Rallying the Troops

“You know, it was only twenty years ago that a woman would be asked to leave her teaching job if she was pregnant. My mother had to hide it until the summer holiday came along,” Proctor said. He was sitting at a bar around a circular table with his co-workers from the Global Warming Defense League (G.W.D.L.). There was Frieda, the secretary who was underpaid and overqualified. The Volunteers, who were all a little stoned and downing the free pitcher bought with the G.W.D.L.’s meager budget. And Dr. Hobart. He was a tall man, thin to the point of needing to gain weight, who carried himself with the air of a person who would talk about anything. Proctor liked Hobart well enough, but found himself wishing he would say something at this meeting. Here it was, the night before the big fundraising rally and Hobart had only bought them a few beers and congratulated them on doing such great jobs. “Or even homosexuals,” Fried added. “Ten years ago a person could’ve been fired just for being gay.” Hobart perked up when she spoke, nodding and smiling. The volunteers were all beginning to get fidgety. Proctor supposed it was from listening to old war veterans talk about causes that had been fought and won long ago. Finally, with that strange shared consciousness that people who aren’t being paid seem to possess, the volunteers all got up and moved to the pool table. There was a brief silence as the remaining employees all looked at one another. “Do you think we should say something to the Volunteers? Like try to be on time for once or threaten to not sign their community service hours?” Proctor said. Frieda looked a little embarrassed for Hobart but only curled her finger around the beer bottle. “Yeah, yeah, I know. I’m just tired of busting their balls about it. It’s just not like it used to be back when we were their age. Back then, people would be lined up to protest. You couldn’t stop change back then. Now, here we are working for this global warming group and I have to yell just to get a kid to show up for free booze,” Hobart said. He was leaning on his elbows with a tired look in his eye. “Well shit man, now I’m glad you didn’t talk,” Proctor muttered. Frieda stood up and went to go get another beer. “Do you ever feel like we’re just…we’re just some old vets talking about past battles? Like there is this new battle to be fought, and all we’re doing is talking about the ones we’ve already won?” Hobart asked.

Who is Dr.Hobart?

Things had not always been this way with Dr. Hobart and the G.W.D.L. Proctor had been hired as the tech guy about the same time as Hobart for the little environmental firm. About ten years ago, Hobart had resigned from a top position as a researcher with a pharmaceutical company. He had specialized in some strange branch of behavioral medication but generally refrained from ever mentioning his reasons for leaving. Being both a) a scientist and b) morally ambiguous, he seemed ripe for recruitment. At first he had been a good worker, quick to brainstorm solutions and perfectly willing to sacrifice his free time for the cause. It was when the former director left and no one volunteered to fill his shoes that Hobart began to show the signs of despair he now so openly exhibited. There is nothing quite as sad, Proctor was fond of saying, as a Liberal forced to be in an authority position. They chafe at giving orders, despise making people do things when they can relate to not wanting to, and most of all become quite lost when they have no higher power to blame than themselves for failed projects. The planet saving business was a tough one with the advent of environmental conscientiousness being ‘hip’. The different advocacy groups were now more competitive than ever. Hobart had to contend with the Sierra Club snatching donations for land conservation, P.E.T.A.’s monthly Bingo Save-A-Critter Night, and the dreaded G.W.C.M. (Global Warming Cessation Movement). Their offices were mere blocks away and the head, one T. Magnus Bordex, was fond of hosting rallies on the same days as the G.W.D.L. “For the extra PR,” Bordex would say. Hobart, when confronting his cousin who had donated twenty dollars to the G.W.C.M. rather than his own group, was asked, “It all goes to the same thing, right?” Grudgingly, Hobart had agreed. And grudgingly, Hobart had to report that funds were down and budgets were getting tighter whenever people asked how things were going. Yet Hobart was not without his brilliant moments. In a company wide e-mail, Hobart had proposed supplying community service and college credits to students who volunteered. Thus the influx of volunteers, no matter how apathetic they might be. And now one of the most important fund raisers for the G.W.D.L., one in which it was absolutely essential that they make at least five grand, was coming up. And all Hobart could muster was the question, “Do you ever feel like we’re just…we’re just like some old vets reliving past battles?” Proctor stared at him for a moment, finished his beer, and threw down a few bucks. “At this point, I like to think that the veterans could get their troops to show up on time,” Proctor replied. He walked away before Frieda came back with a fresh beer for him.

