Copyright 2001 by Morris Rosenthal
The press conference was held on Wilkins Road out in front on the administration building, which was deemed more photogenic then any of the other options. The local newspaper and all three of the local television stations were in attendance and the satellite feeds were fully deployed and tested, even though the conference wasn't going out live. Both the Mayor and the Superintendent of the schools were scheduled to speak, a newsworthy event in itself since they hated the sight of each other. While the techies played with their space-age antennas and the TV personalities checked their makeup, the politicos handlers wrangled over last minute details like who should stand on which side of the microphone stalk. They both wanted the left.
Sergeant Wall was greatly enjoying the break in his morning routine. He stood stoop shouldered, outside the front door, his face like the ancient bridge keeper in a medieval tale. When everyone was finally sure of what they were doing, one of the Superintendents aides, Terrance Brown, asked the old security guard to get out of the picture. Actually, it was more of a command then a request, and the aide couched in the terms he had employed in teaching special-ed classes for eight years, before being tapped for the right-hand position.
The sergeant ignored him completely, and the Brown began repeating the message, but louder. The mayor's aide grabbed him by the arm. "Forget it," Frank said, "Tick the old fart off and he'll probably turn a hose on us." The ex-teacher blanched, and returned to his spot, muttering. Sergeant Wall was going to be on TV.
"Ready?" called of the TV crew chiefs and was quickly echoed by his counterparts from competing stations. "Roll it," called back the three personalities. No one bothered checking with the featured speakers, who would appear on the evening news broadcasts struggling for the post position. The Big Ed won the brief contest with a well placed elbow, and looked up at the glowing red lights on the cameras. Frank frantically did the movie camera pantomime from charades, indicating that they were already taping.
"My fellow Springfield citizens. Three years ago you elected me to this job on my promise that I would be the 'Education Mayor'. I have tried to fulfill that promise, and today represents another momentous step on that journey. The Wilkins Valve company was an integral part of our Springfield community for the past century, but recently they have fallen on hard times. The manufacturing operations here have been shut down, and this once thriving industrial site has become a wasteland inhabited by filthy birds." Frank enjoyed a moment of slanderous revenge. He'd added that part to the speech himself.
"With the full cooperation of my friend and colleague at the School Department, we have come to a verbal agreement with the Wilkins Valve Corporation to purchase the entire grounds spread out behind me. With the help of state and federal funds, at a minimum of expense to the city, this slice of Springfield real estate will enter a new century of service, as the site of the new Classical High School. Would you like to add a few words, Mr. Rodriguez?"
The Superintendent stepped up to the microphones, carefully grinding the toe of the mayor's right shoe with his heel. Jesus Rodriguez was the city's first minority superintendent who was hired when the School Committee noticed one day that the student body was composed of over seventy percent minorities. This majority of minorities had led to several heated, if meaningless exchanges, on the respective definitions of the words, and had finally resulted in the decision to hire one of the disputed definitions for the top job. The selection committee cleverly avoided any accusations of reverse discrimination by starting with an open process, but making sure that all five finalists were minorities. Then they picked the sole man from the group.
Superintendent Rodriguez cleared his throat at length, and one of the cameramen on a news crew sarcastically yelled, "Speech." Terrance Brown immediately picked the man out with his trained eyes, then sighed when he remembered he couldn't give him a week's detention. The superintendent pulled several index cards out of his pocket, and the gathered reporters responded with a collective moan.
"I was brought to this city six years ago to rescue a failing school system. Despite an ongoing lack of funding," he shot the mayor a nasty look, "I striven to fulfill that promise. My friends, today represents another momentous step in that journey. For the past century, the Wilkins Valve Corporation has supplied jobs to the residents of this city. And now, through its death, it will supply hope to our children."
"We're in the wrong profession," Tammy Childs the newswoman from Channel 26 whispered to the newspaper reporter. "Speech writers in this city get to sell every speech twice!"
The newspaper reporter, Joshua Kearn, was preparing to tell the Ms. Childs that he hadn't known that she could write, when the superintendent decided he'd let his significant pause go on long enough, and started reading from the next card.
