P. Orin Zack's Open Salon Blog

Short Story: "Representation" (4th of a series)

Wed, 22 May 2013 17:05:24 -0400

What have you meekly acquiesced to, and then regretted it? (This series began with "Crossing the Line".)

“Representation”
by P. Orin Zack
[4/8/2013]

“And finally,” Sue Winston said, scanning the agenda on her screen, “we have a request for a zoning change. Jones Construction has…”

A sudden movement from the rear of the council chamber stole the sound from her voice. Still jumpy after last week’s face-off with a line of armored riot cops, Sue glanced up, looked past Wendell Jones’ smarmy face, and towards a familiar-looking woman in the last row. Whoever it was held her coat open with one hand, while she reached deep inside with the other. It was the sort of move that having a brother on the riot squad makes you wary of: suspicious behavior, potentially lethal. Just then, the chill holding her spine hostage trembled under the realization that it was Natalie Knox, the city librarian who had triggered the recent confrontation and mass arrests at Jones’ construction site. She’d seemed friendly enough that night, but…

“…Jones, um,” she fumbled, distracted by the vivid memory of Knox being thrust roughly into the street by two armored riot cops. “JonesCo wants the site rezoned so they can build the larger of the two convention hotel designs his firm presented to the city last year.”

“Is, uh, is something wrong, Ms. Winsome?” The grating sibilance in her left ear came from Buster Flange, the city council’s token racist, or at least that’s how he insisted on representing himself to any reporter who would listen. Actually, his politics were pretty tame, but he never passed up a chance to push people’s buttons.

Sue closed her eyes briefly to steel herself before looking at him. “Do you sit up nights and practice being offensive,” she said, “or do the voices in your head coach you through it?”

“I think I should be insulted,” he said gravely, “but really, I was concerned about you. What just happened?”

Sue glanced at Natalie Knox again. Instead of leveling a gun at her, the librarian was unrolling a sign. “Nothing,” she said. “Nerves, I guess.”

Jones made a big production out of clearing his throat into the mike. “Are you two fine public servants finished wasting my time yet? I came here to make my case. This meeting of yours is already behind schedule, and I don’t have all day.”

She nodded her reluctant acquiescence, and then glanced self-consciously, first at Flange, and then at the ever-sedate Effie Nordquist Chan to her right, the three of whom comprised City Council’s Land Use Committee. “Of course, Mr. Jones. Go ahead. Have your say.”

“Thank you. To begin with, this city stands to gain a fortune in taxes and secondary purchases by the job creators that will flock to events and conferences at my new convention complex. In fact, once we’ve finished redeveloping that section of Kearney Hill, I’m certain that—.”

“The hell you will. It’s not your property!”

Sue didn’t have to look up this time. The voice was unmistakably that of Natalie Knox, and it was raised in the same defiant tone that she had taken in the moments before a fellow member of the Occupy replaced her, Wobbly-style, at the speaker’s spot that morning. This time, however, instead of being hustled towards the city’s new ‘Civilian Management’ van by two officers in black armor and face-shields, she was standing in the back row holding a sign that read ‘Svanstrom’s Blue Army: Hoodlums for Hire’.

Jones crossed his arms and turned to glare at his accuser. “Really, Ms. Knox. And here I thought that the ability to read was prerequisite for being a city librarian.”

A flurry of invective converged on Jones from various directions, and he replied in kind, but before Sue had a chance to react, Buster Flange leapt into the fray. “It’s like I said before, Ms. Winsome,” he said, affecting a pronounced Louisiana drawl, “a pretty girl like you is just not cut out to be in charge of important city business. Hell, you can’t even keep your own friends in order.”

Sue seized the gavel and struck the sound block until the din began to subside. “Okay everyone -- and that includes you, Buster -- can we please keep this civil?”

Jones smirked, and nodded towards the uniformed police officer standing near the entrance. “Maybe you should have the disturbance cleared from the room so we can conduct business here.”

Someone else in the back row, a woman in pink coveralls, called out, “You’re the disturbance, Jones! The Occupy had permission to use that site!”

“She does have a point, Mr. Jones,” Sue said.

“And I have a signed contract that says the building site was mine the moment that rabble vacated it -- which they did. You ought to know. You were there.”

“You’re right, I was there. So I’m perfectly aware that they didn’t leave of their own accord.”

“More like forcibly evicted for you by Mayor Svanstrom’s mercenary army,” Knox said, ruffling her sign. “There’s nothing in the city code that permits private use of the police force.”

“Nor, unfortunately,” Sue replied conversationally, “is there anything in the city code that prohibits it. I do appreciate your position, Ms. Knox, but until the court rules on the validity of JonesCo’s claim to that land, we have to at least entertain his request to have it rezoned.”

Natalie Knox dropped her sign on her chair and stepped into the aisle. “On the contrary, Councilwoman Winston,” she said. “Unless the court rules in his favor, Mr. Jones has no standing to request the rezoning. Otherwise anyone could come in here and ask the city to rezone their neighbor’s property.” She took a few steps towards the dais. “Wendell Jones is here asking the city to take unilateral action against another landowner, something that is clearly outside the purview of this body. This isn’t Michigan, after all, and he’s no Emergency Manager. He’s already undertaken a questionable action regarding that building site in court. If you permit this action to proceed, you will all be in violation of your oaths of office and will therefore be unfit for office.”

Just as Knox was finishing, the woman in pink joined her in the aisle. “And if we let you do it, if we stand mute and allow him to ride roughshod over our rights, we’d be in violation of our duty as citizens. That’s a line we will not cross. We refuse to be silent any longer.”

In response, several others around the room suddenly stood up and called out “K2!”

“Kaytu?” Buster Flange echoed in a bad imitation cockney. “What in the bloody ‘ell is that supposed to mean?”

Knox smiled. “My grandson, Councilman Flange. A ten-year-old with a better grasp of the responsibilities of citizenship than you appear to have.”

“And the reason most of us are here,” added the woman in pink.

“While I appreciate your solidarity,” Sue said, her tone signaling a return to her role as chair, “I do have to ask that you all sit down and let us continue with council business.”

“Not a chance,” Knox said. “I wouldn’t want to disappoint my grandson.”

The others called out a hearty “K2” to punctuate the thought.

Resigned to her duty, Sue directed the officer to have the standees removed from the room. He opened the door and waved several other officers into the room, one of which was Sue’s brother Peter, who had been assigned City Hall duty in the wake of his insubordination at the building site. While the other officers fanned out towards the standees, Peter walked directly to Natalie Knox and her pink-clad compatriot.

Effie eyed them curiously for a moment, and then got up to confer with Sue. “Should Peter be doing that?” she said. “I mean, he’s already in enough trouble for siding with those homeless people. He is a police officer after all.”

Sue glanced at her brother before replying, and realized, as she watched him greet Natalie, that he looked more at peace with himself than he’d been for a long time. “My brother,” she said, “is not just a police officer. He’s also a human being, and judging by what you just said, he’s a damn sight more compassionate than you’re being right now.”

Effie looked scandalized. “Now you’re just being rude.”

“The Occupy community isn’t homeless, Effie. Sure, some of the people there don’t have anywhere else to go, but that community is a home. What it doesn’t have is a place to be.”

A sudden noise caught Sue’s attention. The rear door had opened again, and a city hall aide was striding quickly toward her. Effie took the opportunity to retreat to her chair. The aide walked around the dais and whispered something to Sue. They conferred briefly, she thanked him, and he turned to leave. She gaveled twice more and the room fell silent. “I’ve just been informed that there’s an incident in progress at Mr. Jones’ building site.”

Jones, who’d been happily watching the officers once again doing his dirty work, turned ashen. “Oh?”

“Yeah,” she said, annoyed. “It seems your foreman has ordered his crew to bulldoze what’s left of the Occupy from the site you wanted rezoned.”

While Jones stifled a reaction, across the room, several of the standees pushed free from the officers.

“Well, sir,” she continued, “your equipment operators have refused the order.”

“They can’t do that!” he snapped.

A round of vocal support united the standing occupiers in the room while the police attempted to corral them again.

Jones muttered “Those worthless cretins” and reached for his cell phone. Unease swept the council chamber while he tried to have a private conversation in the midst of chaos. “Yeah, it’s me. Look, I can’t have you losing control of the situation down there. You did? Good, so then what’s the problem? Bring in another— they what?” His arm went slack for a moment and he gaped at the phone. “Signs?” he snapped. “They made signs? How many people are in the protest? Yeah, including the civilians. Good. In that case, they’re violating Svanstrom’s rule. Just call the police. This is just like last time. I’ll call you back.”

Sue rose and stood with her hands splayed on the table, taking in the surreal scene before her: paired police and occupiers scattered across the periphery, Jones making like he had a private phone booth in the middle of the room, and her brother Peter, standing there beside Natalie Knox with a peculiar look on his face. She saw him say a few words to the librarian, and then he flashed Sue a mischievous grin. Unsure what to make of it, she sat back down and topped off her water glass.

Knox turned to say a few words to the woman in pink, and then the two of them brushed past Jones and took the mike. “May we please address the room?” she said, and waited for the din to settle.

Sue shrugged. “Sure. You might as well.”

“I’m Natalie Knox. Some of you probably recognize me from the library, but I’m also part of the Occupy community. Last week I was arrested and forcibly removed from the building site that Mr. Jones is so interested in. Our crime was speaking as one, in violation of the ludicrous rule that Mr. Jones just mentioned, a rule that was used to target whoever he told Mayor Svanstrom to have the police go after.”

