Watershed

Chapter 2

Emory Stanton's political allies worked swiftly.

A brief memo from Larkin's head office helped to diffuse surprise and disappointment when a manager delivered the proverbial 'Pink Slip'. The memo stated quite clearly that Karl's behavior, deemed unacceptable in the public eye, must not go unpunished. Larkin did not contest the issue but colleagues were incensed. Arguably, the brakes had indeed failed (Bjorn Johannson attested to that); the incident occurred far removed from the workplace; Karl's employment was not involved in any way; it happened outside the civil servant's normal hours of work.

The R.C.M.P. officer investigating the accident refused Stanton's plea for charges against Larkin. Upon testing the brake mechanism for his own satisfaction, the constable addressed the insensate dealer, “I should charge you with criminal negligence.”

Encouraged by the officer's example, coworkers of the oppressed man appealed to their union. The union, in Larkin's experience, existed for its hierarchy, usurping employee wages so as to pamper the hedonistic executive. There seemed little hope of backing from that quarter.

His skepticism was rewarded. When the road grew muddy the elder 'brothers and sisters' decided to wash their hands of the incident. Karl read the decision with slight change of expression:

Having investigated thoroughly the grievance of Brother Larkin'’s dismissal, we find the fault to lie entirely in the hands of the individual. We do not condone the actions of this member and will not provide protection for those actions….

Several colleagues had gathered anxiously to hear the verdict of their appeal. Now they apologized in embarrassment. The suggestion arose that Stanton had the union in his pocket along with the politicians.

“You've been shafted, Karl,” Ted Hopkins said. “I could understand if you were driving a company vehicle, or maybe if it had occurred during working hours… but this is ludicrous.”

“Stanton must have really crawled down in the muck to find the slime who engineered this railroad job,” said another colleague.

The victim shrugged, “Emory could have set this up with a single telephone call. You boys best cover your backsides in his presence, too… Stanton's government doesn't want any un-civil servants.”

Unlike his co-workers, the soft voiced young man did not presume that the term 'job security' necessarily existed anywhere other than on paper or at Rah! Rah! union rallies. He believed in a job well done and appreciation for individual effort. Removing personal effects from his desk, the dismissed employee reflected upon the time spent in this office; how long had it been? Six, or was it seven, years? He'd hired on after a stint in University in the spring of 1975. Now it was approaching fall 1982. Over seven years.

And, now he had no job, no direction. But, surprisingly, the dismissal had taken a burden off his shoulders like the last day of school.

Unwillingly, Karl harbored a growing resentment toward the bullying of the affluent car dealer, more so on behalf of Hank Busse than himself. Larkin knew his dismissal would be a feather in Stanton's cap. Men of his character would feed their egos on such a coup. How far would Stanton's glutted ego take him? What would the conscienceless shit-disturber try next? Who will be the victim?

Though Karl maintained an outward calm, his thoughts were a seething turmoil.

And it bothered him.

He disliked having anyone preying on his mind; 'pushing those buttons'. Stanton would pay for this injustice. Honesty was the highest among Larkin's virtues and he would not abide a liar, cheat or thief; he wasn't fond of manipulators or extortionists either.

Larkin decided to even the score; maybe go ahead a goal or two.

The banished employee initially reasoned that Emory's pocketbook would be the most effective target for retaliation against the predatory cad, but Karl could think of no way to do this without turning himself into a criminal. However, further consideration favoured a notion to publicly shame the car dealer. Many customers and all political confederates would soon disassociate themselves from a disreputable businessman. Stanton should be ruined just as he had planned for Larkin and threatened Hank Busse….

…How?

…How does a dishonourably dismissed civil servant expose a veteran exploiter? Post an ad in the local rag? Run up and down the streets shouting “Stanton screwed me?” The battery of absurd ideas that shelled Larkin's mind were laughable; at times he embarrassed himself. But Karl possessed a bulldog's grip and a pit bull's determination. He doggedly pursued the conviction that Stanton must be stopped.

Larkin did not allow himself to be preoccupied with vengeance, however, as he pondered in his idle moments. On the third night, just after Karl slipped into bed, the seed of an idea sprouted. By morning it had pushed up a tiny shoot that, in the light of day, looked too weak to survive but Karl did not give it over. He nourished the young plant for several days, watched it grow branches, leaf out, bud and blossom until the notion had fully matured.

What Karl foresaw was more than a personal vendetta. Like turning up the power of a zoom lens or the magnification on a microscope, the distant and vague vision came into focus, revealing an opportunity to correct several injustices: a way to ensure that his friends and neighbours ?the consumers of Chesterton and area? were not taken advantage of by the unscrupulous; then, tweaking and fine tuning the image still further, like a snowslide, the concept burst the borders of locality and bounded unleashed beyond horizons. Possibilities were endless.

