Mayor: Mmbop.
(long silence)
Mayor: Please sir, may I go to sleep now?
Christopher: Are you talking to me?
Mayor: (Laughing.)
Mayor: I think I was talking to my brain.
Christopher: (laughing)
Mayor: Unless you’re the one making it so noisy in my head I can’t go to sleep.
Christopher: Me? (gasps, laughter relapse)
Christopher (finally): No, I’m looking at the walrus. It won’t let me go to sleep either.
Mayor: Walrus?
Christopher: In the paint up there? I thought you knew about the walrus.
Mayor: Oh my god. Oh my god.
Christopher: Right?
Mayor: There’s totally a walrus there.
Christopher: Every night, it watches us.
Mayor: Creepy.
(silence)
Mayor: Should I do something? About it?
Christopher: (chuckling, turning sideways into the mayor) No, he’s OK. He watches over us.
Mayor: Could cover it up? Tape something?
Christopher: Mmm, no.
Rumor spread that water rations would be cut in half, and the rumor was posed as a question on the news. As dusk neared and the power went out, neighbors reeled from their houses, disoriented with outrage and thirst. They banded into menacing groups, full of rage and looking for something to blame. They were quick to argue and fight, bloodying themselves, and Gregor knew they would destroy each other for lack of a proper target. The only means they had, he thought as he watched the infectious violence roil down his street, was to destroy what was theirs. He checked his pistol again and spat out into the dust in his yard.
No riot would come to his porch. He would stay there to make sure of that. But he had a different task for Jamal. He put his hand on the head of his first born and mouthed quietly the closest thing to a prayer he could bring himself to say, and then pushed him toward the stairs to do his work.
Jamal grabbed his bicycle from the porch and carried it down to the street. He checked his watch. There were others, and they had to be in synch. Then he rode into the waning light. “Maid Marian is in jail!” he yelled out, his voice a hoarse wail that rattled into other people’s houses. “They got Maid Marian at Killingsworth station!”
The Killingsworth station was the last, closest bastion of city forces. A small police station that mostly drove their cars toward the wealthier neighborhoods west of Martin Luther King Blvd.
The effect was immediate. He watched people sway as if from a blow, and then spring back, changed by the news. Rioters spilled from their own neighborhoods toward the Killingsworth station, the rage making the target only a general aim as the wave of them burned cars and ransacked houses en route.
A single squad car was swept up into the action. A cameraman intrepidly tagged along and filmed. The following morning on the news, after a severe warning about the nature of the content, the film was played in its entirety:
A policeman exits his car and strides into the rioters with a pistol in each hand. On his face there’s a grim look, but pleasure perhaps, the sense that this is the moment he’s been waiting for. He places his feet wide apart like a gunslinger. Around him is a scene of complete chaos—hundreds of people, a mixture of all races, but mostly black or Hispanic, breaking the windows of cars, exiting houses with whatever can be carried—water, food, TVs, stereos, furniture.
On the porch of one house a man is in a wrestling death-grip with another who appears to be stealing his unit gallon. The policeman nears the porch, puts his arm through the railing and shoots. The owner falls, the back of his head suddenly difficult to distinguish. There’s an audible “Jesus Christ!” from the cameraman and the camera temporarily loses focus and control and during this moment there’s a second bang of a gun. When the camera stabilizes, both men lie dead on the porch, the unit gallon resting between them.
The camera follows the policeman for a few beats more, wielding both pistols, shooting—sometimes at point-blank range. At one point the policeman turns back to look into the lens of the camera and smiles, much as the baker smiles as he watches his customers take the first bite of his best bread, as if to say, are you getting how good this is? Do you not see the rightness of what I’m doing? He kills a few more before a mob storms over the top of him. The camera angle jumps around, its angle upside down, the scene in rapid retreat as the cameraman flees for his life.
Police fanned across the city to quell the violence. Sixteen officers came to the defense of the Peninsula neighborhood, the upscale neighborhood across Martin Luther King Boulevard from the riot—they stationed themselves four to a squad car at strategic locations, hoping to contain what they could not stop and ready to flee. The National Guard did not show up, and this absence remained an unanswered question posed on the news. The police shot the occasional canister of tear gas into densely packed areas or to seal off a route. Until the riot simply burned itself out. No one came to the defense of the poorer neighboring King and Vernon neighborhoods; they were left for dead.
When the video of the lone policeman made it to the news and was played repeatedly in a hypnotic loop, the city turned upside down. The policeman was not found, presumed dead. That there was no longer anyone on whom to take revenge for such heinous brutality only fueled more destruction.
Indignation swelled all over the city. Inquiries and resignations were demanded. Marches were held with signs bearing the image of Maid Marian, or with the text Free Maid Marian, or Down with the Sheriff of Nottingham and a photo of the mayor’s face or the police chief’s.
More film footage aired. The few still sitting in their chairs rose up, went to their front porches, felt themselves getting swept into the one angry mind of the city. They were angry at the mayor, at the police, at the rioters, and perhaps more than anything, they were angry at each other.
