I.
I had been in my office working for nearly an hour when the phone rang. As it was an early, and quite snowy, Saturday morning, I had assumed I could get a jump on the upcoming busy season sans interruption. Muffy was on her way to French Lick for the weekend visit with the remainder of the Murgatroyd clan and thus not disposed to call me at a whim. Given the fact that she was well acquainted with how much I knew about automobile subsystems, if she was having trouble on the road she'd have called AAA (or just about anyone else) before ringing me up.
The other resident of Weiśniak-Murgatroyd Manor besides Muffy and myself, our Mexican-American chef/gardener/butler (and part-time tax accountant) of fashionably doubtful immigration status, Hop Sing, had decided that with Muffy gone it was an excellent time for the two of us to indulge in large helpings of Steve H. Graham's famed chicken-fried steak, grease burgers, mashed potatoes, cream gravy, twice-fried fries cooked in beef fat and 540-calorie brownies. Even at this relatively early hour, Hop Sing would be far too involved in the preparation of comestibles to bother me with a call.
So who could it be? On the third ring I picked up the receiver and answered with weekday professionalism.
"Weiśniak and Associates."
There was a slight pause, and then came a voice I recognized immediately.
"Hello? Dennis?"
At which point I hung up.
The voice on the other end of the line had been that of my rival and nemesis since high school, one Lance D'Oily. Normally, I'd have taken his call, despite the fact that he was both a insufferable liberal weenie and first-class pain in the ass, but these were not normal times. Only two months ago Lance had initiated what came to be know around town as the Library Incident. He managed to orchestrate a coup amongst the board members of the Westerville Public Library that had deposed my beloved Muffy as their long time Board President. It had been a position Lance had coveted for years, and he had deftly appropriated Obama's theme of Hope and Change to convince several of the more addled of the board that Muffy represented a regime that had outlived its usefulness.
Stripped of the presidency, Muffy resigned from the board in a huff and swore that give half a chance, she'd gut Lance at high noon on the corner of State and Main. Needless to say, my life was a Living Hell for the month it took Muffy to cool off. So when I realized Lance was calling, I was not inclined to civilities. Not that I would have been so inclined even without the Library Incident. He was, after all, both an insufferable liberal weenie and a first-class pain in the ass. And as the latter, he decided to call me yet again. I let it ring, but on the thirteenth ring I couldn't stand it any longer and answered.
"Esta es la tienda Ralph del Donut… Inicio de las grandes honkin' donut Puedo ayudarle?" I said, which, in theory, meant, "This is Ralph's Donut Shop... Home of the really big honkin' donut. Can I help you?"
"Is this Weiśniak and Associates?" asked Lance in a confused tone.
"Qué?"
"I was trying to reach Dennis Weiśniak of Weiśniak and Associates."
"Qué?"
"Uh, it seems I've dialed a wrong number. Sorry to have troubled you."
And with that, Lance D'Oily was gone for nearly two minutes. Then the phone rang again. I let it ring a mere seven times before answering it.
"Hu-row?" I said in the worst Chinese accent I could muster.
"Dennis?"
"No Dennis. Velly solly. This Fang. Uncle Fang's Kosher Deli and Chinese Take Out. You want food?"
"What?"
"Today special Poo-Poo Platter. Velly yummy. You want kosher?"
"Is this 901-6400?" Lance asked, his voice rising with his frustration level.
"Qué?"
"Wait a second, ' Qué?' isn't Chinese…"
It was at this time that I once again hung up the phone and went back to work. I was somewhat surprised, given the combination of his natural dimwitted tenacity and his predicament, that Lance didn't call again. So, half an hour later, when the buzzer to the front door of the Weiśniak-Murgatroyd Building rang, I cursed myself for lacking the appropriate foresight. A quick look out my second floor window confirmed the presence of one determined dimwit with his finger ready to ring a second time.
On weekdays the front door of the Weiśniak-Murgatroyd Building is unlocked. On weekends, however, I tend to keep the doors locked while I am working. The offices of Weiśniak and Associates occupy the second floor of the Weiśniak-Murgatroyd Building and there is no easy way to keep an eye on what is going on the first floor, which contains Muffy's offices (she doesn't use them all that much, but as it was the profit from her investment in Microsoft's IPO that paid for the building, she gets what she wants) and a large lobby where Muffy's receptionist and my collection of life size plaster-of-Paris statues of all the great Republican presidents reside.
I pressed the intercom button on my phone, which was connected to a speaker next to the front door.
"Can I help you?"
"Dennis? Dennis? This is Lance. Lance D'Oily. I need to speak to you immediately."
"You have an accountant, Lance. Call him; I'm busy."
"I need to speak to you in your capacity as mayor."
"The mayor's office has hours, you know: 11 A.M. until 11.15 A.M. every other Tuesday. Can't it wait until then?"
"No, it can't. Please open the door, it's freezing out here!"
I heaved a sigh. It was clear I wasn't going to be able to get rid of him without granting an audience.
"I'll be right down."
I took my time going down stairs and unbolting the front door. Upon opening said door, I found a shivering, red-faced Lance in front of me. I gestured for him to come in and closed the door behind him quickly. It was getting colder.
"Shake the snow off yourself," I said. "Now, before we go upstairs we need to get something straight between us."
Lance gave me a quizzical look.
"For reasons that will soon become apparent, as long as you are in this building I will refer to you as Barack. Furthermore, you will, at all times, refer to yourself as Barack. Understood?"
"Well, actually, no," said Lance.
"Good. Brush the snow off yourself and follow me."
I lead Lance upstairs and into my office, then motioned him to throw his coat on one of the leather chairs in front of my desk and his rear-end on the other. His coat was half off when he froze.
"Dennis…" he asked with a squeak.
"Yes, Barack?"
"Those?" he squeaked again, and rolled his eyes to my left.
"Ah, yes," I said in a breezy tone, "Those would be Muffy's dogs. I brought them in today to keep me company."
Lance let out a sick little non-laugh.
"Rottweilers?" They're friendly, right?"
"Oh sure. Just as long as they think you're someone other than who you actually are."
"You're not serious…" Lance's voice trailed off.
