I, Stupidhead by Willy

A wheelchair-bound deadbeat is challenged by his girlfriend to be more proactive, starting with a political protest.

Image generated with OpenAI

Today is sulphuric fart of a day. A ripper. A stinking, soggy mess. The Berkeley sky is almond yellow. The wind that usually blows from the Richmond Slot and cleans the city of its daily smog has now changed direction, and a slow, metallic breeze from South Bay is coming at us. This happens once or twice a year when the regular cleansing factors of marine inversion, inland heat, and cool Pacific waters suddenly become dysfunctional, and the sky turns into a gelatinous loogie. I suffer it as best I can. It isn't easy. I'm an atmospheric personality. When the sky is sad and dusty, I'm sad and dusty. When it is chilly and heartless, I'm chilly and heartless. When it is sharp and clean, I am slick smart and on my game. So today I'm a gelatinous loogie and in a rare soupy, bitchy, vengeful mood.

My fellow homeboys, Spinal and Larry, are with me. We are the ruling triumvirate gelatinous loogies of my back deck. Spinal is slouched in his chair, sipping a piña colada, giving the stink eye to the world. Larry is smoking a cigarette and drinking an IPA, pontificating. Today is the point-out-everthing-that-is-wrong-with-the-goddamned-digital-world day.

"Jesus Christ, how did we get here?" decries Larry. "Our normally splendid Berkeley sky has been replaced with a leaden stew of industrial particulates and road dust, a sour bloom of San José muck, a distilled reminder that the world is a contaminated blowhole from which we must occasionally sniff. South Bay, you pigs from hell."

"Santa Clara, you blow," I say.

"Fu' you Facebook," adds Spinal.

"And you, Steve Jobs," Larry continues. "Have you tried driving on your freeway? Cupertino, Sunnyvale, Mountain View. Pleasant names until you're stuck in rush hour traffic in hundred-degree heat. This is what your inventions bring us. Stalled vehicles. Road rage. Global warming. Steve Jobs, you are not god here. You are a false prophet. i-Phone, i-Phone, i-Phone. Disney, Disney, Disney. Buy, buy, buy. Who the fuck said you were a genius anyway?"

Spinal points with his bottom lip from under his cocktail straw, waits a beat, says, "False fuckhea' prophe'."

"D-bag," goes on Larry. "Couldn't design his dick out of a paper bag."

"Wor'" says Spinal.

"That's what I'm saying," says Larry. "Word up, dog. The first designer, the real inventor of the Mac, the great Woz, science whizz extraordinaire, and Jobs ripped him off, stole his ideas."

"I don't know about you guys, but while we're on the tech subject, I got Amazon hate full up," I say.

Larry stabs his bony cigarette finger at the sky. "Don't get me started on drones," he says. "Don't even take me there. I got me a million ways to hate drones."

"Hatin' drones," says Spinal.

"Bill Gates," adds Larry. "What a tool."

"Google," tosses in Spinal, one of the few words he can pronounce without messing it up.

"Christ, I'm tired of this shit. We should make today an internet free day," goes Larry. "No computers. No phones. We are up to our necks in digital garbage. What do you guys say? How about we pull the plug on these assholes?"

I hold up my cell phone. "Who needs to implant chips in our skulls when we got these?"

"Fucking exactly," says Larry. "Death to the digital age. Today, we turn this shit off."

"First we message everyone we know so they know we're turning everything off today," I say.

"Ah, hell no," says Larry. "That's playing into their hand. It's like eighth grade girls on steroids. Inane goddamned messages flying through the atmosphere. 'He likes me.' 'No, he likes me.' 'Does my butt look big in this?' 'I hate that guy.' 'He's such a tool.' Christ, we put communication satellites in space for this bullshit? Makes me want to launch myself right off this deck. I crank up my chair, crash through the rail, drop thirty feet in a cripple suicide dive."

"We're not going down there to pick you up," I point out. "This is not a wheelchair rescue operation. You're on your own."

"Leave me," orders Larry. "I'll do it myself."

"We will," says Spinal, rolls an eyeball. "You stay down there an ro'."

"I goddamned will," says Larry, pretending to pump his chair, showing the line he will take as he crashes through the railing, then drops two stories off my back deck.

"Do it," I order.

"Do i'," orders Spinal.

"I fucking goddamned will. Go join Jobs on the dark side."

"Do it," Spinal and I shout.

The back screen slides open. It slides open with a special timbre at a special speed that is meant to stop all conversation. None of us needs to turn around to see who it is. The answer is a special sixfold dilemma. 1) It's Deirdre, my girlfriend. 2) This is supposed to be our boyfriend/girlfriend afternoon together. 3) My homeboys should have left an hour ago. 4) We were only going to have one beer. 5) Even though Deirdre is an hour and a half late, I was supposed to be waiting for her the entire afternoon, my house vacant of all signs of my crew. 6) In our bashing of the modern world and the Bay Area, we are patently having a more fun and kickass conversation than Deirdre and I ever had.

"Why all the complaining?" asks Deirdre. "I can hear you guys from like a mile away. You sound like a bunch of old ladies."

I glance at Larry and Spinal. Spinal is rolling his good eye to the sky. Larry is tamping out his cigarette on his chair.

"We see this ugly, polluted sky, we feel like ranting. Sometimes we get a little carried away," I say, though I am looking at Spinal and Larry as I say this, as if this is the right thing to say. They are supposed to nod in agreement with this statement. Neither of them nod. They give me that why-the-fuck-are-you-bringing-us-into-this look.

"Well, I didn't come over to hang out with Rush Limbaugh, Sean Hannity, and Michael Savage in wheelchairs," says Deirdre. "I came to see my boyfriend. Can you release him now, Rush? Can I speak to him?"

"On that note," says Larry. "I got to be pushing on. Got lots to do."

"Me too," says Spinal.

My homeboys are already rolling towards the door. They make a big deal about telling Deirdre how good it is to see her, then set off on a downhill roll to Shattuck Avenue.

Deirdre closes the door and heads into my living room. She sits on the couch that looks through my windows to the bay.

"We need to talk."

"Sure, babe."

"Don't call me babe. I hate that."

"Right. What's on your mind?"

"I've been thinking. We need to do things together like a couple," says Deirdre.

"We do things together. You're here right now," I say.

"No, your friends were here," corrects Deirdre. "I show up, your friends leave. If I hadn't shown up, they would still be here. I like them and all but sometimes it should be just us."

"Sure, but they left. Now we are together, what do you want to do? How about we go to lunch?"

Deirdre sighs. "Going to lunch is not doing things together, Ron. It's part of a routine. We go out to eat, we come back to your place, talk for a while, then end up having sex."

"That sounds like an excellent plan," I say.

"Be serious."

"I am serious. I love making love to you," I say.

Deirdre makes a face. "We don't have things in common, Ron. When we first started dating, I thought so, but now I've known you for some time, I'm beginning to think we don't share a lot."

"Sure we share a lot," I say.

"For instance?"

"We both like the movies."

