LJ Idol, Season 10 Week 21: Current Events
The thing I learned about Current Events in Reston, Virginia, is that nothing happens here. This article is about a week old, but it discusses the biggest news to come to my town. Here's the history: Reston Town Center has been the number one place for commerce in Reston since its opening in 1988, offering shopping, eating, socializing, ice skating, and free parking-that is, until January, when parking suddenly cost a lot of money, collected via a phone app that probably sells your information, and punished via stickers with bees on them. The owner of Reston Town Center, Boston Properties (known by Reston residents as the devil for sins such as the planned demolishing of several local office buildings, which they just announced last week), cited several reasons, and it said that, regardless of how many protests (and there were indeed protests) and lawsuits (lawsuits too), it would not ease up on its parking rules by doing things like free parking after five o'clock or a complimentary first hour. The matter seemed settled. And then, in early June, Boston Properties mysteriously offered up the first hour complimentary, along with free parking after five o'clock. Nobody knows why they changed their mind...
__________
Peter sat at the head of the Washington DC conference table, alone in the room, stroking his beard. The incense burning in the center gave off an odor like used socks soaking in vinegar, but he got used to it. He'd been waiting here an hour, and if he hadn't been given strict instructions to be patient, he would have left a long time ago. He's an important man with important things to do.
The door opened, and in came an average man of average height with an average build wearing an average suit and a face so average that Peter forgot it every time he blinked. The man sat down next to Peter and checked his watch. “I don't like to be summoned as if I were some lowly investor. Whatever it is you want to talk to me about should be covered by the contract. Tell me why I'm here, and make it fast.”
“You can't talk to me like that. Don't you know who I am?”
“Of course I know who you are. You're Peter D. Johnston, President of Boston Properties DC. You're a successful real-estate tycoon and a millionaire. Don't you know who I am?”
“I admit, that hasn't been made clear to me.”
The average man sighed. “You'd think with something like this they'd treat me with a little respect. I'm Cli'thurd.”
“Clifford?”
“Cli'thurd.”
“That's an unusual name. Is that Norwegian?”
The average man laughed, and then his face became serious as quickly as if somebody changed slides. “Why am I here, Peter D. Johnston?”
“They told me that you were the one I had to contact in regard to parking,” Peter replied.
“Ah, yes. Reston Town Center.” Cli'thurd grinned. “How is that working out?”
“Miserably. There was a protest. Revenue is plummeting. Businesses are suing us. We need to make some concessions.”
“No,” Cli'thurd stated.
“Who do you think you are?”
Cli'thurd sighed again. “Take a walk with me.”
Reluctantly, Peter got to his feet and followed Cli'thurd to the door. When he stepped through it, he blinked at the sudden onslaught of sunlight. “What?”
They were standing in a plaza near a fountain that wasn't running. Behind them, bordering the plaza, were two buildings curled together into the letter U. The ground, including the street in front of them, was brick. Franchise businesses populated the sidewalks, receding into the distance.
Cli'thurd asked, “Have you ever been to Reston Town Center before?”
“This is Reston Town Center? How?”
Cli'thurd crossed the street and beckoned Peter, who shuffled after him in a daze. They entered a building and went through two doors before ending up in line at a Panera Bread Bakery Cafe. “I love the lemonade here,” Cli'thurd confessed.
“I don't understand.”
When they were in the front of the line, Cli'thurd said, “Go ahead, get whatever you want.”
“I'll have a coffee,” Peter muttered.
“Not a cinnamon roll? I understand, they're six hundred calories.” Cli'thurd ordered one anyway, along with a large lemonade. He left the register without paying, and nobody seemed to have a problem with that. They picked a booth in the middle of the cafe and sat down.
Peter composed himself with a sip of coffee. “Mr. Cli'thurd...”
“Just Cli'thurd.”
“Okay, Cli'thurd, I called you here as a courtesy. I've been president of Boston Properties DC for six months, and during that time, I've never had a bigger headache than Reston Town Center. And Reston Town Center used to be a good property-vibrant, enthusiastic. But thanks to this parking thing, which started the same time that I did, it's a wasteland. Nobody's happy. And nobody at BP thinks it's a good idea either. It's not like we make a lot of money off of it.
