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The
funny thing was that everyone at the Town Council meeting except the
reporter for the local newspaper knew that it was all about sex. The
reporter was a nice kid, fresh out of college, the eager and earnest
type, but he was new in town and so no one was going to talk to him
about the biggest scandal we’d ever had. To the reporter, it just
seemed like a well-attended meeting with an animated discussion about
funding for the new recreation center. He’d be disappointed next week
when it was back to zoning variances and budgetary reallocations.
If
he had been in town awhile, he’d have known how to follow the
conversation. When Councilman Smith angrily announced, “Taxpayer’s
hard-earned dollars being spent to undermine our community," and half
the room applauded in agreement, we all knew he was really talking
about his daughter-in-law’s affair with Councilwoman Olsen’s son.
So
everyone listened closely when Councilwoman Olsen spoke up to defend
her son. “I think we’ve all been victims here to one degree or another.
Rather than pointing fingers, I’d like us to focus on the future."
“Is
this the kind of future you want?" Councilman Smith sneered. He was
shouted down by the pro-Olsen faction in the room, and the mayor had to
gavel the meeting to order. The room was warm with tension, and a huge
crowd spilled out of the Council chambers into the hallway. Still the
reporter kept writing on his pad without looking up. How could he have
realized that the town was a cauldron of anger and bitterness? We eyed
each other, wondering who would be the next to betray, looking for
signs of weakness or guilt. It seemed the only thing we all could agree
on was to blame the architect of the new recreation center.
The
architect, a small man who liked to wear bowties, sat in a folding
chair next to the Town Council, looking like the defendant on trial.
And most people thought he should have been charged with something. We
were convinced that this was revenge on his part for the Council’s veto
of the original recreation center budget. But the architect just sat
there, twirling his bow tie like he was slightly bored. He was an easy
man to dislike.
Originally,
the plan for the recreation center called for a new gym, revamped
locker rooms, and, crucially, separate rooms for treadmills and free
weights, each with their own bank of televisions. But when the budget
got cut, the treadmills and free weights were put in one room without
televisions. Runners and lifters faced each other across an empty
aisle.
What
happened next was inevitable. The free weights were used almost
exclusively by the athletically inclined male students from the college
in town. The treadmills were the domain of the young mothers, running
to work off baby weight while their kids played in the child care room
next door. Those two groups, stared straight at each other while they
huffed and strained, one afternoon after another, sweat glistening
their skin and undoubtedly being toweled off in provocative ways.
Glances, then words, were exchanged.
Before
anyone knew what was going on, it all started to happen. Affairs,
divorces, unexpected pregnancies. Wives of ministers, sons of doctors,
no one seemed immune. The town was in an uproar, though we only talked
about it in private—and, at the Town Council meeting, if you knew how
to listen, which the reporter obviously didn’t.
He
was looking down at his watch during the public comment session, when
Joe Andersen spoke. This was the Joe Andersen whose wife unexpectedly
left town with their daughter to “care for a sick relative." The
architect had claimed that since the design had been approved by the
Council, he wasn’t liable for any “buyer’s remorse." Joe screamed that
“if it can be built, it can be torn down" and everyone but the reporter
knew he wasn’t kidding. Joe ran Andersen Demolition & Salvage and
he had the equipment to destroy the building, which some feared he was
only a few drinks away from attempting. Already, after his wife had
left town, Joe had taken Russell Trainer’s car and run it through a
compacter. Russell had been the star wide receiver at the local
college, but when he saw his car crushed into a tiny cube sitting in
his driveway, he dropped out of school and left town.
And
Joe wasn’t the only one with a temper. Twice during the meeting, the
Police Chief had to stand and clear his throat, each time running his
hand across the leather strap of his gun holster. The message was clear
for anyone thinking of accosting the architect, like Joe Andersen
seemed to be considering.
Well,
the money for the renovation passed. It was too late for separate
rooms, and there still wasn’t money for the banks of televisions, but
the architect agreed to redesign the room so that the free weights and
treadmills faced away from each other. The Town Council agreed to
install a couple picture windows, so that now the boys lifting weights
could look out onto the statue of the Virgin Mary at St. Michaels
across the way. They also agreed to knock out an interior wall and
install a one-way mirror so that the women on the treadmills could look
into the childcare room and always have their children in view.
I’m
telling you this because you missed it all if you just read the
reporter’s awful article, “Council Approves Rec Center Modifications,"
that even misspelled Joe’s name as “Anderson." I probably shouldn’t say
anything. Maybe it’s for the best for us to fix the recreation center
and move on. By spring, people will be running and lifting like nothing
unusual ever happened. I heard Joe Andersen’s wife is even back in
town. Maybe some stories don’t need to be told. In fact, just forget
everything I’ve said.
Jim
O'Loughlin is the publisher of Final Thursday Press
(geocities.com/finalthursdaypress) and directs the Final Thursday
Reading Series (geocities.com/finalthursday). His fiction has appeared
recently in North American Review, Flash Me Magazine, and Cesium Magazine.
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