The following day, the news anchors started by saying they had something very big to announce. They showed a still image of Maid Marian, as she was at the first water heist. Along the bottom of the screen it said: “Pre-recorded tape received from Maid Marian today.”
In the first few seconds as she waited to begin, she stared slightly to the left of the camera and smiled, a little awkwardly, toward whomever she was with. She was dressed in a dark green collared shirt. Her black hair was braided into two long braids that lay across the front of her shirt, giving her a touch of a darker-skinned, and somewhat militaristic, Pippi Longstocking. The daughter of Fidel Castro and Pippi, perhaps, pretty and strong-willed. A black and green patch on her pocket bore an insignia of a long bow leaning against a unit gallon. There was a sparkling of wit in her eyes, giving one the impression that a joke had been made off camera. She certainly did not look captured by the city, as they had been led to believe. She was changed from the image of her they held in their minds. And in the briefest moments before she started speaking they all tried to reconcile the difference between the woman on the television with the one that was burned into their minds, handing out water. Before there had been a sort of otherworldliness to her. A divine, selfless creature come to save them from their pain. On her brow they saw the healing scar of that incident. Now, though, she gave them a smile. They could clearly see the edge of firmness to her, the unsettling sense of control and purpose. It gave them pause, and in living rooms across the city there was quiet as they waited, held by a tiny clutch of fear as they wondered if they were on the verge of losing the hero they had in their hearts. Would she tell them to behave? they wondered. Were they being chastised for the unrest?
“Ready?” she said to the person off-camera.
“Hello, Portlanders,” she said and nodded her head toward them, and they felt how her voice had a pull on them, how their hearts lightened with hope as she spoke. “I would like t
o take this opportunity to invite you to meet my merry men and women.” She smiled, acknowledging the wordplay. They had given her the name and she had used it. The camera panned to the side of her and faced a window. Beyond in a large brown field standing very still was a large formation of men and women in the same green uniform. There were easily hundreds of them, and the camera panned slowly across their length. “They are called Green Rangers,” she said. Behind the formation there was another mass of uniformed people, each standing straight with one hand resting on his or her bicycle.
The faces of the rangers were not those you would see on a military lineup. Their ages spanned fifty years. They looked up toward the camera and blinked, dressed, as if taken by surprise, in their new uniforms, obviously sewn together from what material could be found. Their faces were not the cold, obedient faces of some nation’s army, but appeared as if they’d just that moment stopped speaking, their heads tilted upward in hopeful anxiety toward Maid Marian’s vantage; some smiled and one or two waved. They were mixed racially, reflecting the neighborhoods from which they came, and this certainly gave the TV viewer pause. In a mostly white city, the riot footage had mostly been of a similar racial mixture as this new, sudden army.
“Together, we are a new country. From Fremont Street to Columbia Boulevard, Martin Luther King to 205—if you live within those borders you are now a citizen of a new tiny nation called Sherwood.” She paused and the camera panned back to her.
“Mayor Bartlett, I am taking your greatest problem from you, freeing you to care for the rest of the city. We are within your borders, and will respect the essence of the law. We are your good neighbors. Give us what is ours: the U.S. government water trucks may enter by their usual routes, but we will manage distribution. We will pay for our services, but no city police or worker may enter our borders without our permission. We free them of their duties here to attend to the rest of the city, where, I’m sure all will agree, they are needed.”
“And to Northeast Portland—Sherwood”—she held up a small, clear glass of drinking water—“let us share water together. We will keep you safe and healthy. We will make sure that what water and food we have is distributed fairly and quickly. We are your government, and we will not fail.
“To those on the streets tonight, or with friends and family on the street, I urge you to go home. See your families. Be with the ones you love. This is your country now. Tomorrow we work. Tomorrow we build. Tomorrow is ours.
“To the rest of Portland, I invite you to consider Sherwood. Doctors and naturopaths, farmers and bikers, scientists and artists, we’ll consider everyone. Come live in a new country. Your water will be delivered to your home. Your streets will be safe. Your children will go to school.
“Reporters and newscasters—you are welcome to come see us. Please do. Your press pass is your open passport to Sherwood.”
“Sherwood is now a country within a city, an enclave. Our primary immigration office is at Ainsworth and Martin Luther King Boulevard. Please come visit us. Thank you.”
The tape ended and the pretty blond newscaster came back on. “That was a recording from the so-called Maid Marian, sent to us earlier today. She’s leading an effort to have Northeast Portland secede from the city. Is this heroism or terrorism? Robert, what are your thoughts on that?”
The view switched to a male newscaster. He waved the camera away, but in the briefest glimpse of him the TV viewers saw that he was visibly shaken, tears welling in his eyes.
Zach watched the news with his mouth open, his body in a state of semi-shock. It was really happening. At the top right corner of the screen they had placed a still shot of his girlfriend’s face in a green uniform, below it the map of the new territory.
