At 8:30 a.m. this past Monday morning, more than 50 women and men were bottlenecked at the top of an escalator in New York City’s Grand Central Station. Workers of every class and industry were bunched together, pinstripes suits and Carhartt jackets brushing shoulders, no one making eye contact. The crowd waited to descend to the subway and hop on a rumbling car that would carry them back into the workweek. The mass was restless. It was time to strike.
“Occupy Wall Street!” Diego Ibanez called from the edge of the crowd. “Why don’t they just get jobs?”
We have been up all night, beneath electric lamps whose fluorescent souls are bright as the smell of money, because like them, we are breathing our last breaths before the plunge in search of a world that fits all worlds.
These damn streets. This crawling pavement. These birds finally waking up. Welcome Spring.