As a Philadelphian (actually a suburbanite now, but I lived in the city from 1975 to 1984), I have always liked the city and been amused (as well as frustrated and annoyed) by its politics. In general, I am fed up with organized politics, and I couldn’t resist my own attempt at developing an alternate way of running governments. So, why not start at home, with Philly? This story was fun to write, but after a few flattering rejections it was quickly forgotten as I was working on another, more challenging story.

But then, as I worked on assembling my book People First (see http://www.netreach.net/~abrejcha/dispub.htm ) it struck me that all but one of the stories were from a male point of view. That hardly seemed fair, especially considering that out of over twenty-six published or pending fiction stories (as I wrote this), almost half were from a female point of view. I wanted to deal with women with disabilities as well, so I pulled this out again and re-worked it after finding some flaws. It turned out well, and gave me the perfect opportunity to be environmentally, gender, and disability conscious, all in one, I do like the city I scheme to save in this story, and it was fun playing Philly politics... and who knows, maybe this is the way to do it?

* * *

A Touch of Scandal

Fat, generous piano notes rolled out in a spirited crescendo and I closed my eyes to let them inundate me. Genius from another age. Simpler, more civil times. Mozart's Sonate KV 281; a twentieth century recording of a performance by the inimitable Horowitz that had been preserved for eternity in digital code. But the beautiful sounds faded all too fast and I heard the screaming again.

A regular rhythm had come over it, and I realized that the mob was organizing. They were out for blood... mine! As I rolled my wheelchair over to the window to close it, I could make out the words.

Money, money, we need money, not some crippled actress honey!" Over and over they screamed; louder and louder.

I pulled the window closed and locked it decisively. It wasn't my fault that the feds were threatening to pull their sole remaining subsidy!

But as I rolled back to my desk, I could still hear the muffled cadence from outside. I bent over the mirror finish of my recycled plastic, mock-mahogany desk to confront a dismal and guilty-looking face. My eyes were bloodshot, and I had put on too much make-up to try to hide the puffy darkness under them. My blond hair was pulled back in a lank pony-tail to hide the fact that it should have been washed that morning. I looked like a mess.

Why had I accepted the role of Mayor of Philadelphia?

I shifted my desk blotter to hide the reflected image and looked around the small office. No more ostentation. Not in the middle of the 21st century. The mayor had to set an example. I had to take public transportation -- assuming I could find an accessible bus with a working lift and a driver who knew how to operate it -- wear neat but not new clothing, and very carefully show that I separated my garbage for recycling and did not use any 'bad' products like pump toothpaste or freon-based aerosol hair-spray. It was essential to demonstrate environmentally sound habits and product usage all around. The press was after me and my garbage every moment I showed my face or threw anything out.

The world was organizing more effectively in terms of environmental awareness and it demanded examples from its leaders. However, it was still a problem to get manufacturers and the average citizen to comply. Over the past year I had been banging heads to try to help motivate the city council. Technically, it wasn't my responsibility since I was just a hired spokesperson for the city council, but it had only been a few decades since the time when mayors, governors and presidents were actually leaders. I felt a certain responsibility to try to be more than just a smiling face parroting press-releases written by government committees.

A tiny red light blinked insistently on my terminal. "Messages waiting, messages waiting," it seemed to whisper.

I ignored it. I had put my office on 'privacy' almost an hour ago to have some time to myself. But I would have to remove the block in eight minutes or I would get tagged for over-use of private time. I was almost at the limit of my monthly quota, and risked losing my performance bonus.

Outside, the chanting grew erratic, and then faded as the police dispersed the protesters.

I sighed and shut off the privacy, and as if on cue, the door to my office opened. Brian stuck his head in.

"They're finally leaving, Ms. Browning. Are you all right?"

"No. Call my agent."

He frowned, but then nodded and disappeared. I reached across my desk, shoving aside stacks of computer printouts so I could pull the phone closer. The "message waiting" light on my terminal was a solid red now, but I continued to ignore it. If there had been anything really important, Brian would have told me.

After a minute, the phone's screen shimmered, and I looked in on Vic's dour face. Before I could say a word, he held up a hand.

"Don't even try it Pam. The city has an iron-clad contract and even I couldn't get you another gig anywhere in the country if you break this. You're stuck for three more years."

