The summer sun sailed high in the haze, and as I got out of the Ford in
Leaside, a jungle-humid breeze began to melt me to sticky ice cream. Jimmy C
was already halfway across the softened asphalt lot, taking long-legged
steps and waving for me to follow. I did, but my feet moved with reluctance.
Excitement over small things didn't move me as it did him.
Experience in politics and a weak heart made enthusiasm something the fates
couldn't deliver. My instincts were telling me things would go wrong, and as
usual, I turned out to be right.
At the corner, I stopped to pat my brow with a handkerchief. Looking at
Jimmy, I asked him if the new office had air conditioning.
“Yeah, it does, Roger,” he said. “I made sure of that. The place is a dump,
all right, but that's all you wanted. It has a back entrance that’s hard to
find. You'll be able to get in and out without being hassled.”
“Best of all, it's in Leaside,” I said. “I need an office in the riding,
even if I rarely use it. I'm tired of the papers pointing out that I don't
live on my home political turf.”
“A lot of people don't like parachute candidates. It's only natural that
they feel an outsider wouldn't be as good as their provincial member of
parliament.”
“I'm not an outsider. I lived in Leaside all my life, and then the fewer
politicians committee redrew the boundaries and put my house and office
outside of the riding.”
“Why didn't you oppose the change? You had the time.”
“It was a mistake. I wasn't paying attention because it was part of our
re-election strategy. We agreed to reduce the number of politicians. Here in
Leaside, we managed to dump the gay, tenant, and public housing area over
onto liberal turf, and I got more homeowners. It put two thousand more core
Conservative votes in my pocket, and it did work. Now I'm re-elected, but I
don't live in my home riding as the changes put me outside it by one street.
I missed that detail. Worst part of it is that all elected politicians in my
new neighborhood are damn liberals, and the Toronto Star says I didn't have
the courage to run against any of them.”
“I hate liberals, too,” Jimmy C said, a pissed look souring his long horsy
face. Then we walked around the corner and found ourselves right in the
middle of a crowd of liberal protesters.
They were screaming my name and something about schools and hospitals we
planned to close and the banks of slot machines I’d put in at the community
center. Jimmy threw out his long arms to hold them back, but a frizzed-out
woman knocked him in the balls, and as he went down, a junkie intellectual
type wearing a marijuana leaf T-shirt burst through and bopped me on the
crown with a cardboard picket sign.
My vision started to spin, and my ears rang like a phone. I could see the
sun and this huge burger joint sign ballooning in the haze as I staggered
back. Car horns blared. I stepped off the curb, and my heart suddenly felt
like it was going to pop. I went down on one knee. Pouring sweat blinded me,
and I saw the angry face of this pretty, young blond girl as she spat right
on my new white shirt.
At that point, I did something crazy. I stood up and started to run, right
to the center of the street and through the honking traffic. I got off the
road at the corner and stumbled into the parking lot. Looking back, I saw
about twenty people pursuing me, but I managed to keep ahead. At the car, I
jumped in and locked the doors.
A squabble developed between Jimmy C and the protesters, but I couldn't even
look. Heat and waves of dizziness were on me as my heart provided the scene
with a hip-hop beat. It was all I could do to keep from vomiting, so I
grimaced and hung on until Jimmy C settled things and got back to the car.
Jimmy C slammed the door. He tossed back his mop of hair and cleared his
throat as he got the air conditioning started. “Thought I wasn't going to
get away alive,” he said. “I had to make a couple of promises for you.”
“Promises. What promises?”
“Just that you’ll pull those slot machines out of the community center and
do some work on their behalf on a couple of those other issues.”
“Yeah, and I suppose they call that democracy. Shouting, spitting, bullying,
and assaulting elected representatives.”
“I don't know if it's democracy. Maybe if they voted to string us up at City
Hall, someone would say it was democracy. And why is everyone hollering
about democracy? That's what they were shouting at me – it wasn't democracy
when you just put those slot machines in there without consulting the
public.”
“We have a majority government, Jimmy. And we are forging ahead to tear down
inefficient societal organisms and restructure our way to a better Ontario.
Consulting the public is just a way for special interest groups to get in
the door and run things. There's a broad silent majority out there
supporting our work.”
“Maybe so, but I prefer people who show support and say thanks over those
who remain silent. Those special interest protesters may be idiots, but
they're smart enough to know that if they're out there and in your hair all
the time, they'll at least get some of what they want.”
--------
In the early afternoon, I stepped out into the yard and almost immediately
began choking on smog. The sun glared down, and I felt somewhat helpless
like a chicken under an oven light. Often during such moments of weakness, I
wished I hadn’t voted against smog controls.
