My idea was this: I wanted to adjust their perspective, if I could. That led me to suggestion number five.

5. On Farmer’s Hill, build a small observatory.

I offered no explanation, but I threw in the following quotes by Oscar Wilde and Spinoza, respectively: “We are all in the gutter but some of us are looking at the stars” and “Look at the world through the perspective of eternity.”

I reread the suggestions and with great satisfaction slid them into the awaiting mouth of my newly constructed addition to the town.

The suggestion box became the town’s conversation piece. Patrick Ackerman held an impromptu meeting where he read out my suggestions in a solemn voice, as if they had come from above, not below, where I was sitting. No one knew who had put the box there. They guessed, but they couldn’t agree. The townspeople whittled their friends and neighbors down to a short list of about eight possibilities, but nobody was a sure thing. They certainly didn’t suspect little old me. While I had been out of my coma a good many years, they still saw me as asleep.

Amazingly, Patrick Ackerman was enthusiastic about the whole thing. He was the kind of leader who desperately wanted to be fresh and progressive, but he lacked motivation and ideas and he seemed to adopt my suggestion box as his surrogate brain. He violently shouted down any derision and opposition, and because of his unexpected outburst of enthusiasm, the council, mostly from shock, agreed to every one of my suggestions. It was wild! I really wasn’t expecting it. For instance, it was decided that Paul Hamilton, the unemployed one-legged seventeen-year-old son of Monica and Richard Hamilton, would start immediately as Jack Hill’s apprentice barber. It was decided that Tom Russell had one year to remove the words “and Sons” from his signs, or marry and reproduce or adopt a child, provided that the son was white and from England or Northern Europe. It was decided that Kate Milton, the manager of the local cinema, should be diligent in procuring at least one new film every two months. It was unbelievable! But the real shock was to come. It was decided that plans should be immediately drawn up for an observatory to be built on Farmer’s Hill, and while the budget allocated was a paltry $1000, the spirit was there. I couldn’t believe it. They were really going to do it.

Patrick decided that the box would be opened only once a month, by him. He would peruse suggestions to ensure he didn’t inadvertently read out anything profane or offensive, and at a public meeting he would announce them to the town, after which there would be discussions and debates and votes on which were to be carried out and which were to be ignored.

It was a tremendous thrill! I can tell you, I’ve had one or two successes in life thus far, but none has given me the absolute feeling of satisfaction of that first victory.

While the observatory would take some time in planning, my idea of using the dubious title “ Least Desirable Place to Live in New South Wales ” as a tourist attraction was immediately put into effect. Signs were erected on the road where it fell into town, and on the other side, where it rose out of it.

Then we waited for the tourists to come.

Amazingly, they did.

As their cars pulled into our streets, the townspeople put on dour faces and shuffled their feet.

“Hey, what’s it like here? Why is it so bad?” the tourists asked.

“It just is,” came the mopey reply.

Day-trippers wandered the streets and saw in every face a look of despair and loneliness. Inside the pub, the locals acted miserable.

“What’s the food here like?” the tourists would ask.

“Terrible.”

“Can I just have a beer, then?”

“We water it down and charge extra. OK?”

“Hey- this really is the least desirable place to live in New South Wales!”

When the tourists moved on, the smiles returned and the whole town felt like it had played a great prank.

Everyone looked forward to the box’s monthly opening, and more often than not, it was brimming. The meetings were open to all, and it was usually standing room only. They routinely began as Councilman Ackerman announced his disappointment at the things found in the box that weren’t suggestions- orange peels, dead birds, newspapers, chip packets, and chewing gum- and then he’d read out the suggestions, an astounding array of blueprints for possibilities. It seemed everyone was caught up in the spell of ideas. The potential for the town to reach a higher place, to improve itself, to evolve, had caught on. People started carrying little notepads with them wherever they went; you would see them stop abruptly in the middle of the street, or leaning against the streetlamp, or crouched over the pavement, struck by an idea. Everyone was jotting down his ideas, and in such secrecy! The anonymity of the suggestion box allowed people to articulate their longings and desires, and really, they came up with the strangest things.

First were the practical suggestions pertaining to infrastructure and general municipal matters: dismantling all parking restrictions, lowering taxes and petrol prices, and fixing the cost of beer at one cent. There were suggestions aimed at ending our reliance on the city by having our own hospital, our own courthouse, and our own skyline. There were proposals for entertainment events such as community barbecues, fireworks nights, and Roman orgies, and there were countless suggestions for the construction of things: better roads, a town mint, a football stadium, a horse track, and, despite the fact that we were located inland, a harbor bridge. The list just ran on and on with ultimately useless proposals that our town’s council simply wasn’t fat enough to satisfy.

Then, when municipal matters bored them, the people began to turn on each other.

It was suggested that Mrs. Dawes shouldn’t walk around like “she’s better than everyone else,” and that Mr. French, the town grocer, stop pretending he was “not good with numbers” when caught out shortchanging us, and that Mrs. Anderson immediately cease overexposing her grandson by shoving photographs of him under everyone’s noses because while he might be only three years old, “we’re all beginning to groan at the sight of him.” Things turned so quickly because Patrick Ackerman was struck down with pneumonia and his second-in-command, Jim Brock, took up the task. Jim was old and bitter and mischievous and read out the most profane, personal, idiotic, and provocative suggestions in an innocent voice, but you could hear him smile, even if you couldn’t see it. Jim was shit-stirring, and because anonymity guarantees honesty (as Oscar Wilde said, “Give a man a mask and he will tell the truth”), everyone in the town was really letting loose.

One suggestion said: Linda Miller, you whore. Stop fucking our men or we’ll organize a lynch mob to cut your great big knockers off.

And there was this one: Maggie Steadman, you old bat. You shouldn’t be allowed to park your car anywhere near our town if you can’t judge the dimensions of things.

And this one: Lionel Potts should stop showing off his money and buying everything in town.

And another: Andrew Christianson, you have no neck! I don’t have a suggestion for fixing it, I just wanted to point it out.

And this: Mrs. Kingston, stop bothering us with jealous concerns about your husband’s fidelity. His breath smells like rotten eggs after they’ve been shat out a runny bottom. You have no worries there.

And this: Geraldine Trent, despite your promises of “I won’t tell a soul,” you are a horrendous gossip and you have betrayed the confidence of just about everyone in town. P.S. Your daughter is a drug addict and a lesbian. But don’t worry, I won’t tell a soul.