"Watch," I said. "Cuddles, Fluffy, sit!"
Both dogs, who had been laying on the floor watching us, came up to the 'sit' position quite smartly.
"Lance!" I said loudly, and then paused for a second. Both dogs began to growl. "Cuddles is the one that's showing her teeth. Fluffy is the one beginning to foam at the mouth."
Lance let out another non-laugh as I tossed each dog a treat.
"Now, lay down," I said. "Good girls… All I'd have to do is point to you after saying the magic word and you'd be toast."
Lance finished taking off his coat without his eyes leaving the dogs.
"You sure we're safe?"
"Absolutely. Muffy is an excellent dog trainer."
Lance made gingerly made his way to the chair in front of my desk that was furthest from the dogs.
"Have a seat."
Lance put his coat over the back of the chair, then sat.
"Why didn't you call?" I asked, leaning back in my chair. "Weather's terrible."
Lance reddened a bit, took another look at the dogs, and bit his lip. Then he shrugged his shoulders.
"It was important that I talk to you today," he said in an even, if somewhat strained, tone. "We have a problem."
"Pronoun trouble, Barack," I replied with as big a grin as I could muster. "We don't have a problem… You have a problem. And a large one at that, judging by the phone traffic coming into the mayor's office."
Lance sat on the edge of his chair, all long legs and arms, letting his hands rest on his boney knees. Even thick corduroy pants, flannel shirt an sweater failed to hide just how thin Lance really was. Only as the chill left him and he relaxed did the extent of the worry lining his face reveal itself.
"It's the new librarian," he said in a weary tone.
"So I gather," I replied evenly.
In fact, at that moment in time both Lance and I were well aware of the cause and magnitude of the problem he had on his hands. It was a fact that my office had been receiving a flood of calls about the new librarian from the moment she had set foot in Westerville. It had started as a trickle but had grown to a torrent over the past week. As the mayor has no authority over the city's library system I had instructed Effie, my receptionist, to carefully document each call of complaint and then forward the complainant to Lance D'Oily, president of the board of trustees of the Westerville Municipal Library, by means of handing over Lance's home telephone number. It was a measure of Lance's present desperation that he was now going to the trouble of admitting to me just how badly he'd erred.
"I think we - the board, I mean - made a mistake."
Lance winced noticeably at my laughter.
"Gee, ya think?" I said. "Wait here a second. I need to get something."
I got out of my chair and made my way out into the reception area of my offices and quickly found the pile of pink telephone slips that documented the extent of Lance's error on Effie's desk. I grabbed them and headed back to my desk. After seating myself I held up the slips, smiled at Lance, and began to read.
"This one came in yesterday," I said. "'The books are no longer arranged by the Dewey Decimal System. They are arranged alphabetically by subject. My eight year old son spent an hour trying to find a book about penguins for a school report, but could not because the only subjects advertised under "P" were "Patriarchy", "Plutocrats" and "Penis"!"'."
I set the just read slip on my desk, face down. Lance shifted uncomfortably in his chair.
"Here's another one: 'My six year old daughter came home crying from the Tuesday afternoon "Children's Reading Circle". It seems the new librarian chose to read them a chapter from Andrea Dworkin's "Intercourse".'"
I set the second slip down on the first.
"Oh, here's a good one: 'Why has the library cancelled the weekly Shakespeare readings and replaced them with "The Vagina Monologues" set to music and accompanied by interpretive dance by a troupe of lesbians from Cleveland?'"
"Dennis, I don't really think this is necessary. I understand the problem."
"Barack," I said as I waved a handful of pink slips in his direction, "Let me explain something to you: You haven't got a clue as to what the problem is."
"Yes I do…"
I held a pink slip up and read it in a loud voice, "I went to donate an old cell phone at the library. There used to be a "Cell Phones For Soldiers" donation box there. But it isn't there anymore, and what is worse is what has replaced it: A "Dildos For Dykes" donation box. What is going on at our library? Can't you do something to stop this?"
I dropped the slip, letting it flutter down and come to rest on my desk.
"It's Portentia," Lance declared, his voice rising to match mine. "She's the problem."
"Wrong. She's a symptom of the problem. And by the way, how in the Hell do you pronounce her last name?"
Lance again shifted, and again with obvious discomfort.
"Shampoo…"
"C-h-a-m-p-o-u-x is pronounced 'shampoo'?"
"It's French, Dennis."
"Jesus, more French-speaking types. Just what we need. Who in the Hell names their kid "Portentia" in the first place?"
Lance didn't answer. He just gave me a glum look. When my expression made it clear that I was not in the mood to offer sympathy, he sat up in his chair and leaned towards me.
"What did you mean about me not having a clue as to the problem?" he asked in a guarded tone. "If Portentia isn't the problem, what is?"
I smiled at Lance and held up another slip.
"I think you are the problem," I said. "I think you and the rest of the board members are the problem."
"That's ridiculous!" Lance replied, irritated at the suggestion.
I read another slip, "Do you know where that idiot librarian has filed all of Bernard Goldberg's books? Under "A" for "Asshole". And she's cross-referenced them under "W" for "Wingnut". It took me half a day to find the goddamn things. I'll be more than happy to supply the tar if the rest of the citizenry will supply the feathers! P.S., Do we need a permit for that?"
After that one hit the desk I looked up at Lance and asked, "You were saying?"
Lance waved a hand at me.
"All I want you to do is come over to the library with me and talk some sense into her. She's actually a fine young lady. I'm sure once she, um - adjusts - to our community and its' norms, everything will be just fine."
With that I let out a roar of genuine laughter and went on for a bit.
"Oh Barack," I said, wiping tears from my eyes," You've got a pair of brass ones, if nothing else!"
"What?" he asked, crossly.
"Even if you weren't one of my oldest and dearest enemies, and even if the office of mayor actually had any sort of influence over the operations of the library, I still wouldn't be caught dead helping you get your dumb ass out of this one."
"Why not? It's for the good of the community!"
With that I burst into laughter yet again. Lance just stared at me until I stopped.
