Copyright 2001 by Morris Rosenthal
Eric showed an hour early for the 9:00 AM meeting at the Green Valley building on Sunshine Alley, a narrow downtown side street with populated with the regional offices of all the major environmental organizations, plus a few that nobody had ever heard of. He was hoping that Brian was still an early starter, and he was in luck. Brian had already had a macrobiotic breakfast with his current Swede, Elke, so he jumped at the prospect of going to a greasy spoon. They ended up at a diner, where Eric ordered scrambled eggs, and Brian had the Breakfast Combo, fried eggs with bacon, sausage and home fries.
"You know," Brian said between tasty mouthfuls of bacon fat washed down with coffee, "I've been thinking about extremists with bombs a lot lately. Did you ever worry about getting blown up?"
Eric raised his head and looked up and down the counter to see if anyone was within earshot. There were a couple truckers three stools to his left, but they looked too hung over to pay attention to anything except their coffee. The waitress was at the far end of the counter, chatting with one of the regulars and waiting for the cook to put up the next order. Unless there was a microphone in the one pound sugar dispenser, they should be O.K.
"Don't tell me your new girlfriend is making bombs in your apartment."
"No, no, no. The women I go out with are pretty non-violent. When they take their chains and going out looking for action, they don't swing them at people, they lock themselves to fences and get arrested. Then Mr. Capitalist has got to go a grand for bail."
"That much?" Eric asked, surprised, "I thought the they always went light on activists, fifty, a hundred bucks, maybe."
"Most states do it on a schedule. Fifty or a hundred for residents, couple hundred for out of state, a grand or more for foreigners. Sometimes I get stuck bailing their friends out too." He stopped pushing the home fries around his plate and grimaced, "You remember Ingrid Two, from the first year you came back here?"
"Blonde hair, blue eyes, killer bod?"
"That's the one."
"No, I don't remember her. That's what all your women look like."
"Yeah, well, after she caught me eating a hot dog from a street vendor, she took off."
"So? That must've happened to you a dozen times by now. At least."
"I mean she skipped, man. Left me out a thousand bucks I put up when she got arrested for blocking trucks going to a landfill in New Jersey. What did she think? That they were going to take the garbage back to Manhattan?"
Eric realized he better get the conversation back on track before Brian depressed both of them by going over his litany of failed relationships. "So what about the bombs?" he prompted.
"Bombs?" Brian looked puzzled. "Oh yeah, right. There are some mean people who don't like anyone messing with their way of doing business. Like the poachers who killed the gorilla lady, or the whalers and the seal hunters. We've always gotten threats from time to time, but you figure every newspaper gets threatened by kooks. I've just been thinking that Sunshine Alley would be an awfully tempting target for some nut with a car bomb."
"How would he know which office to pick?" Eric joked.
"That's why I'm worried. The street is the perfect target for some idiot who can't even figure out who he's mad at. Just blow up the whole street."
"You need a vacation Brian. You're losing it."
"That may be, but I see a car with a 'Nuke the Whales' bumper sticker parked on the street, I'm getting out of there."
The waitress came and refilled their coffees, adding ninety cents to the handwritten check. The coffee was hotter than usual, still too warm to drink. Eric pulled the check to his plate and said "My treat. I wanted to pump you for some information, anyway."
"My pleasure." Brian replied, "Hey, wait a second, that reminds me. I gave Colin your work number. He's working on a story about contaminated sites abandoned by companies that moved down south. He claims that since a lot of them never managed to sell the buildings, they never had clean them up."
"Great, tell him anything I can do. I owe him big for putting Connie onto that state thing. She got awarded a six month contract, did I tell you?"
"Once in the car on the way here, and once on the phone about a week ago." Brian answered dryly.
"Oh. Sorry. I guess I'm proud of her or something."
"Hey, I'm happy that it's working out for you. Now what did you want to pump me about?"
"Tess Bookman left a message on my answering machine asking if I could meet her this morning at 9:00. The message said that she had big news for me, that she wanted to tell me in person."
"Tess is one of the founders at GV, and probably the most hyperactive person I've ever known. Have you met her?"
"No. I never even heard of her. Just the message that she'd be at the Green Valley offices this morning."
"Well," Brian calculated aloud, "If you've never even heard of her, much less met her, then this must have something to do with those poems you gave me last month. Tess isn't known for her literary tastes," he added unnecessarily.
"What is she known for, outside of being hyperactive?"
"She's a card carrying member of so many groups that people automatically call her if they're short a quorum. Or if, say, the Save the Connecticut River Organization, Restore the Land, and The Massachusetts Renewable Energy Task Force want to coordinate their activities, they lock Tess in the bathroom and let her work it out for herself. I think her newest cause is the Quabbin Sanctuary Project."
"Never heard of them. Something do with all those towns they flooded to make the reservoir?"
"No. I think they want to get hunting and fishing banned from the whole area. Sort of the first step for a statewide ban, followed by a national ban, of course."
Eric tested his coffee, and finding it had cooled sufficiently, took a long pull. "Wait a sec. Did you say fishing ban?"
Brian followed suit, draining the top third of his coffee, and nodded his head while he swallowed.