To escape the roar and exhaust, I strolled around back and sat by the pool
in the shade of an oak. Patches of algae, gold slime, and fallen leaves
floated on the water. It'd gotten so swampy I saw a frog hopping near the
edge.
The pool, a gift from a grateful developer, went unused now that the kids
were gone. Staring at the greening soup, I sipped gin and contemplated my
family situation. Maggie, my wife, had gone to her fitness club. That was
her official word, but I suspected her of meeting with a boyfriend. She
would probably never see to cleaning the pool. That had been my son Danny's
job. He used to dip in it every day up until a month ago, when I disowned
him. I had thought him a model child, then his grades dropped to Cs, and he
got filmed smoking pot with a socialist city councilor at a gay nude beach.
By the horrifying standards of the media, it was okay to smoke pot in the
nude with socialist fags. The issue that put Danny on the City TV six
o'clock news was a fight. He’d socked another guy in a nude scuffle. Since
he was in Grade 12 and I was promoting a zero-tolerance policy toward youth
violence, they seized on it and used it to embarrass me politically.
I disowned him when he refused the treatment offered by the local parent
council. Ostensibly, it was over the violence. In reality, I'd wept then
when I found out my kid had been fraternizing with socialist fags. It also
shook my faith in zero tolerance. At least in fighting, he'd shown signs of
being a man, and our society wanted that discouraged. Nowadays fags are
behind the scenes running special interest groups and pulling the strings
everywhere - politicians can't fight them, instead they have to march with
them in the yearly pride parade.
So Danny left, and we still had Mary, but that only lasted for two weeks.
The media struck again, and she appeared in a community newspaper,
confessing to having lost her virginity in a barn while returning on a bus
from a Conservative youth convention. I kicked her out for that. She moved
into an apartment, and when she came to my office as a tenant
representative, I kicked her out again. It wasn't just because she'd damaged
her reputation and the Party. As an individual, I've never liked sex, and it
bothers me to have that scandal hanging over me.
Slumping in my chair, I sighed and let my head hang. I looked down at my
crotch and the bulge made by my limp dick. Lack of a sex life probably aided
my weak heart greatly, and overall the flaccid organ was my secret weapon.
Male politicians went down in sexy scandals all the time, and I was immune.
The old limp dick was worth more than its weight in gold.
I decided that "limp," rewritten as "lame," would probably describe my life
in general. I had no family life left, and my backyard now belonged to pond
scum, weeds, and Sylvester, my wife's twenty-pound cat. Grimacing, I watched
him prowl near the fence, figuring I hated him as much as I hated my kids.
He got fat because I tried to kill him by overfeeding him. When Maggie
brought Sylvester in as a kitten, I gave him mashed potatoes, gravy, and
stuff straight from the garbage grinder. But Sylvester never got sick. He
just got bigger, fatter, and hungrier. He was a politician of cats. Now he
could grunt like a pig, and even big dogs backed away from him.
--------
In mid-afternoon, Jimmy C’s silver Ford rolled up the driveway. I was
sitting there, sweating teardrops and feeling a sense of loss. He waved, and
I got in the car, not even bothering to ask him where we were going. Jimmy C
rocked his head to an old pop song playing on the radio and took the scenic
route through Leaside. That consisted of one central boulevard before he
swerved into scare a street kid and then turned down Leaside Court, where
the view changed to a snakes-and-ladders jumble of ramps and freeways
feeding industrial parks. In this central part of Leaside you had the
feeling of continually driving past the same dull block. No sense of
community, just far-flung squares of Frankenstein-big factories, apartment
buildings, and out-of-the-way condos.
The car swung right as we reached the sprawling Nestle Foods complex, then
we cruised down Dun Street. We passed a stinky cereal mill and headed into
the block's residential section. Massive high-rises towered like
fortifications over narrow concrete streets. We saw a few pedestrians on
canopied front yards, some half-naked kids playing baseball in the street,
and not much else.
I didn't care for this sort of neighborhood or any community that was mostly
made up of tenants. A pang of regret hit me in the old weak ticker. Leaside
could've been something a lot better than huge industrial islands isolated
by freeways. And it would've been better if a dishonest politician hadn't
supported so much bad planning. Being that dishonest politician made it even
more painful.
A sprinkling of small, cottage-style houses appeared, bringing me some
comfort. I sat back and looked around a bit, and then I began to wonder
where we were going. Half of the time, I didn't know where we would be from
one day to the next. The other half of the time, I didn't even know where we
were or who we were addressing. Politics and gin do that to you.
