Where the Buffalo Roam

There was a long pause, and then, Goodbye.

I almost hit 7 to erase and re-record, but realizing that changing a few words wouldn't really change anything, I hit the number to accept and hung up.

Later that evening, I signed up for a dating app and reached out to a pretty prospect from Creek City. We swapped notes and then a call before I asked her for a date. Our date was pleasant but we both knew there was nothing between us when I walked her to her door and told her goodnight. Dates with two other women followed between then and Thanksgiving, but, despite the app's carefully worded reassuring non-assurances that we'd be in harmony, the chemistry was off each time and a second date wasn't in the cards with either of them.

The election for grand poobah was held on the Monday night following Thanksgiving, and I was surprised to be elected unanimously. That's fairly easy to do when you're the only candidate; Uncle Horace, my "campaign manager," had been telling me how tight the election would be, but failed to tell me that he actually had it wrapped up tight for me. He smiled proudly at his successful effort in fending off other potential candidates for the exalted office (as if that was difficult!). With the election complete, my first duty was to appoint our annual fundraising committee to come up with a list of suggestions for our first meeting in January, when I officially took office.

Just before the New Year, I was taking down Christmas decorations in the store and trying to come up with innovative new fundraising ideas. I was frustrated that my committee and I had assembled the same tired list as in years past. The bell on the door tinkled and I turned to see Nessa entering.

'Hi, Alan, long time no see. Hope you had a great Christmas."

"Nessa! Hi! It's been so long since you stopped by I was wondering if you'd moved on." In truth, it had been months and I wasn't sure if she was even still in town, or if, perhaps, those in charge of my imaginary version of the Witness Protection Program had quietly moved her someplace else.

She shook her head. "No, nothing like that. Just had a lot to do, no hardware needs, and no..."

Nessa didn't finish her statement, but I wondered if it had something to do with not wanting to feel pressure from a certain local hardware store owner.

"Anyway, I have a question for you."

"Well, a late Merry Christmas to you, and have at it."

"Thanks. Okay, I've been wondering, how does one go about becoming a member of the Shaggy Buffaloes Lodge?"

I looked at her in disbelief. The way she'd laughed at my tales, that was the last thing I ever expected, but, being the incoming grand poobah, I wasn't going to let the opportunity for a new member go to waste.

"Well, it just so happens that I have a membership application back there in my desk. If you'd like, I can get it for you."

"That would be nice. Thanks."

I found the form in the folder in the file drawer and handed it to her. "Just fill it out, and bring it and $10 for the membership fee next Monday night. You'll need a sponsor; I'll be glad to serve as that if you don't have someone else in mind. Oh, and don't forget the back. We're a service organization, too, so the back of the form has a listing of ways you might be interested in serving in the lodge. Pick a few that interest you, and the hoobahs--"

"The what?"

"Ah, the hoobahs, what we call our committee chairs. They'll talk to you about responsibilities so you can decide where you want to serve, okay?"

She snickered at my explanation. "Okay. Sounds great. Thank you. So tell me, do anything exciting at Christmas?"

"No, I took Uncle Horace and we went to my cousin's house for dinner in Creek City. It was a nice time, but I stayed home the rest of the time. What about you?"

"No, nothing on my plate. Just stayed home with my dog."

"You have a dog! What type?"

"Shih Tzu, and he's a scamp. He thinks he's some great watchdog, but I have to watch out for him to keep him out of trouble when he goes out. I think I've seen wolves in the distance, sizing him up."

"I've only heard of a lost wolf or two around here over the years, but there's a good possibility that it's coyotes. They usually travel in ones or twos but can definitely be a problem, particularly around pint-sized, bite-size pets."

"Thanks, I'll keep that in mind. And speaking of bites, have you had any more dinners with your, ah, friend, recently?"

It was a decidedly playful, inquisitive look that she gave me, so I almost dismissed it to leave her to her imaginings, but I finally shook my head. "She was a very old friend who just didn't want more so we weren't ever officially a couple. That was one of the sticking points between us, so I broke up with her a while back."

"Oh, I'm sorry. Sounds like you really liked her."

