The Disenfranchised Populist

The cab I entered was awkwardly comforting. The loose fitting

leather seats pressing firmly against my rump and lower back, the

slightly withered seatbelt holding me tight in the stagnant atmosphere

of coughs, perfumes, stale farts, and conquered earth. “Houston and

Broadway,” I half whispered half grunted through the dim glow of the

cab whose only source of light was the setting sun. The polished black

town car sat facing east on Wall Street just parallel to the hustle and

bustle of rush hour traffic. We started moving and shortly stopped

again. I bent over to adjust the laces on my gloss black, polished, and

empowering dress shoes. When matched with a stern posture and a

good suit these shoes could be worn to fulfill the most dignifying

purposes by the most august of individuals. At the time, when I

purchased the shoes, I felt like I was getting a steal. Now, I somehow

felt shamefully embarrassed at the actual three hundred and twelve

dollars I had indeed spent for them less than six months previously. It

is tranquilizing how much your existence can transform within the time

that you own a single pair of dress shoes. I generally try to avoid

wearing this particular pair whenever the weather is predicted to be

less than desirable. This day however, I had failed to take notice of the

weather while I was dressing for the office. My mind had seemed hazed

as the harbor; I had been lost in thought, like a young polar bear

separated from its mother, disoriented in a blizzard of uncertainty and

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trepidation.

That morning was a chilly one, warm enough though, only

because it was spring. Had it been fall, these exact conditions would

have had no particular appeal to my morale. It had not been especially

sunny, nor excessively gloomy. Out the window, the trees were

celebrating another winter survived by decorating themselves

jubilantly with tiny banners of green, yellow, and red, which signified to

the rest of us that spring had indeed come and the shivers of winter

had finally past. I awoke this morning feeling inebriated. It seemed as

though a thin film of previous aspirations had been stuck to my

corneas, which was in turn projecting a grey tint over my increasingly

dismal existence in a dizzying manner. It was as though the sparkle of

possibility and ambition that I once settled in my eyes had been long

lost, disintegrated by the unpredictable and specious realities of life. I

simply could not figure out what had happened, where had we gone

wrong.

My love was a good woman. She was always able to brighten up

the room just enough to get a glimpse at hope. She was beautiful,

gentle. Her smile could carry me for days and often did when I was

away for business. Her eyes were as deep as the ocean and equally as

intriguing. This morning she was as exuberant as ever, delivering my

coffee with a kiss. She complemented me like ruby’s emeralds. She

delicately arranged the silk on our recently vacated bed while

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humming pleasantly. She waltzed around the room to her own rhythm,

dancing from one side of the bed to the other. Her light dress frolicked

behind as it too danced with her shadow. She reminded me of a

gorgeous flower. One that had been seeded, rooted in my past, had

grown with me through time, and at that moment, was in full bloom. As

she looked up at me, her face was overcome with a ray of sunlight; the

bright light sparkled in her beautiful eyes in a way that took my breath

away.

“Did you bring in the paper?” I asked her.

“I did, it’s on the breakfast bar,” she stated then added,

“Although you haven’t read the thing in almost a week.” She was

starring back at me and appeared to be expecting something more

from me.

“Nothing but lies and misdirected anger, day after day, all the

same letters printed in a different order” I delivered. She seemed

satisfied, or at least did not inquire any further. She unloaded a warm

crisp load of neatly folded clean laundry into our hand crafted

mahogany dresser. I walked to her, wrapped my arms around her from

behind and pulled her close into my body. I kissed her neck and

inhaled an aroma honey. I whispered into her ear and she turned,

smiled, and then kissed me tenderly.

“You had better get going, you’re going to be late,” she said

flirtingly after a moment. I kissed her again and sat down on the edge

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of our bed. I pulled a fresh pair of socks over my feet.

“I love you, you know.” I told her softly and from the heart.

“First I’ve heard of it” she replied jokingly, then echoed, “I love

you, you know.”

As I pulled my shoes from their spot on the rack and matched

them to my feet, the realities of my current prospects had already

began to consume its second helping of my mind for the day. As I

gathered my things for work, I paused and chuckled at a bumper

sticker my brother had sent to me. It read, “Spread My Work Ethic, Not

My Wealth”. I put on my jacket, kissed my love one last time and made

my way for the street with my suitcase in hand, leaving the newspaper

behind, on the breakfast bar, with the lies of the day.