“By the way,” I said to Jimmy C. “Why are we visiting Nestle? Is this a
fundraising event?”
“Nope. We're driving through to Slumberdale for a look at your new riding
office.”
“Oh no. Not again. I thought we gave up on a riding office. My heart's gonna
fail if I have to wrestle with any more protesters.”
“There won't be any trouble. That's why I picked this isolated Slumberdale
location. It's a new part of the riding. On the boundary, redraw those
tenants back there got dumped onto the liberals, and you picked up
Slumberdale.”
“I get it. Our service cuts haven't wounded anyone in Slumberdale, so we can
count on the residents to be supportive.”
“Not exactly. You'll get it when we pass the barrier,” he said. And after
that, we crested a pine hill and rolled down to a stop at a roadblock. A
high gate and electric fence covered the road, and the ditches and the main
sign said - SLUMBERDALE - Access by City of Toronto Vehicles Only.
Jimmy C used a pointing device similar to a TV control, aiming it at a
receiver mounted high on the empty guard post. He pressed the button, and
the gate for our lane swung slowly inward, revealing a steamy gravel road
beyond. I remained silent and open-mouthed as he eased the vehicle through.
He drove slowly down the road into an odd sort of nature area.
Thistle-filled ditches and brush nearly choked the lanes in many spots. The
mixed forest was dense and laden with deadwood and other debris.
We were headed down a slight incline, the view ahead completely hazed out by
a lake of smog. Higher up, freeways surrounded the area like twisted
fencing. After about a quarter kilometer, the road dipped sharply, we cut
through the smog, and I got a clear view of Slumberdale.
It existed in a depression, and because the freeway and industrial pollution
from the whole of Leaside drifted over the place, it would nearly always be
hidden from view. The sunlight filtered through in a slightly off-color
fashion. It didn't lack power, and at first, I thought some of the roofs
were melting from its heat. Then I gained better focus and realized the
whole place was drooping and melting. It was a tiny ghost suburb, composed
of blocks of housing dating to about the late sixties. All of it was in such
visibly bad shape that only a bulldozer could make any repairs. Roofs sagged
like a huge web across a jungle of weeds, mounds, brush, and maples. Even
the streets were overgrown, the road we were on being the only visible track
into the place. Needless to say, there wasn't any traffic below regarding
vehicles and pedestrians.
As a kid, I'd played in a condemned house we'd thought to be haunted. Some
of the spooked feeling from that childhood memory returned, and then grew
with incredible power. This place looked as hexed as any town could be. To
the extent that the feeling got under my skin, and I felt partly unreal.
Slumberdale had been slumbering for at least thirty-five years. It seemed
impossible and even more impossible that I'd been unaware of it, so I turned
to Jimmy C and said, “Okay, you've had your fun. So how about telling me why
we're here and what in the hell this place is?”
“What, you've never heard of Slumberdale? I thought all politicians knew of
it.”
“I'm a local politician, Jimmy. I've barely looked over the neighborhood
fence in twenty years. And this damn place wasn't in my riding before. So
why is it now, and why am I moving my office here?”
“Calm down, Roger. Let me fill you in. Slumberdale was slated for demolition
during the freeway/industrial invasion of Leaside. The local residents
resisted, just as residents in the rest of Leaside did. As you may recall,
they lost all of those fights, and in Slumberdale, they were eventually
forced out. Everyone except one wealthy lawyer named Tom James. He's
ninety-five years old now, and he's held the city and developers at bay for
thirty-five years. Right now, he's in the hospital with a terminal illness,
so my plan is to kill two birds with one stone. I already had a place put
together here in your name. Now I've added the riding office to it. You are
in Leaside, where government services such as mail delivery and ambulance
services are provided. Protesters would likely never be able to find the
address, since only one back road from Nestle leads here. Here you can do
your business undisturbed. And when the old geezer croaks, it will come to
light that not only are you the elected representative here, but as the only
living member of the registered Slumberdale Residents Association, you will
hold incredible power as to what is to be done in redeveloping this land.”
I'd been rising in my seat as Jimmy C finished, and I don't know whether it
was wings of optimism or wings of the spooks, but I clapped him on the back
and grinned so broadly I thought my face was going to be permanently
disordered. “Jeeze, you're a genius, Jimmy C. We're going to be rich, rich,
rich! And not only that. I'll be able to work in peace. It's only two weeks
until the legislature reopens, and I've got to come up with the bones of a
public relations advertising package. So I'll be in the new office most of
the time.”
“Public relations ad package. What's that about?”
