"What's he freakin' out about?"

  The acting class people fell quiet. 

  The man with his hair squished by a helmet and spiked by hair goo stomp-paced. 

  Others on the higher-up level of working found him.  But he was pacing furious.  Just as most people started talking low and eager again the man exploded. 

  "The Satanists put a big fucking rock in MY territory and nobody bothered to tell me????!!!!!" 

  People disappeared. 

Precedent

  "Does it mean the first of something?" 

  The person giving the course on Legalese 101 wrote down the guess on a whiteboard.  Others pitched in suggestions too. 

  The end of the "class time" was a window for discussion.  People were reluctant to bring up personal issues.  Somebody awkwardly brought up religion. 

  "So if a legal precedent is set about faith, say, does it mean all faiths?" 

  The question was written on the whiteboard.  The Instructor gave the floor to the Students to ponder the question.  This would generate a weekly think-on assignment.

  "What'd ya think?" 

  "You did excellent.  This is such a great space for learning." 

  "I'll show you around." 

"That's not really activism, as

  much as it is getting things factual.  Just saying." 

"You there. What's your angle on this

  unfortunate little experience?" 

  Most everybody froze in place.  But had been sculpted like bronze pieces on the outside, so not revealing emotions and stress and exhausted and fear.  Controlling disgust and anger and doubts and every human characteristic inside image of success and power. 

  "People are grieving.  I don't have (i)an angle(i) just yet." 

  "There's no time for that." 

  "I know what it should be." 

  "What is it then?" 

  "How fake and awful you are and how that kind of evil is making all of life worse." 

  "What did you just say?" 

  "Why don't you go back to TV land?!" Someone standing near a shot dead body said. 

"Fuckin' A," said a really young man with part

  of his face drooping.  

  "Did he..." 

  "We're not saying that word," a hand on a forearm pressed firmly.  "None of us has health insurance." 

  "How did the string of us wind up here?" 

  "Where is this?" 

  "Be quiet.  They're coming back." 

  More hands reached to still. 

  "And apparently, they consider this a real war and that they can kill journalists." 

  "No one's allowed to kill anybody in our country." 

  "Well, that's a theory." 

  Really old school sneakers and black shoes.  Three pairs of legs.  All black clothing. 

  "Which one of you insulted (i)my people(i)?" A female voice asked in the dimming light of the stalls and hay.  "Who are your people?" Someone asked back. 

  Hands gestured (i)don't answer(i) and (i)spread out(i). 

 

  "Want me to page my paper?" 

  "You guys have a statement or demands or something?" 

  A hand lifting a nonspeaking person by the hair off the floor. 

  "Last I knew none of these were legit." 

  Stifled hyperventilating.

  A horse crop smushed into a chest. 

  "You should know I've liberated your friend." 

  "Ma, mah, my friend?" Eyebrows up forcing eyes to stay open. 

  "We'll let you know more tomorrow." 

  "It's already tomorrow," said a guy with a badly split lip. 

  Total quiet but for some breathing.  

  A dim glint.  "Get over there," the glint indicating an opposing stall wall.  "Why?" 

  "You have a gun?" 

  "Oh my 

  "You glow in the dark." 

  "Gawd." 

  "I'm not that white, but okay, okay." 

  "When did this get so freaking serious?" 

  "Gee, mightah been when the black flags blocked the ice, or 

  "We were in Minnesota, so maybe 

  "Or when people were smuggling people between buses 

  "Could this be Nebraska?" 

  "Look, it wasn't a black flag! It was somebody's butt." 

  "Somebody's butt?" 

  "Somebody's (i)people(i) have been hanging those things from D.C. to Hawaii, and charging riot police with them and you expect me, all of us, to believe it was somebody's butt?" 

  "It was.  It was." 

  "How was that so?" 

  "My cameraman.  Too close to live fire." 

  "You were that close?" 

  "Too close.  Where the lines met and there was spillover, then somebody getting killed, so 

  "People got killed?" 

  "The guy turned the camera into somebody's butt like a fade-to-black.  We didn't want to contribute to that other stuff going on." 

  "Damb." 

 

"Get your black flag out of the way."

  "Out of the way of what?" 

  "My view of Old Glory." 

  "The kids placed that flag in that parade at that precise location." 

  Silence.  Then, "When we get unhandcuffed from each other and out of this battle of the flags, would you..." the man's words fell into a mumble.  The woman's "Would I what?" Wouldn't come until months later.  After a re-mix that had schools and community centers sorting people by more realistic measures than self-check forms and beer party sign ups for (i)nobody was really sure(i). 

  The man kept talking at the monitor viewing the parade.  The monitor with no editing, no (i)bias(i).

