[The drama heats up on Indian Mound. Until now it has been limited to our hero, Arthur, and his next door neighbor. Suddenly it expands to include all of Indian Mound and colonial history dating back to the Pilgrims who landed at Plymouth Rock in 1620. SB SM]
“The test kitchen is now operational,” announces Cuzzin. He and Artie are seated on lawn chairs, along with the other residents of Indian Mound. They seated in the backyard of Lee and Amy Fong, looking up at the raised deck. Like so many of the homes on Indian Mound, the Fong’s home has gotten “the treatment” and now stands about eight feet above its once cottage level.
“What the hell are you talking about?” asks Artie.
“I’ve set up a test kitchen for the restaurant. I bought little commercial grade fryer, and I’m going to re-teach myself how to cook fish & chips, fried clams, French fries, rings, all the good stuff. You gotta come up and let me show you the operation.”
“Are you serious?”
“You’ve never known me to be so serious. Are you in or out?”
“Jeez Cuzzin. I don’t know. I’ve expected this whole restaurant thing to blow over. To tell you the truth I’m so concerned about my own shit. I haven’t given it any thought.” Artie looks at his cousin. Cuzzin does his best to look back with a glint of determination. There is a pause. Artie’s face is a tableau of “what-the-fuck-are-you-talking-about?”:
“How do you like my glint of determination?” asks Cuzzin steadily. “Just come by the shop sometime. I’ll fry up some sea worms for you.” Chuckle-sized vrooms.
“I’m just getting my head around Native Americans showing up to reclaim Indian Mound. I’ve got no cranial capacity for Cuzzin nonsense at the moment.”
An Asian man steps to the microphone on the deck. Tap-tap. Test one-two. Can you hear me. Is this thing on? (Feedback squeal.) “Whoa. I guess so. Hi everybody. Thanks for coming. I’m Lee Fong. My wife Amy and I are newcomers to Indian Mound, but one of the things that attracted us to this community is that it is so inclusive.”
“Didn’t used to be that way,” whispers Cuzzin to Artie. “It was Dagos versus Wasps, and Catholics against Protestants.” Artie shushes him.
“Anyway … welcome to all. I’d like to introduce another neighbor … Jerry Sweeney.”
“He looks like Peewee Herman!” says Artie. A slight man, hair slicked back, glasses, looking out of place in a white shirt and tie, approaches the microphone, taps it twice. “Is this thing on? Can you hear me?”
Cuzzin says, “Why did God give seagulls wings?” Artie, befuddled, “Huh.” Cuzzin: “To beat the Guineas to the dump! Get it?” He laughs as others welcome the speaker with scattered applause. Then, in aside to Artie, “Jerry Sweeney … he’s a mouthpiece. He does look like Peewee.”
The crowd quiets.
“Hi, thanks for coming, although I know most of us would prefer to be at home watching the Red Sox. Wouldn’t you know it? They’re playing the Indians tonight.” Sweeney smiles. No one laughs. He continues, “A couple of you asked me to run this meeting. I guess because I’m a lawyer, although I’m a tax specialist so this is way out of my league, although it is a taxing situation.”
No one laughs again. Sweeney continues: “One way to start is for us just to express what’s on our minds and to let others react. I’ll begin by saying, personally, I think this is a very serious situation and that we should get ourselves the best legal counsel we can afford. And I don’t mean me ; I’m talking about a $300 dollar-an-hour type. Some guy from one of the big firms in town where they’ve got political and media connections to tap into. I see a hand, Mike, go ahead.”
Mike del Vecchio is an Italian Dennis McGuinty. “Why can’t we just tell them to get the hell outta here? If a bunch of teenagers camped on the beach, we’d have ‘em outta here in a minute.”
Suddenly, everyone is speaking:
“There must be health department regulations. Where are they going to go to the bathroom? I hear they’re working in shifts. The teepees will be occupied 24/7, but every three/four hours, new people come. They all have cell phones and those personal data things. they’re taking pictures of everything. This happened in Maine and people couldn’t sell their houses with Indian claims on the land.”
“Waitaminute! Hold on everybody! Order! Order!” Sweeney is trying, without success, to regain control of the crowd. Just as chaos is about to reign, Cuzzin bails him out with an ear-splitting whistle.
“That’s better, thank you. Now people, I think we will all agree that the only way we’re going to have a productive meeting is if we all agree that only one person speaks at a time. Are we all agreed? Good. Now, the floor recognizes Clarence.”
Artie and Cuzzin looked at each other. “Clarence” is the reason why Tubby tolerates his nickname. He’s not in uniform.
“What they’re doing breaks about fifty statutes, but we’ve got orders right from the Mayor. Let them stay, and make sure no one harms the sonsabitches. That’s why you see the squad car down there.”
“Why’s the Mayor on their side?” asks Sweeney.
“He’s not,” says Tubby, “but he’s a politician and politicians know that it’s very politically incorrect to come down on Native Americans these days. He knows that every single guy on the police force thinks this is bullshit, but he’s telling us to live with it, until things can be sorted out.”
“His wife gave me my first hand-job,” says Cuzzin, aside, to Artie.
“Thanks for the insight, Clarence,” says Sweeney. “I see Shea.” Shea stands. She’s composed, casual. She’s wearing a yoke-necked aqua top and off-white, linen slacks. She’s wearing make-up, Artie realizes. She looks good. “We’re fighting a battle on two entirely different fronts, the personal and the political. We keep jumping from one to the other. As a result we appear confused and disorganized. First is the legal front. None of knows where we stand. And that goes for the Mayor and the Governor. We should just butt out of this issue, and leave it to the courts.