We lived on the 9th floor of an older building, and because of the

equally aged elevator, it was always faster to take the stairs. They

were dimly lit by two individual light bulbs in each section, which I

would guessed to be as old as the building itself. It smelled like a

moldy basement during the winter and was always damp. The light

bulbs irradiated what I had referred to as a “browange” glow. The

bulbs emitted a golden orange hue, and the paint in the stairwell was a

distasteful brown, meeting somewhere mid-wall to form “Browange”.

The whole atmosphere was very restricting and generally unpleasant. I

had inquired many times to see if maintenance could change the lights

to brighter ones. I had also insisted that they add a texture to the

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edges of the stairs; otherwise some one was doomed to take a fall,

tripped up by a combination of dampness, soft color, and a

disconcerted maintenance supervisor. His response to me, incredibly,

was for me to use the elevator. I hated those stairs. The way they

squarely tunneled back down towards the streets, I could not help but

feeling like I was only ascending downward, going in circles, deeper

and deeper father away from where I wanted to be.

The noise, bustle, and sudden blast of natural light pushed me

back into the stairwell after I stepped out into the street. There

seemed to be more people scurrying about than normal. With the over

saturation of humans, there was an increased sense of urgency and

tension. I looked into the lost and empty eyes of a few people passing

by. A few of them looked back at me, most didn’t even see me

standing there. I wondered if I was as empty and lost looking as they

were. I gathered myself and muscled through the flow of people,

flagging down a ride once across the river. “Wall Street and Pearl” I

instructed the driver. I saw him look up at me through the rearview

mirror with contempt. He had green eyes, swollen and aged. In his

eyebrows, grey was winning a war with brunette. He had the

complexion of a Texan rancher, which I remember thinking was odd

because it was early spring. He did not stink of body odor like many

drivers did; however his choice of cheap cologne burned my eyes until

I finally closed them, and tested them for leaks.

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 My mind was too unsettled to make small talk, and the driver

seemed like he was not interested in the least. So I sat there eyes

closed in a pensive dreamscape. I began to remember the feeling I had

when I first graduated college. I had graduated fifth in my class at

Salem State, and finally relieved to have been released into the world.

Driven by possibilities, newly acquired marketable skills, and a sizable

debt from collage, I buckled myself in and took off.

It didn’t take long for me to get my name out there. I had

published a steady flow of op-ed pieces in the Boston Globe, during my

years at Salem. I managed to catch the attention of a few mid level

analysts at a well-established investment firm. They wanted to meet

face to face at a local corner café to discuss some of the theories and

remarks I had made in the Globe. I had been consumed with

networking at the time, always taking advantage of an opportunity as

it presented itself, and agreed.

They were interesting at best. Not exactly on my level of thinking

at the time, but they did prove beneficial. I was more of a big idea

thinker, and they were much too detailed oriented to be very

engaging, always getting caught up on irrelevant points, and failing to

grasp the core of what I was saying. However, the company that they

worked for had a bonus system in place that encourages its employees

to recruit talented individuals to the company. They would each be

rewarded with a five thousand dollar for every person hired. They

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informed me that they had already discussed the matter with their

superiors and wished to set up a time for us to meet with them.

In the first five years of working with the firm I was promoted

seven times. By my tenth year anniversary I was working as head of

my department whose duty was to understand and predict the future

market trends. I worked long, hard days, sometimes-working thirty

hours straight just to finish a presentation by deadline. It was up to my

team and I, to suggest how millions of dollars were allocated. I took my

responsibilities serious and was intuitive. I worked hard and was good

at my job, and as a result I was rewarded well.

It was tough though, not only on me but also on my love. She

would sometimes come to my office on the days we had to work late,

bringing the team and I a warm meal, with a side of caring smile. She

was strong, and we were madly in love. All of the armies of the world

could not keep us from loving each other. But unfortunately business

could, and she always waited for me, greeting me with open arms and

an undying love whenever I returned. When we were together, it was

euphoria, and when we were apart it was hell. With out her I was boat

that couldn’t float.

As my ability to understand people and markets evolved, I

became more aware of certain fallacies and hidden truths in out

society. There soon developed an internal struggle between my ego,

pushing me to take risks for greater profits, and the unsettling feeling

7
that my fellow employees families livelihood depended on the decision

that I made. The difference between massive layoff and huge

expansion was often in the words that I spoke and the predictions I

made. Most of the time I was right, but once in a while the warnings

failed to get through to the people who needed to hear them and I

would take it hard.