"I don't mean streaming Netflix in the living room. I mean like values. I see you guys exchange comments, enjoy your company. I don't feel like that. I feel like an outsider. I want to have what you have with them. But you don't let me in. I want you to do things with me. The things I enjoy," says Deirdre. She takes my hand. "It's important to me that we share things together. These last six months I feel like we don't know each other. We just dance around who we are, like the people we present ourselves to be."

"Um. Okay. Let's do things together."

"You mean that?"

"Of course, babe."

"Don't call me babe."

"Right, it's a bad habit. Sorry."

"It's kind of like when you made me go to that robotics competition in San José. I didn't like it but I went. You know, Ron, when we met I really thought you and I had a lot in common. And you kind of made me think that you were progressive like me. But lately I've come to realize you're kind of like this guy who only listens to himself. I mean for a handicapped person, you don't seem really... um... politically connected."

"Come on, you didn't like the robotics?"

"I hated it. But I liked the fact that you enjoyed it. So this afternoon there's a vigil in Oakland. I want you to go with me. See what I do, how I work. Some people have church and religion, well, I have activism."

It takes me a second to absorb this. I don't like vigils. It's okay for Deirdre. She's the head of Green Forest Children's Network, an NGO that fights for children's rights in the developing world. GFCN principally focuses on the illegal slavery and incarceration of teenagers around the world but it has a voice in most things that alter young adults' lives. It has, for instance, educational offices in Oakland, New York, and London. Deirdre spends a lot of time in these places. I'm okay with it. I'm glad she has something to do. As a trust funder with a considerable fortune of her own, at least she's involved. I just don't work that way. I'm patently not political. My credo is singular. Talk to me, not to the perfect specimen standing next to me. Don't ever touch or push my chair without explicit directions. Don't ask me how I got in the chair. Don't tell me one day there will be a cure. Don't get upset about my use of the C word (cripple, that is, not the other one). I get to use the C word because that is my right. I'm in the chair. I get to set the terms. And don't assume I'm a parasite to society and I get an SSI check each month. I have a job. I write code. I had my own startup before I sold it and made enough to live on for the next hundred years. I generally hate all politicians and social causes except for saving animals. I love animals. If they had a Brigitte Bardot Party, I'd probably join. She's a disastrous, conflicted mess of a person, had over a hundred lovers, many of them women, but still manages to make snippy anti-gay remarks. She's been on trial five times in French courts for pointing out that radical Muslims go into buildings and shoot French people they don't like. So she's certainly not politically correct. She also has a ship in her name from the Sea Shepherd Conservation Society that was damaged by a thirty-six-foot wave while pursing the Japanese whaling fleet. Married four times, tried to kill herself four times. What's there not to admire? Why, just last week she saved a couple of alcoholic Russian bears from a squalid tourist trap in the Russian Krasnodar Krai region after they were found lying in a filthy cage surrounded by garbage and excrement. Anyone who saves bears from alcoholism, well, that's a feat. I wouldn't need a ship named after me, but a Wikipedia article would be really cool.

"Ron, this is about getting out of your comfort zone," explains Deirdre.

I swallow, look at the sky. It's yellow hot. I can feel it working on me, telling me not to listen. I really thought Deirdre liked the robot battle royale. Now she says she hated it. How did I miss this? What else did she hate? What else did I miss? I realize quite suddenly that this is my event horizon, the now or never moment with Deirdre. If I say I won't go on the vigil, I will be saying our relationship is over. If I participate half-heartedly, I will be indicating that the relationship is in its last gasps. Problem is, I don't want to lose her. I can't keep a girlfriend for long. And this is the first relationship in a long time I've actually wanted to continue.

"Sure, sweetheart, that sounds like a great plan," I say. I try not to sound too charming when it comes out but my voice goes up a bit.

"You're sure?" asks Deirdre. She frowns. I can tell she doesn't like the "sweetheart" title either.

"You want me out of my comfort zone, I'll get out of my comfort zone. Who knows? Maybe I can pick the next protest."

"What's that face your making?" asks Deirdre.

"That's my cool boyfriend grin."

"You look a little constipated," notes Deirdre.

I bring my grin down a notch. "What's it look like now?"

"Like Mr. Stupidhead."

"I'm using it."

"Please don't."

We drive to downtown Oakland. The Oakland sky is snotty, a deep yellow nasal grunge. I practice a mantra I've made up as we drive to change my mood. Brigitte Bardot forty years ago. Me and her on a beach. Chair is gone. Legs are good. Brigitte likes me. Brigitte Bardot forty years ago. Me and her on a beach. Chair is gone. Legs are good. Brigitte likes me. Brigitte Bardot forty years ago. Me and her on a beach. Chair is gone. Legs are good. Brigitte likes me... The mantra seems to work. By thinking of me and Brigitte on the beach I'm already starting to appreciate the vigil.

"By the way, what are we protesting?" I ask.

"Boy soldiers."

"Perfect, I hate boy soldiers."

"You're supposed to like them."

"No, I mean, I hate what was done to them," I correct.

Deirdre turns the car into her lot on Harrison Street. "GFCN flew a few out from Liberia this week, Desmond Taylor and Immanuel Gray. They'll be speaking at the Unitarian Church in Berkeley tomorrow. I was hoping we could attend that too."

I turn to the window, make a cool boyfriend grin that Deirdre can't see, say, "I can't wait."

There are about a hundred people gathered outside the Federal Building, mostly church people and community organizers. GFCN has set out a banner that says, "NO CHILD WARRIORS. STOP THIS CRIME." Two of Deirdre's coworkers are holding up the sign, Sylvia, the vice-president, and Lester, the multi-pierced vegan polyamorous gopher. Sylvia does the fundraising for GFCN. Lester is head of communications, which amounts to about three tweets per day. They are surrounded by a handful of university student interns, all of whom I am sure are seeking degrees in Non-profit Management. They are collectively dressed in modest clothing that suggests interest in progressive causes. No leather, fair trade fabrics, hand-knit wool beanies, t-shirts with appropriate progressive slogans. Only Lester has on what I would call old-school radical chic: a blue-black trench coat that looks like it has been through too many wash cycles, sagging, torn in a number of places, hung funkily off his rail thin frame.

"Yo," hails Lester as I roll up. "How we doing?"

"We are doing fine, yo," I say.

"Ron," says Sylvia, giving me her hand. "So good to see you could make it. Deirdre said she was hoping you'd come. And now you're here. That's awesome."

"Yes, it is awesome," I say, then throw out my cool boyfriend grin just to check if I have it right.

"Are you okay?" asks Sylvia.

"You look a little tired, yo," says Lester.

"No, I'm fine, just fine," I reply, the grin fading.

Deirdre says, "What have we planned? Give me the whole schedule."

Lester pulls out his i-Pad. "We stay here for forty-five minutes, then move up Broadway. join up with several action and community groups for the second part of the vigil. We've got the Pro-Choice crowd, the Nurses Union, Uhuru House, The Guatemalan Center for Relief, the Save the Rainforest Coalition, and a few others I'm not sure are showing. So it's going to be quite a day, a rolling protest of united action, yo. Everyone with phones on to record any difficulties with police or arrests."

