The Fate of Ecstasy (excerpt)
(This is an excerpt from my short story collection, Push Me; Feisty Stories of Love & Loss.)
THE FATE OF ECSTASY
Jolene Dumont hadn’t planned on destroying Ecstasy when she brought her report to our attention. After all, she was from Ecstasy. Almost everyone on the City Council remembered her—spelling champ four years straight at Ecstasy Middle School, head of the chess club and debating team at Ecstasy High. She left Ecstasy on a full scholarship, went to a prestigious university on the East Coast, then graduated and started working for a multinational tire company in the R & D department, where, doing research on tire failure and recycling, she discovered that Ecstasy accounted for more flat tires per capita than any other town or city in the U.S.
We acted surprised by her findings, even though we knew something had been wrong for quite some time. The gradual proliferation of retail tire outlets over the past decade had not gone unnoticed. It wasn’t unusual to pass several cars a day pulled to the shoulder, trunk up, a hubcap full of lug nuts sitting on the ground.
We worried about the impact of Jolene’s report on tourism. The ancient beauty of the Appalachian Mountains was our big draw—rafting, hiking, fishing—bringing vacationers to Ecstasy each year, just like a dozen other towns in a hundred-mile radius. But if people had to choose between Ecstasy and all the other vacation destinations in the area, well… why risk a flat tire?
We voted to keep the report quiet, appointing a task force to investigate. That’s when Aaron Tinkler told us about Glen Goode’s Big People. He said Goode was an artist and a businessman, and collected enormous fiberglass figures—Muffler Man, Big John, the Uniroyal Gal. Aaron, his right leg pumping under the table like a jackhammer (the way it always did when he was excited about something), told us Goode’s men stood over twenty-four feet high. Aaron often brought up topics tangential to the discussion, but we listened, ready to move on, when he threw his hands out as if trying to stop us all from jumping off a cliff. He waved his open palms at us, stating that Goode’s collection attracted thousands of visitors to Gainesville, Texas every year.
“Don’t you get it?” Aaron said. “We could be known for our flat tires!”
Our eyebrows rose, our curiosity igniting slowly. A giddy pride welled up inside us, a warm little volcano at the pit of our stomachs. No longer would our town’s name be fodder for countless puns and jokes (and we’d heard them all). We could distinguish ourselves in a unique and remarkable way, even if it was just flat tires.
Over the next few weeks, we brainstormed every day, sometimes long into the evening. The secretary jotted ideas on a yellow legal pad: A gigantic fiberglass sculpture of a flat tire in the town square. New signs at the city limits, “Ecstasy—Flat Tire Capital of America.” A Flat Tire Festival each year, with special discounted prices on a set of new rubber. An interactive tire museum. A tire-themed fun park. An enormous tire swing. Creativity was flowing.
Ida Landry, our resident author and copywriter, wrote press releases and articles for The Voice of Ecstasy. Brent Flanagan, our very own body-builder and fitness-guru, ran a series of ads for his gym: “Replace that old spare tire around your middle with a new “flat” one!”
Jolene’s report had pumped new air into Ecstasy, and into the members of the City Council. We’d all served in leadership roles in our youth—head of the student council, prom committee chairperson, president of the glee club, master of ceremonies, protocol officer—but this was different; we were part of something important now, something rare, exciting! It was evident by the new pep in our step; even our spouses noticed. We didn’t just go to lunch; we did lunch. An infectious spontaneity sprang up. We were exercising the right side of our brain, beginning to see ourselves no longer as city officials, but as innovators and promoters, and even… well, artists! The women started wearing sleeveless blouses, tank tops, designer coveralls with backless shoes, and changed their hairstyles—more upflung and frisky. They traded in their fake pearls for colorful, jangling bracelets and toe rings. Some of the men wore leather pants, grew beards and mustaches, had an ear pierced.
Change was sweeping Ecstasy. We were reinventing ourselves. At our meetings we made popcorn in an old-fashioned movie house popper, blew bubbles from those little bottles of soapy liquid, and listened to country music while discussing zoning issues and business permits. We took up hobbies—flying drones, stringing beads, posting on social media.
Over the past few years since Jolene’s report, Ecstasy had become home to no less than thirty retail tire outlets, not counting the Super Walmart, AutoZone, and the many independent auto repair shops that also sold tires. We were hyped by Jimmy Fallon on The Tonight Show, made the cover of GO, Triple A’s travel magazine, and were linked to countless vacation websites. We became a destination! Our status as the Flat Tire Capital attracted a staggering number of sightseers and vacationers, as well as a steady influx of curious risk-takers who believed they could beat the odds and drive home on all four originals. Stores offered ridiculous discounts on tires. Families purchased T-shirts and mugs and postcards. Visitors from all over the world lodged in our motels and hotels, and frequented our fine eateries and cafés. Many of us on the City Council became entrepreneurs, opening up B&Bs, souvenir shops, and operated street vending pushcarts selling hot dogs, pretzels, and kielbasa sausage.
