The Occult Persuasion and the Anarchist's Solution

by Lisa de Nikolits

  “Tell me something,” Rick said, and we turned to him. “Do they have all-night diners in Sydney? Because I’m starving!”

  “Yeah man!” Adam said, high-fiving Rick.

  “I’m starving too,” I said, grinning. The hot bath could wait. It was time to celebrate.

  “Yep,” Graham said, and Tim nodded. “We’ve got all-night diners all right. And I’m going to take you to the best one I know.”

  36. LYNDON

  WE LEFT SYDNEY and Martha stayed behind with Robby, for which I was grateful. And I was right—the dynamic without her was entirely different. We were close to giddy, like schoolboys planning the biggest party in the world. I hadn’t realized how depressing getting old had been, that there had been nothing ground-breaking or new to look forward to, that there was nothing that hadn’t been tried. Everything was the same old same old, literally. But this—a world protest against capitalist greed—this was something different! We were going to take the bridge and make a statement, and the whole world would wake up and watch. We felt, in equal parts, as if we were going to war against the establishment as well as putting on the greatest protest show the world had seen in a very long time.

  I couldn’t say I didn’t have my doubts. The anarchists in Newtown had seemed more focused on cinnamon buns than the strategies, and I voiced my concerns to Jason and Sean.

  “They were the tip of the iceberg,” Jason said with confidence. “There were what, three hundred of them? We’re aiming for eight or nine thousand. There will be people coming from all over the world as well as the rest of Australia. The Newtown meeting,” he explained, “was a dry run of what I’ll post on the site. I wanted to see what kind of questions they’d raise so I could address them in the follow-up post. And the response was great—they asked ecologically sound questions and voiced valid concerns.”

  “Aren’t you worried the website postings will be intercepted?” I asked. “Sean told me you are constantly under surveillance.”

  Jason nodded. “I am. But I bounce the posts off different IP server addresses and change the script code every time I log in. I’ve done it for years. I mix my own code with the message interface. This decouples the software from its external interfaces and creates a smoother role by maintaining backward compatibility. It works brilliantly.”

  I gave him a blank look and he shrugged impatiently. “We don’t have time for me to explain the logistics of it all. Just trust me, sunshine.”

  “The protest’s going to be filmed by two guys with drones,” Sean cut in. “That’s where I was yesterday while Lyndon was experiencing the delights of young Polly. There’ll be a livestream on YouTube and Facebook, with Instagram stories and, wait for this,” he paused dramatically, “we’ll be live on national news and radio. A guy I went to school with is a vice president at ABC, and he guaranteed it.”

  “Great work,” Jason said, and I felt annoyed. If he had asked me to do something important, I would have, but instead they all just left me and attended to their own heroics. I felt like a child who had been left to play in the sandbox while the adults talked. I leaned back in my seat and sulked.

  “I got the call from our engineering genius and our banner is a good size. We’ll need a core team tending to that because it’s going to be as heavy as a small car. I’ll post for volunteers with a specific skillset. They’ll need to do a few practice runs in a field. The banner’s going to be bloody huge! That lot will need to be the first on the bridge.”

  “They had a Breakfast on the Bridge in 2009,” Sean said, “and six thousand people pretty much filled the space, but they were sitting down in the middle of the lanes.”

  “Good point,” Jason replied. “Not everybody’s going to be able to fit at the railing. The more climbers, the better. I’ll let people know and I’ll tell them to bring harnesses to attach to the bridge. Mark gave me some tips to post. The safer, the better. And you, Lyndon, have got one of the most important jobs of all.”

  He turned around to face me in the back seat. I looked at him with some surprise. I’d given up having a role to play. So far, I had been as useless as a wet noodle while Sean and the engineering genius had been sparkling heroes. I had convinced myself there was hardly any point to my even being there.

  “What do you mean?” I sounded truculent, like a kid who knew he was being duped into thinking he had a role when his real chore was sweep the stage before the show started.

