerry grins.  “So basically, you’re telling me you can repair any plumbing system from the 1970s right up to today?”

          “Actually, even a bit further back.  We also worked on the really old stuff made of caste iron.”

          “And you did what at Mercer Inc.?”

          John pulls his shoulders back as if he were wearing a suit instead of jeans. 

          “I did tech writing... and editing. Actually,  I ran the department.” 

          “Did you like the job?” Gerry asks.

          “Yes and no. The sales guys always tried to dumb the products down.  Make the machines sound easy.”  He takes a sip of coffee. “My group was mid-point on the food chain.  I spent a lot of time trying to make myself and my team look good to the guys up the line. In the end, it didn’t work. We all got fired.” 

 “But you want to work?”  Gerry asks.

            “Of course!  I have property taxes to pay and a family to feed.” 

  “Well, then, I think you’re onto something. America may not be able to afford fancy machinery anymore but Pebbletown is full of houses with aging plumbing.”  

 John shrugs remembering his mother’s distain for Pop’s trade.

          “But, what about the funny money ....” 

          “Look, I know Lucky Bucks won’t pay your property taxes.  But it will buy food. I see a lot of people in this shop.  They all use Lucky Bucks.  I bet half of this town’s economy is running on that funny money.”

           John shakes his head unconvinced. “I’ll give it a try. Until something better comes along.”

           “Give it a year,” Gerry leans on the counter and scribbles customer information on a scrap of paper. “You still got your tools?         

           “Sure... yeah ... sure.  They’re all in the garage.”

                                 *****************  

  

          John parks his parcels on the vacant seat in Harwick’s waiting room. 

          Harwick opens the door to his office and greets John with enthusiasm.

           “Hey, John.  Good to see you.  Come on in!”

            John pulls out the chair across the desk from Ed.

            “Here,” says John placing the bag of lettuce on the desk.  “Something fresh for the family.”

             “You grew these?”  Harwick seems puzzled.

              “Yes. I’m experimenting with winter growing. Planted lettuce starts in the ground about four weeks ago. I’m using a half-hoop attached to the south wall of my house. Covered the plants with a thick straw mulch.  And look what happened!”

           The conversation swings toward Harwick.

  “I got a call from an old college friend last week.  Seems the feds are looking for some model programs.  No promises yet, but I’m hopeful they might fund a youth program here this summer.” 

          It is John’s turn to be puzzled.

          “I haven’t heard any press announcements about a youth program ....”

          “It’s preliminary, John.  Still behind the door.  You know what I mean.  I’ll keep you posted ... but it looks good.”

          Harwick changes the subject and points to the folded papers. 

          John unfolds the plans to a pre-fab chicken coop, lays them flat on the desk and leans over to point out the details.

          “Gerry Felder and I are working on a joint project at the Re-Use-It-Shop.  He has cleared a lot of pine this winter.  He’s milling it, too.  We want to sell the package ... pre-cut lumber and plans.  It will make it simpler for people in the neighborhoods to put up chicken coops when the weather gets warmer.  But we’re wondering how to get the word out.  Oh, we’ll use the Town comboard, of course, but we want someone ....”

“Try Mildred.” Harwick says without hesitation. “She’s got connections through out the neighborhoods.  She brings me up to date every Monday. Who showed up at the weekend parties ... and who didn’t, and why.  With her help I rack up the big votes  every election.”

          “Mildred!”  

          Ed leans back in his chair. “Don’t underestimate your mother-in-law, John.”  He rubs his chin, folds his hands and leans back over his desk.

         “There’s another deal brewing in Town.  I’ve been talking it over with .... I’ve been talking it over with people I think might be interested.”

         John folds one long leg over the other. 

        “The Transportation Strategy Board is negotiating with a Pennsylvania firm to take over Eastern Connecticut Transit. The company wants to use our school bus routes to extend their public service throughout Town.  I’m impressed with the money being discussed.  Enough to reduce property taxes on a one-time basis.  Enough to finance some road repairs.”

