Brownie Points Page 16
Jim looked baffled by the blood-thirsty Girl Scout. I explained to both Jim and Jason that Amy was a reporter covering Logan’s story. “Ohhh,” Jim said. “Well, Amy, we did apprehend a suspect who planted a bomb in the boys’ bathroom.”
I gasped with horror. Was anyone hurt? Where were Maya and Logan?!
“Was anyone hurt?” Amy asked Jim, her eyes swirling with anticipation.
“Nah, everyone’s okay,” Jim replied. “You see that guy over there in the red sweater? That’s our press guy for the department, so he can answer any questions you’ve got.” Amy bolted. “You’re welcome, Amy.”
“I didn’t know anything about a bomb,” Jason said to us.
“There’s no bomb,” Jim said. “And that’s not our PR guy.”
“Who is it then?” I asked.
“Dave Anderson from Chop Stix,” Jim said. “He’s got a kid in seventh grade here. Word has it he’s ready to snap today.”
After a half-hour of waiting around with other nervous parents in the parking lot, we got the story.
“Everyone’s fine, baby,” Jason said upon his return to me. “Some clown pulled the alarm. It wasn’t a kid either. Some jackass from the Today Show wanted to clear out the school so he could get an interview with Logan.”
Amy was back in our midst. “A lot of these shows are ruthless about getting interviews,” Amy began. “If we could sit down for a few minutes, I’m sure we could —”
“We’re not sitting down anywhere,” Jason said, more sternly than I’d ever heard him. “You people have done enough damage here for one day. I suggest you leave of your own accord before my buddy Jim finds you a room at the Iron Bar Motel.”
Indignant, Amy replied, “Impersonating a Girl Scout is not a crime, Mr. Taylor.”
“You jumped on the hood of my moving car this morning!” Jason barked.
I smiled, feeling a bit sorry for this woman who made her living jumping on cars and racing toward schools hoping for bloodshed.
“Mrs. Taylor, please.”
“Please what? I’m not letting you near my family.”
Chapter Twenty-Four
The following morning, our newspaper was delivered by a reporter, who we can only hope bribed our regular paper boy.
Just before dinnertime, Logan opened the front door to find a pizza delivery guy spouting questions about the lawsuit. Jason lumbered toward them, took the pizza and slammed the door.
When the “Avon Lady” showed up at ten that night wearing a baseball cap with the CBS logo on it, Jason stormed down to the security booth to chew out the guards.
In the days following O’Mally’s Hot Under the Collar, we heard from 60 Minutes, People, Today, Dateline, and Good Morning America, not to mention all of the local TV and radio stations, magazines and newspapers. Barbara Walters herself called to invite Logan to join the ladies on The View.
We called Wax hourly, frantic for advice. He remained the calm captain of the ship in the media storm. “Hang in there, this too shall pass.”
Newsweek called for an interview for their upcoming cover story, “The New Gender Wars.” Business Week wasn’t far behind with their piece on the economic effect of O’Mally’s massively successful cookie girl-cott.
The following week, the cookie wall was the most photographed media image since Charlie Sheen went on his rampage. The second most photographed image was Jason shouting at reporters. A picture of Jason yelling into a camera lens appeared on every supermarket tabloid cover with the headline “Scout Dad Loses His Cookies!” Technically, this means he vomited, but we gave up on accuracy the day that Star referred to Logan and Maya as “conjoined twins.”
We would have given anything for a real celebrity to have an affair, throw a phone at a photographer or go into anorexia rehab — anything to divert the attention from us. Alas, it was a slow news week, so the media stayed our constant companion.
“Housewives Desperate to Remove Cookie Wall Arrested for Vandalism,” shouted the San Francisco Examiner. “Moms Gone Wild,” barked another after Val and her minions attempted to destroy the cookie wall in the middle of the night.
“You didn’t think I was going to leave our wall unprotected,” Kate said as we drove to the police station just before sunrise that morning. “I knew someone would try something like this.” Kate had rigged a motion sensor around the cookie wall to alert the police of any activity. “What kind of fucked-up people deface art?” Kate asked as we drove to the station.
