Love in the Time of Climate Change (17 page)

“Yeah,” she said. “It's great. Really great. It's such a joy to be a student again.”

Once more that beautiful smile.

The four Climate Changers had joined us and somehow I managed to introduce them without bungling their names. The eight of us marched together.

“ONE! WE ARE THE PEOPLE!

“TWO! A LITTLE BIT LOUDER NOW!

“THREE! WE'RE GOING TO SHUT THIS POWER PLANT DOWN!”

The snow was falling more heavily. One of those early ephemeral New England snowstorms, most likely here today, and with any sort of warmth, gone tomorrow. Flakes as big as quarters. Thank God for the police-car escort in front. With the swirling snow it was getting increasingly difficult to even see where the road was.

Given the season, many of the trees still held their autumn-turning leaves, and the snow, clinging to color, was absolutely gorgeous.

Turning the corner we stopped. It was bracing to see the power plant up close for the first time, a sobering moment that briefly silenced the chanting. The stark angles of the power plant emerged from wisps of clouds, and then, just as quickly, disappeared again. An eerie glowing red light atop the huge smokestack blinked on and off, on and off. With the backdrop of snow on leaves and the curve of the Connecticut River barely visible, it was quite a sight.

Strange to think that this was root of so much evil.

Regaining our composure, one of the march organizers with his big baritone voice got us going again:

“IF NOT US, WHO?

“IF NOT HERE, WHERE?

“IF NOT NOW, WHEN?” we chanted.

“It looks like the Wicked Witch's Castle,” Samantha shuddered. “There should be a sign: ‘I'd turn back if I was you.' She cackled, a wonderful imitation of the terrifying Wicked Witch of the West laugh.

“I use that one with my kids,” she said. “Keeps them in line.”

“I guess! Release the flying monkeys and I'm out of here!” I said.

Our chanting continued.

“WE DON'T WANT THE WORLD TO BOIL!

“JUST SAY NO TO COAL AND OIL!”

Marching next to her was wonderful. I kept a close tab on my body to make sure I wasn't too close to her, but not too far away, either. I don't know if it was just my imagination but it certainly seemed that if I drifted at all to the side she seemed to sidle right back up next to me.

Absolutely wonderful.

We had gathered at the locked gates to the plant, the crowd swollen to nearly three hundred, chanting and singing, stomping our feet to keep out the cold, raging against the machine.

The organizers, huddling together, looked anxious and unsure as to what to do next. It was clearly too cold for any of the planned speeches. They'd lose the crowd in an instant. The band with frosty hands had left their instruments behind. There seemed to be no Plan B.

Samantha was blowing on her fists.

“You want my gloves?” I asked.

“Nah. I'm good.”

“Seriously,” I lied. “My hands don't get cold.”

Jesse snorted.

“Really? Thanks. Silly me for forgetting to bring my own! Wow! First your clothes, now your gloves. How lucky am I?” One more smile as she put them on, wiggling her fingers to get the blood circulating.

Jesse gave me the thumbs up behind her back. Sarah, having clearly been filled in on the action, bobbed her head in approval.

“These will definitely come in handy!” Samantha said.

Reaching down, she made a snowball. Walking to the
edge of the gate, mouthing a silent prayer, she hurled it in the direction of the power plant.

The crowd, hoarse from the chants and the cold and looking for inspiration, turned to her and watched.

Once more she reached down, made another snowball, kissed it this time, and then let it fly.

A loud
Hurrah!
went up.

“Let's do it!” someone yelled.

“Let 'em have it!” cried somebody else.

Within seconds, three hundred snowballs in a single volley flew over the gate. Then three hundred more. A torrent unleashed against the dark side.

Folks were shouting, yelling, chanting, singing. The organizers, visibly relieved, were jumping up and down, cheering on the crowd, yelling for more.

