30.EP.27h: August 15, 2002.
"The War Party, part 7:
The Scouting Expedition: THE OTHER SIDE."
The future belongs to crowds.
-- Don DeLillo, Mao II
THE OTHER SIDE About 10:00 am:
There are helicopters.
Three of them, at least. They circle constantly overhead.
The helicopters are black.
Around me, people walk,
talking on cell phones, or just talking to each other. Or shopping.
They're all ignoring the helicopters.
And the sound of the helicopters
is so loud. Even though they're waaaaaay up there.
And all the people are just
going about their daily business.
A black helicopter flies
down low. Everyone looks upwards. But then they look back down,
continue on, unconcerned.
And then the helicopter
flies back up.
8TH AVENUE
Down 8th Avenue, everyone is
shopping.
8th Avenue is a section
of downtown Calgary that becomes a pedestrian mall during the day.
No traffic is allowed here. The pavement in the middle of the street
is made of interlocking paving stones. There are also pretty trees
along the sidelines. It's nifty.
I walk down the middle of
the pedestrian mall.
The sun beats down on my
back.
There are a few buskers,
but no panhandlers. The panhandlers are in hiding because of all
the police. Nothing like 400 million dollars worth of cops to curb
a transient problem.
And another chopper, circling
above, going:
Pitch black, up there.
Evil-looking.
I keep waiting for missiles
to disengage.
But no one else cares.
SEARCHING
So I walk around the area.
Up to and then past the Hilton. People are everywhere. Some
of them look vaguely interested at the cops surrounding the Hilton, but
only vaguely.
There is a small group of
Africans holding up signs. They are protesting the fact that one
of the African dignitaries either is, or used to be a war criminal.
But I don't know which one. And I can't find out because the Africans
are ignoring me.
So, I walk on.
I find a little bookstore
I've never seen before. I check it out. Lots of overpriced
collectibles that I could find anywhere else.
Note to all people who believe
in the intrinsic Capitalistic value of old things: Lots of "collectibles"
aren't collectable at all.
The past is just as worthless
as the present.
Remember that.
SO, THEN....
I walk down to City Hall.
Maybe the protesters will be there.
Nope. Nothing.
11:05 am:
A train of cops cars drives
past me. There are about 20 cars. Their lights are all flashing,
but there are no sirens.
Some pedestrians stop to
watch the cars drive by.
And, when the cars are gone,
everyone starts up again:
Talking on cell phones.
Ignoring each other.
Shopping.
THEREFORE....
Down the street, over to A&B
sound. Look for protesters there.
Again, nothing.
AND SO....
I walk back down 8th Avenue.
Near the Hilton I find a hotdog vendor. I walk up to her:
"Uh... hi."
"Hi," she says.
I order a hotdog, and then
I ask her:
"Do you, uh, know where
the, uh, protesters are supposed to be today?"
"Oh, yeah," she says, "that.
They're doing something, right?"
"Yeah. Holding up
traffic."
"Weird. Why?"
"That's what I'm trying
to find out. Do you know where they are?"
"Nope. Sorry."
"Oh well," I say, taking
a big mouthful of hotdog. "I'll find them."
"Good luck."
NO ENTRANCE / NO EXIT
Down the street, past boarded-up
stores, past signs telling me to use the other entrance, past notes pasted
on doors:
This store will be closed
for the duration of the G8 conference.
Sorry about the inconvenience.
And:
For the sake of security
mall access will restricted
to the
NORTH AND SOUTH
door's ony.
And:
AUTHORISED PERCONNEL.
And this one, in bright red
letters:
NO! PROTTESTER'S
ALLOUED
EVENTUALLY....
I walk around, sweating.
The sun is actually painful. My skin feels like it's burning under
my clothes.
I find some police officers.
In fact, there are seven
police officers, all clustered around a streetcorner, watching pedestrians
go by. The police officers are all wearing black.
I walk up to them.
"Hi," I say.
"Hi," one of them says.
Another one nods.
The rest of them ignore
me. But I can tell they're not really ignoring me.
"So, um," I say. "I'm,
like an independent journalist, " I say. (After all, what else am
I going to say?) "Indie media, and all that. And, I'm, uh,
looking for the protest. I seem to have, uh, lost the uh, protest.
Do you guys have any idea where it might be?"
