The Wikiness

I am 21 years old, timidly asserting myself in this small midwestern metropolis. I write for the Bloomington-Normal Post-Amerikan and spin records for money four nights a week at Shakey Jake’s. I am a man about town in my father’s cast-off Chevy, a semi-entitled socialist, intentional in my politics. I subscribe to The Weekly People, the organ of the Socialist Labor Party, and at school, I’m part of the pacifist Fellowship of Reconciliation. 

On this snowy February day, we are staging a protest against the Reagan administration’s spending for new, improved missile systems, more capable than ever of raining certain death on our enemies. 

Our fellowship–7 or so students–gathers under heavy flakes with a faculty member on the quad. We’ve brought some props and signs, which any good protest requires. A cardboard MX missile is set up alongside a fake gravestone. With missile funding, resources for children and healthcare will be killed. Our tagline is, “As missiles are built, people’s needs get buried.”

For our protest to matter, it has to be reported. We hope the Daily Pantagraph, or at least the Vidette, will cover it tomorrow. 

“No, MX! No Trident!” Our voices are muted by the falling snow.

It is 12:15 and no reporters have shown. Maybe the weather is keeping them away. My dog, Mesrine, breathes steam at my side. Fat splotches of snowflake melt on his silky black coat. 

At 12:25, it’s getting hard to see. 

At last, our reasoned petition for justice is read aloud, to an audience of ourselves. The snow swallows up our strident tones.  We look at each other, shrug at the weather, smile, and separately adjourn. 

We’ve protested as best we can. It will have to do. Take that, Ronald Reagan!

In a few minutes, I’m putting Mesrine in the back of my two-door ‘73 Malibu. I start up its perky six cylinders and we head across town to our home at 505 ½ East Olive. My rear-wheel drive is not the best in these conditions, but I have two snow tires back there. And I have good windshield wipers. I am not afraid.

At an intersection two blocks from home, the song “Big Country” is blasting on my radio. “In a big country, dreams stay with you…”

It’s a semi-blind crossing–my view to the left obstructed not just by gusting snow but by cars parked to the corner. “Like a lover’s voice fires the mountainside…”

Clear on the right, I assume it’s clear on the left, and enter the intersection just as a pick-up truck comes barreling through. It T-bones my car’s rear left and sends it spinning around the crossroads. It comes to a stop in the opposite lane. 

“Stay alive…” The radio stays on, as if the Universal soundtrack of my life. 

My first concern is my dog, and thankfully, when I look back, he’s fine, wagging his tail at this new excitement we’ve got ourselves into. 

I try opening my door, but it’s jammed shut. Amazingly, the car still drives, though the wrenched chassis limits my steering. I manage to park safely on the opposite side.

The other driver is angry. He will “not pay for this,” he protests. It is my fault. 

I nod my head. I am through protesting.

And we wait for the cops.