chapter 4 and 5
CHAPTER FOUR By the time the president boomed his last signature, crowd-roaring “… we will make America great again” chant, Mike had one man-sized crush on a pint-sized woman, just from watching her. Green hair, black lips. Easy to pick out, even when the crowd was on its feet, cheering, which was often. She’d sat mostly quiet, although a few times he caught her quietly applauding, occasionally standing, perhaps caught up in the mood of the ladies all around her. But outside at night, in a river of people all trying to exit, her dark clothing and small size made her almost disappear. So, he watched her closely, fascinated by her, but alert to the threats posed by the protestors, anti-fascist especially. The police would be few and far between in the vast parking lot on the outskirts of the venue, and their assistance could not be counted on. Clearly out of her element, he needed to be her eyes and ears. After the rally, she hunkered down in her chair, texting like mad, taking an occasional call. Mike did the same. Security shooed her out of the arena once the sea of attendees thinned. He made his exit, too, but stayed out of her field of vision. She was on the phone again. He could see her head tilt this way and that as she walked, her focus on her conversation. Perhaps she was paying only enough attention not to trip. As unaware as she was, she needed watching over and there was only one soul in this whole crowd who was willing to do it. He was his grandfather’s boy and Mike knew very well how useful his type could be. He didn’t take her hostility in the trolley car personally. All he wanted was a chance to talk to her. Mike scanned their surroundings for threats, then focused in on her. For such a small body, she had a strong build. She had straight shoulders with a tiny waist cinched in with a narrow belt, her shirt tucked into a snug pair of jeans. Her breasts were firm and well-shaped. Nice to look at. In the amber glow of the parking lot lights, he watched the pelting rain grow heavier. She had no coat, only a hoodie tied around her waist. This she untied and slipped into. She skirted the crowd, keeping her phone in her hand, her vision trained on the screen. That hoodie wasn’t enough to keep a pissant warm, let alone dry, and with this rain, a serious chill would catch her before long. Something slammed him, hard, from behind. He stopped, pissed off he’d let his attention wander. He knew what it was. Anti-fascists—the black-hooded figures and bandanaed faces gave them away. Somehow, they’d managed to infiltrate the throng of peaceful rallygoers without attracting attention. The punks ran and jumped through the crowd, tripping people, pushing and shoving, stirring up mayhem. He reached out to a couple of them and pulled down their masks. At least three set on him, but it was like taking out his sisters. Two quick shoves and a boot in some jerk’s belly and he was free. He looked at the girl-sprite. She was surrounded by them, paying attention now. They were pushing her, raising bike locks and bats at her, screaming and taunting, driving her backwards and further away from him. He saw her stumble, unable to escape the bullies. Why they’d chosen to pick on her he couldn’t fathom. All he knew was they’d chosen wrong. One of them shoved her. He saw her step backward into the punk’s partner in crime; she raised her arms to try to shield herself. Her phone flew from her grasp. Now her attention was fully on the bullies. Self-preservation became her goal. A few men tried to intervene, but the anti-fascists soon overwhelmed them with their numbers. They beat back the men, two or three to one, who had to retreat to save their own skins. Just as he reached her, something bumped his foot. Her phone. She saw it at the same moment. She dove for it, but one of the bullies caught her in the side with his boot and bent her double. She howled and went to her knees but managed to stand up again. The bullies swarmed in and surrounded her. Mike stepped in, intending to make Jell-O out of the coward who kicked her in the ribs. His big body easily broke the wall of wimps, who turned on him. He swooped low, grabbed the phone, and shoved it in his coat pocket. On his way up he slammed into the pricks who’d assaulted her, then saw the one who’d put his shoe into her side. He plowed his elbow into the guy’s nose; a crunch and a scream followed. He felt like Moses parting the Red Sea as he grabbed her wrist to pull her out of the melee. Escape time. She fought him, pulling back, thinking he was with the assault group. “Let’s go.” He yanked harder than he wanted, but it was past time to flee. All around them was an unholy mass of black-clad punks, more than he could count, creating a ribbon of rage and violence. He steered the two of