  “We need you to write a speech. The most kick-arse speech the world has ever heard. About capitalism, greed, anarchy, global warming—all of it. It needs to be like Martin Luther King, Jr.’s “I Have a Dream” speech, only don’t copy him—come up with something original. While our banner is the perfect and eloquent “Stop Shitting On Our World,” we want a more elegant and memorable manifesto. Something beautiful and historic.”

  “Sure,” I said trying to sound casual, my heart pounding. “But you do remember that I’m an editor, not a copywriter?”

  “I do. But you’ve had an intimate, up-the-arse experience of living that life. You have the knowledge of how big business is screwing us over, and you know what it’s like to no longer be welcome in that club—the club of the chosen brotherhood of big swinging dicks. I want your anger to shine through. I want to feel your pain and loss—how the system failed not only the world, but the individual. There’s no job security or sense of identity or community. We are rudderless, blown by the winds of greed, with capitalistic, corporate hands grabbing at the ship’s wheel and hanging on for dear life. Lifeboats are things of the past. People are just chucked overboard into the shark-infested waters without a hope in hell of maintaining their integrity. Good men are compromised because they’ll do whatever it takes to put food into the yawning squawking beaks of the starving chicks in their nest.”

  “You should write it,” I objected. “What you just said is great.”

  “Then write it down and work it into your speech,” Jason grinned. He handed me a pad of hotel stationery and a pen, and I scribbled furiously.

  “It can’t be longer than five minutes,” Jason added. “Powerful and to the point. Use short sentences too … packs more of punch.

  “I really don’t know why don’t write it yourself,” I muttered. “You wrote a whole book, remember? I’ve got no idea why you need me.”

  “I just do, so please oblige me and stop arguing,” Jason said, and his voice brokered no room for objection.

  I wondered if I could just paraphrase a few things from Jason’s book, like the title for instance. The Occult Persuasion and the Anarchist’s Solution. But most people associated the occult with ghosts and the paranormal, not with capitalism and global warming. I frowned and chewed on the pen, oblivious to the rest of the conversation in the front seat. Maybe I could pick up something from Shevek’s protest speech in The Dispossessed, but all the anarchists would know it, and I’d be shamed for the rest of my life. But the rest of the world wouldn’t, and wasn’t that more important?

  “And you must carry on practicing your tattooing,” Jason said, breaking into my thoughts. “A tattoo a day, on me. I want you to be a real tattooist by the time I’m six feet under or dust carried away on a sea breeze. Do two a day even. I want you to work off a complex variety of stencils that I’ll pick. I’m serious about this.”

  “That would be great.” I beamed from ear to ear as my bad mood evaporated.

  I had thought that the tatooing would be pushed aside, given the magnitude of what was coming up, and I had been disappointed, but one hardly wanted to whine about something so trivial in the face of a world-changing event. And by this point, I really believed that our protest could change the world. We just had to pull it off perfectly.

  37. MARGAUX

  JASON WAS COMING to town and my heart was filled with joy! He was flying in to save himself the drive. I booked us a room at the Marriott with a view of the harbour, the Opera
House, and the bridge. I was in the room, waiting for him to arrive. I wanted to jump up and down with excitement but that would make me feel ridiculous. Besides, I might tear a ligament or something. Imagine the embarrassment, not to mention the inconvenience, as I was looking forward to more rigorous sex with the gorgeous man.

  I tried to sit still but I couldn’t, so I paced around the room. I had even brought new underwear.

  When he finally knocked at the door, I was exhausted from overthinking and worrying, but we fell onto each other with glorious passion, discarding clothes willy-nilly onto the floor.

  “Do you like the view?” I asked, sweeping my hand towards the window, and he laughed and raised himself up on one elbow.

  “In case you didn’t notice,” he replied, “I’ve been a bit preoccupied since I arrived.” He got up and looked out the window. “This is fantastic. I’m going to take a bunch of pictures and they’ll help with the final calculations.”