"With the full cooperation of my friend and colleague in the mayor's office, we have come to a verbal agreement with the Wilkins Valve Corporation to purchase this site for the new Classical High School. With the help of State and Federal funds, in two short years, this collection of unsightly buildings will be transformed into the largest public school campus in the city. Green playing fields will replace cement slabs, and the highest structures on the horizon will not be smokestacks, but light towers for night baseball games."
"My friends, this vision will be fulfilled." He swung his fist here to emphasize the point, but without a podium to strike, it was an empty gesture. "An entire building for special education. A building for gender studies. A building for non-Eurocentric history. A building for the social sciences, and a building for math, physics, biology, chemistry, English and computers. With a close ciruit TVs and high speed Internet connections in every room, we will capture the interest of our children back from the purveyors of MTV and we shall hold it. With this new school, I predict that the dropout rates will fall dramatically, and we will see the turnaround that we have all worked so hard to reach."
He waited a moment for the expected applause, then remembered that there wouldn't be any, and stepped back from the stalk. Whose stupid idea was it to schedule a press conference for eight in the morning, he wondered. He heard a voice call, "Mr. Superintendent," and he returned to the microphone. "I will answer any questions," he stated in his dignified manner.
"Mr. Superintendent," the voice started again. He recognized the troublesome newsman from the public TV station who actually covered the school committee meetings as part of his regular beat. Rodriguez located his aide and transfixed him with a stare that said, "Kill this man for me and I'll get you a consulting slot."
" Last night the school committee, amid rumors that you would be fired, voted to pass a new compensation package for you. This package makes you the second highest paid pubic official in Western Massachusetts, after the basketball coach at the university. Did these Wilkins negotiations play a role in this remarkable turnaround in your fortunes."
"Well that's two questions," the superintendent started, but Big Ed horned in on his answer.
"That would be one question, Jesus," drawing a big laugh from the professionals. The Mayor was hardly famous for wit or intelligence, but sharing the limelight with the superintendent brought out the fighter in him.
Rodriguez angled his body to better protect the microphone and continued.
"I believe that I work very hard in my job, and I think that this view was vindicated by the vote taken last night. The new salary is simply in line with what I would make at a similar job in private industry."
"Christ," the mayor groaned. He was making less then half of the new salary figure, which had been published in the morning paper.
"I don't know about private industry," Tammy made another aside to Joshua, "But he could probably get a great job working for Congressional Budget Office, counting one as two." He laughed this time and she grinned at him. She wasn't that bad looking after all, he thought. And she wasn't half as stupid as she seemed to be on TV.
The superintendent's aide reached him with a cellular phone, and proclaimed loudly, "An important call sir, the Teachers Union." All of the parents from the media crews shrank back in fear. The relieved superintendent gripped the phone like a life preserver and headed for his car. No one expected him to return.
"Any questions about my salary?" the mayor joked, figuring he was on safe ground. Frank held his breath.
"I have a question about Wilkins, Mr. Mayor," the newspaper reporter spoke up. "According to figures published last year by the city's own tax collector, Wilkins is arrears to the tune of eight hundred thousand dollars. Is tax amnesty part of the deal the city is making?" He basked in an admiring look from Ms. Childs.
The mayor appeared startled for a moment, then responded noncommittally. "The details haven't all been hammered out yet, but the verbal agreement holds that the total cost to the city will be a token one dollar payment. I have to believe that our legal boys are aware of this discrepancy."
"A follow up question," Kearn continued. "My sources tell me that the state senator's office discontinued negotiations with Wilkins for the same property, due to a potential hazardous waste problem. What did the city's investigation find?"
Big Ed shot his aide a vicious look before answering this one. Frank had insisted that they rush the joint press conference forward to prevent Rodriguez from capturing all of the glory. It was beginning to look like a bad idea. "I personally toured the site with an aide before beginning negotiations, but we certainly intend to have it examined by experts before signing off on the deal. I think that's all the questions we have time for today. Thank you all for coming," he ended abruptly. He headed like a charging bull for Frank, who was edging toward the car. Kearn, who had been divorced twice and was trying for a third, exchanged phone numbers with the Ms. Childs. He took a rain-check on her brunch invitation, and waited around watching everyone pack up and go. Then he approached Sergeant Walls, who remained in the doorway.
