Worker Bee

This afternoon I went to the local sign wave near my neighborhood, like on most Fridays since April.

It is on a hill at a major Baltimore County intersection so there is usually a slight breeze that has made the late afternoon heat bearable. I walked toward the corner where I usually start waving to oncoming southbound traffic. I always start on this corner. Then make my rounds.

There was a retired-age (but not elderly) woman in a pink shirt I hadn't seen before at this weekly protest. She seemed a little bit anxious. I introduced myself.

"Who is in charge here?" she asked.

I said the name of the organizer, looking around, not seeing her. "She has a minivan and she usually brings signs and a boombox."

I hadn't heard the music start.

"I want to do more" she said. I say, "just showing up is a start. You are here!"

I didn't have a good answer to her question yet. I asked if she was on our mailing list. She said she was. I asked if she had seen the weekly National Zoom calls.

She had not.

I talked about our local Don't Feed the Fox event.

She mentioned CBS. We talked about Colbert being cancelled.

She held out a hand written paper and I took a picture of it on my old iPhone SE "protest phone."

At the top it said, "Worker bee" then below it her name, email, and phone numbers--both land line and cell.

"You've got it?" she said. I nodded.

I took her folded paper then and we talked some more. "It is getting more positive," I said. "I haven't been called a commie or hippie in months."

"There she is!" I spotted the organizer across the intersection. I awkwardly gave her back the paper contact info.

Minutes passed. Cars honked. An occasional head shaking. A middle-finger after which I shouted and smiled, "have a good day, Sir!" as he jeered and gunned the pickup.

A high school age boy thanked us for what we were doing. He was the same age as my son. I recognized him from the gym uniform I occasionally throw in the washer. We encouraged him to protest next week. "I just might," he said.

Then I saw across the other corner, a man in a wheelchair who I recognized from a previous protest. I tried to remember his name.

"I'm going across the street," I said. "I like to be up close and look them in the eyes."

"Thanks for abandoning me!"

I wasn't sure if she was joking, but I said, "you'll be fine!"

After talking with the man in a wheelchair for few minutes, squatting down at his level, I protested with another elderly man in a straw hat (who is way sharper than I am!) who I'd talked with at length the week before.

I reached out shook his hand confessing that C had told me his name. He smiled. We walked up and down the sidewalk. We waved and smiled, smiled and waved.

Lot's of folks liked my new Epstein sign.

He was really concerned about a motorcycle that pulled into the gas station and a young man in a leather jacket.

"My Spidey senses tingled, too." I said.

We heard the motor rev loudly as the driver rode off.

The organizer came across the street and I headed back to the corner.

Did you meet B? I pointed across the street. "Yes!" she said.

I saw the crumpled up paper in her fanny pack around her waist that I'd briefly kept in my pocket for safe keeping. I pointed across the street in front of the gas station and reminded her.

Someone else had joined. She was no longer alone again and I walked across the crosswalk, wondering if I was doing enough. Also nervous about carrying my sign as I walked in front of traffic. I introduced myself to another couple at the opposite corner.

"I really wish we didn't have to do this," he said. "But we are here. I have the time."

"I know", I said. "But at least we are meeting new people," trying to convince myself that I really believed what I was saying.