"Yeah, once upon a time. These days, I never got to know her well enough again to be sure. So what about you? Are you open to accepting dinner--strictly dinner--invites these days?"

"No. My life's too complicated to do anything like that at the moment." She looked down, a sort of sadness sweeping over her.

I was hesitant, but I said it. "Nessa, I don't know your exact situation but I might be able to guess more than you'd think. I'm a friend if you ever need one; if something happens and you need help...well, you can call me." I held out my card, which had my cell number

She drew back a bit and looked at me questioningly, as if I'd lost a degree of trust with what I'd said. "Alan, I appreciate it, but please, don't try to get involved."

She took the application I'd handed her, left the card, and quietly told me good afternoon before walking out.

I watched her go, sad that I'd upset her and probably ruined any chance I'd ever have with her.

***

Surprisingly, Nessa showed up with a completed application and a smile the Monday after the New Year. With me sponsoring her, she became our newest Bisonette (as we still called our female lodge members, despite them being full members of the Shaggy Buffaloes, too). Then on Wednesday evening, I heard from our fundraising hoobah, Vince Carlton. Vince and I worked closely together since Fundraising was one of my assigned committees according to the bylaws and since the success or failure of the fundraising effort often determined how a grand poobah's term was viewed by the membership and the citizens of Bettleys Corners.

"Alan, that new Bisonette, Vanessa Smith, came by and talked to me this morning. Walked right out into the field where I was working on the irrigation system. Damn thing's still malfunctioning. She asked me a few questions and then said she'd like to serve on Fundraising. That made my day! Anytime we can get new blood in that group, I'll take it, especially when it looks like her."

"Careful there, Vince. Gayle might hear you."

"Hear me? Hell, she was the one who said it first when I told her about Vanessa signing up!"

We chuckled rather inappropriately before Vince added, "She had a couple of questions and some suggestions I'm not sure about so I suggested that she get with you."

"Thanks, Vince. I'll keep an eye out for her."

He laughed. "I'm sure you will, my friend. I'm sure you will."

***

Sure enough, Nessa showed up on Thursday afternoon with a black leather portfolio with a bunch of papers in the front pocket. I couldn't see what it was when she opened the cover, but there were a number of notes in red ink on the front page. It looked like she'd been busy.

When I asked how I could help, she cut straight to the point.

"What can you tell me about the reservoir out on Country Route 316?"

Needless to say, that wasn't what I was expecting. "Well....Ashantie Creek flows south through Creek City, our county seat. People drew water out of it for irrigation purposes for well over 100 years until the Corps of Engineers decided they needed permits, withdrawal quotas, and so forth."

"I bet the local farmers loved that."

I laughed. "Right. Unfortunately, the Corps had a point, but they pissed everybody off in making it and threatened the livelihood of everyone on the north end of the county. The county stepped in and got the permit and, after a slew of environmental studies and so forth, built the reservoir and put in a little park, making it a dual purpose facility. It could be used for swimming or wading along the north, northwest side, and the entire reservoir could be used for low speed boating."

"That's where the beach is, right?"

"Now, yes, but not then. The reservoir took several years to fill, but everyone knew there really wouldn't be anywhere suitable for the kids to play when it was ready. Since the nearest good beach is almost a thousand miles away and far too far for most residents to make on anything approaching a regular basis, the Bisonettes came up with a proposal to build a small sandy beach for play purposes."

"The women came up with it, eh?" She was smiling.

"Initially, but since the Shaggy Buffaloes realized this could cut down on the whining from the womenfolk to make the long trip to Galveston with screaming kids in the backseat, they were all for it, too."

I cracked up at the look she gave me, leading her to smile, too, when she realized I was teasing.

"Seriously, it was a women's committee that wrote up the proposal to the county commission with a lot of input from the finance committee. They got permission from the county commissioners to build a small beach, and funds were raised for the beach construction over several years while the reservoir construction was being completed and it was being filled. By the summer of 2012, a nice sandy strip was constructed along the north shore, with a fairly generous extension into the water so people could play."

"I went out there. It looks like a really nice place."

"It is and families have a lot of fun out there in the summertime. It wasn't cheap, though; it cost a lot, even with lodge members doing a lot of the work. The county commissioners also agreed to put in a septic tank if we'd build a little bath house and install a wash pole, so we raised some more money and put that in a couple of years later, building it ourselves. So tell me, why all the interest?"