From the recesses of his mind Karl recalled bits and nibbles of information he had stored over the years. Ideas, long forgotten, reappeared as pieces of a subconsciously pre-constructed puzzle.

After high school, Karl had endured two terms of university before concluding that he had had quite enough schooling for one lifetime. Teachers were condescending; professors were oblivious; and neither group could be taught anything. However, Economics 102 had been an interesting subject for Karl. As the professor expounded upon the intricacies of the science, the youth devoured the information. Supply and demand, the fundamental law of global economics….

Karl the student had trouble with that one.

If stated demand and supply, would the rudiments of the rule be altered?

Seven years later that question cropped up again. If you switched the wording from “supply and demand” to “demand and supply” would the sky fall in? Would the world economy go into overload? Karl did not think so, but the implications required further study.

Gradually, a concrete strategy materialized. Larkin grinned as he fantasized presenting his hypothesis to Professor Goodwin, the university's economics patriarch. What would his reaction have been? Larkin could not defy the basic law of economics; his modus operandi: reverse the application.

Karl knew the time was ripe to present his vision: Anxiety gripped a world held in prolonged recession; unemployment figures were the highest since the Great Depression; global economies plunged; futile governmental attempts to reverse or slow the drift exacerbated the chaos.

Stanton's rebuff would become a mere consequence.

Stéphane Giroux studied people. Neither habit nor hobby, he considered paying attention to detail of everyone he saw a fundamental part of his employment. At the moment, riding the Toronto subway bound downtown to Union Station, Giroux focused on a small bodied person, probably late teens, short blond hair tucked under a reversed ball cap, Stéphane leaned ahead: Toronto Blue Jays logo; faded light denim jacket with snaps fastened up to the second last; blue jeans: left knee ripped; well-worn sneakers: Adidas with right shoelace untied; the clean white collar of an out-of-style turtleneck was rolled up to the pale chin (one small zit) which rested upon a worn, navy coloured violin case: second latch along the neck broken; a gray woolen glove covered one rather small hand (the other was concealed behind the case) curled up on the bench seat. Asleep.

Giroux shifted his gaze briefly, tried to focus on other passengers but for reasons unknown to him, he kept returning to the innocuous figure on the bench opposite. The train brushed into Union Station and the detective rose to make his exit. He cast one last glance at the little person on the seat and gave an involuntary start; Giroux was looking into the spookiest pair of eyes he had ever seen: the irises were a smoldering yellowish orange with dilated pupils like a wild cat; the whites were orbs of pale blue; they stared with intense burning hatred. Giroux'’s keen observation had missed the fact that he was under veiled study as well. Stepping onto the platform, Stéphane shivered; his hand involuntarily sought the reassuring bulge under his left arm.

Stéphane Giroux was a plain clothes detective for Greater Toronto Area Police (G-TAP).

Chesterton boasted a fine district newspaper. The Chesterton Herald managed to hold on when struggling weeklies in the area were going under; now it thrived. The quote, “Serving the community for over seventy years” endorsed the front page of every issue and the Herald now reached out to more than three thousand subscribers. In a letter to the Chesterton Herald's editor, Karl Larkin wrote:

They do not exist.

When someone (everyone) says, “They should do something about that,” who are we referring to? Who are they? Complaints outnumber solutions a thousand times and invariably the complainer/blame-shifter leaves the problem in the hands of the non-existent they. Coffee row, barber shops and hair salons, the beer parlor, anywhere at least two people meet, complaints abound and we part knowing that they will have to deal with it.

Have they ever done anything?

Not recently. Not in my lifetime.

I believe that every complaint, gripe or grievance should be accompanied with a plausible solution. If you don't have an answer, spend your time finding one rather than passing it on to they.

We, not they, are in a financial mess here in Canada.

Prices escalate, wages rise, taxes increase; is this a sustainable scenario? Farmers face ever higher production costs while grain prices slip to the lowest in our nation'’s history. We have bowed our backs, tightened our belts and made overwhelming sacrifices in an effort to withstand this prolonged cycle. Consumers have taken each price and tax increase in stride, hoping (in a few instances: praying) for a glimpse of light in a long and dark tunnel. Governmental initiated policies have proven to be painfully inept. No bureaucratic initiative, no financial wizardry, not even Divine Intervention will miraculously solve our problems for us.

And, of course, they have done nothing.

We mustn'’t wait for or blame anyone else. Responsibility lies squarely upon our shoulders. The road to recovery and prosperity begins now, right here, in Chesterton.

The solution: affordability.

