Chapter 37: The Council Meeting — Part 1
Town Hall had a particular smell—old wood, stale coffee, and the accumulated resignation of decades of meetings that accomplished nothing.
I arrived early, claiming a seat near the back where I could watch without being watched. The familiar faces filtered in: council members taking their positions at the long table, Roland settling into his mayor's chair with the particular combination of authority and confusion that defined his leadership style, townspeople occupying the folding chairs that lined the walls.
Moira swept in wearing what appeared to be a ceremonial cape, taking a seat near the front with the air of someone attending an opera rather than a budget meeting. Johnny followed, his businessman posture more relaxed than it had been months ago but still projecting competence. Stevie slipped in just before the gavel fell, dropping into the chair beside me without comment.
"You came."
"Curiosity," she said. "Also, Johnny asked me to."
Roland called the meeting to order with three strikes of a gavel that had probably been used for exactly this purpose since the town's founding.
"First item: Annual budget review and proposed reallocations."
The council secretary—a woman named Patricia who'd held the position for thirty years—distributed papers to each council member. I watched their faces as they read the proposals.
"In light of ongoing fiscal constraints," Roland read from his own copy, clearly seeing the contents for the first time, "the council proposes the following adjustments. Community center operating hours reduced from sixty to twenty-five weekly. Park maintenance budget eliminated pending volunteer alternatives. Library acquisition funds reduced by fifty percent."
The numbers landed heavily in the room. I'd expected something like this—small towns across Ontario were facing similar pressures, the slow erosion of services that made communities livable—but seeing it formalized was different.
"The cuts represent a savings of approximately forty-two thousand dollars annually," Patricia added. "Which would allow us to address the infrastructure backlog without raising taxes."
Ronnie Lee sat three seats down from Roland, her expression the particular combination of frustration and resignation I'd come to associate with her approach to town politics. She'd opposed my signage proposal months ago—three weeks isn't long enough to earn the benefit of the doubt—but she'd also told me to prove myself through consistency.
This was the test. Not whether I could fix things, but whether I could help people who could fix things themselves.
The discussion that followed was painful to watch.
Council members debated numbers without discussing what those numbers meant. The community center hours supported senior programs, after-school activities, the Jazzagals rehearsals that Moira conducted with theatrical despair. The park maintenance kept the only green space in town from becoming overgrown. The library was the sole cultural institution accessible to residents without transportation to Elmdale.
Nobody spoke about any of that. They spoke about fiscal responsibility and difficult choices and the reality of limited resources.
I caught Johnny's eye during a particularly circular exchange about maintenance contracts. He raised an eyebrow—the businessman's question mark that meant should I say something?
I shook my head slightly. Not yet.
"Motion to table the vote for one week," Ronnie said, cutting through the debate. "Give people time to review the implications."
"Seconded," said a council member I didn't recognize.
"All in favor?"
The motion passed unanimously. One week to organize. One week to remind the council that budgets weren't just numbers—they were decisions about what kind of town Schitt's Creek wanted to be.
The break between formal session and informal departure was where real council work happened.
I moved through the crowd with purpose, not speaking to anyone directly but positioning myself near conversations that mattered. Johnny had found Ray Butani, and they were discussing something about economic development. Moira was holding court near the refreshment table, her cape somehow making cheap coffee service seem theatrical.
Ronnie approached me near the exit.
"You're orchestrating something."
"I'm attending a public meeting."
"You've been watching everyone. Catching eyes. Moving around." Her gaze was direct, analytical, the look of someone who'd spent decades reading political rooms. "I've seen operatives work crowds before. You're not as subtle as you think."
I considered denial. Decided against it.
"I'm just connecting people who already agree. They care about this town—they just haven't been asked to say so."
"And you're going to ask them?"
"I'm going to remind them they can ask themselves."
Ronnie studied me for a long moment. I waited for the skepticism, the dismissal, the familiar resistance to outsiders with ideas.
"That's either very clever or very naïve," she said finally. "I haven't decided which."
"Maybe both."
"Maybe." She crossed her arms. "What's your angle? What do you get out of this?"