The Global Warming Party

The next morning, Proctor awoke to cloudy skies and a forecast for rain. “Great, that’s just goddamn great,” he said. He put on his sandals and customary Hawaiian shirt before hopping on his bicycle. The office (where the rally was being held) was several blocks away. Proctor brooded on how the weather would affect the rally, Hobart, and more importantly than all the rest: his job. The first few drops had already struck his head when he pulled into the parking lot and beheld a sad sight. Hobart, out alone, was struggling to piece together the flimsy stage that had been donated years ago. Proctor chained up his bike and joined him. “Damn…*huff*…volunteers are late. That band that wanted to pay is stuck in…*grk*…traffic. Frieda went home to get her acoustic guitar,” Hobart said. For a moment, Proctor wanted to scream at the man, the sky, anyone who could be blamed for the disaster he had foreseen coming last night. They snapped the final pole together, only to have the one Hobart had first connected fall out. “Are you sure they weren’t just throwing this thing away?” Proctor mumbled. After a great deal more shoving, the stage finally came together. “Where’s the P.A.?” Proctor asked. “With the volunteers,” Hobart answered. The two sat down on the stage to take a breather. “When was this thing supposed to start?” Proctor asked. “About ten minutes ago,” Hobart replied. The silence resumed as both men began to brood. Proctor worried about his job security with an environmental group that couldn’t even host a free concert. Hobart worried about the miracle it would take to save this situation. Frieda broke the silence when she finally pulled up, guitar in hand. Hobart perked up as she came near, one of the few things that ever seemed to rouse him from his quiet gloom. “Hey Frieda! Thanks for being the opening act. Hopefully, everyone will arrive here soon,” Hobart said. “Sure, Doc. Anytime. I just borrowed Kyle’s guitar,” Frieda answered sweetly. Hobart’s smile cracked a little at the mention of Frieda boyfriend, but his head still bobbed in response. She glanced at the sky and empty parking lot before joining her fellow co-workers on the stage. “So, how exactly did you advertise this thing?” Proctor asked. “The Volunteers,” Hobart answered. Frieda’s laughter at this finally brought a smile to the other two’s faces.

A New Plan

Before Frieda could even finish the second verse of ‘Paved Paradise’, the rain came crashing down. She toughed it out all the way to the end, but the empty parking lot and even emptier donation box by the stage finally defeated her. She ran under the awning to join a shivering Proctor and Hobart. Proctor was on the phone with a volunteer, yelling to be heard over the rain. “What do you mean you thought it was tomorrow? How many goddamn meetings have we had about this? Look, I don’t care how much you’ve puked, you’re supposed to be here helping! Put down the damn bong, get out of bed, and get some people here!” He slammed the cell phone shut with an exasperated sigh. Hobart stared out into the empty lot, the soaked stage, the falling rain. He shook his head and walked inside before anyone could say something. Proctor and Frieda exchanged a weak smile and refrained from following their leader indoors. “How bad is this?” Proctor asked. Frieda, in addition to being secretary, therapist, moral support, cheer leader, and head organizer, ran the books for the G.W.D.L. “Oh, in the sense that we didn’t really expect to make much money anyways, it’s not so bad. But, on the other hand, our budget is shot now. After these next paychecks, there isn’t going to be any money left unless Hobart asks for more funding,” Frieda answered. Considering they hadn’t had a successful event in some time, both knew that getting anymore Federal grants would be a hard sell. Proctor found himself wondering if Bordex and his G.W.C.M. thugs were laughing at them all right now. No show ups, no cash, and soon there would only be one Global Warming Advocacy group in town. “I’m worried about Dr. Hobart. This is hitting him pretty hard,” Frieda commented. Proctor snorted and kicked at a puddle forming by the awning. “That guy has fallen off the wagon. He can’t lead us anywhere. Hell, he can’t even think up a way to get a few people to show up and save the goddamn planet. Someone needs to tell him to get himself together. In fact.” Proctor spun around and went inside, while Frieda still watched the rain. Marching straight into Hobart’s office, Proctor found himself almost tripping over a stack of papers. All around the room were notes and drawings, a marker board covered in formulas, and the very center of the messy office turned lab was Dr. Hobart and a bottle of whiskey. At the sight of Proctor entering the room, Hobart held up his glass in a toast. “Ah yes, just in time. Before you say a word, Why not wish me good health? I have decided to take a leave of absence and let the group continue without me for a while. And in my place, a clever relative of mine is going to come over to help run things,” Hobart said. Proctor was at a loss to respond. Hobart was going to hand control over to a total stranger while they were right in the middle of a budget crisis? He didn’t know whether to think the man was insane or merely running away. “His name is Karl Cuckler,” Hobart declared.