"Lan…" The dogs' ears perked up as I caught myself, "Barack, you personally engineered having my wife removed from the library's board. She'd been on that board for 15 years. She raised over a half million dollars for library expansion. She gave her heart and soul to that library," I said in my most even tone, "Now, thanks to you, she's on the outside looking in, and she's not too happy about it… Believe you me."
I pointed to the dogs to provide emphasis.
"Dennis…"
"Don't Dennis me, you twit. If I so much as lift a finger to help you - which I wouldn't do anyway, just on general principles - my wife of 25 years would - without a moment's hesitation - use the razor-sharp Lee press-on nails on her right hand cut open my chest and rip out my heart. She would then proceed to hold said heart - still beating, mind you - up in front of my face so that it would be the very last thing I would see before departing for the great beyond. No, Barack, you and all your little lame-brained progressive friends have what you wanted…"
I flipped the remainder of the pink slips in his direction and then leaned back in my chair.
"Enjoy!"
Lance just sat there as pink slips fluttered down upon him, looking very, very glum.
"And Barack?"
"Yes?"
"Be sure to close the door tight on your way out."
II.
Muffy finished pouring herself a second cup of coffee and smiled sweetly at me.
"Don't you think you were being a bit harsh towards Lance?" she asked in a mild tone. The dogs, who were at her feet, each let out a low growl, which Muffy ignored. "After all, you are the mayor of Westerville, and therefore should be willing to help anyone and everyone when it's in the interest of the community."
Under normal circumstances I'd have offered a riposte of pure sarcasm, but these were not normal circumstances: My marital sensors were indicating Danger Ahead. I took a bite of toast and smiled back at her. I'd waited until this morning - Monday morning - to tell her about Lance's Saturday visit. She listened intently to the entire story without seeming to betray any emotion, but I knew better. I've been married to the woman for a quarter of a century, and I caught the ever-so-slight tightening of her jaw as I started. What told me there was Danger Ahead was the fact that those jaw muscles had yet to relax.
"I think," she continued, "That perhaps you should take Lance - Cuddles, Fluffy, hush! - up on his offer to see what is going on at the library."
It was at that moment I realized that in the time it had taken to relate the particulars of Lance's visit, my beloved Muffy had decided the problems at the library could be used to further her own ends, as well as decide that I was to be the agent of Lance's destruction. Despite the fact that I loathed Lance D'Oily at least as much as my wife, I was not enthusiastic about the idea.
"For the good of the community?" I asked.
With that seemingly innocent question she gave me The Look. It shot across her face in the matter of a nanosecond, but it was enough to confirm the data from my marital sensors. Whether I was feeling enthusiastic about it had nothing to do with anything; I was going to figure out how to bounce Lance off the library board and avenge her humiliation… Or else.
"Yes, dear," she said, offering another sweet smile now that her point had been made, "For the good of the community."
"I'll call him just as soon as I get to the office," I said, trying my best to sound happy.
With that, I received yet another sweet smile.
III.
Lance and I agreed to meet at the library at four that afternoon. As is my habit, I arrived about ten minutes early and stood in the lobby, soaking up the ambiance. As I did so, a twenty-something young man stood on an half ladder, busy hanging a series of paintings over the check-out desk. Even from behind, he was a sight to behold: His hair was bleached blond and in an arrangement approximating dreadlocks. He wore a threadbare white short sleeve linen with a pink flamingo embroidered on the back, a pair of cargo pants that were, at least in theory, blue, and a battered pair of black Converse high-top basketball shoes. Upon completing his task the young man stepped down the ladder and, noticing I was gazing at the paintings, gave me a big, gap-toothed smile.
"Gnarly, aren't they, Dude?"
"Excuse me?"
"I said, 'Gnarly, aren't they, Dude?'" he said, cheerfully.
Clearly, this young man was one of God's more harmless children.
"I'm not a 'dude', you know. I learned to ride a horse when I was twelve," I said in a serious tone, "And I roped my first calf when I was twenty."
This particular child gave me a puzzled look.
"You could say I'm one of Ohio's last cowboys," I added.
"What does the cowboy trip have to do with being called 'dude', Dude?"
There was a moment of silence as our particular generation gap widened.
"What is your name, young man?" I asked.
"Wendell," he answered. "Wendell van Morrison. But you can call me 'Jackson'".
As I had time to kill, I decided to continue playing Twenty Questions with Wendell van Morrison until Lance arrived.
"Why would I want to call you 'Jackson'?"
"Everyone else does."
"Oh," I said, "Why?"
"Well, you see, you can't be a successful professional surfer with a name like Wendell," Wendell said in a serious tone. "All the professional surfers have names like Corky and Buzz. Not Wendell."
"I see your point," I said. "I didn't realize we had many professional surfers in Central Ohio."
"Actually, I'm the only one."
"Really?"
"Oh sure, there isn't any surfing here in Central Ohio."
I was beginning to hope Lance would be a few minutes late.
"Then why are you here?"
"No competition," Wendell replied, as if his reason should have been obvious to me. "Out in California and Hawaii there are tons of professional surfers, and all of them are better than I am. Truth be told, I'm not a very good surfer."
"So you're at a double disadvantage: They can actually surf and they probably have cooler names than Wendell, right?"
"You got that right, Dude," he said, his eyes brightening at my insight.
"Please, I don't like to be called 'Dude'. Could you call me Dennis?" I said, and offered him my hand. "I'm the mayor of Westerville."
At that, Wendell's expression clouded.
"Whoa," he said.
"What's the matter?" I asked.
He shook his head and my hand, looking quite concerned.
"I'm not so good with names," he said, very seriously. "Do you mind if I just call you 'Jackson'?"
"Jackson?"
"Sure. I can remember 'Jackson'. It's why I call everyone 'Jackson'. That way I don't offend anyone because I can't remember their name."
Well, I couldn't argue with his logic and told him so. Wendell was relieved, and became even chattier when I agreed to call him Jackson instead of Wendell. I found out, for example, that besides being Central Ohio's only professional surfer, Wendell was also a screenwriter.
"I didn't realize we had many professional screenwriters in Central Ohio, Jackson," I said. "We don't have much of a movie industry around here, do we?"
