Climate Emergency?
In September 2014 there I was, second row back, marching and shouting for climate action. That same year, I poured all my frustration into writing a short story about Australia’s indifference to the climate crisis. Ten years on, although the political protagonists are no longer Tony Nero and Julia Caesar, I believe that my short story remains infuriatingly current. What do you think?
FIDDLING WHILE ROME BURNS
As the sun rose over Powertown, Tony Nero strode purposefully to his desk. The federal election has just been called, and he is a man in waiting no longer. He locates his laptop, scans the headlines on screen, and groans. Again, there are floods or bushfires in several key marginal seats. Why the hell, he wonders, can’t natural disasters be confined to safe Red Party electorates? Nero calls for coffee, then remembers that it’s too early for the girl to be at work. He sighs and begins a two-hour exercise program in the private gymnasium annexed to his office. It’s going to be a marathon race to the finish line, and the seasoned veteran knows he needs to be in tip-top shape.
South of Powertown, Annie sits silently with her grief amongst the rubble and ash where her house once stood. In the dawn light, she conjures up the face of her beloved husband of thirty-three years, who died trying to defend their property. The heat and wind had been so extreme and the fire so intense that he hadn’t stood a chance. Annie’s tears run down the crevices in her face and soak the front of her blouse. She wonders if she will ever be able to stop crying.
Meanwhile, north of Powertown, a family is already on task. It’s the second time in a year their home has been flooded, so they know exactly what to do. The oldest child gathers up sodden household items while the younger ones wield mops. Fortunately, there hadn’t been time to replace the carpet, and so the parents rolled the trolleys easily over the concrete slab as they moved the furniture into two piles in the backyard – the salvageable and the completely ruined. They stop momentarily to commiserate with neighbours, but are soon back at work. Experience has taught them that there is no time to waste.
West of Powertown, Lord Corbulo is addressing a breakfast convention of thirty top business tycoons in his colonial castle. ‘Extreme weather events? Bah, humbug!’ he mocks. ‘We all know there’s no such thing as climate change.’ The tycoons tuck into dishes of caviar and pig-in-a-blanket, with much clinking of silver spoons on gold fillings. Corbulo finishes his speech and winks at Gina Stoneheart, his patron, who then lumbers to her feet to bellow, ‘The Blue Party will put a stop to this nonsense when they’re elected!’ She gestures towards the bank tellers who have appeared in the room, as if by magic, urging her fellow plutocrats to give generously to the campaign – she expects donations of no less than six figures apiece. ‘After all,’ Stoneheart reasons, ‘it’s an investment in your future.’ The industrialists willingly oblige, united in their desire to get rid of the wicked witch of the southeast and her despicable tax on carbon.
Back in Powertown, but on another day, Julia Caesar is rallying the troops in a meeting room. She has important news to impart. With the imminent departure of a few trusted generals, she wants to announce the Red Party’s fresh line-up to the rest before the media hears about it. Naturally, the unions have already been informed. Everyone seems pleased with the reshuffle, and Caesar returns to her office to continue strategizing. She summons her chief adviser to ask how she is faring in the latest opinion poll. The adviser gives her the thumbs down but says that her new glasses are receiving a lot of positive media attention.
A long distance away from politics, across a considerable breadth of the sea, Aleki comes out of his beachfront shack into the glorious Polynesian sunshine. Hand in hand with a couple of small grandchildren, he walks to the water’s edge and examines the shoreline anxiously. It’s his daily ritual now. One child asks if today is the day they will have to leave, and with a shake of his head, Aleki quickly reassures the little boy. Yet he is aware that the ocean is advancing up the beach towards his home, and eventually, he will have no choice but to shift his family off the island to safety. It is simply a question of when. Aleki stands for a minute more, gazing over the turquoise sea, before heading back indoors with his grandchildren.
Meanwhile, on the forty-fourth floor of a city office tower, Tom Waterhome studies an enormous scoreboard, crosses his arms and scowls. No matter how many betting commercials he runs across the networks, the odds for the election remain frustratingly static. It’s a one-party race, and everyone knows it. Tom sighs, then consoles himself with the thought that there is another, much more important event in September. He knows that he can count on footy fever and the Grand Final to bring in his usual pot of gold.