"Arrests?" I say, alarmed. "I thought this was a vigil."

"This is America, Ron," says Deirdre flatly. "You peacefully gather, you get arrested."

"Yeah, right," I say. "Not easy, though, if you're in a chair."

"No worries, Ron, I got your back," supplies Lester, extracting a bicycle chain from his trench coat. "Think of this as a regular Sunday action on Oakland. We aren't blocking the Port of Oakland. We aren't stopping traffic. It should go smoothly, yo. And when you get arrested, I'll lock myself to your chair."

"What about our boy soldiers?" asks Deirdre. "I don't see them."

"I just got a text," informs Lester. "They have a talk at Cal first, will make it in time for their speeches in Oscar Grant Plaza."

"Lester, you're awesome," says Deirdre, places a hand on Lester's arm, gives him a pat.

"Thanks, Deirdre, that means a lot, yo," says Lester.

"Double awesome," concurs Sylvia as she rubs Lester's shoulders. Lester nods his head, bobs. I get a creepy image of Deirdre and Sylvia, giving him back rubs, Lester purring like an old stray cat. I look at the sky. It's pustulous, rimmed by a series of pimply clouds surrounded in creeping yellow. I restart my mantra. Brigitte Bardot forty years ago. Me and her on a beach...

The first twenty minutes, there are lots of chants and songs, a few speeches I can't make out. When Lester gets a text, he lets Deirdre and Sylvia know. They pat his arms. He nods and bobs. I sit in my chair and exude. I have replaced my cool boyfriend grin with the beatified saint face. It's smooth and calm, void of all negative emotions. I do mantra battle with the sky. I let it know that it can't push me around. I am in control. I am Buddha in a chair. I am Siddhartha. I am Ghandi.

I expansively take in the arriving crowd the Pro-Choice assembly, a couple old-schoolers from Occupy Oakland, nurses with union t-shirts, a group from the Freedom for Palestine Movement, a sprinkle of eco-protesters from the Save the Rainforest Coalition, and a crew from the Uhuru House. Uhuru House has a partially unfurled banner. I can read the first few words. "Justice for Di..." The rest of the message is obscured. They guys holding the banner don't seem to notice. They look a little confused. A strong odor of marijuana blows from their direction.

Deirdre talks with a few of her pals from Occupy. They have cups of Peet's Fair Trade coffee. I'm immediately angry. The Oakland sky burns hot, plays mind games with the coffee chain's progressive army. If you ask them, they will say, "It's the only coffee worth drinking in the world." They innocently believe Peet's is a small, Berkeley-based roastery of a few employees with left-leaning ideals instead of a massive enterprise owned by JAB, a private German holding company that bought Peet's outstanding stock for a billion dollars. I will not point this out. JAB has millions of anti-corporate progressive coffee drinkers believing that over-roasted low-quality beans are high quality beans that need to be over roasted to bring out their "hidden" flavors. The company is proudly "green" and "worker friendly" though they are avid union busters who buy coffee cultivated in fragile ecosystems. Because I am a bit awed by this corporate progressive dichotomy and all its political permutations, I keep my face turned to the yellow sky as I reach near perfect satori. Brigitte Bardot forty years ago. Me and her on a beach...

My reverie is interrupted by Lester, who says, "OMG, it's Kenneth Mayflower. Look guys, he's got his whole team, yo." Lester points towards the Federal Building.

A man in a wheelchair is rolling towards us. He's surrounded by a small camera crew and a production assistant. It's Kenneth Mayflower, filmmaker philanthropist, the occasional guest commentator on CNN. He's known for his daring exposés, his hunt for corruption. Everyone from the nurses to the Uhuru house people seem to be whispering Kenneth's name in a united sotto voce roar.

"Oh my god, Kenneth," says Deirdre. "He said he was coming but I didn't believe it."

"Well, he's here now," asserts Sylvia.

"Hell yeah, yo," says Lester. He and Sylvia share high fives, then they high five Deirdre.

"This is going to be a real event," says Deirdre, excited. "I hope Kenneth can talk to the boy soldiers. That would be a real coup. Lester, what do you know?"

Lester checks his phone. "They're still on route. They'll be at the 12th Street station in fifteen minutes."

"You run over and meet them. We can't miss this chance," orders Deirdre. "Kenneth needs to meet them."

"I'm on it, yo."

Lester takes off in a run, his trench coat flapping, skinny arms moving like he's pulling at the air around him.

Kenneth Mayflower rolls his chair towards us. Deirdre waves, says, "Hey Kenneth, over here!"

"Deirdre!" shouts Kenneth.

"Deirdre, it's so good to see you!" says Kenneth, still shouting. Deirdre smiles, throws her arms around him. Kenneth goes to kiss her cheek, misses, gets a little lip too. "I haven't seen you since New York. I hope all is well."

I'm impressed and perturbed at the same time. Kenneth's has the cultivated laissez-faire accent of someone who attended the best East Coast prep schools, kicked around lazily at NYU, later did a few years at Oxford, then finished at the Sorbonne.

"It's wonderful now you're here," replies Deirdre.

"And Sylvia!" says Kenneth, repeating the same missed embrace lip thing with Sylvia. "You guys both look fantastic!"

"You do too, Kenneth," says Sylvia. "My gosh, you're still handsome as ever."

Kenneth is dressed in a faded Missoni knit shirt, scuffed blue leather Gucci tennis shoes, 7 For All Mankind jeans, no socks. He's got the casual cool down. It goes with his full head of steel white hair, his obviously cut upper body, and his retro chair, a refurbished classic chair from the 60s with tooled cordovan leather backrests and seats. The hubs have been swapped out, replaced with super-light parts. I'm rolling in my sixteen-pound 2GX TiLite titanium chair with the swing-away leg rests and quick-release axles, base price $2,600, and my chair looks like a Walmart special. And my edgy Sunday clothes from Atlas look, well, kind of San Francisco pedestrian.

"You must be Ron Davidson," says Kenneth. He throws out a perfectly manicured hand, grabs my own wheel-burned claw. "Good to meet you. Deirdre says you are quite the character."

"Depends on who you speak to," I say. Instead of looking in Kenneth's sparkling blue eyes, I find myself appraising his flexed forearm, the tanned arms from so many sailing trips out of East Hampton.

"Your reputation as the most badass guy in a chair precedes you. Damn, I'm not sure I'm worthy to even be in your presence. I saw the YouTube of your event in San Francisco. You and your pals were like... epic. We need more people like you. I mean, what incited you to get in a street fight with those Wall Street hedge-funders?"

"I guess they didn't know that you should never take control of a dude's chair. I guess they needed to learn that lesson."

"That's it, that's it exactly. You spoke for the handicapped world. That was exceedingly brave of you."

"Oh, I don't know. I don't think I was speaking for anyone."

"I do. You're a hero."

Even though I know Kenneth is giving me a snow job, I like what he has to say. Like anyone else, I'm a sucker for compliments.

"Kenneth, I want you to meet Sarah Cornish," interrupts Deirdre. "She's the new head at the Guatemalan Center for Relief."