"Nah, no movie industry at all, Jackson. As near as I can tell, I'm the only professional screenwriter around here."
We looked at each other for a second and then said, in unison, "No competition!"
"Have you sold many scripts."
"Not a one," Wendell said, a touch a sadness creeping into his voice. "Truth be told, I'm not a very good screenwriter, either."
"Don't let it get you down, Jackson," I said. "Everybody has to be bad at something."
"Really? What are you bad at?"
"Any number of things, but at the moment it's being mayor of Our Fair City."
"Seriously?"
"You bet. And you know what, Jackson? I don't let it get me down."
"That's easy for you to say, Jackson, but I'm just barely scraping by. I'm working part-time as a library janitor, and if I wasn't getting paid for being a medical studies volunteer over at the College of Westerville's School of Medicine, I'd be living under a bridge."
I gave Wendell a sympathetic look.
"Well, let me see if I can find something in the way of part-time work for you at the city," I said. "At least then you could give up being a lab rat."
"Civil service?"
"Why not?" I said as I put a friendly arm around his shoulder, "To a certain extent, I think you'd blend right in with some of the crew we have."
The eyes of Wendell van Morrison, aka Jackson, grew wide.
"Jackson," he said in awe, "You are the man."
"You flatter me, Jackson," I said.
I suppose Wendell and I would have continued the bonding process a bit longer had we the chance, but from across the lobby, out a door marked "Staff Only" emerged the library's board president, Lance D'Oily, looking pale and harassed, and a woman I took to be our new head librarian, Portentia Champoux. She had the look of a woman who will go through life demanding - loudly - to see the manager.
IV.
The second thing that crossed my mind upon seeing Portentia Champoux was that she'd recently had a head-on collision with a Max Factor delivery truck. Her make-up betrayed a serious kabuki theatre influence: Heavy near-white pancake makeup was framed by dark brown hair cut in Joan of Arc style, and broken only by the liberal application of blood red lipstick and two perfectly round circles of rogue that where meant to denote the location of her cheeks. Her eyes were heavily lined. The instant Wendell van Morrison spied her, his easy demeanor vanished.
"Jackson," he said in a low but urgent tone, "I need to vanish. Pronto."
It was a fact he didn't need to explain; I felt like vanishing myself.
"Yeah, get the hell out of here. Call me at my office tomorrow about the job," I replied. "Git…"
And with that Wendell van Morrison was gone. Which was just as well, for in the time it took for him to depart, Lance managed to point me out, and I now had Portentia Champoux striding purposefully towards me, resplendent in a politically correct faux Native American skirt and white linen peasant blouse. Lance, being Lance, brought up the rear. I couldn't help noticing that despite Ms. Champoux's diminutive size - she couldn't have been much more than five feet tall - those library patrons that were between her and myself instinctively steered clear. My instincts where kicking in as well, and what they were telling me, in no uncertain terms, was to guard my crotch.
Then, suddenly, she was standing in front of me.
"I'm Portentia Champoux," she said in a grim, matter-of-fact tone.
"My pleasure. I'm Dennis Weiśniak…"
"I know who you are," in an even grimmer tone.
I held out my right hand, which Portentia ignored. Pale as he already was, I didn't think Lance had the ability to blanche, but he did.
"Wonderful," I said, checking my hand for dirt. "You know who I am. And I know who you are. That should save some time. Is there an office where we can chat?"
Lance opened his mouth to answer, but Portentia Champoux cut him off.
"My office," she said, and then turned towards the door marked 'Staff Only'. Within a minute Lance and I where seated in front of the desk of Westerville's Head Librarian.
Portentia Champoux's eyes were drilling holes in me, and it was clear she was ready to go to war at the drop of a hat. This was her library, and nobody was going to get her to do anything she didn't fancy. As I considered a response, I noted the artwork on the wall of her office.
"That's different," I said, pointing to one of the paintings.
"What of it?" she replied, not bothering to look at the canvas I had pointed to.
"Nothing, really. It's just that I'd never have thought to paint Dick Cheney with fangs…"
"It's part of the 'Great War Criminals of the 21st Century' exhibition we'll be hosting here next week."
"The dripping blood is a nice touch," I said brightly, and then smiled. "Not doubt the locals will love it."
"Why are you here, Mr. Weiśniak?"
"Ah, yes. That," I said. "As you may or may not know, I wasn't the one who called for this meeting. Lance did. Lance, why don't you explain what it is you hope to accomplish here today?"
I never really do get tired of watching Lance flounder. He hemmed and hawed and searched for the right words for a couple of moments, and then Portentia tired of waiting.
"He said you wanted to educate me as to Westerville's community values. I don't believe that. I think the application of feminist principles to library science has alerted the Patriarchy to the threat I represent."
"I didn't know there was such a thing as feminist library science."
"Why would you? You're a drenched in white male privilege white male."
"Is that the feminist way of saying I don't get out much?"
"You, as a representative of the Patriarchy, are here to try to oppress me. That much is obvious."
The eyes of Portentia Champoux were still drilling.
"Of course it is. Look, I'm the mayor of this burg. I oppress the masses. That's what I get paid to do," I said. "But before we get to the oppressing part, let me ask you a few questions, if I may."
Portentia didn't move a muscle. She just stared that slit-eyed stare.
"You think you're really funny, don't you?"
"More often than not, I crack me up. But that's neither here nor there. What I'm interested in is just what sort of person I'm going to be oppressing today. You see, Lance hasn't told me to much about you. Hence, the questions. Can we get on with this?"
"Yes."
"Good. First question: Do you have a degree in Library Science?"
"No."
"But I assume you have a degree."
"Yes."
"Would you care to elaborate?"
Portentia took a deep breath and then said, "I double majored in Gender Studies and Comparative Literature. My senior thesis was on menstrual imagery in Native American folklore. I also have a Masters in Eco-Feminism."
"But you took courses in Library Science, right?"
"No."
I gave Lance a look of irritation and then articulated the obvious, "Lance, you really are an moron."
Lance reddened but said nothing. I then turned back to Portentia.
"Where did you get your degree?"
"Albertus Assumption College of Rockwall, Texas."
