The Age War

The Age War:

My name is William Ecclesiastes Schumacher and I am not alone.

From around the country, we’ve converged. Washington, DC. Over two million of us. United. In protest. We protest the never-ending wars, the skyrocketing national debt, protecting the environment, and the lack of action on any issue important to our generation.

Yet, not a single senior member of Congress has addressed us. Several young, junior congress people have spoken, as frustrated with the ageism in Congress as we are. In the eyes of its most influential members, no matter how many young people gather, we don’t matter. The young don’t vote, they say. The young don’t act, they say. The young don’t have money, they mean. They are content to let us yell and scream, protected by their walls of stone and affluent puppet masters.

Yards away, behind a barricade of saw horses, a National Guard unit waits.

“Hey, Tyreke.” Shouting to one of the soldiers, I raise my hand in greeting.

Tyreke sits on the body of a tank, scanning the crowd for any signs of danger. He glances my way.

“Hi, Will.” He replies. I’ve spoken with Tyreke and other members of his unit over the last several days. He’s a good guy, doing a job. His unit is in position to stop any violence and to provide a reassuring presence for the men and women in the Capital Building, situated only a few blocks away.

A man in green military fatigues breaks through the crowd and, with obvious pain etched on his face, limps towards their position.

“Help!” he shouts. As the man approaches, the officer in charge, Lieutenant Knowlton jumps to the ground. He recognizes the newcomer and moves to help him.

“Captain Crawford,” Knowlton begins. “What happened?”

“It’s an attack!” Captain Crawford shouts. Guns raise pointing in a dozen directions, including at me.

“Fire!” Crawford shouts.

The soldiers look at him with a mixture of horror and confusion.

“Sir?” One of the soldiers asks. “Fire at who?”

“At them!” The Captain points to the crowd. He sees me standing nearby and gestures. “At him, at everyone!”

“At Will?” Knowlton asks, gesturing in my direction.

“They attacked me!” The Captain exclaims. “Dammit, you will fire your weapons right now or so help me God, I will see every last one of you court martialed.”

The men look at one another, at their Lieutenant, then back at the Captain.

“Sir, this is a peaceful protest.” Knowlton says.

I examine the crowd. There are no weapons in sight. There is no movement towards the guardsmen. I raise my hands and back away. I want no part of this argument.

“For the last time, fire!” With this command, the Captain’s voice cracks, coming out more as a squeak than a bark.

“Delay that order!” Lt. Knowlton commands. The unit lowers their weapons, slightly. They look on, speechless, paralyzed. Tyreke keeps an eye on the crowd, scanning it through a scope on his rifle.

Without warning, the captain draws a pistol from his holster and bears down on me. I cringe. Simultaneously, Knowlton lifts his own weapon to firing position, aimed at the Captain’s chest.

“Men,” Crawford begins. “your Lieutenant is disobeying a direct order from his Commanding Officer. He has raised his weapon against me and is clearly participating in an act of mutiny. Disarm him and place him under arrest.”

“Guardsmen!” Knowlton bellows. “Captain Crawford has issued an illegal order to fire upon a peaceful protest. It is clear he is no longer functioning with full mental capacity. I am removing him from command. Private Jones, Corporal Wang, please disarm the Captain and take him into custody.”

Faced with an impossible situation, none of the men move.

Captain Crawford breathes heavily, his face red with frustration. His gun drops and he deflates.

“What the fuck?” Tyreke shouts. “Holy shit! Take cover!”

The warning comes too late. A hail of bullets rips into the paralyzed unit. Each man is hit in dozens of places and while their body armor protects them from some of the damage, rounds find unprotected limbs and heads. Both Knowlton and Crawford are killed instantly, their standoff, forever unresolved.

The armed crowd overruns the National Guard position in a matter of seconds and rushes towards The Capitol Building. I follow on their heels, watching as my brothers and sisters overcome all resistance.

Bursting into Congressional Chambers, we gather our elected representatives and herd them into the House Chamber.

They plead for mercy. They curse us. They make demands. So powerful a moment before, they have been brought low by the people they have ignored, the very ones who “don’t matter”.

“Quiet!” a young woman shouts and nods in my direction.

Additional commands echo throughout the Chamber. Silence descends.

At the front of the house chamber a tiered podium rises from the ground. It is reserved for the leaders of Congress and for the President when he chooses to address this “austere” body.

Today it is mine. I climb to the speaker’s podium and address the gathered assembly.

“Before I get to our demands,” I begin, “I would like to thank you for your ongoing efforts to protect the right to bear arms.” Smiling, I continue. “I cannot tell you how much we appreciate it.”

My name is William Ecclesiastes Schumacher and I am not alone.