Greg shook as he waddled across the open field. It wasn’t that his load of signs were a burden to him, it was just anxiety from the situation. Was “Kill the socialists!” too much, or was “You can take my gun, FROM MY COLD DEAD HANDS!” not enough? Sweat started to pour as he, thought of how his peers might judge him. “Hello there friend!” Bellowed a man to his right, “Can I help you with something sir?” And with that Greg recognized the man as one of the event’s coordinators. The name ‘Derek’ was carelessly scribbled across a blank white tag on his shirt, but that’s not what where Greg’s attention was. The man held a sign that read “All I need to know about Islam I learned on 9/11” Greg cursed his puny brain! He could never hope to compete with something so clever! “That’s a real nice sign you got there” Greg muttered with a southern drawl, his jealousy slowing turning to respect. “I was about to say the same to you pal” Greg lit up! “B-b-but, it’s so much not as smart as yours…” He stammered. “Smart don’t mean nothing here friend, you aint ‘round a buncha elitists.” Greg smiled readily at the stranger, like an eager young pup joyfully waiting for his next petting. “Yup, bein’ LOUD and STRONG is what garners respect at a Tea Party rally!” Greg looked down at his sign with a new found sense of pride. The Glaring blood-red lettering on deafening pure black was just screaming “I DARE YOU to say something to me!” Greg picked up his sign, puffed up his chest, and then gave the coordinator a respectful nod before marching off to join the huddled masses gathered in the shadow of the Washington Monument.

Greg had never seen such an ocean of white faces in his life. He didn’t allow himself to get caught in the shock. This was about restoring America to her former glory. This is just the way she used to look in those glory days. Greg shrugged it off and nestled himself into a nice little pocket where he could breathe and hear himself think. For the next 40 minutes he waited patiently, occasionally waiving his sign at the passing camera man. In all honesty, Greg knew very little about the speaker he was there to see, and even less about politics in general. Greg was a sort of contradiction; he knew what he didn’t know. Greg might not know why he votes conservative, but he sure as hell knows why he doesn’t vote liberal. Remarkably, Greg found something he did have positive feelings for that day: rallies. The humid air tasted like he was sharing a drink with all those around him. He could feel the earth beneath him faintly rumble from thousands of comrades, gently massaging his tired soles. Most of all, the squawking of people told him he was at home - all the comforts of a conversation, without any thought-baggage. Just as he got lost in the ‘Oneness’ of the mob, a hush ran through the crowd, rudely awakening him.

Greg’s favorite talk show host, Ben Gleck, was now taking the stage. Greg’s pocket quickly evaporated as the plankton of people swallowed him up, pressing him hard against the sweaty back of the man in front. He was now choking on the humidity, but the level 4 quake beneath told him it would only get worse. Thousands more packed Greg in even tighter. Greg had lost the ability to move his arms, so his arms stuck in the air (while holding his sign actually). This rally had quickly turned into a stick-up, and the ransom was air. Try as he might, Greg’s lungs could not wrestle away enough oxygen between the humidity and cramped space. Greg starts to feel that familiar shake, but it was different now. Maybe he was too cramped to physically shiver all over, but only the left side of his body was having said shakes. He called out for help, for Derek, for his wife and kids, for his mother, but none could hear him over the cheering.

On September 1st, 348,000 living bodies, and 1 corpse stood for an hour as Ben Gleck delivered the speech of his life. Greg would have liked it.

     Greg shook as he waddled across the open field. It wasn’t that his load of signs were a burden to him; it was just anxiety from the situation. Was “Kill the socialists!” too much, or was “You can take my gun, FROM MY COLD DEAD HANDS!” not enough? Sweat started to pour as he thought of how his peers might judge him.

     “Hello there, friend!” bellowed a man to his right. “Can I help you with something, sir?”

     Greg recognized the man as one of the event’s coordinators. The name ‘Derek’ was carelessly scribbled across a blank white tag on his shirt, but that’s not where Greg’s attention was. The man held a sign that read, “All I need to know about Islam I learned on 9/11”. Greg cursed his puny brain! He could never hope to compete with something so clever!

     “That’s a real nice sign you got there,” Greg muttered with a southern drawl, his jealousy slowing turning to respect.

     “I was about to say the same to you, pal.”

     Greg lit up!

     “B-b-but, it’s so much not as smart as yours…” He stammered.

     “Smart don’t mean nothing here friend, you aint ‘round a buncha elitists.”

     Greg smiled readily at the stranger, like an eager young pup joyfully waiting for his next petting.

     “Yup, bein’ LOUD and STRONG is what garners respect at a Tea Party rally!”

     Greg looked down at his sign with a new found sense of pride. The glaring blood-red lettering on deafening pure black was just screaming, “I DARE YOU to say something to me!” Greg picked up his sign, puffed up his chest, and then gave the coordinator a respectful nod before marching off to join the huddled masses gathered in the shadow of the Washington Monument.

     Greg had never seen such an ocean of white faces in his life. He didn’t allow himself to get caught in the shock. This was about restoring America to her former glory; what he saw was just the way she used to look in those glory days. Greg shrugged it off and nestled himself into a nice little pocket where he could breathe and hear himself think. For the next 40 minutes, he waited patiently, occasionally waving his sign at the passing camera man. In all honesty, Greg knew very little about the speaker he was there to see, and even less about politics in general. Greg was sort of a contradiction; he knew what he didn’t know. Greg might not have known why he voted conservative, but he sure as hell knew why he didn’t vote liberal.

     Remarkably, Greg found something he did have positive feelings for that day: rallies. The humid air tasted like he was sharing a drink with all those around him. He could feel the earth beneath him faintly rumble from thousands of comrades, gently massaging his tired soles. Most of all, the squawking of people told him he was at home - all the comforts of a conversation, without any thought-baggage. Just as he got lost in the ‘oneness’ of the mob, a hush ran through the crowd, rudely awakening him.

     Greg’s favorite talk show host, Ben Gleck, was now taking the stage. Greg’s air pocket quickly evaporated as the plankton of people swallowed him up, pressing him hard against the sweaty back of the man in front. He was now choking on the humidity, but the level 4 quake beneath told him it would only get worse. Thousands more packed Greg in even tighter. Greg had lost the ability to move his arms; they were being forced upward, still raising his sign. This rally had quickly turned into a stick-up, and the ransom was air. Try as he might, Greg’s lungs could not wrestle away enough oxygen between the humidity and cramped space.

     Greg started to feel that familiar shake, but it was different now. Maybe he was too cramped to physically shiver all over, but only the left side of his body was having said shakes. He called out for help, for Derek, for his wife and kids, for his mother, but none could hear him over the cheering.

     On September 1st, 348,000 living bodies and one corpse stood for an hour as Ben Gleck delivered the speech of his life. Greg would have liked it.