         “No.”  John shakes his head. “No!” 

         “But this buyout will help balance our budget! I can’t tell you how hard Hartford is pushing that point.”

          “Yeah.  Hartford gets us into trouble by withdrawing financial support.  And we get ourselves out of trouble with a lot of local moves ... including creating no-plow zones to save money ... including moving town offices to the high school ... including adult riders on our school buses.  I have no sympathy for Hartford.”

“Well, I just have to tell you John.  There is a lot of pressure.”  

        “Between adults and children, I bet we have a higher ridership than Eastern Transit has on any of its routes.           

Ed leans back and laughs.  “John, I have seen you so adamant about anything since ....”  He raises his hands.  “I can’t remember when.”

         “I started out hating this no-plow scheme.  It seemed so ... primitive.  But this winter, I’ve seen a transport system that works for all of us.  In and out of the neighborhoods with school buses.  Town to town with Eastern Transit.”

         John leans forward taking another tack.  “I’m wondering why the future of such an important public asset is not under more public discussion.”

          Ed raises his hands and shrugs. 

                                 ****************

          By spring, John unplugged more toilets, replaced several burst heating pipes and repaired leaks in various kitchen and bathroom sinks.  He based at the Re-Use-It shop and used school buses and Eastern Transit to get to and from worksites. 

On a late bus home,  John sits behind the driver, a well-muscled man in this mid-thirties with an arm tattoo. He’s wearing a pressed khaki shirt embroidered with his name.

“Hey, Gus.  Can I talk to you as your drive?”  

         Gus nods as he chews a wad of gum. 

          “What did you used to do?  I mean before you were a bus driver.”

         Gus leans forward as he comes to a stop sign. He looks left and right. Then moves through the intersection.

         “I was a cop.”

       “Here in Pebbletown?”

       “Yup.  I was laid off with all the rest of them. I got this part-time job last year.” 

          “So you’re making it.”

          “Yah. Sure.  Between the garden in the summer, some Lucky Bucks on the side and this job ... we’re not starving.”

           “Do you always drive the Green Avenue route?”

           “Nah.  I fill in. Sick time, mostly. I’ve driven most all the routes in town.”

           “Have you seen an increase in adults using the bus?”

           “Well, I guess!  Take a look behind you!  How many do we have today.?”

            He uses his wraparound rearview mirror to scan the passengers.

           “Five, six, seven...  Big change this winter when they expanded the no-plow zones.”

           “How do you feel about grown-ups riding the bus?”

           “Hey, they are just working stiffs like me. Kids at home. Mouths to feed. Trouble getting around in bad weather.  Most of them slip me a Lucky Buck to ride so we’re both happy.”

         “I want this service to expand.  Do you think that’s a good idea?”

          “Sure. It can only help.”

        “How?”

        “How what?”

        “How best to expand?”

          Gus chews his gum and maneuvers the bus around a corner.

          “Get more people to ride, I guess.  I’ve never seen a full bus. Today we got, maybe... what do you say ... half a load? Or use the part of the bus that people don’t use to carry something else.” He pauses. “I’ve been picking up orders at the Food Co-op before a run and dropping groceries off along with the kids.”

           Gus’ eyes meet John’s in the mirror. “You’re Johhny A’s dad ... right?”  He cranks open the door at John’s stop.  “Nice talking to you, Mr. Carbone.”   

          John rises and takes five Lucky Bucks out of his pocket, folds them in half and gives them to Gus. He smiles.  “Thanks for all those good ideas.”

                                  *******************

           Ed Harwick waves John into his office the following week. “Am I going to get another ear full about your school buses?”  His voice is humorous but with an edge.

            John misses the nuances. 

           “I’ve been out doing interviews, Ed, and this school bus venture is even more successful than I expected.  I’ve talked to a couple of school bus drivers.  One on the Green Ave. route and another going out to the Mistuckset neighborhood.  They both made exactly the same points.  Increased adult ridership since the extension of the no-plow zone.  A lot of additional capacity still not being used.  They both consider adult riders a good addition to the service.” 