them, running, away from the crowd, pulling her after him. Even in this heightened state he was careful not to grip too hard and bruise her wrist. Christ, it was so small. She still resisted—he couldn’t blame her for that. She had no idea who he was or where he was taking her, but she was no match for his strength, anyway. “Let go!” He stopped and took her by the shoulders. He could hear the mob behind them, interspersed with the rallygoers. It sounded like a full-blown riot. The throngs were making their way toward the exit gates, to their cars, to the trolley stop. He grabbed her tighter and shoved his face into hers. “Come with me. There isn’t time to explain.” Her shoulders heaved from fright, from adrenaline, from the exertion, but she understood. He caught in her expression a glimpse of recognition of him as the man from the trolley. She nodded, her eyes wide. “You’ll get hurt,” he said, “we’ll get hurt. We’ve got to get out of here. These guys don’t mess around. They want blood. Yours, mine, whoever. But yours is easier to take than mine.” “But … the cops—” She was on the verge of hysterics. “Have a stand-down order.” She probably hated cops. They all did, until a situation like this arose. But her fear shone like a beacon. She was terrified. Rightfully. At least she now had a sense of the danger. The crowd behind was losing its cohesive movement. The anti-fascists were creating small systems of chaotic reaction as pockets of rioting broke out. He softened his tone, certain now she was ready to listen to him. “Stay with me. And hang on to my hand.” “My phone!” “I’ve got it. We’re out of time. Now, let’s go.” She nodded in agreement with small, quick up and down jerks of her head. Better. Now that she was with him, they would make faster progress. They took off again, running harder this time. He could feel her, still behind him, urging him forward, not pulling back anymore. They reached the last row of cars and sprinted toward the exit gate. Some of the crowd hurried behind them. Mike threw a quick backward glance in the direction of the mob assault. The smell of smoke was accompanied by flames of orange on the black sky. Against the flames, against the light of the parking lot, the rain kept falling. He was glad he hadn’t brought his truck here, even though he needed some way out of the danger. “What’s a stand-down order?” She shouted through her panting. He wondered why she was asking that now. “It means don’t do your job.” Talking hurt his lungs, made him gasp for breath. “Don’t ask questions. Just run.” They reached the gate. He pushed her through, in front of the cars that sat, bottlenecked, waiting for directions from traffic control. They exited onto the sidewalk of a side street. Mike steered them toward the nearest traffic light. They were alone now. It was quieter away from the crowd, and he hoped, the punks. They stopped to wait for the traffic light. He took his phone from his pocket. The time read 9:15 p.m. He dialed his foreman, Ronan Hassert. “Ronan!” His breath was heavy. “Boss.” Ronan was his relaxed, casual self. “Need some help here, Ro. Ran into some trouble. I need you to come and get us.” “Us?” “I’ll explain later. Just meet me on 35th. We’re heading west. South of Greentree.” “Right.” Mike hung up. “I’m not going with you anywhere.” He was getting pissed. “Just shut up and run.” He took her hand again, more firmly, and kept running. She was dragging behind, protesting the punishing pace. He slowed to a fast walk. Finally, he saw Ronan’s truck turn onto the street just ahead of them and stop. Mike pulled open the door of the rear cab and turned to her, ready to hoist her inside. “Oh, no.” She set back on her heels. He didn’t know how she had the strength to resist like this. “Oh no, what?” “I’m not going anywhere with you.” “Do you know what we just escaped from? They get paid to do this. They’ll keep coming. All you are to them is something not bloody enough.” She didn’t move, only stood there in defiance of him. Mike shrugged and dropped her hand. “Your choice.” He didn’t have time to argue. In the driver’s seat, Ronan was turned around, watching them, halfway smiling. Mike climbed in and sat down, then looked down at her. “I’m not staying here. Get in now, or you’re on your own.” He reached for the door handle. “My phone!” He tossed it to her. She caught it. “I’ll call you an Uber,” he said. “Stay where you are.” He started to close the door. “Wait.” “Well…?” She stuck out her hand. “What’s your name?” Like it would help matters. Was she serious? “Mike. And we can’t wait all night.” “Mike what?” “Mike what? I can’t even—Jorgensen, okay?” The girl-sprite stuck out her hand. “Hi, Mike Jorgensen, I’m Ricki. Ricki Ellis.” From the front seat, Ronan began to laugh. Mike shook hands. “Well, okay, Ricki