  “That’s what I thought,” I said, over the moon to have the done the right thing. “Can I help in any way?”

  “You can come up with a catchphrase. I asked Lyndon to write a speech and not to say he’s botching it up, but he’s not exactly setting the world on fire.”

  “That’s because I used to write his speeches,” I said. “I’ll write one for you too. Shall we order room service? I’m starving.”

  “Look at her! Not just stunningly beautiful, but brilliant to boot! Yes, I’m famished. But back to the slogan. I want something that encapsulates how capitalism is killing the world. I also want something to make people to think, goddammit, think.”

  “Okay. And to eat? Or do you simply require a speech for sustenance?” I loved joking with him, and he grabbed me and lightly spanked my bottom. I told myself not to think about the fact that he was dying.

  “What did you tell Adam you were up to, tonight?” Jason asked.

  “I said I was staying over at Graham’s. She’ll cover for me. She thinks it’s very funny that I can’t tell my son that I’m engaging in a sexual rendezvous with the man who rescued my husband who ran away from me. I see her point. I still haven’t told Adam that I know where Lyndon is. I just can’t go into it because it would open up a huge can of worms. He’s still a bit fragile after the Nancy attack even though he’s trying to pretend he’s fine.”

  “Having a demon sucker-punch you in the gut, bitch-slap you left right and centre, and try to strangle you to death, would affect any man,” Jason mused.

  “I told him about Helen’s pregnancy though she asked me not to. I was trying to distract him and cheer him up. He and Rick are looking to do all kinds of worrisome adventures like skydiving, deep-sea diving, and motorcross. It’s Rick’s bucket list, and if he’s not careful, it will end up being Adam’s death list. Adam’s not what you’d call a natural at sports. Helen was much more talented. She’s a brilliant tennis player and a great golfer while poor Adam is a muddle of limbs on any playing field.” I paused. “Have you told Lyndon that Helen’s pregnant?”

  “No. He doesn’t ask me about the family, and I don’t volunteer.”

  A flash of hurt whipped through my heart and Jason saw it. “I’m sorry,” he said. “That was bollocks of me. If you ask me, he still loves you all very much. He’s just traumatized by his life, by getting older, and by losing his job. He’s not seeing straight. He found a cave of refuge with us and crawled inside. But once the protest’s over, he’ll have to move on with his life.”

  “Why? Can’t he just stay with you and the tattoo people?”

  “I’m on my way out and I’m not sure he’d want to stay after I’m gone,” Jason replied. “But hey, come here you. My nether regions are stirring, brought about by the vision of your entirely magnificent breasts. We’ve got urgent matters to attend to.”

  For a dying man, Jason had a lot of stamina.

  “A catchphrase,” I muttered out loud as we lay back, staring at the ceiling.

  “Oy, no thinking about the job now,” Jason said, and took me in his arms.

  “It’s tricky,” I told him, my face against his chest, which had exactly the right amount of hair. “I mean, you want something short and punchy. But fine. I won’t work on it now. You’re right, now’s not the time.”

  “What’re you going to do with your life once this is all over?” Jason asked idly.

  “I’m going to run for government,” I said, and he sat up in horror.

  “Think about it,” I said. “What’s the point of flailing and protesting if you can’t actually make a difference? I’m not saying protesting doesn’t make a difference, it does. But if I were in power, even in local politics, I could do some good. Some real good. It’s actually something I’ve wanted to do for some time. I did a lot of envelope-licking and cold-calling for our MP, and I think I would stand a good chance. I’d start very small, with our riding, and see how it goes.”

  He lay back. “Dear God. Here I am, in bed with the government.”

  “The future government,” I reminded him. “It may not work out.”

  “If you want it to, then it will. You’re a woman of sheer determination and titanium will. You are the banisher of demons to the hellfire caverns of eternal excrement. You can do anything.”