The news anchors scrambled to find pundits who could intelligently talk on the happenings. All other news stories were cast aside and all of the city sat in front of their televisions listening with hunger for anything the news could tell them, to help them make sense.
An older, weathered newscaster spoke: “As far as I know this is unprecedented in our history as a nation. The city will feel compelled to intervene. Whether they can afford the resources is another matter entirely.” The newscaster paused and stared into the camera, unsure of his ability to predict any next outcome, and Zach could see him struggle to come up with something else to say. “Marcie?” he said and looked off-stage, “can we get a response from the city yet? No? Maid Marian is a popular figure and I think the level of her popularity is indicated by what’s going on in the Northeast right now. The Sherwood Club that preceded this, as many of you may not know, was already providing security for a large section of that area, and so many of the people who live there might have a good sense of what they’re getting. We’re told the announcement has served to quell the violence almost entirely. That’s something the city obviously couldn’t do. James, how about we get a view of that?”
The view switched to a silent, darkened neighborhood presumably in the Northeast somewhere. “Not much to see there. Half an hour ago? An hour? This was complete chaos. There were looters and gunfire and massive property damage. You can see by this serene view that everyone must be inside, pondering Maid Marian’s message and, we presume, the prospect of their new citizenship.”
Zach scoffed with annoyance at the broadcast. The news had gone increasingly toward an on-the-fly, seat-of-the-pants production style, as if every event happened exactly at the time of air time and they were lucky enough to find a camera in their hands. It made the news feel sudden and amateur. Though partly driven by a lack of resources, it was obviously stylistic.
“OK, we’ve got Professor Marylin Carvat here and she’s going to give us a history of secessions in America. Marylin? What can you tell us about other neighborhood secessions?”
“There haven’t been any, Robert. We’ve got South Carolina, which seceded after Lincoln was elected. But that was by vote of their state congress. Which of those citizens living in Northeast Portland voted on a secession? Which of them had a choice? See, I’m not sure this is secession—it’s more akin to an invasion, technically.”
Along the bottom of the screen the word INVASION showed, in red with a line circling it, the font-style of a rubber stamp.
“But they live there already!” Zach yelled.
“An invasion,” Robert said, and Zach could see the word was distasteful in his mouth. “But she has stopped the fighting instead of starting it, and the invaders do not normally provide a suite of services. You saw what those neighborhoods look like now?”
“Yes, and by what armed power did she enforce that? I would be very afraid to be living in that section of the city right now. She’s there illegally—the city will have to respond with force. But we have to ask, where was the city’s force during the riots?”
Zach yelled bullshit at the television and paced across his living room, his fists clenched to his chest and then just as quickly sat back down.
“But, Marylin—you’ve got to remember her popularity is terrible trouble for the city. What kind of issues might the city face if they went in and shut her down? Did she promise to dissolve her organization at the end of the drought?”
“Dissolve?” Marylin said with scorn, “To my knowledge, dictators rarely surrender power. We can’t allow our cities to become subdivided like this.”
“Come on, you motherfuckers!” Zach yelled and swiped the large stack of newspapers off the couch. Their speculative drivel was driving him mad. “What does the city say?”
“The other question is: does the city actually have the resources to handle this situation? I understand police and National Guard forces are extremely constrained. There are riots in Los Angeles again, and they’ve been flying National Guard out of here to help down there.” Bob looked at the camera. “It’s eight o’clock. Stay tuned, folks. This is KATU News and we’ll have the story for you.
Have a good night. Stay safe out there.”
The KATU logo went up for a long second and then the television and house lights shut off as the power went out. The moment it did he tuned into the sound of the wind outside, wailing at the building, blowing mercilessly in great gusts. It carried with it a thick, unbreathable dust that worked at the window sills, trying to get in. He could taste it on his tongue and feel it in his nostrils
At dawn Zach climbed to the roof. He waited for the power to resume and the morning news to broadcast so that he could find out if Renee was still alive, and to see what the city’s move had been.
With a sudden jerky hum the power came on and he listened as items sucked up the life in the wall sockets. On TV Robert narrated over what was essentially a very empty, calm neighborhood. Zach breathed a sigh of relief. No wars had sprung up in the night.
As he waited for news, they went through the entire recap again and Zach kicked at his old coffee table, the legs gnawed on by a Dachshund from his youth.
“OK, I’m getting something here . . .” Bob said and stared at the camera intently, Zach realized he was reading something on the teleprompter. It was disarming, looking the newscaster straight in the eye, without him talking, as if he were waiting for Zach to respond.
“What?” Zach finally said. “Come on, you dumb sonofabitch.”
“I’ve learned that so far no water trucks have been seen entering Sherwood. All water trucks have already been to the airport and are on their way to the distribution points, except for the neighborhoods under Maid Marian’s control. There have been no statements issued from either the mayor, the National Guard, or Maid Marian yet. That’s all I have right now—we’ll tell you more when we have it.”
Sherwood Nation: a novel Page 19