Story: The Meeting

 [This story is based on real events.]

“Where is Jeanine? The meeting is about to start.”

The menu of the Rockhouse Cafe had changed again–an extra page at the front with seasonal specials. Minerva’s face twisted uneasily as she flipped quickly past it to Entrees. Her finger found the chicken with potatoes, rested there in reassurance for a moment–and then a spasm of energy drove it away, back to her cellphone.

“She said she would be coming–where is she? Don’t worry, we still have ten minutes before the meeting: more people will be coming.”

This last remark to the thin young man with bleached-blond, spiked hair sitting at her right hand, who was trying to occupy himself by looking carefully over the seasonal specials.

“If we don’t get five more people, the vote won’t be valid–we won’t have a quorum.” This remark to the plump, comfortable-looking woman on her other side, who was looking rather sleepy and had not opened her menu.

“Well,” the woman said. “I’m sure they’ll turn up soon.” She yawned.

Minerva’s thin face crinkled. “I don’t know why they keep those asparagus on the menu–it’s an embarrassment. Where is Jeanine?”

She grabbed the phone lying next to the red plastic glass of water and dialed the number again. Before it could go to voicemail, she thumbed it off and dropped it onto the table again. “Anne, do you have the Mitchells’ number?” 

The plump woman smiled. “No, I think Bob does, though. He should be here soon.”

“Tell Bob he’s going to be late!” Minerva barked to the thin, frightened-looking older man sitting across from her. He flinched.

“Um, honey…”

The door opened, and Minerva spun her head around; it was the Marvins, both thin and blond and frowning. They sat down at the other end of the table, as far from Minerva as possible.

“See? More people will be here.” She nodded to the young man again, who was in the process of drinking from his water cup. He coughed, spilling some water on the table, and she frowned.

“We still need three more people to make a quorum!” she hissed at Anne.

“Can I get y’all anything else to drink?” Minerva started: the waitress was back, a thin young woman wearing a black vest with a broad smile on her face.

She turned over the menu card: where were the drinks?

The young man at her right had already piped up, smiling as he did so. “I’ll have a Dr. Pepper.” The woman smiled back, and Minerva frowned as she glanced between the two of them.

“Anne, what are you having?”

“White wine, please.” Anne yawned again. “Cabernet.” 

“I’ll just have a Coke.” Bob had arrived, a large man with a round face and a well-groomed beard. He sat down heavily next to Anne and looked with interest at the young man. “So you’re the artist!” 

The young man smiled. “John,” he said. “Pleased to meet you.” 

“Bob,” said Bob, looking down at his menu. “Do they still have the oysters special?” 

“No,” the waitress said. “I’m sorry. We do have oysters at our regular price, though. And the new special is Seafood Scampi.”

“Bob,” Minerva said, glancing over at him in annoyance. “Don’t you think we should wait to order food until everyone gets here?”

Bob shrugged. “Is anyone else coming?”

Minerva shuddered. “Yes, you know we need at least two more people even to have a proper quorum. The Mitchells said they were coming, and Jeanine helped me plan this; she’s the head of our Sign Commission, and I would think she would be a little more…” She glanced up to see that the waitress was still standing looking at her expectantly. She looked around for the drink menu one last time. “Bring me an Old Fashioned,” she barked out, grabbing her cell phone again and trying to wave the waitress away.

The waitress didn’t move. “We have a special today on a Polynesian Sunset Old Fashioned,” she said, looking dreamily down at her pad. “It’s one of our Bar Manager’s specialties: we use a specialty Kentucky Bourbon and a slice of pineapple marinated in–”

“Fine,” Minerva snapped out, grabbing her phone to text Jeanine. Where are you? The meeting is supposed to start in five minutes and we still don’t have a quorum. Do you have the Mitchells’ number?

The Marvins both ordered gin, and the waitress finally headed out. Minerva looked down at her phone again. Only three minutes to go.

“Doesn’t anyone take the HOA seriously?” she complained aloud to the man across from her. “I swear, sometimes I feel like I have to do everything: write the bylaws, arrange the meetings, get the reservations…you could pull more of your own weight, you know.” She looked at the man, her husband, sternly.

“Honey,” he said nervously. “I think everyone here values your hard work.” Anne nodded encouragingly, staring off into the distance.

“So what do you have in mind for the sign?” Bob was speaking across her now to the young man. “Personally, I don’t see anything wrong with the one we have now–but if we’re going to hire a real artist, I guess we should–”

“Bob!” she all but shouted. “The meeting hasn’t started! We can’t discuss that yet.”

