The Pittsburgh G20 Protests: Part 1 | Part 3

I looked outside and sure enough, swarms of black-clad people were coming up 36th and rounding the corner on to Penn Avenue.  Car alarms were blaring, some of the people outside were running, several with more purpose than others. I yelled out to nobody in particular, “Jesus Christ my bike is out there!”

“You can bring it inside, just put it in the back room.”  I thanked the barmaid and ran outside.  I heard a strange sort of thumping sound and a sudden panicked cheer; I watched for a few seconds as a storm of people and dust flew toward me.  I stopped for a second, for it was a strange color, not the hippies, but the dust. It was one I hadn’t really seen before; it wasn’t dust or smoke it was more a yellow color I remember seeing until I had to snap my eyes shut, “Jesus! God! They’re using artillery on us!”

I felt sick again as I made my way to my bike to unlock it.  Coughing and tearing up, I saw a pair of shoes stop right beside me as I finished removing the lock.  It was an older gentleman, probably late fifties and he smiled sadly at me and reached into a large ziplock bag and handed me a small white cloth.  I reached for it and it was soaked with wetness.  “It’s saline.  Stay safe. God Bless.” And he walked off.  I covered my eyes with it and the pain went away.  Monster-man opened the door to the bar for me and I put my bike in the back room.  I returned to the bar and told the barmaid, “I think it’s about time I have a real drink.”

She returned with my drink, I thanked her for letting me keep my bike inside and asked her for her name.  She told me it was Asia, and that she had just moved here from Portland where she saw and took part in many demonstrations and protests in her life and was glad to be away from most of that because they were usually marred by idiots who only sought irresponsible destruction in the name of peace.  She had bailed out friends and lovers many times from jail and needed a reprieve.  I asked her how this compared to the ones in which she participated. “Terribly organized, no focus,” was her quick response.

I looked once again out side and noticed that the traffic of masked people, a man dressed as a cow and another man milking him had reversed direction.  Monster-man stood guard at the door as a protester nervously approached him, not realizing it was like walking up to a hungry lion.  He asked to use the restroom and Monster-man refused him entry; there was fear in that kid’s eyes. He couldn’t have been more than 19 or 20 years old and there seemed to be recognition that his life-expectancy would dramatically shorten should he enter the premises. Then I heard another bark of words directed to others from Monster-man, “Hey! You girls would look much better if you were dressed up in stripper outfits and came in here to dance!”  They paused, not quite realizing what they have been asked to do. “I’m serious! Especially you,” as he singled one out.

to be cont’d…