Vermont Selectboard Un-Candidate #21

     I was dispirited after the last selectboard meeting. It was too hard sitting on the verge of panic, trying not to bolt out of the room, for four hours. The only thing comparable to it was working with my social services board once a month for about one and a half hours. Even then, I took a Valium before the meeting. But there were rewards for going through that hell; I had a job, some prestige and power, and was attractive to beautiful women. What are my rewards for enduring a four hour hell twice a month? I lost track of dates and thought the Tuesday after Memorial Day was selectboard day. I woke up that morning with my stomach twisted. That decided it. I was not going. At almost six, only about twenty minutes before I thought the meeting was to start, I had an epiphany. There was strong reward for going: I got to live in the present instead of having the harpies of my endless mistakes taunting me like harpies. This was how I got out of my Manchester By The Sea. I hurried downtown and realized I had the date wrong.
     While I was being so brave, I decided that if I were elected and found the seating arrangement too stressful, I would sit with the people by the door or even stand in the doorway. The rest of the board could adjust to that. It was no skin off their teeth.
     The Reformer eventually published their copy of my complaint about what I believe was David Schoales' racism and discrimination against all other races but blacks which I sent to the Civil Rights Division in Washington, D.C. The newspaper masked it as an "Open Letter" which was fine. Their editorializing seemed fair and helpful even. Everything was included.
     Yesterday, I was on my way out of the library with two bags strapped to me, hurrying for one more errand before my time ran out in parking. I stopped in midstream to glance at a Reformer on a coffee table. I saw a letter written by maybe six people praising Brandy's short concerns and David's racist rant for not having blacks employed by the town government. The letter urged everyone to come to the next board meeting and promised the topic was high on the agenda. It was a strident, self-righteous, guilting, racist letter. I could picture myself being loudly attacked at the board meeting by the liberals' sacred race, blacks. I was scared, cowardly, gutless, whatever. But I also saw myself there and attempting to say something that was not racist and was not discriminating for blacks. Could I do it with my double phobia- being in meetings and public speaking.
     My errand was to try to get a map of the Putney Road widening to show business owners who were going to have their property seized by the state and see if they were going to suffer as a result. The finance director walked me around until one of the very nice people there gave me a beautiful copy, almost as delicious looking as a chocolate cake! I was still so upset by the prospects of dealing with loud, righteous, guilting people at a board meeting that I had difficulty explaining what I wanted to the very professional, warm staff.
In the town manager's office, I ran into the eloquent Abanaki Indian, Rich Holsuch. I wondered if he was there to urge the town manager not to hire blacks, but Indians instead.
     With map in hand, I started toward Hannaford to talk to the managers.
To Be Continued
Peter Nickerson, Philosophy Major