WHERE EVERYONE HAS A STORY TO TELL

WHERE EVERYONE HAS A STORY TO TELL{/size:5}

Type:Short Story
Words: 2,593

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[Writer's Name]:
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Favourite Authors: [Author1, Author2, Author3, Author4]

The argument from the Mayor's office echoed down the granite hallway. Administrative staff continued about their daily routines, oblivious to the rantings.

Touring city hall tops my points-of-interest-list whenever visiting a town for the first time. On this particular day, it followed the hawk observation tower at Holiday Beach and checking out the making of wallpaper at the largest employer in Chelsea. In the process, I purchased a novel vinyl treatment for exterior use – 'Malibu Skins'. The packaging promised to dress my garden shed up as a 'Tiki Bar'. Hey! Five bucks in the bargain bin!

Elevated voices? Elected officials? The nose of a reporter never sleeps, even in-between jobs. Smelled like a story; luckily, a scent strong enough to overpower the industrial lemon floor polish causing elementary school flashbacks. (Aside: I find it ironic how old habits of the janitorial staff negates the painstakingly planned ambiance of the most forward thinking architect.)

I meandered leisurely towards the difference of opinion. To disguise my prying ears, I feigned interest in the portraits bearing the Chain-of-Office. The cold sober poses insinuated time spent in office entailed the commitment the position deserved. Maybe for a Prime Minister or a President, but for a Mayor? A bit much.

An encapsulating phrase tagged each head shot engraved in brass.

“One word for each year in office,” I chuckled under my breath.

'A Man of Principle' accompanied a scowl appearing to disapprove of my intentions.

A potted tree blocked a 'Friend of the Environment'; probably an ongoing private joke of the maintenance crew.

The expression in the portrait of Tom Robson, 'The Voice of Industry', matched the disapproval in the tone of voice emanating from the mayor's office.

Visible through Mayor Robson's doorway, two mock ups of proposed town signs rested on adjacent easels.

The first two lines on both read:

'Welcome to Chelsea
Population 17,100'

The third line on one finished with:

'Where everyone has a story to tell.'

While the other:

'A collection of short stories.'


A presentation sparked the shouting match. The Mayor's expectations surpassed a choice of two. For the fees involved, the two pitched were two too many.

Mayor Robson entered the hallway and steamed towards Council Chambers. His hardy and polished appearance outmatched the image painted by his baritone voice. The other voice, Frank Carter, a retired CEO type and not accustomed to opinions being challenged, pursued as far as the doorway.

Tom turned.

“Frank, what can I say? You asked for my opinion and I gave it. For someone who claims to listen, maybe it's time to start. I told you, I have no say in the matter. I will not be voting. Council thinks Chelsea needs a fresh new image. I'm a firm believer in dancing with the partner who took me to the ball. I'm proud of our history, as are our citizens . . . as you are about to find out.”

He checked his watch. No politician manipulated the system better than Tom. He intentionally scheduled the approval of a windmill farm, potentially the most contentious issue of his term of office, prior to the town motto vote. With interest diverted, he hoped to quickly rubber stamp the multi-million dollar project.

“Fifteen minutes. You're the one who needs a story to tell."

The coverage of crime in the media lately created a false impression that muggers ruled the night. It's potential impact on tourism dominated Council meetings. As a result, in a unanimous decision excluding the Mayor, Chelsea needed a makeover. A tender was posted for a fresh start. This retired image consultant submitted the bid with the most promise.

Frank followed the same steps he developed over the last twenty-five years regardless for a politician, a business or a product. To the client, it seemed fresh and revolutionary. He always started by creating a pitch; a sound byte; an encapsulating sentence. Many Ontario towns already embraced the trend; Kincardine with 'You're only a stranger once' and Leamington promoting the 'Tomato Capital of Canada'.

“So what do you think?” he asked me.

“I don't live here,” I said.

“You must have an opinion,” he persisted.

“Off the record,” I said. “I think you’ve nailed it. I've heard nothing but stories since I arrived. But the townspeople won’t get it.”

“Why not?”

“They’re too close. They’re not objective. I don’t even know why you included them in the process.”

“For that very reason. To make them feel included. To minimize objection at time of implementation. To make it their idea.”

“Or to hedge the blame,” I tossed out.