"I don't actually know,"
the police officer who said hi to me says. And he seems so sincere
I can't actually tell if he's lying or not. "Last I heard they were
somewhere in Chinatown, I think."
"No," another one says.
"I think that was this morning. I don't really know where they are."
"Third, or something maybe,"
the one who nodded to me says.
"Sorry," the one who said
hi says. "Looks like you're on your own."
And I know all one of them
has to do is make a quick call on a radio and they'll all know exactly
where the protesters are, if they don't know this already. But I
don't want to press the issue and annoy them. After all, an entire
jail has been cleared out specifically to house dissidents. This
means a lot of people are expected to be arrested. This means that
the cops are ready-- and extremely willing-- to arrest people. And
I don't really want to be one of those people. So I walk on.
AND SO, YEAH....
The sun is hot. It beats
down between the buildings. And I didn't think it would be possible
after the weird pheromone-driven panic of the GAP-tivist protest yesterday,
but all the people downtown are oblivious. Docile.
Maybe they used up all their
paranoia-- and their curiosity-- yesterday. Maybe there's a biological
reserve of curiosity-- and paranoia-- and when it gets used up the body
needs time to generate more.
Or, maybe, just maybe, I
was the one who was all freaked out and paranoid yesterday, not these people.
And maybe something happened to me overnight, my head cleared maybe, and
now I'm seeing the situation more like it really is.
And the helicopters are
circling.
And I'm also circling, pounding
the pavement, walking around and around and around and around. I
have to find these protesters. At first, I thought maybe I should
just give up, but now it's become a holy quest.
They're somewhere downtown.
You'd think it'd be easy
to find hundreds of people making noise, carrying banners, and disrupting
traffic in the middle of busy intersections. And also dozens of cops
following behind. And then journalists. And all the television
equipment and trucks that follow the journalists.
You'd think it would be
easy to spot that, somewhere in the distance.
NOTES:
-- searching, searching.
Feels like hours passing. Only minutes, really
-- the sun is hot -- getting
hotter by the second it seems -- a searing, migraine heat
-- no one knows where the
protesters are
-- helicopters
-- police
-- heat -- sun so bright
seeing is difficult
-- seeking shelter in stores
-- the air conditioning
-- not even noon and it
feels like the sky is crushing me
-- I need water.
-- RE: THE PROTEST: No
one cares.
ETC.
Buying a bottle of water in
a drugstore in a mall I ask the girl behind the counter if she knows where
the protest is being held. Of course she doesn't know.
SANS HATS
I decide my Hüsker Dü
cd is lonely, so I go back to A&B Sound and see if I can buy it some
friends. But once I get there I discover that all the other Hüsker
cds that were there yesterday have all mysteriously vanished. So,
I decide to buy some Men Without Hats instead. I find the The
Rhythm Of Youth / Folk Of The 80s (Part III) cd. Two albums on
one disc at an affordable bargain price!
SORT OF LIKE AN EXISTENTIAL FRENCH PLAY
Outside again.
The heat, beating down.
I walk past the hotdog stand,
and the girl.
"Hi," she says.
"Hi."
MORE NOTES:
SOME CONCLUSIONS:
1. Nobody knows where
this protest is being held.
2a. That's almost
fair because it is a mobile protest, but:
2b. It is reportedly
a very large crowd, so how in GOD'S NAME could it be THIS INVISIBLE???
And:
2c. Even a very large,
invisible, crowd of protesters is still made of protesters which
means that:
2d.1. Protesters have
agendas.
2d.2. Therefore protesters
need to be heard, need to to have exposure.
2d.3. THEREFORE, even
if the protesters form a very large, invisible crowd, there should be mechanisms
in place to allow the GENERAL PUBLIC AND THE MEDIA to find this very large,
invisible crowd.
THEREFORE, BASED UPON
THIS:
3. This protest has
been very badly planned, poorly thought out.
-- how can people making a spectacle hope to accomplish anything if they
cannot be found?
-- spectacles need viewers, need an audience, otherwise they are nothing
-- (Christ, it's hot.)
IN THE NICK OF TIME
And then I hear a sound.
And then I turn a corner.
And then there's a crowd.
A huge mass of people. Just down the block.
And they're chanting something,
and I can't make it out. But I don't care.
And I reach for my notebook
and my pen, and I prepare to run towards the mass, but:
I feel my pockets.