The multinational tire company Jolene worked for built a tire-testing facility in Ecstasy, creating over three hundred new jobs and numerous opportunities for local businesses. With funds donated by Jolene’s employer, we built The Rubber Room, a city-block-sized entertainment warehouse with piped in music, strolling Michelin Man mimes, video driving games, a tire obstacle course, go-cart track, the Fire-Stone Pizza Oven restaurant, and a gift shop, “101 Things To Do With Old Tires,” that sold, among other things, sandals with tread soles, and detailed blueprints for building your own self-heating shed from worn out steel-belted radials.
We held tire-sculpture competitions at our annual All-Weather Festival. We talked Glen Goode into selling us a replica of his Uniroyal Gal. And even with the economy off a bit over the past twelve months, it was still a good year, capped off by our Christmas Decorations Contest, the five-hundred-dollar prize going to Trojan Wheels for their darling Mr. and Mrs. Snowman Family, complete with hats and scarves, and made entirely from huge inner tubes spray-painted white.
Even under the barrage of accusations and allegations of conspiracy and wrongdoing—neighboring townships blaming our governing members for the flat tires, claiming that we seeded nails and tacks along our streets—Ecstasy flourished!
Until last Wednesday, when Otto Fincke of the Ecstasy street crew discovered the source of our undeniable and mysterious good fortune. He had been carrying a tar sack, patching small cracks and holes in the streets near the town center, when he came upon a spike—not much more than an inch or so in height and an eighth-inch in diameter at its base—protruding from the pavement at the intersection of Boone and Redondo (the busiest streets in Ecstasy), directly under the suspended traffic light.
News of the spike got immediate traction. Rival towns, long jealous of our burgeoning success, flooded our little community with local reporters brandishing cameras and microphones, ready to expose the incriminating thorn to the world, set on destroying us. Ecstasy police set up roadblocks, diverting traffic away from Boone and Redondo. They put up yellow crime scene tape around the perimeter of the intersection, winding it around the crosswalk poles on each corner, ordering folks to stay back. Reporters shouted questions. Kids rode up on bicycles ringing those annoying, tinny little bells, and elderly couples, who’d lived in Ecstasy their entire lives, huddled close together as if they were witnessing a harbinger of the apocalypse, their ice cream cones dripping down the fronts of their shirts.
All of us on the City Council were vexed by the curious spike, and well aware of its implications and the potential for embarrassment, but more than that, we were distracted by the noise and hubbub of the ensuing crowds. None of us could think. We voted on the spot to convene in private session at the courthouse.
We pushed our way through a throng of onlookers, repeating, “No comment, no comment,” slinking serpent-like, hands clasped in solidarity, through the streets. At the courthouse steps, the police parted the sea of bustling, sign-toting rebels, holding them at bay until we were securely inside. We crowded into the elevator. The doors slid closed. A hand reached between us from the back and pushed the button for the second floor. We stood in silence, perspiring collectively, holding our breath.
Safely inside the meeting room, we locked the doors, pulled the blinds, ordered pizzas and five one-liter bottles of diet Coke, and a chocolate cream pie from The Cakery Bakery. We tried to remain pleasant and upbeat, calm and organized, logical and intelligent.
“Humiliating.”
“Mortifying!”
“What will I do with all those T-shirts and mugs I just ordered?”
“An outrage!”
“Aliens.”
"Aliens" was Cleo Soldier’s answer to everything—when methane gas hung over the landfill one year; when thunder rumbled through the skies in the midst of a blizzard; when Ecstasy experienced a shortage at the gas pumps. Aliens. We all smiled and tried to remain focused.
“We have to remove it.”
“We should wait, get more information.”
“What if it’s a sign?”
“What information?”
“We’ll be laughed out of the state…or worse…”
“A sign of what? It’s a prank!”
“Who would do such a thing?”
“We’ll be torn apart by the media.”
“High school kids.”
“Aliens!”
Cleo sat arms folded, chin out, her eyes and hair the color of a thunderstorm. Just then, the pizzas arrived.
