Hoopla

“see how he runs”

This work includes opinions and language expressed by the narrator which may be classist, fatphobic, or otherwise insensitive and which do not represent the author or editor’s views. Please read with care.

     It was election night and, as usual, the weather was cold, damp, and dreary.

     Arlin Freer sat in a corner of the nearly empty waterfront diner not more than six feet away from the television mounted on the wall behind the bar.  Briefly he glanced up at the screen as the results began to come in from some of the outlying districts.  They were too few to indicate what the outcome would be tonight, however, so he looked away and took another sip of coffee.  In another minute, he heard several raucous voices outside and saw four men in straw boaters shuffle by the window.  He doubted they were coming in here but, most likely, were on their way to the campaign headquarters of some candidate.

     “May I freshen your cup, Mr. Mayor?” Darlene, the lone waitress, asked as she approached his table with a carafe of coffee cradled in her left arm.

     “Please,” he said, fiddling with the loop of his familiar red, white, and blue-striped bow tie.

     Slowly she filled the cup.

     “You’re not very busy tonight.”

     “We never are on election nights,” she said, resting the carafe on her right hip.  ‘The folks who are out are going to some bar or ballroom their candidates have reserved for the evening.  You should know that better than anyone.”

     Freer felt a tap on his left shoulder and immediately opened his eyes.

     “It’s time, Arlin,” Kyle, one of his teammates, informed him.

     “Already?”

     Kyle nodded.  “Here’s a flashlight.”

     Still half asleep, he climbed out of the van and stood on the corner of the pitch dark street.  Soon he saw another one of his teammates running toward him down the middle of the empty street.  It was Marty who also was carrying a flashlight.

     “Here,” he said, handing Freer the red baton all runners were required to carry during their runs.

     “You see any other runners?”

     “Not a one.”

     “Either we’re way ahead or way behind.”

     “I prefer to believe we’re ahead,” he chortled.  “You watch your step now.  There are plenty of potholes in the street.”

     “Thanks to the current administration.”

     “You take care.”

     “I’ll do my best,” he said, also charging down the middle of the street with the baton tucked inside the waist band of his shorts.

     This was the third summer Freer had participated in the “Reach the Beach Relay Race.”  Extending from the slopes of Mount Henry to the shores of Sunset Beach, the course was nearly 200 miles in length with all kinds of twists and turns.  Teams of a dozen runners participated in the event with each person expected to run three legs of the race.  A real estate broker, Freer worked for the Summit Equity Group which every year entered a team in the competition.  All the entrants were brokers and appraisers with the firm.  He was not the strongest runner, that was Kyle, but he was one of the better ones who always could be counted on to run a decent leg.  Until he was recruited to the team by Marty, he hadn’t run in a competitive race since he was in high school and had surprised himself that he was still a pretty fair runner.

     “Damn,” he groaned, narrowly avoiding a deep pothole that might well have fractured his ankle.

     On this, his second leg, he was required to run through the heart of downtown which was not a place he cared to be anymore, especially at night.  For more than thirty years, the main office of Summit Equity was located in a high rise office building half a block from City Hall.  But, not quite two years ago, the firm moved to a strip mall on the other side of the river.  Not only was the lease more accommodating but the area was a great deal safer.  Until a few years ago, he always looked forward to going downtown, not only to dine at restaurants and attend concerts, but just to walk around and visit the many eclectic shops and boutiques.  These days they were nearly all shuttered up or out of business.

     Downtown was in shambles, inhabited by people out to do themselves and others serious harm.  The streets were littered with vials and syringes, shattered glass was everywhere.  Cherished statues were smashed or defiled, windows broken, angry signs posted on doors and utility poles.  Many businesses were torched and those that weren’t were covered in vulgar graffiti.  Tents were set up on nearly every sidewalk with pit bulls chained outside them for protection.  It was very dark at night because nearly all the streetlights were smashed so all that could be seen were shadows scurrying out of doorways and around corners.

     As he raced around a fountain full of scraps of food, someone threw a wine bottle which landed just behind him.  Startled, he picked up his pace, eager to get out of this vile place.  Each time he drew a breath he could smell the decay and waste that had overtaken the downtown area so, as he ran, he tried to breathe only through his mouth.

     Mainly because of the dreadful situation downtown Freer decided to enter the mayoral primary which already had six candidates, including the incumbent, Karl Gomburg.  The city, like most big cities, was dominated by one party so whoever prevailed in the primary was assured of winning the general election.  He knew he was unlikely to win, the longest of longshots to be sure, but he was determined to hold the current mayor accountable for the stunning deterioration of downtown that happened during his time in office. Gomburg, who had won three times, had become so complacent that he never believed anyone presented any kind of threat to his winning a fourth term.

