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Table of contents | Previous chapter Playing with Fire A novel by Scott Lazenby
Chapter 25  he Boeing 767 climbed, heading west over the Columbia River. It was a clear morning, and I could see the Cascade peaks — Mount Hood, Jefferson, the Three Sisters — from my window seat. After a few minutes, the plane banked sharply to the right, and I got a good view of the volcanic crater of Mount St. Helens, and Mount Rainer to the north. Mount Adams began to appear from under the wing. I pulled my briefcase out from under the seat and went through some papers. We had less than six weeks left to complete the assimilation of our fire department by the Willamette Valley Fire District. It could have been complicated, but the district had done it enough times that they had the process down pat. The union had already worked out the staff-transition details, which was potentially the stickiest part. There were some remaining issues involving the assumption of the city’s debt for fire equipment, and transfer of assets like the fire stations themselves, but they were down to minor details.The sudden removal of $4 million in expenses from the city’s budget was like a mid-year Christmas present. We had already assumed $800,000 in savings from the City/County contract, but this still left over $3 million. The council had restored all the programs they had cut in the past year, and still had money left over. It was an odd situation to be in, and the interesting thing was that it didn’t make my job much easier. The competition between the departments for the extra money was creating more tension than the cutting process had. But it was keeping me busy, and the new set of challenges almost made me forget what I had gone through before the election. With Pritchard’s departure, the Trillium Business Leadership Committee had faded into oblivion. It did give me some satisfaction, but I knew I shouldn’t gloat about it — some other group of malcontents would take their place soon enough. I couldn’t keep my thoughts on work, though. Just after the election, I had read my last e-mail from Kate. She had written that she was thinking of leaving Gordon. In vain, I had sent her a string of messages, imploring her not to go through with it, to seek counseling or some other alternative. I told myself I was looking out for her well-being, but I was tormented by guilt over the possibility that I had driven her away from her husband. She hadn’t responded to my messages, and in desperation, I finally called her. She was cheerful enough on the phone, but when I asked her why she was ignoring my e-mails, she had simply told me she couldn’t talk about it. I didn’t want to push her, but I wanted desperately to connect to her. I couldn’t get much work done on the flight, and finally passed the time by reading a novel. I changed planes in Chicago, and got stuck on a full 727 for the flight into D.C. National. I was traveling light, and carried my bag to the Metro station. The evening commute was in full force, and I had to thread my way through the crowd to make the transfer at L’Enfant Plaza. I stood for the three stops it took to get to the hotel. My meeting with the ICMA Committee on Public Safety wasn’t scheduled until the next morning, so I had some time to kill. I wondered around in downtown Washington, looking for a grocery store, and finally found a high-priced convenience store that would sell me an apple and a small block of cheese. I carried it down to the Capitol mall and sat on a bench, watching a group of bureaucrats play a late-evening game of softball on the grass. I took a few laps in the hotel pool, then returned to my room for what I knew would be a difficult time going to sleep. It wasn’t just the time change. I tried to picture Kate sleeping next to me, and realized with some surprise and relief that it was Mary who I really wanted there. I latched onto anything I could find to ease my guilt. I called Mary, but didn’t have much to say except that the trip had been uneventful so far. I finally fell asleep during the commercials near the end of Letterman’s show, and woke up a few hours later with a wake-up call from the hotel operator. I showered and put on a navy suit and a conservative striped tie, vaguely wondering whom I was trying to impress. I would be meeting with a bunch of city managers, and it really didn’t matter what they thought about me. I caught the Metro to the offices of the International City/County Management Association. The receptionist directed me to the meeting room. I looked for a familiar face, and found none. A man in his mid-fifties with a bit of a paunch saw my hesitation and made his way over to me. “Hi, I’m Art Lebanon, chairman of the Public Safety Committee.” “Hi Art, I’m Ben Cromarty from Trillium. Hey, I thought your name would be Robespierre.” “Why’s that?” “You know, public safety committee? Never mind, it’s a bad joke. So what do you have in mind for me here?” “Well, just tell us the whole