Wilbur Weston’s mind was a planning one, not a worrying kind. He was an engineer by profession as by nature, and it concerned him that anxious thoughts were racing, crossing and crisscrossing his comfort zone.
He chalked this up to the scrutiny of local politics, the neighborly fishbowlishness of it.
While he was not new to Warhaven City Council meetings, he had never been in one of the “hot seats” before. As one of the three principals of River Currents Power, he was responsible for bringing underground lines and free power to the city and all its residents.
Weston was a highly busy man and organized to match. He was used to speaking in public, skilled at it. He had spoken in this chamber numerous times; he had testified before dozens of legislative committees. In fact, Wilbur had addressed many state and national legislatures. Eight times he had presented evidence of the viability of River Currents Power’s technologies before various commissions and departments of the United Nations.
How can it be that one moment, a little still photograph of disapproval lodges in one’s thoughts, caroms and cavorts, banking and cascading in an otherwise logical vault?
Yet that is the case. Picture this. Stanley Humphley, Tommy Twilling, and Hiram Jackabaw sit abreast, three rows back. Wilbur twitches, thinking, “Like a Harpy, a Centaur, and a Gorgon in vigil, the three men tensed to pounce at the slightest perception of injustice.”
Wilbur Weston had dealt with energy issues of global import with princes, potentates and presidents and now he feels subjugated by Tweedledee, Tweedledum, and Clem Kadiddlehopper! It puzzled him. This was a sesame seed between his teeth.
It was these men’s common stare, their pursed lips, their fidgeting. That was all. He knew they were innocuous.
Having sensed the chemistry, Mayor Ike Moseseek took Wilbur aside following the meeting.
Ike sat him down. “Look, they may appear to be clowns, but they are Everyman. They simply want to be acknowledged for their ongoing breathing and for their restrained consumption of coffee and cookies. The next time your eyes lock, nod. They will then know you know they are deserving. End of fatherly advice.”
Wilbur pondered Ike’s advice, the simplicity of his concept, the utter simplicity of the Golden Rule. “What do they see in me that riles them so?”
He tried the nod, the eye contact, which worked. He wonders, “To work the miracles wrought within the weird complexity of personal communication, remains its utter simplicity.”
Following the next meeting, Wilbur stands over the dregs of the cookie platter, when he is approached by Hiram.
“Councilor Weston, me and the boys know you like a good fire up at your place.”
Wilbur nodded.
“Well, I cut wood a little and if you ever need a true cord of oak or cherry or tamarack, you just give me a call. I’m in the book.” Her throws his head back toward Tommy and Stanley.
“Those two gimpy numskulls sometimes help me out. Maybe if we do business, the four of us could jaw a bit, and maybe,” at which point both Hiram’s and Wilbur’s eyebrows raised, “maybe you could sample some of my white lightning.”
Wilbur placed his hand on Hiram’s shoulder, locking eyes.
“Mr. Jackabaw, I am honored! Two cords of oak, sir, at your convenience.”
It is a an odd reality of small town life that acceptance of a newcomer by the locals may take years. No individual in Warhaven stands more altruistic than Wilbur Weston. Historically speaking, no one has been as charitable in furthering the commonweal of our village than Wilbur Weston. And yet, the local soul can be hesitant, guarded, slow to simmer to acceptance of an outsider, regardless of that person’s talents, attributes, or good deeds. Perhaps this is provincial, but it is the way it often rests with a town’s peculiar pecking order.
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The City Council is a work of fiction, written by Jim Tindall, appearing every other week in Columbia Gorge News.
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