Read Online Your Heart Is a Muscle the Size of a Fist by Sunil Yapa - Free Book Online
Authors: Sunil Yapa
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The horse’s rump swung past and she took two blind steps to be clear of its hooves. She stumbled over something, almost ready to believe the lunatic cop with the fucked-up face hadn’t really left, but had circled back and was now ready to give King the punishment she deserved. She looked down and discovered it was just the kid’s backpack.
King blinked. She had forgotten completely about the kid. The young black guy with two braids and a red bandanna that she had decided on the spot she liked so much. And where the fuck was he? She looked up. He was halfway back to the crowd. Moving fast. Had he hidden behind the horse?
“Kid!” she called out. “Hey wait up. Your backpack!”
Which is when it hit her. The stinky reek of weed.
9
Later in the day, a rumor would circulate about a lone protester who locked himself to the door of the East Precinct of the Seattle Police Department. He was a radical in his seventies, old-man-skinny with wild white hair, the kind of guy that used whatever he had on hand at home, in this case a U-shaped bicycle lock. He slid the U around his neck, then ran the bar through the handles of the double doors and locked it tight. He leaned his head against the doors, wispy hair pressed against the glass, and then he dropped the key down the front of his pants, and grinned deeply at the cops from his wrinkles, as if to say, Now what?
John Henry could vouch for the rumor because he was there and he watched it happen, and it looked like the old guy hadn’t seen this much fun since Chicago ’68. John Henry admired his courage, the man’s earnest recklessness, but as brave as it might have been, it accomplished nothing. The police knocked the old guy in the legs with their batons. They beat him repeatedly about the shoulders and arms. They leaned down and slapped him in the face until finally, cursing, crying out in pain, he agreed to unlock himself.
In the end, the old man slowed traffic entering and exiting the police station for less than fifteen minutes. John Henry saw one kid with a digital handheld recorder, but he asked himself what would the kid do with it? Who would ever see it and what did it mean? It was a forgotten second of history, one more story among a thousand such stories today. The man reached into his saggy underwear, sobbing and swearing, and unlocked himself. The world went on its way.
John Henry knew this one-man action meant nearly nothing, but in his heart, he thought that it was beautiful in its way. In a single act, the distillation of fifty years of American protest.
You sit at the counter. You order a cheese and mayo sandwich.
They say, “We don’t serve niggers here.”
You look them in the eye anyway.
Maybe they look away.
You sit at the counter and wait for the malted milk that isn’t going to come. Your ass occupies the seat. Your ass controls the territory of the plastic spinning seat as you wait for your cherry soda or your BLT or some white boy’s grinning fist.
And fifty, a hundred, five hundred of your friends waiting behind you, waiting just beyond the frosted glass doors, five hundred strong souls just waiting to take your place.
That was the old man’s mistake. The thing he had forgotten. You don’t do it alone.
John Henry wished he had known about the gutted warehouse at 420 Denny Way. The old man. The white-haired radical. They would have helped him, trained him, joined him, and loved him and fought for him, wild as feral cats. The warehouse with its cathedral ceilings and dusty high windows which was church and workshop and meeting hall—their point of convergence, where all their forces came together in a humming disjointed harmony. It was a square squat building with high walls and a paint-splattered concrete floor where they did their work—voices calling back and forth, echoing beneath the high ceiling like voices in a stone vault, young people shuttling back and forth, building and laughing, full of the high energy of community
King blinked. She had forgotten completely about the kid. The young black guy with two braids and a red bandanna that she had decided on the spot she liked so much. And where the fuck was he? She looked up. He was halfway back to the crowd. Moving fast. Had he hidden behind the horse?
“Kid!” she called out. “Hey wait up. Your backpack!”
Which is when it hit her. The stinky reek of weed.
9
Later in the day, a rumor would circulate about a lone protester who locked himself to the door of the East Precinct of the Seattle Police Department. He was a radical in his seventies, old-man-skinny with wild white hair, the kind of guy that used whatever he had on hand at home, in this case a U-shaped bicycle lock. He slid the U around his neck, then ran the bar through the handles of the double doors and locked it tight. He leaned his head against the doors, wispy hair pressed against the glass, and then he dropped the key down the front of his pants, and grinned deeply at the cops from his wrinkles, as if to say, Now what?
John Henry could vouch for the rumor because he was there and he watched it happen, and it looked like the old guy hadn’t seen this much fun since Chicago ’68. John Henry admired his courage, the man’s earnest recklessness, but as brave as it might have been, it accomplished nothing. The police knocked the old guy in the legs with their batons. They beat him repeatedly about the shoulders and arms. They leaned down and slapped him in the face until finally, cursing, crying out in pain, he agreed to unlock himself.
In the end, the old man slowed traffic entering and exiting the police station for less than fifteen minutes. John Henry saw one kid with a digital handheld recorder, but he asked himself what would the kid do with it? Who would ever see it and what did it mean? It was a forgotten second of history, one more story among a thousand such stories today. The man reached into his saggy underwear, sobbing and swearing, and unlocked himself. The world went on its way.
John Henry knew this one-man action meant nearly nothing, but in his heart, he thought that it was beautiful in its way. In a single act, the distillation of fifty years of American protest.
You sit at the counter. You order a cheese and mayo sandwich.
They say, “We don’t serve niggers here.”
You look them in the eye anyway.
Maybe they look away.
You sit at the counter and wait for the malted milk that isn’t going to come. Your ass occupies the seat. Your ass controls the territory of the plastic spinning seat as you wait for your cherry soda or your BLT or some white boy’s grinning fist.
And fifty, a hundred, five hundred of your friends waiting behind you, waiting just beyond the frosted glass doors, five hundred strong souls just waiting to take your place.
That was the old man’s mistake. The thing he had forgotten. You don’t do it alone.
John Henry wished he had known about the gutted warehouse at 420 Denny Way. The old man. The white-haired radical. They would have helped him, trained him, joined him, and loved him and fought for him, wild as feral cats. The warehouse with its cathedral ceilings and dusty high windows which was church and workshop and meeting hall—their point of convergence, where all their forces came together in a humming disjointed harmony. It was a square squat building with high walls and a paint-splattered concrete floor where they did their work—voices calling back and forth, echoing beneath the high ceiling like voices in a stone vault, young people shuttling back and forth, building and laughing, full of the high energy of community
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