"What, because the boat motors and stuff, or because the lead sinkers? I've guess I read somewhere that lead sinkers from fishing and lead shot from shotguns can actually cause poisoning in the predator species, like DDT."
"Wrong again, or right maybe about the lead, but that's not the real reason. As far as Tess is concerned, sport fishing is just as cruel as Bambi slaying and obliterating Tweety Bird in a hail of lead. Her theory is that Native Americans are the only people who should be allowed to hunt and fish. And then, only if they pass some sort of cultural awareness test."
"She's wants to give Indians a test to see if they're Indian enough?" he asked incredulously, "Oh brother, she's lucky someone isn't hunting her."
"That's what I meant about the bombs," Brian started up again, but Eric cut him off by putting down some money for the check, and slipping off his stool.
He was feeling a lot less interested in meeting this Tess, and recalled that he hadn't actually agreed to the appointment. Brian, whose empathic powers normally only extended to determining when a companion might be hungry, guessed what Eric was thinking when he didn't shut the car off in front of the office.
"Come on," he encouraged Eric, "It can't hurt you to meet the lady. She's pretty nice once you get to know her."
Eric turned the ignition off with a groan, making it clear that he intended to hold Brian responsible for any consequences resulting from the encounter. Brian pointed up the street.
"Here she comes now. On the sidewalk there, the bike." He stepped out of the car and waved her over.
Eric got out of the car and waited with Brian for the woman to ride up. She was on an old one speed, with balloon tires, coaster brakes, and the trademark oversized chain guard. The fenders on the bike alone probably weighed more than carbon filament mountain bikes that the Yuppies were riding around on. The rider appeared to be in her forties, and she sported a kerchief tied over her head in place on the omnipresent white crash helmets that were the latest rave.
The bike wobbled to a stop as she applied the brakes, and she favored Eric with a wide expectant smile.
"You must be Eric Levy, the poet," she said, before Brian could make the mutual introduction, "I can sense a true artist from a hundred feet."
Eric blushed and shook her extended hand, and mumbled a disclaimer.
"No, no," she cried, "We mustn't be modest. Here Brian," she continued in the same breath, holding the bike off balance in his direction, "Be a dear and run this around the back for me while I talk with my new find."
Brian wheeled the bike off around the building, and Tess continued talking as she untied the kerchief and shook out her shoulder length gray streaked hair. "He's such a nice young man," she confided in Eric, "Even though his diet is abominable. I don't think we could keep the paper going without him."
Eric was prepared to offer a polite reply, but she continued her rapid observations as she led him to her office.
"I feel so guilty about having a whole office to myself when so many others contribute so much more than I," she gushed, "But the others simply insisted. I suppose I do spend most of my time here, but now that my children are all grown, I feel that it's essential that I do my part to ensure that there will be something left for their children."
The cramped office was completely papered with posters and flyers announcing events and protests for everything conceivable. There were three battleship gray four-drawer filing cabinets jammed into the space that appeared somehow wrong to Eric's senses. He realized after a moment that there was no way the bottom two drawers on each could be pulled out more than a foot without moving the desk. An old fashioned typewriter stand was adorned with a Pitney Bowes postal meter, and a large bin of folded flyers. Half of her desk was taken up by a personal computer and a laser printer, the other half was covered by a veritable wall of stackable in/out trays, each labeled with the name of a different organization.
She pushed the mess of loose paperwork on the deep silled window into a higher mound, and motioned for him to take the desk chair, as she hopped up onto the spot she had cleared. Eric scrunched by the filing cabinets, and settled into the chair. He tried to cross his legs, but his knee hit the typewriter stand, and his foot pressed against the desk. He waited uncomfortably for Tess to clue him in on the meeting.
"QSP," she began finally in an authoritative voice, "The Quabbin Sanctuary Project. A reservoir is a reservoir and not a playground for a bunch of beer swilling weekend survivalists who have to destroy life to get their jollies. Our goal is to have the whole Quabbin reservation set aside as a wildlife sanctuary with no hunting or fishing." She paused, then continued in a softer tone, "An exception, of course, will be made for such Native American peoples who can show that such activities are an integral part of their culture."
Eric was certain that if he hadn't briefed on Tess by Brian, he'd have been backing towards the door halfway into her extraordinary manifest. Instead, he was able to maintain a sympathetic expression while waiting to find out what she wanted from him. Having stated the goals of her organization, she came to the point rather quickly.
"We are having our first major fund raiser next week, on the Abraham Lincoln commune in Amherst. The main attraction will be several local bands playing on the completely solar powered bandstand, but we don't want to limit our cultural content to music. So far, we have a Native American story teller, the Moon Spirit Dance Group, and a man who is going to demonstrate this lovely new food processor that he claims can knead whole wheat dough and make potato juice from raw Russets. I'd like to see that," she snorted skeptically.
Eric was rapidly getting the drift of the conversation and trying to phrase a polite refusal in his mind. He was generally terrified at the prospect of public speaking, and getting up in front of a crowd to read his own poems was the last thing he wanted to do. Suddenly, he thought of Connie, and the wave of anxiety began to recede. Connie would be there, he thought, and she might enjoy that sort of thing. She might even like being able to tell people that her boyfriend gives public readings of his poetry by invitation.
