A horde of protesters stood before him, a battalion of tie-dyed teachers, artists and activists, all marching against Dutch Boy Paint’s lead paint. Cries of “Fuck corporate fascists!” and “Lead paint killed our kids!” rang out from behind the vanguard of children who had been taken along so that passersby would follow the group out of shared outrage or curiosity. The children were too brain addled to make much distinction between the hazy mishmash of noise and plugged their ears. Those still young enough to be held were carried like bayonets over the shoulders of their mothers. Photos of the comatose like those at candlelight vigils were laminated onto picket signs, making them quasi-martyrs for the cause. The crowd broke into shuddering spasms like the epileptics among them, a chaotic flurry of violence and motion.

He had been on the force for a few years, having sworn off “that leftist pinko trash” after being trampled at a rally. He’d matured, he had told himself, he’d outgrown the idealistic radicalism of his youth, the mindless anti-authoritarianism, the immature egoism of thinking that if no one were around to tell him what to do, everything would be better. “Pinko” had been his nickname on the force ever since he’d told that story at the station. After Jeff Briggs remembered having been one of the officers there, everybody had a story to tell. They gathered round the photocopier to tell tales of keeping the peace as if they were war stories. Even Susan telling off two skaters for skating on the grass in her grandmotherly nagging way was treated like she had lost a leg in Vietnam. Every face had a story to tell, some advice or anecdote that gave character to each member of the previously indistinguishable force.

He turned to Susan, saying “I see my own kid there. Look, there’s Ms. Honeywell’s kindergarten class. Tommy’s right there.” as he pointed them out in the crowd. They held their permission slips for the field trip like riot shields. “What are we even doing here?” he asked.

“We’re here in case this turns violent and the crowd starts looting.”

These people aren’t looters. They’re just angry that a company would sell poison. I can’t imagine my son’s kindergarten class boosting TVs or burning down shops.”

She patted his arm reassuringly. “Everyone’s first time on the beat is hard. Yours is just a bit more personal.”

“There are people that I know out there…. And you expect me to ignore that? You want me to “disperse” those kids? He replied.

Ignoring him, Susan spoke calmly into the loudspeaker. “Please evacuate the area. There have been violent incidents involving Molotov cocktails during the protest. To keep the peace, we ask you to leave in an orderly fashion. If you do not comply, forceful measures will be used.” The loudspeaker’s blare was subsumed by the din of the crowd. The few who heard her ignored it. They had come with pickets and guitars and the moral high ground. They had come bearing their First Amendment rights as concerned parents, teachers, people he had invited over to dinner parties and people he would have exchanged small talk with while waiting in the checkout line at the grocery store. Susan fired off two tear gas canisters as serenely as a checkout clerk would scan your items. The thwps of the canisters being fired reminded him of a pneumatic mail chute as plumes of white gas, so concentrated and thick it seemed to be solid, formed great white clouds from which Jeff and the riot police emerged and began marching toward the crowd. He saw mothers cowering and children crying, unable to find each other in the fog of tear gas.

The next day, he walked into the chief’s office and announced his resignation. “I signed up to protect people, not to bully them.”

The chief thought to himself, flicking one of those executive ball toys as he mused on a response. “Everyone’s first time is hard on them. Click-clack. They’re not used to how ugly it can be on the streets. Now maybe this isn’t the right place for you, maybe you can’t handle the stress on the beat. Click-clack. Take a few days and think about whether you can overcome this.”

“I appreciate your concern, but it’s not nerves, Chief. Click-clack. Those people didn’t attack. It was just some hooligans looking for kicks that did it – and we were going to arrest them all?”

“Quit grandstanding, Pinko. Click-clack. You’re not a martyr and neither are they. We stopped a riot – click-clack- and saved the town from burning down.” He said, bored by his objections.

“There were children in that crowd. Click-clack. Were they criminals? Am I supposed to sit and watch while tear gas burns their skin off?” he screamed, lobbing the executive toy at the chief. A corner of the platform glanced off his forehead.

“We can’t go around checking every potential riot for innocents, we couldn’t stop them in time if we did. We have to make estimates: where the rioters are and what to do.” The chief said unfazed.

Pinko took off his badge and turned to leave. “If you don’t have time to protect the innocent, I don’t have time for you thugs.”

Have a story idea? Share it in the comments!