In 1954 - 1955, there was a publicity offer to celebrate the transition
of the program "Sergeant Preston of the Royal Canadian Mounties" from
radio to television. The sponsor of the
show, a hot breakfast cereal, offered, for the price of one dollar and two
box-tops, to send you a legal deed for an actual speck of land in the Yukon
Territory. One square foot. This offer always sparked in me an interest
in the rich possibilities of such an offer.
In 1976, while visiting a friend on the
East Coast, I wrote this story in one sitting, a two-hour manic writing frenzy
I have not experienced before or since. It was included in my short story
collection, Sailing Away, published by Lost Horse Press in 2000.
M
A N I F E S T D E S T I N Y
Maximillian Boyd was immediately attracted to
Oak Hills the very first time he cruised the elliptical Oak Hills Drive in his new Continental
Mark IV. Max had always been an
ambitious man despite his short stature, a rising corporate star of computer-like precision, a man who
owned five dozen ties (due in part to the generosity of his wife on Christmas
and birthdays) and who never mismatched his slacks and blazers. It had been his good fortune to succeed in
business almost without effort, but that pinnacle was not altogether
satisfying. He still had to return each
evening to his home and his wife, who incessantly referred to him as "my
little Max". As though to disprove
this diminutive endearment, Max's ambition spilled into his domestic life. It became imperative to own the tallest front
windows, the greenest lawn, the longest car, the lowest golf score. So, despite his wife's little jibes about his
stature and abilities, Max became Number One in everything he attempted. It was his ambition; it was his destiny.
That was why Max moved his family to Oak
Hills at the first opportunity. Oak
hills was the newest, the poshest of
recent suburban developments that sprouted along the freeway like giant
multiple kidneys. Oak Hills was the
neighborhood all the corporate heads had chosen. Oak Hills had the best school, the largest
golf course, the most symmetrical trees.
And Oak Hills had one thing more that appealed to Max; He had noted with
quiet approval that Oak Hills had a Neighborhood Association. He joined it the same day he moved into his
large beige split-level.
The Oak Hills Neighborhood Association
boasted over fifteen hundred members, counting kids and some of the larger
dogs. Until Max moved in, the
neighborhood esprit-de-corps was inspired mainly by the fact that
between the railroad tracks on one side and the boggy fields on the other, Oak
Hills had only one roadway entrance, inadvertantly subsidizing the collective
visceral impression of a fortified enclave.
Capitalizing on this vague solidarity, Max initiated a vote to construct
a drawbridge, arguing that the bridge could be raised on Friday and Saturday
nights in order to protect their isolated community from the ravages of
post-game exhuberance generated at the nearby high school, an institution all
regarded as a living symbol of a society gone to seed. The cost of the drawbridge was prohibitive,
however. So Max diverted the growing enthusiasm
of the Association into an overwhelming vote to erect rows of distinctive
orange and white flags along their solitary access to the "outside",
as it was called. Enthusiasm
subsequently soared; within three weeks, Max was unanimously elected chairman
of the Oak hills Neighborhood
Association. Max smiled quietly and held
up one finger, until Max's wife smiled swettly and said above even the loudest
applause, "My little Max." Max
sighed, and gazed out the window at the alder trees. "Just wait," he said, but he spoke
mainly to the trees.
Within a few days, the thick old alders
along the entranceway were harvested, and aluminum poles implanted in their
root structures, evenly spaced.
Reception of these poles and their flags was so enthusiastic that the
Neighborhood Association agreed to meet weekly to discuss further improvement
of neighborhood order, beauty, and morale, not to mention (although be assured
it was) the preservation and possible appreciation of individual property
value.
More and more old alders were cut away to
be replaced by young oak saplings planted in orderly fashion along the borders
of the main neighborhood thoroughfare, which was elliptical. Each home owner was allotted four of these
saplings, for which he was responsible.
All the residents were highly moved, and eagerly sank their saplings
along the fronts of their lots, and cried for more. As a consequence of this eagerness, rules
were suggested, voted upon, and bylaws adopted.
All lawns were to be kept less than one and one-half inches high, no
dandelions allowed. There were to be no
cars more than six years old left to rust in the streets. Superfluities such as boats and travel
trailers were to be kept cosmetically out of sight, in garages. Changing the color of one's house paint
became subject to a two-thirds vote by
the Association. No unsightly swings or
jungle-gyms; children were directed to use the facilities at the centrally
located playhouse, where parlor games were provided. It was the responsibility of individual
property owners to repair fences, clean sidewalks, exterminate moles and
eliminate the possibility of pet droppings with a combination of obedience
school and constant vigilance.
