The Waiting Room
Marie was dragging chairs around the bankruptcy court waiting room when the guard asked what the hell she was doing.
"We are doing something," she said.
Nobody else was doing anything. Just Marie, making noise. Metal on linoleum. The guard—Jorge, his nametag said—looked tired.
Her grandmother's house was gone. Wells Fargo. Medical bills from the miscarriage. Twenty-three weeks. They'd picked a name: Sophia. The hospital bill said "fetal demise" and charged $67,000. The D&C. The infection after. Another surgery. Therapy at $200 an hour where the woman kept saying "grief is love with nowhere to go" like that helped. Xanax. Then more Xanax. Then the credit cards for groceries. Then this.
"Lady, you gotta—"
"We are doing something," Marie said, louder.
Pascal looked up from his phone. He'd been doing the math again. Restaurant: dead. COVID. Nine hundred thousand in debt. The PPP loan wasn't forgiven—wrong box checked or something. His wife emailed him divorce papers. His daughter Sarah wasn't answering his calls.
"Yeah," Pascal said. "We are." He stood up, grabbed a chair. Didn't know why.
This guy Drumm—that's his actual name, Drumm Winters—laughed. He'd been sitting there three hours. His trucking business went under when diesel hit $5.40. Or maybe it was Amazon. Or maybe everything just goes under eventually.
"Fuck it," Drumm said. Pushed over the water cooler. Water everywhere.
Jorge the guard stood there. His kid needed therapy the insurance wouldn't cover. "Experimental," they called it. Fourteen dollars an hour to watch this shit. "Whatever," he said. Started moving chairs too.
The woman in the corner was tearing up her forms. Chapter 7. Complete liquidation. She threw pieces in the air.
"What's your name?" Marie asked her.
"Silt."
"That's not a name."
"It is now."
The clerk called more security. They kicked everyone out. So Tuesday they met in the parking lot. Then the park where the tent camps were.
"Should we have like, demands?" Drumm asked one time.
"For what?" Marie said. She was painting NO on a piece of cardboard. Just NO.
"I don't know. Debt forgiveness?"
"That's an ending," Silt said. She'd been a teacher. Master's degree. Budget cuts. "We don't do endings."
"So what do we do?"
"Something," they all said, but different. Marie angry. Pascal laughing. Drumm confused.
A reporter came. Pretty. Clean.
"What's your message?"
"We are doing something," they said. Not in unison. Overlapping.
"What specifically?"
"Look," Pascal started, "when someone walks in and you're making a mess—"
"We don't explain," Marie interrupted.
The reporter looked around. Trash or art or both or neither. "This doesn't make sense."
"Sixty-seven thousand dollars for a miscarriage doesn't make sense," Marie said.
The segment: "Local Group Disrupts Court." Whatever.
People came. Not many. Guy with an oxygen tank. COPD. Hospital bill was $487,000. "I'm dying anyway," he said.
He died six weeks later. Mid-laugh. They were stacking medical bills into a tower. It fell. He was laughing. Then he wasn't. They kept stacking.
"Should we stop?" someone said.
"No," Marie said, crying, still stacking paper.
The city offered money. Ten thousand. "Formalize your protest."
"It's not a protest," Pascal said.
"What is it?"
"Something."
They didn't take the money.
Winter. They burned trash in barrels. Illegal. So what.
"My ex thinks I'm having a breakdown," Drumm said one night.
"Are you?"
He thought about it. Hands black with newsprint or dirt. Hadn't slept. Felt terrible. Felt awake. "Probably."
Spring. Still there. The bankruptcy court had reopened. They'd stand outside sometimes. Not protesting. Just standing.
New people: "What did you accomplish?"
Marie: "Nothing."
Pascal: "Everything."
Silt: "Something."
Then they'd laugh. Not because it was funny.
Social worker came. Nice lady. "There are programs—"
"We're not a program," Marie said.
"I mean resources. Help."
Marie looked at their camp. Looked at the others. Two years now. "We're doing something," she said.
"What?"
"I still don't know."
The social worker left her card. They made birds out of it. Hung them from trees.
There's no ending.
Marie's still there. Pascal too. Drumm sometimes. Silt teaches, shows up nights. Jorge has a different job, comes Tuesdays.
Last week Marie was saying something about the moment things break. Pascal was talking over her about choosing to move or not move. Everyone talking at once. Nobody listening. Moving chairs for no reason.
"We are doing something," Marie said again.
Nobody answered. They were doing it, whatever it was. Still are.