           “And  ... and, this is big, Ed.  Some riders are using the buses for deliveries!  I tried it out myself.  Stopped by the Food Coop the other day for staples.  You know, the heavy stuff -- flour, sugar, milk.  They bagged it for me and shipped it home on Johnny A’s bus.”

          Ed sits behind his desk. His beefy hands folded over one another.  He laughs. “We probably have the most popular school bus system in the state.”

          “Not yet, but we could.”  John replies.  “Right now, the system is informal.  The idea has spread by word of mouth.  Someone got stranded one day, like I did.  Tried the bus.  It worked.  Tried it again. And again.  Now, it’s a habit. 

           “We need to encourage more people to try it. Let them know that the Town supports the idea of adults using school buses for transportation.  Let people know they can use the bus service to ship things home.”

           Ed is wary.  “Informally using the buses for adult transportation is one thing.  Lending official Town support to the idea is another.”

          “But, what’s the problem?”  John ticks off points on his fingers. “The Town owns the buses and pays for their upkeep. Right?  And the Town pays the bus drivers.  All of that money  .... how much last year?... came from property taxes.”

           John leans forward.  “ ... and that system is currently working at less than full capacity. In fact, I would say that most buses arrive at school less than half full ... even with seven to ten additional adult passengers per bus.”

          Ed shakes his head.  “John, it’s just not that simple.”

          “I don’t believe I’m hearing this!” John says. “That’s old-time-politics-speak.  It sounds like  some old guys in dark rooms are making things complicated.  Look Ed, this is what you do best.  Cut through the crap and get things done.”

          Ed scratches his chin.  “What do you have in mind?”

          “Make a townwide news announcement.  Let people know it’s OK to ride the school bus.  Kids. Adults.  Whoever.  Let them know they can comphone the Co-op and arrange for food delivery via school bus. Use the morning news broadcast to announce the story.”

           Ed rises from his chair and extends his hand. “How about something smaller? I’ll post a message on the comboard.  We can gauge response.  You know, John, increased ridership just might make the bus line even more valuable to a buyer.”

         “Ed, you miss the point,” John shoots back. “More riders and more services, that makes the bus line more valuable to the Town.”    

                             *******************

            Gerry opens the door to the Re-Use-It Shop. “Damn hot out there.  Not much better in here.”

           John looks up from his work. “The box fans quit an hour ago when power went out.”

          “Geez.  I wish the Planning Committee would pay more attention to our electrical problems.”

          “This year, it’s the school system.” John says.  “Maybe next year the Town will pay more attention to utilities.”

         “You gonna promise me that?”

           John chuckles.  “I can’t promise you anything.  But maybe Harwick can.”

         Gerry dismisses that idea with a wave of his hand.

        “How’s the Youth Summer Program going?  Johnny A says you’re in charge.”

        “That I am, my man.”  Gerry pauses for a pull on his cold beer. He looks at the amber bottle.  “The locals are working hard to get this right but it’s still not what I remember.”

         John nods his agreement.

        “Well ... the kids.  I have fifteen of them.  Mostly boys.  Mostly new to the outdoors.  Some of them hate it.  And some of them love it.  Johnny A, for instance.  He knows his way around the woods.  Appreciates what’s there.”  He pauses to wipe sweat from the back of his neck. “The whole crew is off to the beach this afternoon. Left when we quit at noon.”

         “Beach?  How are they getting to the beach?”

         “Bus. Eastern Connecticut Transit is running bus service three afternoons a week to the Westerly beaches.  Not only that, they’re taking Lucky Bucks for half the fare.”

           John is thoughtful.  “That’s a big change for them.  To take Lucky Bucks. Do you think Harwick is involved?”

          “Why should he be?”
         “It’s just something he said this winter ... about Eastern Connecticut Transit wanting to buy our school bus routes.”

