by Julia Stoops
“Twenty-five to thirty thousand, then, see? You march through downtown because you feel bad that folks you don’t even know in Iraq are gonna get slammed.”
“They’ve been slammed for decades,” I say.
Fetzer stares at his hands and nods.
Nancy smooths her skirt over her knee. “Exactly.”
I say, “Class war. Resources war.”
“War in slow motion,” says Nelson.
Nancy dips her head into a deep nod. “Exactly.” She sits queen-straight, picks up her coffee, and sips.
54: FETZER
What Nancy said got under our skin. We started this thing where whenever we were discussing something, for the show, for the newsletter, whatever, one of us would ask, “What’s this look like through a race lens?” And sure enough, shit we hadn’t even thought of would bubble up.
Meanwhile, the world around us grew more bizarre. As the weather grew colder, the propaganda drumbeat intensified. The majority of Americans believed “Al Qaeda” and Saddam Hussein were the same guy, because Bush said it enough times to make it “true.” The weapons inspectors in Iraq kept coming up with nothing, but Bush declared Iraq in material breach and threatened to dismiss further weapons reports sight unseen. And it was like we had state-sponsored media for the level of critique that was presented. The tiny independent media was doing its best to balance things out, but who was listening? The population was fearful, and fear clings to the status quo. Every month saw coordinated protests nationwide. But unless you happened to be downtown during a rally, or caught the two minutes at the end of the nightly news, the two minutes that included equal time to some “we gotta nuke those ay-rab fuckers to keep our children safe” man-on-the-street, you wouldn’t know there was a peep of protest at all.
I felt like I’d died and woken up in some parallel universe. Everyday details remained strangely familiar, but the big picture was very, very wrong.
One point of relief was that, after announcing their wedding plans, Nelson and Deirdre seemed to be doing better. Emphasis on “seemed.” Work-wise Nelson was on track, throwing himself into upcoming radio shows and writing new essays. He and Jen were planning more talks, and a couple of invitations had come in already on the strength of the San Francisco conference.
Another point of relief was that Dee had stopped taking photos. This bothered Nelson, but I was happy to go about my business without every dumb Kodak moment being captured for posterity. Instead she surprised us by focusing on cleaning, which led her to find my old socket set, the one I’d replaced, but I was pleased to get the old set back because it’s better quality.
On a darker note, we also passed the third anniversary of the WTO protests, and it was an occasion for reflecting on how much things had changed. Back in ’99 the global justice movement was fresh, focused, and energized. There had been a sense that the possibilities, not just for us in the privileged North but for millions across the planet, were being transformed. But 9/11 changed everything. Radicals of all stripes, us included, had lost our bearings, our confidence. The PATRIOT Act, Operation TIPS, Total Information Awareness, “Enemy Combatant” being redefined and stripped of habeus corpus, and the new Department of Homeland Security overseeing it all—it gave us pause like we hadn’t felt before, at least not in my living memory.
Then the new year rolled around, and although we drank a toast to the minute hand on the clock, there was a lead blanket around my heart that said this wasn’t a time of renewal, and things were going to get worse before they got better. We opened the papers that week to the news that for the first time in Harry Lane U’s eighty-year history, military recruiters had set up offices on campus. When the term started, students picketed the office daily, but the military presence marked another shift toward what was becoming the strange new normal.
One chilly January day, Franky came by for breakfast. It was my fiftieth birthday, and everyone had forgotten. We didn’t do birthdays much, but I was sort of hoping my big five-o would not pass unnoticed. However, my only present that morning was the good news that our own Senator Wyden had stalled the funding for Total Information Awareness. But it was a hollow victory. We knew they’d figure out a way to appropriate funds from somewhere else. Give it another name, whatever. I sat there thinking a cake would have been a more tangible pleasure.
“How was Seattle?” said Nelson. Franky was going up there for a regular magazine gig, plus he’d met a girl who was “really nice and laughs a lot.” It seemed like a good time, I thought, for Franky to build some relationships away from us. Despite his loyalty and his good intentions, he needed to be around younger people. The laugh-a-lot kind.
“Seattle was excellent,” said Franky, enthusiastic like he was digging into a steak instead of oatmeal. “We had a really nice dinner at the Olive Garden, then we met up with a bunch of her friends and played mini-golf. We had so much fun it was unbelievable.”
The kettle started to scream. “Unbelievable,” Jen deadpanned, and she got up to turn it off.
“Leave him alone,” snapped out of me so fast I didn’t see it coming. Something about that simple young affection I didn’t want messed with, mired as we were in local conspiracy, the nation heading for war, and the papers full of lies—and the not-so-simple relationship between Nelson and Deirdre. They’d sprung a February wedding date on us. Now, I’d always known Nelson was the settling-down type, but I didn’t think the same about Deirdre.
The night they announced their wedding plans, they’d cooked us a fancy dinner. I’d offered my congratulations, and opened the last of Mrs. Krepelter’s Pinot Noir. Franky had hooted and slapped everyone on the back. Jen said, “You’re what?” like she didn’t understand the concept.