"Are you kidding, Sarah Cornish is here?" asks Kenneth. "She's been e-mailing me for almost a year and I've never met her. I hope she is all the activist they say she is."

"And more," says Deirdre.

"Though not you, Deirdre. No one compares to you."

Deirdre smiles again, says, "Thanks, Kenneth, that means a lot."

"Come on, let's go. Let's meet her," says Kenneth.

Deirdre heads over to a small group in place behind the nurses' union. Kenneth rolls vigorously beside her. His film crew follows. I take up the rear. I don't want to follow but I have this sudden urge not to let Deirdre out of my sight. I'm not the jealous type normally but this guy has got game. Everything about him seems right. And a second ago when I said Deirdre smiled, what I really meant to say was that she beamed. Her whole face was lit up. I was kind of taken off guard. I'd never seen Deirdre so charmed.

As Deirdre makes the introductions to the women from the Guatemalan Center for Relief, she rests her hand on Kenneth's shoulder. He keeps an arm around her back in this cool progressive understanding kind of way. Even though he has never met Sarah Cornish, he goes in for the double cheek kiss, tells her how much he enjoyed her e-mails.

"Sarah, que placer conocerte," says Kenneth, lapsing into flawless Spanish.

"El placer es todo mío," replies Sarah.

Soon all the women from the Guatemalan Center for Relief are speaking Spanish. Even Deirdre. Though none of them are Hispanic, they speak the language fairly well. It doesn't matter that there are no Guatemalans in the group. These women have done relief work in Central America, so they technically represent, I guess. I don't attempt any communication. I don't speak relief worker Spanish. Mine would be more in the janitorial range. I can talk about beer, marijuana, cars, pussy, shitty wages, the best places to find quality birria, and immigration raids. I grin and nod as they all drink their Peet's Coffee and talk about the need for solidaridad.

"Hey, isn't that Dr. Cheryl Connor over there with Uhuru House?" asks Kenneth.

His film crew point their instruments in the direction of the crowd from Uhuru House.

"Good eyes, Kenneth," says Sarah Cornish. "She's been threatening to make it all week."

"I've got to go over and say hello," says Kenneth, already rolling towards the Uhuru House Crowd.

"Who's Dr. Cheryl Connor?" I ask Deirdre as we follow Kenneth and his film crew.

"She's the author of The Evil Gene, Remasculating the American Male. You know the book I've been reading in my book club."

I don't have a clue what she's reading. I should know, of course. I see her with a new book every week. It's just that I don't really care about what she's reading. I like fiction, especially things with weird, funky, strange shit. I go for classic noir, new noir, fantasy, and far-out science fiction.

"Kenneth did a critique of her book on her on CNN," Deirdre goes on. She's definitely the up-and-coming star."

As we cross the plaza to meet Cheryl Connor, I see the Uhuru House has finally gotten their banner unfurled. It reads: "Justice for Diante López. OPD STOP THE GENOCIDE!"

"Diante López?" I ask. I grip the wheels of my chair, come to a halt. "The kid the cops shot last week?"

"A tragic loss," says Deirdre.

"Are you kidding me?" I ask. "You didn't say anything about Diante López before we left my house today."

"Relax, Ron, GFCN is going to march alongside several community groups to protest the killing of unarmed people of color in their neighborhoods. It's part of our mission to support others."

"But wasn't Diante firing a gun at the police?" I ask. "And wasn't he the young man who was suspected of shooting two middle schoolers as they were walking to school that very same morning?"

"That hasn't been proved."

"But there's surveillance video of him shooting the kids in the back. I mean, what more do you need?"

"We're not focusing on Diante's alleged crimes, Ron," informs Deirdre. "We're looking at the police playing judge, jury, and executioner."

"Look, Deirdre, do I have to pull up my shirt for you to show you where I got shot by two punks on Telegraph Avenue. You've seen the scars. But what you don't see is in my head. I'm having a bit of a hard time believing Diante wasn't guilty as hell."

"Ron, this is about getting out of your comfort zone."

"I'm already feeling discomfort."

"Are you, Ron? I'm not sure," replies Deirdre.

I swallow, look at the sky. It's canary yellow hot. I start my Brigitte Bardot mantra but it sputters out on the first two words. I do my best to control my emotions by clutching the armrests on my chair. I wish I could forgive the two punks who shot me but I can't. Their decisions are with me everyday. Every time I take a shit. Every time I pull myself into bed. Every time I put shoes on my useless feet. I wish I could have them in front of me right now. I'm not a gun owner or a supporter of the rabid guys from the NRA but I wouldn't mind holding a pistol in my hand, greasing out a couple of hot rounds. I'd tell them to "dance, dance, dance motherfuckers," then I'd put a cap in their knees, one for each of my legs. I'd leave them lying on the street as they left me, their blood pouring out, hoping someone will come along and call an ambulance. Because hope is about all you have left when you're bleeding out. Maybe while they're bleeding out they can think of the shit they pulled that got them in this place. I know this is revenge killing. I know it's wrong. I know it's a huge abrogation of their civil rights, but I just can't get my head around supporting Diante. So I put on my Mr. Stupidhead grin, though tone it down to a six on a scale of ten.

"You're being a big baby," says Deirdre.

"Yeah, you're probably right," I choke out. "Let's go meet Dr. Connor."

Kenneth is already talking to this Dr. Connor when we show up. He's telling her, "You're one of the few people that gets it. I mean, really gets it. I can't begin to express it as you did. But you hit the nail on the head. I recommend your book to everyone I meet. Unless we start considering the sickness of the American male mindset in everything we do, in every particle of our daily life, we are lost."

"I wasn't the first to say this," replies Dr. Connor. "Valerie Solanas was really the groundbreaker."

"But you took it to its natural conclusion, not classical orchiectomy but full-blown gene therapy. I'd like you to come on the air with me on your next book tour. You'll light up the boards."

"I'm not sure that's what I'm here to do. To light up the boards," notes Dr. Connor coyly. "You see what I'm saying?"

"I do. I see perfectly clear," says Kenneth, putting out his hand. "That's a promise. I want to book you. You're voice is too important to go unheard. Agreed?"

Dr. Connor takes his hand, beams. "Agreed."

"But first she's going to visit us at GFCN," informs Deirdre. "We have a luncheon set up at the Scottish Rites Hall."

"What, you're stealing her away from me?" demands Kenneth.

"She's already been stolen," says Deirdre, smiling her vibrant smile again. "You'll just have to wait."

Kenneth puts his hand again on Deirdre's back. "For you, Deirdre, anything."

I restart my mantra. Brigitte Bardot forty years ago. Me and her on a beach...

Now both women are beaming. And I'm beaming too. Not my stupidhead grin but a deep, sincere Brigitte Bardot smile. The mantra is working. Kenneth has his hand again on my girlfriend's back and I've got a big old toothy smile on my face, not a trace of jealousy. I glance at Sylvia. She's smiling too. I slowly back my wheelchair away. I need to get my head around this. Deirdre asked me to get out of my comfort zone and now I'm in an entirely new zone.

I head back towards Deirdre's team.