“You're not an investor. You're not on the corporate board. You're not a founder. And until ten minutes ago, I didn't even know your name. I see no reason to defer to you in regard to the matter, and so, effective next Monday, I'm lifting paid parking at Reston Town Center.”
Cli'thurd drummed his fingers. “Was the fact that I just teleported you twenty-one miles not a sign of my power?”
Peter looked him in the eye. “That was some kind of trick. I don't know how you did it, but it won't be that hard to find out.”
Cli'thurd flipped the table out of the booth and grasped a stunned Peter by the throat, lifting him out of his seat. “You want to see more of my power? I could kill you, right here, and not a single person would care.”
“Don't do that, Cli'thurd,” said a quiet voice.
Cli'thurd turned to see a tall man who was skinny-skinny in the way that a mummified corpse is skinny-wearing an expensive suit and wielding a briefcase. “And who are you?”
“Put him down, and I'll talk,” the man replied.
Cli'thurd let Peter go, and as soon as his feet touched the floor they moved to leave.
“Don't go anywhere, Mr, Johnston,” suggested the thin man. “I'm here on your behalf. I'm Lincoln Woods, attorney. I represent more unusual cases. Your colleagues got in touch with me when they learned the planned nature of your meeting with Cli'thurd.”
“How did you know I would be here, in Reston?” Peter asked.
“I'm not at liberty to share that information,” Mr. Woods told him. “Shall we find a new booth?”
They did, with Cli'thurd and Mr. Woods sitting on one side of the table and Peter getting the other to himself, like a teenager about to be spoken to by his parents.
Mr. Woods began, “You're not from the area, Mr. Johnston, and this town is fairly minor in the grand scheme of things, so you probably don't know this, but Reston is a planned community, founded in 1964 by Robert E. Simon.”
“Reston is one of the most famous planned communities in the United States,” Peter interjected. “Of course I knew that.”
“Aha!” Cli'thurd jumped in, “but do you know about Robert's business partner?”
“I didn't know he had a partner,” Peter admitted.
“It was me,” Cli'thurd told him.
Peter snorted. “That's impossible. That was over fifty years ago. His partner would have to be at least eighty.”
“At least,” Cli'thurd repeated.
“You're forty at the oldest,” Peter declared.
Cli'thurd turned to Mr. Woods. “Can I show him what I really look like? Please?”
Mr. Woods shook his head. “That would most certainly drive him insane, rendering my efforts to save his life useless.”
Cli'thurd folded his arms impatiently. “Whatever.”
“None of this is making any sense,” Peter whined.
Mr. Woods continued, “The deal was simple: Cli'thurd would provide the resources and capital to build a whole town, and Mr. Simon would design it to spell out Cli'thurd's name in the most ancient language. Also, in thirty years, they had to build a temple of commerce.”
“Reston Town Center,” Cli'thurd added, “a whole six years ahead of schedule.”
Mr. Woods returned to the conversation. “But most importantly, in thirty years of the temple's construction, they would charge for parking.”
“What?” Peter sputtered. “That's insane! If you're as powerful as you are, Cli'thurd-and I am not remotely admitting you are-why do you care about something as minor as parking? It's not like you get any money from it.”
“It's not about the money,” Cli'thurd replied. “It's about the misery. Demons feed on misery.”
“And without his misery,” Mr. Woods said, “the contract expires, and so does Reston.”
Peter looked away to concentrate, and then he looked back. “Does it have to be parking-related misery?”
Cli'thurd frowned. “I never thought about it before, but no it doesn't. However, paid parking is specifically written into the contract, so you can't abolish it.”
Peter clapped his hands enthusiastically. “Then we'll keep paid parking, but we'll make the first hour free, and we'll open it up after five. That will keep the lawsuits off my back.”
Cli'thurd leaned in threateningly toward him. “But what about my misery? I waited fifty-three years for some wailing and gnashing of teeth, and I won't be denied.”
“I have misery for you.” Peter grinned. “Boston Properties has been debating the expansion of developments past Reston Town Center. We've been holding back because the land with the most potential houses a half-dozen office buildings. If we moved forward, we'd be demolishing those buildings and displacing hundreds of workers and hanging several businesses out to dry.”
Cli'thurd grinned back. “Tasty!”
“That will take at least two years to finish. In that time, I will have my employees looking for other ways to severely inconvenience people. This can go on indefinitely.”