"Father Floyd will be happy to here that. Have you met our priest?"
"I'm an atheist."
"You're an atheist?"
Portentia Champoux sighed, "I went there because they gave me a full scholarship to play basketball."
I was about to remark that a Catholic college awarding a basketball scholarship to a five foot tall atheist made complete sense when my instinct for self-preservation informed my facility for sarcasm that I was well within reach of the sort of kick that could lay me out for several days.
"Before we go any further, Ms. Champoux, I think it's important that I disclose that I have absolutely no authority to do anything as it relates to this library. I'm the mayor of this city, and this city doesn't fund the library."
Portentia folded her arms and shifted her weight her left side, evidently in an attempt to convey impatience.
"So?" she said.
"Do you know how this library is funded?"
"Levy money, of course."
"Ah, that's mostly correct. A significant portion of the library's funding comes from donations."
"So?"
"And a not insignificant portion of the library's operations are manned - excuse me, 'personed' - by unpaid volunteers."
"I know that."
"Good, good. Now the next thing you must understand is that Lance and I have been bitter enemies since we were kids. Now that we're mature adults, we hate each other even more. And that was before he threw my wife off the library's board of trustees…"
"Your point?"
"My point is this: Lance D'Oily didn't come and beg me to help rein you in because you've managed to offend half of Westerville. Lance D'Oily didn't come and beg me to help rein you in because he's getting twenty or so complaints a day about what you've turned our perfectly fine library into…"
"Again; your point?"
"I was getting to that. Lance D'Oily would only humiliate himself by calling the likes of me if he knew that donations had completely dried up and most of the volunteers had quit."
Despite the makeup, Portentia Champoux's face flushed.
"Dennis, I don't think…" Lance had finally found his voice, only to be cut off.
"He told you that?" she asked, trying to keep anger from creeping into her tone.
"Of course not. He wouldn't tell me a thing like that. That would be way too honest and straightforward: He came to me with a bunch of bull about trying to help you fit into the 'culture of Westerville'."
The flush had left Portentia's face, but her eyes left no doubt that she was still angry. I turned to Lance.
"How long before you have to either lay off staff or cut library hours?" I asked.
Lance took in a eyeful of the floor.
"A month," he mumbled.
"Were you aware of that Ms. Champoux?" I asked. "Were you aware that the library was going to have to lay off staff and cut hours?"
Portentia shot Lance an mean look. Lance missed it. His head was still down.
"I've been aware of it for a while now," she replied.
"So you understand there is a problem that needs to be addressed?"
"Yes."
"Any thoughts as to what you might do to calm patrons down enough to get volunteers back and money flowing?"
Portentia Champoux turned to Lance. They looked at each other for a moment, as if waiting for the other to vocalize something brilliant. I gave them a moment to flounder silently and then continued.
"Perhaps a good first step would be to meet with the community and explain whatever it is you're trying to accomplish here. Perhaps you could even make an attempt to find out why they're unhappy with you."
I could have sworn that for a nanosecond, but no more, Portentia brightened. Lance's eyes widened. He was sensing danger.
"What do you mean, meet with the community?"
"Meet with the community, Ms. Champoux. Talk to them. Tell them what you're trying to accomplish.
Answer their questions. Solicit their ideas. You know, show interest. And concern."
Lance's face had once again drained of color. It was clear that he was already playing scenarios out in his mind that involved a dour, belligerent, atheistic radical feminist and two hundred or so middle-aged Republicans.
"Dennis, I'm not sure…"
Portentia put up a hand to silence and unsurprisingly, Lance shut up. He may have been the board president, but it was obvious who the boss was at the library.
"How would we do something like that?" she asked.
That was good. She was arrogant enough to think she was feminist vanguard elite material. All she had to do was provide some education, and the masses would follow. That was very good.
"You could have the meeting in the auditorium at St. Ralph's. I'm sure Father Floyd would be happy to accommodate you."
Portentia Champoux drilled hard with those eyes.
"Are you trying to set me up?"
"Ms. Champoux," I said, smiling my most sincere smile, "Your telephone system can robocall every single person in Westerville who has a library card. I know: My wife raised the money to buy it. You set the system to make the calls."
Her look suggested this appealed to her.
"Look. Like I said, I have no authority to get involved in this mess. I'd prefer to stay out of it altogether, but now that Lance has managed to drag me into, all I want is to get things back to normal. Here's what I'll promise you: I won't come to the meeting, and I won't make a single public comment about it. Period."
Lance started up again, "I…"
Portentia Champoux cut him off again.
"I think meeting with the community is a good idea."
"Then run with it."
V.
To this day, Lance D'Oily is convinced that my 'Meet the Community' idea was an elaborate set-up.
He is, of course, completely half-right. It certainly was a set-up. But in truth, there wasn't much to get elaborate about. Getting lemmings to go over a cliff is pretty simple; you just point them in the right direction and yell "Mush!" So it was with Portentia, Lance and the rest of the progressive faction of Westerville, Ohio. And what Lance will not admit to this day, is the simple fact that he never realized, until it was far, far too late, that the community meet was never intended to be the mechanism of his destruction.
The basketball game was.
What made it all the more fun for me was the fact that I didn't have to explain a thing to Muffy. As soon as I mentioned that Portentia Champoux had played college basketball, the smallest of smiles played - momentarily - around the edges of her beautifully pursed lips. Once I finished reporting on my meeting with Lance and Portentia, Muffy excused herself from the dinner table and went to the phone. One call to her best friend, Trixie Fairweather, was all it took to set the wheels in motion.
VI.
I'll give Portentia Champoux this much: Once she decided she wanted to meet the community, the forum came together in remarkably short order. By the end of Tuesday, she had secured the use of St. Ralph's auditorium for Sunday night By the end of Wednesday the library's automated phone system had robocalled every person in Westerville who owned a library card. And by the end of Thursday, posters were up reminding everyone that Sunday night was The Night. Had she left the task of coordinating the meeting to Lance, it would have taken about six months. I suspect she was smart enough to realize that fact.