The honest answer was complicated. I got the satisfaction of watching people I cared about succeed. I got the slow transformation of a town I'd come to love despite—or because of—its dysfunction. I got the quiet certainty that the future I'd seen in the show could happen faster, better, with less pain along the way.
"I get to live in a town that works," I said. "Same as everyone else."
"Hmm." She didn't sound convinced, but she didn't sound dismissive either. "If you're planning something, make sure Moira speaks. She's theatrical, but she's effective when she cares about something."
"I'll suggest it."
"And Johnny—his business logic could matter. Numbers with heart."
"I was thinking the same thing."
She almost smiled. "You're learning. Three weeks wasn't enough. Three months..." She shrugged. "We'll see."
She walked away, leaving me to process what had just happened. Ronnie Lee—the skeptic who'd shot down my signage proposal, who'd demanded proof over promises—had just given me tactical advice for the vote she'd delayed.
Progress measured in inches. But inches still counted.
I found Johnny near the door, finishing his conversation with Ray.
"The vote's in a week," I said. "Are you planning to speak?"
"I was considering it. The economic arguments for community investment are solid—I've run the numbers." He paused. "But numbers alone rarely move people."
"Maybe they need a story to go with them. Someone who can explain what these programs actually mean."
"Someone like?"
"Bob Currie depends on community traffic for his garage. His customers come from people who attend community center events, who use the park, who bring their kids to the library." I'd been thinking about this since the council reading. "His story gives your numbers a face."
Johnny's expression shifted—the analytical consideration of someone evaluating a proposal. "You're suggesting I partner my data with his experience."
"I'm suggesting the argument is stronger when it's personal."
"That's... actually a solid approach." He studied me with the particular attention that made me nervous—the CEO's instinct for recognizing capability. "Where did you learn political strategy?"
"Same place I learned everything else. Watching and listening."
"You watch more carefully than most people." It wasn't quite suspicion—more like curiosity, the desire to understand something that didn't quite fit expected patterns. "I've managed a lot of people over the years. You're different from most of them."
"Different how?"
"Most people want to be seen leading. You seem to want things to work regardless of who gets credit."
The observation landed somewhere between compliment and question. I didn't have a good answer that wouldn't lead to more questions.
"The vote is what matters," I said. "Not who organizes it."
"That's either very mature or very strategic." He echoed Ronnie's assessment without knowing it. "I'll talk to Bob tomorrow."
He left. The meeting room was emptying, the council members retreating to wherever council members went after deciding the fate of community services. Roland was still at the front table, looking confused by papers he probably hadn't read.
Moira approached me with the particular intensity of someone who'd been waiting for the right moment.
"You were observing," she said. "Throughout the proceedings."
"I was attending a public meeting."
"You were cataloging reactions. Positioning yourself strategically. Communicating through significant glances." Her sunglasses caught the fluorescent light. "I recognize the technique—I employed it frequently during my career. Political theater requires stagecraft."
"I'm not a politician."
"Neither am I. But we both understand the importance of proper orchestration." She lowered her sunglasses slightly, meeting my eyes directly. "Will you be requiring my participation in whatever scheme you're constructing?"
"Only if you want to speak. The vote next week—"
"Of course I want to speak. Cultural preservation is essential, and I am uniquely positioned to articulate its importance." She raised her sunglasses again. "Inform me of the optimal moment to intervene. I shall prepare remarks of appropriate magnitude."
She swept out before I could respond, cape trailing behind her like a punctuation mark on the conversation.
The meeting room was nearly empty now. Stevie waited by the door, watching me with the particular attention that had become her default state since the quarry conversation.
"You're planning something," she said.
"Everyone keeps saying that."
"Because it's true." She fell into step beside me as we walked toward the parking lot. "The question is whether it's going to work."
"Ask me next week."
The night air was cool, the kind of spring evening that made you believe winter might actually end. Town Hall's lights flickered off behind us—another item on a maintenance list nobody would address until something broke.
"You really think this town can change?" Stevie asked.
"I think it's already changing. It just needs to remember that it can."
She didn't respond, but she didn't argue either. And as we walked toward our separate cars, I allowed myself to believe that the week ahead might actually matter.
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