"Alan, I've got an idea for a fundraiser at that beach."

"It's a possibility," I agreed. "The county allows the reservoir to be rented for private functions with enough notice and, since our lodge has been a big contributor, we're one of the first priorities. Trouble is, we've considered it before, but concerts and beach volleyball tourneys and so forth won't appeal to that many people to make it worthwhile."

"What if I had another idea?"

"Well, we'd be able to listen to anything. The ice cream social, the current leading contender, can be fun, it's not going to draw people from much beyond Creek City and won't raise more than a thousand or maybe two thousand, at best. So, what's your idea?"

I was surprised when she looked a bit nervous, fidgety even, about responding. "Well, ahem, it's not quite ready yet. Let me finish putting this together and I'll come back in on Saturday, okay?"

"Yeah, that sounds good. I'll be here all day until 5."

She thanked me and left, leaving my heart pounding as I watched her go once again, wishing that she'd give me a chance to see if there might be something between us. However, knowing how she felt, I knew that was unlikely to ever happen, but at least I had something to look forward to during the weekend.

***

On Saturday, I waited.

I looked.

I waited some more.

"Where the hell is she?" I groused to myself, not realizing I'd whispered it aloud until Uncle Horace, sitting in my chair, opened an eye.

"Are you okay, Alan?"

"Ah, yeah. Supposed to have a meeting today and the day's getting short."

He waved his index finger at me. "Fundraising, that's right. Good luck with that."

He pulled himself up and wandered off, leaving me to think. As our exalted past grand poobah, he was on the fundraising committee, too, but still, I wasn't sure how he'd have even known about my meeting with Nessa. Maybe she'd spoken with him about her idea?

Whatever, I figured. Considering that she was new in town, new to the organization, and didn't know much about how fundraisers worked in the middle of nowhere, the chance of anything really useful coming of her suggestion was tiny, infinitesimal even. Unless a miracle occurred, I'd listen politely, give her a sympathetic look as I thanked her profusely, and then gently explain why it wouldn't work before sending her on her way.

It was five minutes to closing time when Nessa finally walked in, carrying a woman's laptop-type case with a strap on her shoulder.

"Sorry it's a bit late," she said, "but I wanted your full attention on this since I've put a lot of work into it and since it may be a little...ah...unconventional."

"No problem," I agreed. "Want to set up at my desk? I'll lock up and be back there in a few minutes."

She was off with a smile, and I went to flip the "OPEN" sign and close up shop as usual. When I arrived at my desk, she had a stack of papers sitting in front of my seat, while she had another stack, her folio, and her laptop set up on the opposite side next to her.

I wasn't sure where she was going with it at first, explaining permissions from the county commissioners, private functions, and so forth, but about five minutes in, my eyes started getting wide when I realized what she was suggesting. I was completely flabbergasted and instead of letting her down gently as I'd planned, it just slipped out.

"Nessa, no way! The Shaggy Buffaloes Lodge would never, ever, participate in something like this! Our members--if we had any left--would never agree to work it even if you were to finalize all of this and drop it into our laps."

She looked quite hurt, her lips thin and her eyes cloudy as she appeared to be fighting off tears at my rather loud and outright rejection of what was quite obviously a hell-of-a-lot of work. Not wanting to see her break down, I lowered my voice, at the same time thanking my lucky stars that she hadn't pulled this earlier in the afternoon when customers were in the store, and said, "I'm sorry, Nessa. I see you put a great deal of effort into this--it looks extremely professional--and maybe it might work somewhere, but not here, not in Bettleys Corners. I'm sorry."

"It could, Alan. It could work here, it really could, if you'd give it a chance."

"But if it didn't? If, say, it didn't rip our membership apart and destroy the organization before we ever got started, we could go broke over it and never be able to do anything else to help our community. We're coming up on sixty years as an organization; I'm not going to throw all the effort over all those years away. I'm sorry, but that's final."

She closed her laptop and put it in the bag before shoving the portfolio and the rest of the papers into it. She gave me a stern look before saying, "I'm telling you it could work, Alan. We just need to try it," before turning and walking out.

