on second street in the camera
on second street
Greta hears the alarm.
She:
1. Opens her eyes (a habit, even after all these years)
2. Pats down the bedside table to find her mouth guard case
3. Places the guard inside case
4. Gets out of bed
5. Spends the next 8 minutes looking for slippers that Dolly was chewing on all night and conveniently hid somewhere under the cupboard.
Every day looks like the next day, and the previous day. Greta is expected to do the same things as anyone else in the world — feeding the dog, making sure the chicken she is cooking is done, putting the toothpaste on her brush without any spills. The same things are expected. It just is harder.
After finishing her morning routine, Greta takes her analog Canon camera and white cane out of the hall closet and steps onto the street. It’s unusually windy, probably grey. She imagines a heavy white blanket covering the sky and mist gliding through the city, dancing around street corners like sugar plum fairies. She follows the smell of damp pine trees that always lead her to the same place, her place. Her place is a little bench next to the park entrance gate. All the park rangers in town know it is her bench. No trespassers allowed. Greta does not even pat it down with her white cane like she used to anymore. She knows no one would dare sit on her bench, at least not in the morning at 7AM. One of the park rangers told her two months ago that a deadbeat had spent the night on the bench. At first, she was furious. But after thinking about it some, she decided that even deadbeats needed to call some place their place every once in a while, and she forgave them.
Greta leans her white cane on the bench and holds the camera’s viewfinder to her right eye. She is initially scared to look inside, scared that the magic has disappeared. But every time she convinces herself that she will not see anything, that the previous time was the last time, the viewfinder proves her wrong. With the help of this little analog camera, she steps from a black, shapeless world into one filled with life.
inside the camera
“I told you for the hundredth time, you can’t step all over us anymore,” Bud cries out.
“We will not be silenced in the face of government violence.
Say it with me!
We will not be silenced in the face of government violence!
Louder!”
Bud and the rest of the cigarette butts begin chanting in full swing. It is the fifth day of the protest. If he is being honest with himself, Bud is burned out. He is tired and ready to give up. “I could leave right now and spend the rest of my life living a quiet life on the metro tracks,” he thinks to himself. But too many of his cigarette butt friends were relying on him. He had to keep going. Even if his impending disposal into the trash bin ashtray was inevitable, he could not let the march down. And Cigi would not want him to.
Bud thought back to Day One of the protest. Cigi was still standing by his side back then. She had been even more adamant about advocating for cigarette butt rights than him. It’s all she seemed to want talk about — whenever they met up at their place, the 43rd storm drain on Second Street, she would come equipped with protest strategies and all-too-clever poster ideas. Her force of energy was contagious. Of course he had to help her see the plan through.
But that was all before Day Three. Doomsday. During the third day of the protest, nearly 40% of Bud’s comrades had been wiped out. Fedor, the garbage collector, made rounds around the parliament like he does every morning. Usually the cigarette butts can escape his broom but it seemed that, on Day Three, he was particularly keen on attacking. “Surely a nationalist,” Bud thought. “The government probably clued him in on our protest and paid him handsomely to quash us once and for all.” Fedor ended Day Three victoriously but Bud was convinced that Fedor’s presence was a sign that the government noticed the protest and was getting intimidated. Finally.
Bud knew he needed backup if he wanted to continue in this pursuit for justice. The political message was clear: let cigarette butts vote on all tobacco-related issues in government and grant them access to reside in 1/200th of the bridge alley-way. Bud was convinced all they needed was more people to support their vision. They couldn’t afford another doomsday.
During one of those many late-night conversations by the storm drain, Cigi had mentioned that the plastic bottle cap commune had been interested in supporting the cause. Maybe it was time to finally reach out to them? Or what about the Laffy Taffy wrapper rap group? Were they still around? And just recently, Bud had read in one of those trashy tabloids, that shredded paper was banding together to form a worker union. Maybe they would be interested in helping with the cigarette butt cause…
“Yes, I’ll reach out to shredded paper” Bud thinks. “They seem to be put-together enough to be of service to us.”
on second street
Greta takes a break and rests the analog camera on her lap. How much time has passed since she first sat down onto the bunch? Was it lunchtime already? After thinking for some time, she decided it was. She slings the camera around her neck, grabs the white cane, and makes her way to the sandwich shop on Third Street. It takes a while to get there but she knows the place and the staff knows about her.