No reaction from the seasoned veteran.

“My motto is I listen”, he said. “I listened to the neighbours first, Kingsville, Essex and Leamington. Then I listened to the visitors at the bird sanctuary and the coffee shops. The theme which repeated was the prevalence of local folklore. Everything and everyone had a story behind it in either how it was named or came to be.”

Testing this hypothesis with local citizens confirmed it immediately.

I broke up a fight between two grandfathers at the retirement home. Their stories to their grandchildren conflicted with each other.
Directions to the third concession included a history lesson.
Introductions included the family geneology.

even the nicknames of migrant Mexican workers all had a story behind them.”



“You’d make a good reporter,” I said.

“No I wouldn’t,” he countered.

“Why not?”

“Because I’m a doer, not a spectator. If I were a reporter, I’d be fired the first day for asking my subjects: What? Are you stupid?”

“That’s not objective.”

“I AM the story,” he said. “What’s yours?”

“I AM a reporter ... the objective third party. I found the same thing. What is especially interesting is when the stories overlap. That creates the best drama.

“So off the record,” he said. “I asked what is your story? If I was the reporter doing the story on … what's your name.

“Ron.”

“If I was to ask for the story of Ron, what would you say?”

“I am like a photographer. I capture the true image. No filters. No coloured lens. But I go beyond that to explore the background. To uncover the motivations. To see life through their eyes. To tell the untold story to hopefully shed some life on the motivations, the triumphs or the madness as the case may be.

Three witnesses to a crime can have three entirely different accounts to what they saw. A reporter sifts through it. If I were not objective, it would change the balance of everything. Everyone’s story in town is interwoven quilt. But it is fragile sewn together with weak thread. Change that role and who knows the consequences. Cataclysmic results.

“What? Are you stupid?” he asked.
First you're a photographer, then a detective and finally a seamstress.”

“You know what you are? You’re a spectator. Always standing on the sidelines of life. I’m not saying that reporters don’t play an important role? I’m not saying that reporters should not be objective? I guess what I’m trying to say is that I would wake up one day feeling unfulfilled having always written about other people. A Juno award at the end of my career? Recognition from my peers? They just don't cut it. What others think does not motivate me.”

“But don’t you –“

“- I only mention this,” he interrupted, “ because I sense this urge in you to break out, to engage, that you’re questioning your future. Look I’m public relations. I build images for a living. I play people like you every day.

Hey! I’ve got an idea. Let me prove it to you?”

“How’s that?”

“In fact, it will make a captivating prelude to your own story when the time comes.”

“Okay, tell me.”

“It won’t be T-H-E story of Ron. It will be the introduction and what an introduction it will be. Stories are not written in one day. Sometimes it takes years. But when your story actually happens -”

“Stories.”

“Pardon?”

“Mine is a collection of stories.”

“That's great. I like the way you think.”

He was on a roll. I should not have interrupted. I had been working on a collection of short stories about Chelsea. It was always top of mind.

So if you start your s-t-o-r-i-e-s off with this, you will grab everyone’s attention.”

“Start off with what?”

“What are you doing for the next half hour? Help me present these tag lines. We're due in chambers in the next few minutes. All you have to do is find some paper or something professional looking to cover it up. Meet me at the double doors in ten minutes. There will be hundreds of pictures of you holding one of these signs.”

I wouldn't miss this for anything. Robson vs. Carter had the makings of the clash of the titans. Two seasoned veterans in their own fields locking horns. I had to stick around to see who would end up on top.

The chambers room was packed. The committee extended the decision to include interested citizens. Apparently no one wished the responsibility of the wrong choice. High anticipation. Slogans were tossed around. Still no one agrees with each other. Mayor says to the consultant. Maybe this wasn’t such a great idea. I saw someone forming a rope into a noose.

I listened from the door.


The consultant addresses the audience.

“I think everyone knows who I am. I have pretty well consulted at one time or another with everyone here. I have taken all your ideas and boiled them down to encapsulate the essence of Chelsea. For an exercise like this, it’s best to use outside help because they have a fresh perspective. You are in the middle of it everyday. It is a message to appeal to people coming for the first time. To encourage them to stay a little longer and not just drive through.
So I ask you to hold your responses. Those who moved to Chelsea, think back to when you saw the town sign for the first time.