         “Sorry, buddy, but I don’t see a connection.”  

          John admits. “Neither do I.”

                                ******************

          John studies the inside of the Eastern Connecticut Transit bus as it rolls along Route 1.  Six bench seats, covered in light gray imitation leather, flank each side of a center aisle.  The large sloped windshield provides wide visibility for the driver.  Stripes of dark blue trim each tinted window.  They open both top and bottom to catch the outside air.  John has to admit, the ride is much more comfortable and much less noisy than a school bus. The two-mile trip takes 10 minutes, only three stops between the Re-Use-It Shop and the Town offices.

          Harwick’s crisp blue shirt is only slightly crumbled in the heat.  He waves John into his office and adjusts the window fan before taking a seat behind the desk.

“George Mason gave me quite an earful after your party last weekend. He and his band of brothers have been very vocal this summer. Comcalls.  Drop-in visits. Opinion pieces in The Post.  This week I fielded his latest complaint. Free rides for adults on school buses. Outrageous!”

“George and his pals are on their way out.”  John says with conviction. 

“I agree.  But while they are here, they are powerful.  They are loud and they know how to apply pressure.”

“And they want their own way.” John furrows his brow. “ Are they capable of thinking in terms of new ways for the Town to move forward?” 

         Ed sighs  “I doubt it.”

“So why do you pay so much attention to them?”

Ed shrugs and doesn’t reply.

“You’ve set a great educational proposal before the Town. Consolidate from four schools to one. That saves a lot on heating costs alone.  There will be no reduction of instructional time if we go to a year-round school schedule and double sessions. Thirty days of vacation, scattered throughout the year, will give a steadier pace of instruction.  Aren’t teachers in favor of the proposal?”

Harwick nods. “For the most part. Yes.”

“So why are you waffling? You need to do go out and sell these ideas to Townspeople.”

“It will change the face of this Town forever!”

“Yes, it will.” John gets up to pace. “And, it will change the Town for the better. Oh, the George Masons in town are not going to like it.  But for other people who participated in your Planning  Meetings, they want these changes.”  John stops pacing and turns to Ed.

“What’s the alternative, Ed?  Go back to the old ways? Worry about the price of oil instead of supplying free firewood?  Kick out the Food Co-op and give the building back to the police?  Cash in our Lucky Bucks for hard currency?”  

He leans across Ed’s desk.  “As you told me once. There is no going back.”

Ed grins. “You sound like a candidate.  You running for First Selectman in November?”

John stands up, puts his hands in his pockets and turns away.  He slowly turns back.

  “Well, maybe I am.”

                                  *****************

John leans over the counter making notes on a yellow pad.  So focused on ideas, he starts when the bell rings over the door to the Re-Use-It Shop.

“Hey, pal.  What you working on?”  Gerry Felder heaves a bucket of scrap nails onto the counter.

“An opinion piece for The Post.  They sent me guidelines this morning. Boy, am I rusty!  To think I used to write for a living. That seems like a lifetime ago.”

         Gerry finds a spare box, dumps some nails into it and spreads them around.  “What’s the topic.  Or shall I guess?  School buses.”

“Not exactly.  Or rather, school buses are part of the topic.  Yes, I want to talk about  how valuable school bus transportation will be with the new school schedule. Twice daily runs in and from the neighborhoods.  I also want to put in a good word for double sessions.” 

“You aren’t going evangelical on me, are you?”

John shakes his head and laughs. 

“No. But right now, the discussion about a new approach to school schedules is controlled by George Mason and company.”

          Gerry shakes his head. Mason and his buddies are pretty set in their ways.”

          “Exactly! I thought a piece in the Post would be a good push-back.”  John sifts through the nails, picks out some badly bent ones and puts them in a pile on the counter. “But I want to talk to people outside of his circle, too. I want to get out to the neighborhoods.  Listen to folks reactions to the new school ideas.  Ask what Town programs have helped and how. I want to show how our school buses are a great example of a community enterprise. A business run by the community ... to make the community better.”

