The School on Heart's Content Road (57 page)

Now the militia halts in its tracks. The “music” stops. Weapons and flags and flyers rustle. Moccasins and boots and sneakers shuffle. A voice from the militia's center hollers, “Shoulder arms!” and the placards rattle and squirt guns are jerked from holsters. The AK-47 is aimed at the governor's door. Flyers rustle. Placards are now raised high. The highest one reads GET THIS CORPORATE MESS OUT OF OUR GOVERNMENT! And another: ONLY HUMAN HUMANS SHOULD HAVE CONSTITUTIONAL RIGHTS! and yet another: THIS IS NOT ABOUT A FEW STOCKS TO LITTLE WIDOWS, THIS IS ABOUT GLOBAL CORPORATE POWER!!! and THE SOVEREIGN (spelled SOVERN) RIGHTS OF THE PEOPLE HAVE BEEN SHIT ON!!! and WE ARE NICE BUT WE AREN'T PUSHOVERS! and CORPORATE CHARTERS ARE NOT DIVINE CONCEPTION.

Waving on the margins of the group are lots of repeats of WHOSE BUTT IS AMERICA KICKING NOW??? CORPORATE BUTT!! YOU BET!!! (a real favorite of preteen boys).

Now the teen boy with the drum (Harley jacket, horns) leans to one side to whisper something to another teenage guy, one with a small yellow tail of hair and inside-out camo BDU shirt, and this guy whispers to a preteen girl and there's some giggling. And now a whispered phrase ripples through the ranks. Meanwhile, a teen girl wearing a beret and camo BDU shirt unrolls a stiff beige scroll and reads loudly: “We are now here at the People's House! The capitol of the state of Maine!” Her young voice echoes down the long halls, against all the marble, glass, bronze, and gold. “The People's House is where we send the people we elect to conduct the affairs of the state on our behalf! This building belongs to the people of the state of Maine!!!”

“Hear! Hear!” calls the husky voice of a midsized skull-faced teen boy.

“Ahoy, mateys!” shouts another.

The reader continues. “The business here is conducted in
our
name! We not only have a right to be here, we have a
responsibility
to be here!”

The whole militia cheers loudly. A few spoons clank. Kazoos buzz tonelessly. One cowbell clanks merrily. American flags wave so exuberantly they appear as pink blurs. Big militia flag dips with solemn emotion.

The door to the governor's office opens an inch. An eye shows. Eye of a lady in a brown dress. Office-looking lady. Door shuts.

A flash. Another flash. The indefatigable Press, three of them, have just appeared from somewhere.

A lot of people stepping out from doors, peering at the scene.

“Where's the governor?” the teen girl with the scroll calls toward the governor's door.

“In bed with the insurance companies!” another teen girl calls back.

“Naughty! Naughty!” someone scolds. And some real little kids sweetly chorus, “Naughty! Naughty! Naughty!”

Other little kids hiss and boo. “The governor is bad! The governor is bad!”

“The governor does not represent
people
!” a teen girl calls. This teen girl, like many of the others, is wearing a camo shirt and black beret. Three bandannas are knotted on the left bicep, one green, one black and white check, like a raceway winner's flag, and one red. (These represent the Earth, the People, and Revolution.) On the right bicep, a black armband, to express Grief.

Again, the teen girl with the scroll calls, “Where's the governor?” She narrows her eyes on the closed door.

A teen boy in head-to-foot camo and a
KICK BUTT
sign calls in a deep, almost manly voice, “He won't come out! He's chicken!”

“The governor is scared!” calls out one of the oldest girls.

“Why won't the governor come out and talk with his constituency?!!” cries another girl.

“The governor is a corporate slut!” screams the drum-carrying bull-biker.

“Copwat swut! Copwat swut!” chant the littlest kids.

Older ones in deeper resolve yell “Corporate slut!
Corporate slut!
corporate slut!” louder and louder and louder.

More people arrive from stairways and doorways, serious and stern mostly, one or two sort of smiling, eyes sparkling with nervous amusement.

A small militia member passes out copies of the
Recipe
as well as a simple flyer, which reads THE ALIEN GOVERNMENT OF INTERNATIONAL FINANCIERS AND DEBT-BASED ECONOMY IS ILLEGAL. THE PROJECT FOR THE NEW AMERICAN CENTURY IS SATAN!

Some soldiers are waving their water guns. None loaded.

A teen girl with beret, camo shirt, various arm decorations—and cornsilk blonde hair—and crisscrossed cartridge belts of. 22 shells (no gun), signs up people for membership, mostly the press. “Sign here and we'll send you stuff,” she tells one TV reporter and hands him a blue militia card with his name scribbled on it, under the little American flag and bold lettering:
THE TRUE MAINE MILITIA
. This recruiting officer has a brick-sized bag of these cards with an elastic around them, all ready to go.

