The Pamphlet

I needed to re-evaluate my life choices. It was my second day on the job, standing in the blistering sun during the hottest summer on record, covered head to toe in combat gear. We had been standing at attention for four hours, and our shift had two more to go.

I'd lived here all my life. I loved Seattle. It was clean for a big city; we had the best food in the nation, the best music, the best weather, the best medical center, the best university, the best police department, the best everything. Sure, it was expensive, but it was worth it. My mom always said it had its problems, but it was still the finest city in the country to raise a family.

Lately though, people were uncomfortable. There was an undercurrent of—not fear—but something close to it, a sense that not all was right with the world, no matter the politics.

I didn't tell any of my friends about my new job, except my girlfriend, and she broke up with me. We hadn't been together long, so it didn't cause me much grief. My mom was mad at me and my dad, well, he didn't talk to me much anyway. He was a retired police officer, and I thought for sure he would understand. But he shook his head and, without a word, grabbed a beer and took it out onto the front porch. My little sister declared I was a fascist and stomped upstairs, no doubt to plop on her bed with righteous indignation and go online to complain about the world with her friends.

We were protecting the Federal Building and surrounding area while other agents collected and delivered the criminals—at least that's what they told us.

Bobby, my only friend this week, suggested I apply when I told him I needed work. It was a temporary gig. I still had three months before I finished police academy, and this seemed like easy money. I tried to believe in what I was doing.

The City hadn't been the same for months because of the raids. I didn't work on the raid teams. I was here to stand bearing weapons and looking scary. I would be glad when it was over.

The mask made it hard to breathe, and it made my nose itch incessantly. Sweat was crawling down my forehead and the back of my neck. I couldn't smell anymore. But today I was thankful for that. There was a waste management strike, and the city reeked. It was a sickeningly sweet smell, like something had died.

The forecast predicted it would reach 120 degrees by 4 p.m. My shift would be over by then, but I felt for my fellow agents who had to take the late shift during the hottest part of the day. On the upside, the protesters generally gave up around three, so it would be quieter.

They had us rotating every ninety minutes so we could go inside to get a quick glass of water. They didn't want us drinking too much because we couldn't take breaks to pee.

I listened to audiobooks to distract myself. Today I was listening to Jules Verne, 20,000 Leagues Under the Sea. I found its utter lack of reality comforting.

I was one of the lucky few agents whose post was a two-by-two-foot area under a tree. The shade didn't help, but I embraced the illusion. I looked up at the city; the tall buildings reached to a sky that was so bright and blue it almost hurt to look at it.

Seattle was a pretty city when it was cooler and didn't stink. We were in the heart of it downtown. Traffic was diverted away from the government buildings, and we had cut off the blocks between Western Ave and Spring on the northwest edge and 4th and Marion on the southeast end. Fifteen city blocks.

There were drones in the air and troops every ten feet. The protesters crowded all the surrounding streets. They threw insults all day, and after a while, I didn't hear them. As long as they stayed on their side of the barricade, they could say anything they wanted.

Bobby wanted to Taser the ones up front, 'make an example' he said. But yesterday an agent did that, and he was suspended, so Bobby constrained his enthusiasm—I think he just wants to use the taser. Personally, I didn't care if people yelled obscenities at us. I had a job to do, and I was doing it.

I looked down the line towards him; he was almost two blocks away and talking into his phone. He had a girlfriend who didn't care about his job.

That's when I saw the woman. She was wearing a hat, a bright billowy dress, and flip-flops. She struggled with a cart, pulling it behind her, weighed down by a sloshing twenty-gallon carboy.

She stopped right in front of an agent and bent to fill a paper cup. I couldn't see what was in it, but I assumed it was something cold. She offered it to him, and he ignored her. She tried again, shrugged and ambled to the next agent. She had a slight limp, her right leg slightly slower than her left.

She walked up to Charles. Charles was one of the angriest men I'd ever met. He ranted a lot about being replaced and how we were being invaded. Most of us ignored him. He slapped the cup away when she offered it and yelled in her face. He was too far away from me to hear what he was saying, but I could guess.

The lady took a step back and looked at him over her spectacles. Then, she shrugged and moved on. The next agent ignored her, and the next. Finally, one of them politely took the cup, pulled down his mask enough to gulp it down and handed the cup back.

She handed him what looked like a piece of paper; it was too far away to tell for sure. He shook his head and looked straight ahead. She moved on. The next agent took the water and the paper. He looked at it, shook his head, and threw it on the ground.

She bent to pick it up and turned to see Charles barreling down on her. He grabbed her arm and threatened to arrest her. Bobby was the next agent in line and walked over to him. I don't know what Bobby said, but Charles, huffing and puffing, walked away.

Bobby politely took the cup of water and the pamphlet. When the woman moved down to the next agent, Bobby turned and threw it in the trash without looking at it.

Something about Bobby relaxes people. He's big, like all of us, and he can be intimidating, but he's also the guy in the group cracking jokes. He diffused situations well, so people felt safe around him. The other agents followed his example. Most of them refused the tract, or pamphlet, or whatever it was, but took the cup.

She moved closer and closer. I could see what she was handing to the agents; a small white booklet or pamphlet with black and red writing. Finally, an agent opened the booklet and read the first page. He shrugged and put it in his back pocket. The lady moved to the next man, and that agent did something surprising. He read the first page, then turned and walked back into the building. Charles, still fuming, yelled at him to get back to his post, but the agent kept walking.