We hadn’t even finished the first pepperoni when our cell phones went off, mothers and sisters and wives and uncles calling to ascertain our fate, to determine if the town’s good fortune was in jeopardy, if we were doomed. They’d been sitting home watching their televisions, listening to radios, worried sick. One council member’s grandmother said the little spike was the best thing to ever happen to Ecstasy. Someone’s nephew claimed that if we removed it, we might as well board-up the damn town. Another said the scandal was like a broken nose that would never heal. The chocolate cream pie arrived. (cont)
https://mybook.to/BdzBlW
THE FATE OF ECSTASY
Jolene Dumont hadn’t planned on destroying Ecstasy when she brought her report to our attention. After all, she was from Ecstasy. Almost everyone on the City Council remembered her—spelling champ four years straight at Ecstasy Middle School, head of the chess club and debating team at Ecstasy High. She left Ecstasy on a full scholarship, went to a prestigious university on the East Coast, then graduated and started working for a multinational tire company in the R & D department, where, doing research on tire failure and recycling, she discovered that Ecstasy accounted for more flat tires per capita than any other town or city in the U.S.
We acted surprised by her findings, even though we knew something had been wrong for quite some time. The gradual proliferation of retail tire outlets over the past decade had not gone unnoticed. It wasn’t unusual to pass several cars a day pulled to the shoulder, trunk up, a hubcap full of lug nuts sitting on the ground.
We worried about the impact of Jolene’s report on tourism. The ancient beauty of the Appalachian Mountains was our big draw—rafting, hiking, fishing—bringing vacationers to Ecstasy each year, just like a dozen other towns in a hundred-mile radius. But if people had to choose between Ecstasy and all the other vacation destinations in the area, well… why risk a flat tire?
We voted to keep the report quiet, appointing a task force to investigate. That’s when Aaron Tinkler told us about Glen Goode’s Big People. He said Goode was an artist and a businessman, and collected enormous fiberglass figures—Muffler Man, Big John, the Uniroyal Gal. Aaron, his right leg pumping under the table like a jackhammer (the way it always did when he was excited about something), told us Goode’s men stood over twenty-four feet high. Aaron often brought up topics tangential to the discussion, but we listened, ready to move on, when he threw his hands out as if trying to stop us all from jumping off a cliff. He waved his open palms at us, stating that Goode’s collection attracted thousands of visitors to Gainesville, Texas every year.
“Don’t you get it?” Aaron said. “We could be known for our flat tires!”
Our eyebrows rose, our curiosity igniting slowly. A giddy pride welled up inside us, a warm little volcano at the pit of our stomachs. No longer would our town’s name be fodder for countless puns and jokes (and we’d heard them all). We could distinguish ourselves in a unique and remarkable way, even if it was just flat tires.
Over the next few weeks, we brainstormed every day, sometimes long into the evening. The secretary jotted ideas on a yellow legal pad: A gigantic fiberglass sculpture of a flat tire in the town square. New signs at the city limits, “Ecstasy—Flat Tire Capital of America.” A Flat Tire Festival each year, with special discounted prices on a set of new rubber. An interactive tire museum. A tire-themed fun park. An enormous tire swing. Creativity was flowing.
Ida Landry, our resident author and copywriter, wrote press releases and articles for The Voice of Ecstasy. Brent Flanagan, our very own body-builder and fitness-guru, ran a series of ads for his gym: “Replace that old spare tire around your middle with a new “flat” one!”
Jolene’s report had pumped new air into Ecstasy, and into the members of the City Council. We’d all served in leadership roles in our youth—head of the student council, prom committee chairperson, president of the glee club, master of ceremonies, protocol officer—but this was different; we were part of something important now, something rare, exciting! It was evident by the new pep in our step; even our spouses noticed. We didn’t just go to lunch; we did lunch. An infectious spontaneity sprang up. We were exercising the right side of our brain, beginning to see ourselves no longer as city officials, but as innovators and promoters, and even… well, artists! The women started wearing sleeveless blouses, tank tops, designer coveralls with backless shoes, and changed their hairstyles—more upflung and frisky. They traded in their fake pearls for colorful, jangling bracelets and toe rings. Some of the men wore leather pants, grew beards and mustaches, had an ear pierced.
Change was sweeping Ecstasy. We were reinventing ourselves. At our meetings we made popcorn in an old-fashioned movie house popper, blew bubbles from those little bottles of soapy liquid, and listened to country music while discussing zoning issues and business permits. We took up hobbies—flying drones, stringing beads, posting on social media.
Over the past few years since Jolene’s report, Ecstasy had become home to no less than thirty retail tire outlets, not counting the Super Walmart, AutoZone, and the many independent auto repair shops that also sold tires. We were hyped by Jimmy Fallon on The Tonight Show, made the cover of GO, Triple A’s travel magazine, and were linked to countless vacation websites. We became a destination! Our status as the Flat Tire Capital attracted a staggering number of sightseers and vacationers, as well as a steady influx of curious risk-takers who believed they could beat the odds and drive home on all four originals. Stores offered ridiculous discounts on tires. Families purchased T-shirts and mugs and postcards. Visitors from all over the world lodged in our motels and hotels, and frequented our fine eateries and cafés. Many of us on the City Council became entrepreneurs, opening up B&Bs, souvenir shops, and operated street vending pushcarts selling hot dogs, pretzels, and kielbasa sausage.
