Gordon was effected by that too I
guess. He never could stay with a
job for too long. Some said it was
because he’d never had a daddy around to show him what work was. Others said it was having to take care
of his momma his whole life, after she came off of that motorcycle, that’d done
it.
Bettie Lee’d run head on into a
pick-up truck and right through the windshield she went. She never talked again. They called what happened to her
“organic brain syndrome” but everybody around town just shortened it to OBS. Gordon was five at the time.
I don’t really know all that much
about it. Everything I know is
only second hand ‘cause I wasn’t around back then. Gordon’s my cousin.
He’s old enough to be my uncle.
He’s only three years younger than my dad.
Gordon’s been teaching me how to
drive all summer. He did a great
job. I just got my license last
week. I passed the driving test
the first time through.
They closed the battery
reprocessing plant where Gordon worked the same day. I guess they can get a better deal getting them made over in
China where they don’t have to worry so much about lead poisoning. So Gordon was at loose ends when he
heard about the protests that had started up north in New York City.
From what he explained, ninety-nine
percent of the people in the United States were being held up by one percent of
some greedy hogs that were living there in New York on Wall Street.
“They might as well have a gun,” he
said.
Gordon logged on to the Occupy Wall
Street web site to have a look. He
gave them some money and watched a little video somebody posted about how to
start a protest in your own community.
I watched it with him, but I swear, it was about the most boring thing I
ever saw on You Tube. I thought it
was stupid. A protest in Soso,
Mississippi wasn’t going to accomplish much of anything. What was he going to occupy anyway, the
post office?
Gordon saw it different
though. He thought New Orleans was
just about perfect for a protest.
Besides, it was the only city anywhere near big enough that was close to
Soso. I thought, maybe he could
catch a Saints game while he was down there.
He said he could get a couple of
his buddies, catch the Amtrack, and go down there on Wednesday if he could get
me and his neighbor, Mrs. Clanton, to keep an eye on his momma for a few days
while he was gone. I said
sure. Getting away for a little’d
do him good. He didn’t have a job to go to right now anyway. Maybe they could occupy Jackson Square.
He thought about it all day and by
that night he was sure that this was a thing that needed doing. So he went back to the OWS website to
let them know what he was intending to do. OWS thought that that was a fine idea, and gave him some hints
about drums, and collections boxes and what to write on the protest signs and
all sorts of things like that.
He went out to the garage to paint
some protest signs. He had a lot
of paint left from painting the short bus for the Mardi Gras parade back in
February. He made the first sign
purple and gold. He wrote OWS in
big letters. Then stood back to
get a good look to see how it seemed at a distance. OWS looked a lot like the thing his momma had, the
OBS. Maybe it was a sign. Something was trying to show him what
it was that he was supposed to do.
Gordon P. Middleman was going to be a real leader. He was the founding father of his own
protest. Gordon was going down
there and Occupy Bourbon Street to raise money for his momma. So that’s what he wrote on the rest of
the signs.
OBS for OBS
Support your momma
He caught the train on Tuesday. Nobody else went with him. I couldn’t go ‘cause I had school. All our friends had jobs except Wilson,
we call him Boo, and Boo wasn’t getting out of jail for three weeks. Gordon wasn’t waiting. So there wasn’t any of us that could go
with him. I drove him to the
station. He had a lot of extra
signs. I watched as he put them on
the rack above him, then he sat down with that big drum he got from the attic on
his lap, like it was a lunch box or something. That’s the last I saw of Gordon for a while. I heard from him though. He sent me texts almost every day.
Day One
Well, my OBS protest isn’t working worth
a damn. At first nobody else on Bourbon Street even noticed I was there. I was
just standing there by myself with my signs, beating on the drum. A few people gave me money. Some others
spit on me. Folks stuck Saints
stickers on my signs. Tomorrow I’ve got to get some help.
Day Two
a.m. – Slept behind some garbage cans, a
guy peed on me. Threw my clothes away and washed off with a hose.
Day Three
Ohhhhh…my head is killing me. Started on Canal. I was beating on my drum and a kid with
a trumpet and a girl with a violin started playing along. Next thing I know a seven-foot tall
giant in a green tutu, torn fishnet stockings, high heels, and a Tulane
football jersey took my green sign and tore it so it only said “Support you
Momma” and gave it to a chubby girl in a clear plastic raincoat and nothing else.
A boy took a marker and changed OBS on one of the signs to Oh Baby Show me, and
off we went, marching along. All
kinds of folk were following us, throwing beads and stuff, girls up on the
balconies were pulling up their shirts.
We were sure doing some protesting now. Police on horses even rode along beside us. We spent the donation money on some of
those tall hurricanes. I slept on
the girl with the raincoat’s couch.
Day Five
Somebody stole my drum last night. The girl I’m staying with is a stripper
at the JoyLuck Club. I hope she
didn’t give me something. I only
have one sign left and it’s all covered with stickers so you can’t tell what it
says.
I didn’t hear anything else for a week
or so then Gordon showed up at home.
He said he felt bad about leaving his momma alone for so long but he
wasn’t getting enough donations and the raincoat girl threw him out. After that, he didn’t have enough
money to buy a ticket home, but it was worth it.
Gordon and I are both pretty sure
he taught those greedy hogs up there in New York a thing or two.
