A Champion for Tinker Creek, page 4
“Pass me your phone.” I typed my number into it. When my mobile rang, I answered the call, then hung up both and handed his back to him.
“There, we have each other’s numbers. If something is going to happen or not, that’s on both of us. Trust me, this is the furthest I have ever gone with a hookup before, and it’s the best I can do for now.”
Then he broke out in a smile that reminded me why he stopped me in my tracks from his place in line. “Can’t ask for more than that, papi,” he said, offering me his fist to bump. “Don’t be a stranger ’cause you already know I’m not going to be one.”
Later that morning, after returning home and grabbing some breakfast, I hit my compact gym.
Living above the business gave me the freedom to design and develop the space pretty much as I liked. If I wanted to take twenty feet of wall on the northwest corner of the apartment to install a rope ladder, I could. And if I desired that cord to connect to fifteen feet of monkey bars, I could do that too.
After the circuits, it was time for a quick splash off and then to the office. Among the circulars, bills, and offers for credit cards came a large white envelope from the Georgia Superior Court for the First District. It was a notice that Bonne Chance Motors had ninety days to show a judge why it should not be condemned, demolished, and its land titled to another company. I sat down in my office chair with a thump.
What the fuck, I thought. What the fuck? My mind whirled. What the fuck? Can they do this? Whoever they are? This must be a mistake. All the taxes have been paid, right? Of course they have. We haven’t gotten any notices, and Terry would never let us file late. How can this be? They can’t show up and say we’re gonna take your stuff, right? What the fuck? My heart pounded in my throat as suddenly the room felt way too hot. I burst out in a sweat.
I tried to focus on what little yoga training I had, breathing in through my nose and out from my mouth and imagining Mt. Everest.
There she is. Everest. A mountain. Rock-solid. Can’t be moved. Unchanging. Covered in snow. Stable. Unconquerable. Breathe in steadiness. Breathe out chaos. Breathe in stability. Breathe out anxiety. Breathe, one-two-three. Breathe, one-two-three. Breathe, one-two-three.
Gradually, my heartbeat slowed, my mind cleared, and the room returned to normal temperature. Whatever this was, I needed to better understand it before I made any decisions. I picked up the phone.
* * *
The drive from St. Michael’s Harbor to Savannah is normally one of my favorites. I avoid the overburdened and dangerous speedway that I-95 has become and instead stick to State Highway 17, a slower, more civilized route winding through the low, flat, marshy south Georgia coast.
But today my spirit’s turmoil prevented me from enjoying the journey, though a small pod of pelicans kept me company off to the right for much of the trip. I was headed to an appointment with Father Joe Zandusky, my old history teacher and guidance counselor at the St. Martin Military Academy, where I had been a scholarship boy and football star. He would have some ideas about this letter, and I needed his focused words and perspective.
The St. Martin Military Academy sits atop a small rise that counts as a hill in the Georgia low country. A buzzer let me into the building, and I entered the office where a young, tall and angular man dressed in the all-black Benedictine habit busily fielded calls and attempted to type at the same time.
“St. Martin’s, will you hold? Thank you. May I help you, sir?”
“I have an appointment with Father Zandusky.”
“Of course, sir. Let me ring him…St. Martin’s, will you hold? Thank you…Father Zandusky, Mr.…” He looked up at me expectantly.
“James, Lyle James.”
“Mr. James is here to see you. Thanks. I’ll tell him.” He turned to me. “Father Zandusky is on his way down to meet you, sir, if you want to have a seat.”
I chose to remain standing, and in a few moments Father Joe arrived. “Ah, my boy, so good to see you,” he said, coming in for his usual hug.
He seemed smaller in my arms but appeared much the same, from his mostly bald head with its fringe of gray curls, down through his long face, eager to smile, and a wiry body that always felt coiled beneath his clerical uniform. He smelled the same too, that familiar mix of chalk dust and Old Spice cologne.
We started up the stairs, and I paused at the second landing since his office used to be on the second floor.
“No, no, my boy. One more. They have me on the third floor now. Seniority, they said, but I think they just want me farther out of the way.”
“When I was here, the third floor is where you got sent if you really fucked up.”
“Well, that’s one difference,” he said. “The third floor is rather benign now. Our assistant principal, Mr. Turnbull, has his office and his wayward cadets on the first floor.”
We stepped into the spare but comfortable space I remembered. He retained the big oak desk that been his father’s during World War II. Bookshelves still covered one wall, and a collection of large maps dominated another. The fourth was made up of windows, along with a small table and two comfortable-looking chairs.
“Please, have a seat,” he said, pointing to one of the seats and taking the other for himself. “So what brings you here? As much as I enjoy seeing you, I doubt you’ve taken time from your workday to visit your old counselor.”
I dug the envelope out of my pocket and passed it to him.
“This arrived in the mail this morning,” I said. “I need to understand what it means so I can decide what to do about it.”
Father Joe opened the envelope and read the notice slowly, pursing his lips and grunting several times. When he finished, he handed it back to me.
“What do you make of it, Father Joe?”