“Try to deface art,” I reminded her.
When the police showed up an hour earlier, the coiffed quartet had barely sawed an inch into the wooden buttress that held up our wall. They were carted off to the station and booked like common criminals before we were called in to identify the suspects.
Kate laughed. “The officer told me they wore pink ski caps with Lake Tahoe embroidered on the front. Must have been terrifying for the police.” Looking ahead at the road, Kate concluded, “What a bunch of spoiled princesses. I hope they throw the book at them.”
As we watched the sun begin to peek over the treetops, I hedged. “This will humiliate their kids.”
“Probably something they should have considered before they went in for a life of crime,” she said, unmoved.
I sighed, regretting that I would have to reveal more about Bianca than she would like. “Val’s daughter is a cutter.”
“Oh, crap, Lisa! You ruin all my fun,” she shouted.
“Come on, Kate, have a heart.”
“All right, all right, I won’t press charges this time, but those women can’t expect me to be as forgiving next time. If those bitches come near my property again, they’d better be prepared to step into a bear trap.”
“Thank you,” I said.
“A rusty one!”
Despite our best efforts, Kate and I weren’t able to keep the story out of the press. In public, Bianca simply said, “My mom is such a loser,” but I worried about her internal dialogue on the issue. After all, the girl who secretly dissected her body also wore a t-shirt that read “Serenity.”
Logan’s hearing in March would merely determine whether the case would be dismissed or allowed to proceed. The judge wouldn’t rule on whether or not Logan could join the local troop, yet Bob O’Mally acted as if the demurrer hearing would decide the fate of the free world.
“Listen up, people!” he shouted through our television screen in his follow-up report.
“Oh my God, how could we not?” Maya asked, as she and Logan linked arms in front of the television.
O’Mally’s eyes bugged out as he leaned forward and raised his voice. “Get in your cars, jump on an airplane, get on your flippin’ bicycles if you have to, but get yourselves to the Los Corderos County Courthouse on March 1. That’s three days from now!”
Jason had turned off the ringer on the phone and all calls were immediately received by an outgoing message informing the media that our family was not granting interviews. Still, this didn’t deter Amy from showing up at the fire station with a trench coat, stilettos and nothing else. She trotted into the kitchen, flashed the guys and promised a hot night to anyone with information about our family. I had never been more proud of the guys when they turned the hose on her. Amy wasn’t alone in her relentless pursuit. The guy from The Today Show convinced the front guard that he was a roofer, then tried to get into our house Santa Claus style. It was tempting to leave him stuck in the chimney, but Maya reminded us that “when this dude finally croaks, the body’s gonna start to stink.”
O’Mally bellowed, spitting so hard that he practically created a mist around himself. “Three days until we save our nation from the feminist hypocrisy and liberal political correctness that have decayed the foundation of this great nation!”
“This guy is seriously whacked,” Maya said, seriously thrilled.
O’Mally raised his hands to the heavens like a preacher. “It is not too late, but we have got to r
ally, people! We have to get to Los Corderos and let this judge know that we mean business. We have to let America know we mean business. If we have to put up with women burrowing their way into every last sacred bastion of manhood in this country, then get ready for a very hostile testosterone takeover of your girly little cookie club!”
Maya laughed and nudged Logan in the ribs. “Wait till they get a load of you.”
Jason and I looked at each other with trepidation. “They’re going to come, aren’t they?” I asked Jason softly. He nodded. “What’s going to happen when they do get a load of Logan?”
“You think they’ll be able to tell?” Jason asked.
“Probably not unless he starts with the show tunes.”
O’Mally charged on. “If we had more guys ready to stand up and stick it to the femi-nazis like this, our county wouldn’t be in the sorry-ass shape it is. Back in a minute.”
Fade out.
“Recent medical research by the top 1% of doctors now proves you may actually be allergic to another person,” the commercial began. Jason turned off the TV.
“How ya doin’, buddy?” Jason asked as he saw Logan’s look of concern.
