Jess Lourey - October Fest

I settled in a folding chair toward the back of the crowd, noticing that to my left and right, sharply-dressed reporters clacked away on their tiny handhelds, press passes dangling at their neck. Since I’d forgotten my press pass, I settled for yanking out my writing utensil and pad of paper to make like I was texting someone with my pencil, which, it turns out, looked just like I was taking notes. Which I was.

Murmurs of conversation ran through those gathered, but most of us stared quietly toward the stage, waiting for the show to start. We were in luck. On the makeshift platform, a woman in an elegant green pantsuit separated herself from a throng of people and approached an ’80s-era, large-bulbed microphone perched on a silver stick. She cleared her throat and shoved her shoulder-length red hair behind her ear in a self-conscious gesture. She appeared about my age, but classy.

“Hello, and thank you for coming. My name is Grace Swinton, and I’m Representative Glokkmann’s assistant.” Her voice was high and clear. “I’m afraid the debate is running late due to a… scheduling conflict, but we should be ready to roll in under a half an hour.”

A hot whisper ran through the audience. The camera crews on the fringe sighed and put down their heavy-looking equipment, and the reporter nearest me said to no one in particular, “I bet I know what that conflict is.”

“Really?” I swiveled toward him. “What?”

He glanced at my scruffy jeans, t-shirt under a lined jean jacket, and hair in a pony tail. I gathered it required some effort to take me seriously, but he was a champ, holding his thumb and pinky out and putting them up to his mouth in a drinking motion.

I was familiar with the gesture for “drinking problem.” Boy was I. And I loved the dirt. Maybe this debate wouldn’t be boring after all. “One of the candidates?”

My eagerness must have repelled him. He shrugged and turned his attention to the man to his right. I tried to eavesdrop, but they were clearly friends, their heads in close as they engaged in animated but quiet conversation. Having worn out my welcome I stood, planning to take the subtle route and sidle toward the stage to sniff out who reeked of whiskey and mouthwash. The tippler had to be one of the speakers to put the debate on hold, but which one? I was woefully unfamiliar with the facts of either. If I owned a handheld, I could probably look up the info right here. Instead, I went old school, strolling over to a woman with Asian features-Korean lineage if I had to guess-perched near the edge of the stage. She was not clearly affiliated with the press or the debaters.

“Nice day,” I said, glancing around the tent.

She studied me intently for a second and then looked away, like a hawk deciding I wasn’t worth the flight. I put her at mid to late twenties, her skin clear and her features striking. She was dressed casually, but expensive casual in high-end jeans and a well-cut blazer.

I tried again. “You on one of the campaigns?”

Still nothing.

“Ever been to Battle Lake before?” The woman rolled her eyes so loud I could hear it. I switched to the direct route. “Look, I have to cover this debate because my editor wants to punish me. I wanna know if it’s worth my time to hang out for something that might never happen. I hear one of the candidates is, you know.” I made the same sign for “in the bottle” that the reporter had and felt like a thief for doing it.

I’d hit a nerve. “The debate’ll happen,” she said. “Queen Glokkmann never misses an opportunity for an audience.”

From her mouth to God’s ears, because a flurry of activity materialized on the stage. The waiting camera crews hoisted their equipment onto their shoulders and reporters slipped their handhelds into their pockets and leaned toward the stage. “Thanks,” I said, grabbing an empty chair in the front row between two strangers too polite to sit next to each other.

Once seated, I observed that the dark-haired woman was no longer skulking on the sidelines. A security guard had replaced her, a transparent cord coiling out from an earpiece to a chunk of plastic on his shoulder. A long table was slid to the front of the stage, and two stubby cordless microphones were plunked on it, one next to the “Representative Sarah Glokkmann” placard and the other next to the “Arnold Swydecker” placard. A short blonde woman I recognized as a waitress from Stub’s scurried out with a pitcher of water and two glasses, taking a shy moment to glance out at the audience from the star’s perspective.

“This looks like it’s gonna happen,” I whispered to the woman on my left, who had a tape recorder in hand. She smiled and nodded without peeling her eyes off the stage.

I leaned toward the older gentleman on my right. He sported a cookie duster mustache and a press pass indicating he worked for the Fergus Falls Register. “Hey, you know which of the two candidates is the biggest drunk?” He pursed his lips and dismissively shook his head without glancing away from the stage, either.

I followed their gaze. The woman who had earlier made the debate delay announcement, Grace something or the other, re-emerged looking frazzled, making me like her infinitely more.

“Thank you for your patience!” She really seemed to mean it. “On behalf of Representative Sarah Glokkmann, I’d like to thank you all for coming. The values and concerns of rural Minnesota are our values and concerns. We look forward to serving the state for another two years and beyond.”

She motioned toward the back of the stage where a makeshift curtain had been erected, gesturing for someone to step forward. Nobody did. She motioned again and waited an uncomfortable minute before giving up. “And Mr. Swydecker needs no introduction at all. So, let’s begin the debate. Both candidates have prepared a statement that they will read. Then, they will each have two minutes to answer questions submitted by District 7 voters. Finally, we will take questions from the media.” She smiled at us to indicate that whatever we wanted to ask would be A-okay.

“With no further ado, let the debates begin!” She shoved the microphone into the crook of her arm and clapped, walking backward so as not to block the view of the candidates.

Sarah Glokkmann arrived at the edge of the stage first, modeling sandy brown Lego-lady hair, thick orange make-up that probably looked great on TV, and an ill-fitting coral sports jacket over a matching skirt. Arnold Swydecker shambled behind her looking like he’d been trotted out of a fifth grade band room where he’d been boring kids since the late seventies, all gray comb-over and hunched back from peering too closely at the sheet music for “Another One Bites the Dust.” Both had the makings of a career drinker, as far as I could tell.

They waved at the live audience and the cameras before claiming their seats. Glokkmann spoke first. She couldn’t be older than her mid-forties despite the dowdy clothes. She was poised, I’d give her that, though if I wasn’t mistaken, she had a slight tremor in her left hand. “Thank you for coming, Battle Lake!” She fist-pumped the air, effectively hiding the wobble. Her cadre on stage left hooted, drawing the attention of the cameras. On the news, it’d look like there was a whole cheering section.

“I’ve served you faithfully for six years, and I’m willing to continue my work for as long as you’ll have me. Now, my opponent over here will tell you that I haven’t done enough, but I’d like to remind him of the thirteen bills I’ve been involved with since elected to office.”

Someone behind me snorted loudly. I snuck a glance and noted that it was the reporter who’d first mentioned a drinking problem. Drat. I shouldn’t have been so desperate with him.