"Yo, Ron, where you going?" calls Kenneth, wheeling after me, his film crew a few paces behind.

"Just giving Deirdre her space," I say. "Checking out the protest. This is my first, you know. It's all new to me."

Kenneth nods, shows off his perfect teeth. "Ron, I've only known you for a few minutes, but it seems like you're hurting, dude. Are you feeling okay?"

I look up at the now urine yellow sky. "Sorry, Kenneth," I say, then shoot my cool guy grin. "I'm not interested in talking on camera. I'm kind of a private person."

"Do these guys bother you?" asks Kenneth. "They don't have to be here."

Kenneth waves off his crew. The crew retreats a few yards.

"Is this about Deirdre?" asks Kenneth. "I mean, us being friends and all. You know, I shared a house with her at school, backpacked around Europe with her and her friends. I have nothing but respect for her, what she is doing with her life. And now you're her friend, I guess you're my friend too. So I'm concerned."

"Tell you the truth, Kenneth," I say with a glance back at the sky. "I do feel a little out of place. I was shot about six blocks from here. I was coming out of Kentucky Fried Chicken at six in the afternoon with a buddy, got held up, got scared, got shot by a couple of punks. And on days like today, I kind of like think about that."

"Oh, dude, no. I hate to hear stories like that," says Kenneth. Before I have a chance to resist, Kenneth is reaching over his armrests, taking me in a hug. "Guys like you are on the front like, taking the shit for the rest of us."

I find myself hugging Kenneth back. I know, weird. I'm not sure I like this guy but I hug him. And for some reason Kenneth seems like the right person for it. He's in a chair. He gets me. I'm aware of the photo opportunity for his film crew. Two guys in chairs hugging each other is the money shot. But I don't pull away because I need a hug right now even from the guy that is obviously trying to pick up my girlfriend. Kenneth holds the embrace a second longer, then places a consoling hand on my shoulder.

"Your shooting makes my accident seem so fucking pedestrian," confides Kenneth. "I fell on an Ascent of K2 with an Italian climbing team. One guy died. I came home handicapped. I was thirty-two years old. It tore me up. I can't imagine how you feel. I'm not even worthy to be sitting by you right now. You are in a whole extra league."

"Kind of weird now that I'm at a vigil for a young man who shot people."

"This crazy damned world, Ron. It brings all of us together whether we like it or not."

Kenneth gives me his piercing concerned stare. I have seen it on his show on CNN. Even though it's practiced and fake, I sense his goodwill. I decide I like him.

"Come on, let's join the others," says Kenneth. He spins his chair, rolls back towards the Uhuru House people.

We make the round of the protesters. Kenneth manages to talk to every group except for the Freedom for Palestine crowd. His film crew gets it all. Kenneth darting about on his chair as he charms everyone. When the boy soldiers from Liberia arrive with Lester, Kenneth becomes animated.

"Desmond Taylor and Immanuel Gray!" he cries. "How wonderful you could make it. Tell me, how's Monrovia doing?"

Kenneth discusses the Matadi, Flamah, and Sinkor districts in Monrovia, talks about the Mesurado River, alludes to out-of-control parties in the Congotown area. Within less than a minute Kenneth has Desmond and Immanuel grinning like fools. These unusually hardened young men, one missing an ear, the other several fingers, are already Kenneth's old friends.

And then somewhere a whistle is blown. A drum begins to beat. A chant goes up from the nurses.

"Here we go," says Deirdre. "Lester, you and the interns get that banner out front."

"And so the march begins," says Kenneth. "Ron, I'd be honored if you rolled at my side."

"The pleasure's all mine," says a voice from far away. I realize it's mine. I feel happy and angry and confused all at once. Is this what Deirdre means about me being out of my comfort zone?

For the first few blocks we roll together. Deirdre has my chair by the handles. Kenneth has Desmond and Immanuel pushing his chair. The CNN crew film us as we go. The crowd begins to swell around 12th Street. There are at least a thousand protesters. About forty guys in ski masks and red armbands with anarchist designs on them have joined us now. Barriers have been put up by the police, and we are channeled onto Broadway. The crowd splits, begins pouring over the flimsy barriers, blocking traffic in adjacent streets. In the distance I hear the sound of helicopters.

"Isn't this fun, Ron?" asks Deirdre. "Aren't you glad you came?"

"Yeah, in a strange way I am," I reply.

"And Kenneth, you got to meet him at last."

"A great guy."

"I see you guys are getting along already."

"Yeah, we are."

"Would you mind terribly if I don't come by tonight?" asks Deirdre. "Kenneth has promised to meet with my team this evening and go over our work with boy soldiers. He's promising a special, quite possibly an international audience."

"Tonight? This is our night to watch Game of Thrones."

"You can record it. We'll watch it tomorrow night. You know how much a special with Kenneth will help my NGO. It's advertising we can't normally pay for. CNN, that's international."

"Sure, ba... um... sweetheart, it sounds like a wonderful opportunity."

We roll up Broadway. I'm not sure of the path that the vigil is supposed to take. All I know is that it's getting loud. And the streets are starting to fill. And now I have a sign in my hand and am being pushed by Immanuel, the former boy solder. My sign has a picture of Diante López. The words beneath say, OAKLAND POLICE, STOP THE GENOCIDE. My whole life for the past twenty years has been about trying to forget about who and what I am. But for some reason I'm carrying a poster of a man who shot two kids in the back, then got in a gun battle with the Oakland Police. And I'm chanting, "Stop the Genocide!" And in a weird, fucked up way, I'm enjoying it. And above me the dreadful, polluted sky pours down it's poison and I'm for once impervious to it. I feel progressive as hell.

My phone buzzes as the crowd turns, redirects towards the Port of Oakland.

"What the fuck, Ron," cries Larry.

"Yo, Larry, what's up?" I say. "I thought we agreed not to use technology today."

"Fuck that, dude, I just saw you on the news. What are you doing with that douche bag Kenneth Mayflower, and why are you carrying a poster of Diante López?" demands Larry.

"Wait, what? I'm on the news?" I ask.

"Dude, you're rolling with a news team. The guy's CNN for chrissakes. Why wouldn't you be on the news?"

"I thought they were taping for a later show."

"No, dude, the fucker's streaming live. He's imbedded. But what concerns me more is the sign. Diante López, are you kidding?"

"Larry, the cops killed him without a thought for due process," I reply, progressively. "He didn't have a chance to be tried impartially."

"Ron, wake the fuck up. He put a thirteen-year-old kid in a chair. I'm reading her blog right now. She's been in and out of Children's Hospital eight times already."

"No way."

"Way, motherfucker. And here you are in a chair supporting some asshole who put a kid in a chair."

"I don't know about that. There's no real proof. The video is pretty grainy," says my progressive voice.

"And that shithead, Kenneth Mayflower, he's a player. I don't know if you saw his book, My Years as a Sex Addict. Dr. Phil wrote the foreword. It's pretty gripping stuff."

"Huh?"