“Yeah, yeah, yeah,” Jones grumbled, “so you feel picked on. So what?”

Sue slapped the table. “Let her speak.”

“Thank you. Anyway, Councilwoman Winston was at the Occupy that morning. She’d come down the night before to warn us about a dawn raid, and decided to stand with us. When the riot police arrived, her own brother was assigned to take her in. The police waited for one of us to speak, knowing that anyone who participated in the People’s Mike would be in violation of that rule. When I greeted them, they were ordered to arrest us all. But Peter Winston refused the order. He refused to arrest his sister. And the thing is, none of the other officers would do it either.

Buster Flange chuckled. “I might have known it,” he said quietly with an inexplicable lack of affectation. “You live a charmed life, my dear.”

“Althea Gordon, here,” she said, indicating the woman in pink, “is a welder, and was instrumental in retaking the site after the arrests.”

Jones gave them both a scornful look and turned his back.

Gordon leaned towards the mike. “Officer Winston just told us something relevant to the zoning request, and we’d like everyone to hear it. He said that Jones has also been busy at the state capitol, scamming people into leaving their homes so he can demolish an entire neighborhood and then build substandard apartment blocks and strip malls on it. He’s even enlisted the aid of a well-meaning church group to do his dirty work. If there was such a thing as an ethics board for developers, he’d have his license revoked.”

Jones wheeled back around, an ugly sneer crossing his face.

Sue waved the comment aside. “Can we keep to the matter at hand, Ms. Gordon?”

“Ethics board!” Jones snapped. “If there’s anyone here that’s ethically challenged, it’s the two of you and that hoard of low-life scum you represent.”

Sue slammed the gavel. “Mr. Jones!”

The officers glanced at one another, unsure of what she expected them to do. Peter Winston, who was still standing where the two women had been earlier, raised a finger. “You could have him held in contempt, Sue. He was violating council rules, after all.”

She thought about it for a moment, and then held up both hands for calm. “I think we’ve finally gotten close to the meat of this dispute, and I’d like hear it out. But judging from what we’ve just seen, this might not be the best place to do that.”

“Oh?” Natalie Knox said, once more beside Peter Winston. “What did you have in mind?”

“Well, considering the situation that’s brewing at the building site, I think we should adjourn to there, and open the discussion to whoever wants a say.”

Jones took a step towards the dais. “You wouldn’t dare!”

* * *

“Hey, you guys!” someone yelled as Susan Winston led a small crowd around the construction trailer parked along the edge of the building site, “city hall just got here.”

A few seconds later, two citizen journalists converged on them, video gear at the ready. Predictably, Buster Flange trotted ahead to give them some interview fodder, but they spurned him and continued on out into the street, where Wendell Jones was just getting out of his limo.

“Upstaged again,” Buster grumbled.

It didn’t seem possible, but to Sue, the chaos surrounding her now was even more surreal than the scene that had just played out back at the council chamber. A vacant bulldozer was parked at the entrance to the site, and two other pieces of equipment sat abandoned beside it. A line of men and women in JonesCo overalls were walking back and forth in front of the machines, holding signs and chanting slogans. Beyond them, she could see the metal sculpture that Althea Gordon had made from the fences that had been placed to seal the site after the arrests, except that it now had an immense banner stretched across it that read ‘99% and Growing’. To her right the police who had been called stood around chatting, while to her left, several groups of a dozen or so people were doing and saying various things in unison, while still others were taunting the police about not arresting them.

“Okay, then,” she said, glancing every which way, “I suppose the first person to speak with is the foreman.”

“That’d be him over there,” Althea Gordon replied, pointing at a rather annoyed-looking man glaring at the picketers from beside the bulldozer. “Name’s Carl Morgan.”

Jones was heading towards him, so Sue trotted over as quickly as she could. “Excuse me,” she said, “I understand you’re the foreman?”

“For whatever good it does me, yeah.”

“I’m Councilwoman Sue Winston, Mr. Morgan, and we’re hearing JonesCo’s request for a zoning change today. What were your orders, sir, if you don’t mind me asking.”

He shrugged. “To clear the site so we can start work on the complex. Why?”

“Well, there is some question about whether JonesCo owns it.”

“Oh yeah? That’s news to me. Not that it matters if I can’t get my crew back to work and the police won’t do anything. No offense, ma’am, but this city’s a joke.”

Just as Jones arrived, she turned and walked towards the picket line. Natalie Knox had gotten there first, and was chatting with one of the fired picketers when Sue and the others arrived.

“Hi Sue,” she said, “this is Rafael M’bordo. He was running the bulldozer, and says he was the first one to refuse the order. Rafael, this is Sue Winston.”

He lowered his sign, and they shook hands briefly. “My son told me about you. He said he coached you on General Assembly procedures last week when you came to warn the encampment about the raid.”

“That young man in the orange vest?”

He nodded. “Borrowed it without permission, too. I really didn’t understand why he spent so much time down here until I was asked to level the place today.”

“Oh?”

Before Rafael had a chance to respond, a melee broke out behind them. Members of two of the groups taunting the police were fighting it out, and the others were standing around cheering them on. But as soon as two police officers ran over to break up the fight, they abruptly stopped and the combined group surrounded the officers, all of them demanding to know why they were willing to stop the fight, but wouldn’t lift a finger to prevent Jones’ thugs from illegally evicting the Occupy community from the space they’d been given.

Buster, who had been frantically trying to watch everything at once, gaped at the scene for a full thirty seconds before pushing his way into the circle. “Hey! Hey! Hey!” he called, waving his hands and trying to get the crowd to stop yelling at the officers. “This is no way to treat two men who spend their lives protecting yours.”

“Sure they do,” someone tossed back at him. “That’s why they play commando and beat us bloody whenever Jones yanks the mayor’s chain.”

“Ok, look,” Buster said solemnly, “here’s your chance to have your say. Susan Winston and I are here from city council to talk to you about who owns the site, and whether JonesCo should be allowed to build a convention center here.” He gestured in her direction. “Could you folks open the circle there and let her in?”

A lot of other people had drifted over during all this, so what they ended up with looked more like an ad hoc amphitheater surrounding not only the group from city hall, but Jones and a couple of citizen journalists with streaming video gear as well. A local news crew tried to get in, but they were crowded out and had to satisfy themselves with a long lens and a directional mike.

Sue looked around for a few moments, nodding silent greetings at several people she’d met on her first visit to the encampment, and then turned to address one of the officers. “I know this has to be uncomfortable for you, but I’d like you to tell the people here why you didn’t arrest the construction workers on the picket line.”

“It’s simple, ma’am. We didn’t get an order from Mayor Svanstrom.”

“But I thought the new rule applied to everyone equally.”

“No, ma’am. If it did, we’d have to shut down every church and school in the city for things like praying and pledging to the flag.”

“So it’s been enforced somewhat arbitrarily, then.”

The other officer spoke up. “A better word might be ‘targeted’, Ms. Winston. The force was being used as a weapon against the people. Against specific people.”

“People such as these?” Buster asked, looking around him.

“Yes, sir.”

Sue thought for a moment. “How did that make you feel, officer?”

He smiled and shook his head in amusement. “How do you think your brother felt when he was ordered to arrest you?”

“Trapped, I guess. But he refused to obey.”

“I didn’t know it then, but the CO was betting on that. He didn’t agree with the Mayor’s order, either, but he couldn’t afford to fight that battle, so he did the next best thing: undermined it. He told Peter to face off with you, knowing that your brother wouldn’t do it. Assigning him to city hall duty wasn’t punishment, Councilwoman Winston.”

She shook her head in confusion.

“He’s been down there so he could undermine the mayor’s plans. And apparently today, he saw his chance to act. But last week -- it wasn’t as personal for the rest of us. That’s why it had to be Peter. And what he did that day affected the rest of us, made us all realize that next time it could be someone in our own family. That’s why we stood down today.”

One of the people surrounding them stepped forward and extended a hand to the officer. “Thanks. We appreciate it. Well, at least I do.”

“Well I don’t!” The booming voice belonged to Wendell Jones, who was pushing his way into the center of the gathering, leaving more than a few people on the ground. The others stepped aside, leaving Jones standing in the middle of a gap in the circle that faced the entrance to the site. “The two of you can turn in your badges and join my former employees at the soup kitchen, or wherever else you want, as long as it isn’t here.”

When he’d finished blathering and was standing right in front of her, she smiled and, in her best southern accent, said, “I believe it’s about time I took your advice, Mr. Jones.” He was about to reply when she turned to the two officers. “Would you two please escort this disturbance out of the council chamber?”

“Gladly.”

There was a good bit of cheering after that, but when it finally settled down, a familiar voice behind her called out, “Mike check!”

Sue turned to face Natalie Knox, grinning broadly.

“Our community is at a crossroads today,” the librarian said. “Like the group in the capitol did this past week, we need to look at the reason we needed this space. I think it’s because all levels of government in this country are based on geography. We came together in common cause, because we’re all part of the ninety-nine percent, but we’re represented based on where we live, and not who we are and what we do. We need to be heard. But because the members of our community come from all over the area, we don’t have a voice.”

Buster twinkled his fingers, and was recognized. “I’d like to offer a solution.”

“Go ahead.”