Damp ink found its way to eager hands as word of Karl's submission preceded the printing. Chesterton fairly buzzed with comment. What can be done? How could one man figure to straighten out the financial degradation suffered by an entire nation's plunging economy? Did Larkin intend to attack the governments, provincially and nationally? Perhaps the lad had “slipped a cog” after losing his job. The article launched a hundred-fold more questions than the written words had asked. Everyone, quintessential cynic through eternal optimist, wished to hear more.

Larkin's only remark flatly stated that, given an audience, he would outline his strategy.

Long time friend, Mark Conlee, conferred with his former colleague when Karl stopped in to sign final papers. Waving a copy of the Chesterton Herald, Conlee asked, “Karl, have you lost your mind along with your job?”

“I'm hoping that isn't the case. How does a fellow know when he's lost his faculties?”

“I'm not sure… You look the same….”

“Well, thanks for that show of confidence.”

Mark unfolded the newspaper. “But what are you driving at?” Scanning the article, he added, “What exactly is this affordability?”

Larkin answered, “The amount a person's income will support… I believe that the goods and services consumers need should be made more affordable. If that were so, income could be less or buying power could be more. You tell me: if you receive a five percent raise and, at the same time, inflation goes up five percent, have you gained? Or, if that same inflation was six percent, how do you make up the lost penny-on-the-dollar? No one wishes to lose that almighty buck, but if seventy-five cents went further, which is better?”

Mark refolded the rag. “In my experience, we've lost more pennies than gained. They haven't coughed up anything to cover the difference so I guess we just do without.

Pointing a finger at the column, Karl said. “They haven't coughed up anything to cover the difference! They never will either….

“To delve a bit deeper, the problem, as I perceive it, Mark, is that we seldom try to resolve anything on our own. Since confederation Canadians have depended upon the governing body. That dependence grew exponentially during the Great Depression when thousands of people were wholly dependent upon government handouts. “Relief” is a most hated word among our fathers, yet we continue to think of the provincial and federal governments as our life support, a 'Big Brother'. Politicians feed that notion, making us all the more dependent and everyone is at the trough for his or her handout. The circle widens; in the long run, the costs outstrip the benefits.”

Conlee nodded. “Any time government is involved, administration gobbles up the lion's share.”

“Mark, we are immersed in an economic Dust Bowl again and I believe we can address, minimize, many of the problems on our own. We have to eliminate the very idea of dependency and to do that, each dollar has to stretch farther.”

“How do you intend to stretch the dollar?”

“I would begin right here, in Chesterton. I would challenge the over-inflated prices we pay in this town.”

Mark tossed the paper on the table, lifted his ball cap and scratched his head. “Well, we do pay more for everything… but it costs more to bring stuff here than in the city. We can't drive to Riverside for a loaf of bread just because it's ten cents cheaper.”

“No, and I wouldn't suggest such a thing, but there are other points where we are caught in the middle. As the ripples of advancement spread, so do the repercussions. One feeds on another, always growing larger. Meantime, we're going in circles like a dog chasing its tail, oblivious in our blind pursuit of higher income.”

Mark drew up a chair and pushed another toward Karl. “But what are you planning to do? How will you stop everybody from chasing their tail?”

“It's simple. We unite as consumers.”

“Unite! Who's going to unite? No one likes unions in this country, Karl. You should realize that better than anybody. Unionists and unions are blamed by Joe Public for the mess the country is in today. You won't even have your own shadow behind you with that approach.”

Karl said, “People don't like unions, Mark, that is true. Perhaps another appellation would prove more endearing to the masses.”

“A union is a union!” Mark argued. “What the hell else is it?”

“Have you heard terms like Bar Association, Institute of Chartered Accountants, Fraternity of Medical Doctors? Or perhaps North Atlantic Treaty Organization, The League of Nations? The name Soviet Union tends to put bile in the throats of people who are perfectly happy with the cognomen United States. It's all in the way you say it.”

Conlee's eyebrows rose. “Perhaps you have a point there….” He reached for the Herald and opened it again. “How do you expect to talk to all these consumers?” A grin spread across his face and he added, Are you going door to door?”

“It would be best to reach out to the people in large numbers so they don't confuse the message. Perhaps by speaking to the public, I could rally support.”

Mark Conlee was well aware of Karl's ability to bring people around to his way of thinking. A spark of realization lit in Mark's eyes. He said, “If you talk to them, they will listen.”

Flipping the paper back on the table, he continued, “The trick is to have everybody under the power of that silver tongue of yours. How could we arrange to have a mob of people in the same place, at the same time, where you can reach them?”

“That is a problem,” Larkin nodded, a worried expression furrowing his brow.

Conlee fully realized he was under the charm, and he knew that Larkin knew he knew; still his enthusiasm blossomed. “Maybe I could arrange to have a few of the boys from work pitch in; we are all behind you anyway. We could rent a hall and announce Karl Larkin as guest speaker. We'll advertise. Hell, everybody is interested now. They'll come out in droves!”

