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The
San Ramon War Protest
By
Steven Hoadley
On
a recent Monday morning here in my little haven of San Ramon, California, there was an honest-to-Jesus war protest going on. Chevron Texaco has headquarters here, hence the disgruntled masses migrated over from San Francisco and Berkeley to protest big oil and their connections with the Bush administration, the war, and all that jazz.
Being a bored person by nature, I decided to go get my morning cup of coffee and see if there were any good looking girls hanging out at the protest. My second thought was that I might get a poem or something out of it.
I got my coffee at a wonderfully sparkling Peet's Coffee near where the protesters were doing their protesting thing. I then strolled across the street, coffee in one hand, cigarette in the other, and landed on the side of the boulevard where the "pro-troops" people were standing. Watching flags waving and "Boil Saddam in Oil" signs flying, I hung there for a bit just observing and soaking in all the resentments that were filling my little town. A pot-bellied man wearing a too-small-for-him "God Loves Bush" t-shirt, stood next to me. He had a small hand-sized American flag sticking out of his back pocket and was holding a much larger one with both hands and flailing it back and forth with much enthusiasm. Every time he raised and waved, his shirt would rise up and his gut would flop out. White and covered in disgusting, insect-like belly hairs, it brought me back to why I came in the first place; the girls. He turned and asked me if I'd like to have his little flag to wave. I told him no thanks, that I was just there to check out the women. He then ignored me. After a bit I became bored with that side of the street. The other side looked much more interesting, plus, the side I was on had only fat men and no women at all.
I decided to cross the street.
As I began walking, the man with the stomach hair who had offered me the little flag to wave, called me a communist. "No I'm not," I said. "I'm a poet doing research."
"Oh, then you're a faggot communist!" he yelled back.
I didn't reply.
The other side WAS much more interesting. There were some very attractive girls locked together in chains (something about that is never boring, methinks) blocking the entrance to Chevron. Some other people were involved in some kind of a death-dance thing while covered in what was supposed to be blood, but I knew it wasn't real blood, it was just a water-based paint.
Anyway, to my dismay, the girls there didn't seem too interested in me. I offered a couple of them a hit off my cigarette (their hands were chained, they couldn't smoke or drink or anything). They declined politely. Much better than the reception I got from the man across the street, I thought. There was one particularly stunning young woman of about 25 or so. I approached her and asked if she'd like some of my coffee or a smoke or something. She, too, declined, but smiled nicely at me. I asked her what she did if she had an itch. She said she didn't itch at the moment, but that it was a problem. I told her I wouldn't mind hanging out with her for awhile and helping her scratch if an itch came up. Her nice smile turned to a growl and I figured I had fucked that one up, so I moved on. I tried starting up a conversation with a couple of other girls, but they seemed uninterested in me as well.
Having finished my coffee and feeling rejected by both sides, I decided to leave.
So in reflection, sitting here bathed in the serene glow of my computer screen, I am pleased I went. Civil disobedience combined with ugly fat men and girls in chains could never be boring. I was cursed at, smiled at, growled at, and ignored. I enjoyed every minute of it.
And perhaps, just maybe, I'll even get a poem out of it. I like war protests now. I am looking forward to the next.
Copyright ©
2003 Steven Hoadley
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