“City Council is one way you can have a voice, but even though there are enough of you to warrant a district, there isn’t one for you. I’d like to help you change how this city is run. I’d like to help to create a virtual district, one that represents this distributed community, so that you can have a voice. It’s not much, but it’s a start.”

Several people signaled for attention; the one that was selected was at the edge of the crowd. He was too short for Sue to see, but she recognized his voice.

“A very wise woman once told me,” he said, “that if you’re silent, you don’t count. If doing this will get us heard, I say go for it.”

“Kid has a point,” Buster confided to Sue. “Any idea who he is?”

“Sure. That young man was responsible for the re-taking of this site after the mass arrests. He’s Natalie Knox’s grandson, Kendrik. Calls himself K2.”

THE END

Short Story: "Scaling K2" (3rd of a series)

Sun, 23 Dec 2012 17:12:16 -0500

What have you meekly acquiesced to, and then regretted it? (This series began with "Crossing the Line".)

“Scaling K2”
(Part 3 of a series)
by P. Orin Zack
[12/11/2012]

“Yeah, yeah, yeah,” Les said, holding a splayed hand up for respite. “You’ve made your point, Ifan. I agree. Caving to the mayor’s new rule was profoundly stupid. But it’s done. We folded. The General Assembly voted, and that’s that. The question is what do we do now?”

Ifan Davies glanced around the depressingly deserted public square that the capitol city’s Occupy Wall Street community had called home for the past year. The two were sitting on the wood and iron bench from atop of which the GA was usually called into session.

A few days earlier, the police department’s new surveillance drone had monitored a run-through of Les’ latest street-theater project, in which several competing speakers found common cause as their separate contingents of the people’s mike began to synch up. The following morning, the mayor issued a new executive order designed to make the event illegal. In the interest of public safety, he’d said, he was prohibiting groups larger than ten people from saying or doing anything in unison. As Ifan had pointed out during the GA, the rule may have been intended to hobble the people’s mike, but it was so badly conceived that it also applied to everything from high school cheerleaders to the mayor’s favorite church choir. Nevertheless, the GA succumbed to the illogic of it, and voted to acquiesce. The whole thing left a bad taste in Ifan’s mouth, but there it was.

“What we do now, Les,” he said, “is figure out how to turn this turd to our advantage.”

“What, like there’s an upside to having the Occupy bound and gagged?”

“That was how the people’s mike came about in the first place. No bullhorns in Zucotti Park and all that. It was a workaround.”

“Maybe so,” Les said, “but there’s more to it than just parroting the speaker. The mike demands involvement. Even if you aren’t making proposals or running a SIG, you still play a vital role because the people who do speak can’t be heard unless you participate. This abomination is going to eviscerate us!”

“Cut the drama okay? There’s always—.” Ifan was suddenly distracted by the sight of the Occupy’s tech team hurrying towards them with an open netbook in her hands. Angela Scarlotti was left holding the community’s tech bag solo after the others beat shoe leather following yesterday’s GA. As far as Ifan was concerned, their exit spoke more about their value to the community than anything they’d done before adversity had stared them down. He grinned as she slowed to catch her breath. “What’s up Ace?”

“You’ve got… to see this,” she said, dropping to a crouch in front of them so they could both view the small screen. “Early this morning, the rule we’ve been saddled with was also imposed on the downstate Occupy, only for them it was pre-emptive. They hadn’t done or planned anything to scare the power structure like we did. I guess they were ticked off about the rule, because they just about invited the cops to enforce it. Someone called for a mike check to greet the stormtroopers, and they dutifully started making arrests. Started. But then, one of them changed sides, and his buddy shielded him when the CO ordered him taken down. Anyway, they hauled everyone off and rent-a-fenced the site.”

“But if they’ve been shut down, what were you going to show us?”

Angela flashed a subversive grin. “The resurrection. Downstate’s Occupy has been reconstituted, and their mascot appears to be a kid named Kendrik. I’ve downloaded the interview he did for their new livestream. Have a look.”

When Ifan unpaused the video, the camera pulled back from what looked like a short stack of logoed cyclone fence sections with crude tin-can cornstalks and cattails growing out of it, and panned to a fortyish woman wearing pink coveralls. “I’m Althea Gordon. As you can see, we’ve converted the JonesCo porta-fences that were brought in to keep the city’s Occupy Wall Street community from re-entering this building site into a piece of public art. It’s a visual reminder that we grow through adversity. I’m here today because a friend of mine was arrested this morning for calling a mike check to greet the riot cops. Her name is Natalie Knox. When she’s not helping people with their research at the downtown library, she helps people to understand their power as citizens with a little help from the books she’s promoted from supporters in the wider community. This building site was re-occupied a few hours ago because of some advice she gave to a brave young man named Kendrik Knox, her grandson. But he prefers to be called K2. Would you tell our viewers why?”

The camera shifted to a kid about ten years old who was busy examining a chunk of concrete. “Sure,” he said, nodding. “It started as a joke, really. My initials are KK, but there’s also a K at the end of my first name, so I started signing my homework KKK.”

Angela grimaced. “I’ll bet that went over big.”

“Well,” Kendrik continued, “my teacher sent a note home to my parents, and they asked me to stop doing it.”

“Did they tell you why?”

He shook his head. “Nope. And that just made me mad.”

“So what did you do?”

Kendrik grinned. “I asked my gram Natalie. I figured since she worked at the library, maybe she could help me figure it out.” He suddenly got very serious. “So, um, she showed me some history books and some pictures about the Ku Klux Klan. It’s pretty scary stuff. I guess that’s why my folks were afraid to talk about it, but my gram wasn’t. She said it was important to know history, because we can’t learn from our mistakes if we don’t know about them. She also showed me some stuff about how people who tried to do or say something about bad things have been treated.”

“Oh? Like who?”

“Well, there were a lot of them, but the two that stick out in my mind are John Brown and Bradley Manning.” He twitched uncomfortably at the thought. “Private Manning was—. Can they really do that sort of thing to people?”

“Sadly, yes,” Althea said. “But what does all that have to do with why you call yourself K2?”

He nodded. “My gram called it a nem… a mnemonic, something to help me remember. There are three Ks in my name, but the third one, the one in my last name, is silent. She said that if it doesn’t speak out, if it doesn’t make itself known, it doesn’t count. And that’s true for people, too. That’s why I couldn’t just go to school when I saw her being arrested for talking to the police. I couldn’t be quiet about that. I had to do something, to make what she did count. That’s why I came down here on my own, and that’s why a lot of other people are here as well.”

Ifan stopped the video and closed his eyes for a moment. “Jeez,” he said at last, “and we’re arguing over how to deal with a stupid rule?”

Angela took the netbook back and stood up. “Sometimes,” she said, “a little perspective can be a real kick in the pants.”

“Ain’t that the truth,” said Les, rising to join her. “So what are we going to do?”

Ifan looked up at them for a moment before standing. “I think we should leave the square, get out into the community, take this fight where it belongs.”

Angela crossed her arms. “And where, exactly is that?”

He hooked a thumb towards an older section of town. “The Lunchpail district. If there’s anywhere in this city that speaks of the ninety-nine percent, that’s it. This city started as a factory town, after all, and that’s what’s left of the original workers’ community, from back when the unions were still a force to be reckoned with.”

Les shrugged in confusion. “What the heck for? Isn’t that the slum where JonesCo wants to put up more overpriced condos and strip malls?”

“To stop them, that’s what for.”

He was aghast. “Stop them? Are you nuts? What are we going to do, wave some signs in their faces?”

“Have you been living under a rock?” Angela said in exasperation. “The whole point of being here, in fact the whole point of Occupy Wall Street, is to focus people’s attention on how those with power have been using it against those without it. If waving signs makes that happen, then we’ll wave signs. But this fight isn’t about the square we’re in, any more than Wendell Jones’ subsidized housing developments are about serving the underclass. They’re about power, who has it, and who doesn’t.”

“Oh, right,” Les retorted. “If you think the two of you are going to have any effect on his plans, you ought to check yourself into the psych ward and get fitted for a rubber room.”

“Look,” Angela said fiercely, “you don’t have to be part of this if you don’t want to. But please don’t get in our way. C’mon Ifan.”

* * *

The neighborhood that Wendell Jones had targeted for rebuilding was abuzz with activity when Ifan and Angela stepped off the bus. Rented vans were parked in front of several of the tidy little post-war homes on the block, and people were hurrying about with boxes and furniture. They walked to the nearest van and approached a white-haired man who was sliding a heavy book box into the back.

“Excuse me, sir,” Ifan said. “I heard that JonesCo was helping people in the neighborhood to move. How’s that going?”

The man took off his glasses and rubbed his eyes with the back of his hand. “Y’know,” he said, “it’s really not fair of them to force the issue like this.”

Angela glanced back at the man’s home. “You didn’t want to move out?”

“Hell, no. My wife and I had this place paid off years ago. But then the insurance company threatened to cancel if we didn’t replace the roof, and the only way to afford that was to remortgage the house. When the crash happened, I lost my job as an expediter for the factory and haven’t worked regular since then. We limped along on whatever part-time work we could find, but then my wife took ill. Miss a couple of payments and the bank wants to foreclose. JonesCo offered to clear our debts if we moved to their subsidized housing complex on the other side of town, so it was either that or the street. We’re moving, but we’re certainly not happy about it.”

“So you’ve already sold your house?” Ifan said.