“Thanks, Mark. I hate myself for being a manipulator… using a friend. I'm no better than Stanton.”

Conlee grinned, “I had to come up with your plan. It wouldn't have worked if you had come right out and asked me.”

Larkin's friends became willing and invaluable tools. The stage would be set and Karl Larkin would have his chance to speak.

The violin case appeared almost too heavy for the small figure lugging it down the cement steps into the cavernous underground chamber. The handles were no longer dependable, so the battered case had to be carried, bundle-like, in the arms. Jamie Langston didn'’t mind though, the '‘violin' was a treasure, a companion.

In the foyer, Jamie briefly exchanged pleasantries with the commissionaire while signing the membership registry, then donned ear protection and walked through the doorway leading to the soundproof gallery. Jamie preferred mid afternoon practice because there were fewer patrons. Today, only one other individual was seated at the benches. He fired a steady volley from a large calibre handgun. The newcomer went to the opposite side of the shooting range.

Langston fiddled with the latches and opened up the case. A pleasant scent of gun oil assailed sensitive nostrils as Jamie extracted the nine pound “Stradivarius” and lovingly caressed the highly polished English walnut stock. The insignia Strum Ruger & Co; Number 1, Special Varminter; Cal 22-250 was stamped into the blued steel barrel. The heavy-barreled rifle, having a special adaptation for take-down conversion, was in two pieces; a third part, a 3-9 Variable Power, Leupold, fifty millimeter target rifle scope with special mounts, completed the ensemble. Two boxes of twenty cartridges, in the calibre specified on the rifle barrel, were also tucked into the modified violin case.

The shooter delayed assembling the weapon, carefully inspecting each component in turn. Satisfied, nimble fingers put the single-shot rifle together in a practiced, rapid fashion.

Ten rounds of .224 calibre, 55 grain jacketed hollow-point bullets hit the bulls-eye of the target posted at fifty yards (the maximum length available in the gallery); a dime would have covered the adjoining holes. Jamie Langston was satisfied; the gun never missed….

Chesterton Community Hall had been selected as the location for Karl Larkin's first Consumer Group meeting. As the fledgling orator anxiously surveyed the growing number of people attending, a fleeting panic seized him. He had very little experience in the field of public speaking. Would his voice fail him now?

An air of levity filtered among the gathering crowd. Curiosity was the biggest draw. A few faces reflected anxious hope. Skepticism reigned supreme. Karl had expected and prepared himself for the latter.

On the positive side, even the most optimistic person would not have predicted the overwhelming number in attendance. People from fifty miles away had driven to Chesterton to listen to the man who claimed he could lower the high cost of living. Mark Conlee had said there may even be a reporter from the city of Riverside. The topic touched on a sore spot, and everyone desired a healing solution. A general rainfall had halted the harvest for a few days and many farmers had come to town for a respite and to buy supplies. Curiosity stimulated, they had coincided their trip with the meeting.

Following the usual scraping of chairs, exchanges of greeting and general confusion, the audience found a seat or stood toward the back of the hall when no more chairs were available. A low murmur continued until Larkin, unannounced, casually walked to center stage and stepped up to the microphone.

As though talking to someone in particular he said, “I tried out this mike a while ago… is it still working? Can you hear me at the back?”

An affirmative indication allowed Karl to proceed. “Ladies and gentlemen, I am pleased to see such a fine turn out. I hope to entertain you with a few ideas that should have been voiced long ago.”

“Many of you already know me. For those I haven't had the pleasure of meeting, my name is Karl Larkin.”

“He's running for vice-president of the world,” shouted one of the contingent who had had time to brace themselves at the beverage room.

Laughter rippled through the hall.

“That's President of the world, Mel,” Larkin retorted.

On the inside, Karl felt as though he was drowning. Karl Larkin was a nobody and only through the effort of his volunteer campaign crew and the inherent curiosity of the public had he reached this point. Swim or sink? There were no more life jackets available and the water was rising to his chin.

But he could still open his mouth.

He did so and the voice flowed out.

Everyone, straining to hear, maintained complete silence while the figure before them captivated and hypnotized. Opening minds, touching hearts, arousing tempers while demonstrating the plausibility of his theory, Karl appealed to everyone individually. Whether vocal articulation or subdued whisper, the voice arrived inside the mind as though free from the logistics of normal sound.

“Canadians are very fortunate. Footage of starving third world countries fill our TV screens reminding us of just how blessed we are to live in this land of milk and honey. Most certainly, our living standards far exceed those witnessed on television. However, the misfortunes of others have a tendency to lure us into a false sense of our own security.

“We are not secure; we are complacent.