“As you know, we spent half a billion dollars of public money boosting
ourselves before the last election. The trick is to use the public
information budget to cover it up. We create new, cheap public service ads
and bill them for the money we stole. It's top-secret work, of course. We
can't have protesters or the media breaking into my office and discovering
it.”
“Certainly not. And we have security out here where no one can find you.
You'll do a good job. I'll be available around the clock while you're
working. Anything you want ferried in or any research you need, just call
and I'll get it.”
The steep road into the Slumberdale residential area was new asphalt, and
though it was smooth as glass, the houses we passed were rotted shells. The
paint had bleached right off most walls. Mold stains, fungus, and curtains
of vine shrouded house fronts. They rose out of the weeds like the sagging
upper decks of sea-battered ships. One mansion with southern columns
propping up its wilted porch fit the description of a vintage haunted house.
Cracked, darkened, and cobwebby windows appeared everywhere like portholes
into the ghostly unknown. There were also some areas where the houses had
collapsed completely. In these lots, sunbeams formed spotlights in dust and
mist as they swept over the weed-covered mounds of tick-eaten wood that
remained.
Raccoons were out like masked hoodlums even though it was daytime; many of
them perched on cheese-holed roofs. Squirrels dashed madly through the dense
foliage and wildflowers. Crickets sang, and flocks of sparrows had a
bat-like appearance as they flitted in high smog. Jimmy C whistled a
haunting tune like he was trying to get under my skin. I felt like telling
him to end it and would've if the assault on my senses hadn't been so
intense. I was so amazed and dumbfounded that I couldn't speak.
Our destination was only two blocks away, yet it seemed like a kilometer.
Jimmy C pulled in at a neat, canopied parking space. The open town square
held a clutch of civic buildings. These were still maintained by the city's
public works department and were old stone structures designed to stand the
test of time. The central structures were the post office and village hall -
stately columnar affairs that would fit nicely in an old movie.
To the right of the post office, in all gaudy glory, I saw my riding office.
A huge remake of one of my re-election signs decorated the front, and a
celebratory welcome banner fluttered in the breeze above it. My face stared
down from a poster - suave and smiling easily, neatly trimmed with features
slightly aged and reddened like good wine. My blue eyes were sparkling with
sincerity and vision as my forehead folded in mildly serious lines. It was a
poster that looked great and totally out of place in this ghost town.
“You'll be feeling at home in no time,” Jimmy C said as we got out. But I
doubted that. A sort of reverse déjà vu was in the air, and it gained
strength as we strolled across the neatly swept square. I was certain that
I'd never been to Slumberdale before and shouldn't have come. The idea of
eventually working on its redevelopment should've seemed exciting. I didn't
look forward to it at all.
My riding office was on the second floor, the first level being an open
public lobby with a broad polished stone floor. It was lonely, furnished
with an atmosphere of emptiness and echoes. Wide stairs took us up to the
office and its solid oak door. Jimmy C fumbled in his pockets, looking for
the key, and when he opened up, we got a fresh blast from a nicely
air-conditioned room.
It was impressive in a functional way, with a large, grainy desk, two
networked computers, and seating for visitors. A small window at the front
allowed me a view of the square, and a rear door led to a private room with
a kitchenette, bookshelves, couches, and a blurred view of the town's
shockingly deteriorated back alleys.
In the back room, I unpacked the two briefcases we'd brought out. Jimmy C
pulled some gin from the fridge, then we went back into the office, and I
sat at my desk and leaned back.
He gulped his drink as he stared out nervously at the sunny square.
“Something you don't like out there?” I said.
“It's always spooky here,” he said. “Workers come in about once a week to
keep this square maintained. Other than that, we're alone out here.”
“Good. Say, is that computer connected to the Internet?'
“Yes, and the phone lines work. I had them put it in. Cell phone connection
is spotty here. No towers. Use the landlines if you have to.”
“Okay. I can start work right now. I’ll download some files and start
working on brochures. Maybe make some calls and get some confidential quotes
on prices for a long series of commercials for the Premier. You can pick me
up at about eight. I'll give you a call. If you ring me, try my cell phone
number first. I don't trust the lines to this office phone.”
“Sure, no sweat,” Jimmy said. Then he finished his drink and left.
I leaned back and stared into the cool space until I heard him driving away,
then my attention went to my desk, and I noticed a letter in the inbox.
“Office mail service, too,” I thought. “I'm really beginning to like
Slumberdale.”
The somewhat scuffed manila envelope was addressed to “Our Member of
Provincial Parliament.” I opened it with a brass letter opener and examined
a wad of thick sheets. Ornate handwriting covered a form of parchment, and a
closer inspection revealed that it wasn't genuine parchment but ordinary
paper so aged as to be yellowed and crumbling at the edges. The last page
had an impressive collection of signatures. About one hundred in all, and
they were listed as the members of the Slumberdale Residents' Association.
