Page 72 - WTP VOl. XIII #2

Red Hammers (continued from preceding page)
“Since this afternoon,” Deven says, “when the Red Hammers voted unanimously to authorize a walkout. Since when are you too cool to hang out with us in the break room?”
“Since you took a hole out of the ceiling. I’m not trying to get mixed up in that.”
“You’re missing out,” he hisses. “The Red Hammers strike with the twin fists of direct action and direct democracy.”
She ignores the comment but can’t prevent him from following her through the turnstile. His footsteps echo hers—up the stairs to the platform, off the plat- form and onto the train. She picks an inward-facing seat; he sits directly across from her. Watches her expectantly.
“Fine,” she sighs. “You can tell me about your Red Hammers thing.”
His neck shudders forward. She can tell he’s been waiting for this moment.
“The Red Hammers is our militant, LeVeyan-inspired, quasi-Leninist worker’s movement. Though some might describe it as a labor union, it is more accurate- ly defined as a vanguard of the proletariat. So far the members are John, Julia, Amber, and me.”
“And you want me to join it, also. And that’s why you recruited me to work here.”
“Yeah. But I’ve gotta say, you’ve been... disappointing. I didn’t think you were the kind of person who was so interested in following rules.” He spreads that haunt- ed-doll smile again.
“Deven—look, that’s not fair. You told me this was an easy job, and that’s why I took it. What did you expect? I’m not trying to get involved in a bunch of stupid, antagonistic nonsense. I’ve already dealt with enough of that for one lifetime.”
“Wouldn’t know it,” he spits. She resists the sudden urge to slap him.
“Look—I was an organizer. A professional organizer. It’s fucking hard—you have to pound the streets, walk around all night in the cold, or the rain. You have to knock on a thousand doors, have hundreds and hun- dreds of conversations with total strangers. That’s the only way you win anything. You can’t just get a job at some random company, recruit all your old high school friends, and treat fucking around in the break
room like it’s some kind of... revolution.”
“Tell that to Lenin!” he snarls. “Do you know how many casualties there were when he stormed the Winter Palace during the October Revolution? Zero! He snuck in while everyone was distracted, took advantage of the provisional government’s general ineptitude and a geopolitical climate of widespread chaos. That’s how the Red Hammers will strike— bloodlessly, under the radar, as capitalism crumbles in on itself around us!”
“I don’t care, Deven. I’m not getting into a debate about Leninism with you. Just be straight with me.”
“I have been. What would make you think other- wise?”
“Everything. For one, what you’ve told me so far about your strategy is completely ridiculous. And also, in case you haven’t noticed, I’ve been watching your posture. Noticing your gestures, your twitches, your eye and mouth movements. I know all those gimmicks, Deven. Know all the mind tricks. I told you—I used to do this professionally.”
“I see. So that’s your view on revolution—not a his- torical necessity, not an urgent, collective assertion of the self-will of the proletariat—just a ‘profession’.”
“You don’t know what I went through. The hours I worked, the abuse I took—the fucking heart and soul I poured into actually trying to get people
to organize. Not wasting my time with silly little Marxist clubs or shocking people at open mic nights by singing about demons and devils. Don’t you dare suggest that I don’t care about this stuff. Don’t you dare!”
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