Wild Marjoram: The Vote

Chapter 1

Chapter 1

Before Wild Marjoram was Born

Tiny Louie watches the large clock that sits by the Lapwing bar in the seedy part of Chicagoland.  The bar sign flashes with the word “Cocktails” in a sultry red neon. It says fifteen past six.  These losers are never on time, Louie thinks.  They have to move under the cover of darkness, acting like the servants they are, not the majesty they will soon become.  A mirror image reflects in the lower part of the timepiece, a car rolling into a stop.  The name Tiny Louie is a joke to the Lapwings, the gang who run this area of town.  Louie is about six foot tall with a loud booming voice.

“We are taking you to the protest.”  A stern voice projects from the car. “Follow us.”  Night cloaks the face of the speaker but Tiny Louie knows how to take orders and gets into a shiny snuff-colored coupe.  This protest will be different.  Grey dismal clouds cover the moon, hinted with the refuse of factories, creating a mauve sky.

The mayor plans to shut down business and business has been good.  He plans to speak in the middle of downtown, to show the little people how he is one of them. How kind, Tiny Louie thinks.  The cars line up and creep along Linden Lane until they see a crowd with signs.  

A podium stands in the middle of a barred-off street.  The city isn’t rich enough to have a square and giant dead buildings grow around the area like desolate trees, invading any skyline, any view of parks or lakes.  This isolated place bleeds apathy and contempt.  Political debates are held in the alleyways here, as a fitting tribute to promises not kept.  A few homeless imps scour the trashy avenue, looking for something to steal off the podium.  Even the wood or the strange metal device attached to the top. They are pushed to the side by heavy hands and security rains into the area.  Tiny Louie puts up the press pass the Lapwings have given and is waved through the crowd to park behind the masses. Her Buick inches pass the crowd of hundreds, taking its elitist position away from the poor.

Maybe I should put the press pass in my hat, like I’ve seen in the movies, Tiny Louie muses and does so, laughing, opening a car door.  The Killdeer in the Model A look serious so Louie’s face turns cold.  The guards rubberneck at the two cars but are relieved at their contents.  The occupants of both cars get out and stand behind the podium.  The crowd is dressed in working class gear, a mix of soiled pants and grimy shirts, with many of them getting out of their factory jobs to watch the speech.

“Broads writing about broads.” The tall thick guard says to the other one. “Geez-o-pete, what has this world come to?”

“Ever since the war broke out.  War changes things, but I’m not ready for this type of change.”  A squat younger man states, making sure his weapon is ready to be grabbed.  He knows the other guard hasn’t been at these types of protests. Certainly not one this big.  The protest can get out of control.  Even with the weaker sex.

A redhead walks in front of the guards with a large, ivory cardboard sign on a stick.  She looks vaguely familiar to the first guard, but all progressive girls look the same to him. They all wear bloomers, men’s pants or something a woman shouldn’t be seen in the street wearing.  And makeup. They look like tarts, except the press girls behind them.

The guards walk to the limo that has pulled the mayor to the dark part of the city. He kicks a can out of the way once the door opens.  A couple flashbulbs fire off as light thunders a false hope into the bittersweet, brick-cracked mess of abandoned buildings that claw at the full moon around the speaking site.  There are more women than men in this crowd, a sign that there doesn’t need to be many armed men there.

Some of the women have sashes on, wanting women to have freedoms. They want to be let into colleges and get jobs. It’s been that way since the war started, as the army needed guns and vehicles constructed, asking women to take up the slack and work in factories.  It gave them the taste for more. Like a drug addict, the second guard thought, having seen his share of opium dens.  He remembers Asiatown before he was hitched.  Beautiful serving girls, vivid dreams. He misses them.