Poem: How the Revolution Started (First in a Series)

Guarding the moneyHe’s outfitted for combat:

Ankle boots; black dungarees; Sam Jones belt with cuffs and mace and other tools of the craft; bulletproof vest; sunglasses; implacable stare.

And a gun, holstered at the moment.

The nametag says “Ortiz” or it could be “Gomez” or “Gonzalez”

Or whatever you want it to be.

He’s standing in the parking lot

Guarding the bank where inside there must be more money than Mr. Ramirez will earn

In his lifetime.

 

149136-a-private-security-guard-keeps-an-eye-on-the-sidewalk-outside-of-the-bSometimes he imagines with a sense of wonderment

The origin of all that he protects: Where did it come from? And then this is the part Mr. Garcia always returns to, like a reliable reading spot: What did all those people streaming through the doors

That he oversees and protects, how did they get it?

What did they do? What was their trick?

Besides being born here?

He is paid very much more than what he would have been

In the place where he came from.

He is paid somewhat more than the governmentally decreed mandatory minimum

Which is only right.

Guarding other people’s money is dangerous work.

Putting your life on the line every day for a Bank, a biggie, an important one that, from what he hears, was somehow responsible for the recession,

could get you killed. Literally. LOL.

So $15.75 per hour (or whatever amount you wish to represent a fair and decent wage)

On most days seems about right. But today a thought occurred to the Bank Guard:

What would happen?

 

pee-in-cup-400When he’s on duty he’s responsible. No deputies. No backup.

When he has to go, to pee, like any man has to eventually,

What would happen?

Usually he positions himself behind the hatchback of his car, parked butt side against a low wall

Demarcating the Bank’s property over which he is the lone

Armed protector – he wedges himself between the car and wall and opens the trunk and retrieves

A worn paper cup, grande size a Bank customer once mentioned, and looking,

Scanning his dominion

Still doing his job, the one that pays him the amount that you think is correct

Given the known circumstances

He relieves himself into the cup, his hands and gun belt demurely obscured,

Swivelhead and badge still visible. Still protecting all the money.

When bladder’s empty, he dumps the warm piss, Mountain Dew color this day,

Over the wall

Onto the grass.

Then he returns the cup to its waiting place. He cannot return to work because

He never left, and there’s pride to be taken or found in that somewhere

We can all agree.

 

Defending the BankBut what would happen, Mr. Ortiz sometimes muses, his brown penis between thumb and fingers,

Aimed down like an udder,

What would happen if something happened?

What would happen if trouble arrived while he was in mid-stream?

An incident. Protesters. Robbers. Intruders upon the turf he is paid to defend.

What would happen if he failed to shoot them with his gun?

What if he watched serenely, the foam rising and his cup hand warming,

Awake and seeing with thoughts now swarming,

And instead of harming

He surveyed the property, zipped himself properly,

Withstood the dark comedy, behaved unheroically,

Maybe undemocratically and certainly disreputably —

What if he walked long and slow and unhurriedly serene

back home

to his wife’s pillowy embrace

to make love with her

all afternoon and into the evening?

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