The young chair told everyone his idea: They needed to get out of that building.
It was crumbling, uninsulated, and cold, and the room was lit by a bulb on the ceiling swinging from a wire that shifted shadows like a trite detail from a novel.
“This place is a dump,” he said, his shadow sliding back and forth on the wall behind him. “There’s hungry mice everywhere, eating coffee cake crumbs we leave behind. I say we find someplace else to meet.”
There was much discussion.
The middle-aged woman in the green pantsuit with a blonde page-boy haircut made an amendment:
The next place had to be green, she said, socially responsible, and all the products they used—coffee, snacks—should be sustainable and from independent producers. “And for god’s sake,” she said. “Let’s quit using Styrofoam!”
There was much debate.
In the end, everyone agreed to the proposal and the amendment, except for the foreign guy. He didn’t understand English but thought he did, and he couldn’t believe what he had heard.
He stood up, angry and indignant.
“I can’t believe what you are saying!” he said in his thick foreign accent.
“Asking us to cut off our fingers and feed them to hungry mice is a stupid idea. And worse yet,” he said, pointing to the woman in the green pantsuit. “Your idea of taking the mice and skinning them with a green knife and taking out their eyes—Really disgusting!”
There was much confusion.
“Uh, we’re not sure what you’re talking about,” said the chair, speaking for everyone. He was tall and bald and had a red beard and wore skinny jeans. “We all just want to get along here, right?”
“You may think so! But no! I will not put on high heels just to please you!” said the foreign man.
The woman in the green pantsuit said, “Maybe he doesn’t understand English that well.”
“Oh, no!” said the foreigner. “I will not drink from your cistern!”
“Okay,” she said. “My mistake.”
“Anyway, we’ll talk about this later,” said the young chair. “Let’s get through this agenda.”
He put his head down to read the next item, and his shiny scalp reflected the room and the doors and windows like an Escher drawing.
He stroked his long, red beard.
“The funds in our reserve account look pretty good, so I’d like to use some to pay Zapata, the caterer who worked our teach-in last summer. He keeps sending us nasty reminders that we haven’t paid.”
A man in a wheelchair wearing sunglasses and a U.S. Army jacket added his opinion: “I say let them complain. If we keep the reserve account going for a few more years, maybe we can get into that new building on the river.”
“What??” said the foreign guy, so incredulous he was practically spitting. “You want to take forty puppies—little baby dowgies?—and dump them into the river??”
There was much confusion.
People looked at each other for answers. The woman in the green pantsuit asked, “Excuse me?”
The chair, twirling a finger through his red beard, said, “Maybe we’re not seeing each other’s points here, because . . .”
“Objection!!” yelled the foreign guy. “I am NOT zombie Nazi!”
An old black man sitting next to a young Latina with short hair said to her, “Did he really call him a zombie Nazi?”
She shrugged her shoulders. “Probably,” she said.
“That’s a shame,” he said, shaking his head.
“I’m tired of how these people treat us,” said the Latina.
“Like we’re invisible,” said the old black man, nodding his head.
“Look,” said the chair. “I say we postpone this meeting until next week.”
A svelte old man standing in the back wearing an expensive Nike sweat suit and wireless Bose earphones said, “Can we meet at Starbucks next time? Then maybe we can have good coffee for once.”
He held up a sad Styrofoam cup.
“Who wants to meet at Starbucks?” asked the chair.
“No! No! No!” yelled the foreign man. “I will NOT gather six cows, put them into spaceships, fly them into the stars, and blow them up!”
The woman in the green pantsuit said, “Okay, I’m done with this crap. I’m leaving.”
“You’re going to put crack in baby food!?” yelled the foreign guy. “Why?? Can you imagine those little babies crawling around all wired? Think of the mothers!!!”
“Yeah!” said the Latina. “Think of the mothers!”
“Crack is killing our people!” said the black man.
The old man in the sweat suit and earphones said, “Enough of this stupidity! This immigrant obviously doesn’t speak English. He has no place here.”
There was a communal “Ah!”
No one could believe what the old man had said, but secretly, most of them understood why he said it. He was frustrated, they thought. He didn’t really mean it.
“Now, Jon,” said the woman in the green pantsuit, “that’s inappropriate and you know it.”
There was much talking and yelling.
The black man and the Latina watched it all.
“Go back to your country!” screamed the old man in the sweat suit, crushing the Styrofoam cup in his fist and tossing the pieces.
“Here it goes,” said the Latina, shaking her head. The foreigner slowly walked to the old man. There was much tension.
The foreigner stopped in front of the tall old man and said, right to his face:
“Finally! A reasonable person. Thank you! I, too, think you are a man of honor, and I appreciate what you’re saying about my looks.” He winked at him. “And yes, I iron them myself.”