In my work I met many types of people. Most I met were nice,

welcoming and healthily curious human beings. Others made me vomit

in my mouth a bit, mainly politicians. The modern politician was less

honest than a used car salesman. The politicians were only slightly

better dressed, had whiter teeth, and their wives didn’t normally have

any tattoos. I had grown to think of politicians to be a lot like a junkie,

they had an addiction to power, they stole money from other people to

maintain their addiction, and they only cared about preserving their

high, destroying everything in their path to do so. As I talked to more

and more “public servants”, I soon realized that they thought of

themselves to be more “served by the public” than anything. When

discussing business with politicians, I had to always remember to

emphasize how what I was after would directly benefit them

personally. Once I understood that politicians didn’t care about

anything other than their own power, it was easy to convince them

that what I wanted was also what they wanted.

“Tha roads block’d ahead” the driver said piercingly. “This is as

8
fa as I can bring ya, Eight dolla’s” His words stung my ears as early

morning took shape around me once again. Up ahead I saw that the

road was indeed blocked. Oddly, there was no police cars or

ambulances that I could see, only a large group of people. I paid the

driver and oriented myself; I was about three blocks from my office

building. I progressed forward towards the crowed. As I got closer I

could again feel the tension building, these people seemed angry. They

seemed to be centered in front of an investment firm a few buildings

down from my own. As I swallowed hard my mouth became pasty and

stale, I grew increasingly uncomfortable the further in I traveled. My

head throbbed as they chanted incoherently. I could see that some of

the people were holding signs, one read, “abolish money” another,

“fuck consumers!” both written in the penmanship of a nine year old.

Fuck consumers I read twice to make sure I hadn’t misread the

idiotic phrase. Silence overcame my mind. What did he even mean by

that? I looked at the young man holding the sign, no longer hearing

anything other than my internal cry of reason. He appeared slender

and weak minded, he had tattoos going up both arms to his elbows

where ink was met with a black tee shirt. His face was pale and was

not complemented at all by his dark and greasy looking hair. He wore

slacks that were surely three sizes too small, along with a stupid smug

smile. I saw that, ironically, he was wearing flashy new Nike sneakers. I

immediately understood once I saw his shoes and persona in

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conjunction with that retarded phrase he was proudly holding high

over his head. It was my job to understand people like him and I did.

He was a follower, a victim of modern popular culture, corrupted by the

latest trends set by MTV, E!News Nightly and the likes. He was there

because it was cool and trendy, not because he had the slightest

understanding or passion about economics.

I suddenly realized that I was attracting more and more attention

and stares as I moved deeper into the cluster comprised mostly of

angry adolescents. My heart beat accelerated, hair stuck to my

forehead as I began to sweat. I walked faster, the boundaries of the

sea of people was within sight when I heard, “Theif!” cry out from

behind. Adrenaline raced through my veins. I did not turn around to

see if it was directed towards me, I already new. Like a gazelle crying

out in defeat, over powered by a loin, the voiced called out. Angry,

confused, excited, frustrated, oblivious, and futureless just like the

gazelle. I could understand that these people were upset, but what had

I done to them? Who exactly are they suggesting had I stole from I

wondered? I knew it wasn’t their fault though, I symbolized to them

everything that they lacked in themselves and they hated me for it. I

pushed through the wall off people like a truck plowing snow, finally

breaking through to the other side. Dumb masses I thought to myself

as I continued to my office.

I arrived to work thirty-two minuets late. My boss not so

10
delicately reminded me that everyone else started at nine am and

inquired why I thought I could waltz in thirty-two minutes late

unscathed. He was big man, tall and solid. He had short grey hair, thin

grey eyebrows, and yellow stained teeth. His eyes lined up to mine and

were always bloodshot. Oddly, his breath always reeked of coffee or

chili and his fingertips were stained by nicotine. I informed him there

was a protest down the street that had blocked the road and I had to

walk unexpectedly. He responded with a rant about him having to push

through thousands of commies to get where he needed to go during

Korea. He said if he could get through waves of commies I surely had

the strength to muster through a handful of “god damned hippies”. I

told him that I would not let it happen again and he stormed off to go

make inappropriate gestures to some female employees in a

neighboring department.

