§ § § -- July 21, 1992
It was a sultry summer Tuesday night and Camille Omamara lay wide awake beside her slumbering husband, ruminating, as she'd been doing for some time now. If I'm going to do it, she thought, it's gonna have to be soon. The deadline's almost here and there's a lot of paperwork involved. And for crying out loud, I gotta find some way to distinguish myself. Look at my brothers and sisters. Andrea went to Harvard; Tommy's the CEO of his own nice little company on Oahu, making money hand over fist; and the quads…well, they're the quads, and that's all it takes to distinguish them. But me—I'm lost in the shuffle! So if I'm going to do something, then I might as well do it big.
"Okay," she muttered aloud, making her decision then and there. "I'm gonna do it."
Her announcement roused Jimmy just enough that he rolled over and half lifted his head off the pillow. "Huh?"
"I've decided I'm going to throw my hat in the ring," Camille told him, excitement lacing her voice. "Yeah, I'm going for it! Fantasy Island'll never know what hit it."
"I don't know what's hitting me right now," Jimmy grumbled sleepily. "What're you talking about?"
"I'm gonna enter the race for island lord mayor," Camille said proudly. "And I want you and all the girls to help me."
Jimmy squinted at her in disbelief. "You've gone off the deep end. And did you say all the girls? Meaning Leslie, too?"
"Well, why not Leslie? I mean, heck, Mr. Roarke always wins; and in light of that, he doesn't need anybody to campaign for him, so she can campaign for me," Camille reasoned.
Jimmy snorted a laugh. "There's some sound reasoning," he remarked ironically. "If Mr. Roarke always wins, what're you even running against him for in the first place?"
"Oh, thanks loads for your undying faith," she retorted. "He's just never really had any competition. If I can get a good campaign platform going and really get out there and make myself seen and heard by everyone on the island, I should have a decent shot at winning. I could run on some of the campaign slogans they use in the U.S. Something like, Elect Camille Omamara for a change in island government. Like a breath of fresh air."
Jimmy snorted again and punched his pillow a couple of times. "Geez, Camille, what's behind this sudden rush of political ambition? How come, out of the blue, you want to take over Mr. Roarke's position? You have no political experience of any kind and you probably have no clue just what the job's all about, and here you are leaping off a cliff and deciding to shoot for the moon. What's this all about? Are you looking for some way to feel powerful and in control, now that David's at the stage where he says 'no' every time you tell him to do something?"
Camille whacked him on the shoulder, making him grunt. "Cripes, if that's your attitude, I don't need you in my campaign. You might as well be stumping for Mr. Roarke. The fact is, I feel like I need to do something worthwhile. I don't want to be just 'David's mom' and 'Jimmy's wife'. I want to be someone important—and Camille Omamara, Ms. Island Lord Mayor, would be someone important all right."
"Well, you're in the right place, I guess," Jimmy commented, punching his pillow again and rolling over.
"What's that supposed to mean?" Camille demanded suspiciously.
"You're on Fantasy Island, and you winning the race for island lord mayor is one of the biggest fantasies I've ever heard." Jimmy thumped his head back onto the pillow and made himself comfortable. "Get some sleep, huh? Tomorrow we gotta start the grind all over again, and I've got head-chef candidates to interview."
"You should take that comedy act onstage," Camille remarked sarcastically, but she lay down and closed her eyes anyway, eventually drifting off to daydreams of winning the election and finally achieving something grand in her family full of achievers.
‡ ‡ ‡
Usually elections were held on Fantasy Island every five years; but occasionally there was reason for a special election, as there was in this case. Because Sheriff Tokita was retiring, an election was necessary to determine his replacement, and half a dozen hopefuls had already submitted the paperwork to run for the position. For some reason, in these elections Roarke's position as island lord mayor—which was really only an honorary title, but one that still carried considerable authority—always came up for grabs as well, along with the ten positions on the island council. At the moment the sheriff position had garnered far and away the most interest out of everything that was on the ballot; though all ten council seats could be contested, so far only five candidates other than the currently-sitting council members had filed paperwork to run for them. As for the island-lord-mayor seat, this was traditionally uncontested, and as a result Roarke always won by default.
Since Leslie had come to live on the island, there had been four elections, and in all that time Roarke had been challenged only once—in a special election to fill the seat of a council member who had died unexpectedly in 1979, when Tattoo had opposed him with resounding lack of success. Though Leslie had never forgotten that, she had since grown used to Roarke's lack of competition; so she was thoroughly surprised when in early August, she began to see posters around the island, generally in the unlikeliest, most out-of-the-way spots. At first she paid little attention to them; but when she found one nailed onto the railing of the authentic, elegant red bridge that arched steeply over the swan pond near the Japanese garden and teahouse, she hastily removed it lest Roarke happen across it at some point. She took this home with her and paused on the veranda so that she could prop it up on the railing and get a good look at it. It was ordinary yellow posterboard, hand-lettered in what looked like a combination of crayons, Magic Markers and colored pencils, and urged her to vote for Camille Omamara for island lord mayor.
A station wagon pulled up in the lane next to the jeep she had parked near the fountain, and Roarke alighted and climbed the steps to the veranda, peering curiously at her. "What have you got there?" he asked.
"Oh," she said. "Just a poster."