Ellis. This is Ronan. Ronan, this is Ricki.” “Hello, Ricki.” “Hi, Ronan.” “Okay, can you get in now?” He saw her hesitate, then glance toward the arena. The mob was still out there. She vaulted through the partially closed door like a scared rabbit, landing on top of him. For a moment, he held her in his lap, feeling her tremble. He slammed the door shut. “Go, Ro.” Her dripping form tumbled over him into the opposite seat. She hugged the door, looking at him as if she might be his next murder victim. Ronan hung a U-turn and turned back. As the streetlights washed through the truck’s interior, he saw she was still trembling. Fright, cold. He took off his jacket. “Up the heat, Ronan, would you? Thanks.” He scooted an inch toward her, holding up the coat. The inside would be warm from his body heat. Carefully, he draped it over her. His grandfather would be proud. “Take this.” She shot him a look but snugged it in close to her. Her hair was matted flat to her head from the rain. The black makeup was smeared and running down her cheeks. Given her condition, it fit. Like she was orphaned or something. Like she needed love. He felt sympathy and protectiveness, even though she’d been an asshole earlier on the train. “You gave me this because you think I’m weak.” “Well, at the moment, aren’t you? If you don’t like it, you can give it back.” “Hey, you two,” said Ronan. “Boss, where to?” Mike thought for a moment. He wanted to get his truck, now parked in his driveway. It was left home in favor of the trolley. But he was uncertain. He wanted a stiff drink, too. But he needed to eat, and he could use some strong coffee. He turned to Ricki. “What was your name again? Sorry.” He felt like a jerk for not remembering her name. After all, he’d just saved her from a vicious mob attack. Her eyes shifted to see him. She was sullen in her little corner bunched up like a heap of laundry he might leave on the floor. “Ricki.” He’d get her home safe and sound, but first … “Yeah, Ricki. You hungry?” She just sort of made herself smaller and didn’t answer. “Well, I want some coffee. You want coffee?” This time she nodded. He could see the earrings in her ears as they bobbled up and down in the dimness. “Drop us at the diner, would you, Ronan?” “Sure, boss.” Ronan put his foot to the gas and sped on through the night. CHAPTER FIVE Two mugs clattered onto the counter. Hot, black coffee poured into his cup. Sally, the waitress working the counter tonight, eyed him. “Blonde and sweet?” Mike looked at Ricki, then at Sally. “You said it, sailor.” They both laughed as she slid over the cream and sugar. They always shared this joke. “Coffee?” Ricki was staring at both of them like they spoke a foreign language. The girl needed to relax a bit if she ever hoped to get through a meal in this place. She looked down into her lap. Her lips moved. She mumbled something. “What? Speak up.” The waitress looked at Ricki with one brow arched. The pot of coffee was clutched in her fist, a bit like a hot poker she might use. “Yes, please.” Coffee splashed into the empty mug. The waitress stalked off. “Just what the hell did that mean?” she said. “Blonde and sweet?” “Yeah, like women. Get it?” Her mouth turned down in a pout. “Here, let me show you.” He tipped up the cream pitcher. “Blonde.” His coffee changed from rich brownish black to caramel colored. “Now, sweet.” He dumped sugar into his spoon and stirred up his coffee. “You rad feminists need to learn to relax. It’s a joke, okay? Got nothing to do with you.” Except … there was a head of striking blonde hair beneath the green shit. On second thought— “Don’t you ever get tired of that?” “Tired of what?” “Being mad all the time.” Her jaw clenched again. “I’m not mad.” He wanted to say more, but then she reached for the sugar and cream for herself. “Ah, somebody who knows what good coffee’s all about.” “I thought you believed in ladies first.” She carefully poured out measures of cream and sugar and stirred them into her cup. “Touché,” he said. If he looked past the anger, he could see in her the barest hint of sweet. Sally plopped down the order book. She scribbled without looking at Mike. “Your usual?” “Yes, please.” This time she glanced up at Ricki. “Just coffee.” “Why aren’t you eating?” The hands went to her lap again, twisting a ring on her finger. “I didn’t bring any money.” “Hey, I’m the one who dragged you out of the rain and away from the mob against your will. I’m buying.” Her cheek and ear were turning pink. He ignored her embarrassment and turned to the waitress. “Sally, bring her what you bring me. I’m not eating alone.” “Sure thing, Mike.” “Wait.” She waved away the menu Sally held out. “Grilled cheese with fries, please. Whole wheat.” Sally wrote out the order then refilled their coffees. Ricki sat back and