     The only other time Freer was ever a candidate in an election was in high school when he ran for student body president.  He knew he didn’t have any chance of winning against the other two candidates who came from a grade school that in sheer numbers dominated the high school.  And he was right, he didn’t win, but he never regretted his decision to enter the race.  Not only did it give him an opportunity to challenge the fatuous “need for more school spirit” platforms of his opponents, but it showed others at the school that he was not just another timid soul sitting in the back of the classroom.

     Defeat was not the worst thing that could happen to a candidate, he discovered, so long as he ran with conviction and purpose.

     Freer really didn’t have much money to finance his campaign but he didn’t think he needed very much because Gomburg was so confident he would be re-elected he barely spent any money in advertising.  There were a number of billboards with his round pitted face plastered on them above the claim “The City That Works.”  But he didn’t purchase any radio or television spots and consented to only a few scripted interviews with reporters.

     With the support of some other realtors in the firm, Freer waged a guerrilla-style campaign against the incumbent.  As a broker, he was comfortable speaking with prospective buyers so he decided to sell himself as he did homes.  He knocked on doors, in one neighborhood after another, asking people for their vote.  He stood on streetcorners and handed out recipe-sized cards emblazoned with his American flag bow tie.  He organized protests outside City Hall about the deterioration of downtown, led weekend marches through the devastated area.  His campaign slogan, “It’s Time to Pass the Baton,” was posted throughout the city.

     Gomburg had a host of endorsements from other politicians but scarcely any of them actively campaigned for him.  And the few who did didn’t seem very enthusiastic.  Still, after five weeks, the polls hardly changed, with Gomburg given a substantial lead.

     The polls changed significantly after the second and final debate, however, when Gomburg made a terrible gaffe.  He was asked about the recent report that he had awarded his brother-in-law the contract for receipt paper inside parking meters even though the bids of two other contractors were lower.  Vehemently he denied that his relative was given preferential consideration, insisting his company was the most qualified.  Then, almost as an after thought, he cracked, “If you want clean hands, go work in a laundry.”

     That wisecrack turned out to be devastating because it confirmed the worst suspicions many voters had about his honesty.  His staff recognized the damage the remark caused and immediately began to inundate television screens with ads promoting his integrity.  It was too late, however, and despite all the odds against him, Freer won the primary by just a handful of votes.

     The morning after the general election, Freer didn’t get out of bed until a little after nine, and after brewing a mug of Ethiopian coffee, he padded into his den where set up on a card table was a large array of Union and Confederate toy soldiers.  Since he won the primary, almost five months ago, he had arranged the soldiers in the shape of a fishhook, which approximated the battle lines of the combatants at Gettysburg.  Over the years he had arranged other battle lines but again and again he returned to the formation of troops at Gettysburg.  He supposed because the three-day battle was the turning point in the war that eventually led to the preservation of the nation.

     As he stared at the miniature figures, he hoped that he had a tenth of the resolve they displayed during those three fierce days.  He might be able to win an election but he didn’t know if he could actually govern.  Carefully he tightened up the lines of the Confederate soldiers along Seminary Ridge, recalling the first time he showed his collection to his last girlfriend.

     “I can’t believe you still have these toys,” Tricia said in obvious amazement.  “I’d have thought you or your mother would’ve thrown them out years ago.”

     “Oh, she tried, all right, but I wouldn’t let her.”

     “Why in the world not?”

     He shrugged.  “They’re something I enjoy fooling around with.”

     “You’re too old to be playing with toys, Arlin.”

     “Am I?”

     “You most certainly are.”

     Maybe he was too old but he had no intention of getting rid of them.  They provided a comfort that few other things in his life did.  Once she was out of his life he felt he could play with the soldiers without being ridiculed.  Tricia was someone it was difficult to disagree with but when it came to his collection of soldiers he ignored her suggestion that he get rid of them and, instead, parted ways with her.

     Freer was not very sure of himself during his first few weeks in office.  Tentative, not decisive, awkward, not smooth, he struggled to gain the cooperation of the other members of the City Council, all of whom were seasoned politicians.  He wanted police officers back patrolling the streets downtown, especially at night.  He wanted to convert abandoned buildings into homeless shelters to get the tents off the sidewalks.  But they were not at all interested in his recommendations, seemingly satisfied with the way things were in the city.  He wasn’t, though, but he just couldn’t persuade them of the need for change.

     Toward the end of his third month in office, he was informed that the members of the union of public transit workers had voted to go on strike for higher wages and expanded health benefits.  He believed a strike was absolutely unacceptable, and though he knew he didn’t have the authority to order the workers back to work, he could ask a judge to issue an injunction prohibiting them from going on strike.  And so he did, without consulting the other members of the Council, and the injunction was granted.

     The next day, Marty, who now was one of his closest advisors, stormed into his office, waving a folded sheet of paper above his head.