The man gave them a puzzled look. “Sold it? No. They told us they’d take care of everything. Right now, we’re just trying to get moved out.”

Angela nudged Ifan. “Doesn’t Jones deal in CDOs?”

He nodded. “I’m Ifan Davies, and this is Angela Scarlotti. We’re from Occupy Wall Street. If there were a way to keep your house, would you be interested, Mr…?”

“Carver.” He extended his hand. “What did you have in mind?”

“I don’t know how much you know about the man behind JonesCo, Mr. Carver, but a good deal of Wendell Jones’ fortune, and most of his construction empire, was built by slipping through gaps in the law. He did a lot of trading in collateralized debt obligations – bundled mortgages like yours – in which the chain of custody was broken.”

“He what?”

“It’s like this,” Angela said, “in order for Jones to legally buy your house, the outfit that holds your mortgage must have clear title to it. Since Jones prefers to trade in CDOs, there’s a good chance that your mortgage-holder has actually sold the loan, and its only acting as payment agent for all the investors who own a piece of it through the bond it was cooked into. Unless someone can prove that they own your mortgage, he can’t buy it from them.”

A twentyish young man with a neatly trimmed beard quietly slid a box into the van beside Carver’s, turned, and glanced expectantly at the newcomers.

“Oh, I’m sorry,” Carver said sheepishly, and introduced them to Thad. He was a volunteer from the First Assembly Church who’d been helping him to pack out. Thad explained that he’d come down with a group organized by John Avendale Simms, the church’s Pastor, to welcome their new neighbors into the religious community in the complex that Carver and several others on the block were moving to. But when Angela explained that she and Ifan were part of OWS, he excused himself, and said he’d be back shortly with Pastor Simms.

“That’s friendly of them,” Ifan said. “Is there anything we can do to help?”

Carver glanced into the van, and then turned back towards his house. “Now I’m not so sure,” he said. “If what you say is true, maybe I shouldn’t take their offer after all.”

“Whose offer,” Angela asked, “JonesCo’s or the First Assembly Church?”

“Both, maybe. Simms’ congregation is deeply into outreach, as you can probably guess from their presence here. Well, they also encourage their parishioners to open their homes to people who are living on the street.”

“Kinda like what the city’s been doing to the Occupy lately,” said Ifan. “How strong is their encouragement?”

He frowned. “Very. I got the strong impression that it might as well be mandatory. And as much as I’d like to help others, that’s really got to be a personal choice.”

Angela nodded. “So you’re feeling pressured from both directions.”

Carver eyed her suspiciously. “What’s your angle anyway? I mean, why are you two here in the first place?”

“To be perfectly honest, it’s partly out of frustration. A few days ago, I was helping a bunch of folks work the kinks out of a new street theater project. Unfortunately, the mayor’s new tech toy -- that police drone he got from Homeland Security, caught us on video, and he pushed through an absurd new rule to shut down Occupy Wall Street’s ability to conduct business or stage a protest.”

“I’ve never been much a fan of the guy. What rule was that?”

“Believe it or not, it’s now illegal in this city for more than ten people to do or say anything in unison.”

He chuckled. “But that would shut Pastor Simms’ choir down, too. Our mayor isn’t too bright, is he?”

“Well,” Ifan said, “I figure it’s going to be enforced about as uniformly as the statutes on financial crimes are. They’ll probably just use it on us, and leave everyone else alone. But getting back to your move, what are you going to do?”

“Yes, Mr. Carver,” another voice asked, “what are you going to do?”

“Oh,” Carver said as he turned around, “Hi Pastor Simms. We were just discussing the mayor’s hardline stance against churches. He’s just declared war on religion. What are you going to do about that?”

The man’s eyes widened. “He’s what?”

“It’s true,” Ifan said solemnly, “according to the new rule, if more than ten people say ‘amen’ together, they’re breaking the law.”

“After I helped to get him elected? Well, “ Simms said as he turned to go, “we’ll just have to see about that.”

Thad, who stood directly behind Simms, hastily stepped aside while glancing back and forth between his boss and Carver, unsure of what he was supposed to do. But just as he started to ask for directions, Pastor Simms ordered him to follow.

Ifan lost his composure about the time the pastor angrily pulled out his cell phone and started barking orders at some ecumenical underling. “You are quick, Mr. Carver,” he said. “Remind me never to get on the wrong side of an argument with you.”

Angela murmured agreement, but she seemed a bit upset about something.

“Thanks. I tell myself never to let anyone steamroll me into something I don’t really want to do, but it’s not so easy when it’s someone you don’t want to offend, or someone with power over you.” He nodded towards Simms. “The worst part about it is that when a jerk like that get’s the better of someone, it boosts his confidence.”

“Maybe,” Ifan said with a chuckle, “that’s why they call them ‘confidence men’.”

“What do you think he’s going to do now?”

“Well, with that fire you just lit under him, I’d guess he’s going to threaten his buddy the mayor with his warped version of hell if he doesn’t rescind that rule of his.” He turned to Angela. “Is something wrong, Ace?”

“Yeah, there’s something wrong.” She said, glancing back towards Simms, and brandishing her cellphone. “You two just started a delicious political avalanche, and I didn’t get it on video.”

While Ifan was laughing, Thad approached, minus the pleasantness he’d shown earlier. He spoke brusquely, and seemed somehow more at ease for it. “Okay, Mr. Carver, here’s the deal. Pastor Simms said to give you one last chance to accept our help moving, but if you refused it, I can toss your crap on the street.”

“Gee,” Angela said, angling her cell phone screen towards Ifan so he could see that she’d been recording the audio all along, “what a gallant offer. You’re a real gentleman, aren’t you?”

Thad elbowed them aside and reached for a book box. “Well,” he said, balancing it on the edge of the bed, “what’s it to be?”

Carver steadied the box and looked Thad in the eye. “You’ll let us unload my stuff, squirt, or you can explain it to the police. Or didn’t you see the Block Watch sign on the corner?”

He took a step back and crossed his arms. “You’ve got three minutes, grandpa. After that, I’m driving off with whatever’s still inside.”

Ifan quickly slipped into the van and started shifting everything to the rear, while Carver and Angela scrambled to ferry it to the sidewalk. Two of Carver’s neighbors came running over to find out what was happening, but one look at Thad was all it took for them to pitch in as well. With their help, the van was emptied with time to spare.

“That was a really stupid move,” Thad said as he closed the rear gate. “JonesCo’s gonna evict your ass one way or another. When it does, don’t expect to be able to buy or rent from anyone in this city’s religious community. Pastor Simms is a very powerful man, and he doesn’t take acts like this lightly.”

“What was stupid,” Angela said, taking a step closer, “was making a threat like that in public. We’ve got witnesses.”

He laughed. “Who can be bought or scared off.”

“Maybe. But we’ve also got a recording of the entire exchange. This isn’t going away. Now go run to your pastor.”

Thad snarled ineffectively as he boarded the van, then slammed the door and drove off. Carver’s neighbors immediately grilled him about what had happened. After he got them up to speed, and while they were all hauling Carver’s stuff back to his house, Ifan and Angela filled them in about the mayor’s new rule, the fact that it had been instituted downstate as well, and how it affected their ability to stage any kind of unified protest.

There was a knock at the door while they were mulling over what to do next. It was a uniformed member of the capitol police. According to the officer, Pastor Simms had called 911 to report a disturbance.

“What sort of disturbance,” Carver asked, beckoning the officer to enter.

“Well,” he said, glancing at each of the people in the sparse living room, “according to the report, he said that two people from outside of the neighborhood had come in to incite the residents to violate their contracts with JonesCo for the sale of their homes.

“Oh?” said Ifan, approaching the officer. “Does that mean Pastor Simms is acting as an agent of JonesCo?”

“Are you one of the people he’s talking about, sir?” the officer said, gesturing for him to keep his distance.

“They’re my guests,” Carver said protectively. “So what happens now?”

“That depends. Is what Pastor Simms said correct? Did you have a sales contract with JonesCo?”

Carver was about to answer when Ifan interrupted. “If he did, officer, it was obtained under duress. All we’ve done is to question the chain of custody on the deed to this property. You can’t violate an invalid contract.”

The officer thought for a moment. “Are you acting as his attorney, then, Mr…?”

“Davies. No, sir, but in my role at the Occupy—.”

“You’re part of Occupy Wall Street? Then what are you doing here?”

“It’s not like we’re prisoners of that city park we’ve been using,” Angela said. “Besides, with the mayor’s new rule against unified action, it seemed wise to change our strategy.”

“By engaging in what I suppose you could call community outreach and enlisting people like Mr. Carver here to take individual action?”

“Now that you put it that way,” she said, “that’s exactly what we’re doing: empowering the ninety-nine percent. Have you ever though about going into marketing?”

“Or political activism?” Ifan added, chuckling.

“All that aside,” the officer said, “I do have to file a report.”

“In that case,” Carver said, “wouldn’t you have to establish whether this contract I’m accused of violating actually exists? And since Simms contends that my friends have come to incite my neighbors to do the same thing, wouldn’t you have to ask them as well?”

The officer eyed him suspiciously. “Are you trying to get me to take sides in this? I’m supposed to be impartial.”

“You’re right,” Ifan said. “The executives in any organization would want their enforcers to play at being impartial. But the fact remains; you are part of the ninety-nine percent. We’re doing this to protect your rights, just as much as we’re protecting Mr. Carver’s and all of his neighbors’. So yes, I’m trying to get you to take sides. I’m trying to get you to cross that line they want you to toe and be a protector of the people, rather than of the likes of Pastor Simms, Wendell Jones, and for that matter our not-so-beloved mayor.”