Being a man of my word, I kept the lowest of low profiles all week. When Maybelline Billabong, ace reporter for the Westerville Daily Movement, called for my take on the community forum, I gave her as bland a non-statement as I could muster. Bland enough, in fact, to miss a mention in the birdcage liner she worked for. The only thing I actually did do with regards to the forum was suggest to our police chief, Bruno Gerkin, that he unobtrusively attend… Just to make sure it didn't end with Portentia and Lance managing to get themselves lynched. He agreed it might be wise; he'd heard the senior center was going to be bussing over the Bingo Grannies for the meeting. They were a handful even during the best of times, and Portentia had foolishly cancelled (due to alleged 'rowdy behavior') the monthly mah-jongg tournament they had held in the library basement for ten years. Rumor had it the Grannies were out for blood.
Sunday came and went without too much commotion. Bruno Gerkin called me at home after the forum ended, and to his relief the bingo grannies were pretty subdued in their criticism of Portentia. In fact, he said, the only disruption the entire evening came when Buzz O'Herlihy, caught up in what was later determined to be an acid flashback, became convinced he was back at Woodstock. Unfortunately for him, the mud he thought he was sliding through (buck naked) turned out to be the highly polished wood floor of St. Ralph's auditorium. The forum was delayed for a good 20 minutes until an ambulance could safely transport Buzz to Westerville Community Hospital for emergency treatment on two well peeled butt cheeks.
That mishap aside, things went well. It was clear - at least clear to Bruno - that Lance, Portentia and the rest of the library's board of trustees quickly realized that the community was less than thrilled with feminist library science, and if things were not put right quickly, heads were going to roll. After a bit of defensiveness, Portentia realized - member of the vanguard elite or not - that she had a war on her hands that could not be won, at least not with the crew who backed her. As one could have easily predicted, the audience's progressive faction wasn't up for a fight. In short order, changes were promised: The Dewey Decimal System was to be reinstituted, the Dildos for Dykes donation box was to be removed, weekly Shakespeare readings reactivated (and the lesbian ballet troupe deactivated) and most importantly, it was pledged that noted feminist writers would be excluded from the reading list used for the Children's Reading Circle.
Having pleased the crowd with those concessions, Lance and Portentia then turned to the subject of the library's finances. Lance asked for suggestions for raising enough money and was greeted with the usual suggestions; bake sales, book sales and Texas hold 'em. Then came a suggestion that seemed to catch Portentia's interest: A charity basketball game. The suggestion came from Trixie Fairweather. What it all the more intriguing, at least for Portentia, was the further suggestion that it be all female, four on four, for forty minutes. A quick back-and-forth between Trixie and Portentia settled the details. The game would be played at Westerville Downtown High School the following Saturday at 7 pm. Each team was allowed one substitute and a cheerleading squad. Bruno Gerkin would ref the game. Finally, each team would have a "celebrity" coach who, in reality, would be charged with ensuring all tickets were sold. The celebrities turned out to be Lance for Portentia's team, and myself for Trixie's.
With the game in place and the detailed settled, the community forum came to an end.
VII.
My wife has never been one to advertise her triumphs. So there were few people in Westerville who actually knew she'd been Miss Basketball in the state of Indiana her senior year at French Lick High in French Lick, Indiana. Or that she'd lettered in basketball three years while attending Indiana University. Or that she'd been the second team All Big Ten center her junior and senior years. Even fewer knew that she was still a legend in the state of Indiana. Although there was no way to verify it, it was rumored that Muffy had broken no fewer than seven noses in the three years she played for the French Lick High Lady Lickateers. Nor was there any way to confirm that she'd broken another six noses while playing for Indiana. However, two known facts suggested the veracity of such claims: First, she'd served a two game suspension her junior year in college for decking an apparently annoying Michigan State center with a left uppercut and second, her nickname on the basketball court had always been "Muffy the Mauler".
Given that all she knew about Muffy was that she stood five feet eleven inches without that seven inch bouffant and was fifty years old, Portentia could be forgiven for being overconfident. She picked up a couple of youngish former College of Westerville players who had appreciated the Dildos for Dykes program while it lasted, plus two members of the Cleveland lesbian ballet troupe that could no longer call the Westerville Public Library home. Muffy's team included Trixie Fairweather, 35, a former point guard at the University of Dayton. Sonia Feinberg, 42, who played her ball at Miami of Ohio, Libby Lake, 32, who had been a power forward at Ohio State, and Bunny Canary, 30, who had played at Indiana State. Portentia's cheerleading squad consisted of the three remaining members of the lesbian ballet troupe, all of whom were, coincidently, named Frank. Muffy's cheerleading squad consisted of Kevy Bellouche, Bert Boswell, and Bareass Miller. Muffy wasn't thrilled about the cheerleaders I'd picked, but I eventually convinced her that they would do just fine: Each had graduated from Bunny Canary's Westercheer Cheerleading Academy. With honors.
Although I was nominally the coach of Muffy's team, now known as the Martha Stewarts (Portentia had named hers the Andrea Dworkins), I knew enough to steer clear of all involvement in anything other than ticket sales, and even that I delegated to the City of Westerville's new Mayoral Communications Czar, one Wendell van Morrison (aka Jackson). The reason for this was simple: I couldn't have beat any member of the Stewarts in a game of basketball on the best day of my life. And at age 52, it seemed - from a purely athletic sense at least - that there was an excellent chance my best day had come and gone quite a while ago.
Much to my delight though, Lance seemed to miss out on that particular epiphany. Dense and clueless as ever, Lance decided what the Dworkins needed, above all else, was the sort of coaching insights only he could provide. The fact that he'd never been able to make a basketball team at any level failed to deter him. Thus, having failed to understand that a middle-aged man who didn't know basketball trying to coach a team of radical feminists who did know basketball might just cause dissention amongst the ranks, Lance coached. According to my sources, that lasted about ten minutes. The dissention that did appear disappeared rather quickly when Lance was put in a headlock by one of the Dworkins until he passed out. He was then pantsed and thrown on a snow bank outside of the Westerville Downtown High gym. That was on Monday. Lance spent the rest of the week selling tickets.