"Kenneth Mayflower is a player, Ron. I'm looking at the Google site for the book right now. He claims his sex addiction is his biggest challenge. He's slept with over three thousand women. Mostly liberals... but he did tag a few from the right... most notably a certain congresswoman from Georgia. And there's rumors he and Madonna hooked up while she was in Telluride. But the press isn't sure. When asked... and I quote from Rolling Stone... 'Madonna just smiled softly as if she'd remembered a secret moment.'"

"Larry, you know you can't trust Rolling Stone."

"Ron, this is serious. What's happened to you?"

"I don't know, Larry. For some reason I don't seem to care. And being jealous of Kenneth Mayflower, well, that seems a little petty... Kenneth is a great guy. And I got to go now, Larry. It's getting loud here. I'll catch you later."

"Wait, Ron, don't hang up. Get Mayflower over with the Palestinian Group. Get him on camera with them. Just do that for me."

"Are you trying to make a point, Larry?"

"Promise me you'll do that, Ron. Please... you don't sound like yourself..."

"What are you getting at?"

"Just do it."

"Sure, Larry, no problem."

I hang up. The protest heads towards the port. It gets louder. The crowd grows. I alternate my chants between "Stop OPD Genocide" and "¡Guatemala libre!" Kenneth and I roll together for five blocks. Deirdre and her crew are just ahead of us. Behind us are the guys in red ski masks. They are kicking parked cars and setting off their alarms. Helicopters whirr overhead.

We pass a Peet's coffee. Inside about twenty protestors are having coffee.

"You guys go ahead. I'm buying our boy soldiers and my coworkers a fresh cup of coffee," announces Deirdre. "Ron, I'll catch up with you."

"Right, ba... um... sweetheart."

Deirdre departs with the boy soldiers and her staff. Kenneth and I roll together.

"This is so exhilarating," says Kenneth, excited. "I love it when we practice our first amendment right to peaceably assemble, and to petition the Government for a redress of grievances. This is America. This is democracy."

"This is democracy," I repeat.

"Fight the good fight!" cries Kenneth.

"Freedom!" I shout.

The camera crew catches us holding up our signs, waving to the sky. Kenneth is right. It is exhilarating.

"¡Solidaridad!" cries Kenneth. He does a spin in his chair. I pop a wheelie. Kenneth bears down hard on his wheels, shoots forward into the crowd. He goes rolling through the crowd, whipping his chair in and out amongst the protesters. I fly along the sidewalk, jump the curb, go whistling past the nurses' union. A guy in a wheelchair passes me. He gives me a nod. I nod back. We are, in that moment, homeboys, though I notice that my chair is way more comfortable than his. I'm rolling in my sixteen-pound 2GX TiLite titanium chair, and he's in a Drive Medical Lightweight from Walmart, sale price $99. His clothes are worn, unwashed. I recognize the type. He's that guy, the Social Security disability recipient who lives on $800 a month in the most expensive place on the planet. He sits out in front of 7-Eleven, begs spare change at the end of the month, lives in an apartment with his sister and her four children. But today we are one and the same: two guys in chairs practicing our constitutional rights.

Another guy in a chair flies past. I am struck by two thoughts. 1) Guys in wheelchairs can move faster that any protester. It's like there are lanes between barricades that we can slip through, places we can glide. We can't really roll in a crowd. We roll outside of the crowd. 2) Guys in wheelchairs are overrepresented in protests. There's at least ten of us out here today. That's nearly a cripple convention on its own.

"Yo, how you doing, Ron?" says a voice at my side. I turn, see an anarchist with an armband and a ski mask is addressing me. It's Lester, though the only way I would recognize him is by his trench coat. It looks like it's hanging much lower on his lanky frame.

"What's up, Lester? And why the mask?"

"What's up?" says Lester. "I told you I got your back. That's what's up."

Lester opens a pocket on his trench coat, shows me a couple of bricks.

"Holy shit, Lester."

"Windows, yo. When the moment comes..." says Lester, pumps an arm in the air. "We strike at the heart of the political machine."

Lester's statement is punctuated by the sound of gunfire. The cops are firing rubber bullets, which are really bullets covered with a coating of rubber that can cause bone fractures, injuries to internal organs, or death. What one minute ago was relatively peaceful gathering is now out of control. I am taken by a series of images, sounds. A police barrier being shoved through a store window. A tear gas canister flying by. A masked man who has come too close the cops is dragged to the ground. The cops weigh into him with police batons. A woman in a wig screams in my face. A mounted officer on a horse trots by. I am jostled by a score of people rushing around me. My wheelchair is like a stone in the stream. That whole thing I said a minute ago about wheelchair mobility was wrong. I grip my wheels, force my chair to stand upright. Elbows. A falling woman. A falling man. The sulphur sky above me, hot now, demanding. Something hits my head. I pop down, pop up. A butt in a pair of Levi's scrapes my jaw. A knee pinches/presses my fingers into a wheel. I pull myself lower in my chair, wait. The air around me opens up. The crowd finally passes me by. I am alone in the street. The protesters are a hundred yards ahead, pushing against the police line.

"Yo, Ron, now's the time for action."

"Dude, that was fucking insane," I say.

"Come on, it's now or never," says Lester. He hands me a ski mask. "Put that shit on."

"What's this for?"

"We're throwing bricks, motherfucker."

"You weren't kidding, were you?"

"Fuck no. Today is the day we can do shit and quite possibly not get caught, yo. Just to get the cops responding to various crises, we toss bricks."

"Is there an Apple store around here?" I ask.

"Are you kidding?" says Lester. "This is downtown Oakland."

"I want to bust open their front window."

"How about Starbucks?" asks Lester. "Will that do?"

"Not really. I'd prefer Peet's. But Deirdre's in there."

"Look, when was the last time you saw a barista in a wheelchair in Starbucks? Like fucking never. Those fuckers don't hire the handicapped, yo."

"Dude, no one hires the handicapped," I point out.

"Look, there's a Starbucks two blocks from here. Let's do it."

"I need to find Deirdre. She's behind us somewhere."

"We break windows, yo, then we get Deirdre."

"Fuck it. We're doing this. This is America," I say.

"Now we're talking, yo."

We reach Starbucks, and in seconds Lester tosses his brick. The glass shatters. The few people huddled inside are speechless. I toss my brick. It flies through a second window, crashes on the cement floor.

"Hell yeah!" cries Lester.

"Hell yeah!" I echo.

A block later, Lester tears off his ski mask, heads back towards the protest. I spin my chair, follow. The protest is now a riot. The police have successfully replaced the barricade two blocks ahead. They are funneling the protesters into an alley that has no egress. The Diante López protesters break down the barrier. A throng of protesters pour through. There are shouts, warning. A tear gas cannon fires. A squadron of police cuts through the protesters. The Diante López crowds slips by. Next up are the Freedom for Palestine protesters. The police wade in, throwing protesters to the ground, swinging clubs. An armed vehicle rolls up.

I spy Deirdre and Kenneth Mayflower on the curb. Kenneth has his arm placed around Deirdre, is patting her back in a fellow-comrade-in-arms sort of way. His crew is behind him, shooting the scene. The boy soldiers, sipping their coffee, are watching the riot, calmly amused.