Infractions of the rules, it was agreed, would result in fines of fifty
dollars per violation.
Member participation was staggering, and
Oak Hills metamorphosed almost overnight into an exclusive, posh young
neighborhood where citizens from proximate boroughs would chauffer their older
children in ellipses to view the artfully sculpted lawns, clean uncluttered
streets, and the tasteful rotation of the five permissible house colors, hoping
to instill in them a yearning for such order in their lives.
By the time the oaks were a magnificent
twelve feet high, the neighborhood had accomplished uniform integrity; all the
enforceable by-laws possible had long been instituted. Members lived exactly as they believed
everyone else should live to arrest the undeniable decay evident on "The
Outside.” Land value appreciated as lawn
mowers hummed and older cars were towed away.
Morale soared; no fines were ever assessed, and only one family moved
away, in disgrace, when their eldest son chain-sawed one of the oaks in front
of their home to make room for a basketball hoop. But the vacancy was quickly filled by
pilgrims eager to comply with Association rules, who even replaced the oak at
their own expense; such was Oak Hills.
Enthusiasm of this magnitude strained at
the confines of mere suburban maintenance; thus the Association voted to remain
active, meeting weekly at Chairman Max's house for purposes of comraderie and seminars. Child raising forums were instituted, as were
bingo and vodka. The impetus that
successful cohabitation instilled manifested itself in political discussions,
and further, into group therapy, Bible study, and macramé. Transcendental meditation was taught free by
the wife of the street patrol captain, who was a college graduate. And pottery was turned by novices under the
benign guidance of the funeral director.
Each Wednesday, after all residents concluded dining, at precisely 6:30
p.m.,
the adults strolled around the ellipse to Chairman Max's large beige
split-level as a ceramic gong sounded, calling the members to meeting. The ceramic gong had been made by Max's wife
and had started to be a teapot; the reason it was flat was a long story and not
common knowledge. But each week, when
the large ceramic dish summoned a meeting, Max's wife would smile
secretively. Wednesday evenings
subsequently became a festive occasion.
ties were worn; cigars were lit, wives were swapped behind the stately
brick barbeque.
Still, the full measure of initiative was
not satisfied within the elliptical perimeters, behind the flags. Max and a few older trustees more and more
often discussed the vague listlessness which accompanied the fulfillment of
manifest destiny. There must be new
territories to conquer, Max said when occasion permitted it. New complexities to challenge, new media upon
which our communal aestheticism might be expressed. The second and third trustees agreed. Perhaps we could expand in some way-- branch
out, Max (who encouraged everyone to affectionately call him "Number One,
no matter what his wife called him) said aloud one day. Our message of beauty through order must be
carried beyond the orange and white flags, he added. The second and third trustees readily agreed,
yet the plan was without form.
The Wednesday immediately following his
cryptic remark, Max sounded the ceramic gong and called the Association to
order. His face flushed as he slowly,
almost reluctantly, began to explain his thoughts; he had the embryo of a
plan. It was a hopeless plan, a token
long-shot, he said. But he was
determined to share it anyway. All sat
quietly as he explained his recent listlessness and related his vague rummaging
through the family attic of souvenirs and memorabilia for some sort of
inspiration or sign. He related how his
half-hearted efforts had uncovered an item which might be of interest to the
Association. This item from his
forgotten youth had resurrected a flood of memories, of dreams, the slight
promise of a star-studded destiny. He
was positive the membership would understand; everyone had entered the
Publisher's Clearing House Sweepsteaks with that same vague subliminal
excitation: just maybe. And Max was just
as positive that the membership was capable of great empathy as he recounted a
young boy's vague stirrings at the breakfast table as he read from the backs of
cereal boxes of far-off lands. All would
surely understand from their own parallel backgrounds, the logic, if not the
sensibility, of his adolescent motivation in acquiring the item in
question. So as not to pique their
curiosity beyond its attention span, he brought forth from his coat several
yellowed, brittle squares of paper; each was a deed for one square foot of land
on the far Northwest frontier, along the Arctic Circle. He had acquired each one for a dollar each,
along with two Quaker Oats box-tops, some forty years before. He had had the presence of mind to struggle
through ten successive boxes of Quaker Oats, the memory of which was still
distastefully strong. With ten box-tops,
you got ten deeds and a map of the Yukon Territory, he explained. He could not find the map, but he presented
the membership with the ten deeds. It
was a beginning, he said, perhaps an indication of the direction they could
take. Several of the members stirred,
others leaned forward. The wife of the
street patrol captain began rubbing her thighs together. The meeting mustered no other new business;
the Oak Hills High School pep song was sung a
capella, and the meeting adjourned.