City hall, it was going to be. Just us as witnesses. “When the first crocus buds appear,” said Nelson. He pulled Deirdre close. “You’ll love the long, slow springs we have here. From February through June, there’s a new flower out every week.”
She smiled. Said nothing.
The next day he and I were picking up containers of fryer grease from behind the diner. I probed, but Deirdre was apparently not pregnant. I asked, “So why now?” and got Nelson’s giddy response: “Why not?”
We grunted as we picked up the buckets. “Because you’ve only known each other for eight months,” I said. I didn’t mention the other reasons.
“We’ve been through a lot in those eight months,” said Nelson. He wiped his hands on his jeans. This was one of the few tasks he didn’t wear chinos and a tie for. “I think we can get through whatever comes our way.”
55: JEN
“Here’s your mail,” says Franky. He’s panting, and there is actual steam coming off him.
The bundle is an inch thick. It’s been like this every day for the past month. We’re going to have to hire someone to handle it. “Cold out?” I say. Stupid small talk. Of course it’s cold out, you can see icy puddles from the living room window.
Like we can hire someone.
“Freezing,” pants Franky. He puts his hands on his sweatpants hips and bends at the waist. “S’good, though.” He unbends, breathes out like he’s exhaling a toke. “Makes me run faster.”
“Uh-huh.” Among the mail is the New Western Light catalog. Oh shit, that reminds me.
“Hey, Deirdre?” I call up the stairs. Then to Franky, “No hate mail today.”
“Cool,” says Franky. He leans in close. “Everything ready for later?”
“Almost. Fetz is running errands right now. Nelson’s picking up the cake, and he’ll keep it at Deirdre’s. They’ll set the room up later. Kate’s coming, and Isobel and a few others.”
Franky nods. “Awesome. What kind of cake?”
“Some fancy shit with chocolate and raspberries.”
“Oh, awesome,” says Franky.
Do I mention that it’s probably not fair-trade chocolate? Do I mention that ninety percent of Ivory Coast chocolate plantations use slave labor? Do I point out that countries wh
ere cocoa is grown aren’t allowed to make the finished product? That the North monopolizes that industry? And do I even begin to delve into the real cost of those out-of-season raspberries in plane fuel and trucking and refrigeration? No. Everyone’s in denial. And I am tired.
I call up the basement stairs, “Deirdre?”
A small thump overhead, like she’s getting up off the kitchen sofa.
“I’m kinda worried about her,” Franky whispers. “Even though they’re getting married and everything.”
“Huh,” I say. “I kind of am too.” More because they’re getting married and everything.
She comes down the stairs with a sigh. “Franky, lad, did you have a good run?” She’s smiling but I suspect she’s just going through the motions.
I hold up the New Western Light catalog. “You got an email from these people. They maybe want to use your pictures in something.”
She takes the catalog. Thumbs through it, barely looking.
“Like a book or something?” says Franky. “That’s a cool opportunity.”
I’m not jealous. Not in the least. “They saw your pics on the website.”
She hands back the catalog. “That’ll be the phone,” she says, and because the basement extension is spread all over a table due to Fetzer fixing a connection, I have to run up the stairs.
“Omnia Mundi.” Dee’s cup is on the floor by the velvet sofa. She’s supposed to be making cookies while Fetz is out getting new hoses and filters, but she hasn’t even started.
The phone says, “Hi Jen. This is Nancy.”
Fetz picks up after three rings.
“Dude. Nancy’s coming over. Something’s up. Get your ass home.”
“Already on my way,” he growls.
Guy’s been grumpy all morning. It’s going to be a trip watching his face when we take him next door tonight.
Thank god Nelse turns up from stashing the cake next door and he’s getting Nancy established with coffee. Dee’s gone to work, and Franky’s keeping Nancy occupied with chitchat while she stirs about a quart of Sucanat into her cup and beams out smiles at him. She’s all in red today, and on the black living room sofas with those shiny red heels and the red hoops in her ears she looks like something off a Chinese lacquer box. Good thing about having a laptop is you get to sit at the kitchen table and look busy and nobody bugs you. Time to check in with my peeps.
*** TheJenerator has joined #rezist
Anyone could try us for vulnerabilities. Doesn’t have to be ideological. But that attack was pretty sophisticated. Someone knew we’d be well-protected but tried anyway. Can’t help but think of Reynolds. If not him, then some lackey of his.
And that’s the white nose of the Toro pulling up behind Nancy’s car. Thank you, Jesus.
“I brought you these,” says Nancy, and she reaches into her big red tote bag to pull out a golden cookie tin. Nelse and Franky crane their necks to see what’s inside. “We parted ways last time a little hot and bothered,” she says. “But you guys oughta know,” and she turns to include me, “I respect what you do. I wouldn’t be here if I didn’t.”
Fetz comes in, walks straight over to the coffee pot.
“And you,” Nancy calls out to Fetzer as he’s clattering around the kitchen. “I’m glad you asked. It’s more than what most would do.”
Grumpy Fetzer turns to face us. “Huh?”
Nelson tells her we’re grateful for the feedback, we want her input to improve the way we work with diverse communities, yadda yadda. All of which is true but he frames it so slick, if I didn’t know the guy I’d think he was a politician.
