City hall was like a chunk of ill-cut Styrofoam super-glued to the sidewalk. Another picture for Mel’s collection of bad architecture, Stuart thought to himself amused. He entered the building and found himself in a front room that was remarkably small and claustrophobic. The walls were painted in a mind-numbing beige and the carpet, the same color. The walls themselves were bare except for a round-faced clock with hands pointing at the wrong time. After a few moments, Stuart realized that even the second hand wasn’t moving.
To the right were three beige plastic chairs and a small wooden table, scratched at the legs, topped with magazines and a copy of The Callas Post. At the far end of the room was the entrance to a hallway leading to another set of rooms. To the left of the reception area as a desk. A middle-aged woman, graying hair pulled back severely at the nape of her neck, with a beige pullover sat at the desk typing something on an electric typewriter. The steady ping of the typewriter keys sounded like the clacking of train wheels on metal rail. Wherever you are, bureaucracy looks just like my idea of purgatory, Stuart thought.
The pinging of the keys suddenly stopped and the secretary peered up at the stranger standing in the reception area. Her mouth pinched into a sour expression as she took in the strange man’s leather jacket and unorthodox t-shirt. The men in Gavot usually wore plaid work shirts and heavy boots. And they were always a little dirty. This man looked like he actually took a shower in the morning. And his short choppy hair and glasses screamed, “City geek!”
“May I help you?” the secretary said through her pursed lips.
Stuart had the impression that she wanted him to go away. He glanced at her desk and there was a small plaque that said, ‘Belinda Montgomery, City Clerk.’ He gave her what he hoped to be a benign smile. “Good morning. I’m a reporter from Hot Tread and I was wondering if I could find out the organizers for the Harvest Festival. I’m doing a story on it.”
“Hot Tread? What’s that? Not a newspaper around here, is it?”
“It’s headquartered in New Halis.”
The secretary gave a grumpy snort. Just as she expected, a city boy. “It’s beyond me why you city folk suddenly find little Gavot so interesting. The mayor is going to be at the starting ceremony tomorrow morning. If you’re looking to interview him, you’ll have to wait until this afternoon. A reporter from The Callas Post is with him right now.”
“I see,” Stuart said smoothly. He kept his benign smile pasted on his face. “If it isn’t too much trouble, could I make an appointment with the mayor for this afternoon?”
The secretary finally smiled back, crafty. Elwood Hinton hated interviews because it interfered with his time in the office playing computer games and surfing the internet. “Sure,” she replied. “I’ll put you down for this afternoon at 1:30. His calendar is free then.”
“Thanks.”
Belinda Montgomery’s smile widened which startled Stuart. “If you want to interview the real organizers though, you might want to check the Community Center. It’s across from the church.”
“Is there anyone I should ask for specifically?”
“The Bingo Club,” she replied. “Old Petunia Granger is the head of the club, but pretty much all the members pitch in for the Harvest Festival. They hold their bingo tournaments in the church basement every Thursday, but all this week they’re at the Community Center. You can’t miss it.”
Stuart nodded. “Thanks.”
The secretary got out a schedule and marked him down for his appointment with the mayor in the afternoon. “Actually, now that I think about it, the Bingo Club probably knows a lot about what’s going on in the Harvest Festival. They’ve been in charge of it ever since I’ve moved here.”
“And how long was that?”
“Twenty years ago,” she replied blithely.
He finally stepped out of city hall and blinked in the outside light. The clouds had finally cleared and the sky was a bright blue, almost as bright as his shirt. The only clouds about were faint white wisps. A small breeze brushed dried brown leaves around his feet. After a few steps toward the church, he spotted the community center. He waited for a white truck filled with lumber pass the street before he crossed to the other side.
The community center appeared rather modern in style with its sleek black steel facade. At the most, it was probably built ten years before. A sign sporting the words “Gavot Community Center” was staked out in front surrounded by orange mums. In the front window was tacked a paper sign with blocky handwritten words, “Harvest Festival HQ.” He peered inside seeing figures sitting at tables cutting bits of paper and gluing together strange twisting sculptures. Stuart opened the door and went inside. He coughed at the sudden smell that hit him—a fake floral odor most frequently found in craft stores.
And suddenly, he found about fifty pairs of eyes trained on him.
The Bingo Club consisted of ladies approximately fifty years old and up. The previous conversations and their decorating efforts abruptly halted. Their eyes glimmered taking in the solitary male that had appeared on their doorstep. Taking in his un-Gavot-like attire, some of the ladies in the Bingo Club started smiling.
Stuart felt like he was a plump pig that had just stepped up to slaughter. His throat felt suddenly dry. He felt like calling for help but his mouth moved on its own, “Uh, is this the Bingo Club?”
The nearest lady, a lumpy seventy-year-old grandma in a floral tent dress, grinned showing her fake teeth. “You found us. Thinking of joining?”
“I’m sorry, no. I was directed here because I heard that you ladies were in charge of organizing the Harvest Festival?”
“That’s right,” spoke up someone from the back. Stuart turned his head toward the voice. This lady was perhaps twenty years younger and she had a pudgy look, not unlike a snowman. Her hair was short and permed and her lips were painted fire engine red. “I’m Petunia Granger, president of the Bingo Club. Is there anything we can do for you?”
Some of the ladies snickered.
Stuart took that as a cue for his introduction spiel, informing them that he was doing a story about the Harvest Festival and subtly implying that he wasn’t there to help them cut out paper decorations or gluing together strange sculptures that looked like strange animals with too many horns sticking out of their heads.
“Sit down, sit down,” implored the first old lady who had spoken to him. “You’re probably giving half of us neck trouble looking up at you.” Obligingly, Stuart took a seat next to her and wondered what he was getting into. The old lady smelled strongly of old mothballs and liquor. He glanced at the cups of refreshment on the tables which were filled with a strange yellow liquid and bright red chili peppers.
Petunia Granger got up to get a glass and a clear-colored beer bottle. She poured the liquid in the cup and handed it to him with a loopy smile. “I bet you’re thirsty.”
Cautiously, Stuart took a sip as most of the old ladies went back to their work and their loud conversations. The liquid smelled like rotting vegetables and beer. He took a sip and felt it burn his tongue and his throat. He took a breath and the rotting vegetable taste and smell suddenly overwhelmed him and he had to put the cup down and found himself hacking and coughing like an untried adolescent.
The seventy-year-old lady pounded his back with surprising force. “Take it easy, dearie. That stuff is an acquired taste.”
“What is that stuff?” Stuart wheezed.
The president of the Bingo Club grinned, showing lipstick stained teeth. “It’s Gavot’s own home grown Chili Beer.”
“Isn’t it a bit too early in the day to be liquored up?”
Petunia Granger took a hearty swig from her own cup and gave him a leering smile. “It’s never too early to be liquored up.”
If the seventy-year-old lady hadn’t clamped her wrinkly claw-like hands on his wrist, he would have shot out of his seat and dashed out of the community center.