The multinational tire company Jolene worked for built a tire-testing facility in Ecstasy, creating over three hundred new jobs and numerous opportunities for local businesses. With funds donated by Jolene’s employer, we built The Rubber Room, a city-block-sized entertainment warehouse with piped in music, strolling Michelin Man mimes, video driving games, a tire obstacle course, go-cart track, the Fire-Stone Pizza Oven restaurant, and a gift shop, “101 Things To Do With Old Tires,” that sold, among other things, sandals with tread soles, and detailed blueprints for building your own self-heating shed from worn out steel-belted radials.
We held tire-sculpture competitions at our annual All-Weather Festival. We talked Glen Goode into selling us a replica of his Uniroyal Gal. And even with the economy off a bit over the past twelve months, it was still a good year, capped off by our Christmas Decorations Contest, the five-hundred-dollar prize going to Trojan Wheels for their darling Mr. and Mrs. Snowman Family, complete with hats and scarves, and made entirely from huge inner tubes spray-painted white.
Even under the barrage of accusations and allegations of conspiracy and wrongdoing—neighboring townships blaming our governing members for the flat tires, claiming that we seeded nails and tacks along our streets—Ecstasy flourished!
Until last Wednesday, when Otto Fincke of the Ecstasy street crew discovered the source of our undeniable and mysterious good fortune. He had been carrying a tar sack, patching small cracks and holes in the streets near the town center, when he came upon a spike—not much more than an inch or so in height and an eighth-inch in diameter at its base—protruding from the pavement at the intersection of Boone and Redondo (the busiest streets in Ecstasy), directly under the suspended traffic light.
News of the spike got immediate traction. Rival towns, long jealous of our burgeoning success, flooded our little community with local reporters brandishing cameras and microphones, ready to expose the incriminating thorn to the world, set on destroying us. Ecstasy police set up roadblocks, diverting traffic away from Boone and Redondo. They put up yellow crime scene tape around the perimeter of the intersection, winding it around the crosswalk poles on each corner, ordering folks to stay back. Reporters shouted questions. Kids rode up on bicycles ringing those annoying, tinny little bells, and elderly couples, who’d lived in Ecstasy their entire lives, huddled close together as if they were witnessing a harbinger of the apocalypse, their ice cream cones dripping down the fronts of their shirts.
All of us on the City Council were vexed by the curious spike, and well aware of its implications and the potential for embarrassment, but more than that, we were distracted by the noise and hubbub of the ensuing crowds. None of us could think. We voted on the spot to convene in private session at the courthouse.
We pushed our way through a throng of onlookers, repeating, “No comment, no comment,” slinking serpent-like, hands clasped in solidarity, through the streets. At the courthouse steps, the police parted the sea of bustling, sign-toting rebels, holding them at bay until we were securely inside. We crowded into the elevator. The doors slid closed. A hand reached between us from the back and pushed the button for the second floor. We stood in silence, perspiring collectively, holding our breath.
Safely inside the meeting room, we locked the doors, pulled the blinds, ordered pizzas and five one-liter bottles of diet Coke, and a chocolate cream pie from The Cakery Bakery. We tried to remain pleasant and upbeat, calm and organized, logical and intelligent.
“Humiliating.”
“Mortifying!”
“What will I do with all those T-shirts and mugs I just ordered?”
“An outrage!”
“Aliens.”
"Aliens" was Cleo Soldier’s answer to everything—when methane gas hung over the landfill one year; when thunder rumbled through the skies in the midst of a blizzard; when Ecstasy experienced a shortage at the gas pumps. Aliens. We all smiled and tried to remain focused.
“We have to remove it.”
“We should wait, get more information.”
“What if it’s a sign?”
“What information?”
“We’ll be laughed out of the state…or worse…”
“A sign of what? It’s a prank!”
“Who would do such a thing?”
“We’ll be torn apart by the media.”
“High school kids.”
“Aliens!”
Cleo sat arms folded, chin out, her eyes and hair the color of a thunderstorm. Just then, the pizzas arrived.
We hadn’t even finished the first pepperoni when our cell phones went off, mothers and sisters and wives and uncles calling to ascertain our fate, to determine if the town’s good fortune was in jeopardy, if we were doomed. They’d been sitting home watching their televisions, listening to radios, worried sick. One council member’s grandmother said the little spike was the best thing to ever happen to Ecstasy. Someone’s nephew claimed that if we removed it, we might as well board-up the damn town. Another said the scandal was like a broken nose that would never heal. The chocolate cream pie arrived. (cont)
https://mybook.to/BdzBlW
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