Fetzer comes over with his coffee. Jerks his head at me, like, join us.
*** TheJenerator has left #rezist
Nelson adds, “And we recognize that the ability to be angry in public without coming across as the wrong kind of person is a privilege. One that we enjoy, and you do not.”
Nancy nods once. “That is a useful recognition to come to.”
Fetzer says, “Yeah. And we want to build alliances. Real ones. And we want to learn. Hope you can help us.”
“It would be my pleasure,” says Nancy, and she holds out her hand. They shake. Everyone’s hands go out. Hers is strong and dry in mine, her brown skin against the pink-white of my fingers. Her hand that’s raised a daughter we haven’t met but she’s trying damn hard to make sure the kid grows up whole and healthy, and fuck, every day that must be one helluva scary challenge, raising a daughter by yourself—holy cow.
Nancy’s smile is bright. She gestures at the golden cookie tin. Inside are chocolate chip cookies. “Sucanat melts okay,” she says, and winks at Fetzer.
“Oooh,” says Fetzer, and helps himself.
Do I mention it’s probably not free trade chocolate?
Franky takes one and says, “Thanks, Nancy.”
That the people who picked the very beans are in the same indentured situation as Nancy’s ancestors? That we could stop it if we wanted to? Trade embargoes? Boycotts? But who’s going to boycott chocolate? It’s a cultural addiction. Like slavery.
Nancy chuckles and pushes the cookie tin closer to me. “You don’t like my cookies?”
The following actions do not represent the views of Jen Owens.
Except, damn. This cookie is mighty tasty. Probably has butter in it. I’m going to want more than one.
“So,” says Nelson. “Something urgent’s come up?”
Nancy looks at her watch. “Yeah. Reynolds is heading for some kind of crisis. He was on the phone all yesterday. There was yelling. Then around the office he’d blow up over stupid little things. Then this morning walked in on him just as he was saying, ‘You’ll never get away with this.’”
“The blackmail?” says Nelson.
Nancy lifts both hands. “I don’t know.”
Fetzer glides a hand over his freshly shaved dome. “Which phone does he use the most?”
“The one in his office,” says Nancy.
“How about his cell?”
Nancy shrugs. “I don’t see him use it much at work.”
“Good,” says Fetz, “that’ll be easy.” And I think I know where this is going.
Nancy’s eyes on us, back and forth. Is this a sugar rush or am I just excited?
“Wow,” says Franky through crumbs. “You gonna bug his phone? That’s so like in the movies.”
“Ohhh,” says Nancy, and she rolls her eyes. “Oh ho. Ho.”
I say, “I could go in there as an HVAC tech.”
“What if you got someone in to polish the woodwork?” Fetzer asks Nancy.
Nelson rubs his chin. “I could wear a fake beard.”
“Forget it,” says Nancy. “He’s so allergic to any of you his throat would swell up if you came near him.”
“But you could let us know when he’s out.”
Nancy shakes her head. “He’s been unpredictable. Canceling meetings.”
“I could do it,” says Franky.
“Seriously?” I say. Prettyboy never volunteers for the front lines.
“No,” says Fetz, his hand out flat.
Nancy says, “Is it hard? What if I did it?”
Fetz smiles. Rubs his hands together like a crazy lab scientist
. “Merely a minor learning curve. Come downstairs. When you see what we’ve got, you’ll be all over it.”
“It’s straightforward,” says Fetz, “but you have to do two things. Install the bug in the phone line where it goes into the wall, and put a receiver somewhere close by. Like in a broom closet.”
“And this is the bug,” says Nancy. The black cylinder is dwarfed by her long nail. “And this is the receiver?”
“Yup. The bug is too weak to transmit more than a hundred feet. It transmits to the receiver.” Fetzer connects the receiver and the tiny VOX circuit board to the tape recorder. “The receiver is too big to hide in a phone, but it’ll put the signal onto tape.”
Nancy snorts. “And you’ll be outside in a white panel van?”
Fetzer says, “We’ll pick up the tapes from you once a day, or more if you think there’s something good.”
“You mean I gotta change the tape?”
“’Fraid so,” I say. “But you could keep it in your desk drawer.”
Then Fetz rummages around in a box and pulls out a wall socket and some phone cord. “You’ll need to attach the bug to the screw terminals at the back of the phone jack. I’ll demonstrate on this one.”
Fetz strips the end of the wires and says to me, “Show her how to tape this in.” I grab some electrical tape and stick the bug belly-down inside the socket box. The copper coil on top makes it look like a tiny cupcake. Nancy cranes to look at the bug and I get a whiff of her perfume. She says, “It’s going to record everything?”
“Only phone conversations,” says Fetz. “It’s not a microphone, it’s just tapping his phone circuit.”
“Will the tape come on automatically?”
“Yup. But you have to have it set on Record.”
I add, “Hold down the Play and Record buttons till they lock, then let go. The voice activation will make it start and stop.”
Nancy nods. Fetzer grins. “He can make a call at midnight and it’ll pick it up.”
Nancy looks at the receiver like it’s a snake. “I dunno. Sometimes he goes into my desk looking for pens and shit.”