Was it the same group with different names, or different groups with the same members? Each meeting always started with a demand that all cops and media identify themselves and be excused from the meeting. It seemed at first genuine, then a little self-aggrandizing, and finally, she realized, after the third week, to be a parody of left-wing paranoia, to ridicule the people who imagined they were constantly surveiled or infiltrated. But she couldn’t be sure — it was all those things at once. They were planning to participate in some test or another with hundreds of other groups. Whatever antiglobal or anticorporate event that would occur. They discussed dozens of actions and prankster-type tests: pirating public-space surveillance cameras, infiltrating and disturbing business associations, staging website virtual sit-ins, performing seemingly ad hoc “plays” in malls and other retail environments. They planned to dress in suits and pass out dollar bills in Pioneer Square to the shoppers. They discussed defacing billboards and prancing nearly naked fat women in front of Barneys to ask people as they entered or left if there was anything available in their size. Always they were anticorporate. Mostly they were funny and absurd. And they wanted, it seemed to her, to point out the contradictions that had become so normalized in people’s eyes.
There were other meetings, not run by Nash, but Miranda wasn’t as interested in those. They were tedious and repetitive and conventional. Miranda kept coming to Nash’s groups and became quite excited by the actions they discussed. She truly believed that if people felt the weight of what they did, understood the consequences, it might change their lives. Or they might change their lives. And this would — albeit in small, incremental ways — eventually change the world. It was simple and obvious to her, the truth of such a strategy.
She guessed that Nash had pursued these kinds of activities his whole life. He must know some secret way of being in opposition to the culture at large that didn’t frustrate him. Miranda had felt a passionate and hopeful optimism about people for as long as she could remember, but already she grew frustrated when she realized that others still refused to see the way the world should be. It was like they’d forgotten how to be good. They’d made it complicated.
For all of June and into July, Miranda attended every meeting, and after every meeting she made it a point to stick around and help Nash pick up the recyclable paper cups, and then they would talk, more and more each time, stretching the cleanup into the evening. Nash would open the back door to get air into the hot, stuffy space, which finally began to cool down after the crowds left. She often stood in the doorway and looked at the night sky, reluctant to leave even after they finished the cleanup.
One night, after everyone had gone, Miranda lingered in the doorway, scrutinizing a flyer with the current week’s schedule.
“What is with this group, SAFE? When is their meeting? I mean they are listed, but I’ve never seen them actually meet.”
Nash shrugged.
“What does SAFE stand for?”
“I’m not sure.”
“This isn’t one of your groups?”
Nash shook his head. “I told you. I just facilitate now and then. Make a few suggestions. I believe they are the Scavengers Against Flat Effrontery. Or is it fatuous effrontery? It says on the flyer they meet after the ‘K’ Nation. But then again, I’ve never actually seen anyone from that group.”
“So they don’t meet here?”
Nash pointed to a footnote on the schedule. There was an asterisk next to the SAFE meeting time. The legend at the bottom said, “Meetings as needed and when necessary.”
Miranda tossed the flyer on the table with all the other meeting papers and pamphlets.
“What about colors, Miranda?” he asked as if they were already in a new conversation. She smiled at him blankly.
“What about all the green and black?”
She shrugged. “It’s all right.”
“I think it’s really from comic books,” Nash said. “I know how you feel about militant environmentalists, but they are the badasses these days, you have to admit it. Did you see that green-and-black flag the ecoanarchist guys have? That looks good. You have those appropriated paramilitary colors and materials. That is powerful. Besides, guerrillas have always copped from the military. These kids mix superheroes with defunct army clothes, acronyms and slang. And those woodcut printed posters, too — sort of Soviet Constructivist looking. I think it’s a legit symbolic strategy. Native Americans used to incorporate American flag designs in their clothes to steal the power of the white man by appropriating his symbols.”
“Yeah? And how’d that work out for those Native Americans?” Miranda said. Nash laughed. Miranda felt very pleased when she could make Nash smile, or even better, laugh.
“The point isn’t to win. They’ll never win, of course. They just make persuasive and powerful the beauty of their opposition.”
“Yeah, I guess,” she said. “But wouldn’t it also be great to win? I think you should try to win. Otherwise it is just a gesture. That’s not really good enough.”
Nash didn’t respond. He just crossed his arms and looked at her. She noticed he did that a lot.
Miranda turned away and went back to cleaning up. When she finished, she leaned out the back door and lit up a hand-rolled cigarette laced with hashish. Sissy had given her a couple, and she found them very calming. Nash came over and leaned on the doorjamb. He was slightly built, but sometimes when he moved Miranda noticed he had an underlying wiry strength, a subtle sort of power. She took a hit and offered the joint to him.
Nash ignored it and pointed at the empty meeting table. “I loved that one kid with the black earth painting on his jacket. He looks like a terrorist, not a doughy little geek like most of my guys.”
“You just care about the aesthetics. What about the issues?” she said.
“And there is the pinning of badges instead of sewing. All those block-print silk-screened badges — they go to a lot of trouble to make those, and then to get that, well, recycled look. And the fingerless gloves, the torn stockings. The way they all match each other without even trying. That hobo solidarity.”
“Clothes are shallow.”
“No. What you wear reminds you of who you want to be. If you want to be fierce, or scary, or stealth. Those are the issues. They are part of the tactics. They communicate.”
“But you don’t wear fierce clothes. You dress like—” She stopped, looked him over. Dark blue sweater, stretched and pilled, with beltless, baggy jeans.
“Like a third-rate lab assistant. Like an off-duty security guard. Like a guy whose boss is younger than he is,” Nash said.
“Yeah, well.”
“Exactly.”
“What?”
“Look, I’m beside the point. I have been noticing these sorts of things for a long time, and I have high standards. I try to avoid being shrill and boring. Only someone your age gets away with, you know, being so instinctual.”
“You think I’m overly earnest.”
“No, I really don’t. I don’t think I could ever find someone too earnest.”
“Shrill, you find me shrill,” she said. He smiled. She took another long drag.
“But why should you care what I think?” Nash watched her through the cigarette smoke. “Miranda.” And he just said her name, isolated and with enough pause before it to not seem part of the previous sentence. She didn’t say anything. She felt a seriousness she couldn’t quite locate as either his or hers. But there it was, now, between them. Nash raked his fingers through what remained of his curly gray and black hair.