“You wouldn’t be the first,” Angela said, digging out her netbook. “This morning, when the riot police were ordered to arrest a group of downstate occupiers for violating a rule patterned after the one we’ve been saddled with, one of them switched sides.”

He nodded. “Yeah. I heard. He would have had to arrest his own sister, a city councilwoman. Not that it did any good. They still arrested the lot of them, then cleared and locked the site. All he gained from his foolishness was trouble from his CO.”

“Not exactly,” Angela said. “He also gained something else: the self-confidence you get from standing up for your convictions. The grandson of one of the people arrested there this morning, a ten-year-old kid named Kendrik, put us all to shame today. He singlehandedly convinced the people of that city to retake the building lot their Occupy was using, and he did it because of something his grandmother told him: if you’re silent, you don’t count.”

“Okay, okay. But what can I do? I’m just here to respond to a call.”

“Simple,” Ifan said. “Do what Mr. Carver suggested. Speak to his neighbors.”

“Done.”

THE END

Short Story: "Making it Count" (2nd of a series)

Thu, 4 Oct 2012 11:10:33 -0400

What does it take to spur you into action? (This series began with "Crossing the Line".)

“Making it Count”
(Part 2 of a series)
by P. Orin Zack
[9/30/2012]

“Holy crap,” 11-year-old Kendrik Knox whispered excitedly. As his dropped spoon hit the cereal bowl, he reached for the milk-splattered tablet beside it. “That’s Gram!”

K2, as Kendrik preferred to be called, was a news junkie. That was his grandmother Natalie’s doing. She was a librarian, and had shown him how to find out what was really going on in the world. Of course, his folks weren’t too thrilled with that. Especially his dad, who’d pretty much written his own mother off as a lost cause when she announced that she was joining the ninety-nine percent. That’s why she’d gotten him the pad for his birthday -- so they could message one another surreptitiously, even when she was minding a bookstand in a vacant downtown building lot.

It was Monday, September 17^th, 2012, the first anniversary of Occupy Wall Street, and Kendrik was browsing the OWS livefeeds from around the world to see how the day was being celebrated when the master site suddenly switched to video from his own city. The camera was zoomed in on a woman with a book in her raised hand. The image was pretty shaky, but Kendrik would know his grandmother’s voice anywhere. “Good morning, officers,” she’d said, and the crowd, as the People’s Mike, echoed.

His eyes widened as the camera spun around to show the line of armored police she was addressing. Then it went back to his grandmother. It looked like she was scanning the street for someone. Whoever it was, she must have found them, because she straightened and stood silently for a few seconds. Then, in a loud, clear voice, she said, “We are non-violent.”

The livestreamer was startled by the sound of a police whistle, and spun back towards the cops. They had started to grab people and quickly zip plastic cuffs on them. The camera then turned back towards where his grandmother had been, but she was no longer there. It zoomed out momentarily, and then focused on a cop in the crowd. He was parting the people and leading someone in cuffs towards the street.

“Gram!” Kendrik cried.

“We are not threatening you.” This time it was another voice. But just as the camera had located the new speaker, a hand closed over the lens and the feed stopped.

“Kenny?” his mother called as she strode into the kitchen, “are you okay?”

He scooped up the tablet and brandished it at her. “I am, mom, but Gram’s just been arrested! I just saw a riot cop hauling her off, honest.”

She laughed dismissively. “Sure you did. Did she put you up to this?”

“I did see it! She was on the Internet!”

Unfortunately for Kendrik, it was getting late, and his mother hustled him off to walk to school. He took the tablet, but because it was wifi-only, there was no way he could track down the video clip en route. By the time he turned the corner, he’d already decided to blow off school and bus it down to the encampment to see what he could ferret out on his own.

“Hang in there, Gram,” he muttered as he boarded the downtown express, “I’ve got your back.” Of one thing he was absolutely sure: whatever trouble he might be in for playing hooky was nothing compared to the whirlwind his grandmother had just conjured up. And Kendrik wanted in on the action.

The first row behind the bus door was vacant, so he swung in and watched the city go by. When the bus stopped a while later to let two twenty-somethings deep in discussion get on, he noticed that they had OWS stickers on their gear.

“Man,” the first one said conspiratorially after swiping his fare card for the both of them, “did you see what they did to that riot cop?”

“Pretty harsh,” the other replied as he slid into the seat behind Kendrik. “But, geez, what’d he expect them to do when he body-blocked his wing-man to protect the cop who turned on them.”

“I don’t know,” the first said, “if you’re a cop, aren’t you supposed to hang tight? I mean, protect your buds-in-blue and all that?”

“Yeah. Well, after that old gal threw it down on the People’s Mike, I thought for sure they were gonna have her for lunch.”

Kendrik swung one knee onto the seat and turned to face them. “Are you talking about what happened this morning at the Occupy downtown?”

“Sure kid. We’re heading there now. Why?”

“That was my gram. I mean the lady who greeted the cops. Do you know what happened to her? I had to leave after that livestreamer was taken down.”

The man nodded. “It was pretty intense, kid. After that cop cuffed her and led her into the street, this other woman breaks through the line of cops and starts screaming at their CO about them all being the mayor’s private army and everything. And that riot cop who’d turned? He was right there beside her. So then the other woman – your gram – drops to her knees and goes limp on the cop trying to get her into the paddywagon. And throughout all this, the string of occupiers passing around the People’s Mike are running through a litany of all the violence that’s been wrung down on protesters over the years. Damn!”

Kendrik stared at him for a long moment. “So… they took her to jail?”

“I don’t know, kid. Last I saw, the cop that was with her had been called off to deal with something else.” He held out his smartphone. “Here, see for yourself.”

Kendrik took the phone and held it against the top of the seat back so they could all see the screen. “Okay, everyone,” the livestreamer said, gasping for air, “this is Ishmael. Becky’s rig was just confiscated, so I guess I’m it. Dirty lasts.” He zoomed in on a cyclone fence. “Do you see that? Behind the fence, there’s a bunch of uniformed police. I hear they’ve been called in from all over the county. That’s the border guard. They’ve got mace and tasers, and they’re watching for escapees.” He zoomed back in and pointed the camera towards the open end of the lot. “It’s been crazy down here. The cops have been entering in teams and rounding up a group of people at a time with those orange plastic nets, so they can walk them out and cart them off.” Then he panned around the encampment. “There’s not many of us left down here, so if you know—.”

Black. The feed went dead.

The three exchanged uncomfortable glances while the bus slowed for a light. Once he had the phone back, the man gestured suspiciously at Kendrik and said, “Hey, what are you doing on the downtown express? Shouldn’t you be in school?”

Kendrik gave him a withering look. “I don’t care. This is more important. My Gram’s in trouble.”

“So look,” he said, “as long as we’re all headed down there, we might as well work together. “I’m Jason. He’s Marty.”

“Call me K2.”

“Like the peak?”

“Yeah. Well, it was originally just on account of my name, but my Gram showed me a book about all the people who died climbing Mt. Kechu. She’s a librarian. A subversive one.”

“No, kid,” Jason said, laughing, “your Gram’s a leader!”

The dusty building site where the encampment had been was empty when they arrived, and a portable cyclone fence had been erected across the street side of the lot, the only one that didn’t have a fence on it already.

“Okay,” Kendrik said, “so now what?”

“I suppose we could try to figure out where they took everyone,” Jason said, “or… we could bust this gate open and retake the camp.”

“Retake the camp?” Marty said doubtfully. “What good would that do? There’s just the three of us.”

Kendrik looked at him for a moment, and then gazed out across the vacant lot. “You just reminded me of something my Gram messaged last week,” he said. “It only takes one person to change the world.”

They both eyed him curiously.

“And like you said, there are three of us.”

“So what’d you have in mind, K2?”

A mischievous grin lit his face. “Turnabout. Put out the word. Reconstitute the encampment. Only this time we keep the little present they left the Occupy.”

“Now, now,” a gravelly voice said from behind them, “I don’t think that’s a very good idea, little man.”

They turned, and found themselves facing a very smug-looking porker in a business suit.

“Well then,” he said, “I’m Wendell Jones.”

“The high-rise developer, right?” said Jason. “Yeah. I’ve seen your slimy propaganda on what passes for the news in this city.”

“Good,” he said, “then you know why I’m here. Now that the vermin have been evicted, I can close my deal with the idiots who own this lot, and finally build something profitable on it.”

“I see,” Marty said, “and, uh, I suppose you needed to come down and see for yourself that it’s empty because you can’t figure out how to operate a web browser?”

Jones sneered and turned to leave. “Get a job, both of you.”

“We own our own tech company, you moron,” Jason called after him.

He stopped, turned, and said, “Uh-huh. Well, if you keep hanging around underage boys like that, you may find that business of yours in the dumper.” Then he left.

“Well,” Kendrik said impatiently, “you heard him. He only gets to buy this lot if it stays vacant. We’ve got work to do!”

Jason reached out and rattled the fence. “I’d love to, but there’s a little problem to deal with. Either we’re going to have cut ourselves an entrance, or everyone we get down here will have to scale this with their gear. And I don’t happen to own a set of bolt cutters.”

