The Middle Aisle

Note from Author:
The following piece is simply an over exaggerated take on a town hall meeting. Any subliminal messages or underlying meanings that may be pulled from the context of this work of fiction are not intended. So if you do not enjoy satire and are easily riled by a slight magnification of reality, then I advise that you do not continue any further from this point.

This was the assignment that nobody else in the office wanted. It entailed tolerance and high levels of patience, for the subject matter was one that produced endless stress and frustration. Anybody that dared to venture into this field was guaranteed to lose a good portion of their mind trying to make sense of it.
It was the dilemma of a town called…well, that was still in the process of being settled on. They had a name, but several protest groups formed against it, arguing that it was too abrasive and unwelcoming to outside communities who could be looking for a place to feel welcome.

Yeah, it doesn’t make much sense to me either. I tried to find common ground with these wonderful people so I could somehow find their reasoning, but every venture down that road made me pop an Advil. After a small piece I wrote on their fight over what the town’s recognized fruit should be, I promised myself I would never be involved with anything they did that required the attention of our paper.

Then there was the election. The two main political parties of the town were sparring off in one of the biggest showdowns of the town’s history fighting for control of the town. There were harsh words exchanged and people’s mothers were insulted in this bloodbath of a campaign.

500 people and nobody could agree on anything. It was a story for the ages.

As soon as the news broke, everybody shrunk and hoped they wouldn’t be chosen to go on this hellacious venture.

But when nobody jumps at the opportunity to take on an assignment that nobody wants, lots are cast and people are picked. And by some odd chance that could have been orchestrated by a higher power, the person that least wants to go out of a large group of many who share the same sentiment is picked.
I am that person. And for some odd reason, they think that because of my seemingly kind demeanor that I can tolerate any kind of heart that comes my way.

So that’s why I went to this town that cannot be named out of fear of a lawsuit against the paper. I can only wish that I am bearing false witness.

The conflicting, nameless town sent an aide to follow me around the town as I got pictures of the protest groups, society-neutral monuments, and culture-free restaurants. His name was Miles, I think. He gave it to me in the beginning, but I had completely forgotten it. All I knew was that it started with “M.”

A man of small stature and a bursting sense of excitement over escorting me, he was determined to follow me until the end of the earth. This guy wasn’t an aide, but a nuisance.

“I think you’re gonna like what you see!” he spouted as his little legs struggled to keep up with my long strides.

“Ah,” he gasped, covering his mouth. “I can’t say that; copyright issues with the nice suit company here in town.”

“What’s the name of it?” I dared to ask.

“The Nice Suit Company,” he replied, giving me a “duh” look. “It originally had another name for it, but it wasn’t gender neutral and the store owners didn’t want the Gay/Lesbian Pride Alliance to jump down their throats, so they changed the name.”

Is your head spinning as well?

“Either way, it’s a nice town,” he said.

“Is that phrase banned?” I asked sarcastically.

“No,” he replied, “That’s on the approved list of phrases and idioms. You can say that whenever and wherever you want.”

I waited for the punch line, but as he kept walking and looking ahead, I figured that this wasn’t a joke. So I kept walking as if the list of approved phrases and idioms were a normal way of life.

All of the necessary pictures were taken in about an hour, most of them consisting of the peaceful demonstrations that involved burning pictures of the mayor and overturning statue of his likeness.

I asked Marvin if there was a law against such violent acts.

“Oh, it was overturned,” he replied. “Plus, the mayor didn’t want to lose the popular vote, so he figured that throwing out all the hard laws would make things better.”

And my mind once again is blown by the contradictions coming from Mort’s mouth. This town was getting worse and worse. And we weren’t even at City Hall yet.

That building was a sight as well. It was under construction because the appearance was too menacing. Once again, I learned that asking questions was absolutely unnecessary.

“Well, it’s about time to start,” Marty said as we made our entrance. “Why don’t you find a seat and wait for the sho—”

“Sir!” barked a police officer that appeared out of nowhere. “You have spoken a phrase that is not on the list of approved phrases and idioms! I’m afraid I’m going to have to write you a fine.”