The four Climate Changers were busy making a snowman. Jesse was hurling missiles fast and furious, and shrieking like the Great and Powerful Wizard of Oz himself. Samantha, Sarah, and I continued a steady barrage.

Okay, maybe it was tilting at windmills, but God, it sure felt good!

The cops, evidently too cold to emerge from their vehicles, had given us a break and let the demonstrators snowball away.

Our half-hour siege finally over, our arms exhausted, my shoulder achingly out of joint, my hands numb and, like Jesse's toe, scarily bluish, we turned to march back to the boat ramp, police escort lights still flashing. The snow had started to lift and blue windows of sky emerged.

Glancing back, the coal castle had become clearly visible. Demonstration notwithstanding, plague and pestilence continuing unabated.

We had, however, left a watchful contingent of snowmen and snowwomen to guard our flank, each silently facing the power plant, each proudly holding a sign.

“SOLAR NOW!”

“SHUT IT DOWN!”

“END THE COAL ECONOMY!”

And, my favorite:

“MOMMY, MAKE THE BAD THING GO AWAY!” (with a picture of the coal plant).

The eight of us made a final huddle in the boat ramp's parking lot where the march had begun. We were cold and tired, but exuberant. It had been a wonderful action. Sure, we were preaching to the converted, but boy, the converted sure needed each other. Jesse had his arm around Sarah, pulling her in tight. Abbie, who had been holding hands with Meagan the entire march, was now neatly folded in her arms. Even Hannah—surprise, surprise—was leaning curiously close to Trevor.

Samantha and I stood next to each other. It wasn't awkward. It wasn't weird. It was … comforting. Really comforting. Everyone else was silent, looking at us, watching, wondering.

I glanced at her, and again she smiled. I exhaled a deep breath, visible in the cold, my CO
₂
steam rising from my own little mini-me power plant.

“Thanks for the gloves,” she said. “Next time the clothes are on me. I promise.”

Jesus. Just like the Wicked Witch with the bucketful of water, cold or no cold, right then and there I melted. Simply melted away. Not a horrid kind of melting. Not a “who would have thought a good little girl like you could destroy my beautiful wickedness!” melting. But a marvelous, warm-and-fuzzy, good-to-be-alive-even-with-smoke-stacked-evils-and-climate-changing-catastrophe kind of melting.

Next time the clothes are on me, Samantha had said. I couldn't help but wonder if I'd ever see a time when the clothes would be
off
of her.

—

We were riding home, heat blasting, my hands gripped tightly on the steering wheel. The first snow of the season always made driving an adventure. It took a storm or two to get folks back in the swing of winter-weather travel, and even with only an inch or two of snow on the road, cars were swerving and weaving.

“She seems nice,” Sarah said.

“Who?”

Sarah gave me the look.

“Oh, yeah … she is. Really nice.”

“And she has a great arm,” Jesse chimed in. “You see her winging those snowballs? Give me a woman with a good arm any day.” I could see Sarah in the rearview mirror, flexing her biceps.

I sighed. “Just like me to go after the untouchables. Anyway, she probably has a boyfriend.”

“She doesn't have a boyfriend,” Sarah replied.

“What do you mean?” I slowed down behind some idiot going three miles an hour. “How do you know?”

“She doesn't. I can tell. Did you see the way she was looking at you? She doesn't have a boyfriend. Or a girlfriend.” She elbowed Jesse.

I could feel myself blush.

“It's irrelevant,” I said. “She's a student, it's hands-off. No ifs, ands, or buts. So it really doesn't matter anyway.”

“Come January it will,” Sarah said.

I gripped the wheel even harder.

W
EDNESDAY AT NOON
was the Climate Changers' weekly meeting. I was dying with curiosity. I loved to endlessly speculate about student relationships, since I lacked any of my own. I had had inklings before that Abbie and Meaghan were interested in each other, and now that I'd seen them so adorable together at the march I couldn't wait to see how they were getting on. And then there were Hannah and Trevor. Will wonders never cease? They had seemed so close at the Mount Tom demonstration that I had even toyed with thoughts that there might be more going on between them than just a working relationship.