"So," Tess was concluded, "We would like to have you recite a few of your poems. I thought that "Mercy Killing" would be appropriate, and perhaps you might have a few other topical pieces?" she finished on a questioning tone.
"I think I'd like that very much Mrs. Bookman," he replied, the first full sentence he'd spoken since meeting her. "I try to write every night," he continued, "So I maybe I could work up a couple likely candidates."
"That's wonderful Eric. Most of the poets I've known are so terribly uncooperative about directing their efforts toward a specific goal, particularly on such short notice. Perhaps," she said, almost shyly, "You could use some of the poor verse I've written myself for guidance. I have some right here." She shoved a few typed pages at him before he could refuse. "Go ahead," she said, "You could even read it out loud if you don't mind. I know my efforts fall far short of the mark you aspire too, but perhaps they would gain some weight coming from your mouth."
Eric skimmed the first page, on which the words had been painstakingly arranged to form what appeared to be a Christmas tree. He cleared his throat while reading ahead, then set that sheet aside with an embarrassed grin. "Um, I think, uh, that I don't have the range to interpret the visual effect on this one." Her face fell, and he quickly picked up the second sheet, determined to read straight out whatever was written there.
"Oh, it takes on such an artistic tone when you read it," she said hopefully. "Don't stop. Please read another."
Eric almost grimaced as his eyes skipped down the page over several more poems that started with a factual description of flowers. Near the bottom was an indented line that didn't begin with a capital 'R', so he started.
"Do you think it's too direct?" she asked. "I wanted to put it in the Valley but we have a self imposed 'Pulpit' rule to keep us from preaching to much, and the committee didn't like it. But I'm sure you find it very clumsy, Eric, being a professional and all."
"Oh, not a bit," he lied, then continued quickly, "But I'm afraid it wouldn't be ethical for me to actually use ideas that you've already developed. It would be like plagiarizing. You can see that I'm sure," he pleaded.
"Oh, you artists," she said condescendingly, "Yes, I suppose I understand. You have to forgive me for being so practical, it comes from being a results oriented person."
The phone on the floor rang, interrupting their conversation. She picked it up, and Eric couldn't help eavesdropping on the one way conversation.
"Harry, what is it dear," she said neutrally.
"No, I'd love to be there, but I'm in an important meeting."
"Yes, I know that Miss Halifax thinks that Joshua is having problems at home."
"If Miss Halifax knows so much about raising children then how come she doesn't have any of her own."
"O.K. Doctor Halifax, but she can't be very good if the best job she could get is in the Public Schools."
She appeared to be getting angry now, and Eric started to rise. She smiled and shook her head, motioning for him to remain.
"You tell the good Doctor that she's welcome to come and talk to me at my office any time she wants, and that I'd appreciate if she would refrain from trying to make my son unhappy."
"Yes, dear, we all want the best for him. Did you remember to do the laundry?" she asked, changing her vocal gears quickly.
"I know that you have a job also, but my... Thank you."
"I have Restore the Land tonight, so I'll see you around ten."
"Me too, bye, bye." She hung up the phone with a groan.
"You would think that they would appreciate what I'm sacrificing for them. When I was twelve, I certainly didn't complain about having to pack my lunch and do my chores. I considered myself to be entirely grown up. I don't know what will become of our society, treating our offspring like children until they finish four years of college." She looked at Eric suspiciously, "I suppose you think I'm a bad mother now."
"Not at all," he was able to reply honestly, "I would agree with you that responsibility is a good thing for children. I couldn't really pass judgment on the way anyone brings up their kids, though, not having any of my own."
"Good," she said briskly, "It's all settled then. The event will begin at 10:00 AM on Sunday, and I thought we would group all of the non-musical performers together before noon. Since we aren't exactly sure of the lengths of the performances, it would be best if you could be there at the opening time to coordinate with the others."
"I'll be there. Thank you for giving me the opportunity to participate."
"We are honored to have you join us," she replied. "There is one other thing I wanted to bring up. You know that I am active in several causes," she swept her arm around the room, calling his attention back to the collection of posters, "And among my most heartfelt projects is the Wind and Sun Monthly. I am on their board, you know."
"Uh, I hadn't known that," he answered, then hazarded, "I'm not sure I've seen a copy recently."
"The Wind and Sun is strictly a subscription magazine with a very healthy international circulation. It's headquarters are in Cambridge, where they have five full time staffers. It was founded in 1979 by a far seeing group of individuals to spread the truth that all of the energy needs of our world can be met by wind and solar power. We are, in fact, the only publication in our field to have never wavered in our stand against all hydroelectric dams and tidal projects."
"I see," was all Eric could come up with for a response.
"The magazine has won several prestigious awards for the technical excellence of its features and its cutting edge editorials. Unfortunately, we have fallen behind some of our competitors in our use of the creative arts. What I'm asking," she concluded with a sideways glance, "Is it possible, perhaps, you could write us a nice poem about a nuclear accident?"