"Deirdre, Kenneth," I say as I roll up. "This is getting freaking crazy."

I don't mean to sound overly excited but I am. I'm not a vandal but breaking the window has got me stoked. My veins are pumping with adrenalin. I feel sharp and supremely alive.

"Looks like this is where we peel off," says Kenneth, giving Deirdre's back another pat, his hand brushing her ass as he finishes off the move. "We have reservations at Chez Panisse. We need to debrief. And I want to get that interview in with you, Deirdre.

"Whoa, Kenneth, aren't we going to move on with this?" I ask. "Isn't this how it's done? We pass through the tear gas, we risk arrest, we disperse at the end of the day."

"This is how you do it, Ron. I'm part of a news team. We shoot what we can at a distance, then back off. I got a hundred thousand dollars' worth of equipment here, I'm not going to risk it to the Oakland Police. I'm with you though, in spirit. Know that I'm on your team. Good luck. Y solidaridad."

Kenneth turns to his crew. They've moved in for a close up. His cameraman gets on his knees so he can be level with Kenneth and get the armed police vehicle, the clouds of tear gas in the background. "Things are getting hot," Kenneth says to the camera. "I'm here with a few thousand Americans who believe in freedom and the US Constitution and their right to practice civil disobedience. And it's business as usual. We have lost control of our rights to the new 911 state. Be careful what you say. Be careful what sign you carry. Be careful what right you choose to practice. Anything goes..."

"Deirdre," I whisper. "You mean we're not going to finish this off?"

"Hush, Ron. Let Kenneth finish this take."

"But, Deirdre..."

"Shh..."

Deirdre doesn't look at me as she shushes me. She has her eyes on Kenneth. Everyone, it seems, has their eyes on Kenneth. I look up at the Oakland sky. It's burning red. The contaminants in the evening sun are glowing hot. In the background are the cries of the Palestinians as the police beat them with their batons. My phone starts to buzz. I check my shirt pocket. I see the glowing screen. I pull out my phone, see it's a text from Larry. The text reads, "It's now or never, shithead. Ask about Palestine." I glance at my lap. My Diante López poster is still there. Its edges have caught on my armrests. Diante is staring up at me. It's not his face. They have chosen the face of Diante as a young man, his sophomore high school portrait. This is not the twenty-five-year-old man the police shot. He's nearer to the age of the young woman he put in a wheelchair. I feel the red sun pushing down on my forehead. The sun takes the image of Diante and turns it into Linda Lee. She's thirteen. There's a hole in her back. There's a hole in her left breast where the round Diante fired exploded out the other end. The image of Linda Lee turns from her to me. Now I am looking up at me. And there is a hole in my back and my front where the first bullet passed through. I try my mantra. Brigitte Bardot forty years ago. Me and her on a beach. Chair is gone. Legs are... Legs are fucking bad. Who am I kidding? I'm here because Deirdre wanted me here. And now she doesn't want me here. She and her boy soldiers are going to have dinner at Chez Panisse with Kenneth Mayflower and discuss how they're going to save the world one NGO at a goddamned time. The boy soldiers will feel awkward and out of place. Deirdre and Kenneth will be in their element because Chez Panisse is the most elite dining establishment in the East Bay. They will drink two bottles of 1994 Araujo Cabernet Sauvignon, Eisele Vineyard, Napa Valley, $440 a bottle. They will dine on Grilled Paine Farm squab with roasted cherries, snap peas, and fried Red Flint corn polenta at $125 a plate. They will finish with Nicaraguan coffee grown at exactly 500 meters altitude on the most exclusive organic coffee farm in Central America. Later, they will have an after-dinner drink at Cesar's, an artisan American rye whiskey, limited production of 1000 bottles. They will drop the boy soldiers off at Lester's apartment on Prince. He and the boy soldiers will smoke imported Afghani hash, watch South Park, fall asleep on Lester's couch. Kenneth's crew will crash at the Quality Inn on University. Deirdre will return with Kenneth to his room at the Claremont Hotel, where the view will be almost as good as Deirdre's from her house on Shasta. They will make love.

My hand shoots out. I grab Kenneth's arm. "Yo, Kenneth, you aren't finishing this out with us?" I ask.

"I must move on to fight another day, Ron," says Kenneth. "I'm just a reporter. But my heart and spirit is with you. Good luck."

"Wait a minute. The Freedom for Palestine Movement people are getting their heads crushed by the cops. We need to be there. You need to be there. The press needs to be there."

Kenneth glances towards the pandemonium. A cop is dragging a Palestinian-American kid by his hair. The kid is praying. A second cop steps up and kicks the kid in the ribs.

"You and your crew have got to tape this. I mean, these guys are just peacefully protesting. They haven't done a thing."

Kenneth looks at my hand holding his arm. "This is their fight, not mine, Ron," says Kenneth. "It's all part of the political process."

"You need to get this on tape... for America," I plead. I look at Deirdre. She is looking at the young people from the Freedom for Palestine Movement getting their asses kicked.

"Look, Kenneth, I think Ron has a point," says Deirdre.

Kenneth tears his arm away. "Guys, I'm not filming this. My job here is finished. I'm the press, remember?"

I keep on. "Do you have a problem with Palestine, Kenneth?" I ask.

"I have no problem with Palestine at all," says Kenneth. He signals his cameraman, gives him the gesture that says, "cut the taping." His cameraman, however, keeps filming. The sound guy presses his microphone towards me.

To be honest, I don't spend a lot of my day thinking about Palestine. If you were to show me a map with no names on it, it might take me a while to find it. Like most Americans I'm weak on geography. But I've seen something in Kenneth that will definitely kill his evening with Deirdre. Kenneth Mayflower is a PEP, what we in Berkeley call a Progressive Except for Palestine. Deirdre, on the other hand, spent six weeks this year working on relief for the Orphans of the Occupied Territory.

I grab the armrest on Kenneth's chair. "Come on, Kenny, we've got to chronicle this. This is important. Our brothers in Palestine need our help."

"Please take your hand off my chair, Ron," says Kenneth crisply.

"This is important political action," I say.

"It's not my affair, Ron. Now get your hand off my chair."

"Palestine, Kenny, the biggest prison population on the planet," I improvise. "The civil rights violations. The bombings. The starvation. The lack of basic medical services. Don't tell me you're immune to that. I mean, it's the greatest humanitarian crisis on the planet. So I'm not letting go of this chair until you take action."

"This is assault, Ron."

"Are you kidding me?"

"No. And I will press charges. Let go of my chair."

"They need our help."

Kenneth speaks to me yet manages to speak to the camera at the same time. I imagine after years of being on CNN he's gotten good at it. "For your information, you're dead wrong on the Freedom For Palestine Movement," says Kenneth. "I have it on authority that the Freedom For Palestine Movement is a branch of Hamas, a terrorist organization whose sole goal is jihad as the means of subverting Isreal's sovereignty. Its aim is to create an Islamic state in all of Palestine and ultimately in the entire Islamic world. They are terrorists and religious fundamentalists. If they are going to get their heads cracked by the Oakland PD, then so be it. There, I said it. That's where I stand."

