Newsgroups: talk.bizarre
Subject: the mayor of wymola
From: dhoward@desire.wright.edu (sparky-desire)
Date: 7 Apr 92 12:29:42 EST
Organization: Wright State University 

     Randy, the insurance broker with two wives, Judy, the dingbat
from across the street, Romana, an old friend from my hometown of
Wymola, and I were all gathered in the kitchen experimenting with
various frozen alcoholic beverage recipes.  I'd just bought a new
blender the day before.  Romana makes a killer margarita.
     "So, how'd you guys meet, anyhow?" asked Randy.
     "Yeah, like, ya know, I'm kinda curious," said Judy.  On top
of being curious, she was also noticeably miffed.  She didn't like
Romana very much.  I sensed a tinge of jealousy.
     "We met the very first night he came to town," Romana told
them, "back in November nineteen-eighty-two."
     "Somewhere around then," I agreed with her.
     "It was eighty-two," she said.  "That was the year we had the
lottery, remember?"
     "Oh," I chuckled a bit, "yeah.  The lottery.  I haven't
thought about that for a long, long time."
     "What's so funny about a lottery?" asked Randy.
     "It was an election year in Wymola," Romana told him as she
refilled all the glasses on the table with frozen margarita.  "And
we didn't have anybody in town who wanted to be Mayor.  So rather
than going without a Mayor, we held a lottery.  Whoever had the
losing ticket had to be Mayor for two years.  Two days after Sparky
came into town they held the drawing.  And Sparky lost."
     "Oh, come OFF it!" Randy said.  "You weren't no fucking Mayor
of no fucking Wymola!"  He didn't believe it.
     "Two whole years, there, Rand," I said.
     "Really?" asked Judy.  "You serious?  You used to be a Mayor?"
     "If you can call it that," I told her.  "But what's really
funny about the whole thing is that I was just a transient passing
through.  And it was just a spoof that I even ended up in Wymola
to begin with."
     "All right," Randy said, "let's have it."  There was a tone
to his voice that suggested he thought that Romana and I were
playing tag-team bullshitters.  He was motioning with his right
hand for me to cough up something.
     "Back in the late seventies and early eighties," I said, "I
was on vacation."
     "Right," said Randy. "You were on a five year vacation."
     "No joke," I said.  "I wanted to see the countryside.  So I
used to hop freight trains whenever I wanted to go somewhere.  I
hung out in Arizona alot because the weather was nice.  I'd stay
in town doing odd jobs for extra cash, then move on somewhere else. 
There was a real sense of freedom.  I found myself during those
years.  I was at peace with myself and the world."
     "He was pretty mellow, that's for sure," said Romana. "I just
figured he was on drugs or something."
     "Still seems that way today, if you ask me," said Randy.
     "Yeah, boy, man, tell me about it," said Judy.
     "Shut up," I told them.
     "So how'd you wind up in Wymola?" Judy asked me.  Romana
started running the blender just then, so I waited until she was
done before I spoke again.
     "I was in Casa Grande one morning," I said after the blender
stopped, "trying to get to Tucson.  While I was looking for the
right train, some of the yard security spotted me and started
chasing me down.  I was running like hell cross-wise through the
switching yard, cause they have a hard time catching you when you
run across the tracks.  And as I was climbing between these two box
cars on this one freight, I tripped over the brake line and popped
the pressure fitting loose."  Romana was pouring fresh banana
Daqueries, and I waited for my glass to be filled.
     "And?" Randy asked.
     "Well," I went on, "it turned out that the brake line I broke
was on the four-twenty-three train that was going to Tucson that
afternoon.  And because it took them the twenty extra minutes or
so to fix the problem, the train missed the time slot it needed to
make it all the way to Picacho, and they had to take the siding in
Wymola.  And since the siding in Wymola wasn't tended any more, the
conductor had to throw the switches himself.  So, while the
conductor was walking from the back of the train after re-closing
the first switch, he noticed the latch on my box car was open, and
found me hiding in side.  Needless to say, I was forcibly ejected
from the train."
