turned her head until she was looking directly across the room at Scanlon. She was beautiful. Green eyes, plump lips, a dazzling smile.
Once the room quieted down, she announced, “My name’s Sequoia, for any new people here tonight.” Which got a big laugh. Obviously nobody else was new. “It’s José’s turn to run the meeting again.”
The remaining coffee-klatch energy drained from the room with audible sighs and groans.
“I’ve done a lot of work on the tax question.” José was around Scanlon’s age, wearing a dark suit, a briefcase propped open on his knees. “I’ve composed a set of proposals for discussion involving sales, income, and property tax, import-export duties, casino tax,” and he rambled on in a monotone about percentages and credits and revenues, all of it punishingly boring, without any context, and apparently of no interest to anyone in the room, most people staring at him blankly, fidgeting, knitting, reading, balancing checkbooks.
“So I propose a system whereby—”
“We don’t need a
system
,” someone shouted out. “Systems are the problem!”
“
Eliminate
tariffs. Don’t devise new ones!” A general ruckus was building.
“Eco-regions,” another voice insisted. “Until watersheds determine the political boundaries and—”
“Deirdre, you snake. Everyone in this room knows you just want to log those redwoods!”
“Without Canadian and Pacific Rim trade—”
Complete pandemonium broke out—shouts, accusations, and pleas for calm—until finally an ear-splitting whistle pierced the room. It was the fire chief, two thick fingers in his mouth, cheeks puffed up and red.
Sequoia let the silence resonate, taking a long breath. “We’re caught in an eddy, people. We can’t just keep disagreeing. We have to
do
something.” She held her arms out to her sides.
She was soothing, mesmerizing, but Scanlon still knew the PNSM was hopeless. The man in front of him got up for a fresh cup of coffee, then someone joined him and started crunching on a cookie.
“I want to introduce you to a guest tonight,” Sequoia said, and Scanlon saw his chance to escape before the next sermon.
“He’ll give us a broader overview and ideas for how to proceed.”
He’d stood up and was sidestepping between chairs toward the exit when she said, “He’s a professor of mass movements and radical studies at the university. Scanlon Pratt.”
Sixty people shifted their bodies, chairs squeaking, necks craning.
He cleared his throat.
“What are your thoughts?” she said. “About how we might proceed.”
He was pinned between the knees of Chuck from Chuck’s Plumbing and the back of a chair. Chairs scraped the floor, opening up space around him.
“Well, it seems like you’re on the right path,” he lied, and Sequoia’s smile grew wide and radiant, her eyes on him alone. “It seems like you’re getting things done. I wouldn’t presume to offer advice.”
Heads nodded. Enough said. A self-satisfied bunch. But as the chatter resumed, Sequoia looked away, radiance draining from her as if he’d poked a hole through her skin. He’d disappointed her.
“However,” Scanlon said. He lifted his hand and said it again more loudly, riding over the voices with the opening lecture for his unit on mass movements. “Any mass movement needs to first establish common principles, and those need to be based in a real understanding of social theory.” He paused as Sequoia turned to him. “If you don’t know how things work, you can’t know how to change them. You need to develop a common vision for your new state. Is it a state? Or a nation? How is it governed, et cetera? You need strategies for implementing that vision. And you also need to understand that if you’re serious, if this isn’t just a discussion group with no real intention of actually
doing
anything, then profoundly radical action is required. Unshakable broad coalitions must be forged, and an unflinching commitment
Once the room quieted down, she announced, “My name’s Sequoia, for any new people here tonight.” Which got a big laugh. Obviously nobody else was new. “It’s José’s turn to run the meeting again.”
The remaining coffee-klatch energy drained from the room with audible sighs and groans.
“I’ve done a lot of work on the tax question.” José was around Scanlon’s age, wearing a dark suit, a briefcase propped open on his knees. “I’ve composed a set of proposals for discussion involving sales, income, and property tax, import-export duties, casino tax,” and he rambled on in a monotone about percentages and credits and revenues, all of it punishingly boring, without any context, and apparently of no interest to anyone in the room, most people staring at him blankly, fidgeting, knitting, reading, balancing checkbooks.
“So I propose a system whereby—”
“We don’t need a
system
,” someone shouted out. “Systems are the problem!”
“
Eliminate
tariffs. Don’t devise new ones!” A general ruckus was building.
“Eco-regions,” another voice insisted. “Until watersheds determine the political boundaries and—”
“Deirdre, you snake. Everyone in this room knows you just want to log those redwoods!”
“Without Canadian and Pacific Rim trade—”
Complete pandemonium broke out—shouts, accusations, and pleas for calm—until finally an ear-splitting whistle pierced the room. It was the fire chief, two thick fingers in his mouth, cheeks puffed up and red.
Sequoia let the silence resonate, taking a long breath. “We’re caught in an eddy, people. We can’t just keep disagreeing. We have to
do
something.” She held her arms out to her sides.
She was soothing, mesmerizing, but Scanlon still knew the PNSM was hopeless. The man in front of him got up for a fresh cup of coffee, then someone joined him and started crunching on a cookie.
“I want to introduce you to a guest tonight,” Sequoia said, and Scanlon saw his chance to escape before the next sermon.
“He’ll give us a broader overview and ideas for how to proceed.”
He’d stood up and was sidestepping between chairs toward the exit when she said, “He’s a professor of mass movements and radical studies at the university. Scanlon Pratt.”
Sixty people shifted their bodies, chairs squeaking, necks craning.
He cleared his throat.
“What are your thoughts?” she said. “About how we might proceed.”
He was pinned between the knees of Chuck from Chuck’s Plumbing and the back of a chair. Chairs scraped the floor, opening up space around him.
“Well, it seems like you’re on the right path,” he lied, and Sequoia’s smile grew wide and radiant, her eyes on him alone. “It seems like you’re getting things done. I wouldn’t presume to offer advice.”
Heads nodded. Enough said. A self-satisfied bunch. But as the chatter resumed, Sequoia looked away, radiance draining from her as if he’d poked a hole through her skin. He’d disappointed her.
“However,” Scanlon said. He lifted his hand and said it again more loudly, riding over the voices with the opening lecture for his unit on mass movements. “Any mass movement needs to first establish common principles, and those need to be based in a real understanding of social theory.” He paused as Sequoia turned to him. “If you don’t know how things work, you can’t know how to change them. You need to develop a common vision for your new state. Is it a state? Or a nation? How is it governed, et cetera? You need strategies for implementing that vision. And you also need to understand that if you’re serious, if this isn’t just a discussion group with no real intention of actually
doing
anything, then profoundly radical action is required. Unshakable broad coalitions must be forged, and an unflinching commitment
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