When you arrive on the street he'll hold up his hand,
meticulously gloved.
"Sorry," he'll murmur.
"What?"
You'll really want to attend that march that he's acting as some kind of
conceptual doorman to.
"We at capacity."
You'll be so upset that you won't even think to correct his poor
elocution, particularly unfortunate given the circumstances surrounding his
presence. Instead you'll just throw up
your hands and start to huff.
"Don't you get how this is the exact kind of
exclusionary behavior this event is aimed at combating? And how your very presence is a demonstration
that this event is simply not living up to its own full potential?"
He'll look at you for less than a second before shaking his
head.
"You're not getting in."
You'll walk away, thoroughly discouraged, and get on a bus
back to Boston. On the ride, you'll work
on lesson plans, and wonder, for a few furtive moments, if an organization that
wouldn't let one more person into a million person event really has society's
best interests at heart. It will tug at
you for a long while, until the scenery pulls your attention away and you
tumble into your own consciousness, pondering the passage of space around you.
Congratulations Million and First Man!
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