When I walked in, Abbie and Meaghan were snuggling in the corner, happily entertained by the fireworks exploding from the opposite end of the room. Evidently cooler heads had prevailed, and Hannah and Trevor were back to being cat and dog.

“It's a fabulous idea,” Hannah was gushing.

“I'm sorry, Hannah,” Trevor said. “And please don't take offence at this, but are we still on planet Earth here?
I mean, you can't be serious! Three hundred and fifty purple caps?”

“It's a fabulous idea,” Hannah said, holding her ground.

“Dude, it's a fabulous idea if you're a fucking moron!”

“Language, Trevor,” I cautioned.

“It's a fabulous idea if you're a goddamn moron!” Trevor continued.

“You know, anything that is creative or artsy you go off on!” Hannah said, scowling. “Just because we're not manning the barricades, marching in the streets, smashing the state doesn't mean it's not a good idea.”

“Hannah, I'm all about creative and artsy. I'm just not into lunacy and insanity!”

“Maybe you can explain the idea one more time to the rest of us,” I offered, clueless as to what they were bickering about.

“All right. So, we get people to crochet 350 purple caps and then hang them up on the wall next to the cafeteria,” Hannah said.

“What the hell is ‘crochet'?” Trevor asked.

“It's like knitting,” Hannah replied. “Only not.”

“Go on,” I urged.

“That's it.”

“What do you mean ‘that's it'?” Trevor asked in a mocking tone.

“That's it. We knit 350 purple caps and hang them next to the cafeteria.”

“I thought we were crocheting.”

“Knitting, crocheting. Whatever.”

“And the point again?” Trevor asked.

“Three hundred and fifty purple caps. Get it? Each cap represents one part per million of carbon dioxide. Jeez, Trevor, you know that. It's what we need to get back to in order to save the planet!”

“Knit purple caps?”

“Crochet!”

“Whatever!” Trevor shouted.

“Three hundred and fifty of them,” Hannah reiterated.

“And then hang them next to the cafeteria?”

“Exactly.”

“And the point?” Trevor asked.

“I told you! Each purple cap represents …”

“Dude! I know what each purple cap represents! I just don't have a clue as to what it has to do with anything! And why a purple cap? Why not a pink popsicle stick! Or a blue balloon. Wouldn't that be easier? I mean who the hell knits anyway?”

“Crochets.”

“
Whatever!
”

“It's a graphic representation of what we need to accomplish. It's an attention grabber. It's a conversation starter. People will stop. People will talk. People will …”

“Laugh their asses off. Think we're clinically insane. Know we've gone over the god damn deep end.”

“You know, if this was your idea—” Hannah said.

“Dude, are you kidding me? This would
never
be my idea! Not in a million years. Not in 350 million years! Knitted purple caps?”

“Crocheted!”

“
Ahhhhhhhhh!
” Trevor leapt up, spilled coffee all over his crotch, yelped again, and fled the room.

I felt bad for Hannah. Her idea didn't seem to be gaining much traction with the rest of the group. But it was wonderfully creative, and—who knows?—it could have worked. It really could have.

Three hundred and fifty crocheted purple caps. It could have swept the country like wildfire, changing the entire national debate. Purple Cap societies hanging purple caps next to every cafeteria wall from Alaska to Alabama. Legions of marching, chanting, sign-carrying, flag-waving purple cappers swarming on the capital. Three hundred and fifty United States Representatives whooping it up in
the House chambers as they vote to pass comprehensive climate-change legislation, each one proudly wearing a purple cap. The president of the United States signing into legislation the most profound, far-reaching emission-reduction laws ever with a pen topped off with, you guessed it, the cutest little purple cap.

But
damn, damn, damn
if there wasn't that one recurring fatal flaw, that Achilles heel of the purple cap idea.