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Scribe
Join Date: Jan 2005
Posts: 86
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Brewing Progress
Brewing Progress - A Lunch Break Writing.
"I have buried all of my children here - except for my Phillip, who they never found - all the rest are down in Peachtree cemetery." She said "cemetery" like it had only two syllables, 'semtreh'.
"My Momma's there, and her's too. My daddy's there, my granddaddy. My family's got more life dug into this town than all of you up there combined," Margery didn't speak loudly, she spoke firmly, as always. There were many years behind that strength; many hardships had tempered the tone. Her thin finger pointed a swath across the council, slowing briefly at each face.
"This town may not have all the hubbub it did when I was younger, before the mill closed, but it has never been rowdy. It has always been full of tired, hardworking men and women. Always so tired. But so honest! This nightclub you're going to build-"
"Mrs. Engstrom, this is not a nightclub. We've said this already, the Stoneale Brewery has 12 other locations. They all serve food, and have a family atmosphe-"
"Let me cut you off, as you so rudely cut me off, Mr. Babbage. Brewery, nightclub, distillery, brothel; they've gone by different names over the years," her voice took on a harder tone at the utterance of the word "brothel", but she didn't pause at it. "but none of them are any good. These children need good things to do with their time - not alcohol and parties every night! Good, wholesome, Christian activities -"
"Mrs. Engstrom, we understand your worries, and they are important. But the money that this project will bring into the town will be enormous. Money for schools, street repair - "
She cut him off again, huffing. "Debauched money. What will we be teaching our kids if we take tainted money and use it to educate them? Children are not blind, Mr. Babbage."
Now she was waggling her finger for him alone.
Ted Babbage leaned back in his chair and sighed. The sweat which had begun to bead up on his forehead was cool now; this wasn't a threat anymore, this was a tongue lashing. She was only going to succeed in keeping the council past schedule.
"That is a very important point, Mrs. Engstrom. The council will take it under consideration."
The old woman looked like she had been slapped.
"Don't you dismiss me like an old coot! You are taking the Devil's money, and pinning angel's wings on it. Well, you may fix your potholes and buy some books for the school, but you're selling what makes this town good to do it! Books don't pay for that!"
There were a few nods from around the room at this, mostly older faces, but still not enough to worry about. Unless someone called for a public vote, Margery would run out of steam, along with her protest, the bar would be built, and the next year's town budget would nearly double.
He certainly wasn't going to bring up the idea.
"I, and I'm sure the rest of the council would agree with me, am very glad to hear your opinion, Mrs. Engstrom. Now, if there are no further comments, the council will vote on measure 26," he locked eyes with the woman standing in the third row, still pointing a boney finger at him, "making sure to keep Mrs. Engstrom's comments in mind."
There were none, and the old woman looked defeated for a second.
"We’ve always been a blue-collar town, Mr. Babbage. From steel to paint to all the carpenters and workmen who head up into Northridge everyday, this town is made of hard working people with strong hands and sore backs. You're gonna fill their streets with boozers and traffic, and dear lord even drunk drivers! That's just wrong, Mr. Babbage. You’re inviting bad role models here, and you're making yourself into one."
"Your opinion has been noted in the minutes. The vote is now called."
Someone from down the table seconded.
"All in favor of motion 26, approval of zoning change on downtown lot 12-365a, with attached approval for the construction of a class C commercial building," he paused, "and the $1.9 million dollar financial incentive associated, say aye."
Just making sure. Always good to hedge your bets a little.
It was an easy vote. 9-0-1, Filbert abstaining as he always did when he wanted to vote against something, but didn't want to deal with the negative publicity that always came up at election time.
The rest of the meeting was quiet, just a few more items to discus, and a quick vote on garbage collection fees.
Mrs. Engstrom gazed down at her hands the entire time, and left immediately after new business was concluded. He had at least been hoping to give her a smile and a handshake, a reaffirmation that democracy worked, even when you were on the short end of it.
Everyone was still friends at the end of the day, after all.
---
Timothy had proposed just a few steps away from the grand Pin Oak that shaded the corner of Elm and Bridge streets. It had been a snowy 1939; she had still be living at home, and Timothy was one of the few boys in town with a job. The steel mill had stayed open, but even it had to tighten its belt; they didn’t really start hiring people again until a year after the war started.
They had saved for three years (money that his friends had spent on booze, he had always reminded her. If he was a drinker, then they never could have gotten the together the sort of money it cost to get married!) and had wed just before he shipped out. The church had even covered a bit of the cost, after it was clear that he would be gone before they had quite enough. That help had paid for most of the dress, and the pot-luck reception had been held out front too; Greg Moss on his guitar with a few friends, and it had been quite a bash.
Phillip had been born in '43, and had played here with the boy from the North side (what was his name?...Junior was it?), when everything east of Elm street had been open field. They had run Superman circles, played kick the can and then baseball - until he went off in '65, never to return. That Junior had left town a few years back, after the HAC Paint factory had closed up; she was pretty sure she remembered hearing gossip about the girl he had left behind.
Janice and Tom had walk past the stately tree on the way to school, certainly, and surely her father had spent many breaks under its summer shade. The abandoned rail lines were buried under cement only half a block away.
Margery set a hand upon the cracked bark and looked up at the canopy, lit October orange by the streetlamp.
"I'm sorry, girl. No one listens anymore."
She stood with the ancient sentinel for 20 minutes before turning to walk home in the slow, faltering step that every person in town could recognize from a distance.
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