I dig through my pockets.
I feel keys and a handful
of loose change in my right pocket. I feel a wallet in my left pocket.
And my back pockets are filled with slips of paper. And in my right
back pocket, the Men Without Hats cd.
But my pen is gone.
But it was right here.
I had it in my hand. I was just writing notes, just a second ago.
But now it's gone. The pen, gone.
It's not in any pocket.
I scan the ground.
Nothing.
I've got my notebook, but
no pen.
People pass me by the hundreds:
pedestrians, shoppers. Lunch hour is closing in.
And I have a notebook, but
no pen.
And above me, a helicopter
circles.
DETOUR
So I look frantically to my
left and right. I need to find a pen fast. Now that they've
shown themselves, I can't let these protesters go back into hiding.
But:
No drugstores, nothing.
Just business people on cell phones and bored shopping kids, and the occasional
person mesmerized by the black helicopter above me.
--At last! Someone
other than me seems to notice it! The chopper!
--But I would pick the most
uninspired, store-free area of downtown Calgary to lose my pen....
And then, across the street,
I see it:
A Chinese grocery.
I wait for the light to
change. I run across the street. I duck inside the grocery
store.
The store smells like spices,
and it's mostly empty.
I scan bare white shelves,
looking for anything that might resemble the fragments of a stationary
section.
But, it's mostly just bread,
and cans of soup, and the odd wrinkled silver thing that looks like it
might be used for scrubbing pots and pans. Also, there are batteries.
But no pens.
But:
There's an old woman behind
the counter. She's Chinese, hair done up in a big bun.
"Hello," she says.
"I help you."
It's not a question.
"Uh, yes," I say.
"I'm looking for a pen. Do you have any pens?"
"Oh. Pens. What
kind you want."
I shrug.
"Pretty much anything that
writes," I say.
"Oh." She reaches
behind the counter and comes up with a pickle jar full of used Bic pens.
"Pens. Here. Take one."
So I take one.
"You look like journalist,"
she says. "So pen-- for you-- one dollar, no tax."
So I pay her a dollar, and
than her, and leave.
On my way out the door,
she says to me:
"Enjoy your pen. You
need more, remember-- one dollar, no tax."
CHUCK?
But, in the time it takes me
to get that pen, when I walk out of the Chinese grocery store, the protesters
have vanished.
I walk down the street,
the street where they once-- just a few minutes ago-- seconds ago-- were.
But, now:
Nothing but rustling papers
and tumbleweeds.
And, now:
Me, standing on a deserted
streetcorner in downtown Calgary, fists clenched, head tilted to the sky:
"This is the third time I've
seen you. You still haven't found the protest?"
"But I did! I swear
I did! They were right there! But then, when I went to buy
a pen, they disappeared!"
She laughs.
BUT....
Walking down a random street,
giving up all hope, feet scuffing, dragging, going chuf-chuf-chuf-chuf,
suddenly I hear sounds. Crowd sounds. And then the sounds turn
into a roar. And down the street, right there, just down the block,
poof like magic, a mass of people walking, holding signs, shouting, laughing,
screaming. And behind them, a trail of cops and journalists.
Police on bikes, in cars.
Journalists on bikes, on foot. And a couple of ambulances.
And me, doing a happy dance,
now:
I made it!
I made it!
I made it!
And, above me, the helicopter.
MAO II
So, I walk towards the crowd.
And the closer I get, the louder it gets.
There are a few bike cops
hanging back. I pass them. They nod at me.
The protesters make a sound
that sounds like:
"RRRRHHHHHAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAHHHHH!"
Above me, the helicopter
has pulled back, is a speck in the sky, now.
And the sun is beating down,
and I'm sweating.
And I've got the pen in
one hand, notebook in the other.
And when I join up with
the crowd, I finally see how big it really is:
Police, journalists, protesters
swarming around each other like some sort of massive hive-creature.
Some sort of-- maybe a slime mold or something. I dunno. It's
only noon and already I'm too hot and tired to think of a good simile.
Anyway, whatever the hell
it is, it all moves with one body.
I reach around to my back
pocket and feel for my Men Without Hats cd.
Still there. Good.
And-- despite the heat--
suddenly I feel very, very cold.
And so:
I shudder, and I follow
the crowd down the street.