"Well, then fuck you, Kenny, you pussy," I say as I release his chair. "You can take your pissant crew from CNN and blow me. And fuck Diante López, while we're at it. He shot a thirteen-year-old girl in the back, left her in a chair, you sellout piece of shit."

"Yeah, fuck you, Kenneth," chimes in Lester, my new anarchist pal.

"Diante López was defending his civil rights," says Kenneth to the camera. "Hamas hates women and wants to put us back in the Middle Ages."

"Ron, why are you being such a jerk?" asks Deirdre. Now it's her turn to grab my chair.

"Jerk? Don't you mean asshole?" I ask.

"Yeah, Ron, why are you being such an asshole?" demands Deirdre. She tugs on my chair as she says this, accenting each syllable with a pull on my armrest.

This is not the reaction I expected. I thought, albeit stupidly, that my revealing of Kenneth Mayflower as a PEP would work in my favor. Instead I have somehow managed to push Deirdre even closer to her him. I look again at the Oakland sky. It's carmine red, hot and insistent. I have right then what you would call my "ah-hah moment." Even though you are logically exposing a flaw in someone else, you are still a jerk. By becoming an asshole, I finally see what I have been meaning to say all day but have somehow been unable to express. The answer is so obvious, so true, so important.

"I'm acting like this, Deirdre, because I love you," I blurt out. "I'm goddamned helplessly in love with you."

Surprised, Deirdre releases my chair. "What?"

"I love you."

"Do you know what you're saying, Ron?" asked Deirdre.

"Yep."

I know, I know, totally controlling and manipulative. But I kind of mean it. I am getting to love Deirdre. That's why I'm so scared of losing her. That's why I'm at this goddamned vigil. But I'm shit at expressing myself. I have found absolutely the wrong time to tell her this. The backdrop to this declaration should be a picnic in a field full of wildflowers, or perhaps on the summit of windblown mountain. Instead there are screams and clouds of tear gas, a carmine sky, a crippled rival in a retro chair. In my defense, I can only say that I have never practiced this before, that I am shit at relationships. I have never used the L word. Not once. Not ever. In my endless string of past girlfriends, the L word has always been first salvo in the breakup. The girl declares her love, I hit the road as fast as the wheels of my metal chair will take me. So here I am using it. By the expression Deirdre has on her face, I can tell this is really the worst thing I could ever have said. There is no radiant smile, no warm, tender eyes. Here face is screwed up, the muscles contorted, the lips tight.

"Ron, why are you doing this here, right now?" wonders Deirdre.

I put on my cool boyfriend grin. "Doing what, babe?"

"Oh Jesus. You know I hate it when you call me that. And now your Mr. Stupidhead face. For pity's sake, Ron, get a clue."

I try not to babble as I respond. But I can't help it. I'm babbling. I babble because the Oakland sky gives me no choice. I babble because it's my last defense, my pathetic stand. It doesn't help that Kenneth's camera crew is filming this whole thing. It doesn't help that Deirdre's coworkers and boy soldiers get to see my descent into patheticness. "I'm saying I'm seeing straight for the first time in my goddamned life," I proclaim. "I know I'm a weak, cripple loser, your personal repair project. I don't say things at the right time like people would expect. I'm a noisy, grumpy guy in a chair with big opinions. It's because I'm in this chair I think I get to be like this. I get this huge sense of entitlement. So I become a manipulative shit. Even the first day we met I was lying to you. I was acting pathetic and useless so you would notice me. You were the kind that goes for wounded men and I exploited the fact. But today I'm not wounded. I'm absolutely in touch with the moment. So first I'm going to tell you I love you even though I see you clearly don't want to hear it. Secondly I'm going to go help those Palestinians. Okay, you've never heard a word come out of me about the crisis in Israel. I get it. To be honest, I don't really think about it much, and I don't think I've really even met a Palestinian before. Until today I haven't really given it a thought. All I know is that you're planning on going to dinner with dipshit here, then quite possibly sleeping with him. You're planning on doing this to get back at me in some way. I've been trying to act cool with it all day. But this is a long-term thing. I've felt your anger for a while now. And I completely avoided it. So we have arrived at the moment. You asked me to get out of my comfort zone. I am out of it. Just a couple of minutes ago, I tossed a brick through the window of a Starbucks. It felt fucking great. I felt suddenly alive for the first time in a while. If you want to hang out with nutless politically-correct Kenneth Mayflower, CNN gadfly and fake-o liberal commentator, go for it. I don't really care. Do what you have to do. Today I'm going to fight. Just like Brigitte Bardot. I will be her cripple ship. I will be her cripple warrior. I bet you don't know that last week she saved a couple of alcoholic Russian bears from performing in a shithole tourist trap in Russia. Those poor fucking bears were found lying in a cage swamped in shit and refuse, and no one came to their aid but Brigitte Bardot. Today I fight like Brigitte, like a fucking gritty old conflicted bitch. For what else, I don't really have a clue. I'm just going to fight. That's it. That's how I feel. So now you know. I've said what I was going to say. Now I'm off to do battle."

I see the dense look of horror on Deirdre's face. I suppose she thinks she's supposed to say she loves me too. You know the game. You tell someone that you love them, they say they love you back. But Deirdre is speechless. I wheel my chair before Deirdre can reply. I don't think I can look at her as she weighs through all the baggage I have just thrown out. I have either made a colossal fuck-up with my declaration of love, or more frightening yet, I have done the right thing and she will stay with me forever. Both results are equally terrifying. I crank on my chair, start rolling towards the chaos. A tear gas canister whips by, gas trailing. A man hit by a rubber bullet falls, gripping an eye that will no longer see. A woman screams.

"Yo, Ron, we really heading into it?" shouts Lester at my side.

"You rolling with me?" I ask.

"Hell yeah, motherfucker. I told you I got your back. Besides, we've already broken a few windows. Why not go down like warriors?"

We fly past protesters and anarchists breaking car windows.

"You're badass," I say.

"No, you're a badass, motherfucker, yo."

"No, you're the badass."

"Are you really doing this for Deirdre?" asks Lester.

"Fuck that. This is for me and Brigitte Bardot. Deirdre just took me to this point."

"I don't know what the fuck that means," says Lester.

"Nor do it. I'm pissed off. I don't know at what. But I'm fucking pissed."

"Me too."

"Hell yeah."

"Brigitte Bardot!" cries Lester.

"Brigitte Bardot!" I cry.

I look up at the sky. It's now pink red, tear gas mixed with smog. I have no clue what this vermillion mistress is going to make me do next but I'm pretty sure in ten minutes we will be on our way to jail. I hear a groan, another person falling from a rubber bullet.

Lester grabs his shoulder where a rubber bullet has struck, says, "Man, they're fucking shooting on us, yo."

I feel the fear creeping up in my throat. The fact that I don't hear Deirdre calling my name or her feet running towards me makes me want to vomit. I swallow, crank even harder on my wheels, start up my mantra just as we hit the police line. Brigitte Bardot forty years ago. Me and her on a beach...