I raised my eyebrows when I saw that and gathered it to be one of those dead
letters - the sort that the post by mistake delivers twenty years late. To
verify, I checked the date and felt a postman walking over my grave when I
found it was recent.
My eyes strained with interest, I chewed on my lip, and read the letter.
Dear Roger,
Greetings from the citizens of Slumberdale.
As the newly appointed head of the Slumberdale Residents' Association (SRA),
you are likely awaiting our guidance on many important matters.
We expect reconstruction to occur soon, and in this matter, certain
long-standing agreements must be followed. There are items regarding bylaws
and road construction, and certain historical sites, seventy in all, must be
fully refurbished by our local and provincial governments.
You will find the full details of our plan in the SRA files at the
Slumberdale Library. The residents have voted on all these matters, and we
are confident that, as our representative, you will follow the plan to the
letter.
Sincerely yours,
Samuel Thorold James
Secretary for the SRA
Swallowing the last of my gin in a big gulp, I wondered whether to tear the
letter up or hold onto it. I tossed it in the top drawer, thinking that it
had to be a joke, probably one of Jimmy C's pranks. But I still felt
spooked, as the letter seemed real. It was exactly the sort of thing one of
those Residents' Associations would send to a politician - a plan that
details their special interests, with the expectation that an honest
representative would be dishonest and follow it to the letter at tremendous
cost to the taxpayer. Sad, deluded people, always thinking they had the
right to vote things through when the real world didn't work like that at
all. Corporations and lobbyists hold the lion's share of power in society,
as they are always at work like a marching army, using their clout to put
government in their hands. Since they have the money and the power over
representatives who need it, power is theirs by default.
As I pushed my chair back, my frown conveyed serious contempt, then I felt
my hair begin to rise and stiffen. What was I thinking about, calling them
sad and deluded people? There weren't any people in Slumberdale, unless they
were ghosts. “Naw, there isn’t such a thing as a spook,” I muttered. Getting
up I went over to power up the computer. Then, while I waited for it to
boot, I saw a strange person walking out in the square. He was a tall, bony
man. His ragged suit was too tight, and he wore a clerical collar. His
battered black hat was pulled down over his eyes, shielding his face from
the sun. “Perhaps that’s Samuel Thorold James,” I thought as he slowly went
up the steps to the library.
At the top of the steps, the man simply vanished in the shadows, hooding the
door. I stared for a moment longer, and when he didn't reappear, my hand
went to my chest. My heart seemed all right, but I was certain it wasn't.
Heart flutters had caused me mild hallucinations before, and now it was
happening in the worst possible situation. Usually, it passed after a few
minutes, and I prayed it would this time. This sort of confusion in
Slumberdale would probably lead to real problems.
Working at the computer, I connected to the Internet and began downloading
photo sets of our elected members. I did a little copywriting, but while I
worked, I was irritatingly aware of the window lurking there at the corner
of my eye. This assigned task of covering for money we’d illegally spent and
getting the party ready for the next election was already starting to bother
me, but I was stuck with it, as I wouldn't trust anyone else with the job.
After all, the people who did the work last time were some of the same ones
who snuggled up to the Liberals, gave me Slumberdale, and put my house out
of the riding.
Using the business calendar, I put together a long-term tentative release
schedule for the material, and this figuring with dates tied my head in a
knot. My glance kept straying to the window. It shone - a bright white
square, sort of like a window in a bizarre painting. I was tempted to stand
up and look outside, yet had a strange fear that, like a surreal image, the
window would open onto some fantastic and impossible view.
Finally, I'd had enough, and stood up, walked over, and rested my elbows on
the sill. Everything appeared unchanged at first, then I saw a
three-hundred-pound whale of a woman wearing a dress like a burlap sack. She
carried some sort of picket sign at the front of the town hall. The letters
on it were so faded I couldn't read them. Her flowered hat and shadows
covered her face. She paraded out front of the hall for a couple of minutes,
then she walked over to the library and disappeared into the shadows there.
I took a deep breath and felt the hair on my arms bristle and crawl. Were
they hallucinations or not? If they were, my doctor would want to know. A
walk over to the library would bring out the truth. I could also check the
documents the Slumberdale Residents' Association was supposed to have on
file and get a clue about who was behind the letter hoax. Perhaps that
terminally ill lawyer, Tom James, that Jimmy C had mentioned, still had a
few tricks up his sleeve. He could easily be well enough to write letters.
