DECEMBER 2, 1999: THE DAY AFTER
THURSDAY. I was feeling all jacked up, tense, and in a heightened state of readiness for whatever was going to happen. After only two days, forty-eight hours of being in a state of mind of chaos, I had already taken for granted that it was going to continue, and that I needed to be prepared for whatever was going to happen next. I walked across Broadway to Pine and Eleventh to look for leftover riot souvenirs from the night before. On the ground next to a trash can there were two large boxes filled with the cardboard tubes that the large tear gas containers were stored in. I tore the boxtop off to keep as a souvenir and continued to wander. I spent the next ten or fifteen minutes picking up nearly a hundred rubber pellets from the ground, and realized that I was quite hungry after not eating much food in the last two days. I took myself out to lunch and read both The Seattle Times and The P-I's coverage of the previous day's events. Something was telling me that there was going to be more trouble that night and that I needed to be prepared. I puttered around my apartment for a while and lay down to take a nap around five o'clock. When I woke up at six-thirty I turned on the news and saw that people were gathering again at Seattle Central Community College to protest the police actions on Capitol Hill. I jumped out of bed, took a quick shower, and got dressed. I grabbed my dishtowel on the way out, expecting to have to use it against the tear gas I was sure would be used on us again tonight. When I reached Broadway, the crowd was walking in single and double file down the sidewalk, chanting: "Whose streets? Our streets! Whose streets? Our streets!"
I crossed over and noticed Jason walking with his bicycle. We exchanged stories from the last few days and walked along with the crowd. We walked all the way to the end of Broadway and The Deluxe, crossed the street, and headed back in the direction from which we had come, just as the police had advanced and retreated the night before. People in passing cars honked and raised their fists or flashed the peace sign at us as they passed. People sitting in restaurants and coffee shops also smiled as we walked by. I noticed that quite a few businesses were closed for the night, like many of us, probably expecting more violence. As we walked, though, I realized that there was a feeling of deflation in the air, and when we all got back to Seattle Central to assemble where all the news vans were parked, I had a feeling that it was all over, that there would be no more chaos, no more tear gas-- not after what happened yesterday. I also realized that I didn't have it in me to go through one more night of that kind of activity, and wondered if everyone in town, including the police, was feeling the same weariness, feeling like we had all done enough, made some noise, and that it was now time to get some rest and let life return to its normal lethargic pace. Two huge groups of protestors arrived from downtown, where they had been staging a rally and protest demanding the release of all five or six hundred people who had been arrested over the past two days. The sight of these groups coming down the hill towards Seattle Central from Madison Avenue was epic. Tonight, though, they were escorted by motorcycle police, and their arrival on Broadway was not met with police in riot gear. "I don't think anything's going to happen tonight." I said to Jason.
We went to an art opening at the Houston gallery and drank a few beers. I kept picturing scenes from the night before and when I looked out the window I couldn't believe that just twenty-four hours earlier the streets were filled with chaos. We left the gallery and decided to go down to the O.K. Hotel where Ota Prota and The Anti-Fascist Marching Band were playing in a benefit for Free Seattle Radio. We walked down Pine towards I-5 and observed the police line for a few minutes near the Paramount Theatre. I walked up to one of the riot police to ask him how we could get downtown. I heard on the radio that if you had "legitimate business" you were allowed to pass through the No Protest Zone. Oddly, "legitimate business" included going to a show at a club. When I first approached the officer I could see him tense up in anticipation of a hostile action on my part, but when I asked him what he thought the best way to get through downtown was, he seemed to relax and appeared happy and relieved to point us one street over. The police helicopter appeared overhead. A few stray people were trying to get something started with the single line of riot police. Others, though, were laughing, smiling, and having their pictures taken in front of the officers. Jason and I walked one street over and continued on our way downtown. We came across a parked squad car, four handcuffed youths sitting on the curb, and a single officer at the scene. I approached him and asked him which way we should proceed to get to Pioneer Square. "That's your path." he saidI pressed him for details, asking if it would be okay to walk down this or that street and again he said, with fatigue in his voice, "It's your path." As we walked away I realized that what he was saying was that we could walk wherever we wanted to again, and that he too was tired of dealing with the whole thing. It was our path. The No Protest Zone tonight was just an illusion to keep people off the streets. There were still police and National Guard posted at corners around the Convention Center where the conference was going on, but they were not arresting people or chasing them away. Downtown was again eerily deserted. We walked by the Lusty Lady and laughed at the sign on their marquee: "W.T. Oooooooh!"
We were both on edge, still feeling jumpy and in a heightened state of awareness after the events of the last two days. At the O.K. Hotel everyone was partying. A few of the Santa Eleven were there, but only one or two were wearing their red coats and beards. It was all coming apart--the week of chaos, for all intents and purposes, was over. Ota Prota played and were out of their minds, and everyone in the room was out of their minds too--everyone seemed both euphoric and pleased by the week's events. Everyone was both tired and drunk. At midnight, Nicholas found out that it was my birthday and forced two shots of Tequila on me. "Tequila!" he yelled to the bartender. As soon as the shots were headed my way I knew that it was not the kind of trouble I was looking for, but there was nothing I could do. I tossed my shot back and waited for the effects to kick in. Sure enough, I found myself feeling sloppily drunk, the way tequila always makes me feel, and I wanted to leave, right away. After my second shot, I sat at the end of the bar and watched as the room began to melt and fold in on itself. I stumbled out into the street and walked across the I-5 bridge, through First Hill, down Broadway, and eventually made it home.
"Fuckin' Nicholas." I mumbled under my breath. "Fuckin' tequila."