OPINION:
MONDAY
Marshall Shaw stood in the main street of Dodge with his hands at his sides. The sun was at his back and it peeled a long, dark shadow from his body, and flung it in front of him. He stared straight ahead through narrowed eyes. No one could rightly tell what he was looking at or if he was actually looking at anything. That was a mark of the man.
Drinkers at the Dodge Saloon gathered at the windows and peeped at him through the curtains. They took in his green hat, his green shirt and pants, and his green boots.
"He ain't green enough," said one of the drinkers.
"Yeah," said another, "if ya ask me, he's red. Labour Red."
"Tory blue," said a third, and spat in a spasm of disgust.
People said the Marshall could hear the townsfolk talking in their sleep. None of the drinkers spoke above a whisper. They were afraid of him, afraid of his quiet manner, his years of long service, his hands that dangled at his sides.
"Let's take him down," whispered one of the drinkers.
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TUESDAY
Marshall Shaw stepped into the Dodge Saloon and took off his hat. He placed it on the bar, and said, "I would like a drink, please."
The bartender uncorked a bottle of rotgut whiskey.
"No, not that," said the Marshall. "That."
He pointed at a jug of water.
The bartender brought it over and poured a long, tall glass.
"Much obliged," said the Marshall.
He drank it slowly, making it last, not letting a drop go to waste. When he finished, he turned and looked around the bar.
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WEDNESDAY
Marshall Shaw sat in the office of Governor Ardern with his hat in his lap.
The clock ticked.
She wrote at her desk, attending to matters of state, which meant signing cheques to a team of advisors, consultants, strategists, press secretaries, press under-secretaries, and assistants to the press secretaries and press under-secretaries.
The clock never stopped ticking.
THURSDAY
Marshall Shaw lay in bed in his green hat, his green shirt and pants, and his green socks, and opened his eyes. He had heard a whisper in the trees. It was three in the morning.
He rode from his mud adobe shack on the outskirts of town into Dodge. The townsfolk were lined up on the main street. They felt strong. They had the numbers. They could make this work. They knew the moment had come when they could finally challenge Marshall Shaw. They were sick of his ways. They were sick of his face. More than anything they were sick of the fact he was a man.
He tied up his horse and stood in the middle of the street. They glared at him. He stared straight ahead through narrowed eyes and afterwards no one could rightly tell when it was that he started moving toward them and if it was at a run or a slow walk, but before they knew it he was on them, his breath on their faces – and they all stepped aside, and let him through.
They returned to their homes, and said quietly to their loved ones, "Now that was a man."
FRIDAY
Marshall Shaw stepped into the Dodge Saloon and headed straight for the piano.
He sat down, and beautiful music came into his head, a melody of peace and understanding, a hard, driving rhythm that fought back against climate change, a song for the ages that assured a future for everyone on the planet.
But all he did was sit there with his hands at his sides.
