We The People. It All Began With Free Speech

Searching For My Son in the Darkness

“The strongest democracies flourish from frequent and lively debate, but they endure when people of every background and belief find a way to set aside smaller differences in service of a greater purpose.”

BARACK OBAMA, press conference, Feb. 9, 2009

---

I was downtown at the festival, enjoying the entertainment.

A group of official-looking men came by and gave us lots of warning before settling off a couple of rockets. They shot them straight up into the air.

I thought, ‘Oh, that’s what police sometimes shoot at protesters’. It was a weird thing to come to mind and I wondered where it came from. I shrugged and let it go.

Later that evening, I was walking along the top of the dyke, up on the ridge, overlooking the grassy culvert in the valley. There were a lot of people gathering. More than usual for a Saturday, but the weather was nice and it was spring so I ignored my uneasy feelings.

A line of people started walking into the valley from the direction of the music shop down the street. Some of them were carrying signs. They were chanting or singing but we couldn’t quite hear their voices.

There were men and women and some kids too, but I couldn’t make out their faces.

It was another peaceful protest. We’d had a lot of them in the past few months. There was no question what it was about, the president was still in power and he was still acting like a five-year-old on steroids.

A group of police arrived, making their way along the south edge of the valley. They spread out, some of them coming up on the ridge near where we were standing. They were carrying some of the same rockets.

I thought, ‘Oh, they are going to do another demonstration’.

Sure enough one of the officers placed one on the ground close to us. He gave us a safety warning before setting it off. They shot a couple more, and there was a lot of shouting from the protestors.

Then the cop near me did a weird thing.

He set the rocket into a holder and angled it toward the valley floor.

I yelled, ‘Watch out’, and watched in disbelief as the rocket shot toward the crowd. It flew down into the grassy park, trailing a long cloud of smoke and then petered out just above the heads of the crowd.

The people were yelling louder now and waving their signs, but still marching along their track, continuing their protest. I was worried. I didn’t understand why the police would have shot at them, and I didn’t like it.

I realized John might be down there.

He’d been going to some of the rallies and there had been a lot of talk at the dinner table about their cause.

I had to find out. I started running down the hill towards them. When I got about halfway there, a rocket screamed past me, filling the air with smoke. Then another. By the time I reached the crowd, there was a lot of yelling and confusion. People were running, some of them carried children. Others were hiding if they could.

I walked along the edge of the crowd, looking closely at each face, searching for that familiar one. He wasn’t there. I scooted along to the other side and made my way out of the park as more police arrived. I wasn’t staying to find out what would happen next.

I had a bad feeling.

‘John, where are you?’ I whispered. I had to find him.

I worked with his booking agent and knew the crew sometimes met in the back of the music store. As I arrived, there were a couple of girls I vaguely knew going in. They hesitated, and then let me in locking the door behind them. We hurried to the back. People were already there, talking quietly in groups, I could taste the urgency in the air.

It was dark in the back. The hallway and backrooms were filled with old music stands, boxes, and stacks of rental equipment. Things to be repaired were piled on the workbench. A single light on the desk was all that illuminated the group.

‘Is John here’, I whispered. No one answered. One girl started talking, giving updates about what happened in the park. I heard her say something about people being held, and some of them in the hospital with minor injuries. Sounded like there had been another scuffle.

I turned to leave and as I walked along the hallway I smelled gasoline. There was a guy with a can, backing toward the door, dripping a trail on the floor as he went.

‘Hey’, I yelled and ran toward him. I could hear them coming out of the room behind me. Just as I reached the front door, it burst open and a different person was standing there. He wore a khaki jacket and had longish hair but no beard, his sharp jaw was hawk-like.

I noticed he had on beige pants like the ones that you wear when you travel, although the hems were frayed and ripped. It occurred to me they were lightweight and durable. ‘Perfect for a protest’, I thought. Then I wondered what was going on in my brain.

He shouted and then threw large rectangular blocks inside. They were different colors, blue, yellow, and pink. I wasn’t going to hang around to find out what they were.

I pushed my way outside, yelling, ‘Get out’, as I went.

There was a loud explosion and the street filled with debris. I scrambled to keep my footing, then fell, dropping behind a parked car on the other side of the street. When I turned to look, the store was on fire, people were still coming out, some dragging friends and some limping.

I turned and threw up in the gutter.

Most people escaped using the back door, I didn’t know that for a few hours. The main impact of the explosion was felt in the front of the store, so there were only a couple of people killed, including the kid with the beige pants.

John is still missing.

Firemen managed to save some of the building but it was hours before they let anyone near the area. They were writing down names and sending people home. The police put a few in the back of a black and white, to take them in for questioning. I slipped into the alley and walked toward our place, my mind going a hundred miles a minute.

I was just a parent, trying to help my son and his friends.

They were good kids, and they were peaceful. They felt a need to protest what was going on in their country. They had to do something to show their displeasure. That’s how upset they were.

They were just marching and keeping the pressure on so our council would put pressure on up above.

That’s how it’s supposed to work in a democracy. At least, that’s how it used to work.

---

Thanks for reading this short fiction.

---