With the benefit of hindsight, I can now see why tickets sold the way they did. We had the promise of a good basketball game, the possibility of a serious catfight, and the guarantee of Kevy Bellouche, Bert Boswell and Bareass Miller doing their justly famed Salute to Liza Minnelli (backed by the Westerville Gay Men's Chorus, no less) at halftime. Folks in these parts can't get enough Liza Minnelli, so we all tend to get a tad giddy when Kevy, Bert and Bareass plan to do their show.
By noon Friday Lance and Wendell/Jackson had sold all our tickets. By the time I left for home on Friday, I'd be informed - quietly - by Westerville's premier bookmakers, Luigi and Guido Terrafirma (born Timmy and Tommy Kolodny), that betting on the game was quite heavy and leaning 5 to 4 in favor of the Dworkins.
I put $250 on the Martha Stewarts.
VIII.
I arrived home Friday night at the usual time - six - expecting to share a relaxing meal of Hop Sing's homemade white pizza with marinated chicken and tomatoes with my wife. What actually greeted me was a full scale battle royal in the kitchen. Muffy and Hop Sing had fallen into arguing over whether the tomatoes should be baked into the pie, which is how Hop Sing had always done them, or be marinated and served on the side, which Muffy was now claiming to be the preferred presentation. Evidently the argument was fairly well advanced by the time I entered the kitchen, because each had armed themselves with a large wooden spoon. Fortunately, blows had not yet been struck.
"Dear," I said as I stepped towards my wife, "Why not let Hop Sing do his job? I mean…"
You know, sometimes when you live with someone for a quarter of century of so, you forget just how fast they can move. So it was with Muffy. Before I could react, she had managed to grab my tie and pull me up against her. Hop Sing, seeing his chance, dropped the wooden spoon that had been his protection and bolted for the door. He was betting he could get himself locked into his quarters in the carriage house before Muffy could throw me aside and give chase. His calculation was probably correct, but Muffy had no intention of letting me go. The end of the spoon was now under my chin, pushing upwards gently.
"You mean what?"
Muffy was in full warrior mode: Muffy the Mauler had appeared a day early.
"What?" I said.
"You said, 'Why not let Hop Sing do his job?'"
"Did I?"
"Yes you did. Then you said 'I mean…'"
"I did?"
"Yes you did. Now finish your sentence."
I had to think fast, something I'm not particularly good at. Especially when I'm being menaced by a large wooden spoon.
"Nothing. I was just going to say that we should probably skip the pizza altogether tonight. You know, eat light and healthy… You don't want those carbs dragging you down during the big game, right?"
It was a gambit of exceptional desperation, but it worked. She became thoughtful, and then her features softened. Muffy lowered the spoon and released my tie. Then she planted a kiss on my forehead.
"You're right, dear, " she said, "I'll heat up the tofu surprise left over from Tuesday."
She had exited warrior mode. Muffy the Mauler was gone.
"That would be wonderful," I said, "I'll go up and change."
I made a mental note to make sure to paint some green on Hop Sing's palm whenever he decided it was safe to leave the carriage house. I figured I owned him at least a hundred dollars. Easy.
IX.
I had decided to go with the early 1980s Bobby Knight look for the game. I was, after all, the coach of the Martha Stewarts, and it was incumbent upon me to look snazzy. Everybody knew I won't be actually doing any coaching, but I figured it would be best if I looked the part. I had Hop Sing brush off my lime green double-knit sport coat (which hadn't seen the light of day in twenty years) and press the purple, blue and pink plaid pants I always wore to the annual Ugly Pants Night at the Westerville Country Club. Topped off with a short sleeve white shirt and the sort of brown polyester tie only seen on reruns of The Lawrence Welk Show, I was a sight to behold.
When I arrived at six-thirty, the gym was both packed and humming. Muffy and the Martha Stewarts had been there for a couple of hours, as had Portentia and the Andrea Dworkins. According to Bruno Gerkin, who would be refereeing the game, the warm-ups had been uneventful. Evidently both teams kept their heads down and their mouths shut. It seemed, said Bruno, that the women were going to let their play do the talking.
Although the auditorium of St. Ralph's doubled as the church's gym, it was designed first and foremost as an auditorium. In practical terms what that meant was that the stands are on one side of the gym. On the other side, there was just enough room between the court and the wall for team benches and the scorers table that separated them. I'm not sure how anyone else felt, but I was reassured by the idea that the crowd was in front of me and a brick wall was behind me. Even more reassuring was the sight of a fire exit on our side of the building. When you live life as I do, you always want to be absolutely sure you can make a quick exit.
As soon as I had a chance to take in my surroundings, it seemed things were about as they should be. The crowd seemed to match Westerville's political demographics: The Andrea Dworkin supporters were in the minority and sitting to the left. I was disappointed that there wasn't any giant papier-mâché heads amongst them, but it was later explained to me that Bruno has confiscated several as fire code violations. The Dworkin cheerleading squad, known as the Three Franks, was a disappointment. All three were wearing matching navy blue pants suits with black patent leather flats and briefcases.
The Martha Stewarts, on the other hand, had a cheerleading squad for the ages. There was Kevy Bellouche, a fey 145 pounds, Bert Boswell, a burly (and hairy) 280, and Bareass Miller, a very average 160 pounds, all dressed in form fitting gold lame gowns. Each wore a matching Liza Minnelli wig. It was the sort of thing you usually only saw during the big Liza Impersonation Contest during summer's Prune Festival. And while betting may have been heavier on the Dworkins, it was clear that most of the crowd was cheering for Muffy's squad. I had the feeling things were going to go well.
And sure enough, for the first twenty minutes of the game, things went exceptionally well. At half-time the Martha Stewarts were up by a solid twelve points. Muffy, by reason of two very hard fouls early in the game, was dominating the paint, and Bunny Canary was proving deadly at about eighteen feet. That said, I have to admit Portentia Champoux had game. She was both quick and determined, and had a fair number of points and assists after two quarters. While the Stewarts were up, it was clear that the outcome of this game was yet to be decided.