I went down the stairs, my heels clacked as I crossed the empty concourse.
Birds were singing out in the square, but that didn't kill the spooky
effect. The tangle of foliage and trees surrounding the area gave it a
movie-set feeling, like it wasn't quite real and I was playing a simple part
that had been scripted long ago.
The Slumberdale library was a much older municipal structure. A slightly
tilted turret tower crowned its southern wing, and I assumed it had once
been a reading room. The stone front had been neatly blasted clean, and the
bushes trimmed by the city staff that maintained this square.
Despite the facade's clean appearance, I could see foliage rising like the
Amazon Rainforest over the rear sections. No one lingered on the front steps
or in the shadows, and one door was unbolted and ajar. I touched the handle,
and it swung open on oiled hinges, revealing an interior much like my
office. The ground floor had been left completely empty; only here was the
floor ancient hardwood.
The library lacked an elevator, but a rickety set of stairs led up to the
second floor and the reading tower. The banisters were sturdy and newly
varnished, but the steps creaked wickedly, like heavy boards worn in place
by decades of local footsteps.
At the top, I turned left apprehensively and found myself in the stacks.
Yellowed light filtered in through windows that were so grimy they were like
a stained glass version of parchment. The reading area appeared empty, but
it was so dim I couldn't be sure. As I stepped closer, a thousand-legged bug
skittered by on the spines, and I struck out at it, causing a cloud of dust
to rise. Choking, I got to a circular table and leaned heavily on it. My
heart was pounding now, and sweat beaded on my forehead.
Further exploration revealed a lot of interesting stuff, but no patrons. I
did find the files for the Slumberdale Residents' Association, and the last
one detailed plans for preserving historical sites, as mentioned in the
letter. This copy was twenty-six years old. Dusting it off, I looked inside
it for a clue of some sort, but found none. As I turned back for the stairs,
I caught sight of another set of stairs leading up to the tower. These were
covered with rotting red carpeting but seemed secure. Allowing curiosity to
get the better of me, I went up, testing my weight on each stair before
rising fully to it. At the top, I found an open room with a few shelves. A
large round table was at the center.
After dropping the thick Residents' Association file on the dusty table, I
walked over to the windows. They covered the full circle around the tower,
and I was sure they would give a much better view of Slumberdale. Sunlight
glowed on glass glazed by smog and cobwebs. I couldn't see a thing through
them, so I grabbed a portion of a linen curtain and used it to wipe a
partially clean rectangle on the pane. That gave me a view of the square and
a person walking below. This time, it was a stout elderly woman wearing a
print dress. She carried a bouquet of completely dead flowers and walked in
bright sunlight with a small blanket over her face. She disappeared in the
mist as she approached the library, and she appeared to have been heading
toward the side alley leading to the back.
My face flushed as the sunlight got to me. I wondered if there were people
walking about in the collapsed portions of town, so I walked across the room
and began cleaning another window. I was partway done when I noticed it had
a handle. Rust fell as I turned it, and it opened inward. Breeze rushed in,
lifted the curtains, and filled the room with a sweet odor of flowers and
decay. Looking out, I saw a few moldy roofs showing through the canopy of
maples. One house almost directly below me had some clear yard areas. I
could see a bur-patch backyard and a pudgy kid pushing a wobbly cart full of
broken toys through it. He wore an oversized Maple Leafs sweatshirt, and his
baseball cap was pulled down over his face. I couldn't be sure of his age,
but he was likely twelve or thereabouts. He disappeared into the shadows
near some trees.
“Why do these damn people cover their faces with hats and stuff?” I thought
as I looked over the rest of the neighborhood. “And where do they go when
they disappear?” No immediate answer came to me. Details of the view
consumed me. Battered roofs and porches presented an aged and forlorn face.
Vague apparitions moved in the shadows. Old rusted-out cars and drums poked
out of the leaves here and there. A cloud of white moths fluttered over one
shady house. Sewer culverts protruded from broken ground. Balconies seemed
to serve as containers for the abundance of wildflowers, and some houses had
eaves and shingles overgrown with toadstools, like a crust or pizza topping.
There were no other open streets, but former roads were clearly delineated
as wide lines of bee-infested scrub and weeds. This was a case of the wild
in the last stages of gobbling up a village. It's mould, vines, weeds, and
scrub growing and pulling down buildings with the power of weather, roots,
and rot.
Instead of aiding my recovery, the breeze had a power of intoxication. I had
a vague and paranoid fear that deadly spores from the rot were in the air
and entering my bloodstream. Heading back to the table, I paused to wipe the
sweat from my brow, and then a power of exhaustion forced me to sit. With
the heat continually baking me, the dizziness was impossible to shake, and
in the end, it forced me to dust off a portion of the table and rest my head
on the book.
