Chapter 17: The Mayor of Oak Junction

There was something about incumbent Mayor Gerard Nickel’s ability to look into the future and know at a very early age that he would one day be running things in the town of Oak Junction.

He sat at a window seat in the local coffee shop on a street named for the town’s founder, Anthony Gilby, who in 1899 sold his vast acreages to hungry working class miners in return for a cast-iron statue of himself in the town park and also his nameplate on the only major dirt path to cut through the heart of a then-evolving village. Gerard Nickel often used Gilby’s name in his speeches. The town had elected him to five terms as mayor, but he wouldn’t be surprised if this young, up-and-coming star on the town council this year, this union leader at the plant, this Lester Showalter his name, defeated him when November rolled around.

Gerard now sipped at his coffee, and lately he had been taking it black. His older age and notoriety in the town afforded him the window seat so that he could admire the pleated bone-colored skirt of one of the housewives who ambled by, pushing her crying toddler in a stroller that seemed to swerve as it went. He once had a life like hers, he mused, as he found his coffee much too bitter and added another sugar to ease its ugliness. The bad thing about him and his coffee was that he never knew how many sugars to put in it, and the waitress always served it piping hot. He usually went back to Town Hall with a burnt tongue that nagged him until evening. At home, his wife sometimes gave him an oral analgesic to soothe the burn, but the leathery burn never went away. He’d been drinking a lot of hot coffee lately, ever since his numbers in the latest Gazette poll took a nosedive.

It was a sunny day out, and there were plenty of people milling about the town. It was just around lunch hour, and the diner was as busy as usual when his campaign manager, a round, heavy-set man named Burt Burly, hurried into the place with the aim relaying some interesting news. Burt always had an ever-present trickle of sweat running down the side of his face, especially during the summer months. It was no surprise to Gerard that Burt’s sweat often bled through the oversized tarps he wore for shirts. They could never make a suit that fit Burt’s large, pear shape, and the Mayor laughed to himself at how ridiculous he looked.

“Gerry, we’ve got some interesting news,” said Burt as he barely fit into the seat across from him.

“Not while I’m drinking my coffee,” said Gerard.

“This can’t wait.”

“Oh, yes it can. Don’t you know how I win elections by now?”

“I know, I know. With patience.”

“That’s right. With patience. Patience is probably my only friend when election time rolls around. And drinking my coffee is an example of my patience. I’ve just about said hello to every man, woman, and child in this whole goddamned restaurant, and do you know how I did it, Burt?”

“Let me guess. With patience?”

“That’s right. One of my many virtues. I wasn’t born yesterday.”

“But this is important.”

“Talk about something else, will ya? This coffee is too good.”

“Please, Gerry. I’ve got other work to do.”

“Like what?”

“Like making sure Showalter doesn’t bury us in the next opinion poll. It’s too close to call this time, Gerry. We haven’t seen anything like this before.”

“You don’t think I can do it this time, is that it?”

“Oh, I think you can do it, but it’s tricky this time around. Lester Showalter isn’t exactly talking too nicely about you these days. He’s got the folks at the plant all riled up about improving working conditions and giving pregnant single-mothers sick leave and a lot of other stuff he’s promised them.”

“Is that so? Well then let’s hit him with the Commie line. That usually works.”

“The Cold War ended about fifteen years ago, Gerry. There’s no more communism.”

“Very well then. Tell our fellas at the Gazette that he’s been cheating on his wife.”

“That won’t work either. He’s got us nailed, not only with the guys over at the plant but with this –”

Burt pulled out a business-sized envelope. He had been carrying it in his breast pocket and fished it out as though he had been rehearsing the maneuver all day. In it were glossy photographs that had been mailed to the Mayor’s attention.

“Take a look at these,” Burt said, as if the trumpets of the apocalypse were about to sound.

Gerard looked at each photograph carefully. He was neither shocked nor bewildered. He calmly perused the photographs as though he were waiting for an elevator and was bored as hell with the music.

“And?” asked Gerry finally.

“And?!” asked Burt, massaging his knuckles.

“Listen, Burt, you worry too much. You make mountains out of molehills. These pictures don’t mean anything. You know it, and I know it.”

“But it shows you and that whore Lisa Snodgrass kissing, among other things. Don’t you think that’s something to worry about?”

“Not really, no.”

“Okay, Gerry, tell me where I’m wrong here, because I’d really like to know.”

“It’s a simple problem that can be corrected. Who sent them to you?”

“How the hell should I know? It came in a blank envelope.”

Burt slid the envelope over to him. Gerard looked at the pictures curiously. He slid his thin fingers over the middle of them. The envelope was postmarked a day earlier, so it must have come from within town. He then held the envelope up to his nose, closed his eyes, and inhaled deeply.

“Gerry, what are you doing?”

He opened his eyes with the envelope still under his nose and said:

“Leave this matter to me.”

“Y’know, if the Showalter camp finds out about this, we’re through. We’ve come a long way, Gerry. I hope you know what you’re doing.”

“Insult my intelligence one more time, Burt, and I’m gonna take a hammer to your balls, you got that?”

“Sorry,” said Burt, “it’s just that we have a lot riding on this one.”

“You worry too much.”

“My job is to worry too much. That’s why you hired me, remember?”

“Well, stop it. This is no big deal.”

“My kids are in college, Gerry. I can’t afford to lose this one.”

“You remember a long time ago, in my second term, when that smelly-old chemical plant had their little spill over by the river, and half the town came down with the flu? You remember that?”

“Sure I do.”

“Well, you worried then, and you’re worrying now. We won that year, Burt, and no one really gave a rat’s ass who got sick or who died. Accidents happen. That’s why I’m the fucking mayor of this town. I know how to clean things up. I know how to make people pay for their fuck-ups, and this is no exception. ‘A Nickel is better than a Penny,’ remember the slogan that year? That was the year my idiot nephew got arrested for drinking too much, getting behind the wheel of his Dad’s Buick, and slugging one of our patrolmen. You remember that? And what happened after that?”

“We won by a landslide.”

“Hey, now you’re coming around. These photos are the least of our problems. I already know where they’re coming from, and no, my family will never find out about this, because like a snake in the grass I bite into the problem, Burt, and leave my enemies brain dead. Does that make sense to you?”

“I take it you’ll take care of this one?” said Burt nervously.

“Damn right I’ll take care of it. Don’t I always?”

“Well, there was this one year you got caught buying a Carribean vacation with DPW funds, remember that?”