7. Help Plan a Park

 7.  Help Plan a Park

Wait, so was it the City that posted the Public Notice, or EBRP, or CalTrans, or some other kind of inter-agency, inter-modal co-operative working group?  Sensitized by numerous citations, Glynda thought first of the California Highway Patrol, who were always mean to her.  Someone at the Corporation Yard had built a sturdy frame of 2x2 lumber, spray-painted dark grey, a square base that supported a head-high poster-sized rectangle to which the Public Notice was afixed.  “In Your Face”, the words sprang out at her like a song, the sign seemed aimed so precisely at the solitary campervan parked in the athletic field parking lot.  It was only then that she noticed the nastygram tucked beneath Sara’s wiper blade.  Bad luck always comes in twos.

“It’s merely a warning ticket,” she told Jason, throwing the thing in the rubbish bin.  They had switched to a two-part form from the old one with the pink and yellow to save money. 

I’ll describe it in words so you don’t have to look at the picture of the poster, you’d need to read them anyway. 

Who was this “Community” they were talking about? Glynda wondered.  The seventeenth.  That was the day before her own birthday, less than two weeks away.  The picture showed a pretty good aerial view, obviously taken by a drone.  Her campervan was parked near the star marking.

 “Read the fine print,” Jason said, stooping.  “They call it the ‘Shoreline Park Improvement Project.’  Guess we know how much community input they’re really expecting.”  He pulled out his phone and scanned the QR code on the poster. 

 “Would you like to sleep over again tonight?” he pressured.  “or I could stay with you again…” Jason eyed the campervan nervously.  “Do you need some more money for gas?” he asked.  “You could park on the street up there.”  Glynda frowned.  “No, that’s okay.  I WILL have to move her.  I’ll come up on the bus later.”

 “Or call me and I’ll drive down.”  After Jason left, Glynda took care of the plants and scrambled some eggs to settle her stomach.  Whew, what an evening!   She hoped they didn’t think too little of her…  Oh my God, had she really promised to introduce them to Mum?  That was a pledge to be broken.

The purpose of such social rituals is to enact a transformation and it was true, she did feel like hell, there was every indication that it would turn into an enduring condition.  Donald Fucking Trump.  My God!  And when the singing had come later she’d taken the opportunity to dust off some old Phil Oakes, they’d all bonded over that.   All in all…  “What is it you do?” she had asked Clyde Pierson.  “Environmental Lawyer,” he answered bleakly.  Things didn’t look good for climate litigation.

Glynda went around and sat in the driver seat, poised to start Sara’s big mercedes engine, pausing as the door of one of the Port-o-Lets slammed shut.   There he was.  She watched him jerk the black dog and the white dog to a sudden halt in front of the sign.   She watched him reading, could sense his increasing agitation in the angle of his shoulders.  We’ve all got problems, buddy.   She turned the key in the ignition.  Nothing.

Oh no!  She thought she had charged her phone at the Library, but it was dead as well.  She supposed she could walk to the coffee stand later and call Jason, even though she really didn’t want to, did it make any sense to do that now?

There was a rude pounding on Sara’s passenger side and a deep male voice.  She couldn’t see him.  “Are you following me?” the voice said.  “What?” she said.

 “I saw you.  STOP IT!”  The last words were directed not at Glynda but at the man’s white dog, who had begun jumping up and clawing at Sara’s surface.

“Yes!  Stop it!”  She agreed, getting right into the spirit of the moment, “What the Fuck!”  She started to get out of the campervan.  There is no occasion that cannot be made worse by dogs.  “REHOME YOUR DOGS, SIR!” she screamed, as the god-damned animals got loose and ran around and pawed and barked at her unrelentingly, actually drawing blood.