The Protest

The two of us had been walking for a long time when we finally reached downtown and got to witness an unexpected display.

“Oh, what are they protesting now?” Allison grumbled, hand on her hip. She was one of those people who could pull off the “hand on hip” pose and not look like a ridiculous doll, bent into position. It was natural for her, like her red pout and heavy mascara were natural for her. She could pull off never making eye contact with a person, too, because she seemed to be that level of important, even though she was only a young assistant in the industry. She had the face of someone who would get somewhere—a star of the business world. And right now I knew she was in her own world.

“They’re anti-war protesters,” I told her. “I saw it mentioned in the news.” I would have liked to play the intellectual and say I had read it in the Times, but the truth was that I had only seen it in a tweet and had accepted the information, just like that.

“Well, isn’t everyone?" She said, pushing back her bangs with perfectly manicured fingers. “Except for those rednecks down south, of course. And by red, I mean republican.” She winked.

If Allison could be described in a single phrase, it would be “one-sided.” I didn’t disagree with her though, just her way of putting out her ideas. She was often so brash that people didn't know whether to laugh or take her seriously.

“Yeah, but they’re like extreme pacifists,” I said, struggling to remember the details of the tweet. I had scrolled through so many this morning and none seemed to stand out more than the others. “Like, they want to end war forever.”

Allison guffawed, as expected, then had a good laugh. “Oh, that's all? Ha! Come on, that's completely stupid. It’s the nature of man to be brutal and unyielding. The human race is never going to reach a real level of peace, and to think that we could someday is just nonsense." Allison loved to preach her own opinion, especially the most brutal one she had. And I let her. “Why can’t people just accept that we’re going to be bent on murdering each other for the rest of time, and let the wars end themselves? Even if those red-handed politicians stop this conflict, there will always be another one knocking at the door.”

I frowned. In general, negativity gets me a little wound up, but Allison is a full-blown romantic pessimist and nothing will ever stop her. So I don’t say anything and move on. I've learned that being quiet has served me best in every situation.

Dressed in heels and short skirts like proper Barbies and feeling completely out of place, we started to maneuver our way through the crowd of half-naked hippies in an attempt to reach our office building on the other side. They were loud, ringing our ears with their chants and shouts that muddled so much together that they became meaningless. The stench of sweat, smoke, and gasoline overwhelmed the flowers in their hair--which I noticed were made of cloth and plastic anyway. A couple of them bumped into us, but we had been walking in five-inch heels long enough to survive some minor jostling. I could imagine Allison huffing and puffing with annoyance as she led me by the hand, but the shouting and sirens were so loud that I couldn't be certain whether she was making any noise at all. Above the heads of frizzy-haired protesters, I caught sight of a couple policemen watching from the sidelines, murmuring to one another and checking their watches. They looked uninterested and unattached--much like how I felt. Allison was right, these protesters weren't going to win their fight. Their only success was annoying a good chunk of Manhattan by making them late for work.

I stumbled past a couple particularly loud bearded men who ignored me completely, trying to keep up with Allison's iron grip on my hand. We were almost to the other side--I could see the revolving doors of our building up ahead, just past a couple more rows of poster-toting screamers. It was when I was nearly out of the mess that one of the signs being toted proudly scratched my arm with a sharp, unexpected sting. I glanced down in surprise and although I saw that it was bleeding, I didn’t say anything to the protester responsible because I knew it was an accident. By the time we got to the front steps, my grumbling friend noticed the blood.

“Damn, Lu! Did one of those pacifists attack you?”

I gave her a weak smile in response to the irony, as I’m not capable of much else, and said, “One of the signs got me, I think. No big deal.”

“Well, the blood is going to get on your white skirt, pretty girl, and then you’re going to have to do some hardcore bleaching.” She began to wipe the long red line away with a tissue, but a bit of it splashed onto my black top. “Shit! Sorry, Lu.” She gave the shirt a look over and then said with a shrug, “Eh, no one can tell. Probably don’t even have to clean that part up.” She finished wiping down my arm and began to dig around in her huge bag for a band aid. I turned back to where the protesters were getting quieter as they moved away from us, traveling further down the street as the bored policemen finally got to shooing them along.

“You know,” I said. “They’re just trying to make the world a better place. I don’t think there’s anything wrong with that.”

Allison didn’t hear me, or if she did, she didn’t care to respond. Her band aid search had been halted as her phone distracted her with a tinny chime, and now she was texting someone furiously, forgetting about me completely. The blood had begun to drip again, without my noticing. This time it flowed from my shirt down to my skirt like a terrible scar. I let it flow. In an hour, it would make for a good story in the office.