I watched her go, in complete disbelief that she'd even suggest such a thing. I popped a beer that I kept in the fridge behind my desk and then propped my feet up on the edge, wondering why I'd ever agreed to serve as grand poobah and be saddled with such a suggestion.

Arizona, if I could ever get there, would be such a relief.

***

"Now, our first order of new business tonight is the report from our Fundraising Committee with the suggestions for our annual fundraiser," I said the following Monday night. "Let's give a big Shaggy Buffalo welcome to our Fundraising Hoobah, Vince Carlton."

I pounded my fists on the lectern simulating the running of the herd of bison as the rest of the members, male and female, pounded similarly on the tables. When it was near thunderous, shouts of "Hoobah! Hoobah!" could barely be heard over the din.

Hoobah Vince stepped up to the lectern, where I shook his hand with the secret lodge handshake and handed him the Bully Stick (our somewhat comical version of a gavel) to give him the floor. He was a short fellow, around 5'-4, so he lowered the mic to his level. "Fellow Shaggy Buffaloes and Beautiful Bisonettes--"

There was more fist pounding, leading Vince to pump the long-handled Bully Stick with the small bison horns on the head up and down in the air to quieten the room. "I'm here to present the official report of the Fundraising Committee. We had twelve suggestions that we've carefully considered, and our official recommendation is that we host a homemade ice cream social."

Over the next few minutes, he explained how the social would work, with all members of the lodge bringing homemade ice cream plus getting members of the community to enter the best ice cream contest. Even with the prizes, the fundraising committee estimated that they could clear about $1,500 profit."

There were polite "hoofbeats" on the tables before Vince raised the oversized gavel and called for questions. He dealt with them efficiently, noting that profits could be much smaller if weather or competing events diminished our crowd. The hoofbeats were fewer and less enthusiastic as he raised the stick once more. I stood up, expecting him to relinquish the floor to me, but he surprised me.

"And now, I'd like to call on Bisonette Vanessa Smith, our newest member, to present a special Fundraising Committee minority report."

My head snapped around toward her, as she made her way to the lectern. There were thunderous hoofbeats on the tables once more, possibly even exceeding Vince's welcome minutes earlier. Vince handed her the Bully Stick and the floor before I could arrive, so I swallowed hard and took a seat. If this was what I thought it was, I was about to be laughed out of the Shaggy Buffaloes...or worse.

And it was exactly what I thought, but it was an even more polished presentation than she'd given me on Saturday. My heart was pounding and I could barely believe that the assembly was letting her go on, but on she went, finishing her presentation.

There was silence when she concluded, with my breathing and the drumming of blood rushing through my head being the only sounds I heard. I expected members to toss her out, or, even more likely, to toss me out, but everyone sat, staring, when she asked for questions.

I tried to get up to thank and dismiss her, but Uncle Horace raised his table's talking stick before I could get up.

"Bisonette Smith, excellent presentation. So, how many tickets would we need to sell to break even, and how many more to make the, the--oh, what was it?--$1,500 from the ice cream social?"

"Good question, Buffalo Bettley. Initial break even is 250 tickets. With more costs incurred as the crowd size grows, we're looking at about another 150 tickets or so to equal that."

Ignoring the protocols and being completely out of order, I jumped to my feet. "But we'd never sell 250 tickets, much less 400!"

At that point, the meeting exploded and then dissolved without a proper dismissal for the first time since I'd returned to Bettleys Corners nearly nine years before.

***

By the following Monday, I'd spoken with almost all of our lodge members, either in person or over the phone, and apologized for the events of the previous week and assured them that the fundraiser officially recommended by our committee would be successful; if not, I promised to pay in up to $500 to reach the break even point. That seemed to placate most members. Uncle Horace even called quite a few members, and he assured me that everything was going to work out alright. Therefore, I was confident our meeting that evening would be reasonably uneventful.

When the motion was made to accept the official recommendation of the Fundraising Committee to host the ice cream social as our annual fundraiser, I breathed a sigh of relief on hearing it seconded. When I opened up the floor for discussion, Uncle Horace raised his table's talking stick.