  “When you put it like that, yes, I can.” I traced the hair on his belly down to his balls. “I can’t bear to think that I won’t be with you again. I’m sorry, I know I’m not supposed to get maudlin, but this, being with you, is so fantastically wonderful. It’s like I’ve met my true love and soon you will be gone and all I’ll have are memories. Nothing tangible.”

  Jason stroked my hair and kissed my head. “If you like,” he said, “we can go and visit a mate of mine who has a tat shop. He’ll lend me a machine. I could do a tattoo on you. That’s tangible.”

  I jumped up in delight and started pulling my clothes on. “Yes! Let’s go now.”

  He grinned at me. “Do you know what you want have done?”

  “Not a clue. I’ll think about it while we go.” And, sitting in the cab, heading to Newtown, I knew what I wanted. “I want you to choose,” I said. “You decide. It will be your message to me. I won’t even look while you are doing it. I would like it on the top of my left foot. So, when I lie in the bath, I can look at it and think of you.”

  “That’s a lot of responsibility. Okay then. But can’t I tell you first? They’re permanent things, you know. Well, you can get them removed, but at great cost and a lot of pain.”

  “I’m sure. I don’t want to know. I just thought of something else. What if the catchphrase is “Be Your Revolution!” taken from The Dispossessed?” I too had read the book, as soon as Jason recommended it. When I snapped the book shut, I had fleetingly wondered what Lyndon had made of it all. At one point in our lives, it would have made for a great discussion, along with a few bottles of wine, and a grand finale of explosive sex.

  I had always been a huge fan of science fiction and I couldn’t believe I hadn’t read this classic. In a way, Shevek’s relationship with his partner, Takver, reminded me of Lyndon’s and mine. We had wanted to be each other’s support system in our journey through life. I wondered if Lyndon’s vanishing, was, in a sense, like the years of separation that Shevek and Takver had suffered. They eventually reunited, and I wondered if the same thing was in store for us. But since Lyndon was the very last thing I wanted to be thinking about at this precious moment, I pushed the thought away.

  “I know the book said ‘be the revolution.’ So, how about ‘Be Your Revolution!’ With an exclamation point, to get people excited!”

  “‘Be Your Revolution!’ I love it!” Jason said. “Will you write about how the revolution needs to start with each of us individually? That’s anarchy in a nutshell. Start with yourself, develop a sense of community and responsibility, and go local. It doesn’t need to be bigger than that and it certainly doesn’t
have to be violent. We need to make sure that people understand that anarchy doesn’t mean violence. Anarchy isn’t one person saying, ‘I don’t give a dog’s bollocks about the rest of you and I’ll do whatever I want, no matter what it takes.’ That’s bullying and domination and oppression, which is the antithesis of anarchy. We want to tell people to focus on community, think about social justice. Anarchy can start with an action as small as having a community garden. Many people out there are unconscious anarchists, working for the good of man and woman.”

  I scrabbled in my purse for a scrap of paper and tried to remember what he’d said.

  “It’s like Gandhi’s saying, ‘Be the change you want to see in the world.’”

  “He never actually said that you know,” Jason continued. “He said, ‘We but mirror the world. All the tendencies present in the outer world are to be found in the world of our body. If we could change ourselves, the tendencies in the world would also change. As a man changes his own nature, so does the attitude of the world change towards him. This is the divine mystery supreme.’ I forget the rest of it, but it’s something about what a wonderful thing this is, and it’s the source of our happiness.”

  We arrived at the tattoo shop, and I scribbled as much as I could while Jason paid the driver.

  The owner of the tat shop welcomed Jason like a long-lost brother, and said he’ll get him sorted with a machine, no problem.

  “I wish you’d give me a clue as to what you want.” Jason’s face was puckered like a Shar-Pei’s.

  I gave him a kiss. “I just want something of you to carry with me for the rest of my days until I can meet you on the other side. It will be your hand on me, touching me.”

  I could see he was anxious, but I didn’t care. I just needed visible proof that he was here with me now, that this was real.

  I sat back in the chair and Jason began to prep my foot.