“The ever increasing expense of withholding our current standard is strangling the nation's coffers. We are spending money that we do not have to maintain a system which is no longer affordable.

“As a parallel, consider an ecosystem: An ecosystem defined is the interaction of a community of plants and animals within an environment. Each organism is an integral part of a chain that must have all links in order to survive. If the fundamental link suddenly begins to disappear, the consecutive groups within that food chain must adapt, relocate or perish.

“Ladies and gentlemen, our food chain is losing its fundamental link. The signs of a failing economy are similar to the demise of an ecosystem. Our tax base is the link which keeps a nation strong. We are pricing ourselves out of our own country. We demand that our politicians and public officials maintain this luxurious standard; in order to be re-elected they comply and I do not blame them for failing to address the crux of the problem. It is easier to ride the wave than to commit political suicide. Consequently, we slide backward; with a tax increase here and there, a company moving out of Canada now and then, farm foreclosures and unemployment figures rising daily. We have to realize that 'waiting it out' will not solve, but surely compound, the issue.”

Gray eyes searched the audience. “Are you prepared to adapt? relocate? perish?

“We can rejuvenate our dying economic ecosystem. We will benefit from our efforts. Not everyone will be pleased. Many will be affronted. However, given the wisdom and the foresight to see our future in the 'big picture', all Canadians will gain.

“Everyone in this room is a consumer. Farmers prefer to be called producers, but they are consumers as well – on a grand scale. No matter what walk of life we follow, there are basic needs that we Canadians require to remain healthy and alive. We have essential requirements necessary to continue in our chosen profession. Consider the millions of consumers across our nation; don't you think we should have incredible purchasing power? Why can't we set the prices?”

The crowd showed obvious agreement as a hushed whisper circulated around the room. Many heads nodded approval. Interested faces encouraged the speaker to proceed.

“The circle of price hikes never ceases its upward spiral. Every nickel increase in wages, goods, services or taxes tends to ripple outward until the actual cost to the consumer is effectively tripled or quadrupled. If you were an employee receiving the nickel increase, by the time you spent your next paycheque, the five cents would have been gobbled up in the ripple effect. Meanwhile, along the line, a business has folded, people have been laid off, and unemployment insurance premiums have risen. Members of the ecosystem have moved, adapted or… perished.

“Dramatic? Possibly. The implications however, are obvious.

“Conversely, if we were to turn the table one hundred and eighty degrees, if we installed a price reduction, lower tax or a decrease in the wage scale, there should be a rippling effect resulting in benefit throughout the circle. Avarice prevents the advancement of this more favorable scenario. We must have honest and complete participation in all links from producer to consumer in order for everyone to gain. The millions of consumers in Canada will ensure that this participation is observed.

“'A dollar ain't a dollar anymore'… Well, it could be. The time is upon us when we must take a stand on the cost runaway. All the complaining on coffee row won't change things for us. No amount of political lobbying will help. And, apparently God has also left us alone in this problem. We are facing a monster that we can control. Not as individuals, but together, as a group. That's the key! Consumers must have a voice. And believe me, if we all shouted at once… we would be heard.”

Following a brief pause, Karl again spoke. “Undoubtedly you have questions. Where do we start? What can be done? I'll attempt to field your queries. Before we go into that, allow me to ask a few of you….

“We've all heard about the gas wars in major cities; ever wonder why that doesn't occur in all cities? Forgive me, I'm off the topic. On a more local basis, let us use the price of fuel at the service stations in Chesterton. I can appreciate the fact that our area, as it is a considerable distance from the refineries, must cover the added cost of fuel delivery; we don't need a gas war.”

“I see many faces here from neighboring towns. Perhaps some of you could help me out here. Delaine Harlen, could you tell the audience the price, per litre, at the service stations in Fleury?”

All eyes turned to the addressed man. After conferring with the fellows to his immediate left and right, he rose and stated, “47.4 cents per litre for regular and 59.9 for unleaded.”

“Thank-you, Delaine,” Larkin responded, then he asked a lady from another nearby village. Her reply stated similar prices.

“Now,” Larkin continued, “I'll tell you that the price of fuel in Chesterton is exactly two cents per litre higher. Why is that? Fleury is farther from the refinery than our town.”

A murmur of surprise drifted throughout the audience. Steel gray eyes sought and found their target. “Harvey,” Larkin called softly, “perhaps you could correct me if I'm wrong, or, if not, could you explain why this price difference exists.”

A tall gaunt figure with a hawk nose and graying hair stood up nervously. Obviously embarrassed, he realized the futility of refusal.

“That's right, Karl. We have a 'Gasoline Retailer's Association' here in Chesterton. 49.4 is the price we agreed to hold.”

“If we had a 'Consumer's Purchasing Association' who refused to pay more than 47.4 cents per litre, would you lower your price?” Karl asked.