I fell into restless sleep there in the tower and experienced a period of
strange dreams. Most of them were haunted visions of Slumberdale and its
faceless residents. It rained hats and dogs, and then in the final dream, I
was my old self and out campaigning in the Slumberdale square. The place had
become like the rest of Leaside with a good portion of hecklers and
protesters working to interrupt my public message. Turning up my microphone,
I launched into some of my best rhetoric. Concluding with the lines. “I've
always been here to represent the silent majority and not special interest
groups and loudmouths. I promise you all that I will build Slumberdale for
the majority, and not for people who think the government owes it to them to
fund their greed and nutty projects.”
At that point, I paused to study the faces in the crowd to see if my words
were hitting home. But none of the people had faces. Not ones you could see.
They all had their hats pulled down to hide their features in the usual
Slumberdale fashion.
I couldn't continue my speech when I couldn't gauge a reaction, and it
disturbed me so much that I woke up.
Violet hues of twilight tinted the windows, and the breeze had cooled and
freshened. Dizziness had not only passed, but I felt invigorated by the
dream. Attacking special interest groups always gave me a rush of power. And
it had stuck in my mind so solidly that I stood up and finished my speech.
Walking toward the windows, I hurled invective out at the descending
twilight, nearly shouting at the invisible residents. “Special interests in
Slumberdale, your day has come and gone! This is Leaside now, and the power
of the silent majority rules! So kiss those historical sites goodbye, and
kiss my royal ass, too!”
Reaching the window, I had my arms spread wide in victorious conclusion. The
square was visible below, and in the eerie light, I could see the entire
ghostly population of Slumberdale. They had those faded picket signs that I
couldn’t read, and as they looked up at me, they removed their hats and
showed their faces.
All of them were skulls, hung with rotting hair, skin, and fangs. Maggots
and burning red oozed from their eye sockets, and as their mouths opened, a
vile form of black blood leaked and dribbled. I saw them hiss collectively
and release mist through their nostrils - tendrils of ghostly white that
gathered and merged as I stared.
This unearthly mass grew in size and began to rise toward me. Somehow, I
knew I would choke to death on this mist, and that caused me to release a
terrified scream and duck back from the window. My spine hit the table, and
I stood there shaking. A moment later, my cellphone rang, and I heard Jimmy
C's voice.
“Big trouble, Roger. They're after you - a huge, nasty gang of them.”
“I know!” I shouted. “It's the silent dead majority! The ugliest special
interest group of all is coming for me!”
“What?” Jimmy C said as I panted. “It's not the silent dead majority. It's
the living majority of your neighbors. They've surrounded your house, and
your son and daughter are the agitators. We want you to stay there in
Slumberdale until the protest blows over. I'll drive out and get you in the
morning.”
“No!” I shouted desperately. “You've got to help me now! I can't stay here!”
Then a burst of fuzz hit the connection, and it went dead. The cell phone
dropped from my hand to the table as new waves of terror and confusion shook
me. I could see mist gathering like a dark sponge at the window, blotting
out the twilight. As it shifted, forming bright lines and patches, a face of
death appeared on the panes. Hideous and huge, this thing was some sort of
ghastly apparition, yet it had substance enough to seethe wetly against the
glass, causing droplets the color of blood to run in the dust.
I felt so tiny that being face-to-face with a tornado would have been less
frightening. Yet there was no danger of a heart attack as my blood had
simply frozen in my veins. When it did begin to flow again, it had slowed
like molasses.
It took all of my willpower to shake off the paralysis and move my arm.
Clenching my fist, I pounded it down on the table, and at that moment, I
came unstuck. The looming phantom seemed about to strike through the
gore-smeared pane as I staggered back. Certain that it had the power to
break through the glass, I ran to the door, out, and down the stairs. Once
in the stacks, I hurried down an aisle toward the other set of stairs.
Sudden cacophony echoing up brought me to a halt. I grabbed the banister to
keep from tumbling. Something crashed behind me. Turning, I saw a bookshelf
splitting open - rotted parchment and dust spilling out in a tremendous
cloud. Beetles of some sort formed black specks in the cloud and heavy
objects thumped on the carpet.
One of them rolled over and came to rest at my feet. Dust smoked over me,
but I could see well enough to tell it was a skull.
Nearly dancing to get away from it, I went over the edge of the stairs.