As it so happens, Find a seat and wait for the show is the slogan for A Nice Film-Showing Area in the main square. Poor Micah.

“Where will you be sitting?” a rough looking gentlemen asked me as I made my way to the entrance with a somber-looking Manuel following me closely.

“Uh, in the back?” I said. “I’m just a journalist here to report on a story.”

“Well, you can either sit with the White’s or the Free Color’s,” he barked. “Plus, it would be nice to have on either side; we’ve got a sharp divide today. It’ll make the voting easier.”

I assumed those were the political parties of the town.

“Don’t you have to be a citizen to vote?” I inquired.

“Heck, we’ll take anybody,” the man responded. “We just don’t want anybody to get hurt as a result of a tie-breaker.”

My face denoted an enormous question mark.

“We had a death match last year,” he explained. “We made it look like an accident so the police wouldn’t suspect.”

With that being said, Morty and I headed into the main hall where another surprise awaited me. Besides the freaks that were demonstrating in the foyer, there were two sections in the main auditorium. My first instinct was that it was a walk way, but I was sorely mistaken.

The front of the building had large platform with one table and two podiums on either side, obviously for the opponents in this controversial election. On the table was a baseball bat, which I assumed substituted for a gavel. And from the way things sounded inside of this animal house, it was going to be used often this evening.

The right side of the aisle was the White Party, which consisted of people who wanted to reverse the progress of the town and go back to its roots. All of the members wore black and white and sat cross-legged as they waited for the commencement ceremony.

Their protesters stood outside, stiff legged and angry. They simply chanted their not-so-catchy protests as they glared at their opponents. I tried to get a few comments from them, but it was all banter about how they were right and the others were wrong.

Across from the White section was the Free Color Party. Much adverse from the opposing group, they were all for change and forward motion. Unlike the party across the aisle, they did not conform to one outfit pattern. Instead they looked like a sloppy rainbow of people who were expressing themselves in rather creative ways.

“I’ve gotta get this thing going,” Mitch said. “Don’t have too much fu—”

I suppose the upcoming phrase wasn’t approved. After Moto saved himself from another fine, he made his way to front as I searched for a place to sit.

“Where ya sittin’?” yelled somebody on the left, effectively scaring the crap out of me. He was waving his foam finger and munching on what appeared to be an organic treat. “We support freedom!”

“Freedom to look like idiots!” yelled somebody on the right. “Don’t sit with those fools; we support order and establishment, not chaos and disaster!”

As tempting as it sounded, I kindly declined from both sides. As much fun as the Free Colors’ looked and as controlled the Whites’ seemed, I preferred to sit in my own section. So I took a seat and sat in the middle.

“You can’t do that,” a White yelled. “That doesn’t even make sense!”

“Sit with us!” yelled a Free Color. “We’re fun! Plus, we got some super awesome foam fingers from Mr. Johnson!”

“Mr. Smith doesn’t have to resort to childish propaganda,” the White yelled once again. “He’s an intellect.”
“Intellect, schmintellect,” the Free Color retorted. “He’s B-O-R-I-N-G!”

Then a Boring, Boring chant followed that lasted for about five minutes before bother sides tired of arguing. I felt my intelligence slowly disappearing as the tireless, childish insults continued to ravage the air.

“Ladies and gentlemen,” Marty shouted, banging the baseball bat on the table. “It’s time to bring out the candidates.”

Before he could continue, boo’s and shouts of approval began to flood the air as both sections stood and showed their support and distaste. Moe struggled to keep the pace going as he waved the bat and swung down on the table.

“That’s good!” he said once the room quieted down. “Now…without further ado…Mr. Smith!”

Mr. Smith was wearing the exact same thing his supporters were: a black and white suit/tie combo. Only he had a handkerchief inside his left pocket and a clip on his tie. He walked like he had something stuck in his posterior and carried the same scowl his fans did. After he took his place at the podium, he waved to his section, glared at the Free Color’s, and resumed his stiff posture.

