The first volleys of teargas spread their toxic comet tails over the crowds of protestors just ten minutes after we arrived. A few quick puffs of pepper spray sent the front line into panic. The cans spewing smoke, spurting fire rolled back almost unnoticed through the feet of the agitated crowd, the slightest smell of sulfur and the lungs sudden seizure, eyes and lips burning, throat full of caustic broken glass air.
I dug through my knapsack; I spent my last ten dollars on a Russian surplus gas mask on the way to the demonstrations. I blindly pulled it over my head, yanked the filter plug and clutched the black rubber disk, looking at it through the twin glass discs that suffered for eye holes. With each breath I listened to the rubber respirator valve. Faces appeared out of the grey, groping blindly, grasping their throats or holding handkerchiefs and scarfs to their mouths, eyes squinting through red pillow lids, faces rashed; they vomited and choked on their breath, groping past me.
Nearly everyone was lost in the first volleys, except Tabasco and Nadja. In a wheelchair, Tabasco was hard to miss. He was a blacksmith’s apprentice. He was a good fifty pounds of pure muscle heavier than me, and probably a foot taller at least. Ordinarily, he was a massive wall of a human being who might be really handy in a situation like this, but two days ago he got good and drunk with Nadja and managed to stomp on a wine glass. Since then, he had been confined to a wheelchair. Injured foot sticking straight out, he was hell in pedestrian traffic, but he has a voice that won’t quit, and he was a handy place to set the gas masks when we weren’t wearing them. I pushed him up onto the sidewalk and parked him at the curb.
I turned as the fresh waves of pepper spray washed through the protestors. A pair of cops grabbed at a little red-haired girl at the front of the line; one pepper sprayed the air in front of her, the other grabbed her sweater. We were most of the way up the hill when she was lifted over the barricade. He dropped her on the other side, she came down on her shoulder. She screamed as they dragged her off.
A silence descended on the whole block, and then someone took the first audible breath, and the crowd was inspired. The crowd cried out. The people moved closer. Red faces scuttling along the walls, shuffling down the sidewalks in collecting numbers; eyes set sternly, and a renewed, bloodshot indignance. The sense of injustice was tangible, a certain quality to the unified voice. Shouts of Shame spread like a ripple in the sea of people, fists were raised. The ripple became a wave. The voice echoed off the marble facades and mirrored skyscrapers. The people gathered at the line again, chanting “shame” low and hoarse. The stormtroopers on their peacekeepers shifted feet and stood forward slightly, lowering their gas guns into the crowd. The peoples’ voice rose as one, and their shouts were returned by the thousands restricted from the other side, one massive choir of percussive glory, a single unified voice shouting ‘shame’.
A few puffs of commotion up at the front sent up shouts. The pops, and the columns of gas reappeared. Almost instantly, the flaming cannisters were gathered and thrown back by the anarchists. Return volleys were fired back with an explosion of cheers, those without masks filtered through the crowd, screaming hoarsely at the cops. Those with masks stood the ground at the frontline, our own homespun black cotton militia, some with arms crossed or linked, some screaming and thrusting their fists into the air. There were a round of pops, a flaming can arched over our heads and hit a girl, running, she stumbled and her boyfriend caught her. The can bounced off her and rolled back down the hill, straight for us, puffing out clouds.
“We just need to find the action spot, Tabasco.”
“It’s coming right at us, Tommy.”
Just as he said it, a black clad figure swooped down on it, spun, and lofted it back with righteous athletic grace. Shouts went up again.
“That’s what the anarchists are there for,” I said. “Do you think they might be letting people over on Fifth?”
“Possible.” He lit a cigarette.
A young couple tried to make their way out. He dragged her along, fallen and crawling, still clinging to his hand. His face was a mess, me but a shadow, helping her to her feet, taking both of their shoulders and walking with them. She vomited until we were out of the smoke, and when she could take a breath, she collapsed to her knees. I poured water in her eyes, and she grasped at the bottle. I offered some to him, but he leaned at her side, spitting and hacking the gas out of his mouth. When she vomited, he stopped his own coughing, and held the hair out of her eyes.
Nadja appeared over my shoulder, pouring water over his eyes while I dug for another bottle. She held my shoulder and nodded.
“What’s your name?” I asked .
“Kelly.” The girl sputtered. “We were just chanting,” she said. “Nobody did anything.”
“I saw, Kelly.”
“We didn’t fucking do anything,” she said.
A news camera ran across the street towards us. A little blonde, and a big camera man. He hoisted the camera up onto his shoulder and pointed it down at Kelly, kneeling on the asphalt. “What just happened here?” The blonde asked.
“We got fuckin’ tear gassed,” Kelly sputtered.
Kieth charged from behind. “Get that fuckin’ camera out of our faces!” He shoved the cameraman. A volunteer medic showed up with baking soda water to clean her face and deactivate the chemicals.