           Gerry joins in the search for bent nails.

           “You don’t seem like a joiner type to me.  You know, Chamber of Commerce ... Little League dad ... that sort of thing.”

“Not much.”  John admits.

“So who do you know that is that sort of person? Someone who can get you introductions in the neighborhoods?”

            John picks at the nails and shrugs. “Beats me.”

             Gerry slaps the counter so hard he sets the nails to jiggle.

           “Well, I know just who.  But you’re not going to like my suggestion.”

           John looks puzzled.

          “Mildred!  She knows more people than god.”

          John leans his face in his hands and groans.  “That woman hates me!  She’s pushy.  She orders me around. We’ve never liked each other.”

         “Yes, I know.  But... Mildred has lots of friends in the neighborhoods. You need to ask her to be your campaign manager.”  

         “How could I possibly do that!”

         "I don’t know exactly.  You’ll figure something out.”

                              ******************

          “So we’re off to a poetry reading.”  John leans against the steering wheel as Mildred settles into the Town Car.

          “Slam. Poetry slam.” Mildred corrects him.

          “So ... tell me.  What’s the difference?”

          “You’ll see.”

          John rolls his shoulders and tries again.

         “You mentioned, in your comcall ... when you invited me ... that several neighborhoods are active in the arts. How did that happen?”

          Mildred looks at him closely.  Then turns her eyes back to the road.

         “Boredom, I expect.”

         “Boredom?”

          “Well,” Mildred explains. “TV is reduced to a stuffy weekly news broadcast that nobody watches. Radio is used only for local news. Internet access is restricted to educational links and vital research. Movie theaters are too far away and too expensive. If there are no expert entertainers, people begin to entertain themselves.  It’s just human nature.”

          John takes his eyes off the road to study Mildred.  She leans forward and taps the windshield with her index finger. John turns back to his driving.

          “That’s fascinating!” John says. “So you think these art neighborhoods result from the loss of TV and Internet?”

         “No.  I see them as a response to boredom.” Mildred responds. “Boredom and human ingenuity.  People like to be entertained.  If one form of entertainment goes away, we’ll supply another.”

         “So how many of these artsy neighborhoods are there?” John asks.

         Mildred glares at him then turns back to watch the road. “Just two ... for now. The Hall concentrates on story telling, both written and spoken word. The Park works on music.  I hear that the old middle school wants to set up a visual arts space. Pebbletown might soon have a third ... artsy ... neighborhood.”

         “So today, you and I are off to The Hall to listen to poetry.”

         “Correct.  Go out River Road.  It’s on your right.”

  John looks in the mirror and smoothes his graying hair then leans his arm out the window.  He turns to his companion.

         “Thanks for asking me Mildred.  This is going to be a great date.”

         “Date!”

         “Yes.  I’ve always seen you as my pain-in-the-ass mother-in-law.  But I’m dropping that idea.  You’re a thoughtful woman with a lot of interesting friends.  And you know a hell of a lot about Pebbletown. I’m sorry I didn’t recognize these fine qualities sooner.”

         Mildred does not respond.  But when John looks he sees a small hint of a smile.

                               ****************

 Mildred walks into Harwick’s office at 11 a.m. sharp.  The office door is open.  

“So, tell me what do you think about this community enterprise idea.”

“It’s rubbish.” Harwick says. He rises and extends his hand.  “Always nice to see you, Mildred.  Please ...  sit down.”

“Why rubbish?”  Mildred takes off her floppy hat and places it on the adjacent chair.

“It’s the usual do-gooder approach to government. ‘Let’s all work together to get this thing

 done.’ ”

“Careful, Ed.  Your cynicism is showing.” Mildred gets up and shuts the door. She leans back against it and studies Harwick.

“I’m actually surprised.  You’ve used the ‘let’s work together’ approach to your advantage for years now.  It’s gotten you elected to three terms.  What’s changed now? Have you found some new players?”