The following Wednesday night, a record
attendance was set, and Chairman Max's testimony was discussed. Excitement mounted as four hundred and fifty
members crowded into Max's large beige family room, and one by one witnessed
their private reverie of the previous week.
Each of the men, and a surprising number of the women, related their own childhood marathons with Quaker Oats, their
dreams spurring them on, bowl after soggy bowl.
By tens and twenties, the yellowed, torn squares of papers mounted the
top of the Motorola like a baptismal offering until awe subdued the entire
congregation.
Long after the summer darkness fell,
Chairman Max and the uppermost trustees searched the ancient documents,
arranging and recording; a matrix was formed, and one of the hundred and
eighty-two maps of the Yukon Territory consulted. Just before dawn they completed the final
tabulation. Adjacent deeds filled an area,
minus a few small holes, approximately twenty-seven feet square. A collection plate was passed. The Oak Hills High School pep song was slowly
sung a capella, and everyone went home, spent.
The following Wednesday, chairman Max
magnanimously offered to donate his vacation time for the purpose of inspecting
and assessing possible use of the land designated by the deeds. He explained he had already planned a trip to
Anchorage on business
anyway. It would not be far out of his
way to fly further north for a couple of days.
In his absence, the second trustee would organize such morale boosters
as name-the-new-territory contests and raffle lotteries, the winners of which
to become trustees of the unnamed land.
Trial charters would be drafted, rules and by-laws experimented
with. The new land, small and
inaccessible as it was, presented all with a tiny jewel of hope and
fascination. Chairman Max was toasted
several times with vodka martinis; everyone called him Number One, (except his
wife) and enthusiasm surpassed even that of the raising of the orange and white
flags.
Upon his return, Chairman Max initiated
the back-fence network, and a Wednesday night meeting was called, even though
it was only Monday. It was reported that
he had sounded grave. The gong was
sounded, the meeting called to order, and the old business was promptly
disposed. Chairman Max rose wearily, and
the members fell silent, shocked at his appearance. He had a five o'clock shadow, and his tie was
askew.
He reported from the beginning, of his
business meeting in Anchorage, his flight to Fairbanks, his search for a bush
pilot, his supper at the Fairbanks Howard Johnson's. His flight over the uneven tundra, the
melting ice floes, the pipeline. The
surveyor he had employed had double and triple checked, incurring great
expense; there was no mistake about the final resting place of New Oak Hills
(as it was called after the contest).
Chairman Max downed a vodka straight and presented the membership with
the simple facts.
Their plot of land was roughly
twenty-seven feet wide by thirty-one feet long, not considering the few dozen
missing pieces; the plot lay at approximately 69 degress, 46', 55.76"
North Latitude by 101 degrees, 22', 46.852" West Longitude; the plot lay
in the exact center of the concrete cap on the top of the silo of a Nike
Dewline Defense Warhead; the fine for his trespassing on military security ground was five hundred dollars. His court hearing would be the following
Wednesday.
There was no meeting two days later,
Chairman Max having flown out the day before to prepare his case. Nor the following week, as he had not
returned. But a few days thereafter, the
back-fence network sprang again to life, and that evening, the Oak Hills Neighborhood
Association assembled on the back patio of the second trustee's large beige
split-level. He quieted the banter, and
the old business was promptly dismissed.
The second trustee produced a letter addressed to the entire membership,
which he proceeded to open. It explained
how Chairman Max had presented his case to the Federal District Court in Fairbanks. His case, stated roughly, argued that since
the land, approximately one-half square acre, had originally been legally
purchased by Quaker Oats, which in turn had legally relinquished ownership to
its numberless legion of patrons, of which the Association was the legal
majority (no one else ever having had the temerity to claim their land),
Chairman Max had indeed not been trespassing, since he was the legal owner of
the property. Furthermore, as for the
Governmental claim to the land in question, the Federal Government could not
have legally condemned the land without proper notification of the said condemnation
to its previous owners. Since the
Government had illegally seized the land, their claim to said property was
actually null and void. The jurists
decreed that since Chairman Max had the proper legal documents (all ordered and
arranged), that he was indeed the legal owner of the entire half-acre of land
in question. However, since the land had
been under military jurisdiction and improved upon after that fashion, it could
not fall under the legal dominion of any land-oriented organization or interest
group. Therefore, Chairman Max explained,
the property on which the Nike Dewline Warhead sat had been signed over
directly to him. As a result of this
tremendous responsibility, and because the Federal Government owed him $400,000.00 in back lease fees and taxes, he
felt it was his solemn duty to remain in litigation at Fairbanks. Meanwhile, he would busy himself learning how
to operate the small black console that came with the missile. The letter included a return post office box
number, and warmest regards. The meeting
was silent for a moment, until someone began to hum the Oak Hills High School pep song. Everyone joined in, and the meeting
adjourned.