“Well,” Logan hedged, “I’m a little nervous. What if these guys show up for my hearing and see that I’m not what they think I am?”
Chapter Twenty-Five
March
Jason suggested we drive to the courthouse in one of the fire department vehicles. After seven months in Los Corderos, our family was pretty identifiable as the only ones who owned a Prius. The department had several black SUVs, and borrowing one would mean blending in on the roads and avoiding any potential harassment from media.
As it turned out, El Camino Real was jammed with a diverse array of vehicles, from VW vans with Oregon license plates to luxury cars from Arizona. Judging from the bumper stickers, everyone from the San Francisco National Organization for Women to the Washington State University Campus Republicans was in town. “Are they all here for us?” Maya asked.
“It’s not the Million Man March,” Jason replied wearily.
“Vegans for Peace,” Logan read. “Goddess on board.”
“Keep your rosaries off my ovaries,” Maya added.
“Support our Girl Scout troops!” I read. “Looks like they made some bumper stickers especially for today. “Just say no to Do-Si-Do … Let Logan Tagalong!”
“This is so much better than I Spy,” Logan said.
Jason shook his head at the stagnant traffic. Despite the green light, no one was moving more than a few inches every few minutes. “I hate to do this, but Wax said we can’t be late to this thing,” he said. Reaching under his seat, Jason pulled out a siren, opened his window and stuck it on the roof.
Whew, whew, whew, the siren blared. Like the waters of the Red Sea, cars on El Camino Real parted and our Ford Storm Trooper was on its way.
“Oh my God,” I gasped as we got within a block of the courthouse. I expected dozens, maybe a hundred people to show up for the hearing. My eyeballs lunged forward with horror at the sight of thousands crowding the courthouse plaza and overflowing onto the sidewalks and streets. People were standing shoulder-to-shoulder and so tight that a ray of light couldn’t shine between their heads. I felt like I was heading into Monster Park for a Niners game during the playoffs.
Television cameras and reporters fought for space, testing to make sure their microphones could record their voices over the chanting crowd and hovering helicopters. A few dozen women held purple NOW placards that demanded everything from passage of the ERA to abortion rights.
The largest group represented was the Girl Scouts of America. Grown women in green uniforms stood quietly with their right hands lifted overhead bearing the three-finger sign of Girl Scouts. About 400 women stared ahead militantly as cameras filmed their vigil.
The second largest group in attendance was Bob O’Mally supporters. O’Mally himself was there in the center of a group of about three hundred men, apparently all hot under the collar. They held white men’s shirts glued onto three-foot wooden sticks with “flames” lapping up from the collars.
Logan nodded his head. “All of those shirts died for this?”
“What the hell are they doing now?” Jason asked, looking at the O’Mally crowd. “What’s that blue thing they’re hoisting up?”
We all stared for a few seconds as the Collar guys began struggling with what looked like a large stuffed animal, flopping from one side to the other. Finally, they raised an enormous Cookie Monster wearing a Girl Scout uniform. The Muppet’s sash read, “Landau is a monster!”
“Landau?” I asked.
“Julia Landau. She’s the president of Girl Scouts,” Logan informed me.
“They’re lynching it!” Jason said as we watched in horror as the men slipped a noose around the Cookie Monster’s neck.
“Now that shit ain’t funny,” Maya said, her head moving from side to side. “This black woman has just lost her sense of humor entirely,” she proclaimed.
“I agree,” Logan said. “Look how nice the Girl Scouts are acting. My people are a lynch mob!”
Jason quietly turned his head away.
Others in attendance were a hodgepodge of activists with handmade signs touting their positions on Logan’s case and others. We learned that “Meat is Murder,” “Rush is Right” and John 3:16 is a must-read. As we pulled into the parking lot, we saw one last group, a dozen crazies from Reverend Phelps’ anti-gay congregation, holding five-foot signs that screamed almost as loudly as they did.
“God hates fags,” Logan said, reading the signs. “He does?”
Jason’s voice was booming and angry, but I could hear a slight quiver of fear as my husband glared through the window at the imbecilic disciples. “He most certainly does not, Logan. God doesn’t hate anyone, not even idiots like these.”