What was also clear to me during half-time was just how tired the Martha Stewarts were. The ladies, including my beloved Muffy, were gassed. All were in good shape, but with the exception of Bunny Canary, all were carrying at least ten years on any one of the Andrea Dworkins. They all sat quietly during the three Franks' precision briefcase drill team half-time show. Fortunately, by the time Kevy, Bert and Bareass had finished dazzling the crowd with a medley of hits from Cabaret, the Martha Stewarts seemed to have rallied somewhat.
Be that as it may, by the end of the third quarter the Martha Stewarts were again tired, and what was worse, their lead had been cut to four points. Portentia Champoux had the hot hand for the Dworkins in third, draining a couple of three-pointers as well as getting by my beloved Muffy for two easy layups. Most puzzling - at least to me - was Muffy's refusal to put the hammer down on Portentia despite having three fouls to give. I came close to asking Muffy about it during the break between the third and fourth periods, but before I could even open my mouth she looked me dead in the eye and I knew she was still in Muffy the Mauler mode. If she hadn't floored Portentia Champoux to this point, it was because she had something up her sleeve. I simply gave her I smile and said, "Go get 'em".
The first nine minutes and forty-five seconds of the fourth quarter was simple back-and-forth basketball. Portentia Champoux drained three more three-pointers, cutting the Martha Stewarts' lead to a single point. And that's where it stood with a mere fifteen seconds to go and the Dworkins with the ball. The Dworkins had taken a time out to set up their final play, and it was clear to even the dimmest person in that auditorium that Portentia Champoux was going to get the last shot of the game. And so she did.
With the benefit of hindsight, I think even Portentia Champoux would admit that she should have gone for a pick-and-roll and tried her luck with a fifteen footer. Instead, she chose to drive to the basket. Whether it was the fact that she'd managed to get past Muffy more than once on a drive or the fact that winning the game with a shot on her new-found nemesis was simply too tempting to pass up remains a mystery. In any event, drive she did.
As I've said before, Muffy Weiśniak-Murgatroyd can, when she so chooses, move very quickly. And it was at this precise moment that she chose to move far quicker than she had at any point during the game. Indeed, she moved fast enough to completely surprise the driving Portentia Champoux by ending up right in front of her, ready to take a charge and draw a foul. Champoux pulled up quickly, seeing her lane to the basket disappear, and went for the jump shot.
It was not to be.
It was not to be entirely because as Portentia Champoux went up, the right hand of Muffy Weiśniak-Murgatroyd came down. In fact, the right hand of Muffy the Mauler came down with considerable force. Enough force, it turned out, to swat the basketball out of Portentia's hands and propel it straight into her nose. There was a collective auditorium-sized gasp as the ball ricocheted off of Portentia's nose, which was followed by a collective cheer from the fans rooting for the Martha Stewarts as said ball then landed in the hands of Sonia Feinberg. Muffy, standing tall over the prostrate form of Portentia Champoux, let out a guttural victory yell as the buzzer sounded. And with that, the forces of Truth and Justice prevailed.
I just wish I could say I had a chance to relish the defeat of Lance D'Oily and Portentia Champoux more than I actually did. What I did see amounted to little more than the four undamaged members of the Dworkins swarm referee Bruno Gerkin, each howling that Portentia, then bleeding from the nose and groggily attempting to get to her feet, had been fouled. That really was about it. I was just turning towards the Dworkins' bench to give Lance the finger when my lights went out.
X.
We don't get many riots here in Westerville, Ohio, so in saying that the one in the auditorium of St. Ralph's at the end of that basketball games might have been our finest leaves me with a bittersweet taste in my mouth. I almost certainly would have been one of the thirty people arrested had I not been blindsided by a briefcase to the left temple. One of the three Franks, I'm not sure which, nailed me as the Franks and the Dworkins' bench, infuriated by Portentia Champoux's bloody (but not broken) nose and Bruno Gerkin's non-call, charged the Martha Stewarts, as well as Kevy Bellouche, Bert Boswell and Bareass Miller. By the time the Westerville Gay Men's Chorus charged onto the court to get a piece of the Westerville Chapter of NORML, who later claimed to have simply been confused and wandered onto the court, Westerville had itself a real, live riot.
According to referee and Chief of Police Bruno Gerkin, it took half an hour and twenty six lawmen from four surrounding suburbs to bring things under control. For that entire half hour I was resting peacefully under several of the folding metal chairs that marked what was once the bench of the Martha Stewarts. Muffy, seeing me go down, immediately went after the offending Frank, who ended up with her very own broken nose. The Martha Stewarts held their own against the Andrea Dworkins, and Bert Boswell and Bareass Miller handled Franks Two and Three with little more a few lost sequins and broken fingernails. Kevy Bellouche amazed many by squaring off with Portentia Champoux and fighting her to a draw. Several of the Chorus members waded into the middle of the NORMLs and happily bitch-slapped a couple of hippies, leaving love beads and marijuana seeds scattered across the basketball court. Once order was restored and the dust settled, Portentia, Frank Number One and I were carted off to Westerville General for medical attention.
By the time I regained consciousness the next morning, Muffy had already posted bail and was at my side... As was Hop Sing and Doc Panzer.
"Aunty Em?"
Muffy touched my arm gently.
"Don’t exert yourself, Dear. You've been injured," she said.
"What happened?" I asked.
"One of the Franks tagged you," Hop Sing offered. "You got a briefcase to the side of the head."
"Alright, everyone, that's enough," commanded Doc Panzer. "This man needs rest."
I certainly was tired, and my head was pounding, but I wasn't quite ready to let things drop.
"But we won the game, right?" I asked.
"The game and the fight afterwards," Muffy said with a smile. "Hop Sing had to bail out everyone: Me, the team, Kevy, Bert, Bareass and half the Chorus."
"Wow. Sorry I missed it."
"We spent the night in jail… With the Dworkins and the Franks," she said proudly.
"Really?"
"Yep. They really aren't that bad once you get to know them. Portentia is actually quite sweet."
"You're kidding…"
"Oh no, dear. She really is," Muffy smiled sweetly as she murmured the words to me. "In fact, we're going to make the game an annual event."
Muffy planted the lightest of kisses on my forehead.
"I'm still going to gut Lance, though," she said.
And with that, I was ready for some rest.
