My street has all the trappings of a typical sub-urban streetscape, save one: we have no sidewalks. Rumor had it that the sidewalks weren’t built because of a deal between the original developer and the then mayor, which redirected construction funds into a college fund for the mayor’s daughter.
After quite a few years, people who lived on my block began to question their absence, and wonder how difficult it would be to actually have them built. The year after we moved in, an ad hoc committee was born during the annual block party that was dedicated to tracking down the ex mayor’s daughter, and making her refund the sidewalk fund. The committee met with only minor success, as they were able to locate the mayor’s daughter. Unfortunately, she had dropped out of college and became one of the 127 people still supported by the Grateful Dead. The ad hoc committee went on to form a lawnmower drill team, but was unable to actually compete due to the rampant use of steroids.
So the idea languished in the gutters aligning the primly mowed front lawns, and schoolchildren continued to walk down the street providing truly annoying obstacles for those of us that liked to drive fast. One night, a knock came at my door. When I answered, there was a middle-aged man wearing khaki pants and a blue denim shirt. He had brown hair that was beginning to go gray, and he was armed with a white clipboard.
“Hello, are you the owner here?”
“Kind of.” Actually, that’s not true. Due to some political experimentation in College, I found that it was very difficult for me to get a mortgage. Hence, the house is in the Bride’s name. “How can I help you?”
“Hi, I’m Ted. I live down the street. I’m passing around a petition to have the city install sidewalks.”
“Oh, that sounds cool.” I reached for the clipboard. “How are you going to do that?”
“We’re going to have Violet do it.” Violet, you see, was the name of the ex-mayor’s daughter.
“I thought she was out west, and wasn’t able to return any money.”
“This is a petition to have her come back here to put them in herself.” I looked closer at the petition. Sure enough, it was addressed to the current mayor and City Council, and asked that Violet be “compelled” to return and construct the sidewalks.
“This isn’t going to work. She can’t build sidewalks.” I handed the clipboard back.
“Sure it will. Once she gets here, she can start digging. Apparently she majored in construction, so she should know how to do it.”
“But she doesn’t have any of the materials or equipment.”
“That’s okay.” He eyes began to glisten, and he straightened his posture. “I’m sure the city can provide that.” He handed the clipboard back to me.
I had misgivings, but decided to sign anyway. Sure enough, a few weeks later, the petition is presented to the town council, who dutitifully and expeditiously passed it without reading it too closely. The following week, two police officers flew out to San Francisco to retrieve Violet. Upon their return, they put Violet up in a nearby hotel because, after all, she wasn’t a prisoner they could jail. Violet was then brought up before the next City Council meeting to address the sidewalk issue.
I went to the council meeting simply because of the councilcreatures. Our town produces some of the most interesting breed of councilcreature—they tend to be a bit older, have white hair and warts, and always wear some kind of green polyester with American flags in their lapels. The men tended to slick back their steel gray hair, where the women appeared to all sport massive amounts of white hair perched upon their slightly shrunken heads. They start each meeting by reading the Pledge of Allegiance and the Apostle’s Creed. Then they went to work on Violet.
“Violet, we understand that the money you used for college was supposed to go to sidewalk construction?”
“My name isn’t Violet anymore. I’m called Moonbeam.”
“But the money for the sidewalks?” an angry councilman persisted.
“I didn’t know that it was for sidewalks. I thought it was for me to expand my mind. That’s what you’re supposed to do in college, you know.” Moonbeam lit some incense.
“But surely, Miss Violet Moonbeam, you did something with that money. What did you study in college?” This particular female councilcreature was wearing a hat that looked suspiciously like a birdhouse.
Did you just light up some marijuana?” Another councilcreature asked.
“I started out studying civil engineering, but then transferred my major to psychology. I didn’t like that, so I changed it again to English.” The chamba scented smoke wafted around her.
“Oh, so you had some civil engineering. That’s good news.” The mayor chimed. “You can build the sidewalks yourself.”
“But I was there for only nine weeks.” Moonbeam responded.
“Well, Miss Violent Moonbeam, you’re still responsible for the sidewalks.”
“I’m sorry, your honor, but what name did you just call me?”
“Violent Moonbeam. That is your name, isn’t it?”
“No, my name is Moonbeam. I was violet, back before I achieved cognizance. But when I came aware, the deep purple of my life grew to glow in such an intense fashion, that it was best described as a moonbeam.” She took a deep breath. “I can see that this town doesn’t have any heart, and that the sunny side of the street is dark. It is void. It is empty. It has the tang of anarchy, the anarchy you all fear. It is violent. And for me to persevere, I will become Violent Moonbeam.”
The awkward silence that resulted from Violent Moonbeam’s soliloquy was ended by the mayor instinctively requesting an executive session, which caused the council to slowly fade away as if the keg had gone dry at some frathouse party.
Because the city council hadn’t taken any action regarding Violet Moonbeam, her stay at the hotel continued. This would have been a problem for the town’s budget, except after three days, Violet Moonbeam moved out to a felt tent set up in Memorial Park, next to city hall. She legally changed her name to Violent Moonbeam, and started strumming on a guitar she bought in a garage sale while singing something that might sound like a protest song if you get too close.
But she never started construction on our sidewalks. I asked her once when she was planning on starting, and she said, “Maybe the dark is from your eyes.”