“On the personal side, and the court of public opinion, however, we should be able to hold our own, but I gotta tell you, the Indians won the opening battle decisively this afternoon.” Murmurs quickly swell:
“Didja see the coverage on Channel 5? That Indian guy in the headdress … no one should let Dennis near a microphone again … Cynthia Fuckin Twiddlecunt!” It takes another blast from Cuzzin to return the floor to Shea:
“We’re up against media-savvy pros. They know how to present themselves while we’re all emotion- ally caught up in the moment. Anger is not a helpful emotion in a situation like this. I feel strongly that we should designate a single spokesperson to talk to the media. Someone cool and calm, who can present the interests of the residents without making us seem like a bunch of redneck racists.”
“But we are redneck racists,” blurts del Vecchio, generating a few hoots of support. “Especially when it comes to protecting out homes.”
Shea looks through him with a professional mask of disinterest on her face. Artie recognizes that she is now fully in character. “And we should meet nightly–same time, same place– to discuss the events of the day, bring forward new information, and, if necessary, adjust our community position that the spokesperson presents the outside world.”
“I don’t know if we need to create a procedure,” says Sweeney, “but I nominate you.” This is followed by a lot of yeah-yeah-yeahs.
“I’ll be glad to do it,” says Shea.
“In that case,” inserts Sweeney. “We don’t even have to vote. You’re elected, and you might as well run the meeting, too.” This, too, is met with concensus. Shea replaces Sweeney, who gratefully slips back into the anonymity of the crowd.
“OK, who’s next?” says Shea.
Artie raises his hand.
For those of you who don’t know me, I’m Arthur Gordon. My family has owned property on Indian Mound for over 100 years, and I’m currently living in the only remaining summer cottage. I bring a slightly detached viewpoint, since I don’t live here full-time. What I’d like to urge is for everyone to take a deep breath and try to look at the situation with less emotion. I heard a million rumors today, most of them ridiculous. For instance, there’s no possibility of building a casino here. You couldn’t even fit the employee parking lot for a casino on Indian Mound. So, you have to ask yourself “What do these people want? Why are they doing this?” because until you can see things through the other guy’s eyes, you don’t know what or how to negotiate.
There is one second of silence before a tsunami of hostility. If Artie had been trying to coalesce the group to united action, he has succeeded:
“Easy for you to say. You’ve got nothing to lose.”
“Who asked you, anyway?”
“You don’t own a house here, you own a shack.”
“I’d give your place to the redskins, but they wouldn’t take it.”
“Your shack is holding down the values of the rest of our properties.”
“The only good Indian is a dead Indian.”
“The rest of us live in real houses. You live in an eyesore.”
Cuzzin whistles. Shea gets the meeting back under control. Shea says there is always wisdom to seeing the opposing view, but Artie doesn’t hear anything more. He descends into a bubbling stew of fuming self-obsession. Fuck these small-minded jerks. If he wanted to, he could tear the cottage down, and put up a home that would make the rest of Indian Mound look like a trailer park. But he wouldn’t, because who the hell would want such crummy neighbors?
He descends into a well of anger. All he can see are cold, dark walls. He hasn’t been in this space since he was a teenager, wanting to get light years away from Indian Mound. I gotta get out of this crap hole. I’m going so far away my dust will never find me. Bye-bye, Cuzzin. I’m going to be something. I’m going to be somebody. And you should, too.
And he did, and Cuzzin didn’t. And now he’s back, and Cuzzin’s still here, and the ghosts of his parents and Uncles are all around him like the sea breeze. And don’t these dumb mother fuckers realize that he has roots on Indian Mound that are deeper than their FEMA-subsidized foundations?
After several minutes, Artie realizes that he is no longer listening to a single word being said at the meeting. Shea is saying something modulated and monotonous. He stands up abruptly in mid-sentence and leaves. A few seconds later Cuzzin follows.
Hey Ah-tee, Ah-tee. Don’t pay attention to them. They’re scared and nervous. They took it out on you is all. Most of these people don’t own much more than their houses, their cars, and their TVs. They’re all mortgaged up the ying yang, so this is scary stuff. Plus, they don’t understand the history or the law, so they’re at a double disadvantage. They’re ordinary folks. They’re just scared. Hey, let’s go to the cottage and hava drink.
“Cocksuckers,” says Artie. “Dumb, low-life, stupid cock- suckers.”
Back at the cottage, they decompress with a beer. Cuzzin finally succeeds in getting Artie to laugh when he references his first hand-job. “I think she’s got a few notches on her lipstick case, says Artie. Three quick beers later Cuzzin hops on his Harley and leaves. Artie sits enveloped by the summer night. There’s a knock, and a voice calling his name. It’s Shea. Come in, he tells her, but he doesn’t get up. He doesn’t offer her anything.
“I want you to know that I think you were treated badly tonight.”
“Thank you,” he says, “but I really don’t care what those people think of me.”
“I know.” She sits down. The room is lit to a dimness that suits Artie’s brood. “With them, it’s all about the buildings, the square footage, the possessions, and what you can sell them for. They just can’t understand why someone like you seems to care so much about so little.” She gestures around to the enveloping cottage.
“And you don’t feel the same way?”
“Well, yes I do, or I did, but I’ve started to see the other side.”
“And what’s that?”
“That this place is less about shelter and possessions than about summertime, family, and community. Material things get in the way. This house is your life.”
“My life is a broken down cottage?”
“That’s right, but a charming, broken down cottage with a lot of character. That’s why you are clinging to it so desperately.”
“That’s me, a truly desperate man.”
“I’m sorry. It’s coming out wrong. I just want you to know that those other people don’t understand where you’re coming from, and they treated you rudely.”
“Did I miss anything of note?”
“More threats of violence. More ugly talk. More hatred. I get to try to put a positive spin on it tomorrow.”
“Lucky you.”