George Floyd

Day four and now cars on fire on the highway in Minneapolis. News anchors practically begging the governor and mayor to *just do something*.

Really? Not at all an uncommon theme in this day and age.

Then all the Minnesota plates in Hudson, Wisconsin, smack dab on the border 20 miles beyond are stuck, too, since they could close Interstate 94 again and first Minneapolis, then St. Paul, got the curfew. But most the new arrivals came from the East, Chicago to the Rust Belt, a surge of professional agitators and a sight to small towns on the way and this outpost between civilization, the big woods and rolling prairies.

30 white kids at the riverfront park and downtown packed, all 3/4 mile of it. An odd mix, revolutionaries and tourists. No place to go in the Twin Cities. Everybody had shut down for fear of the barbarians in the metropolitan, urban centers. You couldn't even buy a tank of gasoline despite pallets of bricks placed strategically in the hot spots by someone, or some organization, unknown.

I infiltrated the protest to get a feel for the grievances, the postures and imposters. Provocateurs abound in America, real and imagined, some just figments of their own imagination.

I got the latest narrative, "we come in peace, and we deny property damage as a response". I've lived through the Civil Rights Act and know the motivations run much deeper than that. Heard from a big, likeable Swede talking to a La Raza lookin' character on the fringe with two mugs in tow.

"I don't see colors", he stated proudly.

Holmes and I both blurted, "What? Are you color blind?"

I'd worked with enough undocumented over the years to understand caution. Me and the small, quiet hombre, Central American by the looks of him, shared a wary respect. We both knew the other was a spy.

One professional agitator ran the show, and despite my efforts, I didn't get his pay master's name, but I knew mi vato and his homies weren't there to shout slogans. But the po po had 'em outnumbered. I never seen so many blues in this little village before.

They weren't really much different than I, similar in importance and status, neither of us really belong to this high dollar real estate escape from the urban jungle - we who cared not for repression; why does someone have to pay absurd fines for BS like possession of marijuana or driving while suspended to support executive bonuses and parachute clauses for those who oversaw failed publlc pensions and bailed out boondoggles? We're all opportunists in that regard, migrants from The City of Thieves.

A couple of National Guard boys (so they said) in civvies and open carry seemed all jacked up talking smack with no where to go. The one gave it away. Too fuckin' nervous. First time he carried in public, I reckon. Likely as afraid of the police presence as any scofflaw or knucklehead, though the cops I'd spoken to were fairly laid back, enjoying the overtime and mild atmosphere.

Their polite audience, as I'd eavesdropped, some well to do married couples from Golden Valley, that far suburb in the sunset on this beautiful, summer like eve, had no where to dine out but here. One of 'em said I looked like Sam Elliot and took my picture. I'd gone without a haircut for weeks, moustache bristling and a protest against Covid lockdowns that closed the only decent barber I'd found anywhere around. You should see it now ... At one point, as I interviewed the sign spinners, I heard a ruckus above the chants and horn honking. 

Jesus Christ was walking through the midst of the group shouting "Heil Hitler!" with his arms raised in defiance. 

They just asked him to leave; an appropriate response. "JC", to the locals, got the nick name for his appearance and eccentricity. I know, because I'd met him once, gave him the once over, but, I can't say I know him personally.
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 apple blossom white -
 placards and pamphlets strewn
across the commons