The Press

I drive to a small shopping and office plaza where my daughter works to meet her for lunch. The first twenty minutes that I’m parked there, I cannot even tell her I’ve arrived because I’m approached by dozens of folks wanting to talk about defeating bush and his regime. Most are African American, all ages, and are loudly exclaiming their praise and agreement with everything on my truck.

One tall thin white male walks steadily and nonchalantly by, leaning slightly towards my right ear as he passes, not pausing his step, to mouth quietly and so sincerely 'thank you' as he continued walking toward his work place, I’m sure.

I decide this will be as great a place to repaint the numbers on my truck as wal-mart seems to be. Horrifically, the u.s. body count is up to 999, and the Iraqi and Afghan body count many more thousands.

I’m beginning to paint when an older white womon comes flying out of the adjacent beauty parlor, her bright red hair plaster to her head, a black plastic cape covering her upper body.

“Wait,” she pants, “I’m with the Atlantic Journal Newspaper – may I take your picture?' She races by me and returns seconds later with a fancy-looking camera, snapping away.

“Just pretend I’m not here,” she commands as I continue painting. Plus I speak with her anyway.

“This is the saddest part of my job,” I tell her curious face: “Repainting the number of u.s. soldiers that have been killed in Iraq, and the number of Iraqi’s  and Afghan’s that have been killed.”

I point both figures out to her. I ask her if she's heard of CodePINK:Women for Peace.

“Of course.” I’m pleasantly surprised to hear her say. “I didn't go to the RNC but my friends did and I know ya’ll raised hell there!”

Yeah!

“There’s a new chapter of CodePINK forming here in Atlanta,” I take her card while I’m informing her and giving her some written information.

My daughter comes out of her office and we walk around the corner to lunch. The efficient womon behind the counter points to my shirt and declares her agreement: pink slip bush! I ask her if she's registered to vote, which she is, but her sister and best friend are not. I run back out to my truck and get her voter registration cards and her promise she will not only register them but she will personally give them a ride to the polls of the second! yeah!

After lunch, we return thru the parking lot to see yet another young man standing by the truck and reading every last word. He asks me if CNN knows about me and my truck. I tell him I don't think they are too interested in grassroots organizing to rid ourselves of bush. He says he knows some higher up mucky-mucks at CNN that owe him. I get some CodePINK info for him, write down my number and email, and tell him I’m glad to speak with anyone! I don’t tell him but I’m not hanging around to see if they'll ring!

I continue to talk with people, hand out deception dollars and pink slip bush information until I get too hot - this would be a great place to vigil at some point.