A tall red-haired girl with a deformed face wears the camo shirt and bandanna but no bandoliers, and no beret. Her hair is wild and magnificent. On her shoulders rides a year-old toddler, wearing overalls of a print of red hearts and a rabbit-fur trapper hat. Little face under the big hat is smiling and blinking, little hand points in various directions. Little voice trying sincerely to copy everything that's being said or chanted. “Co-putt! Co-putt! Co-putt!”

And the whole militia screams “Corporate slut!” at the governor's door, until, alas, the clerk of the house (a handsome but harried-looking gentleman, almost a Joshua Chamberlain look-alike) arrives with the capitol security, and one or two plainclothes state cops, to usher the militia
out
. But not before all the science exhibition doughnuts have been stuffed into dozens of hungry militia persons' mouths.

Shortly.

It is starting to rain from a lavender sky. Some yellow and bronze leaves still resist falling down in the park, where nobody walks enjoying America, enjoying freedom.

Water hits pavement but does not make it clean. The water is from the heavens but no blessings are given, not many wanderers at the
moment, just a tattery zigzag of kids and young people dressed weirdly, the true motley crew, heading down the east-facing stairs.

Mickey and CC (whose real name is Christian Crocker) and Margo St. Onge (you wouldn't recognize them in face paint resembling grinning skulls) wearing black robes (resembling judges) and a sign written on now-soggy cardboard (under CC's long arm) which reads NO MORE FASCIST PUBLIC SCHOOLS. NO MORE INDOCTRINATION FOR ROBOTONS!

Another unrecognizable individual with cracking, creaking teenage voice jogs to catch up, gasping, “The People's House, huh? (
gasp gasp
) They threw us
out
!”

Mickey, dressed only as his usual musty, woodsy self, offers one of his rare snorts of laughter and now words, even rarer. “It was an honor.”

A letter is sent to the
Record Sun.

To the Editor,

There was a time when we saw our capitol as a place of reverence and respect. But no more. Sixteen schoolchildren, presenting their prize-winning projects, half of these children representing the highest science scores in the state, and sixteen teachers, including myself, and several aides, representing sixteen schools, had the unfortunate experience of being at the statehouse this week at the same time as the True Maine Militia.

This “militia” is a gang of about forty dirty-mouthed, disrespectful, loud children (some old enough to know better). None were dressed appropriately, considering the place. They marched through the halls with toy guns and pointed these guns at the door of the governor's office. Yes, the governor!

This was nothing less than criminal behavior in the making. The literature they were distributing was senseless and antibusiness. While our students looked on helplessly, the “militia” ate all the doughnuts that we had on the tables for people who were interested in viewing the science projects. At this point, I must add that a generous corporation donated those doughnuts. The children of the True Maine Militia might take a lesson from this: the generosity of corporations. If it weren't for corporations, we'd
have no jobs! And no wonderful medicines and, yes, so many other important things we take for granted.

But I am afraid that this gang of ill-behaved unchaperoned children will, no doubt, terrorize many more people before someone puts a stop to it. Such unfortunate behavior makes many of us, who have worked hard to raise and educate
civil
children, wonder what this world is coming to.

Diane Barteaux

Gardiner, Maine

A follow-up meeting of the True Maine Militia in the East Parlor, a dictionary and three thesauruses opened on various laps.

“Okay,” Samantha says, “
corporate slut
has got to go. No more of that.”

Pages flap softly. Margo taps a pen against her knee. “How about corporate suckling?”

The answer is several scrinched faces.

Bree laughs. “I love this.”

Kirky asks, “Where exactly are you guys looking, anyways?”

“Right here.” Alyson Lessard leans toward him with her tattered thesaurus. He thumbs through his, finally matching her page.

Erin offers, “How about corporate fawner or corporate sycophant or corporate truckler?”

“How about corporate
boot . . . lick . . . er
?” Jane reads, she and Tabitha hunching together over one thesaurus, Tabitha's finger pressed hard to a spot on the page.

Another offering, this by Gabe. “Corporate lady of the night?”

“Corporate harlot,” offers Christian Crocker grimly.

Young Sigh St. Onge snorts with appreciation. Mickey smiles thinly, chin up. Mickey is here. Yes, Mickey . . . is . . . here.

“Corporate daughter of joy,” adds Christian Crocker.

“Corporate toady,” suggests Kendra.

Whitney says gloomily, “Whatever you come up with, it'll make some people mad. Might's well go with corporate slut.”

“Right! It's gotta be that
we
like it.”

“I like it.
Slut,
” says Carmel softly.

Margo says firmly, “As long as it is true.”

Michelle agrees. “Yeah, true.”

A lot of nods.

Kirk stands up, closes his thesaurus. “So let's leave it be corporate slut. If we spell it right, isn't that all that matters?”

Jane leans on her chair arm and says in a tone of finality, “Just make sure it's spelled right, and that's that.”

A bit later, Mickey tells us.