Struttin' Up to the Lion's Den

10-24-36

The stiff breeze of New York City air railed against the contours of my face, its ridges poised in great determination as my eyes laid their gaze upon the big, shady warehouse to rule them all. Its bricks' red veneer shone in the moonlight like a beacon for the proletariat, all constructed in exact, painstaking fashion. All propping each other up in an immaculate form, without a single defector in the bricks' midst; not one questioning the architectural party-line. The building's roof was as flat as a Syndicalist pancake, no outer décor in sight to sully its pragmatic quality. The windows were scraped to perfection, all dissenting dirt and dust erased from the surface as sounds of verbal uproar boomed through the glass framework.

The Workers' Refuge stood tall and ominous, nestled in the labyrinthine patchwork of New York City's industrial district. Close enough to the bustling hubs of working-class activity to attract a large, zealous crowd—yet also tucked away deep enough from the general public to avoid scrutiny by a police force all too happy to break up any demonstration, whether peaceful or violent—for over a year it was a breeding ground for socialist thought and a lion's den of leftist up-and-comers who wanted to make a name for themselves.

That lion's den happened to be just the perfect place for my sorry journalist ass to capture the heart of the American Syndicalist movement up close and personal: shielded from the prying eyes of the greater public, yet simultaneously brimming with the support of the working class. This chilly October night was the Hajj to Mecca of the Syndicalist party.

And who better to prop me up on this journalistic escapade than my three equally enterprising companions, all decked out with notepads and pens aplenty! (And the occasional blunt implement, lest our friends on the far-left start reading The Communist Manifesto a little too hastily.)

The four of us stood stalwart against the towering image of The Workers' Refuge as the forces of nature blew strongly against the cuffs of our clothes.

David, for all his intellectual (I.E., smartass) splendor, wore the traditional façade of academia with a well-tailored suit and long-legged pants, all colored with a distinctive shade of black as if to blend into the darkness of the night itself. Topped off with a sleek-fitted beret and a wristwatch that dangled idly by on his left wrist, you'd think David was actively trying to get himself burned alive by a mob of angered workers. They would gladly get his blood on their hands at the slightest gaze of "white-collar" attire, ready to parade his mangled corpse of new money across Broadway and beyond next Labor Day, or some shit.

Thankfully, Dave did have that whole Ivy League college degree going for him to dispel that rumor of dumbassery, and as such took the necessary camouflage precautions against the whims of the proletariat: he scuffed up his shoes a tad with soot, dirtied up his suit with a few patches of good ol' Central Park soil, and even changed his posture as to come off as more down-and-out, scrappy. He hunched over a few inches to complete the multi-faceted look. An ensemble that not only spoke to his background of affluence and undeniable silver-spoon-mouthage, but also his sympathy for those who could barely afford a wooden spoon nowadays, much less the silvered luxuries of the wealthy. Perhaps he would never shake the stink of a spoiled upbringing, but at least he could do something good with all that inheritance money. To help make sure the lives of others were just a wee bit less deplorable.

He was ready to engage in a high-minded, academic analysis of the labor movement for sure, but still bothered to observe it at a close distance.

Jacob, meanwhile, took a good gander at David's get-up, nodded his head a little in mild candor, and then delivered a big ol' fuck you to all Dave's notions of elegance in the art of clothes-wearing. Taking advantage of his burly physique and brusque exterior, he boasted a strong white shirt across those gaping muscles of his, encompassed by an intimidating cloak of a jacket that scared off incoming snowflakes and Syndies alike. His wide-rimmed shoes scraped against the alleyway floor with a battering sound accompanying every step, as if a warning signal to any of those who wished to accost our merry band for the things we believed in. A stern protector of the first amendment right to freedom of the press, that's who Jacob was!

Fittingly enough to supply that rough-and-tumble profile, there drooped a bluntly edged crowbar out from the chasm of his jacket pocket. Its tip dangling inches free and swaying back ever so slightly with every movement. It too was a reminder that us journalists weren't exactly arriving empty-handed to a scene of police-provoking radicals.