Slipping, I went down a few steps. Then, from my knees, I saw the
Slumberdale crowd gathered below. Ghastly grins showed on burning skull
faces, eyes with deep anger and vengeance, fingers of bone rising to claw my
flesh.
Terror and hot blood shot into my brain. I collapsed, fell forward, and
blacked out completely.
--------
Jimmy C found me in the morning. I was spread out and snoring at the bottom
of the library stairs. The crumbling book was in my hands, and except for a
few bruises and a very sore neck, I was okay.
My throat was so dry I could barely speak, but that didn't matter because
what I said didn't make much sense. Rising and leaning on him, I stumbled to
the car, and we drove out of Slumberdale.
He had a bottle of gin in the hidden bar, so I poured a glass and nursed it.
I told him I'd had a medical lapse and didn't want anyone to know about it.
He nodded and took me to his apartment. I cleaned up before heading home.
“We still have protesters and the press out front of your house,” Jimmy C
said. “I spoke firmly with the police, demanding that they be removed, but I
can't get them to do anything. And that's not all. Tom James, the old
Slumberdale lawyer, passed away last night. It has come to light that you
have a controlling interest in Slumberdale. The press sees a major
corruption scandal in this. They're going to crucify you.”
“It's not a problem,” I said. “Don't bother trying to get in the back way. I
know how to handle this situation.”
“What? You must be kidding. If I drive up at the front, we'll be mobbed, and
you'll likely be torn apart.”
“Stop worrying and just do it.”
Jimmy C fell silent, but I could tell by his frown that he thought I was
crazy. In spite of that, he obeyed, and we drove slowly up the smoggy road
into a hostile mob of local residents and reporters.
Some of them bashed picket signs on the car while others ran forward
shouting. My son was up on the lawn addressing the mob through a bullhorn.
He had them block us totally, so Jimmy stopped there in the middle of the
street and walked around to help me out.
People screamed wildly and clawed at him, but he made it to my door. Then,
the police and the press forced their way in, and within moments, TV cameras
were on me.
I told them I wouldn’t speak unless they would amplify my voice so the
entire crowd of protesters could hear me. Police moved in to guard me for a
few long and chaotic minutes, and then I began to take questions. So many
reporters were shouting at me that I again held back and refused to answer.
They managed to get organized, and City TV came in with the first question.
“Roger, reliable sources have informed us that you're planning to turn
Slumberdale into a developer-run casino and red light district? Who are the
developers backing this project, and why is it being brought in secretly
through the back door?”
Putting on my best look of indignation, I faced the cameras and protesters
and said, “I don't know where you get your information, but it’s wrong.
Slumberdale will not be a den of prostitution, gambling, and organized
crime.”
“No gambling?” the stunned reporter said. “Do you really expect us to
believe that?”
I prepared to answer, and then I saw a ghost rising toward me in the smog.
Only then did I realize what I’d been saying and was about to say. The mist
flowed into my nostrils, and I noticed that my heart had stopped, but in
some strange way, my blood was flowing. Words came to my mouth like magic
and I answered the question. “I don’t expect you to believe me, but over
time you’ll see. There won’t be any corruption in the redevelopment of
Slumberdale. The detailed report I have in my hand is a plan to refurbish
seventy historical sites in the town. There will also be a sports center, a
community center, and several acres of green parkland for the people of
Leaside. The entire area will be zoned to keep out heavy industry, freeways,
and polluters, and my daughter will be pleased to hear that tenant housing
will be included in the new residential mix.”
The reporters and the crowd fell completely silent and stared. My voice had
come over the speakers with force and had left everyone so stunned they were
at a loss for words.
A few hecklers started to shout. I saw reporters from the Toronto Star
hurrying over for their turn at me. Up in the sky, the sun floated in
ghostly haze, and at that moment, I felt the power descending … the ghostly
power of Slumberdale and its people, filling me and turning me into their
politician. Though I had no heart left, I felt a change of heart as waves of
compassion swept through me.
I spoke before the reporters could question me, and the crowd fell silent
and listened. “Yes, I have a long history, and most of it is spotty. But
this time I’ve had a change of heart. When I entered politics, my main
concern was addressing those who felt overly entitled and wasted city funds.
Somewhere along the way, I became worse than my enemies, and it put me at
odds with many people, including my son, wife, and daughter. Today I want to
announce that I intend to reconcile with my family, and start doing the good
civic things people elected me to do.”
I smiled broadly at the sea of people. Even the hecklers were silenced. Then
I lifted my arms in victory. In the distant smog on the horizon, I saw a
friendlier ghost rising, and then I caught a glimpse of a new Leaside
neighborhood and its residents cheering.
------ The End ------