“First, I’m sorry. This sort of thing can really discourage whole communities, but I can’t say I’m terribly surprised.”
“Why not?”
He shot me a sharp look. “Do you remember nothing from my class about what we used to call ‘the signs of the times’?”
“Maybe. I don’t know. Something about being aware of social, political, and economic trends. It was more than a minute ago, Father.”
“Exactly right. So what signs of our times might have led you to foresee the possibility that this could happen?”
“I don’t know.”
Father Joe sighed. “I presume you drove up here along Highway 17, am I right?”
“Of course.”
“What do you remember about the trip? Did you notice anything different along the way?”
I shrugged my shoulders again. “I’m sorry, Father. I was pretty distracted on this trip.”
“So, pay attention on the way back. Count the stoplights on the way out of town. How many do you expect? Two, maybe four? Now it’s fourteen or fifteen or even seventeen. Savannah’s growing, Lyle, and so is St. Michael’s Harbor.”
He got up and perused a pile of glossy magazines on one of the bookshelves, giving a small grunt of satisfaction when he found one named Coastal Georgia with a big photo of the St. Michael’s lighthouse on the cover. He handed it to me on the way back to his chair. The publication’s lead story was “Top Three Georgia Coast Communities for Quality of Life,” and St. Michael’s Harbor was at the top of the list.
I handed it back to him. “So we’re growing. Of course we are. That’s not news. But what does that have to do with this notice?”
“What happens when communities grow, Lyle? Property values rise, and when property becomes more valuable, people begin to want to do things with it that they might never have wanted or been able to do before.”
I sat back in my chair as the meaning of Father’s words washed over me. “So, you’re saying because the land Bonne Chance Motors sits on has increased in value, someone out there might think they could make more money with it than I can?”
“Maybe. And remember, making more money for whoever they are means more tax revenue for the government, so they have an interest too.”
“Damn. Can they do that?”
“Unfortunately, they can. When you get some time, google Kelo v. City of New London. That’s a 5–4 decision from the U.S. Supreme Court that said the general public benefits of increased tax revenue qualified as a legitimate public use for eminent domain under the U.S. Constitution. Many states have since passed laws that effectively limit the practice, but it remains legal.”
“Where does this leave me and my business?”
“In my opinion, this could be one of two situations. The first and best case situation aims this at your business alone because of something you did or didn’t do. Maybe you didn’t pay a tax or fee? Maybe you’re handling some of those dangerous chemicals incorrectly? Who knows?”
“Why would this be the best situation for me?”
“Because if it’s just aimed at you for some singular fault, you can fix whatever that is and stop the process. Pay the fee. Pay the tax. Stop leaking chemicals. Do whatever to fix it, and the eminent domain goes away.”
“And the second situation?”
“This is someone’s effort to build a big enough parcel of land at a cheap enough price that they can redevelop to make a handsome profit. This is a worst case situation for you because it’s not about you. You won’t be able to just remedy some previous error and stop the eminent domain. In this situation, you don’t have any easy options.”
I sank back in my chair. This was worse than I expected.
“If they take your property, however, they have to pay you for it,” Father Joe said. “They can’t just take it for free. But their payment doesn’t have to reflect a market value. They might pay you for the land the business owns, but not the business itself, much less the capital you would need to relocate and rebuild your customer base.”
“Can’t I fight this at all?”
“Of course you can. Americans can always petition their government for redress of wrongs,” Father Joe said. “But the question is can you fight this and win. I think the record shows that while many do battle, few win.”
I rose from my chair. “Thank you, Father. If it’s as you say, I feel like I have to fight it.”
“I understand, and I’m not surprised. But, Lyle, you need to be careful. If developers are really behind this, there is likely a lot of money involved, and they will have a lot of power. Keep me informed and know I will add your intentions to the Mass list, so the entire school will be praying for you.”
As I drove back to the shop, the gloomy weather seemed to match my mood. A snapping west wind drove low, flat clouds the color of dirty sheets in from over the marshes as I tried to wrap my mind around Father Joe’s opinion of the situation.
Hoping he might have overstated things, I counted the stoplights in the first fifteen miles out of Savannah, but discovered twenty, three more than his figure. Altogether, I numbered eight billboards for new developments; six for existing residential subdivisions with homes for sale “from the 300s,” one for a new commercial mall, “Publix, open soon!” and two for mixed-use parcels that had yet to break ground, “Georgia Shores, Coming Soon.”
I clung to the possibility that Bonne Chance might have been uniquely singled out for the eminent domain threat all the way back to the shop, where I found Parker seated behind my desk.
“Have I promoted you to administration and just forgotten?” I barked as I walked in, making him jump and stand up quickly, holding a fistful of telephone message slips.
“Someone had to stay in here to answer the phone, boss!” Parker protested. “It’s been blowing up since you left. What the fuck is going on?”
He handed the small pile to me as my heart sank. There were calls from almost a dozen businesses, all of them clients and all of them in Tinker Creek.
“I’m calling an all-staff meeting in my office at five,” I told Parker. “I’ll have a clearer picture by then.”
