CivilWarLand in Bad Decline: Stories and a Novella Read Free

the Seminar with this kind of whittled duck. She threw it away the next day because she said she thought it was an acorn. It looked nothing like an acorn. As far as I’m concerned she threw it away out of spite. It made me livid and twice that night I had to step into a closet and perform my Hatred Abatement Breathing.
    But that’s neither here nor there.
    Mr. Alsuga pulls out the summer stats. We’re in the worst attendance decline in ten years. If it gets any worse, staff is going to be let go in droves. He gives me a meaningful look. I know full well I’m not one of his key players. Then he asks who we have that might be willing to fight fire with fire.
    I say: I could research it.
    He says: Why don’t you research it?
    So I go research it.
    Sylvia Loomis is the queen of info. It’s in her personality. She enjoys digging up dirt on people. She calls herself an S&M buff in training. She’s still too meek to go whole hog, so when she parties at the Make Me Club on Airport Road she limits herself to walking around talking mean while wearing kiddie handcuffs. But she’s good at what she does, which is Security. It was Sylvia who identified the part-timer systematically crapping in the planters in the Gift Acquisition Center and Sylvia who figured out it was Phil in Grounds leaving obscene messages for the Teen Belles on MessageMinder. She has access to all records. I ask can she identify current employees with a history of violence. She says she can if I buy her lunch.
    We decide to eat in-Park. We go over to Nate’s Saloon. Sylvia says don’t spread it around but two of the nine can-can girls are knocked up. Then she pulls out her folder and says that according to her review of the data, we have a pretty tame bunch on our hands. The best she can do is Ned Quinn. His records indicate that while in high school he once burned down a storage shed. I almost die laughing. Quinn’s an Adjunct Thespian and a world-class worry-wart. I can’t count the times I’ve come upon him in Costuming, dwelling on the gory details of his Dread Disease Rider. He’s a failed actor who won’t stop trying. He says this is the only job he could find that would allow him to continue to develop his craft. Because he’s ugly as sin he specializes in roles that require masks, such as Humpty-Dumpty during Mother Goose Days.
    I report back to Mr. Alsuga and he says Quinn may not be much but he’s all we’ve got. Quinn’s dirt-poor with six kids and Mr. A says that’s a plus, as we’ll need someone between a rock and a hard place. What he suggests we do is equip the Desperate Patrol with live ammo and put Quinn in charge. The Desperate Patrol limps along under floodlights as the night’s crowning event. We’ve costumed them to resemble troops who’ve been in the field too long. We used actual Gettysburg photos. The climax of the Patrol is a re-enacted partial rebellion, quelled by a rousing speech. After the speech the boys take off their hats and put their arms around each other and sing “I Was Born Under a Wandering Star.” Then there’s fireworks and the Parade of Old-Fashioned Conveyance. Then we clear the place out and go home.
    “Why not confab with Quinn?” Mr. A says. “Get his input and feelings.”
    “I was going to say that,” I say.
    I look up the Thespian Center’s SpeedDial extension and a few minutes later Quinn’s bounding up the steps in the Wounded Grizzly suit.
    “Desperate Patrol?” Mr. A says as Quinn sits down. “Any interest on your part?”
    “Love it,” Quinn says. “Excellent.” He’s been trying to get on Desperate Patrol for years. It’s considered the pinnacle by the Thespians because of the wealth of speaking parts. He’s so excited he’s shifting around in his seat and getting some of his paw blood on Mr. A’s nice cane chair.
    “The gangs in our park are a damn blight,” Mr. A says. “I’m talking about meeting force with force. Something in it for you? Oh yes.”
    “I’d