Cli'thurd laughed. “Peter D. Johnston, I like you!”
Mr. Woods got to his feet and stood between the two of them. “I presume this is a satisfactory partnership.”
Peter and Cli'thurd nodded.
“Then I'll be going.” Lincoln Woods shuffled out of the cafe.
“I think I'll be going too,” Cli'thurd agreed and faded into smoke.
“Wait!” Peter snapped. “How am I supposed to get back to my office.”
All he heard in reply was a deep chuckle.
__________
Peter sat at the head of the Washington DC conference table, alone in the room, stroking his beard. The incense burning in the center gave off an odor like used socks soaking in vinegar, but he got used to it. He'd been waiting here an hour, and if he hadn't been given strict instructions to be patient, he would have left a long time ago. He's an important man with important things to do.
The door opened, and in came an average man of average height with an average build wearing an average suit and a face so average that Peter forgot it every time he blinked. The man sat down next to Peter and checked his watch. “I don't like to be summoned as if I were some lowly investor. Whatever it is you want to talk to me about should be covered by the contract. Tell me why I'm here, and make it fast.”
“You can't talk to me like that. Don't you know who I am?”
“Of course I know who you are. You're Peter D. Johnston, President of Boston Properties DC. You're a successful real-estate tycoon and a millionaire. Don't you know who I am?”
“I admit, that hasn't been made clear to me.”
The average man sighed. “You'd think with something like this they'd treat me with a little respect. I'm Cli'thurd.”
“Clifford?”
“Cli'thurd.”
“That's an unusual name. Is that Norwegian?”
The average man laughed, and then his face became serious as quickly as if somebody changed slides. “Why am I here, Peter D. Johnston?”
“They told me that you were the one I had to contact in regard to parking,” Peter replied.
“Ah, yes. Reston Town Center.” Cli'thurd grinned. “How is that working out?”
“Miserably. There was a protest. Revenue is plummeting. Businesses are suing us. We need to make some concessions.”
“No,” Cli'thurd stated.
“Who do you think you are?”
Cli'thurd sighed again. “Take a walk with me.”
Reluctantly, Peter got to his feet and followed Cli'thurd to the door. When he stepped through it, he blinked at the sudden onslaught of sunlight. “What?”
They were standing in a plaza near a fountain that wasn't running. Behind them, bordering the plaza, were two buildings curled together into the letter U. The ground, including the street in front of them, was brick. Franchise businesses populated the sidewalks, receding into the distance.
Cli'thurd asked, “Have you ever been to Reston Town Center before?”
“This is Reston Town Center? How?”
Cli'thurd crossed the street and beckoned Peter, who shuffled after him in a daze. They entered a building and went through two doors before ending up in line at a Panera Bread Bakery Cafe. “I love the lemonade here,” Cli'thurd confessed.
“I don't understand.”
When they were in the front of the line, Cli'thurd said, “Go ahead, get whatever you want.”
“I'll have a coffee,” Peter muttered.
“Not a cinnamon roll? I understand, they're six hundred calories.” Cli'thurd ordered one anyway, along with a large lemonade. He left the register without paying, and nobody seemed to have a problem with that. They picked a booth in the middle of the cafe and sat down.
Peter composed himself with a sip of coffee. “Mr. Cli'thurd...”
“Just Cli'thurd.”
“Okay, Cli'thurd, I called you here as a courtesy. I've been president of Boston Properties DC for six months, and during that time, I've never had a bigger headache than Reston Town Center. And Reston Town Center used to be a good property-vibrant, enthusiastic. But thanks to this parking thing, which started the same time that I did, it's a wasteland. Nobody's happy. And nobody at BP thinks it's a good idea either. It's not like we make a lot of money off of it.
“You're not an investor. You're not on the corporate board. You're not a founder. And until ten minutes ago, I didn't even know your name. I see no reason to defer to you in regard to the matter, and so, effective next Monday, I'm lifting paid parking at Reston Town Center.”
Cli'thurd drummed his fingers. “Was the fact that I just teleported you twenty-one miles not a sign of my power?”
Peter looked him in the eye. “That was some kind of trick. I don't know how you did it, but it won't be that hard to find out.”
Cli'thurd flipped the table out of the booth and grasped a stunned Peter by the throat, lifting him out of his seat. “You want to see more of my power? I could kill you, right here, and not a single person would care.”
