Serendipity Green by Rob Levandoski

West Wooseman—well!”
    Victoria Bonobo has challenged D. William Aitchbone’s dire prediction because D. William Aitchbone has asked her to. She owes him so much. He handled her divorce. He handled all the paperwork on her new business venture, the Tiny Toes Day Care Center. He handled the fund-raising for her election to the village council. Yes, she owes him a lot. And this morning he called her at Tiny Toes, before the mothers began showing up with their kids, to not only discuss his secret plan for the village budget, but also to ask her to meet him tomorrow for a secret lunch, at the Wagon Wheel Restaurant, way over in Wooster.
    Now, as they discussed, Aitchbone responds to her challenge, his larynx vibrating with masculine confidence. “Six thousand bucks is not a surplus, madam councilwoman. Six thousand bucks is a train wreck waiting to happen. I’ve tracked this thing into the out years. The tax revenues from the new businesses won’t begin to cover our additional outlays for police and fire, road and sidewalk repairs, and the like.” Just in case Sam Guss of the Gazette missed it the first time, he repeats, “It’s a train wreck waiting to happen.”
    D. William Aitchbone now passes out copies of a frightening flow chart he’s drawn which shows the budget literally breaking through the village hall’s historically accurate slate roof.
    â€œWhat’s the answer?” asks Councilman Phil Tripp, genuinely concerned, not part of the conspiracy.
    â€œPrivatization,” D. William Aitchbone answers.
    Sam Guss writes down the big impressive word and underlines it twice.
    â€œPrivatization, Mr. President?” Victoria Bonobo asks, another pre-arranged response.
    D. William Aitchbone lifts his firm chin and runs all ten of his fingers through the head of thick hair Victoria Bonobo’s husband hadn’t been blessed with. “That’s correct, madam councilwoman. Bid out some of the village’s services to private vendors.”
    â€œYou mean things like police and fire?” Tom Van Syckle wonders, all on his own.
    D. William Aitchbone’s smile is reassuring. “Well not right away, Tom. We could start with some of the costly little stuff, like cleaning storm sewers, grave digging, repairing sidewalks and trimming limbs, simple maintenance stuff. Then after we’ve seen if the savings are real, we can look at things like garbage and snow removal. Police and fire would be way down the road. Way way down the road.” He passes out identical gray folders containing not only the details of his proposal, but Xerox copies of newspaper articles from other Ohio communities where privatization has been a big success. “Maybe this is the way we ought to go, and maybe it isn’t,” he humbly tells his fellow council members. “But I think it’s something we ought to consider. Again, I’m suggesting we start small.”
    Mayor Woodrow Wilson Sadlebyrne sits back and folds his arms, both amused and terrified by Aitchbone’s performance; knowing that while the village budget will indeed scrape against the ceiling tiles in two or three years, there is not a chance in hell it will ever break through the slate shingles; knowing that D. William Aitchbone’s proposal to privatize is nothing more than his private war against Howie Dornick’s unpainted house.
    Katherine Hardihood leaves the council meeting bewildered. She, too, understands the wickedness of Aitchbone’s privatization plan. Worse still—what is making her wrists and ankles quiver—is her realization that D. William Aitchbone knows she understands it, and that he’s counting on her to explain his threat to Howie Dornick.
    Walking down the dark sidewalks of Tuttwyler, icy snow bouncing off her noisy polyester coat, house key ready to pluck a rapist’s eye, she more than once whispers, “That Machiavellian fart.”
    She reaches her