Harwick looks hard at Mildred then drops his gaze.  “Well, actually I have.”

“Eastern Transit?”

“Yes.”

Mildred resumes her seat. “Tell me about the deal.”  

Harwick looks relieved. “It’s simple and sweet, Mildred. Very straight forward.   Eastern Transit buys our school buses and the right to run the buses in the neighborhoods. The Town gets a chunk of money upfront. We use it to pay for improvements to keep the school open-year round.  School buses run, just as always, on their existing routes. Only now Eastern Transit provides the service.”

Mildred furrows her brow. “That’s too simple, Ed.  Where’s the rat?”

“Oh, Mildred, you’re always looking for a downside!”

“Yes, I am.  Because where politics and corporations meet, there always is a downside.” Mildred pulls a pad and pencil from her purse. “Now let’s go over this more slowly. I want to take notes.”  For the next 10 minutes questions and answers pepper the room.

“So, if this deal goes through, Ed, the Town will turn over substantial assets to Eastern Transit along with the exclusive right to use currently designated bus routes.  Because of the change in the school schedule, these routes will no longer be seasonal but year-round.  Have you estimated ridership?”

“No.”

“I’m sure Eastern Transit has ... school children, adults, parcels.  It’s all on a chart somewhere, believe me. Eastern Transit is a for-profit business.  To them, each rider is a profit center.  Not just a kid getting to school.”  Mildred taps her pencil on her pad. She leans forward. “I’d steer clear of this Ed.  It could blow up in your face.”

Harwick rises and comes around the desk.  

        “You know I always appreciate your support and advice.” He pats her hand. “But believe me, Mildred, you worry too much."

                               *******************

Three ladder trucks are parked temporarily in the church lot across the street. Folding chairs fill the fire station’s empty cavern for the Wednesday night meeting. Ed Harwick stands at a side door and greets stragglers as they arrive. John Carbone paces in front of the first row of chairs reviewing his notes.  The exhausting six-week marathon campaign for First Selectman culminates tonight in a final presentation. In four days townspeople will cast their votes.  

George Mason gavels the meeting to order from behind a small wooden podium. The candidates sit on either side of George.  Both look expectant.

        “Take your seats, please.” George says glancing at a large wall clock.  “Let’s start the meeting on time.”

People brush past others to fill empty chairs. The sound of conversation falls to a murmur.  

“Welcome to all of you. Let me begin with a reminder. Voting will be held in your homes districts on Saturday.  There are three separate items on the ballot.  A yes or no vote on proposed consolidation of Pebbletown schools. A yes or not vote on the proposed sale of the Town’s school bus routes to Eastern Connecticut Transit. And your choice for First Selectman. As usual, we’ll do a hand tally. Results won’t be available until Sunday afternoon. 

“This is the third and final presentation from our candidates. Let’s go over the format.  Each candidate will speak for 20 minutes to explain his views about the future course of Pebbletown.” 

George looks at each candidate.  “Gentlemen, shall we get started? Mr. Harwick elected ‘heads’ and won the toss. He will begin.” 

For the next twenty minutes Ed Harwick gives his stump speech.  John can recite parts from memory.  The need to consolidate the Town’s education system at the largest, most central and most energy-efficient school site, the high school.  The need to improve the building to accommodate a year-round school term. 

        Harwick launches into his proposal: how to raise revenues for those improvements without raising property taxes.  

       “I don’t need to tell you how high gas prices are these days. Or how many of us have given up car ownership altogether.  Or how inconvenient the no-plow zones are.” 

Harwick leans forward over the podium.

“But I do need to tell you, all those problems led to an entirely unexpected outcome. Over the past year, the town has developed a new asset. An asset we did not realize we had.

“Especially after the introduction of no-plow zones, neighborhood residents came to realize the incredible convenience provided by our school buses system.  Come to find out, our school buses provide double-duty transportation.  The buses that bring our children to school... and back home ... these same buses get adults to and from work. School buses also connect everyone living in the neighborhoods with Eastern Connecticut Transit routes and the railroad station.”