Hobart Disappears, Cuckler Appears

Proctor left Hobart’s office more confused at his morbid behavior than when he had entered. He had wanted to walk in and demand Hobart get his act together or resign, not actually have him resign. Nor was he a hundred percent certain Hobart had the authority to just install some new leader to the G.W.D.L. He was definitely certain that there wasn’t technically a way to overrule the decision. A restless night and a stormy bike ride back to work the following morning had Proctor wondering just what would await him inside. There was Frieda, typing something on the computer, a few volunteers stuffing envelopes, and Hobart’s empty office. Before he could even ask a question Frieda handed him a printed out e-mail. “Dear Staffers, after the events of yesterday, it has come to my attention that I no longer have the ability to lead this organization. As my parting decision, I wish to install a new kind of leader. He has a head for business, rational thinking, and leadership that I have found lacking in both myself and other people in this political sphere. Please hear him out before judging him either on his political views (no matter how different they may be from your own opinion) or his strange habits. As Lao Tzu once said: “There are many roads to wisdom.” Please feel free to contact me via e-mail, since I will be out of town for a while. Cuckler should be arriving in the next couple of days.” And that was that. Proctor sat down at this desk and began updating the website, Frieda bustled around managing affairs, and the Volunteers snuck off for a smoke session. The next day was equally peaceful. As was the third, fourth, until on the fifth Proctor began to wonder if the whole thing was just some sham. Hobart didn’t seem like the type to make up some silly lie, but after a whole week Proctor had no choice but to call a meeting. “Alright folks, as you all know Dr. Hobart hasn’t been back for some time. I know this might be hard for some of you. Well, for me and Frieda anyways, but it’s about time we started talking about the future for the G.W.D.L. Right now, that future is,” Proctor said before pausing at the sight of a strange man entering the office. He was hunched over and fat, wearing clothes that seemed to barely fit him. His hair was a grayish brown and there was an odd bald spot when he cocked his head just so. Strangest of all, was that the men bore a resemblance to Dr. Hobart. In a loud voice the stranger spoke up, “Ladies and Gentleman, that future has never been brighter!”