The mayor for twelve years running, Mr. Smith had this town in a death grip. The law only allowed two terms of four years, but with the help of his camp, Smith overthrew this rule so he could keep his position.
His arrival was met with uproarious applause from the right, who stood attentively as their fearless leader made his way to the front. I thought of a certain German ruler from long ago as his stood motionless behind his podium. The little moustache drawn on his face didn’t help break the illusion either.

“And of the Free Color Party,” Mickey announced. “Mr. Johnson!”

The applause was uproarious. The seats in the Free Color section went flying as the people stood and gave their candidate his due. The screaming, crying, and flying apparel was more than I could handle. I felt like it was more of a sporting event than it was a town hall meeting.

“Peace!” Mr. Johnson bellowed as the applause got louder. “I love you; every single one of your freedom loving behinds!”

Odd, yet effective.

“Okay, people,” Maury yelled, swinging the bat once again. “We need order before we begin. Please let the speakers get into their place as we commence this meeting.”

The yelling sea of idiots died down in compliance with Marion’s request. As the two candidates settled at their podiums, I observed their mannerisms, just in case it would come in handy later on.

Mr. Smith was very rigid, unmoving. He stared ahead, as if there was a figurative prize at the finish line waiting for him. His outfit was neatly pressed and his hair was slicked back in a nice comb over that would have been considered the epitome of awesome in 1957.

Mr. Johnson, on the other hand, was looked like a sea of colors as he pranced up to his place. His Hawaiian shirt clashed with his light blue jacket that made his tight khakis scream as the brown loafers wondered what was going on upstairs. And his cheesy smile made the image so much more enjoyable. Whatever he had to say would be overlooked by the crazy party disguised as his outfit.

“Mr. Smith will now proceed with his opening statement,” Manny said once the room had quieted down. The spokesperson for the White Party made his way to the front as his supporters glowed.

“Good evening, citizens,” he said, reading stiffly from his organized stack of note cards. “I have come to this place today to give my intentions. This city is going down the drain and I am the one who can save it. I have a plan that is much greater than the one Mr. Johnson will offer you. All he wants to do is spend more money and use more supplies. If we do that, then we are going to lose our status as a great city. If you listen to me and follow what I have planned, then our greatness will be restored.”

The last statement seemed a bit Hitler-esque. Yet his brainwashed supporters stood and rewarded his opening speech with uproarious applause. I had a feeling that they had absolutely no idea what he was talking about (there was also that stalking suspicion that the speaker didn’t either) and they were just accepting everything he said as fact.

Considering the fact that he stood with his knees locked and delivered his words like a computer, there had to be some brainwashing involved because he didn’t exactly sway the crowds with his sweeping charisma.

Emotionless robot was the term I jotted down on my notepad.

“And up next is Mr. Johnson,” Mario said as soon as Mr. Smith took his seat. The entire left side stood and screamed as their candidate made his way to the front. The cheers were those normally reserved for a rock concert and I was starting to feel that effect.

“What’s up!” he yelled, throwing the cliché peace signs up with his hands. The Free Colors returned a favorable response. Before long, the podium was covered with roses, gifts, and apparel.

As the yelling continued, I sat in awe as I watched people transform from kooks to full out idiots. There was a mosh pit, people body diving off of their seats, and young girls and a few effeminate men crying hysterically as they saw their idol standing in the same building as them.

No words I could think of would be able to accurately describe the current scene.

“I love you guys,” Johnson said as soon as he got the chance. “I love you and you and you. I love the architecture of this city. I love the roads that lead to this place of enlightenment. And I even love Mr. Meany Pants over here, Mr. Smith.”

Mr. Meany Pants wasn’t the term I would’ve used, but it did describe Mr. Smith.

“I want to build my campaign on love,” he said, using air quotes. “What is love? Baby, don’t hurt me, don’t hurt me, no more.”

There were no words.

