There is a new mask being worn in Minneapolis. It is ivory-colored, rigid, with slender, almost invisible ear bands. When Reba and Walt got on the bus, they were greeted with an arresting sight: Forty Hannibal Lecters, staring at phones.
There was no place to sit. That was okay.
They held tight to a steel pole. “Did you talk to Lars?” Walt asked. The reporter was supposed to meet them at the protest. The Floyd trial was underway, with jurors being selected.
“Not yet,” Reba said. She had her phone out. “I’ll text him.”
The bus jerked down University Avenue. As the bus splashed past, pedestrians shied from the curb. It was a warm day with snow melting rapidly. Rivulets ran down the asphalt. In some places the charming, ancient cobblestone could be seen. A construction boom hovered over Broadway Street NE. Apartments were replacing old brick stores, the dingy working-class apartments.
They came down Hennepin Avenue, the entertainment hub of the city. Every store and bar sported mesh fencing and razor wire, or were merely nailed shut with plywood. Upraised fists, BLM slogans, and Floyd’s visage were professionally painted on the panels. The bus wheezed to a stop in front of a painted panel, nailed to a store window. It was decorated with a black fist and the words, “No Justice, No Peace.”
“The sign painters are getting plenty of action,” Walt commented. “I’m a little jealous.” Walt was no painter. He owned a sign shop. Business had been a bit slow of late, as Minneapolis braced for the worst.
A few protesters had gotten on the bus. All emptied off at the Courthouse, including Reba and Walt. “Why are we here again?” Walt asked.
“Lars said he wanted another set of eyes,” Reba said. “And I was curious.”
“And why am I here?”
“I made you come.”
About two hundred sign-and-drum toting protesters milled on the plaza. A woman with a bullhorn stood on a stone wall, shouting incomprehensibly. A group raised their fists. Others clapped. A car attempted to enter the ramp. A young man, screaming effenheimers and shih tzu’s, his face contorted, threw himself in front. The vehicle slammed on the brakes. Police pushed him aside and the car vanished.
“What did he want? Walt asked.
“Justice.”
“Isn’t that what the trial is about?”
“Absolutely not. Justice doesn’t mean a trial. Justice means convicted. And if you have any sense, keep your opinions to yourself. At least until we’re home.”
They stood in the sun, away from the crowd. Still no Lars.
“He hasn’t called you?”
“No.”
“I know what the problem is,” said Walt.
“What’s that?”
“Cluck cluck.”
“He’s texting me now.” Reba checked her phone. “He says he got tied up. Also, he wants me to send pictures.”
“That’s a shame.”
“I know. I think my phone just broke.”
Richard Donnelly lives in Minneapolis, Minnesota. Classic flyover land. Which makes us feel just a little… superior. He publishes a weekly column of essays on the writing life at richarddonnelly.substack.com