When Good Men Do Nothing

Like everyone else in the town hall, Rodney fanned himself with a pale yellow program that Lisa Chandler had handed to him at the back door. He hadn't talked to Lisa in nearly a year. The poor woman looked like she had aged a decade-the dark circles under her eyes betrayed too many sleepless nights. It made Rodney wonder about how old he must look, considering how much guilt rested on his own shoulders.

All the windows in the large oak building were open, and the ceiling fans were running at top speed. The hot and humid July weather--combined with the body heat of over 300 people--was causing beads of sweat to roll off everyone's faces.

A few stray flies were buzzing around the room. Some of the bolder and more annoyed residents were trying to swat them, hopefully without hitting the person seated next to them. The room contained people of all ages--about a tenth of the town's current population.

Rodney reached down for his second bottled water of the night as he listened to the conclusion of Mayor Haslow's proposal. He secretly wondered if the temperature was going to drop at least a dozen degrees when Haslow finally stopped. At 66, Rodney felt fortunate to still have half-way decent hearing-though he was beginning to see the advantages of the hearing aids his older friends had.

"Our young people are out of control," Haslow shouted, pounding his fist on a podium for dramatic effect, "We have seen too many tragic events the past few years. It stops now--when you vote for this curfew to be put into law!"

Applause erupted from the crowd, all except for Rodney and maybe a few others. He knew where this was heading, but who was going to take the advice of a high school educated coffee shop owner over a panel of so-called experts?