“You can quote that, Mr. Reporter,” he said, winking at me.

“Isn’t that from a Haddaway song?”

For some odd reason, I thought I was saying this in my head. But my thoughts tend occasionally escape from my head and into the open air.

“I’m sorry?” Mr. Johnson asked, his fake smile starting to lose its authenticity.

“That’s from a song,” I said, having no choice but to go along with it. “It would be plagiarism if I quoted that as your own words.”

“Hater!” a Free Color yelled, throwing something that looked like a piece of food at me. Within minutes, I had an entire group of freaks booing me and throwing unidentified objects in my direction. Apparently, questioning their fearless leader was blasphemy.

“Anyhoo,” Mr. Johnson said, settling down his group of followers immediately. “Love is my key word for the next few weeks. We want to see the world change and everybody making love to each other when this plan goes into motion.”

Something about that last statement left me feeling a little uneasy about his intentions.

“So let’s not fight,” he said, extending his arms. “Let’s love on each other, people!”

And with the thunderous applause, Johnson took a bow and observed as his people engaged in some weird kind of worship for him that I’m sure was influenced by Beelzebub himself.

“All right, now it’s time for the debate,” Monty announced. “I have a set of issues pressing in our town and I want you to offer your solutions. We’ll have a vote and see which the best one is.”

I figured this town had a different idea of what a debate actually was. Any sane reasonable person could see that this was a disaster waiting to happen.

“The first obvious one is the spray can art on the walls,” he continued. “What does Mr. Smith have to say about this?”

“Well, we are trying to be taken seriously,” the stiff neck stated. “And garbage being sprayed on the walls of our lovely architecture is not helping our case. I want it off!”

“Mr. Johnson?” Mowgli continued.

“It’s not garbage – its art!” he boasted, eliciting cheers from the Free Colors. “We want it up!”

A vote was taken. The entire White Section voted no, while the Free Colors were in favor.

“This is a problem,” Motley stated after taking a head count. “There are 249 on each side. We’ll have to have some kind of tie breaker.”

A thumb war wouldn’t have been too incredulous at this point. A bloody death match would be pretty entertaining; it would make coming out for this story worthwhile.

“Larry’s picking his nose!” a White shouted. “That discounts him from the vote; the Whites’ wins!”
And like that, the controversial issue of the graffiti was solved.

“Next issue,” Molina said, flipping the page. “The Proud Illiterates Society has filed a motion in the form of a picture book to change the signs and promotion for selected business so they can understand them. How do we stand?”

“They should learn to read,” Mr. Smith snarled. “We have several stations put throughout the city that has materials to teach them how to read. It would do them some good to use them from time to time.

“But what if they like being illiterate,” Mr. Johnson interjected. “It is their choice. If it makes them happy, then let them be. Therefore, in order to avoid conflict, we should meet their needs. I say, change the signs!”

“Change the signs, change the signs, change the signs!” the Free Colors’ chanted.

The vote was once again split; this time, Jack on the left had an ugly sweater, thus removing his voting rights. The signs were unchanged.

“And the final problem,” Mortimer proclaimed. “The issue that keeps coming back: the term law. The right insists on keeping it overturned, while the left wants it back.”

“It stays overturned,” Mr. Smith barked. “Officials deserve the right to keep their position from yuppies who think they can change the world. It stays!”

“I disagree,” Mr. Johnson replied, stating the obvious. “Sometimes we need to get rid of old people who are holding back the LOVE! I say bring it back!”

“Bring it back, bring it back!” the left chanted. This guy could tell them cyanide tasted like strawberry milkshakes and made their skin glow in the dark and they’d chug like it would be gone tomorrow.

When the time for the vote came, I waited to hear what ridiculous excuse the right would interject this time, but to my surprise, a Free Color stood up before a White could.

“Tony’s tie has white dots on it,” they yelled. “He’s broken their ‘order.’”

“That’s ridiculous,” Mr. Smith scoffed. “How could you make up something so preposterous?”

