My city was being preyed upon by catalytic converter thieves, challenged by an alarming homicide rate, and an escalating homeless population. But what really bugged me is I’d just received my second rent increase in one year. Time to enter the political arena, a local meeting of mayoral candidates.
The gathering was up the hill from where I lived, but not easy to find. Over the last seven years, developers had transformed the area from a weed patch into a row of luxury homes, many with Spanish tiled roofs that gave off a warm glow in the afternoon hours. It had a spectacular view of the Bay, a place where you could watch fireworks or the Blue Angels zip through clouds without having to worry about parking. I entered a large kitchen, a slab of granite large enough to butcher a moose, set with a row of wine bottles and a tray of profiteroles, lovely crème puffs filled with custard. I spoke with an older woman with curly hair who’d just placed the final profiterole on a large tray and stepped aside to admire her work. She introduced herself as the host. Outside, children chased after bubbles pouring from the mouth of a plastic elf. I refilled my plate with an assortment of cheese and other goodies from the refreshment table. In a little while, the crowd ebbed toward the front lawn. The host held out a microphone and said there would be time for questions.
All the polls had predicted that one of the candidates, Palisade Trenton, would win.
A woman took the mic and gave her backstory, spoke about how she’d immigrated with her family as a child from Vietnam and had spent time in a relocation camp, Palisade Trenton, turns out she’s a single mother who’d been housed in a shelter; a third candidate wanted to apply business practices to the workings of City Hall. But suddenly, the stage was rushed by a man who appeared wearing pajamas and pointing at one of the candidates. Palisade ducked behind a rose bush, screaming, “Get him out of here.” As far as I knew, there was no security. But the intruder tripped over a ball that a youngster was kicking across the lawn. He landed face down, whereupon two hefty guests involved with a high school football team by the looks of their shirts, grabbed the man. A single cry of “Oh, no,” was heard across the hill. The intruder tried to advance without being tackled. The guys wrestled away his knife while he shouted obscenities.
Palisade shouted back some choice words to the effect that he’d never set eyes on his daughter again and let him know what she thought of him as a father. The host stepped down from the podium. By the scowl on her face, she was furious. He had ruined her party. No longer the friendly and genteel host, she approached the man and announced on the microphone, “You have to leave, or else I will call the police.” He looked hungrily at the refreshment table. “Can I make myself a plate first?” She pushed the entire shrimp tray into his chest. “Leave,” she ordered, and poured cocktail sauce up and down his arm. He flung the sauce into her eyes. Palisade flew from behind the rose bush and stared him down. “How dare you come here. You show up in pajamas waving a knife. You’re flying high as a kite and you know it.” The man began to weep. He asked her forgiveness and left leaving a trail of shrimp out the door.
The candidates gathered around Palisade and gave her hugs, almost started to speak about curbing violence in the city, but by this time, everyone began to leave. I felt badly for Palisade, maybe she’d get my sympathy vote. The candidates sat together at an empty table and stared at empty wine glasses. I nearly asked about rent control, but the time wasn’t right. On my way back, pigeons gathered on a telephone wire. I gave my car horn several long blasts and the birds spiraled into the sky, which is when I saw Palisade’s husband stumbling down the hill. I slowed down. I didn’t know if I should say anything. My mistake and I rolled down the window.
He pulled out a gun.
“I hope you got something to eat,” I said.
“Do I know you?”