It would say:
<page>
<title>Welcome>To>The>Occupation:A>Call>to>Arms</title>
<id>865</id>
<revision>
<id>15900676</id>
<timestamp>20XX-09-15T18:14:12Z</timestamp>
<contributor>
<username>JenniferDaniels</username>
<id>23</id>
</contributor>
<minor />
<comment>Automated conversion</comment>
It would say:
Welcome to the #Occupation: A Call to Arms
By Jennifer Daniels
A week has passed since the murder of Ricky Cortes and, frankly, I’ve had enough. By all accounts, Cortes was a model citizen and loyal friend whose financial support for groups like GLAAD will be felt for decades to come. One would think that arresting the people responsible for the disgusting circumstances under which this murder took place would be top priority for the NYPD, but this is clearly not the case. If it were, they would have already arrested Jay Devor, who
35.
Wendy considers using the good china. Not to impress Lucas, but because the good china exists and should serve a function beyond its life in storage purgatory, in moth-compromised plastic bins where it gathers dust and depreciates in the dark. Ultimately, she opts out, worried the juxtaposition of the china with the rest of the apartment might ring tragicomic, a sad attempt to spruce the place up. Which is a shame, really, because when might there be another chance to dust off her great-grandmother’s Wedgwood set?
The first thing that comes to mind is an awkward adolescent, who, after months of tutelage, stands before the Beth Elohim congregation on Seventy-Seventh Street and sings her haftarah before being whisked to a reception where franks-n-blankets will be served on inherited Wedgwood flow blue china.
And there she goes again with this child-rearing fantasy, which has crowned since her hangout with Penny, and is triggered by the simplest things: a tampon ad; a stray piece of lace found under a cushion; an old DVD of Troop Beverly Hills. Or maybe it’s not that the fantasy’s rate of occurrence has increased, so much that Wendy’s dedication to tamping it down has weakened; better to dream of a child who will never exist than to consider her real life’s array of crises. In truth, Wendy concedes, as she takes one last look at the china, and traces the glazed outline of a grape vine painted on the plate’s center, the next time this porcelain sees light will be her father’s shiva, relatives piling reduced-sodium lox on the precious plates.
How this dinner came to be is that, after last night’s phone call with Michael, which sent Wendy down a Google wormhole, she woke late to Jay Devor’s photo on the CNN homepage beneath the headline ex gf says: “he bought the bats!”
What followed was a firestorm of posts, across all platforms, memorializing Ricky and blaming Devor for his death. These posts praised Ricky’s philanthropic deeds, his support of GLAAD among them. They called for Devor’s arrest, and for Senator Breem to vote against the UBI if for no other reason than to halt #Occupy’s growing and dangerous reach.
By lunchtime, Devor was back in custody, Breem was refusing interview requests, and Sophia Dall was being prepped to make a deposition. The Devor news is not exactly surprising, but Wendy’s impressed by her journalists’ seamless incorporation of the UBI into this narrative, and the speed with which Ricky’s become a poster boy for the cause. His funeral was this morning, and Wendy watched coverage on the afternoon news, amazed at the dozens of strangers who came to show support and pay respects.
Wendy and Michael spoke briefly again following the service. She tried her best to be warm and kind. Michael ranted. He’s clearly in tailspin, a condition Wendy might have prevented by acting as sacrificial buffer between him and his parents, and by keeping his drinking in check. She feels guilt at her failure to do so, but the online support she’s generated for Ricky assuages that guilt, reassuring her that, in some small way, she’s done her part.
At first, when the pieces began to appear, popping up from Topeka to the Philippines, Wendy kept checking the Communitiv.ly database in disbelief that these were her members. Sure enough, most were. She called Lucas, who didn’t seem concerned about the hundreds of payouts he’d have to make, though he did say he had to cancel their lunch meeting—the meeting in which she was supposed to have been looped in on the product—and push it to evening, if that was okay. Wendy told Lucas she had plans for a meet-and-greet dinner with her father’s new girlfriend, but that she could easily cancel. Lucas said that wasn’t necessary, he’d join her for dinner with her dad and the girlfriend, and they could head to the office after to prepare for tomorrow’s launch. Wendy felt like she couldn’t say no.
“You look radiant,” says Wendy’s dad from the doorway.
Wendy thanks him. She’s wearing another of her new outfits, a belted wrap jumpsuit in black and gray pinstripes, paired with low-heeled pumps. She was pleased to learn that the envelopes on her desk are a semi-weekly contribution, but even so, with the coming vote and subsequent conclusion of Project Pinky, it can’t be long before the well runs dry. Wendy checks the oven, lights candles, uncorks a bottle of Provençal rosé.
“You didn’t use the china,” says her father. “That’s good.”
“Too fancy for your current belle?” Wendy teases.
“It’s not that,” says Fred.
Wendy continues through her checklist of preparations: folding cloth napkins, filling a pitcher of ice water, beginning to sauté the semi-cooked potatoes in salt and rendered duck fat.
“The thing is,” Fred says, adjusting his collar as if it’s suddenly grown incredibly hot in the kitchen, which, incidentally, it has, “the thing is that I might have to start selling some of the valuable stuff I have, and I think the china could get a pretty decent price even in the condition it’s in.”
Wendy freezes over the potatoes, spatula in hand but failing to stir, letting the spuds sizzle and blacken before she snaps out of it and turns off the flame.
She says, “Why?”
“Well,” Fred says, then hesitates again, whatever’s on his mind clearly something uncomfortable to bring up, because her former-lawyer father