The wind changed, blowing North, the toxic fog that hung over the block ebbed, spiraled, and flowed back up fourth, the clean clinical line of black stormtroopers appeared again, unmoving. Faceless and fleshless, they lined shoulder to shoulder, armor flat black and ominous. Two “Peacekeeper” armored SUVs served as the bleachers, and perched atop, a veritable choir of armored and indistinguishable riot personnel, armed with elaborate tear gas guns leveled at our street. The protestors along the walls of the street stopped coughing, and the eyes were on the conscripted army, tense and bristling. Some saw the opportunity to make for safety, lifted others to their feet and hustled up the block, clinging to the walls. Others collected themselves, wiped the snot from their lips and walked forward. I kissed Kelly on the forehead, blessed her, and collected the two empty water bottles. Nadja left her bottle with Kieth. “He looks like he needs it,” she said, and we walked down Fourth to find the rest of our group.
The cops sprayed the front line again. We were only a few feet back, and I still hadn’t finished my smoke. I pushed Tabasco through the crowd and up the hill. The gassing continued behind us. People ran past us, eyes red again, hacking and coughing. Medics were coming around the corners. Protesters with walkie-talkies served as the rebel underground network, barking for more people, or medics. Some would scream that they needed people on another street, they grabbed arms, motivated ramshackle platoons of listless newcomers. The redeyes took orders like holy war guerrillas, an order went up and a sudden rush of the rashed ran off to accommodate. After the first gassings, the people were getting stronger. There was some fierce adrenaline immunity, faces hung on breathless bodies, mouths still forming the words of a chant, though the voice was lost to the clouds. I was shuddered, watching the voiceless from the sidewalks, screaming silent shame and lifting themselves to their feet.
People flailed out, some crawling, others dry heaving and gasping as they walked up, the clouds of teargas at their backs. The wind carried it up the hill, through the glass canyon. A few more pops, and the terrible smoke trails. There was no source, no navigation, but the cloud, occasionally a flaming can rolled by, or a flaming toxic comet arched overhead. As people panicked, they lost direction, collided and deflected off in new directions. Clouds of fresh pepper spray marked the front line, a new and nauseating potpourri of chemicals by which to navigate.
A hand materialized out of the cloud, reaching as she fell, and caught my chest, her fingers gripping brown leather. I helped her to her feet. She peered at me through swollen eyes, her tiny fingers clutching my shoulder. Bloody phlegm frothed at her nostrils and lips. I reached under her legs and lifted her. One arm around my shoulder, she buried her face in my jacket, and clung to me, her body convulsing with each cough. To her I was a surreal masked face, lifting her out of her private hell for just a moment, the leather clad Eros abducting Psyche.
I carried her to the top of the block, University and Fourth. Somewhere in the papers, the hospitals bragged hazardous chemical detox tents and added personnel, but I didn’t see any there. She was so light, a whisp of smoke herself. She looked up at me, her eyes were thin slivers of bloodshot green. She squinted and blinked at me. With one hand, she reached up and ran her hand over the glass disks at my eyes, embraced me for a moment and shivered. Her hands were miniature and fragile looking, the one hand around my shoulder, clutching at the knapsack strap and jacket collar. With the other, she covered her eyes. I set her down at the corner with some volunteer medics. She clung to my hand until the medics held her. She blinked up at me and cried. They washed her eyes with a special soap. She was probably a good-looking girl until somebody gassed her.
The streets were alive with people. Blocks became territories, as much to keep the recovering gassees from the line, as to secure a symbol of the peoples’ intolerance. Bicyclists rolled by hollering victories. “We’ve taken Pine!” he’d holler, then disappear around a corner and return with new intersections. Battalions of hippies moved to his crier calls. The tide of people ebbing and flowing, some to witness the victories, others following to the front lines.
There was no access from second through to sixth. The cops let roughly ten thousand cross Pine before they split the march there. From the top of Fifth, the street dropped down a hill into the police barricade. Beyond an intersection of armored black, the streets were solid with mottled faces on the opposite side. The street smelled faintly of old gas and there were burn marks on the asphalt left over from the last gassing. A handful of people were trying to blockade a business entrance. I don’t think it had anything to do with the conference, but for some reason, a throng of them decided to hold everything. Some suits stood behind the line, arguing with another guy at the front. There was some confusion as to whether they should let the people in, let them out, hold them all for questioning, or kill the lot of them apparently. They were all screaming at each other. Eventually another protester stepped in to inform the guy at the front that they were allowed out. He was restrained by some anarchists while the suits fled.
The winds changed again, blowing the smoke out of the alleyways and out to the Sound. A gust came up behind us as we reached the sidewalk. Faintly at first, but growing louder, a single snare to a marching rhythm. The smoke cleared in time to see the first drummer striding triumphantly over the hill. Beside him, a couple of anarchists waved black and green flags. As they marched over the crest of the hill, a sudden sea of people in a vast black wave, fists raised, frothing with flags, in gas masks, ski masks, green bandanas. Men with bullhorns backed the crowds out of the streets to make way for the band. The wave of people washed around us, wall to wall, such as it was, flooding down the glass walled canyon. Tabasco was caught at the head of the procession and the people coming up behind us weren’t stopping. I dragged my feet behind Tabasco’s wheelchair to slow our roll down the hill, he applied brakes, and we continued down the hill towards the barricades and bodies at the front line. Already officers were readying the mace canisters, a few had the gas cannons leveled. Tabasco pulled on his gas mask.
