THIRTY-NINE

THE CITY COUNCIL MEETING SMELLED LIKE STALE CIGARETTES, gasoline, and low-tide mud. His hometown smell. A little fishy. Griff liked it. There were dockworkers, a crew from the cannery, the downtown shop owners, lumber workers, and a handful of teachers. Jonesy and Slim sat up front. Griff and Thomas stayed near the back beside a bulletin board with tear-off advertisements for house sitters, potential roommates, ads for gutter repair, Ron’s Surf Shack, Burrito Chuck, a poster of an anthropomorphized paper document with cartoon legs, eyes, and gloved hands wagging its finger and saying: Remember Information Is Key to Good Decision Making.

The first presentation, from a University of Oregon research fellow, was about the National Oceanic and Atmospheric Association’s improvements in navigation systems since the early 1900s. The second presentation, from the Lost Coast Preppers, featured Dunbar and the beefcake Regional Prepper Director Tom Schaloob. They described the advanced tectonic and nuclear submarine monitoring techniques and air-raid alerts that would be available should the lighthouse be dismantled and repurposed. The third presentation was in support of maintaining the lighthouse as a cultural treasure, led by volunteer librarian Mrs. Ciota and retired language arts teacher Mr. Locke, speaking on behalf of the Clade City Culture Keepers. They discussed the poetic importance of Sense of Place and aesthetic beauty in the built environment.

“Not looking good for the lighthouse,” Thomas whispered.

Griff watched the crowd, pressure growing behind his eyes.

Someone, he thought. Say something.

Had anyone in the crowd heard the Band’s song on K-NOW? What music could capture their hearts? The surfers, dockworkers, lumberjacks. It couldn’t all just be talk toads and Rack Rock and commercials for sleep-number beds. They, too, must dance in their kitchens. Sing in their showers. Surely these people must ache and lie in bed and cry listening to something.

After the debate, Griff’s father managed to defer the vote on the lighthouse. The crowd was not with him. As the meeting dispersed, the murmur of voices hummed like an alert turned down low:

brrrradadadadbreeeeeee

His town had become afraid.

Griff had played one brave song. The screaming yellow Thunderbolt had been broadcasting almost a year. It had its own Specific Absorption Rate. Leeching into their cells, blood, and bones. Sowing its message, steady as the tide.