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.