Chapter 5: Cops

Lucy decided to enjoy Santa Fe and hotel living for a few days. She went to the cafe-cum-bookstore on Galisteo Street for breakfasts, and wandered about downtown for other considerations, enjoying the dry mountain air and the occasional odor of pinon. She had begun to feel the travel itch again, when she saw a local news report at a bar television:

“Dave, you can see the damage to the tables and walls behind me, which the proprietor says happened as the fight spilled out from the street where the local Americans for Christ chapter was holding a rally to support the Safe Bathrooms Bill, now being considered in the State Legislature. We have some tape here of the incident, and as you can see, a man bearing a trans flag is confronting the rally, some finger pointing going on there, when the pickup approaches, apparently knocking the man backward. Let’s run that part again slower…”

“Looks there like he got up and ripped the fender right off the truck, Jill.”

“Yes Dave, and that led to some shouting and fighting, and that’s when the Police stepped in, and a bit later, here, you can see the man being led off in handcuffs. We are told he is being charged with felony riot.”

It was clearly Pierre.

Lucy went down to the lockup, thinking she would at least visit Pierre, and was surprised to see him walking down the steps of the courthouse with a red bruise on his forehead.

“Hey Lucy,” he said, laughing.

“Pierre! I thought they’d hold you for bail.”

“Yeah, well, I talked them down ’cause I’ve never been arrested before, and I think they were surprised I had any money at all. But, uh, I do have a favor to ask you. Is there somewhere we can talk?”

They went to a taco bar nearby, and Pierre explained that he didn’t intend to stick around to face the charges, which had been reduced already to a violation. Could he get a ride out of State?

“Maybe. Tell me first why you got in a fight.” Lucy was feeling a paranoid suspicion about this guy, who showed up conveniently enough, just as she was presumably the target of a national manhunt. He’d better have a good story; she didn’t want to give up her project quite yet.

Pierre hemmed and hawed for a moment, pushing at his burrito mojado, then pulled out a phone, and showed a set of pictures to Lucy.

“This was my little sister, who if you know what I mean, was my brother. Killed, choked to death, three years ago by her would-be boyfriend. Scumbag got off on trans panic defense. He’s married now, has a nice job with Raytheon,” he said, with evident anger. “I can’t stand this kind of bigot shit. It’s cheap, evil, and cowardly.”

“I’m so sorry. Sorry for your loss.”

“I swear I’m not usually violent, it’s just — ”

“I think we’re good, Pierre.”

She researched at the hotel, looking for news coverage of Pierre’s sister, and found it within half an hour. Relieved, she picked him up at the bookstore the next day. He was wearing fresh clothes, and had a large new backpack with him. “Don’t you want to get back home, though, arrange your affairs and such?” she asked.

“Don’t want to see that place ever again,” he said, his voice getting tight.

“Okay. I hear you. I’m heading NorthWest, back to Portland.”

“Sounds fine.”

They talked for a while, rolling up the Interstate with the cruise control on, Pierre buying the gas and trying to pick up her food bill as well; she would not let him. He fell silent, and they continued comfortably, though she sensed he was dealing with his ghosts as well. To change the subject, Lucy spoke of the research on Greenland and the Thwaites glacier, and the doomsday predictions that were coming true every day in the news ( — a bit of a gloomy subject, she realized, too far into the discussion). But Pierre seemed up to speed, and quite in agreement with her radical assessment.

They fell into a predictable routine, scouting out interesting highways with a paper atlas, getting more comfortable with each other — until Pierre saw the pistol handle protruding from the door pocket, as he pumped gas. He said nothing, and got in the passenger seat afterward.

“You’ve been kinda quiet,” she said, as they approached Highway 90.

“It’s just, well, I didn’t think — I’m kinda surprised that — I mean — ”

She guessed her error. “The pistol?”

“Yeah. I didn’t peg you as the sort to pack a Glock with an extended magazine.”

“Well! I believe in looking out for yourself, y’know, and um — ”

“Tell him,” said Bob.

“And another thing,” Pierre said, his brow furrowed, “I’m sorry, ma’am, but I keep hearing a man’s voice, and I coulda sworn, I would absolutely have sworn I saw a man on the upper bunk, but how did he get there and where did he go?”