All-in-all, Jacob was more than down to get physical with a bunch of Marxists if the situation required it. Doesn't mean he couldn't agree with a few of their points, but let's just say a hard slab of metal edging into your jaw wouldn't exactly make you find him cordial.

As we waltzed towards the building entrance, Jason still carried a smile on his weather-worn face. He wore a bit of a casual ensemble to the night's festivities, with a light brown jacket laid over a blue shirt of wool on his torso. His grey pants braved through the inclement effects that pressed against them as we trotted through the snow-ridden streets leading up to The Refuge. And what better than a fedora to adorn his head and give focus to his sapphire eyes with its wide rims? He wasn't gazing up at the stars like some coddled astronomer; his glance was fixed precisely on the action at hand.

More importantly for our purposes, Jase held a notepad in his grasp that shook with the deft movement of his pen against the flipping leaflets of paper, his mind taking in the present scenery before his eyes and interweaving the locale with the socio-political tides of the time. He noted the enthusiastic discontentment of the workers that poured into the warehouse chamber, the bloody nature of yesterday's strike fueling a raucous spirit to organize against those who wronged them. He jotted down the graffiti masterworks that lined the walls like a Marxist version of the Louvre, with portraits of blood-soaken bodies and domineering blue-caps catching the eye. We each had our own notepads, sure, but Jase could take a scene and transmit it into written pages like no other mind.

Jason was to be my observant right-hand-man on this fateful night, catching wind of all the socialist pomp and splendor that was about to occur.

And then there was I. It took a while to get to me, didn't it? Whether I'm the humblest man alive for describing my three friends first or a self-assured narcissist wanting to 'save the best for last,' I was prepared to get right down to business in the lion's den.

As my auburn hair frisked against the air, a gleam present in my blazing brown eyes, my face bore a smirk of confidence. Indeed, my apparel was sparse for the frigid temperature of the occasion—only a few inches of leather lined my clear-black coat, a challenge to Mother Nature to cut me down if she so dared. My hands were neither draped with woolen cloth nor drenched in my pockets; instead, they took the pursuit of sliding stalwart against my sides, splayed outward from time to time as if the physical embodiment of my mind's own movements. (Twiddling fingers representing my own inner web of neurons. There's no question I think I have a lot of those bad boys.) So too were my pants a thin veil of protection against the cold, all the way down to my polished shoes that gave a certain swagger to my gait. Hypothermia could kiss my ass for all I cared.

I flaunted a sort of open nakedness, a projection to the world of my own grand intentions, to the whole of the Syndicalist Party itself! I didn't give a damn what crowd-rousing diatribes Jack Reed was going to spellbind with. What potential punches to the face I'd get from the rowdy warehouse patrons for my beliefs. What the inevitable onslaught of policemen would bring against my slim writer's physique.

I walked with a long strut, taking in all the sights and sounds to be had in a world of individual freedom. The extralegal aspect of it all, to bear witness to a shadowy performance of fringe extremists—it was liberating. I went up to the head of the pack, my friends following my high-falutin ass right on by as I led them into the lion's den without an inkling of hesitation.

"I have to say, this is just as exciting as you said it'd be, Rick. I'm shivering, and it's not just because of the temperature!"

David slotted himself right in the middle of our collective, perhaps angling to examine the scene but still ready to use us as meat shields if things got testy.

"Don't piss your pants, pretty-boy. I've got your back," Jake's imposing presence was nearly as towering as the Refuge itself, and he'd do quite well in warding off any assailants.

"Keep tabs on everything that's goin' on, don't let your guard up. Anything goes in a Jack Reed spectacle," Jason said as he strolled by my side, his supportive aura a godsend to my crusading mind.

And there it was. The gilded entryway of The Workers' Refuge, speckled with pieces of propaganda hailing the Syndicalist cause as the cure to all the country's ills. Blue-collar denizens flocked through the blood-red doorways with stunning anticipation at what they were about to see. The voice they were about to hear in such booming tones.

I turned back to my partners-in-crime and had a grin long enough to reach the stars.

"It's right this way, gentlemen. The opportunity of a lifetime, right at our feet!"

My energy was palpable, completely uninhibited.

My lust for the cover story of our age knew no bounds.