     “You did it, Arlin.”

     “Did what?”

     “Your approval rating has shot up nine points in the latest Andrews poll.”

     “Are you serious?”

     He handed him the sheet of paper with the poll results.  “Clearly a lot of folks agree with the way you dealt with the potential strike by the transit workers.”

     None of the other Council members agreed with his approach, however, but they were no longer willing to impede the implementation of some of his programs because of his increased popularity.

     Finally, he began to enjoy serving as mayor.  Not only did he start to see some real improvements in the conditions downtown, but he relished in the prestige of his office.  With pleasure, he signed autographs and let people take his picture with them and marched in one neighborhood parade after another and attended so many banquets that for the first time in his life he began to put on weight.  And he shook so many hands that some evenings he had to soak his right hand in Epsom salts.  It was the best job he ever had and he hoped to keep it for many years to come.

     With two of his most energetic staffers, Hal and Emily, Freer stood in the lobby of the Skeffington Tower, the tallest building in the city.  At the suggestion of the two staffers he agreed to run up the stairs of the building along with a couple hundred other runners.  It was for a good cause:  the entry fee for the race was to be used to help renovate a halfway house on the east side of the city.  Throughout his term he had participated in dozens of races and, as was his custom, he wore a baggy pair of striped shorts and a cardinal red singlet with an image of his familiar bow tie printed on the front.

     “How many stairs did you say there were in this building?” he asked Emily.

     “Around eight hundred.”

     He groaned.  “I just hope I don’t have a heart attack.”

     “Don’t be ridiculous, Arlin,  You’re in better shape than half the runners here, including me and Hal.”

     “I don’t know about that,” he said, grazing a hand across his belly.  “I’ve been eating a lot of potatoes at all those banquets you’ve signed me up to attend.”

     “You’ll do just fine.”

     Every couple of minutes another wave of runners was sent off by a race marshal who was so overweight Freer doubted if he could even walk up the stairs.

     “You ready, Mayor?” the marshal asked.

     “As ready as I’ll ever be.”

     The marshal looked at his watch then, after barely a second had passed, he sent Freer and his staffers off with the snap of his fingers.

     Determined to conserve his strength, Freer practically crept up the first three flights of stairs.  Soon other runners were passing him, sometimes taking two stairs at a time.

     “What’s the matter, Mayor?” a red-headed runner asked as he charged past him.  “You carrying a bag of ballots on your back?”

     He smiled, confident that eventually he would pass some of the runners now sprinting by him.

     “Do you hear that?” Hal asked as they approached the ninth flight.

     “How could I not?” Emily replied, already breathing heavily.

     In a corner of the flight was a bag piper, dressed in a tartan kilt and a traditional Glengarry cap, playing his pipes.  Freer recognized him from performing at other functions he had attended.  He didn’t know his name but he believed he was a retired firefighter and nodded as he ran past him.

     Already his face and arms were glazed with sweat but, surprisingly, his breathing was still pretty relaxed.  He had little doubt he would make it to the top without having to walk but not nearly as quickly as he would have before he became mayor.

     “You two go ahead,” Emily sighed, after reaching the eighteenth flight where a belly dancer performed with a sparking tambourine.

     “You sure?” Freer asked.

     “My left ankle is bothering me.”

     “We can wait.”

     “No, no, go on,” she insisted, watching the intricate rolls of the dancer.

     Three flights later, Hal also dropped out, rubbing his right hamstring muscle, but promised Freer he would soon catch up with him.  The mayor thought that was unlikely and urged him not to aggravate the tender muscle.  Three more speed demons then passed him but he didn’t mind, having passed at least eight runners who earlier passed him and he would not be surprised if he passed these three too.

     “Howdy, Mayor,” a bluegrass fiddler said as Freer reached the twenty-ninth floor.  “You look like you can run all day.”

     He grinned.  “I may look like it but I’ll be happy just to finish.”

     “You got my vote,” the fiddler replied, swiping his bow above his head.

     At the next flight some high school cheerleaders chanted, “Go, Mayor, go!  Go, Mayor, go!” and he raised a hand in appreciation of their support.

     “You’re looking good,” another marshal encouraged him as he staggered toward the thirty-fourth floor.  “You’re almost done.”

     Spent, he was tempted to walk the remaining flights but knew if he did he would be regarded as a quitter so he pressed on, breathing as hard as he had all morning.

     “Come on, Mayor,” a much younger runner urged, sprinting past him.  “You can do it.”

     “Run as if you’re back on the campaign trail,” another runner suggested.

     With his head wagging from side to side, he finally reached the top of the building, which was packed with other finishers, and swallowed nearly half the bottle of water one of the marshals offered him.  He was so tired he shuffled over to the back of the terrace and just hung his head over the brass railing.  He could not help but smile when he saw all the bare sidewalks which, before his election, resembled a Native American encampment because of all the modern teepees scattered across them.