Bob laughed. “Well, if you really think anyone else is coming…”

Minerva grabbed her cell phone again. They were one minute over!

“Late!” she said. The waitress had returned with two of the drinks, one in each hand. She set them down heavily in front of Anne and the young man, then reached for her pad. “Y’all ready to order?” She smiled at Minerva.

“Well.” Minerva said. “I suppose everyone else can order when they get here. I’ll take the baked chicken with potatoes.” She handed her menu aggressively to the waiter, who was writing the order down, her brow furrowed in concentration. “Would that be the sage mashed potatoes or the rosemary oven fries?”

“Plain potatoes.” Minerva said. “No Rosemary. And no salt. I’m on a low sodium diet.”

The waitress nodded slowly, continuing to write. “Anyone else?” She glanced up, but still did not take the menu.

“I’ll take the Mushroom Lovers’ Burger,” Bob said. “Fries. No pickle.” He handed the menu to the waitress, who took it immediately and then, after a second, Minerva’s as well. 

The Mitchells both ordered steaks. Anne still had not looked at her menu. “Do y’all have any fried chicken?” she asked, looking up at the woman with a gently beaming face. 

“Of course,” the waitress smiled. “We rub it in flour, black pepper, and paprika, and then fry it in a mix of corn and canola oil. It’s been profiled in Southern Living magazine.”

“Wonderful.” Anne said, continuing to beam. “I’ll take it.”

“Any sides?” the waitress asked. 

“Well, let me see,” Anne said slowly. “What sides do y’all have?”

Minerva grabbed her phone again and texted Jeanine furiously. Where are you? The meeting’s already started.

“We have ten regular sides, and two seasonal specials,” the waitress explained. “But we can also make a few others on request. To start with, there are our two potato options…”

It was now five minutes after the meeting’s start time. Minerva grabbed her phone again, but a second later dropped it: the Mitchells had arrived, and the Johnsons. They all sat down without a word and grabbed for their menus. 

“Then there are our very popular Southern-style roasted vegetables. You can get mixed vegetables, or Brussels sprouts, or Broccoli. We also have Cauliflower as a seasonal option. Those are very popular right now…”

“We have a quorum!” Minerva announced to the young man, who was taking a drink of his Dr. Pepper. He choked.

She stood up. “Thank you all for coming!” she announced in a loud voice. There was a noise from the end of the table and she saw that Mr. Rogers and Jim Barker had both arrived also and were seating themselves by the Mitchells. 

“We also have grilled asparagus, hushpuppies, and baked beans.” The waitress explained to Anne, who was continuing to beam up at her with rapt attention. “And coleslaw. And as a seasonal option, an Oriental Coleslaw with Oriental spices. That’s very popular. What am I forgetting?” 

“We’re usually quite punctual,” Minerva said, pointedly, to the young man, glaring over at the two newly-arrived men. “But now that nearly everyone is here, we should get started. I’m sure you all know why we’re here.” Everyone was looking down at their menus except for Mr. Rogers, who was frowning at her darkly under his cap.

“It’s about time we did something about the De la Cruzs.” Mrs. Marvin broke out with suddenly, looking around the table angrily. “I know they’re only renters, but we still have standards in this community. And the way they maintain their yard is completely unacceptable. I’m sure we’d all be happy to overlook the color of their garden hose, but they’ve been leaving their garbage cans out by the street until Wednesday morning nearly every week. I told Mrs. De la Cruz about it, but I’ve been checking on it for the past few months, and I have pictures to prove that–”

“Mrs Marvin,” Minerva said firmly, talking over her. “I don’t think you realize that we have an outsider here. We can’t address neighborhood business until he’s left.”

“Oh yes, the baked apples are very nice. Those are my favorite. So what’ll it be?” the waitress finished and smiled down at Anne. 

“Now let me see…” Anne frowned. “Do I get one side or two?”

“The chicken comes with one side.” the waitress explained. “But if you want to add on a second side, it’s only three dollars.”

“Well, then, I guess I’ll take the baked apples.” The waitress wrote it down and turned to the young man. “What will you be wanting?”

The young man started to open his mouth, but Minerva cut him off. “Oh, he won’t be staying for the whole meal,” she explained. “But get whatever you want, please, we’re happy to oblige. But you should probably package it to go.” 

“I’ll take the special,” the young man said.

A second waiter came up with Bob’s Coke and Minerva’s cocktail. Without thinking, she grabbed for it and took a sip, then frowned. 