Voices carried nicely over the chaotic hush; the chanting got louder. Both sides took it up in a haloed chorus. Two attachments of officers arrived to back up the first lines. They marched in double lines, banging police riot shields with the long batons. From what I know of anthropology, it must be a monkey thing. Beyond the barricades, the street went up in cheers, stamping atop overturned dumpsters, abandoned busses, and bus shelters. Ten little guys with sticks, banging on their toy shields, and the protesters answered with thunder. The gas clouds swirled through the streets in funnel clouds and an ominous fog.
Nadja tugged at my sleeve, pulling me towards the front. This was the closest she’d been to the line. She dragged me forward, pushing through the anarchists. At the front line, the officers stood shoulder to shoulder, visors down, masks on. A couple of officers readied the pepper spray canisters like fire extinguishers. A trio of mounted officers rode in. A cop on the peacekeeper leveled his gas gun at the street, the three mounted officers reigned in and withdrew. More officers followed, but there seemed to be some dissension amongst the officers. The guy on the crosswalk signal renewed his to ‘protect and serve’ cries, a pair of officers behind the line seemed to be arguing, a few officers joined them. The chanting got louder.
Gassing enemy soldiers or even violent rioters is one thing; it is yet an entirely different thing to, under the guise of civil tension, fire cans of flaming toxins into a peaceable assembly of American citizens. The local media played both sides. Given venue, the police bragged of their preparations for days prior, while the newscasters spread rumors of potential terrorist attacks by both left- and right-wing fanatics.
Ten Kevlar soldiers assembled double file, walked away with little more than the tattoo of their footfalls, matched by the second group of men, assembling and following them along Pine. The pounding and stomping rose to usher them out. From beyond the black wall we heard the first cries of ‘Whose streets? our streets!’. The marching band began again, their flags waving above the crowd, drums punctuated by whistle shrieks and trumpet blasts, all keeping rhythm for the peoples’ voice.
Nadja pulled me away again. She didn’t take off the mask but held my elbow as we strolled up the hill. She watched the pedestrians. The people celebrated. For just a few minutes, the people thought it was all true, and that the conscripts had listened. Protesters passed us going either direction, but the tension eased, and the music started again. No territory exchanged hands, but a victory was apparent.
Nadja stood at the edge of the sidewalk, tying her corn row blonde locks into a ponytail, holding her gas mask in her teeth, some impish grin germinating there. “Happy Birthday.” she smiled and wrapped her arms around me.
“It’s the best one yet. This is the first time anybody’s brought me real stormtroopers.”
“I’m so glad you’re here.” She squeezed me tighter, then pushed me away abruptly. “What the hell is on your jacket?”
My shoulder bore a bloody, phlegmy smear where my dear little anonymous protester had left her tear gas residuals. “That, my dear, is the people’s funk.”
She frowned, unimpressed.
“I wonder if you wouldn’t mind getting the packet of Kleenex out of my knapsack.”
Nadja dug through the knapsack and handed me a little packet of wipes. “You catching a cold?”
“It was that girl.”
“Kelly?”
“No, the other girl.”
“I was having troubles with my mask.”
Typical. There it is, maybe my big heroic moment, and nobody ever saw me do it.
I lit a cigarette and wiped the people’s funk off my jacket. Tabasco rolled a couple of cigarettes for he and Nadja. The smoke eased the bitter taste of gas. My lips burned but licking them made it worse.
A woman came by with bread and water. She broke pieces for Tabasco and me. It was a corn sourdough. We washed it down with lemon water. “Good for the voice.” She tapped a finger on her throat and walked back into the crowd. The peoples’ mom, I guess. There were a few of them wandering around, passing out nuts, crackers, and water to the protesters.
There was a nylon whale at the top of the hill. He looked like hell, patched in protest stickers and partially deflated, a guy stood beside it, protecting it from graffiti. Nadja stood by it, rolling a cigarette. “Are you guys bored yet?” Like a parent at Disneyland, “Because we’re all out of water.”
A commotion started at the frontline. Tabasco grabbed his wheels, aiming down the hill again. Nadja put her foot between the spokes before he could start to roll again. “I didn’t come here to get teargassed,” she said.
“Where’s your sense of patriotism, Nadja?” Tabasco said.
“You sound like a pinko,” I said. “All Americans want to be teargassed. It’s a Constitutional right.”
“There are laws against that,” she said.
“Nonsense, those are cops right there. They arrest people for disobeying the law.”
Nadja pulled her mask down. Tabasco shook the crumbs out of his. I put mine on, but found it difficult to yell at the stormtroopers. They fired two shots over our street, two pops on the other side. My throat burned and my voice was getting hoarse. Someone atop a crosswalk signal was screaming ‘to serve and protect.’ I took it up. There weren’t a lot of people screaming in the gas.
Andrew Tomacelli 