Maya pressed her nose to the window in disbelief. “Matthew Shepard is burning in hell,” she read. “Who’s Matthew Shepard?”
Jason and I looked at each other, knowing that this was not the time to tell the kids about the gay college student in Wyoming who was beaten, crucified and left to die on a fence by hateful barbarians. “Another time,” Jason answered solemnly, staring at his fingers curled around the steering wheel. He glanced at me with eyes slightly glazed, and placed his hand on my knee. Jason sighed loudly, then whispered my name.
“I know, Jason,” I said, placing my hand over his and squeezing it.
As we parked the car in the back of the courthouse, we heard more sirens.
“What now?” Jason sighed.
“Probably just a precaution,” I said, trying to calm him. He shook his head at the sad absurdity of it all.
As we ascended the back steps, a security guard shook his head to indicate that we couldn’t enter. I looked at my watch. “We’ve got six minutes to get inside,” I begged the guard.
“Sorry, can’t let you in. Go ’round front,” he said.
“Around front?!” Jason barked. “Listen, man, we’ve got to get in there for a hearing in a few minutes. It’s a zoo out front.”
“Sorry, captain,” the guard said. “I’ve got strict orders not to let you in the employee entrance.”
Jason seemed flustered. “I’ve got my City employee ID right here,” he said, flashing the laminated card.
“Sorry, but today you’re just another civilian.”
Exiting from the back door was a gruff looking man in a grey suit with a red silk tie and a boxy briefcase. Jason referred to him by first name, and asked if he would tell the security guard to let us in.
“You’ve got to be kidding, Taylor,” he replied. Jason looked confused. The man took a step closer to him and grumbled, “Who do you think told him to make you go around front?”
“What?”
“Ever hear the expression ‘don’t shit where you live,’ Taylor?” he asked. “Your little side show is costing the city plenty. Yo
u’re suing the taxpayers who pay your salary. Not a real upwardly mobile move,” he scoffed. “It’s too bad too, ’cause a lot of people liked the idea of giving a fellow like you a crack at—”
“Lisa, bring the kids inside,” he instructed me firmly. Logan and Maya exchanged worried glances.
“Now you listen here,” I heard Jason begin. But the moment we rounded the corner of the building, the volume of the crowd in front grew.
“What do we want?” a woman shouted.
“Equal rights!” a group cried back.
“When do we want them?” the leader continued.
“Now!”
“There he is!” a woman from NOW shouted when she saw Logan. This not only alerted her group, but every reporter within twenty yards. Within seconds, we were surrounded by fuzzy microphones and oversized cameras. Disembodied voices shouted at Logan. The frenzied clicking of cameras sounded like a flock of birds taking flight.
“What do you hope to accomplish here today, Logan?” Click, click, click.
Click, click, click. “Logan, why does it mean so much for you to become a Girl Scout?” Click, click, click. Click, click, click.
Click, click, click. “Tell us, Logan, how do you feel about the cookie boycott?” Click, click, click.
“Logan, is it true you’ve been offered an endorsement deal by Froot Loops?” Click, click, click. Click, click, click. Click, click, click.
What? As I scanned the crowd, I realized where the reporters must have gotten that absurd notion. Olivia was standing with her sons Max and Kirk and their friends Jared and Craig. The boys were wearing green Girl Scout vests, holding enormous plastic frogs and a snake while burping the Girl Scout pledge for one of the cameras. Olivia wore a white jump suit with gold rope trim and thick gold hoop earrings, striking a pose for the camera.
Logan gasped. “Quel horror!!”
Jason raced back from his confrontation with the city manager and placed his hand on Logan’s back. “Don’t let those idiots bother you.”
“It’s not them,” Logan said. “It’s Mrs. McDoyle. I can see her panties through that white linen.” We all squinted and saw that he was right. She had pink underpants with red hearts. God I hoped that showed up on TV. Logan looked disgusted. “Who told her it was time for white linen anyway? Hello, it’s still winter.”