"Isn't there some clause ‑‑"

"Uh uh." He shook his head. "You signed it because you thought you were ready for a larger role. And, you took the advance. You should have stuck to smaller community roles. They are your strength. I told you I had a nice part set up for you as Mayor of Tulsa, but no-o-o, you wanted a big city. Well, I got you one: now work it!" His hand reached over to the side and the screen went blank. I flipped a finger at the glowing pane of glass, but put it down when I realized the nail was split and broken. Besides, getting petty wouldn't help.

I hit the intercom. "Brian, what messages do you have that are really important?"

"Three, six and maybe twelve, ma'am," came an instant reply. "I take it you're staying?" His scorn was obvious, and I swallowed.

"Yes, thank you."

Message #3 was from David Mitchell, the city council president. With a disgusted look, he demanded to meet with me about the feds' threat to cut our budget. Message #6 was from my city manager, Selma Feldman, and she wanted the same thing. She just looked tired.

I couldn't blame them, really. These days, they basically ran the city, and hired the mayor who would represent it. I knew that they did not think they had gotten their money's worth this time. But at least I did not have to worry about them wanting to renew my contract for another term.

Before calling them back, I pulled up message #12 and found myself looking at a strange password prompt hanging in the middle of a blank screen. I studied it carefully. There was no video or voice. Moving deliberately, I tried my private terminal password and the screen cleared immediately. Cleared from a password I never gave out to anyone. After a moment, an anonymous message appeared:

"This message is temporary and cannot be down-loaded. You must be careful to follow the instructions that will be provided in a later communique, or the attached picture -- which can be printed -- will be released to all the major tabloid Data-Nets and print divisions."

I bent forward to stare at the screen, my hands gripping the sides of my wheelchair so tightly that my nails hurt. The screen changed and I cringed. I looked around nervously as I hit control-P to print the picture on the color laser next to my terminal. On the screen, and curling warmly out of the printer, was a graphic full-color photo of me -- not terribly flattering, I'll admit -- in the nude, and grappling amorously with another woman.

Sandra.

Memories overwhelmed me as I thought back to a summer eight years earlier, when I had been doing a gig as mayor of Cheyenne, Wyoming.

I was halfway through my first term and I already knew I wasn't going to try for a second, because it was a total bore; the city was running so efficiently. And to add insult to injury, I had just been most ungraciously dumped by my boyfriend. Stuart had decided that the novelty of dating a "cripple" had worn off. It was the third time that I had been dumped like that, and I decided that enough was enough -- I was going to concentrate on my career and nothing else.

About a week later, one of the city council members, Sandra Zabrowsky, approached me for a ride because her car had broken down. She lived close to my apartment, so it was no problem. As it turned out, she wanted more than a ride. She wanted someone to talk to. She had also just been dumped by a boyfriend and wanted to vent with someone who knew how it felt. There are no secrets in government, needless to say. It turned out to be a relief for both of us and we quickly became good friends.

Since her car was a mess, I wound up giving her a lift to and from City Hall every day for over a week, and over that time, sisterly comforting and male-bashing developed into much more. Before I knew it, she was practically living with me and we had become lovers. But it was a relief because with her, I didn't feel the same pressures to be the perfect woman that I had always felt with Stuart. When I had been with him, I had always been so worried about trying to compensate for being in the wheelchair that I had hardly ever been able to be myself. Not so with Sandra. Our relationship grew out of our friendship, and there was never any pressure to be anything but myself. It was a wonderful feeling!

But after a couple of months, I started realizing that I wasn't that liberal. I missed being with a man. Ironically, when I finally worked up the nerve to tell her, she laughed and admitted that she had just met a guy who she really liked, and who had just asked her out. She had been trying to figure out how to back out of our relationship without hurting me.

That had started both of us giggling like a couple of school girls and, after one last farewell night together, she had packed up her stuff and moved back to her apartment. Later, she wound up marrying the man a week before my term was up, and I had rolled down the aisle as Maid of Honor, blushing wildly as I wondered what Fred's reaction would be if he found out that Sandra and I had been lovers.

However, I had never regretted what I had shared with Sandra. It had been a critical time in my life. Because my parents had always been overly protective of their 'crippled' little girl, I had always been defensive about my disability and felt compelled to live my life to fit the needs of others. But with Sandra, my disability had never been an issue. Thanks to her, I had had a chance to step back and look at myself from another perspective, and damn it, I had a lot to be proud of! I had decided then and there that if I ever met another man who interested me, I was going to be myself. He had damn well better be ready to take me as I was.