     "Threw your skinny ass right outta there, huh?" asked Judy.
     "Yup," I said.
     "In no uncertain terms," Romana cut in. "He was wearing the
nastiest black eye I'd ever seen in my life when he came into town
that night.  Plus he had a broken wrist."  Judy looked at me
quizzically.
     "Crow-bar," I told her.
     "Yeesh!" said Judy.  She winced at the thought of the pain,
shook her shoulders as if she had chills running up her spine.
     "Anyhow," I continued, "Romana felt sorry for me, fixed me up,
fed me, gave me an odd job at the saloon where she worked sweeping
up, and the rest is kind of history."
     "We still don't know how you managed to become a Mayor," Judy
said.
     "They passed a city ordinance," Romana to her, "that said
every resident over eighteen and legally sane had to enter the
Mayor's Lottery.  And since Sparky was twenty-four, and he wasn't
carrying any paperwork that claimed he wasn't sane, and he was
employed by me at the saloon down town, therefore making him a
resident of Wymola, he was automatically eligible."
     "Ha!" Judy laughed.  "You got waylayed big time, aye, Sparky?"
     "You know it, kiddo," I agreed.  "But it wasn't all that bad. 
I got perks with the job."
     "What kind of perks?" asked Randy.
     "For starters," I said, "the city owned a sixty-seven Ford
Galaxy.  Powder Blue.  I got to drive it any time I wanted."
     "Oh, wow," said Randy, whirling his index finger in a circle. 
He was being sarcastic.
     "Don't knock it," I told him. "It was the nicest car in town."
     "Tell 'em bout your house," said Romana.  She was getting up
to make another one of her frozen concoctions.
     "You had a house in Wymola?" Randy asked.
     "Yup," I said.  "Real nice one.  The city owned a museum.  It
was an old mansion on First Avenue just off Main Street.  In order
to make the Mayor's job more attractive to prospective politicians,
they let the Mayor move into the museum.  I had a housekeeper, a
butler, and a cook."
     "This shit's getting deep," said Randy.
     "It's true, Randy," Romana told him.  "Sparky lived in a
mansion with servants."  She fired up the blender again.
     "For two whole years, there, Rand," I said after the blender
stopped.  "The only problem was tourists during the day time. 
Aside from that, I was pretty comfy."
     "I guess so," said Judy carefully.  She wasn't sure whether
she should believe us either.  Romana came back over to the table
with a coconut and coffee concoction, started portioning it out.
     "I also had a real nice office on the top floor in City Hall,"
I bragged. "Great big old leather topped cherry wood desk, and a
secretary outside the door."
     "Shit," spat Randy.  "In two days time you went from sleeping
under bridges to living in a mansion with servants and a rosewood
desk and a secretary.  You - are - full - of - shit."
     "It's true," Romana told him. "The desk was cherry, the
secretary's name was Luanna.  What a bitch."
     "Oh, come on, Romana," I said, "she wasn't that bad."
     "She sucked every cock in City Hall to get where she was,"
Romana said, "and I'm still not sure she wasn't sucking on yours."
     "More perks?" asked Judy.  I ignored her.
     "She wasn't my type, Romana," I said, smiling curtly at her.
She wasn't my type, but,...
     "So, what did the Mayor of Wymola do?" asked Randy.  He was
still skeptical.
     "Not a whole hell of alot," I told him.  "Most of the heavy
stuff was handled by the City Manager and the Sheriff.  I had to
okay new ordinances, greet visiting officials, and preside over the
City Court every other Tuesday night.  The rest of the time I
pretty much just hung around.  Spent many an hour in the saloon
bullshitting with Romana."
     "Wait a minute," Randy said, "you presided over court?"
     "You betcha," I told him. "Every other tuesday, seven-thirty
p.m.  Traffic tickets and domestic disputes mostly.  Stuff I
couldn't handle went to Eloy for trial."
     "You aren't no fucking judge, Sparky."  Randy still didn't
believe me.
     "There were no judges in Wymola," Romana told him. "But the
Mayor had limited judicial powers for the sake of convenience. 
