Trigger Warning
O’Brien: ‘How does one man assert his power over another, Winston?’
Winston: ‘By making him suffer,’ he said.
O’Brien: ‘Exactly. By making him suffer.’
– George Orwell 1984
An old man is walking along the river in Waterfront Park. He slouches slightly, and his stride is a bit stiff, but he is walking briskly. He is clearing his head. He breathes deeply, savoring the sun-drenched air, reaching out with each breath to the wind-dappled river, embracing the trees. It is early winter in Maine, and the trees are sun-lit and stark against the sky. Now that he is old, he feels intimately connected to the trees, from the topmost branches, out along the limbs, and down through the roots. He has this notion that the trees are sheltering him, soothing the distress he feels living in a world gone mad. He knows each and every tree in the park: the heart shaped maple with its gray, furrowed bark, the gnarled and mysterious oak, the vine shrouded linden, the white birch that catches even the slightest glint of sunlight, the crab apple with its twisting, intricately entwining limbs, where the children love to climb and play. And standing watch over them all, two brave and towering white pines.
Step by step, with each and every breath, he tries to bring body and mind together. Yet, out of the blue, grotesque images from the news flash across his mind’s eye: A brown young man is tackled and pinned to the street by three hulking, masked dementors.
– A faceless figure in black aims his shoulder rifle into a crowd; a pepper ball explodes against the side of a man’s head.
– A young mother is torn from her child and shackled.
– a six-year-old boy stands at the curb, several very large men heavy with guns and armor, tower over him.
– Boots kicking, battering rams breaking down doors.
He looks out over the swiftly flowing river, takes another deep breath, trying to let go, then walks into the sunlight.
A madman in the White House on a tirade of hate; his voice is that of a New York City crime boss: “Gaaarbage,” an arrogant, slithering voice, nasal and jowly.
A masked ICE thug aims and fires his gun point blank through the windshield of a car – shatter! A young mother and poet, is dead. The killer arrogantly walks away.
This is real. This is how it is. A seagull flies out over the river, extends a wing and banks a sweeping turn against the sky. He thinks of Claire, his wife; she is always bright with possibility, clever and feisty. She knows the trees.
Calm … Sky …. Sky … Sky …
Up ahead, Marty spots what appears to be a man hanging by his hands from a limb of a tree.
Despite the cold, he wears only a T shirt and shorts. His body is long with hard edges, and he is twisting from side to side, stretching the muscles in his back. Now the man is doing pull-ups – eight, nine, ten … on and on. As Marty draws closer, the man lifts his legs back over his head and shoulders into a skin-the-cat position and drops down, landing squarely on his feet. Marty feels a sudden flutter of dread as he recognizes Derek Spearwell, well known around town for his glad-hand demeanor, charming smile, and embodiment of far-right ideology. Derek is a mixed martial arts enthusiast and a wheeler dealer, always on the lookout for what he calls “lucrative business adventures.” He suddenly breaks into a series of calisthenics, and Marty is struck by his long-limbed muscularity. As he straightens up to his full height, his lean, broad body, and his angular facial features give him an almost serpentine appearance. He recognizes Marty and smiles warmly.
“Hey old man, how have you been? I haven’t seen you around for a while. I’ve been on the road chasing after a big timber deal up north in God’s country.”
“Hello Derek, you mean you’re still chasing after your first million? I thought that by now you would be ready to retire to your yacht.”
“No man, I’m only twenty-eight! But I’m working on it. I have that yacht all picked out.” He laughs loudly and claps his hands. Marty chuckles under his breath, “Yeah, right.”
Derek approaches Marty as if he were a long-lost friend – with that disarming smile. “Hey, how did that cruise ship protest of yours work out?’
Last March, Marty learned that since the previous summer river cruise ships had been docking at the Maritime Museum on the south side of town. The ships’ engines idled while the tourists shopped downtown, the result of a deal struck by the city manager, the director of the museum, and the cruise ship company – profits all around at the expense of the well-being of the local residents. The museum ran summer camps for kids, and the children played out on the beautiful lawns, in the shadow of an idling cruise ship – just feet away from spewing toxic exhaust. For two weeks Marty walked up and down Main Street, handing out flyers explaining the scientifically proven negative health effects of emissions from idling cruise ships.
“I felt sorry for you.” Derek smirks sarcastically. “You were out there on the street in the cold, the rain – one day there were snow squalls. All for what? Did anyone even care?”
“They were concerned for the kids,” Marty replied. “Most people did not even realize that the ships were docking at the museum. Just about everyone I talked to promised to call City Hall and the director of the museum and lodge a complaint. That is everyone except you and a group of elderly ladies who swore their undying love for the cruise ship company. In the end though, the powers that be chose to put everyone in town at risk in favor of perceived profits.”
With a self-satisfied grin on his face, Derek walks over to Marty and places a hand on his shoulder. “Those cruisers bring in a shitload of money to the businesses downtown. Listen, the business of America is Business with a capital B, the bigger the better.” Marty detects an undertone of the know-it-all zealot in Derek’s voice, and it makes him nervous. Derek towers over him, and this is the guy who sits in his pickup truck, flags flying, across the street from the Indivisible table at the farmer’s market and at every protest against the current regime.
“All this radical liberal whining about climate this and climate that—it’s all a hoax.” Derek speaks to Marty in a sing-song tone of voice, as if he were reassuring a child. There is something sinister about it. “We have the right to use the natural resources that God has given us for prosperity. It’s all about taking back our country.” He is off on one of his spiels, and Marty knows better than to argue with him. Marty’s nerves are jangled so he begins to walk away. Before he can take more than a few steps, Derek calls out to him, so Marty turns back to face him one more time, only to find Derek standing there with arms outstretched in an evangelical gesture, exclaiming: “Prove me wrong…”
Marty begins to walk away again, but he senses that Derek is following close behind him. He cringes as Derek mumbles something about ICE raids and “low life riffraff.” Marty continues to walk away, but when Derek begins to loudly disparage “the Somalis living on Elm Street,” Marty is stopped in his tracks. Now Marty may be a mild-mannered retired school teacher, but he grew up in a tough neighborhood, and the old instincts kick in. He turns abruptly and faces Derek toe to toe. “Fuck off!” Marty looks Derek straight in the eyes. “Wake up Derek! You’ve become a walking, talking brain-washed pod person.” There is a long moment of silence, and an uncanny dissonance passes back and forth between them. A crow ca-caws and scares from a tree. In a tone that expresses concern more than anger, Marty asks: “What has happened to you Derek? Who did this to you? You are so…” Marty hesitates, searching for the right words. “… Severely damaged.” Derek’s eyes are icy blue and vacuous.
As Marty walks away, there is clarity, stillness. He walks up the steep hill of Bank Street, then pauses and looks back out over the park. Derek is doing pull-ups on a limb of a tree. The river is full of sky. The crab apple and the white birch are luminous in the sunlight. On a sudden gust of wind, Marty hears what can only be cries of suffering.