To say that I’ve been disinterested, at best, in the upcoming mayoral election is to say the sky is blue.
My business is my life, the way I see it, and my life will go on, regardless of the outcome.
I have had no direct contact with either candidate. I don’t know much about the issues here in Middle Valley, let alone each of their positions on them.
I can tell you who I’d prefer to be Middle Valley’s next mayor, but that’s something I prefer to keep to myself, thanks to my aforementioned life/business.
Apparently, my friends in parks and recreation gave Miss Comportment (probably the most neutral person we have here in town, though I don’t generally read her columns) my information and a good reference after the park repair job and recovery of the time capsule. Miss Comportment (a.k.a. Marjorie) is as close to a journalist as we get around here anymore, since Bernie flew the coop to join The Atlantic.
In any event, I accepted the responsibility immediately, so it is up to me to coordinate the logistics for tomorrow’s debate.
Terms are pretty straightforward. The event will be held at the high school, the only venue with enough parking and auditorium space to support it. Media from TV, radio, and print will all be invited, each assigned to a space in the center of the auditorium, behind the moderator who, as it turns out, will be Susan Cotton. I know she knows Middle Valley well. I think she even interviewed Carson and Elyse.
I have permission to hand out my business cards at the debate, although I would have done so anyway. Any entrepreneur worth his salt never misses such an opportunity. When your life is the business, business is your life. Weddings, funerals, graduations … nothing is too small for Bentley with a Bentley.
The debate begins with Miss Comportment introducing the candidates, staff, and dignitaries, those wanting to see and be seen. She introduces Susan Cotton as the moderator. I’d be lying if I said I didn’t hear a few groans in the crowd.
The event is on.
I hear none of the official proceedings, but rather spend my time scanning the audience for prospective clients. A man brushes by wearing an ascot and smelling of cigar smoke and whiskey. I approach him, this prosperous-looking person, during one of Wanda’s screeds on history and real estate. (Let’s go, Shirley. Make a showing, for heaven’s sake.)
He is alone, sitting quietly near the back of the seating area, taking in the surroundings and noticing the attendees.
“Hello Sir,” I whisper, leaning in with a business card. “Good evening, my name is Bentley Rhodes. I operate a chauffeur service … perhaps you’ve heard of us? Bentley with a Bentley?”
He looks over my card and turns it over once, then again.
“Your mother named you Bentley?”
I nod. “Yes, sir, she loved the car, and now I do, too.”
He listens intently as I rattle through my sales pitch. Weddings, funerals, airport runs, proms … nothing is too small, I tell him.
He nods. “Well, I can appreciate that.” He extends his hand. “My name is Albert Nutwell. I’m also a businessman. I operate a shipping and distribution business from my home. I reside at Hilltop, a short distance from downtown. I can definitely see us working together at some point in the future. Thanks for reaching out to me.”
Ascot-man continues. “Good job arranging this event, by the way. I think it’s going well. …. Incidentally, what are your feelings about the candidates? How do you feel their stance on various issues may impact your business?”
In this moment, I realize that reading the news once in a while might be a good idea.
“Well.” I am buying time here beyond the pale. “Given my role here, I’d certainly like to talk to you about it, but I think it best to wait until after the debate, if not after the election. Can I take a raincheck?”
Ascot-man sits back in his chair. “Ah, how very apolitical of you. … Yes, of course, no problem. You’ll come to Hilltop one of these days and we’ll talk,” he says. “Here’s my card, give me a call when you’re ready.”
“For sure,” I tell him.
I turn back toward the stage. Shirley seems to be making some hay.
Perhaps this is a turning point for both of us.
Jenny Page