“Don't do that, Cli'thurd,” said a quiet voice.
Cli'thurd turned to see a tall man who was skinny-skinny in the way that a mummified corpse is skinny-wearing an expensive suit and wielding a briefcase. “And who are you?”
“Put him down, and I'll talk,” the man replied.
Cli'thurd let Peter go, and as soon as his feet touched the floor they moved to leave.
“Don't go anywhere, Mr, Johnston,” suggested the thin man. “I'm here on your behalf. I'm Lincoln Woods, attorney. I represent more unusual cases. Your colleagues got in touch with me when they learned the planned nature of your meeting with Cli'thurd.”
“How did you know I would be here, in Reston?” Peter asked.
“I'm not at liberty to share that information,” Mr. Woods told him. “Shall we find a new booth?”
They did, with Cli'thurd and Mr. Woods sitting on one side of the table and Peter getting the other to himself, like a teenager about to be spoken to by his parents.
Mr. Woods began, “You're not from the area, Mr. Johnston, and this town is fairly minor in the grand scheme of things, so you probably don't know this, but Reston is a planned community, founded in 1964 by Robert E. Simon.”
“Reston is one of the most famous planned communities in the United States,” Peter interjected. “Of course I knew that.”
“Aha!” Cli'thurd jumped in, “but do you know about Robert's business partner?”
“I didn't know he had a partner,” Peter admitted.
“It was me,” Cli'thurd told him.
Peter snorted. “That's impossible. That was over fifty years ago. His partner would have to be at least eighty.”
“At least,” Cli'thurd repeated.
“You're forty at the oldest,” Peter declared.
Cli'thurd turned to Mr. Woods. “Can I show him what I really look like? Please?”
Mr. Woods shook his head. “That would most certainly drive him insane, rendering my efforts to save his life useless.”
Cli'thurd folded his arms impatiently. “Whatever.”
“None of this is making any sense,” Peter whined.
Mr. Woods continued, “The deal was simple: Cli'thurd would provide the resources and capital to build a whole town, and Mr. Simon would design it to spell out Cli'thurd's name in the most ancient language. Also, in thirty years, they had to build a temple of commerce.”
“Reston Town Center,” Cli'thurd added, “a whole six years ahead of schedule.”
Mr. Woods returned to the conversation. “But most importantly, in thirty years of the temple's construction, they would charge for parking.”
“What?” Peter sputtered. “That's insane! If you're as powerful as you are, Cli'thurd-and I am not remotely admitting you are-why do you care about something as minor as parking? It's not like you get any money from it.”
“It's not about the money,” Cli'thurd replied. “It's about the misery. Demons feed on misery.”
“And without his misery,” Mr. Woods said, “the contract expires, and so does Reston.”
Peter looked away to concentrate, and then he looked back. “Does it have to be parking-related misery?”
Cli'thurd frowned. “I never thought about it before, but no it doesn't. However, paid parking is specifically written into the contract, so you can't abolish it.”
Peter clapped his hands enthusiastically. “Then we'll keep paid parking, but we'll make the first hour free, and we'll open it up after five. That will keep the lawsuits off my back.”
Cli'thurd leaned in threateningly toward him. “But what about my misery? I waited fifty-three years for some wailing and gnashing of teeth, and I won't be denied.”
“I have misery for you.” Peter grinned. “Boston Properties has been debating the expansion of developments past Reston Town Center. We've been holding back because the land with the most potential houses a half-dozen office buildings. If we moved forward, we'd be demolishing those buildings and displacing hundreds of workers and hanging several businesses out to dry.”
Cli'thurd grinned back. “Tasty!”
“That will take at least two years to finish. In that time, I will have my employees looking for other ways to severely inconvenience people. This can go on indefinitely.”
Cli'thurd laughed. “Peter D. Johnston, I like you!”
Mr. Woods got to his feet and stood between the two of them. “I presume this is a satisfactory partnership.”
Peter and Cli'thurd nodded.
“Then I'll be going.” Lincoln Woods shuffled out of the cafe.
“I think I'll be going too,” Cli'thurd agreed and faded into smoke.
“Wait!” Peter snapped. “How am I supposed to get back to my office.”
All he heard in reply was a deep chuckle.