District 10's County Fair

An Emergency Meeting of the District 10 Produce Fair Committee

The committee is not frightened or angry, the committee is merely concerned

or so Honesty Lowell will have added to the minutes of the meeting later. In actuality, this is the most animated that the committee has ever been- nervous chatter rises over the straw covered floor, hysterical assertions pierce the heavy air in the barn and none of it has to do with how many napkins Sheila will have to provide for the cook- off (which is normally the most hotly contested point of the evening) or whether Franklin will have the poster art finished in time. It’s making Honesty Lowell nervous and he wishes, not for the first time, that the committee had given him something like a gavel, something official, or a loudspeaker to calm those assembled.

“I’m just saying,” he continues, removing a kerchief from his breast pocket to wipe away a glistening bead of sweat. “We ought to consider the implications of hosting a fair this year in such…sensitive times.” Here Honesty buries his thin, chapped lips into the stale smelling kerchief to suppress a belch. Indigestion. He is a martyr to it when stressed and the current situation in District 10 has left his stomach lurching and churning like a storm in a teacup. There is a peacekeeper sitting in the corner of the meeting, not listening intently admittedly but her mere presence is enough to make Honesty’s gut growl and his underarms grow sweaty under his shirt. The committee is not a revolutionary group, really, really honestly. We just want to put on a fair.

“No freakin’ way,” says Petra Ransome firmly folding her arms. She is short and very slender with hair the colour of unpolished tin. A hard faced woman who works as a midwife, Petra lives with a woman who she’s given up pretending to be sisters with and has been, throughout Honesty’s fifteen year run as District 10 Produce Fair Committee chairperson, his greatest nemesis. “Cancellin’ the fair simply aint a question. People expect it, look forward to it. Need the fair, to wash away whatever other crap has gone on in the year and help ‘em look toward the future.” She sounds impassioned, but Petra would argue passionately against free cake for everyone if she heard Honesty was for it.

“Yeah!” a mumbled affirmation from the rest of the committee. “Here, here.”

“And I’ve already made all the chutney for the contest.”

“And Sheila already made all the chutney for the contest!” adds Petra hotly, gesticulating wildly to Sheila in the back who hasn’t put down her knitting once. The idea of pre-prepared chutney is the bombshell the committee needs to begin its fretful yammering, like so many newborn chicks cheeping impotently.

“Please, please,” says Honesty, holding his hands out like a drowning man. “Look, Ms Ransome, if we could only talk about the situation. What kind of message does it send to the capitol if, after everything, district ten goes and throws the rioters a party of all things-”

“A party!?” Johannes Brightman is on his feet in an instant, toppling his wooden stool, beard quivering with rage. He’s thick and tall and Honesty’s stomach does back flips.“The District 10 Produce Fair aint no party. You forget ,Lowell, that the reason we set up the fair in the first place was to educate the kids and share proper farmin’ techniques.”

“And to win a little wine in the stud show,” says Sheila as an aside to Petra. Johannes Brightman has had the monopoly on cows nine years out of ten and always does well from the Fair- has ended up nine years out of ten drunk off his ass trying to hit on teenage girls out by the candied apple stand.

“And since it’s all about promotin’ good produce an’ productivity in the district how can it be a problem for the capitol? It aint a party for the rioters. I still say every last one of em should be rounded up an’ flogged. Damn kids, no respect…”

“Yes, yes, okay Johannes,” Honesty glances nervously over at the peacekeeper. The committee has no strong political views one way or the other. The committee will not openly discuss and/or share any such political views.

“Still you have to wonder,” says Maris, the newest member of the committee; twenty two years old, buck toothed and very heavily pregnant or perhaps just incredibly fat, Honesty can’t tell from his place at the front. “If it aint just a bit disrespectful havin’ our fair so close after the Hunger Games this year.” The committee will not talk about government practises or policies. Honesty is sure that he is going to throw up, can taste the stomach bile and the burn of his indigestion.

“What’s so disrespectful about a nice day out?”

“Or an eat as much meat as you can before you barf contest?”

“Surely…if it’s such a problem we could just move the date of the Fair?”

The assembled company groans. It’s such a standard newbie question, one that people are sick of explaining. Asking to move the date of the Fair is like asking a four year old to move a mountain.

“The fact is Maris (I’ll handle this shall I ,Honestly?)” Petra starts, standing up next to Honesty. Now he really wishes he had a gavel and could bash her brains in with it.

“Honesty,” he says with a wince. She knows his name. They’ve been on the committee for fifteen years together, they went to school together for Pete’s sake and Honesty is pretty sure he tried to kiss her under a surrey one summer forty or so years ago. She definitely knows his name.

“Whatever. The fact is Maris, logistically it’s the best time for us. No other reason. The weather usually holds out and Franklin’s trick knee doesn’t bother him so much so he can sit down and do the face paintin’ for a couple extra hours. Kids just love his face paintin’”

Maris blinks at Petra, once, twice, and then ten more times for luck. She’s not pregnant at all, Honesty realises, thanks his lucky stars that he never asked when she was due.“So, the whole thing; the date, the disrespect to the dead, all this worry about the rioting, is based around Franklin doing face painting?”

“It’s really good face paintin’,” Johannes adds gruffly.“The attention that man pays to detail. Stunnin'”

“It is pretty special,” Sheila agrees and the rest of the committee murmurs it’s approval. Franklin at least has the grace to shrug and say, “It’s mostly just spit and lead paint,” in his quiet mutter. Honesty is quickly losing the room, arguably he never had it to begin with so he decides to stamp on the floor three times like an angry bull- sort of like having a gavel, but not nearly as exicting.

“Now, ladies and gentlemen- no one is arguing that Franklin isn’t supremely talented when it comes to face painting. But if we could just turn our attention to the issue at hand…whether or not it is appropriate to go ahead with the--”

“A vote!” Petra jumps in. “Why don’t we just vote on it now and wrap this meeting up?”

“I brought lemon drizzle cake for afters!” Sheila adds brightly. Naturally most people are up for simply voting, but Honesty is still wringing his hands, glancing over at the peacekeeper. He’s heard stories of people being avoxed for smaller things than this. What if the capitol thinks of him as rebelling, for holding the fair so close after the riot? What if the same kids from the district square decide to start throwing blood around, over Sheila’s chutney and Johanne’s prize cattle? As chairperson it’ll be his neck on the line. Honesty’s stomach is about one hundred percent pure acid now, ready to burn holes through the fleshy lining.

“All those in favour of holding the fair in a few weeks from now, raise your hand.”

Honesty belches into his handkerchief and can’t bring himself to look at the result. The committee is utterly and entirely screwed if anything goes wrong.