An Angry Man

I lined up to buy a recycled dream, stood behind an old man who out of nowhere
said he marched with Joe Hill and was there the day Joe was executed.

He was old, but not that old.

“Bastards,” he spat, edging his way forward in battered Army surplus boots, a once proud coat and a sweat-stained Yankees cap. “Bastards.”

He was unshaven and weathered, though his hazel eyes were as clear as a prophet’s. He moved with a slight limp and clutched a plastic shopping bag with fingers that had seen their share of labor.

“We’ve lost our way,” he said. “We’re in the wilderness and nobody knows a damn thing about the woods. What good’s a man if he can’t remember where he’s from?”

Shoes shuffled on the concrete, the line moved forward by inches, voices murmured in English and Spanish, Korean, Chinese. A truck backfired in the street; several men ducked instinctively.

“You know what they did? They beat the fight out of us, little by little. I always say that people with short memories don’t stand a chance.”

He was angry now, clenching and unclenching his right fist; I didn’t know what he was talking about – I just wanted one recycled dream to hold for another day.

The line moved.

Joe Hill wasn’t standing with us, neither was Tom Joad or Eugene Debs; the ghost of Lenin was nowhere to be seen, and even if Lenin appeared, how many in this crowd would recognize him?

What did these castoffs know – or care -- of dead icons, dead saints, dead revolutionaries, dead agitators? They teetered daily at the edge of the abyss.

“Dynamite and a bottle of whiskey,” the man said. “No other way to fix things now. When it’s this far gone the only way to rebuild it is to destroy it. I’m tired of hauling these chains around, ain’t you?”

“Yeah,” I said. “Sure.”

“They got genius, I give ‘em that. They took over the world without firing a single shot.”

He suddenly took hold of my wrist with a grip surprisingly strong.

“Listen like your life depends on it, son. I won’t live to see it, but you might, if you’re willing to bleed -- and remember. But you have to ask yourself, am I willing?”

With that he turned and walked away, no longer limping, across the street against a red light, gone.

Live to see what?

I reached the head of the line. A young woman in a blue business suit smiled as she informed me that the last recycled dream had just been sold. She had white teeth, lustrous hair, and she smelled good; her parents were proud of her; she was somebody’s girl; she meant no harm, but still I wanted to strangle her for her easy indifference to my need – for all the ignored needs piled against the gates of heaven; for all the greed and cruelty and stupidity and pain in the world. She wasn’t responsible but her lovely neck was within reach.

I hurried after the old man. There were plenty of broken dreams to be had, but not nearly enough angry men.