Red Tape by Michele Lynn Seigfried Page A

out of it. It was seven fifteen and the mayor had arrived along with several council members. I was relieved when I switched on the recorder at seven thirty and there was no sign of Mr. Triggers. The mayor called the meeting to order and I did the roll call. The Pledge of Allegiance followed, then the approval of minutes. Still no Triggers in sight. When it was time for public comment, the regulars lined up at the microphone.
    First, there was Rose Sciaratta. Rose was in her seventies and as thin as a strand of spaghetti. Her hair was bleached blonde and done up high in a bouffant. Her voice was gruff, probably because she had smoked two packs of cigarettes every day for almost her whole life. She strutted to the podium with her long, slender, wrinkled, fingers holding an opera length cigarette holder.
    Mayor O’Donnell spoke up. “Rose, you know you aren’t supposed to be smoking in here.”
    “I swear, doll, I put it out on my way in,” Rose said. It was hard to tell if the stench of smoke was emanating from a lit cigarette or Rose’s clothing.
    Mayor O’Donnell asked her to state her name and address for the record. Rose complained about her landlord. “My slumlord is at it again! The heat is broken in the apartment and he won’t do a darn thing about it.”
    “Rose, it’s summertime. Maybe the heat is shut off this time of year and not broken,” Mayor O’Donnell informed her.
    “No, it’s broken! I’m telling you, it’s broken!”
    “We’ll send our inspectors out to take a look tomorrow.”
    This was pretty much the same thing Rose did at every council meeting—complain about her apartment and her landlord.
    Next up was Giuseppe Fruscione, another senior citizen, who complained about the noisy renters next to him. He was an army vet from WWII and had lived in Sunshine his whole life. He was in great shape for being ninety-two years old and he was still very sharp and witty. He always dressed to impress in his suits and bowties. He walked up to the microphone with his cane.
    “I need you to do something. These college kids are up all night; they play loud music. They smoke and throw their cigarette butts all over my yard. There are beer bottles all over the place. This is my home and at my age, I deserve some peace and quiet. Isn’t there anything you can do?”
    The mayor looked toward Officer Williams, who was standing in the back of the room. “Officer Williams, would you please speak to Mr. Fruscione about his noise complaint after the meeting and see if someone is available to do a drive-by tonight?”
    “Absolutely, Mayor,” Williams responded.
    I began to imagine him driving by my house in that sexy uniform, but my fantasy was interrupted by the beeping of the metal detector. I glanced up to see that it was my not-so-favorite resident, Mr. Triggers, walking in before Giuseppe finished his speech. I’m sure I frowned, although I tried to hide it by burying my head in my computer, typing away. He immediately got in line for public comment. What a jerk, I thought. He made me go through all that hassle over those boxes, then never bothered coming back to the office to look through them.
    Mitchell Looney was the next speaker. He was our resident “pothole police” and he told his tales of where potholes were appearing in our roads. He was probably in his forties and looked like he stepped out of a time machine from nineteen seventy with his long, brown, hippie-like hair. He was the guy who made beer in his bathtub and stayed glued to the TV, watching Ancient Aliens all day long.
    “Um, yeah, I was walking in front of the ice cream shop on the corner of Thirteenth Street and I noticed a pothole there. Someone could blow out a tire. Would you mind having someone go out there and take a look at it?”
    “Sure thing, Mitch. We will send public works out to take care of that,” the mayor replied.
    Mr. Triggers stood up to the microphone next. Once again, he preached about the dunes. The mayor