“While we’re still young, will ya?”

“What sort of tag line is that? Come to Chelsea while we're still .. .”

“I got it. How about ‘Get-to-the Point’?”

Groans and requests to sit down were yelled.

The lighthouse in the harbour is referred as 'The Point'.

“Mayor you don’t have to back away. You see no one knows the slogan not even the Mayor.”

Can someone let the little lady in holding the sign in the hallway?

I entered holding a light 2’ x 5’ form-core board covered in colourful vinyl wall paper.
The only paper I could find on short notice was wallpaper I had just purchased at the warehouse outlet at the wallpaper factory in town. The discontinued patterns go for a dollar a roll.

Chelsea Wallpaper is the major employer in town and has been forever. By the number of shirts and caps emblazoned with its logo in the chambers, its importance to the community is evident. It's importance to the Mayor also.

The response from the audience went something like this.

“Malibu Skins” was shouted from the back row.
Marge from the glue department at Chelsea Wallpaper (CW) sat with co-workers. She recognized the pattern.

“Hey Brian, that one's going to haunt you forever”

Brian Simons inadvertently invented Malibu Skins at home. A neighbour recognized the potential and took the credit.

“Do you want to tell the story or should I”

Brian fended off elbows to the ego the best he could. The consultant tried to regain order.

“Chelseans Chelseans. This is no time for stories.”

At this point most would have cut bait and called it a day. But again from the audience came a variation of 'Malibu Skins'. Offered daughter of green houses.

“Malibu City”

“No nothing to do with Malibu. It's cursed.”

“How about Little Mexico City?'

“Hernando, you never miss an opportunity to sell a burrito do you?” The joke not only dismissed the contributions of a long time downtown merchant but a population of 8,000 seasonal migrant workers.

“How about Wallpaper City”

which morphed into ...

“Wallpaper Capital of Ontario”

leading to …

“Wallpaper Capital of Canada”

and finally …

“Canada nothing. Why not:
Wallpaper Capital of the World!”

Applause, laughter and cheers filled the chambers.

“Consultant? Who needs a consultant!”

The Mayor gestured his concurrence and in the process, distanced himself from the pending disappointment.

The consultant checked the doors to ensure a quick exit if need be. He realized his offerings now could never arouse the same enthusiasm.

What followed demonstrated the worldliness of a seasoned veteran; the experience to change midstream and go with the flow … and still take full credit.

“I can’t believe you figured it out that fast!” he said.

The Mayor shook his head and smiled.

“Unbelievable! You see when it's right, it's right!”

“Are your serious?”

The crowd roared, applauded and patted each other on the back. The hook was set.

One corner of the Malibu Skin pealed loose. Tom walked over and whispered “Just stand there holding the sign. Do not say a word. What ever you do, do not take the wallpaper off!”

“But shouldn’t it say something?” shouted Barney the union rep.

“You got it right away didn’t you?”

“But what about strangers coming into town? Like you said,” was the reply.

Frank pulled out a wide tip marker. He was correct about the power of allowing the citizens to participate. I watched as he reeled them in.

He wrote:
Welcome to Chelsea
Population 17,100
Wallpaper Capital of the World

The audience demonstrated approval in a standing ovation. Cameras flashed.

Reverend Thomas stood.
“I would like to offer a blessing for Chelsea's new motto.”

An awkward silence fell upon the room. Eyes looked around for someone, anyone to say something.

“You have our support Reverend. We're not getting any younger.”

The suggestion of a prayer was a dose of reality. With it, the tag line would be cast in stone.

Heads bowed.

The consultant held one end of the sign as I held the other.

“So much for listening,” I whispered to Frank.

“That's the whole point. I get paid for a motto, regardless of the wording. Look around. What do you see? I see a unanimous decision. You know why? Because I listen. There's no ego here. What's under here was a just a starting point. Not only for today but as promised, the prelude to your s-t-o-r-i-e-s. That is, when you decide to stop being a spectator.”

He re-secured the corner of wallpaper.

“Do me a favour? He asked. “Give me time to cash the cheque before you publish it.”

The Mayor pushed his way to the centre of the sign before heads raised.

The prayer ended with 'Amen'.