     Later that evening, just as Freer was about to take a shower, the telephone rang and he saw that it was Marty who probably wanted to know how he was feeling after the tower race.

     “I’m feeling fine, if that’s why you’re calling,” he said before Marty uttered a word.

     “I’m glad to hear that.”

     “So, is that why you called?”

     He didn’t answer him but, instead, asked, “Do you know someone by the name of Tommy Two-Pack?”

     His jaw tightened.

     “Hello, are you still there?”

     “I am.”

     “Do you know this person?”

     “I do.”

     Marty sighed into his phone.  “Just minutes ago, I learned that a story was posted on the internet that a while back you made good on some pretty substantial gambling bets owed to this guy Two-Pack.  That can’t be, can it?”

     “Let’s talk about this in the morning, Marty.”

     “That can’t be.”

     “We’ll talk tomorrow.”

     Suddenly he was short of breath, as if he had just run up some more stairs, and collapsed in the easy chair in his bedroom.  Though the next election was not for another eight months, he was all but certain he would not be re-elected, not after being connected to a bookie.  In all likelihood, his career in politics was finished.

     “What’s going on?” Marty demanded as soon as Freer arrived at City Hall.  “You’re not a gambler, as far as I know.”

     “I’m not.”

     “So, why are you paying off debts to some bookie?”

     Silently he hung up his raincoat in the closet. “Tricia is the gambler, not me, and a while back when we were still seeing one another, she told me she owed this Tommy guy a hefty sum of money so I agreed to pay it off for her.”

     “She has to be the source of this story.”

     “I expect so,” he said glumly.  “She was pretty upset when I broke up with her and sent me some angry texts for a spell but I never dreamed she’d go out of her way to do something that would sabotage my re-election.”

     Marty, leaning against a file cabinet, folded his arms.  “You’re adamant you never made a bet with this bookie?”

     “Never.  I swear.”

     “Then we’ll put out a statement that clarifies your connection to him.”

     “We can, of course, but I doubt if anyone is going to believe it.  People always think the worst of politicians and often for good reason.”

     “We’ll make sure they believe you.”

     “We can try, Marty, but you know, as well as I do, my opponents will not let this story go.  They’ll hang it around my neck like a noose throughout the campaign.”

     “It’s not fair, damn it.”

     “I’m not going to give up.”

     “Neither am I even though I am pretty sure I know what the outcome is likely to be on election night.”

     “I know it’s not but ‘politics ain’t beanbag,’ as Mr. Dooley said long ago.”
    
     Occasionally, during the campaign, Freer would spend a few minutes in his den before retiring for the night and look at the toy soldiers he had arranged in formation at Gettysburg.  In particular, he pictured in his mind Pickett’s Charge, which occurred on the third day of the battle.  Taking a grave risk, thousands of Confederate troops nearly breached the central Union position at Cemetery Ridge.  It was a startling maneuver and might well have succeeded if Union reinforcements had not arrived to repel it.  Repeatedly he attempted to launch some unexpected attack against his opponents with the help of Kyle, who was in charge of opposition research.  Right away, Kyle discovered that two candidates were delinquent in their alimony payments and another twice was penalized for failing to pay his property tax on time.  This candidate also was once arrested for driving under the influence of alcohol and had his license suspended for six months.  Kyle also found a photograph on the internet of another candidate watching someone burn an American Flag.  None of these revelations resonated with the voters, however, and Freer continued to lose support and, as a result, failed in his bid for re-election.  It was close, less than half a percentage point separated him from his nearest challenger, but that was small consolation.  He lost the best job he ever had and likely would ever have.

     “Some more coffee?” Darlene asked.

     “No. I’m fine, thanks.”

     “The election going about the way you figured it would?”

     “Pretty much.”

     She hesitated beside his table.  “You ever think you might throw your hat in the ring again?”

     “Oh, I’ve thought about it, all right, but I had my opportunity and I don’t think anything would be different from the last time I ran.”

     “You never know.”

     He smiled.  “I don’t want to be one of those perennial candidates who enter races they know full well they’ll never win.”

     “You’d have my vote.”

     “I appreciate that, Darlene,” he said, fingering the loop of his familiar bow tie.

     A few minutes later, just as he started to leave the diner, a loud explosion went off, followed by three less powerful explosions.  He looked at his watch.  The polls had closed less than an hour ago and already some candidate was told he had won.  Soon there would be many more explosions and, as quickly as he could, he headed to his car, not wanting to hear them, not wanting to know others had prevailed when he couldn’t, however hard he tried.

T.R. Healy was born and raised in the Pacific Northwest and recent stories of his have appeared in Cantos, Loch Raven, and Penmen Review.