The bell rang a moment later and everyone filed out of the class. I hung back and waited for Ms Galvez to notice me.
“Yes, Marcus?”
“That was amazing,” I said. “I never knew all that stuff about the sixties.”
“The seventies, too. This place has always been an exciting place to live in politically charged times. I really liked your reference to the Declaration — that was very clever.”
“Thanks,” I said. “It just came to me. I never really appreciated what those words all meant before today.”
“Well, those are the words every teacher loves to hear, Marcus,” she said, and shook my hand. “I can’t wait to read your paper.”
I bought the Emma Goldman poster on the way home and stuck it up over my desk, tacked over a vintage black-light poster. I also bought a NEVER TRUST t-shirt that had a photoshop of Grover and Elmo kicking the grownups Gordon and Susan off Sesame Street. It made me laugh. I later found out that there had already been about six photoshop contests for the slogan online in places like Fark and Worth1000 and B3ta and there were hundreds of ready-made pics floating around to go on whatever merch someone churned out.
Mom raised an eyebrow at the shirt, and Dad shook his head and lectured me about not looking for trouble. I felt a little vindicated by his reaction.
Ange found me online again and we IM-flirted until late at night again. The white van with the antennas came back and I switched off my Xbox until it had passed. We’d all gotten used to doing that.
Ange was really excited by this party. It looked like it was going to be monster. There were so many bands signed up they were talking about setting up a B-stage for the secondary acts.
> How’d they get a permit to blast sound all night in that park? There’s houses all around there
> Per-mit? What is “per-mit”? Tell me more of your hu-man per- mit.
> Woah, it’s illegal?
> Um, hello?
> Fair point
> LOL
I felt a little premonition of nervousness though. I mean, I was taking this perfectly awesome girl out on a date that weekend — well, she was taking me, technically — to an illegal rave being held in the middle of a busy neighborhood.
It was bound to be interesting at least.
Interesting.
People started to drift into Dolores Park through the long Saturday afternoon, showing up among the ultimate frisbee players and the dog-walkers. Some of them played frisbee or walked dogs. It wasn’t really clear how the concert was going to work, but there were a lot of cops and undercovers hanging around. You could tell the undercovers because, like Zit and Booger, they had Castro haircuts and Nebraska physiques: tubby guys with short hair and untidy mustaches. They drifted around, looking awkward and uncomfortable in their giant shorts and loose-fitting shirts that no-doubt hung down to cover the chandelier of gear hung around their midriffs.
Dolores Park is pretty and sunny, with palm trees, tennis courts, and lots of hills and regular trees to run around on, or hang out on. Homeless people sleep there at night, but that’s true everywhere in San Francisco.
I met Ange down the street, at the anarchist bookstore. That had been my suggestion. In hindsight, it was a totally transparent move to seem cool and edgy to this girl, but at the time I would have sworn that I picked it because it was a convenient place to meet up. She was reading a book called
“Nice,” I said. “You kiss your mother with that mouth?”
“Your mama don’t complain,” she said. “Actually, it’s a history of a group of people like the Yippies, but from New York. They all used that word as their last names, like ‘Ben M-F.’ The idea was to have a group out there, making news, but with a totally unprintable name. Just to screw around with the news-media. Pretty funny, really.” She put the book back on the shelf and now I wondered if I should hug her. People in California hug to say hello and goodbye all the time. Except when they don’t. And sometimes they kiss on the cheek. It’s all very confusing.
She settled it for me by grabbing me in a hug and tugging my head down to her, kissing me hard on the cheek, then blowing a fart on my neck. I laughed and pushed her away.
“You want a burrito?” I asked.
“Is that a question or a statement of the obvious?”
“Neither. It’s an order.”
I bought some funny stickers that said THIS PHONE IS TAPPED which were the right size to put on the receivers on the pay phones that still lined the streets of the Mission, it being the kind of neighborhood where you got people who couldn’t necessarily afford a cellphone.
We walked out into the night air. I told Ange about the scene at the park when I left.
“I bet they have a hundred of those trucks parked around the block,” she said. “The better to bust you with.”
“Um.” I looked around. “I sort of hoped that you would say something like, ‘Aw, there’s no chance they’ll do anything about it.’”
“I don’t think that’s really the idea. The idea is to put a lot of civilians in a position where the cops have to decide, are we going to treat these ordinary people like terrorists? It’s a little like the jamming, but with music instead of gadgets. You jam, right?”
Sometimes I forget that all my friends don’t know that Marcus and M1k3y are the same person. “Yeah, a little,” I said.
“This is like jamming with a bunch of awesome bands.”
“I see.”
