Art To Action

They waved the bedsheet in the air and yelled over the truck engines and closed windows. The car in front of me rolled through the stop sign as I drove up to the intersection, the motley band of protestors on the grass to my left.

I hazarded a glance toward the small group through my car window. One of them waved at me. I turned my head forward, quickly, but then felt guilty. Cranking the window down, I glanced back at the man who had caught my eye. The thick Florida heat spilled into the car.

"That's Morty," I said aloud.

"You know him?" Della asked from the passenger seat.

I nodded, waving back.

"He goes to my church."

"He looks ancient."

I looked from Morty to the rest of the group and counted about nine of them with my eyes. Five women, four men, all over eighty years old. The woman in the back rested one of her arms on a walker and raised her other one in the air with an angry fist.

The car behind me honked.

The group cheered, waving their bedsheet enthusiastically. I looked at it for the first time, seeing the words brushed on it with blue paint.

HONK IF YOU PROTEST THE WAR IN IRAQ

The car behind me honked again, sending another wave of cheers. I grinned and lay on my own horn, then put the car in gear. Della hid her head in her hands.

#

They discussed their little protest on Sunday after services, and Esmerelda tallied the number of honks to a total of thirty-eight, convincing herself and the rest of the small congregation that public opinion was pacifist in nature.

I sat at the metal folding table, cradling my Styrofoam cup of coffee with my hands, wondering when I could gracefully duck out of the building.

"I wish we saw more folks your age out there holding signs," Esmerelda said, lowering her reading glasses and looking straight into my eyes.

If ever there were a time to discuss my fears on such matters, now would be my chance. These seasoned activists had seen their labors come to fruition through the sixties and seventies. I wanted to know how many of them had been arrested.

Morty shook his head at me, his earring glinting in the fluorescent lights above. I stood.

"I have to go. I have a petition to sign," I said, smiling at the group. I did not mention it would be anonymously.

"That's the spirit!" Morty said, his face breaking into a beam. "And, we'll be at that corner again on Wednesday if you're available."

I smiled at them all again, dumping my coffee into the trash as I left.

#

Smells of curry wafted in from the small apartment kitchen as the group of five young men tried to peel enough eggs to feed all of us. I walked into the kitchen and grabbed an egg.

"You boiled them for too long," I said to Ravin as I cracked the egg's shell. He smiled.

"I'll get it right eventually," he said.

"Abi can't get back into the country," Della said, plopping herself onto the sofa.

"What?" I asked, looking up from my mutilated egg.

"Yeah," said one of the other men, pulling eggshells from his fingernails. He was a friend of Ravin's; I hadn't yet caught the man's name.

"Well, why did he leave?" I asked. "With everything that's going on right now...."

"Wanted to see his folks over break," Della filled in. "If they don't let him back in within the month, he's going to lose his scholarship."

Half of my egg fell into the trash.

"That sucks. That really sucks." I threw the rest of the egg away.

We heard voices on the sidewalk outside the apartment walls. I paused, listening, as the outside conversation wafted in through the window glass.

"That's a lot of shoes, man."

"Shit, do you think? Should we tell someone?"

"I dunno...."

Their footsteps receded on the concrete. From the parking lot, a pickup truck engine revved.

#

During church, we took up a small collection for Douglas. He had attended the same art school as me, but he was in worse shape.

I lay a ten dollar bill in the basket.

"This means so much to me," Douglas said after services, hugging me in the open doorway. The heat gnawed at our necks, sending trickles of sweat down my back.

"Shut the door and save the planet!" one of the parishioners yelled from within. I pulled Douglas by his sleeve to the covered sidewalk and let the heavy metal door slam.

"I don't suppose you have any work you could pass my way?" Douglas asked, his eyes pointing to the ground.

"I wish I had something I could give you," I said. I had just enough illustration work to pay my part of rent. My one remaining client—the local bank—could drop me without explanation. Just like the last one had.

The door handle squealed, and Morty squeezed through the heavy metal onto the sidewalk.

"I wanted to give you this," he said, pushing a photocopied flyer into my hand. "We're marching next Saturday. You should join us."

I looked at the flyer as if giving it significant thought.

"It's local? Here in town?" I asked. Douglas took the flyer from me.

Morty nodded. "Yeah, you got no excuse this time."

"I'll consider it," I lied. Word traveled fast in small towns.

"Count me in," Douglas said, smiling at Morty. Of course Douglas should march. He had nothing to lose.

Morty reached out and took Douglas' arm.

"I'm glad at least one of you young folk is willing to defend what we worked so hard for."

I smiled at them both as I turned toward the gravel parking lot. And I felt my soul crumble under Morty's gaze as I drove away.