Gettin' Riled Up

10-22-36

There was a banging sound that kept echoing and echoing throughout the night: prickly words boring into my skull. I nearly bashed my pillows open, tossing them onto the ground and laboring up with my pajamas hanging out, my ass sticking out my pants without any covering to bear. As I scurried off to the shaking window curtains, I'd make them shoot up with a nifty little chain, gazing upon the raucous mob below.

It appeared those maligned bastards wouldn't let me get much beauty sleep tonight.

Bantering forth again and again, sounding, skimping, simmering along the Big Apple's Appian Way—oh how important they thought they were. All high and mighty, blaring out their myriad of cutting complaints and rejoinders against society as we knew it, they'd drunken a bit too much liquor by now. Feisty and frolicking and fucking annoying, it made them.

Who did they think they were? God's disciples? Good enough to wake up the entire city? To ruin my whole night?

I knew the "good of the cause" was something to die for, something to hail. I knew damn well that these "United" States of America were just about prowling for change amid economic depression and sociopolitical upheaval.

I knew that much of the animosity hurled at the grandstanding elite of this nation was well-warranted, business magnates and heiresses and presidents refusing to answer the call for some modicum of salvation for their lives' endless worries.

The task of collecting a paycheck, that most existential of financial endeavors, had become so harrowing a task in Uncle Sam's free land as to unleash a tidal wave of chaos and stress that absorbed all society's fabric.

But did the cause really have to wake me the hell up? Don't these people go to sleep, too? I suppose it was New York…

I calmed down myself, grasping a spare baseball card of Ruthy to ease my jumbled nerves. Now here's an ideal moment for observing the social powder keg of America before my eyes.

Pensions. Labor safety. Unionization—unions, unions, unions they scream! The banding together of brothers in arms for the sake of their wellbeing in the world, economically and politically. Ah, it was quite a Syndicalist dandy, save for the blue-capped counterattack the crowd received.

The contingent of burly policemen (resembling more an organized army than a public service organization designed to "protect public safety") began, as you'd expect, charging into the people's wake with batons slashing and pistols raised. Gunshots flickered every now and then, the cops not merciless enough to begin gunning down the strikers en masse but not nearly angelic enough either to hold in their murderous impulses and do their jobs. Even still, the crowd was not exactly scared shitless, as with every battered body flying back into their beaten ranks, more activists answered the call and marched on.

And here I was, lounging in bed. Watching the march of history from a safe, worthless distance. Doing nothing but waxing artful about all manner of high-minded literature and drama while people were dying out there for the sake of what they believed in. I may not have been a solid Syndie but there was something admirable about their plight that made my lethargy all the more damning.

What were you, some kind of Ivy-educated idler? Destined to sip tea and watch the world burn? There had to be an ounce of courage in my fucked-up load of a body, my two-faced persona of social commentary and social isolation a disgrace that I needed to correct. To go into the world and fight!

* * *

…The door opened.

Look who it was. Jason, that genius. He must've done some voodoo magic or something to know that it was just the right time to free me of my insanity. Taking his hand off the bronze knob, he leaned back against one side of the doorway.

"The crowd noise hitting you hard, eh? Don't worry, Rick, I've had to go through my earplug-supply too. Now that's an industry they should make a union for!"

His charismatic demeanor near single-handedly broke me of my hard-nosed frustration, making me grin a bit. Give it to Jason to clear the mind of all political chicanery with a choice bout of humor!

"I mean, c'mon, Rick! Ain't this shithole of a situation the perfect excuse to pry your eyes off those Yankee cards and do something already? Say what you want about it, but this riot's sure-as-hell fired me up."

"'Fired-up' enough to bang down my door, that's for sure."

A sly chuckle exited my vocal cords as I happily absorbed his brightening presence. A social miracle-maker, he was.

His smirk not abating, Jason entered into the room with a gallivanting gait.

"While the whole city's burning down, we might as well do something productive. Turn sins to omens, you get me?"

Rising up from my tousled bedsheets, I couldn't help but gingerly pat him on the back, as all good friends were ordained to indulge in from time to time.

"A beaming pile of sunshine, you are. Let's talk about it over some supper, shall we?"

Plans swiftly made, we scurried over to the hotel café, which was quite the contrast from Peterson's lack of niceties. Boy oh boy, they made you feel like the scrappy grub they served here was fine dining! Fine paintings, waxed flooring, a jazzed-up jukebox, pretty waitresses—man, if Peterson's was Heaven, this must've been Nirvana or something. Aesthetically speaking.

The food was just a couple notches above grade-A garbage, but the décor at least gave a comforting feeling to the senses, as if our hotel overlords desired to distract our tongues from the taste.

Although, even if I may be a shit-for-brains college grad who once marinated in the fields of posher academia, I tend to prefer the hustle and bustle of more rustic establishments. Peterson's still takes the win for me, of course.

Without further masquerading as a 'man-of-the-people,' back to business. Digging in to some half-delicious, half-disgusting pieces of steak, I faced Jason as he went to work in that cranium of his, setting down a newspaper with a traditionally dramatized headline and array of photographs adorning the cover.

"This is heating up, fast, man. The Syndies, the Feds, the AUS way down South. It's a threesome of a conflict at the ballot box, and in more ways than one, too."

I smiled, taking one last bite of the scraggly chicken.

The presidential election of 1936 was right around the corner, and with three vastly disparate political factions jockeying for authority to save the nation's future in the midst of its shambles, there was plenty to think about in the weeks leading up to election day.

Months before we'd worked for the New York Times as the best damn two-man band in all of New York journalism, our muckraking asses delving into the thick of the political scene with pieces centering on everything from voting rights to income inequality and the federal government's depravity.

Perhaps I'm leaning too much into the romance of it all, but we did try our best to bring the news to the people in this turbulent age. And we didn't look too shabby doing it, either!

However, the run had to end at some point, and lo-and-behold the Times went and fired us both due to a strict adherence to the bottom-line. I understand if times are tough (no pun intended, bastards) and you've got to make some adjustments, but neither I nor Jason could stand the political climate after that. We were relegated to working odd-jobs and commiserating with each other about this rotting world of ours, as if devolving into idle passersby after our previous stint diving into the thick of action.

…Whatever the case, it was time to get into the arena once again after weeks upon weeks of inaction. The salacious pomp and splendor of contemporary America demanded it.

Sitting back up, I glanced towards Jason with an enterprising gleam in my eye.

"I think it's about time we tell the world what's happening, Jase. The scoop's calling for us."

Jason could only nod at my newly-crested tide of confidence, and pitched in with his own pragmatic mind.

"No doubt about it, and luckily enough, I've scouted out the perfect locale for some good ol' journalistic sleuthing."

His hands scuffled through his worn-out jeans pockets before he laid across the dining table the Holy Grail of leftist dreams. The Workers' Refuge: the Syndicalist headquarters of New York City, and the palace of the party's kingpin, Jack Reed.

"What's a better place to scout out than the centerpiece of underground New York politics itself?"

I could only give a wide-brimmed grin back to Jason's optimistic demeanor, pushing myself out of the well-cushioned chair I once sat to prepare on a voyage to the cornerstone of the down-and-out. The pinnacle of the working man.

The day's rioting clamor was nothing compared to The Workers' Refuge. And I was going to need all the help I could get from Jason and my two other intervening partners-in-crime.