Along the streets sometimes come those gleaming white tour buses, and as the working man finds himself embroiled in a steadily worsening crisis, it becomes readily apparent that he has so little to be lost in sacrifice to the struggle, that his life can only but improve in lashing out at these instruments of oppression. It’s a tempting fantasy. Until there rises something that can harness this essence of resistance and channel it into an effective fighting force, the working man stockpiles his energies for the coming war, not by his conscious actions but by some vague yet powerful instinct coming from a place somewhere near the centre of his chest. As foreign travellers come to be an increasingly common sight, so, too, does the foreign visitor come to spend increasingly more time in those glass and steel towers built where once the working man had lived, the foreign visitor in his suit and tie and with his sleek luxury car so unlike the working man in his dirty, ratty clothes and in his bus running the same route every day for years. The working man has become unwelcome in his own home. And so it is that Garrett Walker is among those evicted in waves, not by force of arms but by fiat of law, prices raised beyond what he can afford with the pittance meted out to him by his wealthy paymasters. His wife, his two daughters are steadfast in their commitment to him, just as he is steadfast in his commitment to them. They recognize theirs as values alien, hostile to the wealthy man, who seeks to manipulate them with unemployment, hunger, and fear, but they recognize this only in the basic, primal way they can. Nevermore can we look back and declare ourselves as having left for the next generation more than what we’ve had; this is Garrett’s shame. But as he looks ahead to the future he sees the promise of the coming revolution, at the dining table with his family only half-listening to his wife’s voice, half-listening still to the sounds of simmering disorder fading in through the open window.
As sirens wail to mark the latest round of protests rapidly spiralling out of control, the working man looks ahead to the coming storm with a mounting anticipation, some part of him surely wise to the vengeance soon to be meted out on his behalf. While Valeri follows Murray to the union hall, there’re others taking to work as well. Three people, Eve Hanley, Amanda Conners, and Peter Tanaka arrive at the nearest shelter, taking refuge from the coming attack. “Are you here to spend the night?” asks the lady at the counter. “I don’t know,” says Peter, the others nodding their assent. They’ve only arrived by coincidence at the same time; they don’t know each other. “We’re over-capacity as it is,” says the woman, “but if you can find a space to sit then you’re welcome to stay as long as you like.” The three enter the shelter’s assembly, only to find a sea of people with hardly any open floor space anywhere. It’s a wretched, dishevelled mass of humanity, and now Eve, Amanda, and Peter are among them. At the underground church there is not a dark essence but the essence of the light, in the shadows a hidden spirit thriving on the collective consciousness of the awakening parishioners gathered here. For Darren Wright this hidden spirit manifests itself not only in the shiver running the length of his spine whenever he receives the forbidden gospel but in his own gradual awakening to the gospel’s truth. At his side, Sheila Roberts looks on, herself growing into a spiritual accommodation with the path laid out for them. But not all is as it seems. In the night, as the rogue priest disseminates this forbidden gospel, there invades the secret presence of the dark essence expanding to fill all available space like a noxious gas. Though Darren and his young friend Sheila have come to see this place as the home of their renewed faith, Darren can’t help but feel doubt lingering in the back of his mind. He feels all the more guilty for this doubt when looking at Sheila, seeing in the light behind her eyes not the slightest doubt at all. They have hardly begun their studies of the forbidden gospel and soon enough they will be made by act of God to put what they’ve learned to good use.
Along the streets sometimes come working men to put up gleaming, glass and steel monoliths to be owned but not lived in by those travellers. It’s a rising struggle, a long, slow climb toward the end of the beginning, toward the next step into a shared history for all. The working man puts his head down and presses through the day, each smooth, rhythmic expansion and contraction of his body’s muscles moving him forward, moving him toward some unseen and unknown goal, towards his future’s end. The day is long and hard, yet it’s over almost as soon as it began. A pattern emerges. As the fires of unrest burn in the streets, the working man makes through his days, each seeing his head fill with fantasies of rebellion, impassioned and romantic scenarios playing themselves out of fists raised and scowls muscled onto faces and of crowds advancing on armed troopers with only their strength of will to muster against rifles.
In the midsummer’s sweltering heat, the working man imagines himself among a small but growing number of rebels brave enough to stand for something more than their own selves, as the cracks in the façade of the way of things begin to widen each of their number learning to provide for each other a cover for their own other way forward into the dawning of each and every new day. For Valeri, at the union hall this day there’s a rousing call to action, Murray taking to the stage with all the passion and intensity of a firebrand. “…and still they demand more,” he says, “still the wealthy demand more cuts to our wages, more of our funds diverted to fill their coffers, still higher prices at which they will sell our homes and our lives to their investors so they may fill their coffers until overflowing with their ill-gotten wealth.” At the front of the crowd, Valeri cheers and roars with every pause in Murray’s speech. When Murray fires up the crowd, Valeri can’t help but let his doubts evaporate and his confidence surge like electricity coursing through his veins. After Murray’s spoken, Valeri seizes the moment and shouts at the top of his lungs, “all power to the people!” It’s enough to make them all forget who they are and where they live, the momentary passion obscuring the harsh realities of the life waiting for them as soon as they should leave the hall. At the shelter, Eve, Amanda, and Peter sit together, afraid as they are of venturing too far from what little they know to be true. Each finishes a bowl of thin, watery stew quickly, then avoids each other’s eyes. But once Peter dares to look Eve in the eye, he sees a sadness in her face, the loose, tattered clothes she wears and the bruises on her face betray the life she’s fleeing. But Amanda has only a blank look.
It’s the way of things; even as the working man is under eviction, never should he be so evicted. The wealthy man will forever force him from his own home, and so shall he forever resist, in the way that he does, but never should he be so forced. It’s like a dream you can only half-remember, like a rebirth that allows only the vaguest memories of the past to return, each successive rebirth allowing a little more, still yet a little more until the working man can cobble together enough knowledge to rise above and break the cycle once and for all. As we watch this drama unfold, I want to tell you the truth, that it’ll take no small effort to break the cycle and make good into the future. Still the working man faces the challenge imposed on him by artificial means. Still the working man forges ahead, pressing through this latest hardship the only way he knows how, by putting his head down and turning into the wind. Still the working man returns to his little box of an apartment in the evening, his hands dirty, his clothes tattered and worn, his shoes falling apart and his back sore, with no relief in sight the working man falling asleep to the sound of thunder cracking across the darkness of the night. In the morning, the working man rouses, sore and still-tired, overcoming his lingering fear as he takes to the streets and makes his way quickly and quietly through this latest crisis, the anthems of the working class running shivers the length of his spine whenever a spare moment presents itself for him to wonder on where his loyalties should lie. And still the foreign tourist, the foreign investor is there, looking over him, conspiring with his enemies as part of the current order to take what rightfully belongs to him. Elsewhere, at the union hall, much transpires but all of it behind closed doors. “We will strike,” Murray says, “all at once.” Seated next to him is a woman named Rose Powell, a counterpart of Miguel Figueroa’s from the popular front so recently formed. “And we shall support you,” says Rose, “in the weeks ahead we will mount our attacks with every available man and woman. We will march alongside you in full support for all our brothers and sisters in union.” And so it comes to be. But not everyone in the room’s loyal to their cause. Outside, Valeri’s still caught up in the passion of the crowd, unaware of the subterfuge unfolding in the building. “All power to the people!” he shouts. “All power to the people!” His voice blends in with a hundred others’, and all anyone can hear is noise.