The Doves that Strut

17

"Hi, how may I help you?" the man in the green checkered suit behind the counter greeted. He had a head full of impure grey hair, streaked with easily noticeable white and black. Many think grey hair is equivalent to white, but there's a difference: grey hair comes with shades and glimmers sometimes; white doesn't. I wondered for a moment too long about the intricate dissimilarities between colors before I realized how immense of an impact Claire had had on my thinking. And then I was thinking about the huge, thick eyebrows the man had behind his ancient round glasses.

"Hi, do you know where the masks are?" I asked.

"Right behind you." He pointed. I turned my head. "The black ones are at the bottom." He knows what we're up to, I thought, with nerves.

"Thanks," I said, stooping over and picked up a box before turning back to him and laying it on the reception desk. "How much is—"

"Are you joining the protest?" he asked, pointing his finger outside the store as the chanting flowed across Fifth Avenue, clear as the upper course of a river, eagerness in his eyes magnified by his glasses.

"Um, yeah," I nodded.

"Well, this is on me then," he smiled, gently pushing the box of masks toward me.

"I' just pay for—"

"It's all good, son," he nodded firmly, insisting. "I mean, it's the least thing this old man can do for his hometown, right?" He pointed at himself, and his fingers now looked all so bony. "You young lads are the real heroes!"

"No, I'm not, at least," I smiled, and shook my head. "I'm just part of the... slogan crew." Whatever that means.

"Still, this city needs fellas like you," he grinned, missing a tooth on the side. "Justice for Syles and every victim of those dirty pigs, huh?"

"Yeah," I nodded, gratefully. It was always good to know there were people standing next to us. "Alright then, thank you so, so much for your generosity!"

"It's only two dollars. It's nothing," he laughed. "You're welcome. Good Luck!"

Another nod. I stepped out of the dispensary store. Already, there were dozens of people dressed in black on the side street—mostly young adults in their twenties, about a quarter of them having put their gas masks and gloves on, the rest wearing only T-shirts and backpacks like me. I streamed through the little space between shoulders and shoulders, and got to the tunnel entrance before Fifth Avenue.

"Did you get them?" Claire asked. She was leaning against the pole of a sign.

"Yeah." I showed her the complimentary box of masks in my hand.

"Nice," she said, not smiling, left the pole and walked beside me as I unwrapped the box.

"Here." I handed her a mask and put another one on my face.

We walked past the tunnel entrance to the avenue. Usually, which was almost always, people had to pass through it to get to the other side of the avenue since the closest crossing was a block away, but we didn't have to today—the avenue was swarmed with our allies, and not a single vehicle was seen passing by there.

"Justice for Syles!" a guy with long, straight, brown hair shouted. He wore a pair of greenish-yellow sneakers and stood atop the short wall that separated the go and return lanes on the road of Fifth Avenue. As I recalled, there had used to be flowers planted in the dents of the wall, but all that's left there now was some barren soil, and perhaps some moss.

"Stand against the tyranny!" responded Claire and I and the others. People had lined up, holding each other's hands to form a tightly packed human chain on both lanes, but these two were far from enough to contain everyone so most people were just spread over the road and sidewalks.