“I do.” The voice belonged to a fortyish woman in pink mechanic’s coveralls who was standing by the fence a few yards behind Kendrik. She was examining the padlock on the chain joining two sections together. Once she had their attention, she added, “but before I go get them, I need some information.”

Kendrik walked towards her. “Okay, lady,” he said jauntily, “shoot.”

The two men exchanged surprised glances and followed.

“I heard about what happened here this morning,” she said. “Is it true that it was Natalie Knox, the librarian, who threw down the gauntlet with the People’s Mike when the storm troopers arrived?”

Marty nudged his young friend. “You’re on, kid.”

“That’s right,” he said proudly. “And we’re gonna make the mayor regret he ever sent his goons down here to arrest her. Why? Do you know her?”

She smiled broadly. “Yeah. I do, young man. My name’s Althea, by the way. Althea Gordon.”

“Hi. I’m Kendrik Knox, but my friends call me K2.”

“I’m honored. But shouldn’t it be K3?”

“Nah. The third K’s silent, so it doesn’t count.”

She laughed delightedly. “That’s good. I see you inherited her sense of humor. Well, Kendrik, a few years ago, your grandmother Natalie helped me get back into the workforce after my marriage fell apart. Not in a million years would I have ever dreamed that I’d be fabricating public art installations for a living. And yet that’s exactly what happened, because she believed in me. I owe her. I owe her big time. So what’s the plan here?”

“It’s pretty simple, really,” Jason said. “We need a flash-mob, and we need it now. But in order for this operation to get any traction, we absolutely have to get some livestreams going. It’s a sure bet the local media aren’t going to pay any attention to us unless we give them something they can’t afford to miss. And that means there has to be something to see. We’ll need signage, traffic, and lots of warm bodies.”

“Great,” Althea said. “I’ll go get my cutters and whatever else I can rustle together. Back soon.”

People started arriving, most of them looking for friends and relatives who’d been at the encampment. After he got them up to speed, Jason asked them some questions to gauge their interests and abilities, and started assigning them to various tasks. He also asked anyone with a cell phone to put the word out about what else was needed. Marty assembled a team to start cleaning up the debris that remained on the site, but since Althea hadn’t returned yet, they scaled the fence and started policing the area.

As the morning wore on, Kendrik, who’d taken it upon himself to welcome people to the new encampment, became antsy about how his school might have reacted to his absence. If they called his parents, he’d be in for a lot of trouble. Fortunately, Althea returned with more than just the bolt cutters. A couple of her friends had chipped in to get stuff to eat, so at least he wouldn’t have to do his worrying on an empty stomach.

Once the chain was cut, people who weren’t up to climbing the fence started streaming into the site. And that’s when the police car rolled up. Kendrik drifted closer so he could hear better.

“That’s right,” the officer said, “a bunch of people have re-entered the site. It looks like they cut their way in. The thing is, I don’t know whether they’re trespassing or not. The landowner did say the Occupy Wall Street people could stay they there as long as they wanted. So unless they break that new rule, I’m gonna just sit here and do what I can to keep the peace.”

Kendrik jumped when Jason suddenly tapped him on the shoulder.

“Got a minute, kid?”

“Sure. What’s up?”

“We’ve finished setting up the new video streaming kit, and were discussing what to do with it. Althea had the best suggestion. She thinks that since your grandmother set off this morning’s fireworks, we ought to give you the honor of telling the world this isn’t over yet. What do you think?”

Kendrik gaped. “What would I say?”

“Well, you can probably say whatever you want, but I think you ought to think about it like you’re speaking directly to your grandmother, and everyone else is just lurking on your skype call.”

“All right. Where are we doing this?”

“How about right here?”

Kendrik nodded thoughtfully, and Jason motioned for the livestreamer to come closer.

“Hi Gram.” Kendrik said unsteadily. “It’s K2. Don’t tell mom, but after I saw you get arrested on the Internet, I ditched school and took a bus to the encampment. I met some really nice people, including a lady welder who said she owed you a favor. Oh, yeah. We ran into this guy called Wendell Jones when we got here. He said he could buy this place and build something on it if there was nobody occupying it, so we decided to save it for you and the others. I heard that you told the folks here about the Wobblies last night, and about how they all watched one another’s back. Well, we’re doing them one better. They hauled your entire encampment away, so we gathered another one to take its place. Most of them are friends and family of the people they took away this morning. We’ve got your back, Gram.”

The End

(The series continues in "Scaling K2")

Short Story: "Crossing the Line" (Part 1 of a series)

Tue, 25 Sep 2012 11:09:33 -0400

Are you confident enough to speak truth to power? [Note: I blogged the process of developing this story idea.]

“Crossing the Line”
by P. Orin Zack
[9/24/2012]

Central District City Councilwoman Sue Winston dropped her ever-present smile and nervously glanced around the shared office before answering. When she did, it was in little more than a whisper, and she’d cupped her free hand over the cell phone.

“You’re sure about this, Peter?” she said. “Mayor Svanstrom’s threatened to cut us out of the loop before, but this would be the first time he’d ever carried it out.”

“Absolutely, sis. My squad’s been issued blanket overtime approval for civilian management duty.”

She closed her eyes and fought the sudden chill in the room. So now they’re calling it ‘civilian management’, are they? Ever since Homeland Security began luring Svanstrom’s predecessors into militarizing the city’s police force, more and more managerial doublespeak had been drafted into a growing army of euphemisms. If they’d been on Skype, the dread she harbored would have been obvious. As it was, she was certain that her brother could read it just from the sound of her breathing. But because Peter chose to wait through the uncomfortable silence, rather than prompting her, a ragged semblance of sibling courtesy survived.

“Do you think it might get…” she said weakly, “…that you could get hurt?”

She regretted the remark even before it left her lips. Of course he could get hurt. That risk had always been part of his job. But this was intentional. Sending a line of police in full riot gear to confront peaceful demonstrators on the anniversary of Occupy Wall Street was a calculated act of psychological warfare. Who knows what might happen. One thing was certain, though: the mayor wanted his city’s Occupy to snap, to give him an excuse to make his backers happy by taking action against them. She wouldn’t even put it past the man to have stocked the scene with agents provocateurs. He so despised losing.

Peter forced a laugh. “Seriously, Suki, I could get hurt writing a traffic ticket.”

She knew that he’d used his pet name for her to put her at ease, but the Anime reference only gave her a kit-bashed image of the wide-eyed youngster she’d favored in grade school beset by a line of cartoon monsters wearing Kevlar armor and face shields. “I know,” she said weakly. “Look, I have to go. Thanks for the heads-up.”

“Any time, sis.”

Sue stared at the phone for a few seconds before putting it away. Tomorrow morning, she mused darkly. In less than a day, her peaceful town would join the militaristic cancer sweeping the country. She tried to imagine herself as one of the people still valiantly holding onto the slim hope that ‘the 99%’ could have any effect on the oligarchy’s power brokers, and failed miserably. Here she was on the City Council, albeit on the fluke of an unexpectedly vacated seat and no serious opposition in the special election, and she felt as powerless as she imagined the Occupy would be against what was about to go down.

She was startled out of her reverie by the intercom. Gail at reception said that a very determined visitor was heading her way, so she tidied her desk and tried to put the image of Peter in riot gear out of her mind for the moment.

“Thanks for seeing me, Ms. Winston,” the man said as he approached. “I was afraid that your gatekeeper back there would shunt me off to my home district’s councilmember. You see, this issue has to do with the district where I work, not where I live.”

“Actually,” she said, rising to shake his outstretched hand, “I’m glad you did. Most people don’t realize that they can do that. So what can I do for you?”

“Every day, I have to drive past that damned Hooverville on my commute.”

“Hooverville?” she echoed weakly. “Oh, you mean the city’s Occupy camp.”

He nodded. “I’m sorry. Where are my manners? I’m Wendell Jones.”

“It’s hard not to know your face, Mr. Jones, what with all the time you’ve been spending on the local news lately.”

“Yes, well. In that case, you probably know that I’ve been negotiating to purchase the land those cretins have usurped. After all this time, it’s pretty clear the do-gooders who own it can’t afford to put up the community center they’re always whining about.”

The building proposal he mentioned had first been flown long before Sue took office the previous spring, and she remembered seeing the developer’s sketches in the paper at the time. “It’s true, they can’t. That’s why they let the Occupy camp on it. So you’ve made an offer?”

“It’s a done deal. Except they refuse to sign until that rabble leaves.”

She leaned back in her chair. “I see your problem, Mr. Jones. And what would you like me to do about it?”

“Well, it is your district we’re talking about. Can’t you pressure those vagrants to leave?”

“Pressure them?” she said, leaning forward again. “Not really. That’s the landowner’s choice, and until they’ve signed your deal, they call the shots. Have you spoken to anyone else about this?”

“You mean besides the print and broadcast news? Sure. Mayor Svanstrom. He said he’d do what he could, but I’ve never found him to be very compliant. I guess I’ll just have to find some other way to apply some pressure, then.”

He blathered on for a while longer, but from the moment Jones mentioned the mayor, all Sue could think about was Peter’s call. By the time he left, she’d decided to go down to the encampment and warn them about the mayor’s staged confrontation.

On her way out, she stopped to tell Gail where she was going, in case anyone needed to find her. But instead of leaving, she just stood there for a moment, staring at the wall.

“You okay, Sue?”

“Yeah, but I just realized something. I’ve never been down to the encampment, even though it’s in my district.”