“I…I guess we'd have to…”

“Ladies and gentlemen, to ensure that this price reduction occurs, tomorrow, buy your gasoline from the service station selling for 47.4 cents,” Karl said. “Hopefully, you need not drive to Fleury!”

The crowd applauded their enthusiasm. Karl realized he had stepped on Harvey's and his colleagues' toes. This must be expected if the theory were to prove viable.

“Fuel pricing is an integral part of this nation's economy; Canada is huge and transport costs are a major factor in every purchase we make; any petroleum increase sends a ripple from shore to shore and consequently throttles the overall economy. The most negative impact are the 'hidden' taxes imposed by federal and provincial governments on every litre we buy. When governments back off their fuel taxes we will realize lower production cost on our every purchase. Until then, we are all driving around with our carburetters set on half choke.”

Larkin continued, “Fellow consumers, there is another item that stands out in the field of unfair pricing: In our grocery stores, the price of eggs is exorbitant; almost fifty percent higher than Riverside. Now, you may go to any store in or near Chesterton and note the source of our egg supplies. All of our Grade A's come via one market. I don't have to tell you. It's printed on every carton. My concern here is not with the local merchants. This is a case of monopoly on the part of the producer. I have inquired and the supplier has told me that his production costs have escalated. That may be true… but note today's price of wheat. The hens aren't eating twice as much and feed grain prices are cut in half. Someone is growing fat and it isn't the chickens. We can easily curb our egg consumption for a time. Let us omit our 'two poached' for six weeks. By that time, existing stock will have to be moved and you can bet that our retailers will have negotiated a more acceptable price for us.”

Once again the audience shouted approval.

“Now, I'd like to hear you opinion… any comments? Suggestions?”

“I got a question!” an older farmer called out as he rose to his feet. “How about that seven dollar an hour shop rate increase the two garages decided to lay on us?”

Perfect! Larkin smiled inwardly. The ultimate plan had been to nail Stanton and now the opportunity fell into Karl's lap. When the news reaches him, Emory Stanton would be fuming.

A barrage of verbal shots directed at the car dealerships ricocheted around the town hall.

“Yes,” Larkin agreed, “that is a 25% rate increase. It seems unrealistic when I am trying to manage on a 100% decrease.”

Laughter rocked the hall following this interjection. Most of the attendance had heard of Larkin's recent dismissal. Many blamed Stanton.

A sudden quiet descended as Hank Busse rose to his full height. Karl noted the pale drawn face and presumed the owner of Busse Ford had suffered sleepless nights recently. Hank's tiny wife exhibited signs of stress too. She clung to her husband's big hand, looking up to flash him a fleeting smile of reassurance.

“Fellow… er… consumers, “ Hank began, “I fully agree with the plan Mr. Larkin has revealed tonight. His words contain more thought and wisdom than we realize at present. This presentation of Karl's is, or can be, far bigger than Chesterton and area. The implications are staggering. The scale can definitely be tipped in our favor and a stronger future hangs in the balance. Let's support Karl one hundred percent and see where it leads. Our community should be proud to have such an individual.

“Ah, yes,” he added, as if in after-thought, “bring your mechanical difficulties to our garage. We have, as of this moment, reinstated our former shop rate.”

Pandemonium broke loose and the meeting continued with added vigor. Larkin had assumed a seat beside the microphone and anyone wishing to talk could do so. A few spoke against his strategy suggesting that the people were incapable of the responsibility. However, the majority were not in a mood to listen to negative comment. Farmers expressed concern for escalating chemical and fertilizer costs. A heated and extended discussion suggesting a united tax rebellion had the entire audience astir. Though nothing concrete was resolved, Karl was extremely pleased with the participation.

Returning to centre stage Larkin again thanked everyone for coming out. Appreciation shone in his eyes as he noted the passing of the hat. The crowd considered this a very informative and entertaining evening.

“I simply ask that we give this theory a try,” Larkin said. “If these few targets can be met, we can move on on a grander scale. Tomorrow, in Chesterton, the consumer will have a say!”

Mingling with his audience, Karl received many handshakes and well wishes. Meeting the lean, tired gaze of Harvey Schmidt, pain touched the younger man's heart. “I'm sorry to have put you on the spot, Harvey. Really, it's nothing personal and I knew I could count on you to tell the truth.”

“Damn it, Larkin, you know I make my living at that cursed service station. How the Hell can I make ends meet with a price reduction? We pay higher municipal taxes in Chesterton than they do in Fleury; my overhead is higher.”

“Harvey, believe me,” Karl said, “we have to start somewhere. You'll be rewarded in the long run.”

“I don't eat no damn eggs. And, I sure as hell don't get my truck fixed at Stanton's garage.”

