CONT'D: A Funny Thing Happened to Me on the Way Here | Page 1, 2, 3, 4, 5, 6

Petunia fixed her eyes on her lap, not because the boy had told her to, but because she did not want to look at him. She saw a brown wool skirt with a subtle plaid pattern, a worn but loyal pair of brown shoes. She wore no jewelry except an old amber ring she'd found at an antique shop one Saturday morning long ago. As for her hair, she rarely did anything with it besides fastening it behind her head. She knew it was graying, but she refused to invest in any sort of dye. She believed the gray streaks made her look more like a poet, which was what she was. Not a major poet, of course, but a poet just the same: she belonged to a tiny literary society that met every week at different members' homes, and she was on the editorial board of a tiny literary journal that was read mostly by members of her tiny literary society and by members of similar societies in the city.

"What you look like to me," the boy was saying in a confidential tone, "is someone who thinks she knows who Karl Marx is, but who really doesn't. And the more you think you do, the more you don't. You see?" He thought for a minute. "I suppose I can't blame you. It's not your fault."

"That's kind of you." Petunia could not help herself.

"I know. They say it is your fault, but I just can't think that way, you know? You can't help what's been done to you. The way I see it, you're more a victim than a perpetrator. You shouldn't blame the victim. You help the victim, sure, even if the victim says not to." He rummaged in his knapsack again and drew out a pamphlet printed on bright red paper. "But there's hope, you know? For you, for everyone. And especially for you, I think. You look intelligent. Read this." He handed her the pamphlet. "Go on. Read."

Petunia unfolded the pamphlet. "Comrades!" it began. "We invite you to break the chains of oppression that weigh upon you! You have nothing to lose but your shackles. Have we, as a people, forgotten what it is to be free? Why do we allow magazines and television shows to tell us what to wear, what to eat, what to say, what to think? Why do we willingly enslave ourselves to corporate jobs that strip us of our humanity and our individuality? Why do we congratulate those rats who run faster on the wheel and are rewarded with a bigger piece of cheese? Why do we comply without protest? Now is the time to protest, comrades. Now is the time to question! Now is the time to join with us in our struggle."

"That's very nice," she said.

"I wrote it myself," he said with pride. "The address is on the back."

Petunia turned the pamphlet over. "Grassroots Anti-Oppression League," it said in block capitals, followed by an address and a phone number. "Ah," she said.

"Do you get it?" the boy asked urgently.

"Yes. I get it. Thank you." She tried to hand the pamphlet back to him, but he refused.

"Do you see the title? Look. Grassroots Anti-Oppression League, G.A.O.L. Gaol. That means jail in British. See?"

"I see."

"I can get you some more literature, if you're interested. Well, we don't have much more, but I'm working on it. I'm working on it. Like it says, we're grassroots. We don't expect results overnight. We reach people one by one, you know?"

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