A long time ago there was a small town in a picturesque valley where they kept finding more and more coal. It started growing in the mid 1800s and people from all around the region moved there to work in the mines and surrounding industries. Train lines were built and international merchants arrived in droves to trade the coal and the town grew and grew.
Macdonaldford was booming.
Then the miner’s wanted beer and warmth and big pubs were built on every corner. Then the preachers came to serve the miner’s souls and built beautiful stone churches on all the corners that didn’t have a pub. Then the merchant’s wives wanted a glamorous life with their newfound money, so a robust urban life sprang up with fancy shop buildings and hotels. The main street was grand and wide enough for the bullock trains that traipsed up and down the town.
The Macdonaldford town elite of statesmen and magistrates and wealthy landowners gathered regularly to discuss the development of the town. They were powerful and wise and held the future of the town in their hands. One evening there was a meeting in the large town hall to discuss the design of the new burn furnace. As the chief engineer was about to make his presentation to the townsmen they all stood around in their waistcoats, twirling their prominent facial hair.
The engineer straightened his waist coat and cleared his voice.
“We should build it so that the way it crumbles over time forms perfect shelters and spaces for teenagers to smoke weed. It should be in an area just outside of town but walkable, so that they can go there conveniently without a car but have privacy away from adult eyes.”
The group murmured, then clapped.
Then the mayor of the town stood up to give his thoughts.
“I concur. We know that this stuff we’re digging up from the ground won’t last forever. We should definitely think about the legacy we’re leaving to the kids of the late 20th century. They’ll be living in a dilapidated town with a depressed economy, limited opportunities and no cultural capital. We need to provide them a good space to hang out.”
“Here here!” shouted a man in a top hat, who also tapped his cane on the ground for emphasis.
“We should also take note of the fact that we’re several hundred kilometres outside any coastal city. With the way things are going in Europe and the forecast of the global economy these regional industries won’t last. So the kids in 200 years will be basically in the middle of nowhere, with limited transport to an urban centre.”
They all grunted and murmured and rubbed their chins and stroked their beards in thought.
“So back to the structures. We should make sure they have large and rambling places to spend their days, as it’s unlikely they’ll have a job. We should make sure to leave as much metal equipment out in the fields as possible to give an dystopian ambiance.”
“What about the mines when we’re finished with them? Should we design them with extra tunnels so that the teenagers can explore them on the weekends? It will be physically dangerous and thrilling!”
“Jolly good idea!”
They all hunched over the plans, their hands behind their backs, smoking pipes and discussing the hijinks the young locals would be getting up to in the future.
“Another idea — a statue! We should make it of bronze so it can’t be taken away without great expense, but will provide endless amusement for people to try to deface or saw off limbs. That will be very time consuming, and they’ll have a lot of time on their hands. Such structures will also provide a great meeting place for the young people before they go to the abandoned mines to consort with each other.”
“Great idea. Now the last decision is on whom should we model the statue?”
They all gathered in a circle, put one hand forward and played continual rounds of rock paper scissors before they had a winner. Finally the decision was made — it was one of the older gentlemen called Walter. He had a luscious beard down to his belly button, broad shoulders and a grumpy resting face.
The next week a sculptor arrived on the train and made a beautiful bronze monument of him. It was then placed in the centre of town with a moderate amount of fanfare.
With the infrastructure projects complete, the future of the town was intact.
And if the men in the Macdonaldford town hall could have seen 200 years into the future they would have been satisfied to see a stoned thirteen-year-old wandering down the empty main street, with half a can of spray paint that he had found in a derelict worker’s cottage. They would have smiled even more if they could see him, before he headed to the ruins of the burn furnace, spraying a precise dick and balls on the front of the statue of Walter.
Fiona is a writer and social worker living in the Blue Mountains, west of Sydney.
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