“To start off our meeting,” she said. “I’d like to introduce our guest, John Ramos. He’s a local artist with a lot of exposure these days.” She looked down at her notes. “He recently had a gallery show at the Metropolitan Arts Council named Pervert Death Land. He is also a Regions Bank Arts Grant Recipient. He’s agreed to repaint our neighborhood sign for us, and we’re all very grateful.”

Bob and Jim both started to clap, but no one else joined in and they stopped. Minerva coughed and took another sip of the cocktail, then set it back down angrily in front of her.

“He will now talk to us about what he has in mind for the project.” She sat down. 

“What do you think you’ll be wanting?” the waitress asked Mrs. Marvin, who was glaring angrily at Minerva. “Ma’am?”

The young man stood up nervously. “Well,” he said. “I’ve given this project a lot of thought.” He paused. “It might interest you to know that the reason your sign’s faded so much is that you didn’t use a waterproof paint or sealant. I can get those at Home Depot, and the sign should last a long time after that.”

Anne was gaping in open amazement. “Wow,” she said. “I had no idea.” She turned to Bob. “Did you know about this, Bob?”

“I’ll take the Southern Burrito. With Brussels Sprouts.” Mrs. Marvin handed her menu to the waitress. “My husband will have the Cheeseburger with fries.” 

Bob shrugged and took a swig of his Coke. “The sign seems fine to me. But I guess that makes sense.”

Minerva glared at him. “It’s very faded. There have been several comments in our Anonymous Suggestions forum, and finally we had no choice but to form a Sign Commission to take care of it. We can’t keep putting things off like this. It’s an embarrassment to the neighborhood. I think we all agree on that.”

The young man glanced at Minerva. “My budget is three hundred dollars. That’s one hundred fifty dollars in materials and one hundred fifty in labor.” He coughed. 

“Couldn’t we just buy the paint and do it ourselves?” Jim piped up from the other end of the table. 

“Well…” the young man looked around nervously. “I suppose that…”

“I’m sure we all appreciate Mr. Ramos’ knowledge and expertise.” Minerva said quickly and angrily. “And having our sign done by an artist means so much…how much would it be if you just used sealant?”

“Um…” the young man glanced at Jim again nervously. “Well…it, um, wouldn’t be as weather-resistant, but…I suppose that, um, maybe for two hundred and fifty…”

Minerva turned to Anne. “What do you think?”

Anne smiled back at her. “It sounds wonderful!”

“No, I mean, which option do you think…honey?” She turned sharply to her husband.

“Honey,” her husband said slowly. “I’m sure we’re all happy to rely on your judgment. If you think…”

“I still don’t see why we need to pay someone instead of just doing it ourselves.” Jim said, a little more loudly. The waitress was at his elbow now. “Gimme that Smokehouse Burger, but take out the tomato and lettuce, please. Fries. If you just give me the HOA card and let me go to Home Depot, I can paint the sign on Saturday before the Little League game.”

“It’s supposed to rain on Saturday.” Mrs. Mitchell piped up, a little nervously, with a glance at Minerva.

“I think we should go for the maximum quality we can.” Mr. Johnson said definitely. “After all, the sign really represents our neighborhood as a whole. Paradise Harbor. That’s who we are.” He nodded heavily.

“But our budget…” Mrs. Marvin frowned. “A lot of people aren’t even paying their dues. The De la Cruz’s–”

Minerva turned with decision to the young man. “We’ll take the full package. Now what did you have in mind for the sign itself?” 

“Well,” the young man said. “I was thinking I would maintain the original purple and green color scheme; but I could also add a few leaves below the lettering if–”

“I think we should keep it exactly the same.” Mr. Johnson said. “It’s who we are.”

“I’ll take the oysters.” Mr. Rogers said, still frowning at Minerva. “No sides.”

“I agree,” Mr. Mitchell put in slowly. “I think the sign represents our identity very well. What we stand for. I don’t see any reason to change it.”

“No point in change for change’s sake,” Mr. Marvin put in.

“It’s a lovely sign…” Anne added. 

“Well then, why even bother hiring an artist?” Jim raised his voice angrily. “If you’ll just let me use my own paint, I could have–”

“There’s no need to alter anything,” Minerva concluded. “I think that’s an excellent plan.” 

“Can you give us a few more minutes to look at the menu?” Mr. Mitchell asked the waiter, who smiled and turned to the Johnsons. “We’ll share the Surf n’ Turf,” Mr. Johnson said, smiling.

“Well!” Minerva said. “I know we’re all very grateful for Mr. Ramos’ expertise.” She turned to him. “We’ll be in touch with you in a few weeks.” She continued to stare at him, and after a second he started and took a step away from the table.