The New Cuckler Deal

Everyone in the office turned to see who had spoken. “Hello, my name is Karl Cuckler,” said the stranger. He was carrying a briefcase and several rolled up documents as he strode to where Proctor stood. Stepping next to Proctor, Cuckler gave him a slight shove on the shoulder and a nod to sit down. Proctor gritted his teeth at being pushed away so lightly, but was also a little bit relived. Maybe Hobart really had delivered them a miracle, albeit a mildly annoying one. Unrolling a chart, Cuckler tacked it against the wall and began gesturing with his hands. “Now, let’s not beat around the bush. Hobart has gilled me in on all the juicy details about you kids. The first thing will be the volunteers. You miss another event, I revoke your credit and you’re outta here. You keep taking extra long lunch breaks, I start giving you piss tests and reporting them,” Cuckler said. His voice had a slow deep boom to it, like you could hear it even if you put your hands over your ears. Everything he said had the curious sensation of feeling like a ‘fuck you’ and ‘do this now’, so that one jumped to obey and dislike him at the same time. One of the volunteers raised their hand and stammered, “But…but I thought we were volunteers.” Cuckler gave a grinding, snarling laugh that was distinctly unfriendly. “Not anymore. You are now all unpaid interns,” Cuckler explained. The interns all nodded. “Which brings me to a greater point. Most of you are probably aware that the budget is more fucked than a dominatrix at a republican convention (pause while Cuckler laughs, one of the interns coughs). Well, in order to get more funds I’ve had to play around with some rules along with the Federal Advocacy Act. We’re changing the name from Global Warming Defense League to Globo Warriors. I thought it had a little more kick, y’know? We are now technically a brand new and unrelated firm to the old one, which gives us access to the one time start-up Federal Bonus of 10,000 dollars,” Cuckler explained as he gestured. Frieda’s hand had shot up at some point during this but Cuckler did not seem to notice. Proctor’s mood had shifted from annoyed to gratified to outraged so fast that he was unsure whether to raise his own hand or just speak. Cuckler kept talking. “This is only going to last us for so long though. We are now shifting our primary goals from distributing pamphlets and ‘awareness’ to focusing purely on fundraising. We need to assess who our greatest competitors are for donations and how we can undermine their support. We need to be having more rallies, ones that target specific demographics beyond college kids who don’t vote.” More hands had gone up. Cuckler was gesturing at a series of color coded bullet points, seemingly unaware of the impending inquisition. Proctor finally just barked out, “Excuse me, but what is all this money going to be used for, if not spreading ‘awareness’?” Cuckler turned, gave another teeth grinding laugh and said, “Saving the fucking planet, kid.”

We're Getting Kegs?

The meeting dragged on and on, quickly becoming the longest one that Proctor had ever sat through for an environmental agency. One by one the hands went down as people gave up on trying to have their opinion be heard. When they had finally gone through the last pie chart, Cuckler gave everyone an odd salute then went straight into Hobart’s office. He closed the door behind him. “I just can’t believe…this can’t be legal!” Frieda exclaimed. Proctor struggled to remember what it was exactly that Cuckler had explained that would be so illegal, but found that the meeting had been so long he could no longer particularly remember what had been discussed. “Did you mean…like with the rallies he wants to have?” an intern asked. They seemed equally baffled with the combination of charts, numbers, and A.D.D. “Not just the rallies! He’s using Article G-79 to excuse the use of alcohol at a sponsored event, but the entire point of that bi-law is to allow orphanages to get free soda for parties. Just because they use the word ‘beverage’ doesn’t mean he can presume it’s referring to beer!” Frieda explained. Proctor still could not remember when Cuckler had ever said they were going to start getting free beer. “We get to have keggers?” another intern asked, followed by a barely audible, “fuck yeah!” Frieda stood up now and resumed the spot that Cuckler had stood in. “Weren’t any of you listening during that meeting? He’s changing everything! We’re using tax money to fund parties, attacking other environmental groups for their donors, and we don’t even know what all this money is going towards! I don’t know what Dr. Hobart was thinking when he brought in this…this cousin of his, but he’s doing everything wrong!” Frieda said. There was silence as everyone looked at her, though Proctor thought he heard an intern whisper to another ‘kegs’. Proctor stood up and patted Frieda on the shoulder. “Look, I know this is strange for everyone. God knows after the fourth hour of pie charts on Generation spending habits, I thought I’d made a mistake. But the fact is, this organization hasn’t had a successful event in a year. We were a waste of money before Hobart left and I say we give this new guy Cuckler a shot. How much worse could he be then we already are?” A few of the interns nodded and only Frieda looked to still be genuinely upset. She stormed over to her desk and busied herself with the day’s mail which had just arrived. Before Proctor could even settle in his own chair, she gasped and stormed over to him with a torn open package. Inside were some bumper stickers, apparently ordered by Cuckler during the previous week. They read, ‘Fuck the Animals, Lets Save Ourselves! Join the Globo-Warriors’.