But I had not expected my brief relationship with Sandra to come back to haunt me with blackmail. I studied the picture lying accusingly on the desk in front of me, wondering what to do. This threatened both my own reputation, and the city's already shaky one. Should I comply, or fight it? I could easily claim that it was a digital composite and fake, but voice-stress analysis was built into almost every television set these days and it would be clear I was lying. So what could I do? I backed away from the desk and rolled over to the window to look out over the city to think.

Then, after a while, I turned back to the desk with a wide grin growing on my face. This was too good of an opportunity to pass up. My head was whirling with the daring plan this would make possible. I slipped the picture into my middle desk drawer before buzzing Brian.

"Please call Mitchell and Feldman and tell them to be here at three o'clock."

As his disapproving face faded, I took care of the rest of the messages as fast as possible, and then took the private elevator to the supplemental quarters I had on the floor below. It was time to get myself in gear; beginning with a sinfully hot shower to scrub myself clean while I planned my strategy. My ideas had long since crystallized, and a heady sense of anticipation came over me. I had a weapon against the protesters who had hounded city hall every day since I took office. It wouldn't be easy, but it might actually be fun.

A little later, as I rough-toweled my hair dry and combed it, I debated whether or not to risk exceeding my electric quota by blow-drying, but I decided against it when I saw that I still had an hour and a half until my meeting. I would let my hair air dry and brush it out before I went down to my office. Then I fought with wheelchair to put on new stockings, a pearl blouse, a sharp new turquoise linen suit I had just bought, and matching shoes. Finally, a minimal make-up job with just hint of liner and eye shadow, a touch of neutral lipstick, and the faintest touch of blush. When I was done, I inspected myself critically to be sure I would project the right image.

It needed something, I decided, and after a moment, I remembered the scarf I had bought for another outfit. Pale pink, it would go perfect with the white and turquoise.

Much better. Professional, but feminine. Get them off guard, but let them know I meant business. I added a very light spray of Chanel and felt almost ready. Only one thing left to do, and I pulled out my notebook computer to finalize some strategies while I let my hair dry.

* * *

Mitchell and Feldman were seated tensely in front of my desk as I rolled in behind it and put down my briefcase. Dave, as usual, looked like a page from G.Q.. His dark-brown skin was set off by an expensive pale grey suit and light maroon tie over a shimmering white shirt. He was a little too fashion-conscious for some, but the forty year-old council president's well-earned reputation for honesty was as impeccable as his appearance, and no one gave him a hard time.

Selma, on the other hand, was a cipher. She was a forty-five year-old economist whose dowdy housewife appearance and frizzy greying hair hid a razor-sharp and ruthless mind that was unstoppable in debates and in coming up with new promotional or fiscal strategies. It had kept her on top of trying to run a sinking city. If not for her efforts, the Japanese would probably have tried selling their city stock off again instead of continuing to pump money into the Liberty Historical Park. I had always wondered why she had chosen politics instead of business. With her mind, she could have run a corporation and earned some real money.

But the two of them were probably among the most honest and dedicated "public servants" on the city payroll, and while they might not like my approach, they ought to be able to get behind me a bit and help. If I played them right. At the moment, they looked decidedly nervous.

No wonder. I knew damn well that my office was bugged, and that Brian listened in to watch everything I said and did in there -- even while on 'privacy'. I was counting on it. I knew he had been assigned to keep an eye on me. And I was sure he had passed on the news about my blackmail message to Dave and Selma, and that they were worried about what I was going to do.

So I did my best to give them a reassuring smile as I began.

"Welcome. My apologies for keeping you waiting, but I was outlining some new bills I want to propose to city council."

"What new bills?" Mitchell leaned forward suspiciously.

Power. This was what it felt like. I leaned back and smiled.

"First of all, I want to enforce recycling laws by using heavier fines and finally jail sentences for repeat offenders. Next, I want to enact a city ordinance that prohibits manufacture of federally black-listed products. At this point, the listing is non-enforceable, and is a guideline only. I want Philadelphia to be the first city to make the list a mandatory requirement. We'll sweeten the pot for the manufacturers with some tax breaks, and by reminding them that voluntary retooling at this point will save them from a bad public image later when public opinion eventually forces them to retool anyway. By doing so now, they'll have a fantastic publicity opportunity by being able to advertise how they, and our fair city, were the first in the nation to truly progress in the 21st century as responsible and aware standard-bearers for the future."

I stopped and smiled at their expressions. I tried to imagine the look on Brian's face, too, as he sat in the outer office snooping. Maybe this would wipe out some of his holier-than-thou righteousness.

Mitchell was first, while Feldman just sat back and listened.

