bychrisfalite
The following excerpt was selected from the nonfiction novel, TO WHOM IT MAY CONCERN (An Utterly Warped and Anxious Odyssey into the Psyche of American Democracy)
…The sun dips and disappears and the sky turns a deep indigo blue. Hundreds, probably thousands of illuminated cellphones form a galaxy of hope in the streets, fists clenched in pain but raised high with strength—remembering the lives lost at the hands of police.
Moments later, a couple little fuckers start to rock the construction fence with force, looking as though they could bring it down when a group of protesters put the punks on blast.
“Shit’s gettin’ weird,” a dude next to me whispers to his girl.
Personally, my optimism diminished with the last bit of sunlight. Now I feel the temperature here on the ground rising as night takes over, the angst tightening my muscles. Looking around others feel it, too. Both peaceful protests have come together after a long and emotional day—now what? There are still thousands of us left…
My wary eyes are drawn to the site of an aged woman knelt in the crowd, her hair as pure as winter’s first snowfall…the concept of hope and change all but a prayer amid the timeless pews of altered realities.
The psssssst of a red rocket flare shoots out across the sky just above our heads…has it begun? A signal from the Archers of Democracy. Something tells me we’re about to be on the dark side of things.
At the front gate, where I’m positioned now, it’s getting cramped and uncomfortable, protesters clinging to the concrete base and wrought-iron fencing. The police on high alert. I can’t imagine the powers-that-be allowing this expression of First Amendment Rights to go on much longer…and a good bet they’ll use the 9PM coronavirus curfew as an excuse to smoke out the bastards.
“Take-a-knee! Take-a-knee!” the crowd chants to police on the other side of the fence, on the other side of the fight. It’s no use.
Sounds of scattered chaos and muffled explosions splinter the memory of a peaceful day…emergency sirens louder and louder until they’re on top of us. The densely packed crowd disperses in a panic once a police SUV drives through the heart of the protest and down Beacon Street, splitting us in two like the Red Sea. Dazed and confused, people drift back into the street like someone set off a flashbang. All of it a vortex, a magnet of fate. Malcolm Johnson from NBC Channel 10 is fast on the scene, reporting for the Boston Night Team.
Angry protesters begin pelting state troopers with water bottles, exposed by the capitol’s ornamental lights for all the news helicopters above as they capture officers fleeing for higher ground on Live! TV. In response, riot police are deployed on the other side in the event this thing turns ugly, and these kids decide to storm the State House. If it ain’t Afghanistan, it’s America. Faces red with vengeance, lined up along the fence pointing and cursing at a faceless enemy, “Fuck you pig!”
Another cruiser attempts to drive through Beacon but finds himself surrounded-at-once by a flock of enraged citizens circling his SUV, hands up in defiance…a large Black man in a beige tactical vest cements himself in front, shaking his head at the officer behind the wheel—No, sir. You shall not pass.
Rushing over with my camera…flashes of red and blue iridescent paint splashed across the faces of laughing ghouls. Eyes like burning matchbooks. The officer presses the gas, then slams the brake, rocking him back. There’s nowhere for him to go unless he wants a massacre on his record. Hands up! Don’t Shoot! Protesters pound on the hood and glass, emptying water bottles on the windshield. A schizophrenic’s worst nightmare. All the faces in the crowd focused on you, their menace and fury backing you in…tighter and tighter. The officer releases the brake pedal again, trying to move forward. Nothing. His options dwindling, he blares his sirens to a deafening level; fear pumping through him with each smash on the glass, each snicker and expletive. He’s entered survival mode, saying to myself—this guy’s about to floor it…
“LET HIM THROUGH!” I scream, surprising myself. “LET HIM GO!” pulling people back. “DO YOU WANT ANOTHER NEW YORK!? working my way up and down, “DO YOU WANT ANOTHER NEW YORK!?”
Others join in and peel the leftovers away, freeing the cruiser as he zips forward, debris flying in every which direction.
“WHO THE FUCK ARE YOU!?” an angry White female screams in my face.
Despite the comedy of her bug-eyed goggles and scarf wrapped around her head like Lindsey of Arabia, I snap back, “DO YOU WANT TO DIE?!” and lose my voice in the process.
The commotion shifts up ahead when the same police SUV smashes into a car full of protesters blocking its path. People running, screaming. “No, man—they didn’t have to fucking do that!” one girl says in a panic. Flicking its lights on, an unmarked sedan evades capture, snaking his way around protesters as if they're leftover bowling pins.
“FUCKING COCKSUCKERS!”
I hear a loud explosion in the distance and turn back…a band of young college girls marches past me, the leader checking on her team’s vitals, “Anyone need water, band aids, vitamin C?”
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