looked around the place, seeming to like what she saw. She sipped. Her jaw unclenched. She even raised her cup. “Cheers.” Their eyes met as he lightly clinked his rim to hers. “To intersectionality.” “Are you making fun of me?” “Of course not,” he said, pretending to be offended. “Intersectionality works for everybody, if you think about it.” “No, it doesn’t. You don’t know what you’re talking about.” “Of course, I do. You think you get to make the rules, but your rules only exist in your twisted world. It’s not even a word. If you’re intersectional for what, being female, with green hair and white—” “I’m one-quarter Mexican.” “—then I’m intersectional for white and male, and Scottish-Swedish descent and that makes me less than human, at least according to your people, right?” She scoffed. “You’re so sure you know it all. It’s just your white—” “Male privilege.” He sighed. “I still say it goes both ways. And my rule is just as legitimate as yours. In fact, more so. You’ve got one sliver of the universe who believes the way you do. I’ve got everything else on my side.” He expected back a dose of shrill female invective, railing about mansplaining but all she did was glare, like she couldn’t think of anything to say. He stared back, thinking what pretty blue eyes she had. After a few seconds, she looked away. He wasn’t going to budge an inch with this one. At another time in his life he would have let this type nail him. Not anymore. Michelle, his sister, had helped a lot with that. Ricki’s hands were small. They barely fit around the cup. A ring, petite like her, set with a green stone, circled her middle finger. He reached over and touched it, very lightly. The tip of his finger covered the stone. “Nice. “Thanks.” She studied it. “It used to belong to my grandmother.” The repartee was interrupted by Sally’s elbows as she plunked down plates. Hot sauce and ketchup followed. Mike screwed open the hot sauce bottle and turned to her. “So, why’d you give away my seat earlier, on the subway?” “I didn’t give it away, you did.” “I saved it for you. I would’ve sat there myself.” She shrugged and sipped her coffee. “Wasn’t your seat.” “Do you not like people being nice to you? You reject guys when they act like gentlemen?” He pointed to her ring. “You got that from your grandmother. Well, I had a grandfather who taught me to treat women with respect. Ladies first was always his motto. It’s mine, too.” “Gentlemen?” She spoke the word with contempt. “They’re useless.” “Useless? I saved your ass from a mob out for blood.” She paused. “Yeah, thanks.” “What were you doing at the rally?” “Research for a blog post I’m writing.” “Oh, yeah? What blog?” “It’s called Petra’s Parlance. Not that you’ve ever heard of it.” “Who’s Petra?” “Me.” “You’re right, I never heard of it.” “That’s because you probably just watch Fox News or read Breitbart.” “All of the above. Plus, Investor’s Business Daily.” “Ah, yes,” she said. “That conservative business rag? I might have known. Anyway, I’m hoping this post gets me some readers.” “Well, Petra’s Parlance, I suppose you’ll tell the world about all the redneck racists.” “That’s the idea.” She grinned and stuffed a fry into her mouth. “So, I’ll be the big bad racist spewing hate speech while a vicious redneck mob tried to attack you for wearing a Hillary T-shirt.” “Something like that.” “And how many did you find?” “Several.” She twirled another fry into her ketchup. He chewed on his inside lip a bit, trying to figure something out. He drew out his phone from his back pocket and sat back in his chair. “No, how many did you actually talk to? Give me a number.” “You’ll find out when you read it.” “What you mean is zero. So, you’ll just lie about it.” Ricki, shrugged. “Doesn’t matter,” she said. “All that matters is balancing out the historic oppressors with the oppressed.” “Yeah, right, and what did you say the name of that blog was?” “Petra’s Parlance.” He typed into his search bar. “Let’s see here—‘How to Incorporate Activism in Your Daily Life,’ ‘Radical Chic on a Budget.’ And you’re Petra?” “That’s right.” “Nice pen name.” “Thanks. I like it.” He scrolled through the phone, looking carefully at the screen. “God, this is some great reading, here. Thanks, Petra.” “More coffee?” Sally raised the pot in question, ready to pour. “Sure,” said Mike. “You’re dangerous with that pot tonight.” “My weapon of choice.” “None for me, thanks,” said Ricki. She turned to him. “Hey, it’s been great. Thanks for all your help. And thanks for the meal. This is a great place. It really is. But, well, how can I get home?” “I’ll take you. I live with my twin sister, two blocks over. We’ll walk there and get my truck.” He grabbed the check from the counter. “Let’s go.”
. In the video review I posted, this was published right around Jan 6