story about your experiences with the fire issue, from the beginning to the end. Take your time — we’ve blocked the whole morning out for it. I know the other committee members will be fascinated by it. We’ve been exploring a lot of ways to make fire service more efficient, but from what I hear, you’ve taken it farther than most cities.” “Yeah, but it was pretty much a disaster. I wouldn’t want to wish it on anyone.” “Doesn’t matter. Give us all the details, including the union issues and the politicking. You never know, maybe your story will inspire enough other cities that somebody will finally be able to pull it off.” We shared a few war stories as the committee members filed in. Most were city managers, but there were a few assistants, and a couple of police and fire chiefs. About a third of the members were women, a much higher ratio than when I entered the profession. I had prepared a few notes, but I made my presentation from memory. I had some handouts to keep the committee members’ hands occupied. I supposed I should have enjoyed being in the spotlight, but the truth was that I had had enough of the whole issue and didn’t particularly like revisiting it. Near the end of my presentation, as I described being cut loose on administrative leave, my audience was spellbound. I was humble enough to realize it wasn’t my speaking prowess. They were all sitting there thinking, “But for the grace of God go I. ...” The staff had sent for box lunches, and we ate them in the meeting room. I sat next to June Rosencruz, the city manager of Traverse City, Michigan. I had known her earlier, when we were both working in other cities, and we talked about the turns our careers had taken. She had gotten divorced a few years earlier, and I caught her when she glanced at my wedding ring. After lunch, the committee’s attention turned to the latest developments in community-oriented policing. I excused myself, and descended underground again to take the Metro to the Capitol. I hoped to catch our congressman, Al Disdera, in his office, but he was off in some meeting. I did manage to see his chief legislative aide, Anna Golden, and we sat in her small, wood-paneled office, drinking coffee and catching up on issues in Trillium and on Capitol Hill. She asked why I was in D.C., and I told her. “That reminds me,” she said. “I was surprised you folks opposed the National League of Cities on the OSHA issue.” “What issue is that?” “The bill that OSHA is pushing that would require four-man fire crews as a safety issue. The League was pretty adamant that it would cause a huge increase in costs without a demonstrated improvement in safety. I think they’re right — the safety record for firefighters is actually better than for a lot of outdoor professions.” “And you say Trillium opposed that position?” “Sure. Your fire chief — what’s his name?” “Max Oakley.” “Right. He spoke to the subcommittee on occupational safety and health, urging them to adopt the four-man requirement. He was really pretty eloquent, I hear. The bill has a good chance of passing.” “When was this?” “About a month ago.” She squinted at me, making some of the freckles on her forehead move. “This is news to you, isn’t it?” “Yep. But it doesn’t really surprise me. Max can be a loose cannon sometimes. It is ironic, isn’t it? Here we’re paying a few thousand dollars in dues for the League to represent our interests, and at the same time footing the bill for Oakley to fly out here and oppose the League.” “Maybe you didn’t foot the bill. The Firefighters Association could well have sponsored his trip.” “You may be right. I can find out easily enough. But you know, it doesn’t matter any more — at least to Trillium.” “Yeah, I guess not.” Anna had ignored a half-dozen phone calls, but I didn’t want to take any more of her time. I invited her to stop by city hall the next time she was back home in Oregon. It was only mid-afternoon, so I strolled over to the National Air and Space Museum. Summer vacation must have already started for some schools, since the place was full of families with children. I was overdressed in my suit, but no one seemed to notice. The exhibits held as much fascination for me as they did for the school kids. I finally walked back to the hotel. I passed couples on the sidewalk, arm in arm, heading for happy hour. The prospect of dinner alone in the hotel’s coffee shop didn’t seem very appealing. I watched some news, and was thinking about ordering a sandwich from room service when the phone rang. “Hello, Ben?” It was a high, sweet voice. “Kate! Hi! I’ve been dying to hear from you. How’re you doing?” “Oh, fine, just fine.” It was an unusually clear connection. “Where are you?” “Well, actually, I’m down here in the lobby of your hotel.” I froze, speechless. Next chapter: the future of a relationship Copyright © 2001, Scott D. Lazenby. Reproduction in any form without the written permission of the author is prohibited. Illustration: Paul Salmon |
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