Guerneville, California had a population in 2040 of roughly 4,500; about the same as it was twenty years earlier. Its population peaked at 6,300 in 2032, but rapidly declined after Skazer Tartman became the community’s chief of police. Until that time, the Sonoma County Sheriff’s Department provided law enforcement for the community. When Skazer, an avid collector of cars with a bad reputation, took over, he hired six officers and provided each of them with a meticulously refurbished 1971 Ford Pinto, outfitted as a police cruiser. He had the cars painted black and white. He equipped each one with an emergency siren and LED light bar. And he demanded his officers to be relentlessly tough on what he called “conservative crime;” any breach of the law—or attitude—by “gangsters who do not abide by the rules of our liberal lifestyle.”
During his first eight years as chief, Skazer made an indelible mark on Guerneville. Thanks to his inflexible treatment of “classless conservatives,” the community lost close to twenty percent of it population of “undesirables.”
Skazer declared in his annual report to the town council:
“Good effing riddance. When I came here, you asked me to clean up this town and that’s exactly what I’ve done! The bastards we’ve run out of town call my officers the Liberal Gestapo…let them laugh at the Pinto Force all they want, as long as they leave and don’t come back!”
Ginger Pinkwell was the only member of the town council who openly criticized Skazer’s tactics. She expressed her frustration with his approach on the Wednesday before the explosive showdown:
“The people you’ve run out of town aren’t the only ones who call you the Liberal Gestapo. Many of our town’s most fervent supporters talk about the way your officers intimidate everyone they encounter. Cops in their little Pintos with big V-8 engines and growling mufflers run around scaring the hell out of people. I don’t call that liberal. I do call it Gestapo, though!”
Skazer seemed to take some delight in facing off with Ginger. The townspeople who attended council meetings were delighted with the rivalry, too. Nonpartisan observers claimed townspeople were evenly divided over which of the two they supported.
“Ginger, I apologize if my approach to law enforcement offends your MAGA sensibilities…”
Ginger’s face flushed red, her eyes widened, and her nostrils flared.
“Chief, don’t you dare call me MAGA! I’m as far from it as a person can get! You, on the other hand, seem to have inherited an ugly hybrid form of that hideous attitude from a time we’d all like to forget.”
A few days later, the piercing scream of a siren interrupted the serenity of the quiet sunrise. Blue and red flashing lights reflected in her car’s mirror as Ginger pulled to the curb, a black and white Ford Pinto behind her. Ginger gritted her teeth and muttered aloud, “That goddamned sonofabitch….,” as she reached for her purse. Instead of grabbing her driver’s license, though, Ginger pulled a taser, a gift from her friend, Megan, from her bag. One can only guess what was going through her mind at that moment. Whatever it was hurled her into an ugly confrontation that left the cop incapacitated, Ginger gravely wounded, and a herd of black and white Pintos blocking Main Street in front of King’s Sport & Tackle. Among the police officers on the street that morning was Skazer Tartman. The clerk from King’s, who witnessed the engagement while she was unlocking the front doors, said later she wondered whether Skazer’s pained expression was for the cop or for his nemesis.
(to be continued or forgotten)
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I will be irradiated again this morning…this SATURDAY morning. Two weekends in a row will have been ripped in two, thanks to holiday interference with normal weekday activities. I refuse to complain. Because my former sister-in-law, my niece, and her husband (and a dog named Lady) will visit for a while this afternoon. If I can convince my body to delay the desire/need for sleep, perhaps my sister-in-law (who is providing my transportation to the radiation appointment) we will go out to lunch with us (us, including mi novia). At the moment, I feel tired, but not utterly worn out. I should not feel tired; I slept from 6:30 (mas o menos) last night until 4:30 this morning, with a few short breaks during the night. Time will tell, again, how the day goes.
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For the umpteenth time in recent days, I had another disturbing dream which involved my first workplace in association management. I had been appointed executive director after the death of my boss (in reality, he died years after I left). I spent my first day on the job asking staff members to write their job descriptions (if they did not already have one) or give me the one they had. Later, after almost everyone had left for the day, I encountered a contractor who said another large piece of expensive equipment had been stolen and he had not yet received the insurance payment for the earlier theft. In a convoluted series of experiences, I received a telephone call from the hospital, telling me my mother had died. Then, I went looking for the missing insurance check. I wandered around outside the building (which I remember well), to find that the once attractive commercial area had deteriorated into a slum. And what had been a print shop for my employer had become a shabby resale shop. And, then, I was in my office, interviewing an applicant for a job. Ugly dream…irrational…disturbing…semi-repetitive…unwelcome.
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Now, for no apparent reason, I feel washed out. Perhaps it’s because I got word from an associate from church that she got some very bad news; a diagnosis of a rare cancer. My cancer, though unpleasant, is not nearly as frightening or as difficult to treat. Life is too challenging to have to face even more aggressive challenges. My challenges are minor in comparison to hers. Ach.