“Thank you so much for coming!” Minerva said, trying for a smile. The young man managed a sort of half-wave in return, then turned his back and headed abruptly for the exit.

“What about his food?” Bob asked, looking up.

“Well.” Minerva said, sitting back down. She glanced up at the waitress, who was still hovering nearby, waiting for the Mitchells to make up their minds. “Before you go, dear…I just wanted to say that this drink is completely unacceptable. It’s in a much smaller glass this time; as if I couldn’t tell the difference. The flavors are disgusting. It’s completely different from the last time I ordered it. And I saw you laughing with the bartender before you brought it; that’s completely disrespectful. I work and work for this community, but it seems like everyone just spends their time getting together and laughing at me. Doing everything they can to sabotage the HOA and the neighborhood, turning us all into a joke. I put up with it because of how much I value this community; but this drink is just a step too far. I don’t know who put you up to it; but it’s not working. I’m not paying for it.”

The waitress looked like she was about to cry; after a moment she hurried off without the Mitchells’ order.

Mr. Rogers slammed his hand on the table. “Minerva, I think we’ve all had it up to here with your–”

Her husband rose to his feet unsteadily. “Now, um, look here, George. Don’t you, um, talk to my wife that way. After–”

“We’re not really paying three hundred dollars for that damn sign, are we?” Jim put in.

“We should stick to business,” Mr. Johnson said, frowning nervously. “What else do we have to talk about?”

“Where did the waitress go?” Mr. Mitchell said loudly. “We’re ready to order.”

“Yes, now we can talk about the De la Cruz’s.” Mrs. Marvin said. “They just don’t fit in here. I think we all–”

The manager had arrived, a burly man in a black vest with a dark expression on his face. “Now what seems to be the problem here? Something about a drink…?”

“Can you take my order?” Mr. Mitchell demanded. “My wife and I are–”

“This drink is terrible.” Minerva shouted at the manager, whose face started to redden. “You should be ashamed of yourselves! You should all be ashamed of yourselves! All of you!”

The manager reared his head back in anger. “Now look here, ma’am–”

“Now you look here!” Minerva rounded on him, her hand shaking, her voice raised to the top of its pitch. She felt a sudden, sharp pain in her chest, and her vision swam, but she didn’t stop now, couldn’t stop now. “You all should be ashamed of yourselves! I’ve worked so hard for this community; and you bring me this drink! How dare you? How dare you? I–” 

Anne glanced up and smiled. “Oh look: Jeanine is here.”

Minerva fell back in her seat, taking one last, shuddering breath as she did so. “There you are. I’ve told you again and again–”

Jeanine was on fire in her head and hands, the flames licking about her round face and full lips, climbing up to surround her brown hair. She was dressed in full armor still, a sword in her right hand; but her face was drawn in pain, and Minerva could smell the sharp tang of her burning flesh. 

“It’s time to go,” Jeanine said gently. She sat down in the place vacated by the young man, to Minerva’s left, and placed a hand on her shoulder. 

Minerva stood up. “Well,” she said. “I don’t think much of this service. You’re late.”

Jeanine smiled gently; her hair was going up in flame hair by hair, each one fading to glowing orange, intertwining about her head, stretching out on every side, setting everything in flames. “I’m sorry; I got here as soon as I could.”

Minerva frowned. “I’ve worked very hard, you know,” she put in, a tad defensively. “I’ve worked very, very hard. No one has ever appreciated that. Or me. They all…” The burning hairs were spreading around her now, too; she felt them twining about her arms, joining her legs to the chair, moving into her veins, into her chest. The warmth was overwhelming, but somehow comforting. She took one last, sharp breath, and her eyes moistened with tears. “They don’t take anything I do seriously; they ignore everything, everything. They ruin it all on purpose. Then they go off by themselves and laugh at me. I work so hard, and they don’t care. No one appreciates me. No one has ever appreciated me…”

“That’s all over now,” Jeanine said. Her eyes were twin flames; she grasped Minerva by the shoulders, and stared intently into her face. The flames shot out and into Minerva’s eyes. Her vision now was nothing but fire; she cried out in pain.

“Why are you doing this to me? What have I done? What have I done? I worked so hard; no one has ever…”

Jeanine’s voice in her ears was a warm breath that invaded her brain and filled it, too, with fire, until nothing else remained.

“That is all over now. Everything you have done…all that remains is to be consumed by fire, and then see what remains.

“The meeting is about to start.”