GARGAMEL HEARKENED BACK to the dancehall era. He was the very engineer of that time, opening hopping joints on the north side, the south side, and the Blossom District. Back then, it wasn’t rare to see him standing near the door of any of his dancehalls, tapping his foot, humming softly, a different song than the one pulsing from behind him. But he’d never stay for long — there was always another set list to write, a mathematical model to be built. In those brief moments you saw him, it was obvious that he was a business man, and it was obvious that he loved his customers.

There was a time when sessions at Gargamel’s dancehalls were the brightest nights in town. Capacity would be long surpassed, but Gargamel’s main muscle, El Capitan, might be found to prop open a backdoor, let in a few stragglers. As fate would have it, mayors came and mayors went again, and each one left a new distraction, a new recreational legacy. More and more people spent their Fridays at the sack races, under laser lights, or breaking records of speed. Fewer and fewer dancehalls were necessary, until finally, Gargamel’s last interest was forced to shut down.

The cops let the dancehall stay open until the sun rose on its ultimate night. Gargamel himself waited out the final set in the tall grass around the back, lying in it, drumming his fingers to the muted beat. Everyone cried for him: his time had come too soon. But when the last record faded, Gargamel himself wasn’t sure they were right about that.

His real challenge became finding a role in the everyday running of things. He got a job with the Town: tending official matters and running trips for the kids. He didn’t mind playing his role, easing into age. He brought the ladies rugalach from EasyBake’s on Thursday mornings; they cooed and called him king. Afternoons with his feet up in the sportshack suited him; he lent Frisbees and kickballs, and recorded the loans lazily. He didn’t put his own calendar on the wall of the shack, but he was sure the flip the month on his coworkers’ calendars (zeppelins for Will Joe and llamas for Tank) every thirty days or so. If he saw the sprinklers outside his window pop up off-schedule, he put in a call to maintenance.

On Saturdays in August, Gargamel led the ten-to-twelve years on excursions to the carousel by the bay. ‘Round and ‘round, then a cotton candy and a dip in the drink. The Bear went on one of Gargamel’s Saturday trips as a kid. He came home and — even after the forty-five minute van ride back to downtown — he was still crying. The gray Gargamel told his parents and, later, The Board, that The Bear was inconsolable. Forums convened behind closed doors and Gargamel waited at home drinking herbal tea at a furious rate. When the verdict was handed down, he was out of a job. They told him if he kept quiet, severance would be made and matters wouldn’t be disclosed. He wished they had at least discussed the matters with him.

As an adult, The Bear felt many responsibilities as the-man-behind-the-mayor. He now had access to the Sears’ WishBook and in it he found the complex where Gargamel was living. He dropped a note to the boys in landscaping. Every Thursday morning from then on, Gargamel’s lawn was shorn and his bed’s were turned. Tuesday nights under the tent, an empty seat remained in the first row. When people asked if the seat was taken, The Bear always said it was. He would always say, That seat’s reserved for Gargamel.

John Woods (JAPAN) teaches in the English and Intellectual Heritage departments at Temple University Japan. His work appears in The Indiana Review, La Petite Zine, Salt Hill and other journals. He collaborated with Claudia Rankine on her book Don't Le Me Be Lonely (Graywolf Press, 2004).