Ch. 15: The protest

Peggy and Gilbert meet with hope and a sense of fate, the products of which originate in their fantasies only


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Guimond/LIVIN’ IN THE LAST DAYS 63













PART TWO--PARADIGM REALIGNED
CHAPTER 15--SHUT THIS TOILET DOWN 1

A free mind is the most valuable resource in the cosmos.
Many would dispute this, claiming love’s supremacy, but
a mind not free cannot love perfectly--it’s bound by fear.
--The Mayor’s Aphorisms

The sun had disappeared behind a tomb of grey clouds by one o’clock. The wind
stirred, autumn-fresh, smelling of leaves and smoldering campfires. Peggy sauntered
through the park, comfortable in her oversized sweatshirt and her favorite jeans,
ripped at the left knee. She adjusted her hair band slightly, lifting her pink ponytail off her
back.
She leaned against the gnarled bark of an oak tree, and lit a
cigarette. A young cop with small hazel eyes strolled by, chatting with a curvaceous
coed whose sign, Death Before Wage Slavery, twirled upside down from her hand,
tickling the grass. Peggy strained to hear them.
“You know, a lot of people think this is a glamorous job,” the cop said, smiling
down at his shiny badge. “That it’s all exciting like in the movies, but it’s not like that.”
The coed dragged her sign along as she walked beside him. She glanced at Peggy
and nodded. “We get lots of down time where there ain’t much to do,” the policeman said.
“Like hangin’ out at your little protest here.”
“Hey, our protest may be little but our message is large” she said. “We crave a
simpler life, a life filled with--”
“But the benefits sure are nice,” the cop said, smiling and slithering his blue arm
around her shoulders.
The coed dropped her sign and tilted her rosy, excited face to him. “Benefits?”
You must be kidding me, Peggy thought, walking away from them. People milled
about in clusters, some costumed, some holding signs. She beheld them with curiosity and
light amusement. A dozen Native Americans high-stepped and howled rhythmically in a circle on the grass, wielding toy tomahawks, wearing head dresses sprouting vibrant feathers--yellow, rust, orange, indigo--their faces lined and swooshed with red and black war paint. One of the men stumbled away from the circle and collapsed on the ground next to three women, sitting cross-legged on a labyrinth-patterned blanket, each with thick, black braids brushing the grass, a single yellow feather sticking out of each head band. The man lifted a clear glass bottle to his lips. One of the women flashed angry looks at passersby, jabbing the air with a sign: THANKS FOR THE FIRE WATER, WHITEY! Her blanket-mate noticed Peggy, grinned toothlessly and lifted her sign: AND THANKS FOR KILLING OUR GODS!
Peggy went up to them. “What is this the racism rally?”
The women scowled, the man kept chugging from the bottle.
“I’m Puerto Rican for chrissakes!”
“You can take this smallpox-infested blanket were sittin’ on and fuckin’ scram,
white-bread,” one of them said.
“Good luck with the hatred,” Peggy said and moved on.
Beating of bongos. The crowd was growing. African nationalists, donning orange
and green robes which flapped in the wind, little brimless hats cocked on their afros,
chanted, “Fuck America! Revolution now!” Rastafarians, dreadlocked and sleepy-eyed,
sucked from pipes and swayed. Hippies, reeking of patchouli and body odor, giggled and
danced with each other, their clothes filthy, the women braless and sprouting unruly nests
from their underarms. A few cops leaned against trees, looking bored. Pigeons pecked
about, unimpressed, waiting for crumbs to drop.
What a waste of time, Peggy thought. I should’ve gone to class. She stuck a
smoke in her mouth and flicked her lighter unsuccessfully. She dug in her purse for
matches but couldn’t find them. Then she smelled smoke, encircling a Michigan
sweatshirt. “Hey Michigan?” she said.
Gilbert was looking the other way. Fuck, who could that be? Ignore her.
“Hey you,” Peggy rushed to him and stood in his path. “Could I please get a
light?”
Gilbert groped in his pocket and produced the lighter. “Yeah, here,” he said and
lit her cigarette.
“Thanks.”
“Uh, sure. See ya,” Gilbert pocketed the lighter and lurched on with his head low.
“Wait,” Peggy followed.
Is she still talking to me? Gilbert stopped and faced her. Peggy smiled.
“Are you here for the rally?” Peggy asked.
“Figured I’d check it out,” Gilbert said. She just wants the 4-1-1. “I expected it to
be better than this.”
“I’m disappointed too,” Peggy said, grabbing Gilbert’s arm. “Wanna be
disappointed together?”
I can’t believe this, Gilbert thought, nodding, loving the warmth of her fingers
pressing into his meager bicep.
Idiot! the voice said. You have nothing to lose.
“Good,” Peggy said, walking faster, leading Gilbert. “There’s an open bench.
Let’s sit and chat.”
Gilbert felt heat spreading within him. Calming heat. Confidence. His nostrils
cleared. Vanilla and cinnamon wafted from Peggy’s neck. “I’d like that,” Gilbert said,
and together they sat.