“Well, you better go home and polish your Snap-ons, Harvey, because a lot of other people aren't going to Stanton's garage anymore either.”

The lugubrious face lightened from dark of anger to dark of misery. “Maybe the shop business will pick up. That's better money than pumping gas anyway.”

Hank Busse stepped up to clamp a firm grip on Karl's shoulder. “You're one hell of a speaker old-timer. Where did you learn to hustle like that?”

Karl grinned at the big man, “I talked myself hoarse and you had more profound effect with only a few words… thank-you, Hank.”

“I should be thanking you, Karl,” Busse replied meaningfully.

Karl met Hank's eyes then shifted his understanding gaze to encompass Mrs. Busse as well. “I'm certainly happy to see both of you here tonight.”

As Hank and Phyllis Busse turned to leave, Larkin's glance fell on a very attractive brunette whom he vaguely recognized. The glance turned into a prolonged stare; Karl could not tear his gaze from her. Thick, dark hair shone against the perfect whiteness of her skin. She wore an ivory coloured suit that accentuated intriguing curves. When she turned her head, Karl noted full red lips and large dark eyes. A carmine blouse, opened low at the throat, accented sparingly applied make-up. A stunningly beautiful woman.

And she appeared to be approaching him.

Pen and notebook in hand, the lady moved gracefully through the crowd and slipped to Karl's side. “Mr. Larkin,” she said, offering her hand, “I'm Sheena Davies of the City Times, in Riverside.”

The man with the voice had none.

Taking the proffered hand, he bowed slightly, “I… I'm Karl Larkin.”

The eyes, close to, were a liquid deep blue, they gazed up into the steel-grays. At length the reporter spoke, “You are an inspiring speaker, Mr. Larkin. I commend you on your conduct this evening.”

“Thank-you.”

“I would like to ask you a few questions and take down some notes, if you don't mind.”

“Certainly. Of course, Miss… Davies.”

She smiled, “I'll need both hands.”

Karl released her hand. A blush crept up his tanned features. “Oh, excuse me.” Larkin wondered if anyone else had noticed but there did not seem to be anyone looking his way at the moment.

The majority of the audience had filed through the exits; a few lingered in small groups, talking animatedly. The orator began to realize the extreme stress of his campaign. Adrenalin that had brought him to this point ceased to flow and the effect of the anti-climax seeped in. The evening had been successful beyond his own biased prediction, now he wished to be out of the limelight, away from everyone. Studying the lovely reporter, he reconsidered; perhaps not away from everyone.

“It's awfully hot in here.”

Sensing the young man's tension, Sheena suggested, “Perhaps I could treat you to a drink. Your throat must be dry after that intriguing speech you delivered.”

“I think that would be great, Miss Davies.”

The pair exited the hall and strolled casually along the temporarily busy avenue. Dozens of vehicles motored past as the hall parking lot emptied. After they had walked a couple of blocks, the din of rush minute traffic receded and the night grew quiet. Larkin looked up at the sky. An immense harvest moon shone down, bathing the streets in its silvery luminescence. Gradually the pent up strain of anxiety drained from his tired body.

“Nice night,” he said.

Sheena said, “The city lights don't outshine the moon in Chesterton.”

A little bell over the door tinkled as the couple entered a coffee shop. The waitress, recognizing Karl, smiled and ushered them to a table. Four other patrons, seated at a booth, congratulated Karl on his presentation at the town hall. Other members of his audience trooped in and called their congratulations as well.

Sheena began a battery of questions and Karl, feeling more at ease, managed answers.

“Do you believe this theory will actually be proved, Mr. Larkin?”

“…Please, Miss Davies, call me Karl. I'm not used to 'Mr. Larkin'.”

She smiled, and Karl felt the warmth. “Not many people call me Miss Davies either. I've lived with “Sheena”, all my life… Karl.”

“Okay, Sheena ?that's a pretty name? I am convinced that if consumers pull together, we can achieve a more affordable and, in the long run, higher standard of living for all Canadians. Chesterton is experimental; this town will be the proving ground. I have hopes that the challenges taken tonight will be decided in our favor.”

“You have a very persuasive manner, Karl; I believe you could make anyone do anything for you.”

Larkin raised his brows; he hoped the beautiful reporter could not read his thoughts. He said, “thank-you, Sheena, I hope you are right.”

“There will be people in Chesterton who will not be pleased by your action tonight. How do you propose to deal with them?”

Karl recalled the weary look on Harvey Schmidt's face. “I'm sorry for them. I honestly think everyone will benefit when the dust settles. It will take longer for some….

“Would you mind, Sheena, if I shifted the topic for a little while? I am not entirely comfortable with your recording my every word.”

“Of course, Karl,” the brunette apologized. Then, stowing the note pad in her purse, she added, “I am a reporter, it's my job to find the facts.”

