George Ansbach sits alone up at Jane’s Java, staring out the window. As a farmer he has spent many hours listening to his own thoughts churn along on his tractor as he disked or mowed or raked, droning new and old ideas alike. As a city councilor he does not richly appreciate listening to the occasional harangues and soured attitudes of constituents for whom, they believe, life has not dealt fairly with them. Yet on the whole, he is grateful for the service he has provided. He scans the highlights in his mind, a fast forward film of still images.
As a Viet Nam vet suffering from gnawing PSTD, he is leery of coffee café chatter that can leap to the negative with the gnashing of teeth.
George begins to experience the auras, the pixilated lighting, the swimmers in his eyes that warns him to batten down the hatches of his being.
A couple curmudgeons behind him are squawking and squabbling about the federal government and the namby-pamby bureaucrats. He has heard that tired litany far too often, at the moment preferring something like Andy Williams, Al Martino, or Lawrence Welk.
George is self-aware, alert, and goes to that place inside himself that is sanctuary, a muted, pastoral place. George stands alone, fly fishing Caldwell Branch. It is late summer, leaning toward dusk. He smells the sweet, ripe blackberries. Swallows are out in force, stalking those edible, delectable insects, soaring in streaks of pleasing iridescence. He hooks a big one, and it is at that moment of balance, the resistance on the line that counterbalances an aching in his lower back. George finds solace here, this still photograph which is serenity.
“Ahhhh …” he audibly sighs.
The curmudgeons interpret this as endorsement to their jabber and say something to that effect.
George smiles. “Yep. You fellas know a thing or two!” Which makes them smile. Which makes George smile because he had worried; they could have thought he was passing gas.
George reflects back on the happening of the previous day, nodding, which the curmudgeons translate as further testimony of his support for their astute postulations.
The afternoon before yesterday’s council meeting over at Brown’s Lunch Counter George had heard Orin’s news that his friend and fellow farmer would not seek reelection, and given that George was up for reelection too, the questions came at the meeting. “The filing deadline is a month away,” he silently grumbled. “What the holy heck! What’s the hurry?”
“I don’t know,” he said to Tootie McDaniels’ question, not being coy; genuinely he was undecided. He really had not given the prospect much thought. Widowerhood had a way of compartmentalizing the non-immediate, non-essential things. “I’ll let you know tomorrow,” an answer which grudgingly was accepted, one he grudgingly offered.
When the Warhaven City Council meeting had adjourned, George approached Orin. “Do you have time for another root beer? Brown’s is open for another hour.”
Orin put his hand on George’s shoulder. “I’d be honored. I’ll see you over there. There are several documents I need to sign.”
George followed Debbie Dacnic and Ike Moseseek outside where they stood along Via Valhalla beneath the black walnuts, rustling in the breeze.
“Well, councilor,” began Ike. “I’m sure you’ll receive good counsel from Orin.”
George nodded.
Debbie rubbed his back. “I’d hate to see you not run again, George. But, you have certainly paid your dues to Warhaven. You were on the city council when I graduated from high school! Not that you’re long in the tooth! You have been a faithful servant for the people. Replacing your expertise is my concern, that is, if you decide not to seek reelection. Enjoy your confab with Mayor Holman.”
When Orin showed up, George was standing at one of the booths, chatting to the Amish twins, John and Jacob Hershberger, his neighbors on the Plateau.
“Orin, look at this. They’ve pulled out the icy mugs for the summer!”
Brown’s Lunch Counter serves their drinks in tumblers autumn, winter, and spring, but when summer rolls in, they use their glass steins, kept in the deep freeze.
Orin and George take a seat in the back booth.
“There is nothing in this world,” praises George, “like a good root beer in a frosty glass mug!”
Orin meets eyes with George. “Well, I’m completely at ease with my decision. What are you feeling, George?”
George smiles. “I don’t want to be a copycat, yet the idea of being completely at ease offers some appeal.”
“As it should.”
“A-OK, then it’s settled. We’ll go out together.”
Orin keeps his stare on George, “You know, old fella, one of those Hershbergers or their wives would make a strong, free-thinking candidate for councilor.”
“Humm,” he responds, pondering. “You, Orin, my sustaining saintly friend, are on to something.”
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