The Movement

Chapter Two - Part 4

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Phil Duckworth had woken up very early that same morning, even before Joyce and Troy, to search for a job. He wanted to keep his promise to his wife. After several unpromising job interviews, Phil headed to Joe’s shop to inquire about his offer from the previous day.

“Joe! How are you?” yelled Phil over the buzzing saws echoing off the shop’s tin walls.

“Phil, what brings you in this morning?” replied Joe, surprised to see Phil.

“Oh, just stopping by to see if you were serious about that offer from yesterday. You know, to clean up the shop after you guys close down?” reminded Phil.

Avoiding eye contact, Joe continued to walk around the shop, picking up random scraps and tools and placing them in different locations.

“Yeah…Phil. I’d love to help you out and to have you help us out a bit, but we’re just so slow lately. We really don’t have that much work to do right now, so clean up is a breeze. Once business picks up again, though, we’ll definitely need all the help we can get,” said Joe.

Phil’s smile quickly lowered into a somber frown. Full of anger, Phil’s face turned beet red as he placed his hands on his hips, looking down past Joe’s booted feet.

“Joe,” interrupted Phil, “I really, really need this, Joe. We’re gonna be evicted this Friday if I don’t come up with three hundred bucks. You know I’m a great worker. I’ll have this place shining and sparkling with just a few hours a day. Come on, Joe. You know I’m good for it.”

“I know you are, Phil. I know you are. But I just can’t afford it right now. I’m struggling just as you are right now. My business is barely breaking even lately. I just can’t afford it, Phil. I’d love to help you, but it’s just not possible with the slow work lately,” he explained.

Phil’s anger boiled up inside of him.

“Blast you, Joe! You keep buying your two packs a day of cigarettes and complain about your struggles. My wife and child and I will be living on the street next week. Thanks a lot, Joe,” he said angrily, shaking his head in disbelief.

Phil pushed Joe hard on the shoulders and stormed away toward and out of the door. Joe yelled from behind, apologizing over and over again until the useless apologies faded away behind the high pitched screeches of buzz saws and the large iron door muffled the noises altogether.

Phil knew he had to keep trying, but could not continue on today. He needed a break from his constant quick, shot downed attempts to find a job—especially the latest repulsion from Joe. Phil made his decision: he would attend the rallies today for the last time to show his support. Joining the large mob outside the Los Angeles courthouse, Joe became a number. A small number amid a very large number of unemployed Californians and Americans who were begging the government for the most meager jobs in order to sustain a subsistence lifestyle.

The raucous crowd began their chants, directed at the federal government and Wall Street CEO’s:

“WE WANT JOBS! WE WANT JOBS! WE WANT JOBS!” 

The massive crowd yelled together, each phrase strengthening in volume and synchronization as they continued the calls for several minutes. A strong sense of trouble quickly emerged and dominated Phil’s conscience. He knew he should not have come to the rallies today, but could not get the courage to leave them once he got there. He felt at home with the other unemployed rallying peoples. It was the only place where he did not feel like a worthless scumbag, like he had a purpose in the world. But that conscience soon dissipated with the adrenaline rush that overtook Phil’s mind and body. He belonged at these rallies. These rallies defined him.

Phil’s reason and logic left him. His good feelings were erased by the chaotic screams of the masses behind him. The sounds of gunshots rang through the air and hundreds of people scurried past him. Trying to resist the forceful flow of panicking protesters, Phil dug his heels into the ground and began fighting back towards the heavy traffic. He had to get to the gunshots, to stick up for his, and others’, right to protest. Courage and bravery dominated Phil’s emotions; his wife and son’s suffering overtook his feelings and implanted a drive inside him without any brakes. He kept pushing back the crowd, digging his way past the panic, screaming at the top of his lungs.

Don’t let them move you! Do not abide! Hold your resistance! Do not be afraid! he convinced himself silently.

The oncoming rush of panic vanished from around him. Phil stood in the open, hundreds of police awaiting his every move. Paralyzed with fear, Phil stared ahead. A line of dozens of policemen charged at Phil, transparent shields leading, black metal clubs waving in the air. In a matter of seconds, the policemen plowed into an astonished Phil, shields delivering the first powerful blows. Phil flew to the ground as the heavy boots of the masked policemen stomped down on him like a powerful octopus slapping around a soccer ball. It was no use to get up—Phil took each strong kick and the next without a chance attempt in defending himself.

Numbness took over his body. He saw the kicks and clubs swinging down on him toward his body and face, but could no longer feel them. He felt pleasant, as if he were in dream. The sounds of the aluminum clubs thudding and ringing against his bony limbs were gone now, but the brutal hits continued with ruthless force. The chilling pain returned as one more solid club on the back of his head turned his pleasant nightmare into a world of blackness—his body continued to be beaten, blood now splattering the police shields like spewing red paint from an erupting fire hydrant as his entire life flashed before his eyes. Finally, Phil’s violent beating halted, long after his body shut down and not before the policemen’s violent mutilation of his body in the middle of the street.

Redirecting nearly at once, other policemen sprinted in with a green body bag, unzipping the opening to stuff the unrecognizable carcass into it. The police had killed Phil Duckworth. A few onlookers caught a glimpse of the first slugs of the lethal beating as they sprinted away. But, like all the other victims, his body was to be taken and disposed of secretly, hidden from the media and public's eye.