An idealistic newspaper editor and his wife grapple with the question: how real is the political revolution they have vowed to support?
"Excuse me for interrupting your story conference, Mr. Editor. I assume you're putting your heads together, as usual, about clever ways to slander the government."
Detective Ellis Steele strode into the drab newsroom of The Resistance Paper as if he owned it. He posed with muscular arms crossed against his chest, no doubt intending to give editor Calvin Martinez a titillating glimpse of the state's power.
The lawman placed himself in a position to observe the only two regular employees of the shoestring publication. The editor sat behind his desk, leaning back precariously in his rickety chair and grinning at the visitor. His ace feature writer, Harvey Pope, stood at his side, hands jammed into pockets, sweating visibly.
"Don't bother to apologize, Detective," Martinez said. "I know the law can't wait for niceties these days. In fact, some day I'd like to see you make a really dramatic entrance. Like kicking down the door when you arrive. I'd get a charge out of hearing your sirens blaring away outside. That's the proper Fascist procedure, right?"
"Why bother to kick down a door with no lock?" the detective asked. "Frankly, you're not worth the trouble." He glanced contemptuously around the newsroom, with its mere two computers hooked to a common printer, and its stacks of manuscripts piled on unsteady tables. He strolled over and flipped through a few sheets of material, as if in search of some incendiary word or phrase.
"I doubt if you'll get much out of those pieces, Detective. They're full of ideas and concepts that I'm sure are unintelligible to any strongman representing the establishment. Like the pursuit of truth, and the freedom to disseminate it. 'Freedom' must be the most subversive word in the English language, don't you agree?"
The Detective grunted, and redoubled his effort to plow through the papers. Calvin continued, "It's our job, here at The Resistance Paper, to uphold freedom of the press and freedom of assembly. And even more importantly, to exercise the freedom to spit in any Fascist face we come across."
"Don't gimme that 'freedom' crap, when what you're really talking about is ... is anarchy." Steele grinned, as if he felt he had matched wits with Calvin. "You know what really gets me about you and your newspaper? You never actually define 'freedom.' There's no freedom to spit on law and order, you know. That's a crime."
"I'll wear the 'criminal' label as a badge of honor, Ellis." Calvin leaned back even farther, as if dangling over the edge of some invisible precipice. "Go ahead and slap me in jail, if you can ever come up with a charge that'll stick. But in the meantime, I suggest we both loosen up a little. I'll let you in on a little secret. The ultimate freedom is the freedom to laugh at everything ... at you, at me, at the melodrama of life."
"Now you're trying to tell me the People's Resistance Brigade, the terrorist organization your paper supports, is some kind of joke?"
"That could be what I'm saying, Ellis. After all, what has this elusive PRB claimed to have done? A few symbolic bombings, aimed at selected targets that represent oppression to the people. They've been carried out in the dead of night, with no harm to life or limb, although the messages have been loud and clear. Is that what you call terrorism, Detective? In my opinion, it's just subversion, intended to rattle you lawmen a little without bringing on a full-blast response."
"Besides," piped up Harvey, the reporter Calvin had trained to the city beat, "we're journalists, not politicians. We don't advocate bombings or any other political act. Nor do we support political organizations. We don't criticize them, either. We report on their activities as accurately as we can."
Steele grunted, "Bullshit. I have reason to believe that one perpetrator in particular is closer to Mr. Editor than the others."
"Why should that trouble you?" Calvin asked. "Think of that perpetrator as a mosquito that buzzes in your ear once in a while to remind you of its existence."
"That won't cut it, Mr. Editor. This is solid information. Your sleazy rag is connected to at least one major figure in the PRB."
"If you'd care to take a look around," Calvin offered, gesturing toward the light bulb blinking eerily overhead, "you'll note that our sleazy rag is barely connected to the city electrical system. We don't have the resources to fight our cockroach population, much less to support the PRB's aims."
But Steele already had obtained an incriminating document. He reached into his rear pocket and pulled out an advance copy of next week's six-page issue of The Resistance Paper. "How about if I read this back to you? It amounts to a confession."
Young Harvey, the author of the piece, squirmed as Steele read aloud. But the pride of authorship soon asserted itself. Harvey could not help basking in the innovative, first-person account of a midnight ride through the city streets with a "perpetrator" in search of an ideal target. In addition to the ride itself, the report delineated several preliminary steps involved in delivering a symbolic blow to the state ... the assembly of the pipe bomb in a makeshift lab; the placing of the bomb underneath an unoccupied cop car; the resulting spectacular explosion filmed from another car shortly thereafter; the issuance of an anonymous communiqué explaining the political significance of the event.
Steele finished reading, folded the paper, and attempted to stare down the young reporter. Harvey, once again on the spot, resumed his sweaty, quivering stance. However, emboldened by his own words, he stood his ground.
"You've got to admit it's a piece any editor would love, Ellis," Calvin interjected. "I see it's set your wheels turning. You're wondering if this phantom revolution we're reporting on might succeed. The progression is unfolding in your mind: a cop car today, maybe a military installation tomorrow. You're wondering how seriously you should take this threat. Is it a random prank, or is it an act of war?"
The detective kept his eyes fixed on the feature reporter; neither showed an inclination to blink. After several drawn-out moments, Steele said, "We know it's a young woman. So I'll give you a chance to spill it right now: who is she?"
Harvey's backbone stiffened and his chin jutted out. "Sorry, I don't reveal confidential sources."
"Then you're admitting you know a terrorist's whereabouts, and won't talk. Why's that, I wonder? You sleeping with her or something?"
