committed to freedom. Those were glorious days, important days, days when we stood for something—when we stood up for the truth, when we faced the government eye to eye, and said: We … will … not … be … deceived.” She paused, eyeing the heckler. “And what is the legacy of those days? What have we got now?”
“Ain’t honest government, that’s for sure!” That was one of the park regulars.
“Right on, man!”—another guy I couldn’t make—“They lie in Washington, they lie in Sacramento, they lie in City Hall.”
Bryn broke into the calls. “Right, and they lie right here on Telegraph Avenue.”
“Yeah! Damn cops, they tell you—”
“Back in Those Days, the cops stood with us, against them ! Now they stand for nothing!” She waited, but kind words about police, even a quarter century ago, didn’t reverberate with this crowd. Before the hoots could start, she shifted focus. “We will not be deceived!”
I tensed, hand-poised over baton.
“We will not be deceived by our government!” she called. “And we will not be deceived by those who tell us they are helping us, and then rob us.”
A murmur of confusion ran through the crowd. Bryn’s was a sentiment that could hardly be disagreed with, but no one could tell where she was headed. They eyed her suspiciously.
“What am I talking about?” She flashed a smile. Cameras flashed in return. She let the anticipation stretch. “Sam Johnson, that’s what! That’s who! Where is Sam Johnson? Not here! But you all know Sam. And you—”
“Hey, who the hell are you?” a voice called from the back. One of Sam’s crew. The crowd stiffened, shifted in toward the stage.
I stepped in closer and eyeballed the two Johnson friends in front of Bryn—no visible weaponry.
“And you,” Bryn repeated more firmly, “know what he promised with The Heat Exchange. He promised people like you, people who have to choose between food and heat, he promised you help. And are you getting that help? No! Have you seen one cent from Sam Johnson? No! And why not? Because the Emperor has no clothes on!”
“Like the Olympic phone call!” Sam’s friend from the back yelled.
Bryn stopped.
“Hey, lady, you’re—”
“Don’t be fooled.” Bryn stepped forward till her mouth was an inch from the cluster of microphones.
Her voice blared. “It’s Sam Johnson who’s cheating you. Sam—”
Like a wave the crowd’s attention swept to the right. Like the Red Sea, a path opened. And like in the Garden of Eden, a bald, naked man ran out, holding a banner: THE HEAT EXCHANGE.
Camera operators made 180-degree turns and, seeing the crowd five deep in front, backed up onto the stage, nearly knocking over Bryn Wiley.
But the nudist was quicker. He skirted around them, onto the stage, and reached out.
“Hold it!” I yelled.
She flung an arm at him.
He grinned. In one swift movement he rubbed his hand down her bare arm, then spun, jumped from the stage, and ran through the crowd.
“Move aside!” I shouted, shoving between two brown-jacketed men. They gave way, but the crowd in front was rush-hour thick. Everyone was cheering on the nude Mercury. Murakawa and Pereira pushed toward him.
Bryn was alone on the stage! I turned and shoved back between the jackets and pushed onto the stage.
She was gone.
Frantically I scanned right and left to Dwight and Haste streets. I spotted her on the sidewalk by Dwight Way, next to her Volvo wagon, holding a reporter by the sleeve and pressing a paper into his hands.
The crowd cheered louder. By now the runner had dropped his banner and was loping by the free box. No uniformed officer was near him. He turned to the crowd, pointed to a truck at the curb, and disappeared behind it. Doors on the side of the truck sprang open, and two men passed cardboard cartons of cans and lunchbags to the guys nearest them.
The nudist was forgotten. Bryn Wiley wasn’t even a memory.
Murakawa and Pereira moved toward the truck.
“Ain’t honest government, that’s for sure!” That was one of the park regulars.
“Right on, man!”—another guy I couldn’t make—“They lie in Washington, they lie in Sacramento, they lie in City Hall.”
Bryn broke into the calls. “Right, and they lie right here on Telegraph Avenue.”
“Yeah! Damn cops, they tell you—”
“Back in Those Days, the cops stood with us, against them ! Now they stand for nothing!” She waited, but kind words about police, even a quarter century ago, didn’t reverberate with this crowd. Before the hoots could start, she shifted focus. “We will not be deceived!”
I tensed, hand-poised over baton.
“We will not be deceived by our government!” she called. “And we will not be deceived by those who tell us they are helping us, and then rob us.”
A murmur of confusion ran through the crowd. Bryn’s was a sentiment that could hardly be disagreed with, but no one could tell where she was headed. They eyed her suspiciously.
“What am I talking about?” She flashed a smile. Cameras flashed in return. She let the anticipation stretch. “Sam Johnson, that’s what! That’s who! Where is Sam Johnson? Not here! But you all know Sam. And you—”
“Hey, who the hell are you?” a voice called from the back. One of Sam’s crew. The crowd stiffened, shifted in toward the stage.
I stepped in closer and eyeballed the two Johnson friends in front of Bryn—no visible weaponry.
“And you,” Bryn repeated more firmly, “know what he promised with The Heat Exchange. He promised people like you, people who have to choose between food and heat, he promised you help. And are you getting that help? No! Have you seen one cent from Sam Johnson? No! And why not? Because the Emperor has no clothes on!”
“Like the Olympic phone call!” Sam’s friend from the back yelled.
Bryn stopped.
“Hey, lady, you’re—”
“Don’t be fooled.” Bryn stepped forward till her mouth was an inch from the cluster of microphones.
Her voice blared. “It’s Sam Johnson who’s cheating you. Sam—”
Like a wave the crowd’s attention swept to the right. Like the Red Sea, a path opened. And like in the Garden of Eden, a bald, naked man ran out, holding a banner: THE HEAT EXCHANGE.
Camera operators made 180-degree turns and, seeing the crowd five deep in front, backed up onto the stage, nearly knocking over Bryn Wiley.
But the nudist was quicker. He skirted around them, onto the stage, and reached out.
“Hold it!” I yelled.
She flung an arm at him.
He grinned. In one swift movement he rubbed his hand down her bare arm, then spun, jumped from the stage, and ran through the crowd.
“Move aside!” I shouted, shoving between two brown-jacketed men. They gave way, but the crowd in front was rush-hour thick. Everyone was cheering on the nude Mercury. Murakawa and Pereira pushed toward him.
Bryn was alone on the stage! I turned and shoved back between the jackets and pushed onto the stage.
She was gone.
Frantically I scanned right and left to Dwight and Haste streets. I spotted her on the sidewalk by Dwight Way, next to her Volvo wagon, holding a reporter by the sleeve and pressing a paper into his hands.
The crowd cheered louder. By now the runner had dropped his banner and was loping by the free box. No uniformed officer was near him. He turned to the crowd, pointed to a truck at the curb, and disappeared behind it. Doors on the side of the truck sprang open, and two men passed cardboard cartons of cans and lunchbags to the guys nearest them.
The nudist was forgotten. Bryn Wiley wasn’t even a memory.
Murakawa and Pereira moved toward the truck.
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