“Don’t beat yourself up about it. After all, you haven’t been at the job very long, and I can attest to the fact that you’ve had a pretty full schedule.”

“Thanks, but I still feel guilty about it.”

Sue spent most of the ten-block walk to the building-site encampment two-thumbing through the Internet on her smartphone looking for reports on what happened yesterday, when a rule like the mayor’s had been levied on the Occupy up in the state capitol. But the more she read, the more determined she became, and the faster she walked.

The massed voices of the ‘People’s Mike’ rose above the noise of traffic passing by as she approached the one unfenced side of the building site.

“---peaceful protesters, just like us…“

“---are being used as cover…“

“---by a violent faction…”

Phrase by phrase, members of the encampment were amplifying the speaker’s comments about the wave of attacks against US embassies across Africa and elsewhere which were conflated with non-violent reaction to an amateurish anti-Muslim video produced in the US.

As Sue approached the encampment’s street-corner lending library, she couldn’t help but wonder how the mayor might use the violence he seemed intent on provoking with his new rule for political purposes. To her, it started to feel all of a kind.

The fiftyish woman minding the stacks recognized her immediately, but when she attempted to strike up a conversation, Sue did little more than nod politely, and swept past on her way to the GA. She had just reached the outskirts of the crowd when the speaker finished talking and there was a lull in the proceedings.

“May I have the floor please?” she shouted.

An unshaven young man in an orange public-works vest appeared out of the crowd. “You must be new here,” he said, and briefed her about procedures while guiding her to the speakers’ area. He explained that he was a stackperson, which meant he helped manage the speakers’ list, and then told her that she’d get her chance to speak after those who were already queued up had their turn.

While orange-vest worked through the announcements roster, Sue paid special attention to the procedures, which were very different from what she was used to at City Council meetings. This was far less formal, for one thing, and people used hand signs for various purposes instead of just shouting at one another, which made her painfully aware of her earlier breach of protocol. On balance, she found herself preferring the more egalitarian feel of the GA. It was a very leveling experience, and therefore anathema to the political predators she sparred with at council meetings.

When it was Sue’s turn, another volunteer – a matronly type who introduced herself as Rose -- reminded her to say one phrase, or a short sentence, at a time, so the others could echo it without losing track of what she said.

“I’m Councilwoman Susan Winston,” she said. “Mayor Svanstrom will be imposing a new rule tomorrow.”

Before the People’s Mike had finished echoing her words, someone yelled, “Are you his mouthpiece, then?”

She held up her hands for quiet, and made eye contact with the questioner. “He doesn’t know I’m here.” Only about a dozen voices repeated her response this time, but Rose told her to go ahead anyway.

“This… new rule,” she said unsteadily, “was imposed yesterday at the state capital.” She looked around the GA while her words were being echoed, estimating how many people were present, and how many were now participating in the Peoples’ Mike. “It limits the number of people who can legally say or do something in unison.”

Midway through repeating that last sentence, the coherence of the Peoples’ Mike fragmented into a self-conscious hubbub. Rose motioned her to wait for the crowd to settle down before continuing. “You would all be in violation.”

Several people thrust gun-fingers aloft: there were questions. The stackperson quickly ordered them and told the first to begin.

“How many people would that be exactly?”

“Ten. Way fewer than we have here right now.”

The next person in the queue cleared his throat. “Um… how do they intend to enforce this?”

“Police, in riot gear.” Her words echoed raggedly across the crowd. “And my own brother will be among them.” This time, even the fear in her voice was amplified.

The moderator jumped into the discussion. “What do you propose we do about it, Councilwoman Winston?”

“Propose?” she said, feeling completely out of her depth.

“Yes. Are you recommending that we comply with this rule?”

“I don’t really see how you can.”

Hands with a dozen questions rose simultaneously. The first posited breaking the People’s Mike into banks of ten people, an idea that the stackperson explained was thoroughly unworkable. The next suggested simply standing in clumps of ten in an attempt to evade the rule, a strategy applicable to actions as well as speaking. But when an example was offered, it became clear that doing so would defeat the whole point of concerted action.

It went on like this for a while, and then the discussion took an unexpected turn. The moderator had just suggested that an affinity group be formed to take the issue off-line until later in the GA, when Sue unsteadily raised her arms and made a triangle with her hands. “You have a point of process, Councilwoman Winston?”

“I’m not sure,” she said. “Why are we even discussing how to obey this absurd new rule?”

“Wasn’t that why you brought it up”?

Sue paled. Why indeed? Whose interests was she really representing here? She felt suddenly naked, bereft of any narrative to clothe her presence here. “Well,” she said, stretching the word for time, “shouldn’t you first decide whether to obey it?”

“Before we even determine if that’s possible?”

Risking even further embarrassment, she scanned the crowd, and then replied, “I think so, yes. There are things that I won’t do, simply as a matter of principle. Taking bribes, for example. Where is that line for you? Is the People’s Mike, for example, an essential part of the Occupy?”

The moderator took the sense of the crowd. It was widely agreed that the People’s Mike was simply a countermove to the initial prohibition of bullhorns at Zucotti Park in New York City. It wasn’t essential here, but adopting its use was an act of solidarity with other Occupies. Using it made the GA into a kind of sacred experience. Even so, having it prohibited would only be an issue if the city were to also prohibit bullhorns.

But that sentiment was quickly de-twinkled. “I strongly disagree,” said a voice from the edge of the crowd. The speaker was quickly given some room, and Sue recognized her as the woman who had been minding the bookstand. “That’s a slippery slope,” she continued. “What restriction would you bow to next? That you couldn’t conduct an action either?”

Sue self-consciously raised gun fingers. “Under this rule,” she said when recognized by orange-vest, “you might not be able to anyway, if it involved concerted action by more than ten people.”

The moderator gestured at the woman. “Would you like to respond, Natalie?”

Occupy’s librarian nodded, and took a few steps towards the center. “There’s something else here, too: a pattern of capitulation. Every time we accede to some new indignity, those in power are emboldened to go further, and we become more used to yielding power. It’s like a Maxwell’s Demon for confidence, stealing it from us and feeding it to them.”

“Then you’d want to oppose this rule on principle?”

“Yes.”

“Would you like to help coordinate the response?”

Natalie frowned for a moment in indecision, but then brightened. “Of course.”

“Good.” Then he turned towards Sue. “And what about you, Ms. Winston? Will you be putting some skin into this game, or do you intend to watch from a safe distance?”

For Sue, it was as if the whole complicated mess was suddenly distilled down to its essence. She’d stepped into government service almost on a whim, and until now it had mostly consisted of mundane tasks such as meetings, reports and speaking with her constituents. This was different, and it was exhilarating. “It’s funny,” she said, “when I came down here, all I was really thinking about was my brother. If there was going to be trouble, I didn’t want him to get hurt. But now, I see there’s a whole lot more to this. And yes, I intend to be here with you tomorrow.”

Natalie had moved through the crowd, and was now standing in front of her. “Tell me something,” she said earnestly, “how did you think a bunch of non-violent people could endanger a cop in riot gear?”

“To be honest, thinking didn’t really enter into it. I was just worried about my brother. Yeah, I know. It was irrational. But what can I do? He’s family.”

“So is everyone here, in a manner of speaking.”

A handful of people followed the two women back to the library. And although they were supposed to be developing a formal response to the new rule, they ended up talking more about the unintended effects that it could have beyond the Occupy. The problems were legion, and they were ludicrous: cheerleaders at football games, call-and-response sessions at churches and political rallies, and on and on. Clearly, the mayor hadn’t thought this through, but there seemed every possibility that he would have his police force use it to thwart the Occupy anyway. Eventually, the rest of them wandered off, leaving only Sue and her new friend.

When Natalie was asked to relate the proposal, she studied the gathering for a long moment before speaking. “What we are doing right now,” she said, “will be a violation of the city’s new rule tomorrow. It will be illegal. But so is any act of civil disobedience. The difference is that for them to arrest us for speaking as we are right now, they will have to violate our space. We will not be blocking a street, or preventing anyone from conducting their business. What we will be doing is exercising out constitutional right to speak and to assemble. There is nothing more central to what this movement is about.”

She didn’t continue right away, so the moderator asked if she had a proposal to place before the GA.

“We propose,” she said, pausing to glance at Sue, “that starting tomorrow, in the interest of solidarity, everyone participates in the People’s Mike. Everyone.” She paused again, but this time it was for effect. “If the mayor wants to stage a mass arrest, we’ll force him to take as large a group as possible. Spread the word any way you can. Get people down here in the morning. One more thing: when the arrests start, we’ll want to be streaming it live, with backup. If they take one speaker, someone else takes over. If they cuff someone who was streaming, someone else picks up the slack. The I.W.W. pioneered this strategy. If you’re not familiar with the Wobblies, visit the Occupy Library. I’ve got several books about them.”

Sue had something to say as well. “Remember: Mayor Svanstrom is imposing this unilaterally. He did not consult city council. He’s pressing the police into this without oversight, as if they were his private army. We want to keep him in the spotlight on this. The police are not our enemy.”

Once the GA had concluded, much of the encampment buzzed with activity. A discussion of Wobbly history and tactics broke out near the library. Others called friends and relatives, sent out emails, and arranged for more people to join the tech team. When three uniformed officers walked into the site shortly after midnight to distribute announcements about the rule, those who were still awake fell silent and just watched. Sue walked directly to the first of them.

