Poppy and Pansy were each lugging a shopping bag full of picture books the few blocks from the bus stop to the library. It was late Saturday morning, their usual time for this jaunt.
“Do you think we might be able to make our own tote bags soon Mrs. James?” Pansy asked her. “These ones keep ripping.”
“Yes, I’ve noticed. As you have already made a bag, a bean bag, I suppose you could make a larger one and add some handles. We can look at some pattern books while we are here – see if there are any you’d like to try.” Pleased that they still enjoyed the wonderful art work in so many of the books in the childrens’ room, she was hoping to interest them in browsing in other sections of the library as well.
She’d borrowed many books that she hadn’t looked at in years herself, just for the sake of introducing them to the girls. Occasionally, she read aloud from one of them. One of these was an anthology of poetry including Robert Frost’s poem, “Mending Wall.” Uncanny how apropos of their collective situation vis-a-vis the proposed building some of those lines were, she mused, reciting them to herself. She must remember to share them with the committee.
“Before I built a wall I’d like to know
What I was walling in or walling out
And to whom I was like to give offense.”
Along the avenue from the POP’s, Morrie Mangold surveyed the just completed sales center for The Alchemy. The caterers were setting up dishes and beverages for tonight’s Grand Opening and the food would be arriving any minute now. The sales material was piled on a table in the corner, away from the refreshment tables. There were more chairs than he expected would be occupied, so he directed that some be removed. He preferred that the room appear full. Invitations had been sent to a lot of people, including realtors and civic leaders, and he was hoping that some of these pro-development invitees would turn up too, not just the mob from next door. If the city council meetings and war of letters in the press so far were any indication, this mob was likely going to materialize.
Helping himself to a sample of the wine, he wandered around the room adjusting displays as he went. Rusty came in, added a large rendering of the project to the empty easel near the front of the chairs and joined his uncle in a glass of wine.
“So Uncle Morrie,” he asked, “are you ready for the inquisition?”
“Not as ready as I could be, if you had an eye-witness report for me from the Prospect.”
Rusty looked away, and said, “Well, I tried to, but there are no listings. I even went over just to fake my way in but that concierge told me I couldn’t come in. Something about there being only a single party listing right now. Only one realtor could get in, and it wasn’t me.”
“That’s very unfortunate.” remarked Morrie, looking displeased. “You might have tried saying you had one of those yourself. Bad move.”
“Anyway,” Rusty interjected, hoping to overcome this setback, “there’s this guy I met who says we might be able to get in, only he’s not sure when. Maybe in time to still help you, us,” he hastily corrected, “to come up with a sop to throw at them all.”
“So, one way or another, you’ll get there. And after tonight, I bet there will be some new listings in there.” Morrie laughed and, relishing the thought of the flight of panicked residents from the building, helped himself to another glass of wine. “We’re starting some site preparation work soon – clearing the scrub all down the bluff – so you’ll get an even better idea when you do see. I have a pretty good idea what they will say. I’m ready with some answers of my own. Just remember to be polite to them.” Morrie instructed. “Go up, introduce yourself. “Hello, I’m Mr. Nice Guy.” Say you’re interested in “a helpful dialogue” before they start in on you. Make like a Wrested Development professional.”
The caterer’s truck had pulled up and they were now laying out the spread. Standing up and stretching, Morrie moved to the front of the room, picked up a pointer and turned, waving his empty glass. “So, kid, how do I look? Ready to face the lions?” Rusty grinned, then asked, “What’s the order of march here tonight? Is it just you doing the talking?”
“First we meet and greet. Be hospitable, happy they’ve come. I give my presentation, take a few questions. Then I’ll say now we adjourn and talk to people one on one. You mingle, listen to what gets said. Any press, you send them to me, right? Now, one more glass for courage.”
Morrie liked being in charge. He preferred his own eloquence to any other. A short while later, once he was up and on his feet, this event was no different. “Here beckons before us a new beacon for our times and along our shores, not a crumbling one of stones, but one of glass and steel; dominant, a signal of the growing importance of our city and it’s place in our new world. But we will never forget our beginnings as we spread our wings out to embrace the future. We will hold forever in our soaring skyward those beloved foundations – we will build anew, but yes, we will restore our past! Our lighthouse, sacred city landmark that once adorned our bluffs and proudly looked out over our deep waters, I say again, our deep, deep waters, will rise again and contain within it’s beating heart, the very stones that have always stood in this place and are never forgotten. True alchemy – The Alchemy begins.”
At least this is what he thought he spoke, what he meant to say. His fervent delivery was a trifle spoiled by his incoherence, no doubt on account of his having previously imbibed a number of glasses of wine without benefit of food. His audience was polite, though mystified. A sermon was certainly not what they had expected. The committee from the Prospect was in full attendance. They were waiting for a promised opportunity to ask questions publicly after the developer’s presentation. It never came.
Morrie, instead of inviting questions or comments from the floor, suddenly stopped his speech, possibly aware that he was not at his best, and mumbled something about them soon all having a chance to talk to him, one-on-one. As he made his way stiffly down the aisle between the rows of chairs and outside for some fresh air, Rusty rushed to replace him and quickly invited everyone to enjoy more refreshments, then followed his uncle out the door.
“That was different,” thought R.M., as he rose from his chair and went to greet some other realtors in attendance.
“What the devil?” said Guy Karon, as he turned to talk to a willing reporter.
“Goodness me, I daren’t eat that! Think of the gallstones” concluded Lori Hazell, as she surveyed the refreshments.