That was too much for him. He ran at the old woman and screamed at the agent. "Arrest her! She's spreading subversive literature and interfering in our operation! Arrest her!"

The agent she was standing in front of now was yelling at her. Bobby yelled at the agent, and the protesters started screaming. Things could get out of hand fast. I stood my ground and looked straight ahead. The commotion was still a block away, so I did my best to ignore it. I would deal with whatever was in front of me when the time came.

Predictably, the protesters started yelling too, and one of them threw a rotten tomato and hit the woman. She put her arms up to protect her face, but didn't respond.

"Why are you giving those fascists water" one of them yelled at her. The other protesters jeered at her and chanted, 'Fascists! Fascists! Fascists!' But her demeanor never changed. She turned towards them, pulling her cart with her, and handed the nearest fellow a paper cup. That shut him up. She handed him a pamphlet, and some of his friends gathered around to see what it was. Silence rippled through the crowd.

I didn't have time to consider why. All of us turned toward the building because our captain was strolling across the forecourt booming, "Attention." He was a big man, six foot four and pushing two hundred fifty pounds, bigger than the rest of us, and hard to ignore. He was covered in combat gear and walked as if it were feather-light.

He spoke to Charlie, his voice a quiet rumbling bass, and Charlie stomped away. He turned to the woman, and from his gestures, I could tell he was asking her to move along. She handed him a pamphlet and shook her head. Captain looked exasperated and turned heel to go back into the building. This was a public space, and as long as she didn't walk past the line of agents, she could stay.

The woman continued her mission. She stood in front of the next agent in line. She was still too far for me to hear what she was saying, but close enough that I could make out her features better. She was probably in her sixties, with long, gray hair poking out of her hat, and skinny arms with paper-thin skin, exposed and splotchy. She wore spectacles that enhanced her grandmotherly aura and spoke in a quiet voice; her long, oversize dress rippled around her knees as she walked.

As she approached the next agent, he held out his hand. Then the next and the next. Everyone calmed down. A few of the agents actually went to her and gathered around. By now they were near me, and I could hear their murmur of conversation. She handed them each a pamphlet. Two of them threw it back in her cart, but one of them kept it, opened it, read the first page, then turned and walked back into the building.

A new commotion was stirring in the crowd. A young man in his twenties was walking among the protesters, pulling a cart with a large carboy and handing out water. The old woman stopped her march and watched him approvingly. Then she turned and stood in front of Leland, the agent next to me. She handed him the water and the pamphlet; they spoke quietly for a few minutes and then she made her way to me.

"Here you are dear, you all look so hot and uncomfortable. She handed me the cup. "I'm sorry it isn't cold."

It was fine though, not cold, but not warm either—it was wet. I threw it down my parched throat and handed the cup back to her.

"Thank you." I said.

"Would you like another? She asked. A few of your friends refused so I have a little extra."

I accepted a second cup, and she held out the pamphlet. "Have you read this yet?" she asked cheerfully.

I looked down at the little booklet in my hand. It was a pocket Constitution; the kind that all the county libraries gave away for free. I thought about what Charlie had yelled about her handing out subversive materials, and a chill rolled down my spine. If this little book was subversive, we were in more trouble than my ex-girlfriend realized.

She was watching me, like she did the others; her green eyes peering over her spectacles didn't miss a thing. Despite the sunglasses and mask, I felt exposed.

"I haven't read this since third grade." I said.

"Do you remember it?" she asked.

I shrugged. "I remember 'We the People', that's about all." I tried to sound flippant.

"Well, I bet now is as good a time as any to reacquaint yourself with it. Don't you think? Open it."

I opened it. On the inside cover page was a poem:

"Not like the brazen giant of Greek fame,

With conquering limbs astride from land to land;

Here at our sea-washed, sunset gates shall stand

A mighty woman with a torch, whose flame

Is the imprisoned lightning, and her name

Mother of Exiles. From her beacon-hand

Glows world-wide welcome; her mild eyes command

The air-bridged harbor that twin cities frame."

"Keep, ancient lands, your storied pomp!" cries she

With silent lips. "Give me your tired, your poor,

Your huddled masses yearning to breathe free,

The wretched refuse of your teeming shore.

Send these, the homeless, tempest-tost to me,

I lift my lamp beside the golden door!" –Emma Lazarus

I was familiar with the last bit, but I'd never read the whole thing before.

I knew what had to be on the facing page.

"We the People of the United States, in Order to form a more perfect Union, establish Justice, insure domestic Tranquility, provide for the common defence, promote the general Welfare and secure the Blessings of Liberty to ourselves and our Posterity, do ordain and establish this constitution for the United States of America."

I closed the pamphlet and put it in my back pocket. I could feel tears burning my eyes. What was I doing here?

A new commotion was disturbing the crowd. They parted, and several agents were approaching with a new batch.

"Do you believe in that promise young man?" she asked me.

She turned and pointed at the small group walking across the cobblestone forecourt. "They do."

I took off my helmet and mask and gave the woman a sad smile. I tried to think of a response, something I could say to justify my presence to her. Something about her made me want her approval. Her eyes were kind, lenient; she wasn't judging me—she didn't need to. The words judged me. I judged myself. I could fix only one thing.

I turned and walked back into the building. I found the captain and handed him my badge, my gun, my teargas, my taser, my vest. I felt light, cool. Without another word, I joined the other two agents without their gear, and we left the building together and melted away into the quiet crowd of protesters.