         Harwick pauses and smiles. “I understand people even use our buses to ship groceries home from the Co-op!”

He waits for the laughs... and they come.

        “When I was in Hartford last week, the governor and I talked about our bus system.” Harwick cups his palm around his mouth and lowers his voice.  “I whispered that Pebbletown has the highest school bus ridership in the entire state. I told him it’s our best kept secret!”

        Harwick grins at the audience. They love the story.

“Actually, it’s not so secret anymore. The Post reported that Eastern Connecticut Transit, a well-respected local company wants to acquire our newest asset ... lock, stock and barrel.  

        “The buyout offer is generous,” Harwick reassures.  “When we complete the sale, we will convert our secret asset into cash. We can move forward with school consolidation. And pay for it ... with cash!”      

        Harwick raises his arms as he ends his presentation.

         “Vote for me on Saturday.  Let’s implement this plan ... with no increase in property taxes!” 

         People stand and applaud.  Hawick waves and gives thumbs up to the audience.

         George Mason barely maintains his demeanor of impartiality. 

John Carbone wipes sweaty palms on his jeans.  He unfolds his lanky figure from his chair, gathers his notes and moves to the podium. He spots Mildred in the back row. He will use the same strategy tonight that he has used since Day One. The one Mildred designed. The one she calls, “Be a champion.”  It’s always hard to begin.

       “Thank you all for coming tonight. I appreciate the opportunity to tell you about myself and my hopes for Pebbletown.”

George Mason’s chair grinds along the floor as he pushes his chair back. 

“But first, I want to express my thanks to Ed for all the programs he has implemented for this town.  Without him, Pebbletown wouldn’t be where it is today. 

“Remember what it was like before we elected Ed Harwick to his first term? A quarter of us had no jobs. I remember the terrible sense of unease. Everything seemed out of control.  We looked at each other and thought, ‘If you lost your job last month ... could I lose mine next month?’ Gas and oil prices were rising  at astonishing rates.” 

John pauses and grins.  “No one could have imagined  how much higher they would go.” 

   His face gets somber as he remembers.  “Property taxes were on the way up, too. No one seemed to have any answers.  Washington was remote and self-absorbed.  Hartford seemed far away and struggling with its own problems.”

John turns toward Harwick.

“Ed began to talk to us like we were a sports team.  He gave us pep talks. Rounded us up so we could start to move down the field.  I think he gave us courage to think of a better future.  Things got done.  Small ones at first.  He began the free firewood program at the Dump.  That helped my family a lot... and I expect more than a few of yours. He introduced the first no-plow zone. Town expenses started to fall.  Property taxes began to stabilize. People began to breathe again.” 

         John pauses.  “At the time, I was still one of the lucky ones.  Employed.  Money  coming in. My family was still comfortable.

“I watched the Town Car service come into being.  But the first program I noticed ... really noticed, was Lucky Bucks. And I didn’t like it one bit. I didn’t understand it, of course. But didn’t like it either. I called it ‘funny money.’ “

“One day, I groused about Lucky Bucks to Ed. He laughed and said. ‘Let them use Lucky Bucks to buy food.  That way, they’ll have some of the real stuff to pay property taxes.’ ”

         Members of the audience lean over to nudge each other and nod agreement.

“Then ... I got laid off.  I started a plumbing repair business at the Re-Use-It Shop. Lucky Bucks became an important part of my life. Those bucks aren’t funny anymore.  

   “I looked around in a way I never had before.  I watched Gerry Felder clear wood along Green Avenue and mill it into boards for chicken coops. I watched my wife, Pat, struggle to set up a nurse-practitioner clinic.

“I didn’t know it at the time, but I was looking for a project myself.  Something I could champion for the good of Pebbletown.  I found it one snowy morning when a six inch snowfall and unplowed roads forced me to look for a solution.  My whole family took the school bus into town that day. 

