I stand up, and count down out loud. The others in the tent stop talking and watch me. "10, 9, 8, 7, 6, 5, 4, 3, 2, 1...."
"Hey!" our observer says, "the light's gone green! Right on the money, Danial!"
I want to back up & shift into past tense. Before counting down, I spent a pleasant half-hour talking with Barry Giolino, the deputy city attorney in charge of most downtown court and police affairs. He was a little surprised to learn that Paula was my ex, but he's not the first at city hall to get hit by the small world, small city syndrome, when they find out who my ex-wife is. She's been clerking for the attorney for twelve years now.
Barry's been dropping by the zone nearly every day so far, checking on how things've been going. I think it's about time I mention him. We know each other from previous joint Manager/Attorney projects I've done support work for, and have hit it off pretty good this week in the tent, chatting about... well, city hall things. He doesn't seem to be bothered much by my constantly writing notes. Understands that I want to keep working for the city in the future. Figures - correctly so - that if anyone's going to be hurt by my journal, it will be me.
What are we supposed to make of that remark?
Make nothing of what I say, it is the truth. But what I don't say, I won't say.
That's what we'd like to know....
No. You wouldn't. It's only gossip, anyhow.
But....
Be silent. I'm talking.
"Hey, Danial, what was that sign yesterday... that woman who was taunting the pro-choice church people? Something about screw everyone... or something?""Oh yeah. I remember that. It was... umm... ah! Let The Unborn Live - But Screw All The Rest."
"Right. That was it. Some of these people can get pretty creative. You know, a really good sign is almost like a visual sound bite."
"Yeah. A visual sound bite. Quod erad demonstrandum: that sign you saw yesterday."
"What? Oh, you mean Q.E.D. I see. You don't speak Latin, do you?"
"Not really. Just a couple words. I tried to take a class this summer but had to drop it - I was pulling a D, and going downhill from there."
"Oh."
"Barry, what if... there were sound bites... in Latin!"
Shakes his head, laughs. "You are just as strange as when you used to work for Don."
"Of course. That's why I wanted to work here at Free Speech Concentration Camp."
"Oh Danial, don't call it that - you're not being fair, after all the work we put into getting this place up and running...."
"Heh heh. Well, I know you guys really hustled. Especially when the elephants decided they didn't want the protests here. All those court hearings."
"Yeah. They claimed they needed this site for disabled access."
"They sure came up with a politically correct excuse to move the protest away from the convention center. Care to comment on that, counselor?"
"No. Let's just say I'm relieved things worked out as well as they have."
"Very politic of you, Barry."
"I will say I was impressed how fast the maintenance and electrical crews moved once the courts ruled this would be the site."
"Sure did. What did they have - a week?"
"Just about. Had to put in all the fences, porta-potties, wiring for the sound system, power, switchbox control, build the stage and camera platforms. But once we had the go ahead, they really delivered."
A heavy-set, middle-aged man comes to the table. Greets Barry. Introduces himself to me. Carl Rickson, police detective and artist. For another twenty minutes we settle into a discussion of writing and painting. He describes some of his work - including a huge mural of a murdered woman he painted on a wall above the spot where she was killed.
"I am proud to say that in the four years since I painted that mural, not a single piece of grafitti has been sprayed onto it. That's respect. I know it's not respect for me, but for her memory. Still, I can't help feeling proud of the fact that no one has defaced my work.""You should be proud, Carl. It says something about the quality of your work, too, not just the sacred quality of her memory. You have touched people with that painting, I'm sure."
"Thanks, Dan. Every other wall in the neighborhood has been painted and repainted, but not her. She is... sacred, I guess, just like you said. At least, that's how I felt when I painted her.
"And I'm sure you got some of that feeling into the mural. People respect that kind of thing."
I'D LIKE TO INVITE YOU TO STICK AROUND AFTER OUR TIME, FOR THE NEXT GROUP COMING IN....
"Who's that gonna be?""H-A-C-E-S. Stands for Hermanos en Accion Contra El Sida."
"What?"
"Ummm... that means... Brothers in Action Against AIDS."
Or, the "Table" of Contents.