  That made it not noticeable when somebody or something KO'd the handcuffed couple and carted the camera off as the parade stalled. 

All had checked back in.

  "And what did you see?" A woman asked in a militant tone. 

  "That, (i)that(i) is not the issue," a man who'd been arguing with his woman all day said loudly. 

  "I, gottah, pant, pant, gasp, tell you (i)something(i)." 

  "Get in." 

  "But it's full up." 

  Other cars rolled past. 

  The small sedan with the crumpled bumper stopped short and hard.  Everyone but the driver got out.  Tags on a chain were produced. 

  Other vehicles streamed down, by, out from one city to the next for every minute of every hour of every day and night after "the people" had been flagged-in to squares like a chessboard all over the place.

"Quite the venue," a promoter tried

  to sound calm and cool above the chopper's vibrations. 

  "It's already sold," a man said in everyone's earphones curtly. 

  Multiple concerts ongoing across the country.  An effort to aid in abiding by curfew. 

  Crowds a mosh of not yet re-mixed.  Freedom enough in an afternoon of entertainment. 

  "You're missing yours?" To sniffles still. 

  "Her what?" Asked an investigative, probing, someday maybe Chinese censor. 

  "Her other half." 

  Entertainers on a toystore-bought headset and walkie wondering gradually.  "What's your crowd chanting?" 

  All over the LA area some crowds chanted (i)whooooooos(i) and some crowds chanted (i)aaaaaaaaahs(i). 

"Armed guards."

  "What is this the sixties?" 

  "Is this about race?" 

  "Did you hear Maya's talk last week?" 

  "And this is all connected somehow?" 

  The auditorium lights flickered. 

  "Ooooooo. I can't wait.  Finish smoking!" 

  "I'm not too excited." 

  "Isn't she in your upline or whatever you girls call those heroic black women who came before you?" 

  "She may be if I sign with 

  "She's got no brains left." A big sister told. 

  The tremor of shock at that tidbit had different timing to each person's mind. 

  "Best advice?" 

  "Some owls said, (i)have pity(i), and that woman over there," hands stayed in dress pants pockets, but people followed eyes, 

  "She's (i)literary(i) not music." 

  "She openly suggested some of us (i)human beings(i) are already like Alzheimer's not-patients." 

  "Oh, so, makes sense why lil Miss Tude was talkin' 'bout (i)confrontation(i).  At which point I," a wheez in, "I," a long finger to under the nose, 

  "You left?!" 

  The sneeze didn't happen.  A nod.  "Got cold medicine, heart healthy kind, and went home." 

"Aw snap," the dry mouth said.

  "The song was a (i)drive up(i), not a (i)drive by(i)." The black man taken into the souped up towncar swallowed hard and the tears streamed suddenly, a torrent for our times. 

  "What does that mean?" An older woman police officer asked some youth who'd made it into that part of the city.  "It's why those people are running." 

  "They're not running." 

    "Oh dey running, making it look like they're not." 

  "Take up positions," the command came from nowhere and everywhere at once.  "That's bad," a young tatoo'd and pierced person said. 

  "She's right," a National Guardswoman said.  "They're all watching." 

  "Wait!" But the man and woman who'd resecured the "key to the City" had joined hands, (i)resolute(i), and were walking away. 

  "Is this because of WHITney?" A very perfumed and stiff-clothed man in a gangstah hat asked loud, but doubled over into a soggy hack of coughing fit.  The hat fell off his head and came to rest, openly begging, in front of the man's alligator boots. 

  "I don't see no snake comin' out it," an old, old whisp of a black doctor lady gave the binoculars back to her daughter-in-law.  The DIL re-hung them on her black tee shirted husband.  "Go get the hat son," his voice boomed quietly, respectfully. 

"How'dya git back?"

  "We walked." 

  "Mostly." 

  "Is this the 'fall line'?" 

  "What's a fall line? And what are you people doing on my property?" 

  "Now that's a long story." 

  "At least she called us people." 

  "We are." 

  "Mostly.  This one's a yeti." 

  The individuals in the little band of wanderers stood in the skinny tree line.  "You hear that?"  Everyone listened, called out sounds heard.  "Sounds like a cork screw." 

  "A cork screw?" 

  "Could be those bo weevels." 

  "Bo weevels?  Girl, the only cotton around here is in the yeti's underwear." 

  "And you know this how?" 

  "I'm not wearing any so the guy's maybe projecting." 

  "Well, people project ideations and fantasies.  Not sure about underwear wearing." 

  "Someone determine if this is what the dead guy, I mean, not active duty guy, meant on this treasure map about WNC / civilization." 

  "I hate it when they say any home is not civilization." 

  "But do you hate that this is home now?" 

  The woman closed her eyes and smelled the air and smiled.