Chapter 70

There was no way to break even with art, even if I took chances with the studio. The chances would be any self promotion on the Internet. Mid level Drug organizations didn't have the continuity of management necessary to hold a grudge. If the number one distributor in Columbia wanted someone dead, they probably died. Whether it took a year or a decade.

That wouldn't hold true for a mid level manager. If he wanted someone dead, but couldn't find them for a year or two, he would either be dead himself or lost interest. That is unless the person of interest was presented to him on a plate. That plate being the Internet.

So I intended to restrict my business involvement on the net to an absolute minimum. The Internet was necessary to move money from one venture to another. Increasing my wealth was pretty much impossible, since I was no longer out there searching for mischief.

That is not to say that the locals didn't think I sold my drawing for huge sums on the Internet. I had a website where I could send the curious. It came complete with a picture of the two old men fishing as the home page. After them came pages of way over priced drawings. Some were of my stray dog from Farmer's Grove and some were pictures of the Alabama River. I knew that mixing the two would be dangerous, but I took the chance that on the vast Internet, people from Farmer's Grove wouldn't see a website dedicated to art.

I also counted on people in Mossberg just blindly accepting that I made enough money on my drawing to maintain my modest life style. Being a success to me was staying completely unknown.

In the spirit of that I settled into the local lifestyle. Of course with the buzz cut everyone assumed I was a lesbian. I didn't mind that so much. I would love to have been just plain Iris Martin rather then 'that lesbian chick'. I wondered if one was still called a chick at thirty. That was what I would be soon, since I had a birthday on the horizon.

I spent the month of November doing little things to my townhouse/studio. To do that I really needed my truck, but I just never got around to replacing it. I found that I was quite happy doing my shopping within a twenty mile radius, or doing it by mail, UPS, or FedEx. The Internet made my life so much easier.

I went to Mobile once to do a little shopping. I admit to getting a little drunk and crazy. I spent the night in a downtown motel, then rode home the next day. It was all planned to work out just as it did.

The one thing I had to do was avoid self aggrandizement. I didn't post my picture on the website and I avoided all social media sites like the plague. I just lived life as much as possible in the old ways.

It was Miss Sadie who got me into the social circle called the Grange. The Grange was the community center of rural America, even in those days. Miss Sadie pestered me till I finally let her son and his wife drag me along to the Grange's Thanksgiving dance. The year old Ford truck with front and rear seats as well as a full sized bed arrived at exactly 7 PM. I was warned not to eat dinner that night. The Grange' motto seemed to be 'come hungry'.

Miss Sadie's son introduced himself, but I got only Frank. The Alabama accent was hard for me to understand. I was familiar with working with just a word or two of a sentence. It had been like that my first few months at Farmer's Grove as well. It was like listening to a bad connection on the cell phone, one that broadcast only a word or two with static in between.

At the Grange hall things began with a meeting. The discussion was about family farm's production expenses. I tuned them out when they spoke about farm management and a possible protest. There was a call for farmers to tow their tractors to the state capitol to protest the cost of gasoline.

I listened as long as I could then said, "I'm a stranger here, but I have roots here now, so I think I should voice my opinion. These days protests are all about media coverage. You will get more coverage, if the protests are more wide spread. If you do the protest for a day in Montgomery, the media coverage will be over in five minutes and it will be gone."

"What are you saying don't bother?" the speaker asked.

"Not at all, what I am saying is rethink your protest. Make it peaceful and make it raise awareness of the problem's effect on ordinary people. You want to highlight the rising cost of agricultural production, then make it about the effect on the average person. Most of all make it sustainable. Something like a campaign based on 'What if I weren't here for you'. Since that is what you really have to sell. A person's well being is his primary concern. Make it about them, not you." With those words I sat down.

"Okay smart ass, how do we make it sustainable," a young farmer asked.

"For one thing you don't spend all you resources on a one day event, one whose media memory will be gone on Monday. Get yourself a catchy sound bite which you can ride to the end. Then branch out. Do lots of TV interviews, start a petition drive on the Internet. Keep your message out there, but make the protests a part of it. Get yourself media coverage for the small things, but always mention the bigger message every time.