Otherwise all the trivial cases would have had to go the thirty
miles to Eloy."
     "Like I said," I cut in, "mostly traffic tickets and domestic
disputes.  Nothing heavy."
     "Sparky made quite a few enemies in the Mayor's Court." 
Romana told them.  "Remember old McDermitt?"
     "Ha," I laughed.  "Skinned that old red-neck good, didn't I?"
     "What?" asked Judy.
     "This cowboy mother-fucker didn't like me much to begin with,
you know," I said, "and he thought he could just about do anything
he wanted in town, and one day I found his piece of shit Chevy
parked in my spot at City Hall, and I had the Sheriff write him a
ticket."
     "Your spot?" asked Randy.
     "Another perk," I told him. "Anyway, he went to court and I
fined him fifty dollars for parking in my spot, and ordered him not
to do it again.  And guess what?  The very next day I find this old
cowboy mother-fucker's piece of shit Chevy parked in my spot
again."
     "Defiant," observed Judy.
     "Came to court two weeks later," I went on, "and I canned the
son of a bitch for two weeks for contempt of court, effective
immediately.  Boy was he pissed.  Imagine a fifty year-old red-
neck being canned by a twenty-four year-old pot smokin' hippie. 
The sheriff had to shackle him and drag him out of the room."
     "You got some balls, there, Sparky," Randy said.
     "I was getting high on the power.  I could jerk these dim-
wits around with a slap of the gavel.  And the people I liked got
special treatment.  Suspended sentences and five dollar fines."
     "And what about all the hobos who started flocking in town?"
Romana asked.
     "Yeah, heh," I laughed. "After I was in office for a while,
all these guys I knew from the railroad got wind that I was the
Mayor, and before you knew it, transients were popping the brake
lines on the four-twenty-three out of Casa Grande right and left
to stop in Wymola."
     "There was about twenty of these bums hanging around town,"
Romana added, "no money, no place to live, so Sparky gave 'em all
jobs with the city and put 'em up in the museum.  This wasn't too
bad to begin with, but then Sparky started promoting them into
fictitious positions."
     "Those were all valid jobs, Romana," I argued.
     "Oh, come on, Sparky," she came back. "What about that lunatic
called 'Dutch' and his job as 'Maintenance Logistics Coordinator?'" 
She turned to Randy and Judy.  "The town was two blocks long.  Like
we really needed someone to coordinate maintenance logistics." 
Judy and Randy both looked at me.
     "Well," I said, shrugging my shoulders.
     "And Sparky turned the museum into a party motel," Romana went
on.  "These hobos hung around all day and night, drinking, filthy,
they completely wrecked the place.  The city closed the museum to
visitors because the housekeeper couldn't keep up with the mess."
     "Yeah, heh," I chuckled. "The boys did get a little
rambunctious from time to time."
     "Tell me about it," said Romana. "Shit hit the fan when Sparky
starting giving his friends their own parking spots," Romana told
them.  "He had his own reserved spots all over town already, and
his friends started asking him for parking privileges."
     "You had three spaces, Romana," I reminded her.
     "Luanna had four," she reminded me. "Anyhow, during his second
year in office, about two thousand dollars of the city budget went
toward 'reserved parking' signs."
     "Yeah," I added, "but we got back almost twice that in parking
fines.  I should know.  I'm the one who fined 'em."
     "Needless to say," Romana went on, "toward the end of his term
in office, Sparky here was not a very popular candidate.  Just two
years before, nobody wanted the job.  And then, everybody wanted
the job just to get credit for getting Sparky's butt out of town."
     "And they did it, too," I said.  "The day after the election,
the Sheriff showed up at the museum with a bus ticket and a fifty
dollar bill.  Told me he couldn't be responsible for whatever
happens later if I don't get on the eleven-thirty bus.  I got the
picture."
     "You didn't even say good-bye," Romana told me.
     "It would have broken my heart," I said.
     "Jeeze," said Judy, rolling her eyes.
     "You're - both - full - of - shit," said Randy.
     "Look it up," I told him.

-- 
.sparky.