Roarke scanned it over her shoulder and chuckled. "I've been seeing them around the island myself lately," he said. "Is that the one that was attached to the Japanese bridge?"
Leslie winced. "Oh rats, you did see it there. I thought I'd better take it down—it really shouldn't have been in that particular spot."
"I would have done so myself, but you acted faster than I did," Roarke said. "So…it would appear I have some competition."
Leslie shook her head in perplexity. "Why on earth does Camille want to run against you?" she wondered. "She must have completely forgotten Tattoo's experience, and I clearly remember telling her and the other girls about it at school."
"Apparently she has," Roarke said. All it took was one shared look, and they both began to grin with the memory.
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Roarke and fourteen-year-old Leslie had just stepped off the porch on the morning of September 7, 1979; and Roarke was checking his watch, about to ask Leslie if she knew where Tattoo had gotten to, when they both heard the sound of a banjo start up some yards down the lane. They turned in amazement to see Don Davis, Amberville's town eccentric who often hired himself out as a one-man band, decked out in said band getup now, energetically playing a tune he had performed at the Amateur Night Talent Contest that had been held the same weekend Cornelius Kelly and his pal Alphonse had kidnapped Tattoo. In front of him was Tattoo himself, directing him, wearing sandwich boards that neither Roarke nor Leslie could read from this distance. Tattoo was handing out flyers to some of the native girls whom he had stopped in their headlong rush to the plane dock while Don marched in place, played his banjo, blew his kazoo and kept time to his own beat. The overall noise level made Leslie cover her ears; Roarke put a hand to his forehead and winced, as if a headache were emerging there.
Tattoo began to walk backwards in their direction, still playing conductor to Don's all-in-one band. When he reached the walk, Roarke drew in a deep breath, cupped his hands around his mouth and shouted, "Tattoo!"
Thankfully, Don stopped playing and Tattoo turned to them as Leslie lowered her hands from her ears. "Hi, boss…Leslie! What do you think?" Leslie didn't answer; she was scanning one of Tattoo's sandwich boards, which could now be seen to read VOTE FOR TATTOO: HONORARY LORD MAYOR OF FANTASY ISLAND.
Roarke was exasperated. "I think that it is exceedingly noisy around here, that's what I think," he retorted. Don looked a little crestfallen at Roarke's assessment. "Just what, may I ask, is going on?"
"I'm running for island lord mayor's office," Tattoo announced, turning to Leslie and thrusting a flyer into her hands. "Here."
Leslie looked it over; Roarke studied it over her shoulder. It wasn't much, just a mock ballot that urged, "Elect TATTOO Honorary Lord Mayor of Fantasy Island." At the bottom of the sheet were the names "Mr. Tattoo" and "Mr. Roarke" in that order; beside Tattoo's name was a box with an X inside, and beside Roarke's was a blank box. Leslie slid a cautious sidewise glance at her guardian, trying to gauge his reaction.
Roarke, for his part, focused on his assistant. "Tattoo…not that it really matters…" He chuckled a little, but even Leslie could see his amusement was forced. "…but it so happens that I have held the title of honorary lord mayor since the office was first established."
"I know, boss," Tattoo answered patiently. "But you remember how many times you've said that you are tired of honorary offices—and now you wish somebody to run against you? Huh?"
Leslie put in, "You said it just last week, Mr. Roarke, I heard you."
Roarke's chilly smile faded. "Oh," he said, glancing between Leslie and Tattoo and considering their words. "Yes, I did say that, didn't I?" They nodded, and he straightened to his full height. "Well, if you are determined to run…against me…" The italicized word was accompanied by another frosty half-smile, which didn't reach his eyes. "I am, uh…delighted… of course." Fortunately for Leslie, he missed her skeptical smirk.
Tattoo brightened. "Oh, boss, I knew you'd see it that way," he said cheerfully, and then his own round face got a sly look about it. "May the best man win."
Roarke's slight nod bordered on a glare, steadily decreasing in temperature. "Shall we greet our guests?" he suggested pointedly and promptly started off to the car that was just pulling up in front of them. Leslie grinned at Tattoo, handed back the mock ballot and got into the middle seat, sliding across to make room for him. Roarke took his usual seat up front; Tattoo shrugged off his sandwich boards and tossed them onto the sidewalk before thumping into his own seat and dropping his flyers on the floorboards. Then he looked up at Don and signaled at him to start playing again, snaring the driver's astonished attention. Roarke caught him staring, awarded the man a thoroughly exasperated look and gestured impatiently at him to get them moving.
±±±±±±±±±
"So," Roarke said teasingly, "you found my reaction amusing, did you?"
His daughter giggled. "Oh, come on, Father, even I could tell you weren't expecting competition. I mean…you looked positively broadsided for a minute, and then you were definitely not happy about the whole thing."
Roarke smiled a little crookedly. "I'll admit to having been unprepared," he said, "but surely I didn't appear that upset."
"Oh, it showed all right," Leslie said merrily. "Incidentally…weren't we supposed to go to the hotel and find out what's on Jean-Claude's menu for the weekend?"
"If he asks for fugu," Roarke said, brow furrowing just perceptibly, "I may force him into an early retirement." Leslie burst out laughing, dropped the handmade campaign sign onto the porch and accompanied her chuckling father to the station wagon.
