Uncle Empire

The town started frothing. Citizens posed for news cameras and gave jittery quotes about how the town used to feel safe, about the unfounded rumor that a curfew was taking effect, and also weighed in on whether or not they were satisfied with the shade of yellow chosen for the speed bumps—it was a mixed bag.

Mayor Dinkins was caught in the crossfire of these competing civic conversations. If he gave up the search, as so many seemed to want, then he would be accused of allowing citizens to disappear willy nilly. If he did not, then he would be wasting town funds. And what about the speed bumps? Babette Marcus had managed to work the townspeople into a frenzy, and there seemed little he could do, as he hid behind the hedges of the Mayor’s Mansion, terrified his own daughter may appear on that morning’s milk carton.

It took another week but the search was abandoned, Tom Martin was presumed dead—possibly eaten—by the authorities, and a cold shudder, like early winter, seeped through the town.

It was not winter, though. Far from it, in fact. July had just hatched and that meant farmer’s market season in Under Ridge. On a particularly splendid Wednesday, Councilwoman Marcus prepared to announce her candidacy for mayor at the outdoor market set up on the lawn adjacent the community center. A stage was assembled alongside the tomato stand and homemade banners circulated throughout the crowd when Tom Martin showed up, alone, looking to buy some produce. He couldn’t understand what the fuss was about—though to be honest, he didn’t mind the attention.

Market-goers were curious to hear Tom’s story and formed an oval in the space around him, crowding up to within a few inches. “Give him some room,” came a voice. It was Ms. Marcus from the stage. Seeing the intense interest she had created in this man, she recognized the possible role he could fill in her mayoral run. He could speak at town meetings of how, when he was lost and frightened and the search for him had been abandoned, no one seemed to care—no one, that is, except a brave young councilwoman with an underbite. He would be her mascot, her lucky charm, her ticket to Washington! She brought him onto the stage to immense applause.

Tom stood next to the makeshift lectern, where Ms. Marcus gave him a lengthy introduction in which she spoke solely of herself. Once the applause died down Tom stepped to the microphone and, with his canvas shopping bag still slung over his shoulder, began to speak. The hushed crowd lurched forward to make out his words, but it was difficult. He seemed to have brought his indoor voice outside. According to those in attendance, Tom said something about having never left Under Ridge. That he was actually at the meeting regarding the shade of yellow for the speed bumps, and that he preferred Lemon Yellow. Plus, he said, his mom had been staying in the extra bedroom at his apartment. At least that’s what he seemed to say.

Truth is, it was hard to stay focused on Tom’s story. He had a scratchy, uninspiring cadence, certainly no gifts for public speaking, and really, he just wasn’t so interesting. The gathered crowd began to thin out as he spoke, returning their attention to the shopping booths at the farmer’s market. When Tom finally finished saying his piece, Ms. Marcus was the only one who clapped. She clapped continuously, uproariously, disproportionately. She may have even whistled.

Ms. Marcus returned then to her prepared speech, though now she competed over the friendly murmur of vendors and shoppers exchanging greenbacks and green beans across temporary stands. As expected, she declared her candidacy for mayor.

There was no write-up about Tom Martin’s sudden reappearance in the paper the next morning, and only a brief mention of Ms. Marcus’ young candidacy. Later that week, Sharon Mowatt released a comprehensive preview for the upcoming dodgeball season on her blog. By month’s end, the speed bumps were installed, and most everyone agreed the shade of yellow had been wisely chosen. All the while Councilwoman Marcus pressed on in her campaign, trumpeting the same cause that weeks earlier had violently shaken the small town’s sense of self. But now, as she pinned her political ambitions to a man more compelling in absentia than in person, town politics went on as usual.

Tom Martin could not have been happier.

-RK