"Look, personally I agree with you," he began carefully, "and I wish we could help you and do what you want. We'll have to, eventually. It will be the only way to keep from losing federal money because it's just a matter of time before the black-list is made law. But face it, you don't stand a chance with this approach. We're also working in the same direction, but it takes time. We could try to get your ideas going by proposing them all at once, but no one on the council would support us. And, we would lose the next election."

He leaned forward earnestly. "Look, Pam, you're hired for your part, so we have a good media-conscious spokesperson, and you'll go on for another part when you're done here. But we have to stay and try to get re-elected so we can keep working to help the city. We just can't try to put something like this over on the public all at once. We would get kicked out of office. A lot of influential people have too much too lose."

Selma coughed delicately. "Excuse me, Dave. I'd like to ask her Honor something." I could hear her subtle, sarcastic accent as she turned to me. "Why are you suddenly concerned about Philadelphia's welfare? I happen to know that you just tried to get out of your contract."

The temperature in the room seemed to drop about ten degrees.

I was silent for a moment, debating my answer. I was also a little scared, but I didn't dare let that show. Then I turned to Selma briskly. If there was one thing I had learned from my studies of the old-time politicians, it was how to shovel bullshit.

"Let's just say I felt overwhelmed. I wasn't sure I was cut out for the job. I didn't know how to make a real difference."

Ironically, as I spoke, I realized that that was exactly how I felt. Feeling a little more confident, I leaned forward.

"Look, I could lie and say that I suddenly feel a responsibility for the city, but the truth is, I really don't, yet. But I don't like to be pushed around, and something happened today that made me realize that I have an opportunity here to do something that won't just help me, but also Philly. And I get a chance to shaft someone who is trying to screw me over."

I opened my briefcase to pull out the picture I had printed.

"This showed up on my terminal, along with a note that I would be told what to do to prevent this from being spread all over every available media outlet." I slid it across the table.

"Oh sweet Jesus!" Mitchell grabbed it and stared.

I tried to disguise my admiration for his acting. I would have sworn he knew nothing about it even though I would have bet my life-savings on Brian having already copied it for both of them.

He looked up at me as he passed it on to Selma. "The New Conservatives in Japan would pull every penny of funding if they saw this! What do the blackmailers want?"

"I told you. I don't know yet. But the point is, when I find out, it won't matter. I'm not going to cooperate. They can go ahead and try their worst. It won't hurt me too bad. Might even help in some markets. I've been accused of being an uptight, conservative bitch who ‑‑"

"You're going to what?" Selma and Dave stared and interrupted simultaneously. That time the shock was real.

"Unless," I finished, leaning back.

"Unless what?" A chorus, again.

"Isn't it obvious? I already told you what I want. It's what the city needs to keep it's funding. And, it will be great publicity. A little pain and adjustment at first, but Philadelphia will suddenly become the environmentally conscious symbol for all American cities. And as the mayor responsible, I'll get publicity I could never afford to buy, and I'll have a shot at a real big-time role when my term here is up. Maybe even President. It's about time a woman moved into the White House as something other than as an arm-rest for the President. And if it can be a woman with disabilities, so much the better."

Selma and Dave were leaning close and whispering busily to each other. After a moment, Dave looked up.

"It won't work! All you'll do is embarrass the city and we'll lose the Japanese subsidy, and probably federal money as well. We'll be bankrupt, and this time there won't be any bailout."

"Wrong!" I rolled over to the window, looking out at the Liberty Place towers and the other skyscrapers that had broken the old height barrier of William Penn's hat. Suddenly I felt a stirring of kinship for the city. Maligned, but hanging in there, it had managed to keep some semblance of character despite its fiscal woes and internecine squabbling. Even the Japanese takeover of the Tourist Board, waterfront, and the Liberty Bell area hadn't altered things too much. Just improved them.

Like the city, I had been forced to fight for my breaks. Women politicians were still not in high demand for the bigger roles, but I had played some publicity games with the A.D.A. and used some bit-part stunts that had brought me to the attention of a major agent who saw a chance to exploit me and my disability, for mutual profit. So I had not only survived, but I was working my way up. Philly had just proven to be more than I had anticipated. Until that message and its golden opportunity.

And damn it! I did care about Philly. It was a good city at heart. You had to dig for it sometimes, but it was there. I turned back to them, after a moment of adjusting my new perspective.