Look it would cost you a couple of hundred bucks each to drive a tractor to Montgomery. That is money better spent at home. Send three tractors with big signs on them to block traffic in front of the State building. Get arrested so the media has to cover it. Make sure the media gets a chance to cover the protest before you do it. Make it a peaceful but positive statement. Provide the media with a clip to run with the story. In other words do their work for them. The media pukes love that stuff."

"You have given us a lot to think about," the visiting speaker said. "How about we all go have some food and music."

There was long line of food set up on one end of the meeting room. I didn't get in line first, or last. I went through and helped Miss Sadie with her plate first. Then I went back for my own plate. I stood by the end of the buffet to drink my iced tea and eat my food from the local farms. I also made a twenty dollar donation to the Grange's budget.

"Miss Martin," the speaker said as he approached me.

"I am," I replied. "You sir have me at a disadvantage." I know I sounded like Scarlet O'Hara. I even felt bad about it.

"Jim Abraham," he said. "I have a proposition for you."

"Oh really, and what would that be?" I asked.

"They say you make beautiful and haunting drawings. Make a series of drawings based on the plight of modern farmers," he suggested.

"I don't know, it sounds time consuming and a bit pricey," I suggested.

"Oh so your words were all just to rally the cannon fodder?" he asked.

"Touche," I replied. "I'll give it some thought that is all I promise."

"You do that and I think your 'What if I weren't here for you" is a dynamite idea. Which is why I'm going to steal it, but I expect it will be stolen a few more times while it is hot." He slipped a card into my hand then left.

"People are all talking about your ideas. The arrest on the capitol circle is brilliant. It's all about the media coverage isn't it?" Frank asked.

"Yes I think it's always more about how things seem than how they really are. You need to put a face on your cause. Nothing better than a public arrest for some high profile misdemeanor," I replied.

My fifteen minutes of local fame was over by the end of the next day. Traffic in my studio picked up. I didn't sell much. I did sell one pen and ink drawing of the stray dog sniffing road kill. It was to a visitor to the community. I did not have a good feeling about her, even as I took her money.

The weekend past and all was forgotten, or so I thought. I sat at my drawing table which was no more than a plywood table top on hinges. It was a new table but due to a design flaw it had no way to hold the top at an angle. I had to prop the top open with two soup cans. Both of the cans were full as a matter of fact.

I worked at that table on a drawing of a beautiful little girl with terrible teeth. I saw her one day in the park and shot a couple of pictures of her. With nothing to do that particular Tuesday morning, I worked on her image. It wasn't an image that would be popular, but maybe someone would find a spot in their heart that it touched.

Since it wasn't very detailed it would be just a throw away image to fill my display room. I was shading the left side of her drawing because at the time it was made it had been late afternoon and she stood in a strong sidelight. I chose it because the contrast was striking.

When the door opened I saw a young woman dressed way too nice to be roaming around rural Alabama. "Something I can do for you?" I asked.

"I hope so Iris," she said extending her hand. "I'm Amy Westfall."

"So Miss Westfall, what can I do for you?" I asked.

"Maybe we can do something for each other," she said.

"I suppose I should I get out the lube, since I feel like I'm about to get screwed," I said with a laugh.

"Oh no, I'm with the government and I'm here to help you ma'am," she said with a smile.

"Now I know I'm going to get screwed," I said.

"I'm glad I'm not going to have to sugar coat things for you," she said with a little less honey in her voice.

"So what is it you want?" I asked.

"I work for State Representative Jordan. Mr. Abraham is one of our political grass roots operative. He was very impressed with your speech. So Representative Jordan would like to meet with you."

It all passed through my mind like a run away train. "Sorry, I'm apolitical," I said.

"We could open some door for you," she said.

I stood and walked to my front door then said, "I can only open one for you Miss Westfall. Thanks for the offer. Tell Mr. Jordan I'm not interested in whatever it is."

After she left I began to wonder if it was time to move on. I surely hoped that would not be the case. I was so shaken I couldn't go back to work. I went to the rear and rolled the trike from the new storage shed attached to the back wall of the old fish market. It was the perfect place for the trike. I dropped the small backpack with the battery and my camera into the rear basket of the trike.