The election is growing closer and I’m getting nervous.
We have a debate in two days. I’ve not really begun to prepare. A discussion of some issues here and there over a drink at the Riverside, but that’s the extent of it.
I try to be diplomatic when I speak to Bitsy, but it’s difficult.
“We’ve gotta get ourselves in gear,” I tell her over speakerphone.
With all of her flitting around town, and with her primary focus being gin and tonics anytime she’s at the Riverside, I decide a conference call is more likely to break through.
“I’m concerned that you have so much on your plate that my debate preparation is getting shortchanged,” I tell her. “I need to know just how committed you are to this thing. Can you possibly give me your total dedication for the next few days?”
The woman is a born leader, I tell you, but right now, I need to do a little leading.
“Yes, yes, of course,” she says. I can hear dishes in the background and wonder if I’ve caught her barside after all. Probably so, given that the monthly book club is coming up. “I agree. I admit that I’ve been trying to do everything, and doing so rather unsuccessfully for the most part.”
Her voice trails off. “Yes, yes please, thank you,” she says to someone other than me. She returns.
“So sorry Wanda … Cecil’s confirming my lunch order. Can’t have the cilantro on the plate. … Anyway, yes, for at least the next few days leading up to the debate, I’m yours alone, I’ll do nothing else. Let’s plan on spending these days together. Maybe a few media interviews, but that’s it. We’ll meet at your office. There’ll be no interruptions there.”
I can feel the heat rising to my cheeks.
“Who’s doing media interviews? We don’t even have a platform!” I loathe the fact that I must remind her of this.
I’ve started a list of issues, but I will certainly need her feedback on what is most relevant and what has the potential to win over the Middle Valley voter. I do recall, when Mayor Charlotte won, the political winds were blowing toward more glitz and glam, which is what won her the election. Her and her fancy pants suits.
I believe I have a distinct advantage over my opponent thanks to my position as honcho of our local tourist trade. I know a lot of people, and I represent positivity and goodwill. Shirley and her ridiculous relatives have always been about the almighty dollar, every last one of them.
“I have several ideas that I feel carry a great deal of weight, as long as we can carefully explain how we intend to handle costs,” I tell her. “For example, Hilltop Island, smack dab in the middle of our Chickotee River … there’s no reason why we can’t develop that into a unique and interesting attraction. It’s large enough for a hotel with restaurant or two, maybe even a retreat, someplace people can go to get away from technology and clear their heads. No TV, and no cars! Shuttle boats … free ones that offer an exclusive, ultra-quiet place for both hotel guests and day visitors.”
Bitsy is silent, so I continue. I can hear her chewing.
“By keeping access limited, it would be able to cater to specific activities of interest. Bridge or chess tournaments come to mind … maybe literary meetings, weddings, private parties, nature studies, river boat tour, tubing …the possibilities are endless!”
After a beat, Bitsy speaks. “Interesting.”
Now I’m out of breath, I’m so excited to be articulating this vision! “The there’s Hilltop, itself. What a unique and historic place! What if Middle Valley offers transportation for visitors to go up the hill and learn about its purpose, its design, related structures, the grounds. We know now that our history with slavery and the Underground Railroad would be highlights, but we also know how Hilltop was an important link for smuggling liquor and other products could also be of interest.”
Bitsy is silent. I’m sure her wheels are turning. Either I’ve hit on things she has already considered, or I’m simply blowing her away. “What do you think?” I ask with trepidation.
“It all sounds great,” she says.
Well, that was cryptic. I go on.
“I’d also like to be seen as a proponent of housing construction built to draw in students from local colleges and universities. We have three huge ones within 20 miles. Off-campus housing near the river … the Riverside and Golden Pillar for entertainment. A river walk from downtown to the island shuttle could be built by the city without significant capital … oh my gosh! How lovely would that be? All of this … and we should also be pursuing athletics … a minor league baseball franchise, hockey teams …”
“Excellent,” Bitsy says. “This is all excellent. We need energy. We need vitality. We need Wanda! … Aha! That’s it! That’s our motto! WE NEED WANDA!”
I am out of breath listening to Bitsy go on and on, speaking about me. Yes, yes, yes … I think she’s right.
We do need Wanda!
“Now listen, we have to be specific and careful so everyone knows we’ll get private funding for much of it, but this is exactly what we need to distance ourselves from that awful Carson man and Mick and Sheriff Paul’s troubles. Excellent. Well done.”
At this point, another thought crosses my mind.
“Bitsy, I’d like to ask you … should we somehow make it common knowledge to voters that I personally paid for the therapist to come to town and provide free medical/mental assistance for residents after the murder and body part crimes occurred?”
“I’ll give it some thought,” Bitsy says. “Let me come up with a way to work it in without being too blatant. Good idea, though. Give me a day or two. I’ll get back to you.”
I’m satisfied that we now have a lot on the table to process. “I’ll plan on you being at my place tomorrow then. We only have two days.”
“Yes,” she answers. “As long as you need. We can go late if we’re being productive.”
This is what had to happen. I didn’t want to make an issue, but I wanted to assert that we needed to get down into the details. Bitsy works for me now.
I make a note to self: We can’t just present plans. We need to assess the opponent as part of our preparation.
What do we not know about Shirley, or even Elyse?
Jenny Page