Erik needs work. Needs work like a body needs air and food, like the human spirit requires open space and an undue sense of importance. He realizes it one afternoon as he sits down with his first cup of coffee, waiting for his computer to boot. Deju vu, as though he has done all this once before. Nausea, as he realizes not once but many times with nigh-on religious repetition. Awake piss percolate coffee computer email porn porn porn email coffee jobsearch porn and a Hot Pocket. Every day, burp on cue. The same old song and mirthless shuffle, the ever present curtain of despair, the weighty metaphor wrapped in a flimsy simile.
Erik needs work, like the protesters downtown all have for a week. Longer than that, but for a week now they’ve made a note to air those grievances, blocking traffic and picketing the various offices and establishments of the Man that be. Tie-wearing champagne-tossing golf-playing gracious-tipping fuckwads, 401k stock options and the golden parachute – In Case of Emergency Break Glass. The 1% at the top of the totem heap, pressing down the cornerstone 99. Cornerstone folk like himself, Erik thinks angrily as he leaps into action. Rummaging through a clothes-heaped closet looking for a flattened box, big black marker and a bit of duct tape on a cricket bat. It reads-
Erik Needs Work
BS in Accounting, 3.7 GPA
Some Experience, Dependable
Give Erik a Chance!
A chance. Entry-level boot licking, extra hours on the weekends. I’m-not-desperate-but-I’ll-do-anything aim to please can-do spirit. The sort the market thrives on, the reason the system’s now broken down; not enough chances being taken. All the fat cats and their connected underlings simmering in a big incestuous pile of corruption and complacency. Letting the country go to the dogs, letting the dogs get gobbled up by the Chinese. Metaphors, dammit. Apt generalizations catching a broader swath of the forest, a broad-thinking Erik thinks to himself as he leaves the apartment with the weighty sign propped up on his shoulder. Slung like a rifle, ready to fire off a few rounds at the Man.
He gravitates downtown into the belly of the unblinking city, playground of the elites and self-important and their cringing toadies. He can hear cars honking and as he follows the sound he can start to hear the roar of his fellows. The 99%, stopping up a traffic circle as if it were a cork in a bottle. Diverting bourgeoisie traffic and the slave-ship bus lines, waving signs and drawing honks of support and ire from the detouring cars. Two cops stand uncomfortably on the corner opposite, watching the swell and talking amongst themselves.
Erik gravitates across the way toward the human barricade, an unnatural conglomerate of recession. High school punks and bums and college dropouts, soccer moms and truck drivers; black white and every-color credo under the sun intermingling amicably. All shouting and chanting and singing in one big harmonious din. Aging hippies passing the mantle to youthful hipsters who’ll post a picture then scrap it first chance on the Ebay, when it’s lost its luster. Joe the Plumber rapping with the local Stitch n’ Bitch as tribal tatted ama-bras dick about with a yo-yo. It's a jam band atmosphere, complete with the frazzle haired groupie woman dancing unconsciously with wild hands.
Dueling speakers blare against each other, both over the top of the ideologues with the megaphones and clipboards and agendas. They’re trying desperately to organize, to get this thing in order before the police show up with the fire hose and wash it all down the gutter. Directing the directionless, stand here, more signs there and the occasional nothing inflammatory. Trying to separate the chaff and chavs from the posterboard 99%, to make a marketable representation of the unpleased whole for the vis-ed student orbiting about with his camera. Erik gets tussled along towards the front of the north-facing line, hold your sign high like. Set shoulder to shoulder between a tobacco-chewing Vancouverite and a middle-ager come straight off from Denver Street.
It’s an exhilarating thing, standing there in the face of traffic after spending a lifetime scurrying across roads. Three lanes of vehicles being dumped off at them, having to jerk off to the right down another one-way sidestreet. Delayed from the precious, indifferent business of the day. Erik can see their faces through the windshields: irritable and awestruck, smiling and fearful and confused. Some downright upset as they roll down a window and shout something unintelligible as they drive off. “I oughtta run you bastards down!” one screams. Others wave and honk supportive blips of their horns as they continue on toward their jobs, affable scabs.
More police are arriving, hats wrapped in plastic to ward off the gentle mist that collects on their yellow raincoats. Massing on the corners while a few direct the traffic, a pair approach the crowd and begin arguing with one of the bullhorn-carriers. But the Body stands resilient, each member a part of a larger defiant clog in the commercial chain. Everybody doing their bit. Erik feels an integral part of the group, feels he can really puff out his chest that he is the 99%. And then he hears his name.
“You there! Erik!” A well-groomed head calls from the back of a limo car stopped on the street. Erik wonders if he’s being addressed. “Yes, you! Erik, with the sign! Do you really have an accounting degree?” He nods dumbly, remembering what it was he’d written on his picket. “We’re looking for somebody in our accounting department, entry-level. Hop on in!” The door opens up as the well-groomed man scoots over to one side of the seat.
“Man, fuck that Wall Street shitbag,” Vancouverite shouts into Erik’s ear. Denver puts a hand on his shoulder, reminding him about solidarity. There are honks coming from behind the limo and the driver looks like he might move along. Meanwhile sirens are perking up from the southern side of the protester's circle. To stay or to go, Erik feels torn.
“You need a job or not?” Well-groomed calls from the car irritably.
Erik needs work. Needs work like a customer needs satisfaction, like a sports utility vehicle needs a wider place to park. He breaks free of Denver’s grasp and ignores Vancouverite’s reproaches as he jogs up to the limousine. Setting down his picket on the damp tarmac he makes to get in. “No, bring that along,” Well-groomed instructs him. “You’re going to need a resume.” Erik and picket slide into the car as the door shuts behind them, driver pressing on the gas and taking them uptown as the police start unpacking their great orange nets from the backs of their vans.