"Thought you might be wanting to chat," said the wily old guard.
"Joshua Kearn", he introduced himself, "I'm a columnist with the Springfield Post."
"Junior Wall," the guard responded. "I enjoyed your questions. You could be on the radio." This was one of Junior's highest compliments, and Kearn recognized it as such. "Are you going to score that bird from channel twenty-six?" he chortled.
"You don't miss much, Junior," Kearn replied admiringly, "Maybe you could help me ask some more good questions. I had that bit about the contamination problems third hand."
"Oh, there's plenty of chemical skeletons in these closets," Junior cracked, "That's why that little building behind you is still officially open."
Kearn twisted around and noticed the two story stone faced structure for the first time. It was in better shape than anything else around, and he hadn't been aware that it was part of the Wilkins complex. "Does anybody really work there?" he asked.
"They come in from time to time, retrieve an old drawing or something, not to actually work. The plant engineer was one of the last full timers. Retired, not fired. He's still on our 'In case of emergency' list, because he knows more about this old place then anyone. The day he went home for good, he told me that the only reason for keeping that building open was so Wilkins could claim the place was an active site. When they officially do a permanent shutdown at an industrial site this size, the state environmental agency has to sign off on the place. They never did that here."
Kearn scribbled notes in his pocket ledger. "What is it that they don't want to clean up. Did he say where the real problems were?"
"Not in so many words. He was a good company man, you see, just a little bitter about the way they were letting everything fall apart." Junior sat down on the step. "Feet, you know. Can't stand for more then a half hour or so." Kearn waited patiently. His instincts told him that old guard had more to relate.
"Fourteen years I've worked at this place. I'm sure going to miss it, whoever takes it in the end." He bent over and massaged the side of his foot through the shoe. There were worn spots on both of the insteps where he'd rubbed the leather paper-thin. "I've heard a lot of things over the years, from back when they were thinking of cleaning the place up for sale to some computer company. The most expensive hurdle is supposedly the ground itself. Once those chemicals get into the dirt, you're talking about big, big money. I heard they had an estimate back in '82 of over three million dollars, just for soil re...," he scratched his chin, "Re-something. Big word, reminds me of being on strike for some reason."
"Then you got your underground storage tanks. Empty 'em, dig 'em up, cut 'em up, dispose of all of it as hazardous waste. Got enough asbestos in the powerhouse to give Lloyds of London indigestion. In the end, they were talking about over five million dollars, just to turn the lower section here into a vacant lot. Nineteen eighty-two dollars."
"And Nineteen eighty-two regulations," Kearn chipped in, then whistled. "If the mayor gets the DEP to come out here and have a look around, I just don't see them missing all this stuff."
"Neither do I," Junior agreed, "And neither did Senator Hardwick when he came out here for a look. Pretty little girl with him, asked good questions, too."
"Junior," Kearn said, like a man who has reached a decision, "I think that there might be a story in all this. A big one." He sat down beside the guard, using him as a sounding board. "I see maybe three, four parts, starting with a background piece on the old days when everyone had a relative who worked here. Maybe a piece on why they shut down, foreign competition and non-union labor down south. Then a piece on the actual closing, and what they left behind. Last, of course, would be an assessment of the city plans for the property, and a list of questions that need answers. Hell, I haven't had a good expose to write since they closed the old high school and sold it to their cronies to turn into condos."
Junior shrugged. "Sounds All right, but I'm a radio man myself."
"Oh, they'll talk about it on the radio, sure enough. Not many people in this city who'd shed a tear for Big Ed or Rodriguez, for that matter. I'd like to get a look around, if I could." He sensed Junior hesitating beside him. "I want to get a feel for the place, for the background pieces in particular. I won't use any details that I can't get from old file stories, and I bet we have at least two for every building in this place, including ones that aren't there any more."
"I'm not worried about that," Junior claimed, though secretly he was. "I'm just afraid that a week after you publish the last piece, I'll be out of a job."
"Nobody at home?" Kearn sympathized.
Junior guffawed as he struggled to his feet. "Just my wife."
He began his first big round since they had closed. His feet were going to hurt tonight, but he'd have enough dinner conversation for a month.