"Look, you know as well as I do that the popular vote is meaningless. What counts is money, and the various people and companies in this city that control it. If you two spread the word discretely about what's at stake here, they'll come around and your jobs will be safe. The inconvenience and expense this will mean is a lot less than the alternative if they have to pull out and relocate because the city goes belly up. Ultimately, it could even bring a funding increase. Just wait till the Japanese and the Feds see Philly suddenly get positive national attention. Worldwide attention, even, if you play your cards right. This city could really be something!" I heard the unexpected enthusiasm in my own voice and felt almost dizzy. In a devious way, I was actually going to be able to do something.

Selma was less excited. "You're blackmailing us!" She clenched her jaw tightly as she grabbed her briefcase and rose. Dave reached out and stopped her from leaving.

"Sit down and shut up. She's right. It could work. I don't like being blackmailed any more than you do, but in this case, I think the best response is to put up with it. It gives us an excuse to push for what we need anyway."

Selma glared at us as she dropped back into her chair. For a moment she sat silently and could almost hear little gears grinding away behind her suddenly blank face. Finally, she nodded.

"Fine. But what do you think the blackmailer is after? No offense, but while you get paid well, you're not rich like some of the higher profile acticians, so it's doubtful they're after money. Besides, we'd have a hell of a time appropriating money from the city for this. But what do they want? Any word yet?"

"No." As if you didn't know that! I shrugged. "I'll let you know." I rolled back in behind my desk. "But let's do some planning in the meantime."

The call came the next morning. Again, the cryptic password prompt on a blank screen. I typed it in, and as new text scrolled onto the screen and printed out next to me, I studied the demands. It was money. But a relatively small sum: $100,000. Well, not that small. It was all of the second half of my advance for the Philly role which was in escrow until I had completed the first two years. The amount hung on the screen for a moment, and then was replaced by a new message.

"It didn't work out, and I'm stuck with a kid. I'm desperate. The photo-disk will be erased. I don't want to hurt you. I just need help starting over, and you're in the big time, now. I'll call you back with delivery instructions. And don't bother trying to find me. I've covered my tracks."

Sandra!

I looked at the screen and smiled, touching it softly. "No problem, dear. I trust you. I'm sorry it didn't work out. Maybe next time you'll find the right man?"

I leaned back a little selfconsciously and looked up into the air, knowing Brian was monitoring me as usual. I didn't feel like making the effort to buzz him.

"Hey, Brian! Stop smirking. Call Mitchell and Feldman again and tell them to be here in an hour. They should be happy to know that the blackmail will be easy to handle. And you can let them know that they can use the rest of my advance and not worry about paying me back. The kind of advertising I'll be getting through this -- and the next term -- can't be bought! Stress that. Two terms, and I do want the standard second term raise. It's going to take time and effort to make the transition work. We have to be sure that we have consistent and impartial enforcement." My head was spinning with ideas, and I was glad I had Selma and Dave to make them work. I felt excitement bubble up as I looked out the window to check the weather. It was sunny and bright and I headed for the door. "Bye, Brian. I'm going for a roll."

* * *

Out in front of City Hall, I got a Tofu-Gyro off a vendor, and then rolled over next to an empty bench to enjoy a few minutes of sun before my meeting. The plaza in front of the building was loaded with people enjoying an unexpectedly warm day and I relaxed, putting my soda down on the bench to pull out my phone. My electronic-bug detector was dark, so I knew I was really private for the moment as I auto-dialed a familiar number and set the scrambler to our usual setting.

"Hello?" a cautious voice answered.

"Hi, Sandra. It's safe. They went for it. I'll get my shot at some real roles, and Philly will get turned around and saved -- despite itself." I looked around for a moment, and then bent over the phone. "You won't believe it, but I had a moment of stage fright, faking my 'private' distress when I first pulled up the message we cooked up. It was tough, knowing Brian was staring over my shoulder every minute. Then I went back to my method-acting 101 mind-set and blanked everything out so it was all new to me. That worked,"

Sandra chuckled. "I'll bet! Did you play your 'emotional turmoil' properly?"

"Oh yes, girl! I played to the cheap seats. Embarrassment, turmoil, glee. Brian would have had to be blind to miss it."

"What about the ransom?"

I shrugged. "What about it? If you never send in the delivery instructions, Mitchell and Feldman will eventually decide that there was a falling out among thieves, and then forget about it. They don't know who you are. I told them you were just a groupie I met on an earlier job. In the meantime, my money will keep earning interest and I'll rack up national attention as soon as the news services get hold of what we're doing in Philly. But speaking of money, Sandy, are you sure you're okay?"