“Tell him,” said Bob.

“What is this, Hamlet?” said Lucy, flummoxed.

She told him.

“Holy shit, ma’am,” said Pierre, “begging your pardon and stuff, but holy Jeezus Christ on a rubber crutch! You’re the goddamn People’s Army!”

“Just me and my shadow,” said Lucy, feeling sheepish.

……………………………………………………………….

They parked on the roadside, to talk it out.

“So now I’m tainted, you know? I’m like a mafiosi that witnessed a murder. I can either sit on this forever, or betray the nice lady who picked me up from Breakup Hell.”

“I’m so sorry, I didn’t think it through,” Lucy said, gazing at the Badlands through the windshield. “I didn’t mean to tell anyone, ever. It just seemed like you were the one to tell.”

“Heck of a risk,” Pierre mused. He opened a ridiculously long packet of cheap beef jerky, and began to gnaw on it. “Anyway, what’s done is done. What I want to know is how you justify it. How you justify violence.”

“How could I justify inaction?”

“That’s a false dichotomy.”

“Is it? Do you think any of the protests are likely to stop internal combustion commuting by, say, next week or next year, or in time to stop utter catastrophe? Do you think governments for sale to the highest bidder are going to betray their big donors, and embrace a life of asceticism? Has a major portion of the industrialized world taken to bicycles? Do you see any progress at all?”

“Well, a little progress, which might, maybe might speed up — “

“Do you believe that, really?”

“Well, no. No, I don’t, and I don’t know what to do about it, but I do know you could have killed people blowing up that refinery.”

“But I didn’t, and that’s because I did my best not to. I risked killing, I did, gods help me,” she said, looking a little spooked, “but that refinery is one-seventh of the US gasoline supply, and even if it doesn’t give anyone a hint what to do, it slowed CO2 production by, I don’t know, probably gigatons. And that’s more people who get to live longer and better without drought, or a super-hurricane, or a flood, or a zoonotic bug.”

“What if you did kill someone?” he said, chewing the meat rope, which had begun to spread its acid odor into the van cabin.

“Gods, I don’t know. It would be horrible, horrible. I just don’t know. But I don’t think there’s really anything left but direct action. I mean, direct action that somehow spurs more action and political decisions.”

“Are we talking about foquismo?”

Now it was Lucy’s turn to look shocked. “DeBray? I can’t believe you. How come I never met anyone who read Che Guevara and Regis Debray at my old job, or at school? I thought I was the only freak. Pierre, maybe there’s a reason we ran into each other.”

They talked about direct action, and whether it actually inspired anyone or not; Lucy mentioned the graffitos. “I honestly don’t know if it ever works,” she said, “or if it requires some hardass like Fidel or Lenin to show up and force things — or whether maybe they made things worse. I just couldn’t watch it happen anymore, without fighting back, you know?”

A South Dakota Highway Patrol cruiser pulled up behind the parked van, and lit up its emergency lights.

“Oh fuck!” Pierre said, but Lucy said, “Let me handle this.”

The cruiser sat behind them for a while as the patrolman ran the plates. He walked up to the driver window, a hand on the butt of his pistol.

“May I see your license and registration, ma’am?”

“Oh you know I’ve left them at home again,” Lucy said, in a surprisingly frail voice. “I’m so sorry, Officer. I’m getting forgetful, I guess.” She smiled wanly.

The patrolman leaned forward towards Pierre, and said “I’d like to see your identification, Sir.” Pierre opened his mouth, but Lucy piped up, saying, “He’s simple, Officer. He can barely speak, and I don’t think he’s going to understand, but he’s my dear sweet boy, so I’ve taken him along. Don’t you think it’s a beautiful day to take your boy on vacation? My husband used to say that a beautiful day is God’s gift,” she prattled cheerily. “Don’t you think? It’s nice of your wife to press the shirt so well,” she added, reaching out towards the patrolman’s collar. He lurched backward.

“You have a nice day and drive safely, Ma’am,” he said, turning towards his patrol car, feeling a palpable sense of escape. He lunged into the cruiser, turned off the overheads, and roared off.

“That was impressive,” Pierre said.

“The Army has highly developed counterintelligence measures,” said Lucy, flipping her grey-white curls.