The following Wednesday at the regular
meeting in the second trustee's large beige split-level, the old business
portion of the meeting deteriorated scandalously into numerous spirited
speculations about the well-being of Chairman Max. No one had received any word from the
chairman since his original letter. But
then too, it was remembered that Max's wife, who was very fond of pottery, had
moved in with the funeral director, was attempting to perfect with him the
furtive techniques which produced flat teapots, and had not bothered to check
the mail box for several days. Chairman
Max's neighbor, who had been out measuring the chairman's lawn, reported that
his mail box had been empty. A motion
was passed to dispatch a letter to the return post office box number
instructing Chairman Max that his lawn be kept under the prescribed one and
one-half inches. The High School song
was played on the ocarina by the second trustee's pre-school daughter (who was
perhaps a prodigy) and the meeting adjourned.
A week later, after the pre-meeting
vodkas, all members of the Oak Hills Neighborhood Association solemnly gathered
in the second trustee's large beige family room. No one had heard from Chairman Max since his
first and only letter. Old business was
readily dismissed, and the second trustee began itemizing the complaints. Chairman Max's lawn was five inches high; his
Buick had been stripped by vandals and lay on its side in the street like a
shell. His son had broken his arm
skateboarding into one of the oaks, and despite the pain, had had the temerity
to cut three of them down before the ambulance arrived. His daughter had been sponsoring loud,
boisterous parties which lasted until long after the supper hour, and at which
laughter and fast records were heard simultaneously. It was speculated that this might be the same
crowd of hoodlums which had overturned the family car. Step by step, the violations were tabulated,
and a letter drafted to Fairbanks, inquiring as to the
well-being of Chairman Max, expressing deep concern about his reticence, and
fining him nine hundred and fifty dollars for violations of the Oak Hills
Neighborhood Standards. He could afford
it, they said. The Oak Hills High School pep song was sung a
capella, and the meeting adjourned with the membership confident that the
problem would surely be dealt with immediately.
Chairman Max had always exhibited a precise and resolute disposition.
Two Wednesdays passed without a meeting
as the heat of summer accelerated, but then the back-fence network interrupted
the familiar routine to report that a sealed letter had been found in the high
grass near Chairman Max's mail box. A
meeting was called for the following Wednesday, at the second trustee's large
beige split-level. At exactly the usual
time, the ceramic gong (one of several) was sounded, and the meeting was called
to order; the old business was perfunctorily dismissed. A sealed letter was presented to the second
trustee by Chairman Max's neighbor, who held it aloft for all to see the Fairbanks return post office box
number. The second trustee ceremoniously
opened the letter and read it aloud for all to hear; to wit:
To the Oak Hills Neighborhood Association
Dear Friends;
I have been working all day instituting the
most efficacious organization
to this half-acre of
which I have grown quite fond. It is
exceedingly beautiful here in the summer on the tundra. I should like to live here. But there is a large blight in the center of
my lot which upsets me daily with increasing disgust. This missile shall have to be removed. Fortunately, I am learning ever more about the complexities of the
large black console which directs the aforementioned blight, and I believe I
can now operate it without failure. The question is, of course, where to
dispatch it.
I
have built a small cabin on the side of the silo; with the missile gone,
I am sure the silo will
suffice quite comfortably as a salon against the approach of winter. I grow to much prefer this boundless silence,
this spiralling midnight sun. And there
are visitors, too, oh yes-- Eskimo women are very beautiful and friendly (and
also very short).
I received your letter dated Wednesday last,
and it distresses me greatly
to discover how quickly
loyalty is supplanted by amnesia. But
perhaps my
family will have
occasion to reflect upon my good will toward them as we
struggle to re-institute
the ties that bind people to one another.
All things
considered though, I
cannot depart this enterprise at present, as there is
much to accomplish in
preparation for the long cold nights ahead.
The
agitation and
frustration is almost too much to bear, however, when I
think of my beautiful
former home in such disrepair; we all ought to be ashamed.
Therefore, I implore you, do not disregard
my beloved hearth; do not
interrupt the integrity
of the Association of which you are so proud.
Take
it upon yourselves to
maintain my lawn and repair my house, replace my
auto and my oaks, for I
cannot be interrupted in my contemplation of how
I will empty my
salon. For the sake of practice, I have
painted the nuisance
orange and white, and
fed it your coordinates.
Warmest regards,
Number One
*
* * *
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