Like a Love Story(15)
“We’re going in through the west staircase. As soon as we make it to the trading floor, we need to move fast. We need to do this before security realizes and stops us. Does anyone have to use the bathroom? Best to use it now.” Everybody shakes their heads. “Okay, let’s do it. And remember why we’re doing this. Burroughs Wellcome’s stock has risen forty percent since they started selling AZT, and the drug is still unaffordable for even a person with above-average income. We will shame them into lowering that price even if they throw us in jail for it again.”
We enter the building without a hitch, flashing our fake ID badges to a bored security guard. I feel like I did when Judy and I snuck into Danceteria once, except this time what waits for us on the other side isn’t a live performance from Grace Jones. It’s the New York Stock Exchange. As we walk up twenty flights of stairs, the men all joke with each other. “Nice ass,” one of them says to the one in front of him, as he gently spanks it. The one in front shimmies a little. “Now remember,” another says, “do not cruise the traders, no matter how much they may resemble Christopher Reeve.” I love this about these guys, their ability to laugh through their anger, to find light even in injustice. When we reach the top, Stephen turns to the group, and in his most dramatic Joan Crawford, he says, “Don’t fuck with us fellas. This ain’t our first time at the stock exchange.” The men all nod to each other in solidarity, and then we open the door.
I momentarily freeze when the door opens to reveal the trading floor. There’s something majestic about it. All those people in their muted colors, all those computers, all those lights. People moving so fast that they barely notice each other. You can almost hear the numbers crunching. You can almost feel bank accounts getting fatter, and land being destroyed, and people being taken advantage of, and the stink of greed and death being spritzed into the air like those perfume samples in the Bloomingdale’s lobby. Everything about the energy of this place says that what happens here changes life, for the better if you’re one of the chosen few, but mostly for the worse.
“Art!” I hear my name being screamed and I snap to attention. Stephen and five of his friends have already chained themselves to the balcony of the stock exchange. “Art!” Stephen screams again. I realize I haven’t taken a single photograph. My camera is dangling limply from my neck. I raise it up to my eyes, closing one of them, my eyelid twitching nervously, my hands shaky. I snap one photo, then another. Behind me I hear voices: “Hose those faggots down. They like that,” one says. “Throw ’em in jail. They like that more,” responds another. It’s just high school, I think to myself. It’s all high school. This is just another locker room, another safe space for straight assholes to spew their hate. I point my camera at the homophobes and snap. I imagine the click and the flash are bullets, plunged DEEP into their hateful asshole hearts.
“It’s almost nine,” another voice says. In the chaos, I can’t tell if it’s an activist or a trader. I move my camera toward the activists now. It’s almost nine. It’s showtime.
The bell rings. The opening bell, marking another start to another day of financial corruption. Except this day, nobody hears it. What they hear, what we all hear, is the sound of foghorns. Loud and invasive, they take over the space. I snap away as the activists blow those foghorns, and I see the hint of a smile on Stephen’s face. I wonder if he’s also thinking about that time he told me that Cher’s voice is like a foghorn, calling all the queens to her shores and warning them of the many navigational hazards ahead. Probably not. He’s probably thinking of how he’s changing the world, righting its wrongs. And it’s more than a smile on his face now. It’s a look of sheer exhilaration. He’s LIVING right now. It’s like he’s the most alive person in the world. And then I realize I am LIVING too, and it feels amazing.
The activists unfurl a banner that reads “SELL WELLCOME,” a message to the traders about the pharmaceutical company that has jacked up the price of AZT. They’ve shut down trading. They’re my heroes.
“Art, run. Now!” It’s Stephen again. Police have entered, and immediately my pulse races and I start to run. Maybe the idea of getting detained sounded fun in theory. But now I know that when cops are after you, none of it is fun. I look around as I flee and realize how much of the chaos I missed. The hissing traders. The threatening police. And the media. The cameras, the video cameras, the reporters, all filming us. All filming me as I took pictures of them. I make eye contact with one of the video cameras as I bolt the hell out of there, back to the stairwell we came in through.
I speed down the stairwell to the bottom, my camera hitting my chest as it bounces up and down. On the bottom floor, I collapse and catch my breath. I wonder if Stephen has been handcuffed yet, if this action will work. Will the drug price come down? And when will the next action be? Because I’m not done. I need to feel this again.
When I exit the building, the morning sun hits me hard, as does the September heat. I take my suffocating tie off and consider throwing it in the garbage. It seems to symbolize everything I hate about the world. But then I think better of wasting a perfectly fine piece of fabric, and I wrap the tie around my head like a headband. Judy would approve of that. She loves repurposing things when she designs. As I sneak around the side of the building, I see a few media trucks parked outside, and I see spectators, a lot of them, frozen across the street, staring at the building. Maybe we’ve helped them see something.