“Your face looks familiar, Sheena. Could we have met somewhere?”

“You have probably seen me on CBJT television. I anchor the evening news occasionally… in addition to my City Times duties.”
“That's it!” Karl snapped his fingers. “I must admit though, I seldom watch TV, and rarer still CBJT. I'll make a point of catching your newscast.”

Sheena's huge deep blue eyes met and held the frank gray eyes of her companion.

“Are you a family man, Karl?”

“No, I'm nearing thirty and still single… I guess the right lady never came along….

“Excuse my boldness, but it really is a wonder that a pretty girl hasn't captured you. You are a handsome, intelligent man and your voice could charm serpents.”

Her candor left Karl squirming on the inside like a seventh grade school boy. He concentrated on the coffee cup for a moment, then asked, “Are you… er… attached, Sheena?”

“Attached?” She laughed. “I haven't heard that expression for a long time. No, mister, I ain't 'tached to nobody.”

“Now that,” Larkin said, “is truly a wonder.”

As they walked back to the hall and Sheena's car, Sheena shivered and slipped her arm inside Karl's. “It's cool tonight,” she murmured.

“Yes, there will be a heavy dew after that rain. I suppose the farmers won't be able to thrash for a few days yet. Fall will soon be upon us.”

“Do you always think of others?” she asked.

“How so?” Karl looked at her, puzzled.

“You don't farm. Still you worry about farmers completing their harvest.”

Karl shrugged. “My father is a farmer, I grew up on the farm. I suppose it stays with you.”

Sheena smiled, “I prefer to believe that you are concerned about everyone.”

The gray eyes hardened for a nano-second. “Not quite everyone,” Larkin replied, thinking of Emory Stanton.

“I've heard about the injustice of your firing, Karl,” Sheena said. “You have worked for that department for seven years. Everyone said you had done a fine job.”

“You've really done your homework on me, haven't you? However, you couldn't have talked to everyone. There always exists two sides to any story.”

“My opinion tends to side with the majority.”

Karl said, “Reporters are supposed to be unbiased.”

Upon reaching Sheena's little sports car, Karl took the keys and unlocked the door for her. “Folks don't often lock their vehicles in Chesterton.”

They stood silently for a moment in the glow of the harvest moon.

She touched his face lightly with her hand. “I know you will do well with your Consumer's Association, Karl. A man like you could move the nation if he chose to.”

“You know, Sheena, I had forgotten about the earlier part of the evening. My day really didn't start until I met you.”

“Smooooth!” she laughed as she settled into the car.

Through the opened window the couple chatted a moment longer.

“Will I see you again, Sheena? It's only seventy miles to Riverside. Maybe we could see a show or take in a concert….”

“Hey, it happens that I have two complimentary tickets to the Gypsy concert. Would you like to take that in?” Sheena asked.

“That sounds great!”

“Here's my address and phone number,” she said, scribbling in her note pad. “The show is at eight on the thirteenth. Drop around and we'll do up the town.”

“Super! I'll see you on the thirteenth, Sheena.”

She smiled and touched his hand. “Bye for now, Mr. Larkin. It really has been a pleasure meeting you.”

Karl stood transfixed as he watched Sheena drive away. The right turn signal flashed a few seconds then the sports car eased onto the thoroughfare; soon the vehicle disappeared from view.

“What a lady! …What a day!”

Sheena left Chesterton, northbound on Highway 84. What little traffic she saw was in the form of taillights going in her direction: probably remnants of Larkin's out of town audience heading home.

Setting the cruise control on her BMW, the journalist reflected upon the evening. The handsome orator, though not polished, had a raw talent for speaking to the public. He faced a tough and cynical audience on his first trial and had manipulated the entire community as though they had been coached or responding to script. Sheena believed the town would carry through on Karl's suggestions; the man had a lasting effect.

She slowed for a set of eyes shining in her headlights, then braked as a trio of deer dashed across the pavement. Resuming speed at a lower cruise setting Sheena returned to her contemplation. What was it in the man's voice that was so alluring, captivating? In the packed hall she thrilled to Larkin's delivery. His words were spoken in a normal manner, amplified by an ordinary microphone, but they did not arrive in her head via the eardrums; rather, the voice insinuated itself inside her mind….

At the junction where Highway 84 ended, Sheena obediently stopped at the sign but the four lane was deserted. On the last leg to Riverside, transport trucks were the only vehicular activity the reporter encountered. The prairies were in bed by midnight.

Arriving at her apartment a few minutes past one in the morning, Sheena readied herself for bed. As she snuggled under the covers Karl Larkin continued to fill her mind; she was looking forward to seeing him again. A smile crossed her face in the darkness, had the man been mute she would not have been any less drawn to him.

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