It was instances such as these that made me wonder if I had slipped into an alternate reality. I pinched myself until I was blue and I was still awake.

This was a defining moment for the town with no name due to legal issues. The overturned law that kept Mr. Smith in power for so long could possibly be reversed, thus dethroning him.

It was all making me pull my hair out. Not out of suspense, but frustration over the idiots that presided in this ridiculous excuse for a town. I was less than a minute away from voicing my opinion, which was something that could compromise my job.

“Well, we’ve got to make a decision,” Melvin stated after a long awkward silence. “What’s it gonna be?”

“Keep Tony!” came from the right and “Throw him out!” sailed in from the left. So a vote was taken regarding the sub-issue of Tony and it was still tied. They re-voted and it still tied.

“There has to be something wrong,” Mick said, scratching his head. “Are we missing something?”

I couldn’t hold it in any longer. I had contracted a bad case of diarrhea of the mouth.

“Yes,” I said, giving in to my urges. “You are missing something; common sense!”

All of the chatter stopped. The neutralist had spoken.

Finding a spot in the middle of the aisle, I turned around to face my newly-acquired audience and proceeded.

“You people are idiots!” I spouted. “Taking a pair of tweezers and giving myself a lobotomy would be a much more productive use of time than sitting through this ridiculous excuse for a town hall meeting. All you morons do is sit around and argue. Mr. Smith is changing laws up so the very thought of competition doesn’t enter the lines of this town that can’t be named because of an idiotic cult of a group. And Mr. Johnson’s plan for a world-wide orgy is freaking me out! How are you people still around!?”

The place was dead quiet. Nobody quite knew how to answer me. It was nice actually; they had their mouths shut for more than a split second.

“The Whites,” I said, walking towards them. “You are the stiffest mass of tight-wads I have ever met. You sit there with your judgmental stares and act like you have poles up your pharisaical butts! How about you adopt a personality and grow a little humanity while you’re at it?”

The murmuring started almost instantly.

“And you,” I said, strafing to the left. “The Free Colors…FREE COLORS! What kind of moronic name is that? You’re a bunch of simple-minded nit wits that probably haven’t had a thought of your own since this joker came along. How about you clean yourselves up, put on some decent-looking clothes, and get a friggin’ life!”

The murmuring intensified as I cut deeper.

“And who cares about your stupid issues,” I continued. “Graffiti is always going to show up because idiot, identity-challenged kids are going to express their ill-conceived sentiments one way or another. Keep the signs up and teach the illiterates how to read or let them leave town. And if you want anything to be reversed, you’re going to have to kill Mr. Smith because nothing’s going to budge until he keels over.”

The stares were of a horrific nature, as I had threatened the life of a baby seal. I could feel the panic sweep across the auditorium as every move I made was broken down and analyzed.

“It was a joke,” I said, trying to sooth their fear. “Sarcasm, if you will.”

“But that’s not allowed,” a White yelled. “Law number six hundred and twenty-two states that any form of statement that consists of irony is not allowed, for many not understand and do in accordance to said ironic statement.”

For a second, I forgot about my blind fury and soaked in what had just been said. They had a law against sarcasm. Sarcasm was not allowed in the town that was nameless because a dispute that branched out into many other disputes that all funneled back to that one major dispute.

“Ladies and gentlemen,” I said, raising my hands in surrender. “I rest my case. Continue your little town hall meeting; I am going to get out before I lose my freaking mind!”

Before Munez could stop me to try and reason, I was out the door and in my car. I blew through the town, ignored the police, and got on the highway before you say, “Mr. Smith rules all!”

The little town that had no name because of a legal dispute dispersed after a bloody brawl that broke out during Mr. Smith’s fourth inauguration. Many escaped to the northern regions of the country while some got caught by outside, reasonable officials and ended up in Gitmo and several mental institutions in Europe.

But it’s not my problem. After the town hall meeting, I quit my job as a journalist and got a job at another paper writing in the travel section. It’s a lot slower, but at least I can write about towns that have names. It’s a plus, if you ask me.