It was only a ball park figure, after all

by Jack Stapleton, Jr.

I’ll admit being somewhat nervous as the chairman of our Neighborhood Council called the evening meeting to order. I told myself it was only natural that my purpose in attending the meeting was purely a selfish one. I hadn’t shown up for these important monthly meetings in more than six years, and the only reason I was there this time was to try to get some funding for my inspired neighborhood improvement program.

“The meeting will come to order,” the chairman said in a business-like voice. I couldn’t immediately identify him although he looked familiar, maybe because I passed him some mornings while out walking. “The secretary will read the minutes of the last meeting,” he said in his business-like tone, which proved disturbing since the last thing I needed was a hyper-serious chairman presiding over discussions of my inspired neighborhood improvement program.

When no one offered an answer to the chairman’s next question about old business, he quickly said, “Maybe we can get this meeting over before Leno,” the chairman said, adding “of course, that depends on how interested council members are in conducting a no-nonsense meeting on neighborhood affairs. All right, is there any new business this evening?”

I decided not to be the first to speak in the event someone else had a proposal to make. But after what seemed like an hour (but couldn’t have been more than three minutes) I stood up and said, “Mr. Chairman, I would like to present an idea for the council’s consideration, one that I believe will work for the benefit of every resident in the neighborhood, one that seems particularly appropriate as we struggle to maintain and improve the value of our largest investment, our community of homes which have witnessed the lives of families with children who have gone out into the world and made our neighborhood proud, an area that is filled with memories of happy marriages and saddened by untimely deaths, a neighborhood that has nurtured the young and given solace to the seniors among us, a hallowed place of ground that….”

“I don’t mean to be rude, sir, but could you just get to the point. Those of us who prefer “Nightline” over either Leno or Letterman would like to watch this evening’s program on how fast-talking promoters are bilking thousands, millions of dollars from an unsuspecting public.”

“I’m sorry, Mr. Chairman,” I said in the humblest tone I could muster, “and I’ll come right to the point. A few of my friends and I were discussing a plan which I believe will prove popular in the neighborhood, and they urged me to present it this evening. So, without any more fanfare, Mr. Chairman, I’d like to propose that we build a neighborhood outdoor center for the pleasure and enjoyment of every resident in the area, providing safe, clean and expanded facilities for our beloved families. Doesn’t that sound like a winner?”

“Just what is your plan?” the chairman chimed in.

“Well, we could call it the Special Community Advancement Masterplan, and it would provide an expanded baseball diamond, a small soccer field, some exercise equipment including swings, special soft seats and could add some new refreshment stands, even a burger drive-in, to improve the entire area and attract more visitors to the neighborhood and….”

“Where on earth would we put this monstrosity?” the chairman asked, frowning intently.

“Well, since I have a large backyard, I would be happy to sell the land for this inspired project to the council,” I said in what I hoped would echo an optimistic tone of voice.

“How much do you want?” a gruff voice behind me asked.

“Well, my Realtor estimates that a fair price would be around, give or take a few thousand, and this is a ball park figure, about five hundred thou,” I replied in a low voice.

“You’re asking us for five hundred thousand dollars?” the chairman screamed in a voice that immediately alerted a sleeping dog in the next block.

“Don’t worry,” I said, “I’ll contribute my share of this project,” falling back to an offer that I had hoped to avoid.

“You could take your so-called ball park figure and build a real ball park with it,” the chairman said angrily.

“Well, if you don’t like the name, we could just use the initials, S.C.A.M.,” I said as the last member departed, turning off the lights as he left.

[Missouri News & Editorial Service, Inc. Copyright (C) 2002 MNES Corp.]