“What’s this about, officer?” she said innocently, taking one of the fliers while the other two officers continued past.

“It’s an announcement, Councilwoman Winston. We’ll be enforcing a new rule down here in the morning.”

“This is pretty harsh,” she said after reading the notice. “Mayor Svanstrom must be pretty confident that this rule of his would stand up in court.”

“I wouldn’t know about that, ma’am. We just enforce the law. Just ask your—” The officer straightened at a sudden sound from further in the encampment, his hand instinctively by his hip.

Sue spun around just in time to see a shredded flier settle to the ground. A young man was belligerently facing down a uniformed policewoman, who calmly held out another. This time, he crumbled it in his raised fist. Natalie, book in hand, raced to intervene. After stepping between them, she apologized to the policewoman, and then led him away while talking about the importance of remaining non-violent in the face of challenges.

“I think they’ve got the idea,” the first officer called out. “Let’s go.”

Once the scene had calmed, Sue rejoined Natalie and got a few hours’ fitful sleep on a borrowed bedroll. The encampment was already swarming when she woke up. People had begun arriving at four-thirty, but the pace really picked up just before seven. While breakfasting on bagels and orange juice that someone had brought in, the two women wandered the grounds, listening in on numerous discussions about how to handle the inevitable hand-offs when the police pull someone out. The newly enlarged tech team was wrestling with visibility issues when they approached.

“If this goes down anything like it did at the capital yesterday,” one person said, “the cops will go after the live-streamers first. For them, it’s a matter of containment. So we’ll have to stay out of sight until we’re needed.”

“Fine,” said another, but how do the rest of us know who goes next? If a bunch of us de-cloak at once, they’ll grab us all.”

“Well,” a third piped up, “we could set the order now.”

Natalie stepped in. “If this was a more structured situation, that might work. But the police are going to want to keep us off-balance. If they see that we’ve got some set plan, they’ll do their best to short-circuit it.”

As Sue listened, memories of council meetings overlaid the proceedings, and she began to wonder whether the very orderliness of those meetings was instrumental in why the power brokers could control them so easily. She resolved to be more disruptive the next time a session was hijacked.

“—but then, who’s in charge? Who’s the leader?” someone pleaded in frustration.

“Nobody,” Natalie said, stepping closer. “And that may be part of the problem. We keep telling ourselves that this is a leaderless movement, but what we really need to see it as is a leaderful one. What if we had one signal for—” She broke off at the sound of someone calling out ‘Code Blue’. Police had been spotted.

Sue turned around, and saw several uniformed officers arrayed along the opposite side of the street. A moment later, a young male voice called for a Mike Check, and the closest officer spoke into the mike clipped to his collar. “This is it,” she muttered.

Simultaneously, a scattering of voices in the encampment echoed the request, and a double-line of armored police strode down the center of the street, towards the encampment. When they reached the curb, they spread out, stopping a double arms length apart across the open side of the vacant building lot. By this time, the Peoples’ Mike had assembled opposite the police, and stood nervously waiting for someone to speak. Dozens of cell phones were held aloft to record whatever might happen next.

Sue knew instantly which of the identically outfitted officers was her brother, and strode purposefully towards him. While the murmuring behind her spoke of indecision on the part of the person who had launched the mike check, she spoke to Peter. “You’re going to be ordered to arrest me, you know.”

“I’d rather not, sis.”

“You’re not going to be given that choice. As long as you’re wearing that badge, you’re obligated to obey your superior officers, and that includes Mayor Svanstrom.”

There was another call for a Mike Check, but this time it was Natalie. Sue glanced over her shoulder, and then spoke quickly. “Have you looked at your fellow officers, Peter? You’re all dressed alike. And in a few seconds, you’re all going to be doing the exact same thing: arresting us. Why is that okay, and us saying ‘mike check’ is not?”

“Good morning, officers,” the librarian said, and the crowd echoed.

“Do you feel threatened by me?” Sue asked, poking herself with a finger. “By her?”

“We are non-violent,” Natalie said in a loud, clear voice. This time, Sue joined the echo.

“It doesn’t matter,” Peter stage whispered. “This is my job.”

The police commander blew his whistle, and his line of armored officers each dutifully grabbed the nearest person echoing the speaker, and started to cuff them. Including Peter.

“Look at your fellow officers,” Sue said as her brother grabbed her arm and turned her around. “How many of you are there? Twenty? Thirty?”

“We are not threatening you.” This time it was someone else. Natalie had been grabbed as well.

Sue repeated the words as loudly as she could while Peter fastened her wrists together with plastic straps. When he was finished, she faced him again and said, “If this law applies equally to everyone, you’ll also have to arrest one another!”

He stared at her for a moment, and then glanced left and right, at the row of armored officers in what might just as well be lockstep action.

“But you,” the new speaker continued, “are violating our right to peaceably assemble.”

Sue echoed, addressing the words directly to Peter this time. Then she added, “Is that why you joined the force?”

He smiled weakly at her, and nodded. “Okay, sis. I get it. I get it.”

“So now what?”

Peter stirred the air with a finger. “Turn around, Suki, and I’ll cut you loose.”

“Thanks.”

After freeing her, he raised his face shield and slipped the helmet off. While the officers to his left and right looked on, he stepped across an invisible line and stood beside his sister, facing into the street. “Are you still worried about me getting hurt out here?”

She rapped his armor a few times. “Not as long as they let you keep that outfit.”

THE END

(To be continued...)

Story-prep 4: Setting the Stage

Fri, 31 Aug 2012 19:08:35 -0400

In my last three posts, (Confidence Vampires, Grounding a Vampire, and Death by Inches,) I transformed the idea presented in a recent academic paper -- that people become overconfident because social norms of politeness prevent others from giving negative social feedback -- into the basis for a short story. Because the pressure of social norms acts on internal decisions, I needed a way to show it, and decided that the consensus-based process of an Occupy's General Assembly was the way to go. So now it's time to start laying out the story itself.

Setting:

We're at the GA of some Occupy to determine how to respond to the latest restriction imposed by the city, limiting the number of people who can do or say anything at once. The new rule was issued in response to an event that scared the powers-that-be in this burg: they were freaked by how effective a concerted action can be, because of something another Occupy pulled off, and they didn't want it to happen in their city. The other Occupy was in a larger city, with a larger contingent of occupiers. That city had already imposed this rule, and this city is following suit through coordination of their mayors (and power-brokers). The city we're in can be referred to by a nickname, and the larger city can be the (unnamed) state capitol, so readers will be able to identify with it more easily. The city did not announce the new rule publicly, thinking that it wouldn't affect most people, without realizing that sporting events (for example) would be covered as well as protests. But politicians rarely think things through.

GA Procedures:

We don't have to show the entire meeting process, but it's useful to know what they are. The Moderator composes the Order of the Day, and makes sure that everyone gets a chance to speak. He or she is assisted by the Shadow Moderator. Both people are chosen by and from the Facilitation Committee. (Moderator changes off for each GA session.) Meetings start with a Welcome message, and the Principles of Solidarity, then the hand gestures are explained. [Hands up and open for applause or agreement; one hand up, then swung in front of mouth for disagree; two fingers for Point of Clarity or a question; triangle sign for Point of Process; crossed fists for Hard Block.] Next, Announcements from Committees, Affinity Groups and individuals. (An Affinity Group is a committee that has not been formalized by the GA.) Proposals are next, first from Committees, then Affinity Groups, and finally from individuals. During a discussion, a Stackperson (in some Occupies, wearing an orange vest) manages the order of the people who wish to speak.

Timing:

If this issue were raised as a proposal, it would have to be concrete, and have a what, how, why and when already worked out. We're not that far along yet, since the focus here is on the discussion of how to respond to the new restrictions. Unless… a proposal has been made, and we're discussing whether to accept it.

So we could be at a number of stages in the process. The issue would first be raised as an Announcement. At this point, the person speaking describes the city's new rule, and it starts a heated discussion. But because the rule is to take effect the next morning, there's little time to go through the usual process. There's a hard deadline looming: somehow, the GA must decide on what to do tonight.

Players:

Our focus character is the person who raises the issue. Either s/he was told about it by someone in the loop, or this is a city employee risking his/her job by coming down to the GA. If it's a city employee, is it someone with a public reputation? That would give them psychological clout. If s/he was involved in the process of making such rules, s/he would likely have objected, and was overruled. That would be the impetus to go to the GA and warn the Occupy. (Fleshing out the players will be the next step in this process.)

The Conflict and Resolution:

So far, all we have is a civil conflict between those who would settle for finding a way to live with the new rule, and those who would rather make this a public fight and risk being arrested. The people arrayed on either side can be a random cross-section of the Occupy. Does anything aside from the discussion happen? If not, it's going to be just talking heads. It's going to need some action to make it visceral, which means that either the discussion gets out of hand, or something intrudes on the peaceful process of reaching consensus. I'll have to revisit this once I know who the players are.

As to a resolution for the story, there are several paths we could take. They could agree to propose abiding by the new rule; they could agree to propose ignoring the new rule; they could reach an impasse and ask for the GA to vote on it; they could propose that those who wish to ignore the new rule can do so without the support of the Occupy. Should the story end with the call for a vote? That's a provocative ending, but certainly not a satisfying one. On the other hand, it could entice some reader responses. Assume this ending for now. (The course that my stories take is frequently revealed in the writing, so I won't worry about this for now.)