The sandwich shop is unusually humid inside. Uncomfortably so. Still, she decides to stay and order an egg sandwich. Then, she sits down at the corner table, her corner table, and takes another quick glance into the viewfinder while she waits for her food.
inside the camera
“If we cooperate, we can make history. I’m sure of it,” Bud tells Print, shredded paper’s union leader.
“Agreed. To be completely honest, we could also use your help,” Print says. She looks down, staring at her two thumbs. “Online is coming after us and wanting to eliminate all paper products in town. Darn technology. Shredded paper is close to dying out as it is. I haven’t told others how badly it’s looking but it’s….it’s bad.”
“And Online is most definitely in cahoots with parliament. Their “Go Paper-Free” Campaign is explicitly targeting you,” Bud exclaims passionately. “We have a common enemy. Let’s take them down together!”
This is how, on the 6th day of the protest, shredded paper stood in front of parliament as well. They glued their hands together to form a barricade around the cigarette butts meant to fend off Fedor and other human trampling.
At dusk, Print decided that the protest day should slowly come to an end. “I think we are all tired. Let’s reconvene tomorrow?” she tells Bud.
“Yes, I can’t thank you enough. I think we made a real impression today. Even Fedor was more timid around us than usual.”
Print is about to roll away when she looks back and says, “I heard what happened to Cigi. I’m sorry.”
Bud looks down and closes his eyes. A part of him wants to tell Print everything. A part of him wants to stay quiet and let the sadness wash over him. “I just can’t believe she survived doomsday and then, when we were packing up, a dog ate her. Who eats cigarette butts? Doesn’t the dog get that he’s eating something poisonous that will lead to lung cancer when ingested? Dogs are not immune to lung cancer, you know.”
He doesn’t look back up. He turns around goes back to the 43rd drain, his place. He’ll be back in front of the parliament tomorrow. He doesn’t know when the protest will end and what result it will have. But at least Cigi, who is looking down on him from cigarette butt heaven, can see that he’s doing everything he can to keep fighting for cigarette butt rights.
on third street.
The egg sandwich arrives. It’s moist from the humidity of the sandwich shop. Greta still bites into it. It tastes average at best. She wonders what Bud and Paint would look like if they were human people. Bud would probably be ginger. Paint would surely have a goofy smile. She probably has a goofy smile as shredded paper already.
Who needs to talk to real people when you have friends inside your analog camera? One man’s trash is another man’s treasure. She heard that once on the bus.
She takes out a cigarette and lights it. The shopkeeper never comments on her smoking inside the café. Maybe it’s because people like to cut her slack because of her blindness. Maybe it’s because she’s the only customer and losing her business would kill the shop. Maybe it’s because they’re just afraid to talk to her. Who knows, maybe the shopkeeper is blind as well and simply doesn’t notice?
Every time she smokes, a little pride rises within her. She is adding one more protester to Bud’s crew. One more cigarette butt who can fight for the right to their place underneath the bridge alley-way. It feels good to be part of something greater. Part of a movement, even if the movement happens inside a 4x4 analog Canon camera.
inside the camera
2 weeks later.
The marshmallow is nearly perfectly roasted. A couple more seconds and then Bud can place it onto the chocolate-covered graham cracker.
“Can you pass me some more of the chocolate?” he says. Fedor passes it to him silently. Fedor smiles. Bud smiles. The rest of the 24 cigarette butt group is sitting in a neat row, busy making sure their marshmallows turn just the slightest bit crisp.
The fire pit sits where the main table of the house of parliament once sat. It feels great to hear the crackling of fire echo through the great hall. Certainly a step up from 1/200th of the bridge alley-way. Cigi would be proud.