Harvey bristled. "I'd never sleep with a source, under any circumstances. No reputable journalist would do that."
The detective turned to Calvin. "Do you have anything to say in his defense before I arrest him? Maybe you could plead extreme stupidity, since it seems he's the only reporter stupid enough to still be working for you."
"What we have here, Detective, is a classic political triangle ... the courageous reporter, the idealistic editor, the inflexible cop. The reporter and the editor have delivered their lines. The next move is up to you."
"Okay, if you say so." Steele moved forward, spun Harvey around, and clapped handcuffs on him.
As he led the young writer away, Calvin called after them, "Why bother with formal charges, Ellis? That would be a waste of breath. You may not know it, but you've given me the best gift possible ... ideal fodder for a new round of Resistance editorials. It's all worked out according to plan."
Calvin's wife, Sharon, his loyal assistant and helpmate, entered from a side kitchenette. She was carrying a full tray of coffee and refreshments as if for a routine meeting. "Come back!" she shouted to the departing lawman. "Let Harvey go. We can have some coffee and talk this out."
But the cataclysm had come and gone. Now the barren newsroom, deprived of its one spark of youthful talent, was left to its middle-aged proprietors. "Well, babe," Calvin said, still reclining in his characteristic way, "looks like it's just you and me left to contend with the Fascist beast."
"Oh, Calvin, why?" His wife set the tray on a shaky table. "What did you accomplish by sacrificing Harvey like that? Is it so impossible to negotiate, just a little, with the ... Fascist beast?"
"Love, how many times must I tell you this? You can't reason with a beast. And revolution isn't negotiable."
"But darling, you talk about this revolution as if it's your own private game, something only you understand. It's starting to seem more and more unreal to me. Calvin, I must ask you ..." She paused, as if fearing to question his reality.
"Is the regime really as Fascist as you think? And can it possibly be overthrown? What if the revolution really worked? Would the PRB be in charge then? What would keep them from becoming the new Fascists?"
"Freedom and fascism are nebulous concepts." Calvin always kept his tone light and jocular when he addressed his wife, but this time her question set him pondering. What did he believe a revolution should accomplish? Certainly, he disliked the idea of bloodshed as much as she did. And what was the PRB, really, but a quixotic organization that made loud statements and then ran for cover? Were they in it just for the quick, flashy news stories?
"It's our business to define these concepts for the public," he explained. "To describe the eternal battle between them."
"Darling, you're the editor and I'm the typist for this paper. How much defining and describing can we do without a reporter?"
Calvin's grin departed as he toyed with an idea that had the potential to revolutionize his life, and Sharon's. What if he were to return to the streets in search of the truth? An electrical sensation crept up his spine, causing him to sit bolt upright in his chair.
"Love, my instincts tell me this arrest had to happen. Harvey was a good kid ... actually, too good. He was standing between me and the action. Maybe I won't recruit another reporter. Instead, I might jump back into the scene myself. Re-immerse myself in gritty urban realities instead of office melodrama. Why resign myself to being the stationary point in the triangle ... the desk-bound editor?"
In the midst of his excitement, he paused and gazed sympathetically at his wife. "Of course, my love, if I do this, you must prepare yourself for the consequences. One day you'll be going about your normal office routine, making coffee or typing, maybe listening casually to those distant cop sirens that remind us every day we're living in a police state. Only that day you'll notice they're closing in, getting louder every second ... until finally, you'll hear one heart-stopping scream, right outside that door. That'll be my final call, as the revolution comes home to me."
The prospect was exhilarating. Calvin jumped to his feet and began pacing, as energetically as the small work space would allow. His mind was aglow instead of dreamy, his thoughts shorn of irony and charged with meaning.
Sharon watched his transformation in silence for several moments. Then she blurted, "Who is that woman, Calvin?"
Calvin stopped in his tracks and gave his wife a long look. What kind of counter-revolt was this?
"You're getting a little melodramatic yourself, love. What does the identity of one foot soldier matter?"
"It matters to me. I want to know about this fascinating terrorist you're longing to join out on those mean streets. The one part of the struggle that's real to you."
Calvin had not known Sharon could be so discerning. He grinned and replied, "Even if that's true , you know our policy. We don't reveal sources."
"Screw your policy, Calvin. I've got something to say, and I'm gonna say it, even if it betrays the revolution. If I ever find out who she is, I'll ...I'll call that Detective Steele and turn her in!"
Sharon was defiant and trembling. Would she really betray the greater cause for a petty jealousy? Calvin conceded that his wife could be as proud as he. Why should she care to be the stationary point in her own triangle ... the typewriter-bound wife, with a mysterious rival afoot? After a moment, Calvin's smile stiffened.
"Listen! Do you hear that?"
"What?" Sharon exclaimed. He was always seeing and hearing things that hovered beyond her range of perception. "Calvin, what do you hear? Tell me."
"Just a little ringing in my ears, I guess." Calvin shook his head as if to dismiss an illusion, although the sound was real to him. He sensed, further, that the police siren he heard was not his signal alone ... that one other person could hear it.
"Nothing to concern us yet," he reassured his wife. "And as for that woman ... well, if you should discover her identity, you'll have to act on that as you see fit. But for now, why don't you pour us each a cup of that coffee, so we can get back to work?"
She complied with his request. They carried on, dreaming up further showdowns between freedom and Fascism ... a hollow exercise, now that both realized his long-cherished revolution was driven by lust.
A homonymless man writes shows what it's like to look up the laid he skirts when you’re lying prone(d) to the sidewalk, beer / joint / needle dangling from your hand /lips / arm.