I spent the rest of the day trying to understand what had

happened earlier, trying to get inside the crowed mentality. I couldn’t

help but take offence to the fact that I had been accused of something

so erroneous. How the hell was I a thief? I sat at my desk looking

around at my co-workers. I felt as though I was watching a time-lapse

video of the internal operations of an anthill. People moved hastily

from copiers to file cabinets, bathrooms to desk chairs, smoke breaks

to meetings in a very official and important manner. And at the end of

the day the only thing that had changed from when you arrived that

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morning was your energy level. There was always a day’s work left for

tomorrow. Working, what horrible way to earn a living I thought to

myself as I gathered my things for the nights commute.

Out side on the street again, the breeze was damp cool and the

air felt electrified. Had it been July, bolts of lighting and crashes of

thunder would surely be erupting from the sky. I flagged down a

passing taxi and exhaled my day’s contemplations in an effort to ease

my mind. The cab I entered was awkwardly comforting. The loose

fitting leather seats pressing firmly against my rump and lower back,

the slightly withered seatbelt holding me tight in the stagnant

atmosphere of coughs, perfumes, stale farts, and conquered earth.

“Houston and Broadway,” I half whispered half grunted through the

dim glow of the cab whose only source of light was the setting sun. The

polished black town car sat facing east on Wall Street just parallel to

the hustle and bustle of rush hour traffic. We started moving and after

a short while we were stopped again. I bent over to adjust the laces on

my gloss black, polished, and empowering dress shoes. When matched

with a stern posture and a good suit these shoes could be worn to fulfill

the most dignifying purposes by the most august of individuals. At the

time, when I purchased the shoes, I felt like I was getting a steal. Now,

I somehow felt shamefully embarrassed at the actual three hundred

and twelve dollars I had indeed spent for them less than six months

previously.

12
 Just then there was a commotion outside on the street. I didn’t

even have time to look up before the car door next to me whipped

open violently. I realized then that the town car had been surrounded

by a mob of people. The driver started yelling in a different language

as hands grabbed at me frantically from outside the car. My heart

raced. Hands were grabbing at me, pulling me towards them, my seat

belt held me in briefly but one of the hands found the release.

Suddenly I was on the street; they were carrying me by my armpits,

chest up and feet dragging. I looked up and saw a beautifully colored

and vibrant sunset to the west as I lost a shoe to friction with the road.

My heart was pounding so fast it hurt, my ribs hurt, I looked down to

see that the hands had turned to fists. They pelted me all over my ribs,

my stomach, and my arms. Through the thunderous noise of

excitement and anger I hear the cry, “thief!” I was carried down

stream by an ocean of people further into the depths of mob mentality.

A quick blur preceded piercing pain and explosion of blood from my left

eyelid as I was hit again and again. The taste of blood filled my mouth,

my vision cleared briefly to make out a slender figure with tattoos

going up his arms meeting a black tee shirt, fuck consumers. He

looked scared now, not so trendy as I stared at him and he back at me.

I wanted to yell out, for help, to halt the madness. But my voice would

not work, words would not come out.

The ocean suddenly evaporated beneath me and I dropped to

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the ground. My brief case was missing, my suit was in shreds, I was

missing a shoe, and soaked in my own blood. My head pounded in pain

and in fear as the crowed erupts with applause. A man without a shirt

approached me carrying a bullhorn. He had on black cargo pants and

sported black and worn military style work boots. The crazed look in

his eyes makes my heart skip a beat. As a circle forms around the man

and I, he turns and yells into the microphone. The mob sings out in

ruthless cheer. I lay there, two feet off the sidewalk assaulted and

covered in blood. People are all around but nobody helps me, not one-

person try’s to save me. The man with the bullhorn bens down and

looks me in the eyes, he grabs a handful of my hair and pulls my head

back then spits in my face. Now, I cry out in like a gazelle, as he drags

me by my hair closer to where the curb meets the road. I roll over to

face the sky, using the sidewalk as a pillow. I cant breath; nerves all

over my body are reporting the damage excruciatingly. The man with

the bullhorn eyes suddenly get real cold and dark, at that moment he

is not in control of himself, he is lost in leading the mob. He pointed his

hate filled eyes directly on me, then yelled into the microphone, “Fuck

the man!” before lifting his foot, which bore the heavy work boot, the

image of my love flashes in my mind on last time as he delivered one

final devastating blow down on my head crushing it against the

sidewalk.

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