John leans over the podium. “That ride changed my life. Over the past year, school buses have become an obsession. I either bore people with my talk of school buses ... or I get them very angry. Believe me, everyone has an opinion about school buses!” 

The audience laughs uncomfortably. 

John relaxes for a moment then resumes.  

“Now, here comes the hard part. How do I convince you that this sale of our school buses to Eastern Connecticut Transit is a bad idea?”  John gathers himself to his full height.

“Ed says that in the past year, we created a new town asset. This is true. But I think we’ve done much more than that.  I think we have inadvertently created a new kind of business. I call it a community enterprise ... a company that is run by the community, on behalf of the community.

“Sure, we can cash out this major town asset ... an asset that looks only like  some school buses and bus routes.  We can sell them both to a private company. Then we can turn around and use that cash to pay for changes at the high school.”

John seeks eye contact with people in the audience. 

         “I don’t see our choices as that simple. I haven’t heard the fare price mentioned, but believe me, Eastern Transit is going to charge us to ride. And despite  what management tells Ed, the company is not going to take Lucky Bucks! If they pay for our assets is hard dollars.  They will want their fares in hard dollars.” 

John pauses and leans over the podium.  “Do we want to forever redirect those fares into private pockets?  Or do we want to retain ownership and continue to develop a school bus system that provides even better service and more convenience to townspeople?”

         There is a sprinkling of applause. 

“If we don’t sell the school bus system, we still have important problems to solve. How do we pay for improvements at the high school as we move to a longer school year?  How do we make improvements ... and not raise property taxes?”

John turns to Harwick.

        “I want everyone to know, Ed, that I am in complete agreement with you about changes to the schools. We only differ on one point. How to pay for improvements.”

John turns back to the audience. 

“Here is my proposal.  School consolidation leaves two middle schools unoccupied. Both buildings are in urban areas. Both are town assets as important as the school buses. 

         We already have a successful model to repurpose our school buildings. Three years ago, Mistuxet Middle School was purchased by a group of townspeople who wanted to stay in a rural neighborhood. They created a successful combination. Sports fields became food gardens. Classrooms became garden apartments.  We can use the same model for families who want to move out of the neighborhoods and into town. Two  urban schools will become convenient urban housing. Proceeds of these sales can pay for improvements at the high school.”

John takes a breath and draws himself up to present his summary. He looks around the room.  His eyes again seek individuals to talk to directly.

“Here are the most important questions we all face when we vote on Saturday. Shall we move forward?  Even when it seems like we are just muddling into new opportunities. Shall we have enough confidence to move forward?  Shall we continue to trust ourselves and our efforts to change?  Shall we encourage and support our spirit of ingenuity?  Shall we continue to find champions to support our town’s efforts to thrive?” 

John pauses.  “If you answer yes to these questions, you will vote to support school consolidation.  You will vote against selling our school buses to Eastern Connecticut Transit.  And you will vote for me as First Selectman. I will implement these programs and continue to move our Town forward.”

                                     **************

On Sunday afternoon, the comtab vibrates unnoticed on the kitchen counter. Outside, John rakes the last of the fall leaves and lawn grasses into the compost pile. He stands tall and pulls his shoulders back to ease aching muscles.  Overhead the November sky is clear blue.  Ribbons of white cirrus clouds look like wispy roads moving into the future. 

Mildred calls from the wooden deck overlooking the yard.

            “Results are in.”

John pulls off his garden gloves as he hurries up the steps. 
            Mildred rotates the comtab for John to see.  The Town Seal fills most of the screen.  Across the bottom, the crawl announces the election results ....VOTERS APPROVE SCHOOL CONSOLIDATION PLAN ..... VOTERS TURN DOWN  PROPOSED SALE OF BUSES TO EASTERN CONNECTICUT TRANSIT .....  JOHN CARBONE ELECTED BY SLIM MARGIN TO A FIRST TERM AS FIRST SELECTMAN. 

“Your first term as champion,” Mildred says with a smile.