Parker headed back into the repair bay, and I sat down to start returning calls.
* * *
My office had a much more serious vibe today than it had when the topic was how to celebrate the acquisition of the St. Michael’s Harbor contract.
Christ, I thought. Was that only a couple of days ago?
One by one, the staff filed in.
“Thank you all for coming,” I began. “As some of you might have become aware, Bonne Chance Motors received a significant communication this morning from the Georgia Superior Court for the First District in Brunswick. This came in the form of a notice informing me that in ninety days, the company will have to show the court why the state and city should not be permitted to seize the title to the land our business sits on, evict the business, and do whatever it likes with the property.”
Shocked looks. Some wide eyes.
“In all likelihood that will mean the sale of the property to a developer for inclusion in some larger development project, the scope and details of which are currently unknown. As all of you know, my father founded this company but could not grow it successfully. You also know my uncle bought it from my father to keep it from going bankrupt. He sold it to me after my father died, and I’ve been able to grow it successfully with your help.”
Heads nodded. One or two people quietly wiped the corners of their eyes.
“So, my roots in this company are very deep and very firm, and I am resolved to make the strongest possible case to the court as to why this company’s property must not be turned over to the whim of another owner who likely has no roots in this community.
“Which brings me to all of you. I have absolutely no guarantee that we will win this fight and remain open at the end of the ninety days. But I must ask you for the favor, the consideration, of remaining in your job with us, with me, for at least the next ninety days.
“If you do, I am willing to increase your pay by twenty percent across that time. I would be willing to let those wage increases remain after we win the fight. But I will surely not be able to obtain victory in this struggle unless I know for certain that at the end we will still have a business worth the battle.
“I know this is a lot to think about, and I don’t expect you to make up your minds now. But I will be in and out as normal to take your questions, and I will ask you to let me know your decisions by close of business Friday. Thank you. Are there any questions now?”
Parker raised his hand and stepped forward slightly. “Thank you, bos—er, I mean, Mr. James,” he began. “When your uncle hired me to work here with your dad, I was to watch over the place and make sure, frankly, that he didn’t kill himself or someone else or destroy everything. Later, when you bought it, your uncle asked me to stay on for a bit because he wasn’t sure you could run it. Well, within two weeks I told your uncle he need not worry. I felt confident you would run Bonne Chance Motors fine and I told him I would be pleased to stay on here working with you if you would have me.” His voice caught. He took a deep breath.
“I’m here to say that I still feel that way, sir. If you say you will beat off this threat and keep us open, then I expect that is what you will do. Nothing I have ever seen from you would lead me to think anything different.” He stopped then and stepped back to his former spot.
At first no one moved. But then Vahn or Carlos or someone started to applaud and soon they were all clapping, and I daresay everyone reached for a tissue to dry their eyes.
Chapter Four
Getting Organized
In the week after the meeting, the shop’s atmosphere took on a more serious, dedicated feel. Jobs that used to take two days to finish started being done in one, and Parker streamlined billing so the shop could work more efficiently. These changes allowed me to focus on the notice and what we could do to protect the business.
Drawing on the phone calls I got the first day, I identified twelve commercial and residential properties that also received the notice, all of them in a fifteen-square-block area of Tinker Creek. I suspected more than a dozen businesses have received one of the notices. But how to find out who they were and reach them?
One of the calls I hadn’t been able to return had come from Lucinda Alverez, the founder and owner of Lucinda’s Café and one of my favorite Tinker Creek personalities.
Lucinda had fled her native Nicaragua with her toddler grandson after the murder of her immediate family. Helped along the way by sympathetic churches and truckers, Lucinda mostly walked, carrying the boy across Honduras, Guatemala, and Mexico to the U.S. border. There, dehydrated and exhausted, she collapsed and requested asylum from the bed of a nonprofit clinic.
After recovering and being granted sanctuary, she moved in with a younger sister in St. Michael’s Harbor, and with the help of family and community funders, she bought and renovated an abandoned space to open Lucinda’s Café, a twenty-four-hour diner offering traditional American fare along with specialties from Nicaragua.
Since we hadn’t connected by phone, I decided to go out for breakfast and headed down the couple of blocks on Third Avenue to Lucinda’s.
Lucinda’s throbbed with the controlled chaos every good diner should have. A sign ordered me to stop and wait for a table, and soon Esteban, Lucinda’s small, dark-skinned grandson, approached and held up his index finger. I nodded, and he stepped up onto a pair of boxes to better survey the room.
“A two booth or a place at the counter,” he shouted. “That’s all I got.” I bent over so he could hear me speak loudly rather than yell, and said I would take the table. He grabbed a large, laminated menu and beckoned me to follow him. Once seated, I motioned him close again.
“No school for you today?”
“Teacher training day, so nope. I’ll tell abuela you’re here. You want water?”
I nodded, and he headed off toward the back where Lucinda kept her small office. I divided my attention between the menu and my fellow diners until a tall blond in a bright red blouse and white apron set a glass of ice water in front of me and blocked my view.
