Tom Martin always sat in the last row of seats, near the exit, at city council votes. He was rarely called upon to contribute a meaningful opinion, even though he was often the only one with his hand raised. When he missed a Tuesday night session regarding the installation of speed bumps—or so everyone present believed—and then a Thursday night follow-up, where tensions reached a peak over the proper shade of yellow for the proposed bumps, little was thought of his perceived absence.
“Canary’ll make the town look soft on speeders,” Harvey Dobson argued that Thursday. And everyone agreed Neon sent all the wrong signals. When the council turned to the townspeople for an opinion, nary a hand was seen. (Of course Tom was in the last row, as usual, ready with an opinion.) But it was decided: School Bus Yellow.
As rumors swirled about Tom’s sudden disappearance, an uneasy feeling settled over the small town of Under Ridge. Mayor Dinkins liked to say, at locally sponsored barbecues and at the stroke of midnight at New Year’s celebrations, that this was not a town where unusual things happen. In fact, that had been his most recent campaign slogan for reelection: “Dinkins: He makes the unusual unusual.”
So as this unusual feeling elbowed its way into the minds of the usually fair-minded and forgiving citizens of Under Ridge, Mayor Dinkins began to feel a political pinch. Sharon Mowatt, the op-ed columnist for the Under Ridge Reporter, posted a series of scathing blogs about the mayor on her personal website, Understanding Under Ridge, in a space that was normally reserved for interviews with the elementary school P.E. teacher about which local youngsters were showing athletic promise.
Not used to the harsh light of political scrutiny, Mayor Dinkins, after consultation with political and spiritual advisors, launched a full-scale search for the missing man—and, in a speech announcing the search, emphasized the importance of investigating all instances of unusualness, because “that’s what good mayors do.”
Search committees were formed and deployed, hounds were released, and Tom’s own mother was flown in from out of state. She stood in the town square, demanding that Tom come out this instant, young man.
City councilwoman Babette Marcus was an opportunist, as all politicians are. And as more and more of the town’s resources were funneled into the ongoing—and as Ms. Marcus liked to say, pointless—search for Tom Martin, she attracted a modest following, a core of young and Catholic voters. They were adamantly pro-life, though Ms. Marcus believed such decisions should be made at the state level. With just over a year until the next mayoral vote, it was not inconceivable that this upstart crusader would throw her name into the ring.
The councilwoman, a stout softball of a woman, headed a movement to end the search for Tom Martin post haste. “Valuable town funds are being flushed by a reactionary mayor,” she, with her signature underbite, told the news stations, “a man who would rather cover his own fault-ridden tracks than admit he couldn’t protect his most vulnerable citizens. And where are our speed bumps?” Simultaneously, she launched a milk carton campaign in which she intercepted the milk man each morning and pasted the faces of local schoolchildren—who were (as of yet) unmissing—on the backs of families’ 2%, with an ominous message scrawled in a faux blood font: “Who’s Next?” The cartons were said to hit especially close to home.
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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
I woke up too late to go to work and put on all the denim I could find. I was going to need it. Then I walked around the apartment, which was far nicer than I deserved – having walls and heat and a refrigerator with an automatic icemaker – looking for a six shooter or some other sort of weapon. I'd keep it on the desk in the off chance that someone tried to sneak up on me and break my neck before I got to wherever it was I was going. Where I wasn't even sure. Probably a long, rambling road to some highway tourist trap, where they want your last ten dollars for a coonskin cap, and you give it to them and lay down underneath a plastic horse, hoping someone will feed it a quarter.
Last night, I went to hear the blues. Beers were taxed. A bad tip on two of them showed what kind of peasant I was to the initially pretty bartender. Everyone else in there was from far away and they moved in weird jerks, clapping polka rhythms that just didn't fit. Deer people from fjords saying things like "that is quite certain."
I left and gave one last look to the bartender to thank her for trying to make me feel impotent. She looked at me with a face like a sick lemon. She didn't care about me, and I didn't care. All the moths in my wallet couldn't get her what she needed, but she didn't know what that was anyway. Loveless, bloodless. She probably fucked like a snow bank.
Outside the pavement was cold and black, slick with ice. Snow blew like bees and wet sand. I walked around the park that was lit up like a military compound, trying to salvage something that was unsalvageable, and then took the train home.
The next morning, I woke up and put on all the denim I could find.
I knew a guy once who waited for years in the wings, in the folds of the curtains, and in the backs of photographs, patiently waiting with a screw turning darker inside of him. He'd say you can't make things happen, you gotta let them happen. He's still waiting, turning darker and colder and older, a bullet rusted in the muzzle.
-BF