“Hi. Welcome to Portland Electronics Mart.”
You’ve seen me there. I stand by the door, welcoming you to our warehouse of must-have consumer gizmos.
“Hi. Welcome to Portland Electronics Mart.” I repeat this phrase about 5,000 times per day, give or take a thousand other customers on Black Friday or New Years Day. To qualify for this role, I watched the “meet-and-greet” online training. It includes some first aid training as well as instructions for how to step out of the way when a shoplifter is absconding with a large screen television. Mostly it’s repeating the six-word mantra. Meet-and-Greet is a promotion from stocking shelves.
This morning, at eight fifteen, I take my scheduled break. I stride purposefully to the farthest back room where I can spend ten glorious minutes not repeating the mantra. On the way, I pass the store manager’s office.
“Well. If it isn’t the March employee of the month.” He stands up from his particle-board desk and motions me to sit in the chair facing him. “Come on in and close the door, if you don’t mind.”
I didn’t realize I was already up for a promotion, but given the initiative I demonstrated by watching “How to Greet Customers” I shouldn’t be surprised. I enter. I sit. I am hoping I don’t need to speak.
“First, I want to acknowledge what a great employee you have been.”
Yes, yes. I already know this. I nod my head instead of using my words.
“Unfortunately, we have to let you go. The new tariffs are killing our sales and we need to cut spending. You’ll notice we’ve already made huge sacrifices by removing the free coffee machine in the break room. We have no choice but to reduce our headcount, which affects your position.”
I noticed the coffee machine disappeared last week when I was filling my backpack with several handfuls of coffee pods for my Keurig machine at home. I should have connected its disappearance with the departure of several of my fellow employees.
I leave the manager’s office without saying a word (it’s still my break), hang my blue vest on the rack in the break room, and walk to the front door. Someone is entering and I repeat the pavlovian mantra one last time before entering the morning drizzle.
An Opportunity
On the bus ride home, I have free time to catch up on TikTok, Instagram, facebook and other reliable news sources. The third video in my feed is from the United States White House with an announcement from the President of the United States.
“…is burning to the ground, owing to paid insurrectionists and Antifa.” The President is speaking of my hometown of Portland, Oregon. “When you go out to Portland and you see what’s happening in Portland, this is like nobody’s ever seen anything like it, every night. And this has gone on for years. They just burn the place down. And you know, the shop owners, most of them have left.”
I’m recently aware of the plight of shop owners and my employment status. I wasn’t aware these Antifa people were creating mayhem and chaos. I look around for Antifa on the bus, but it’s too early for anyone to be creating mayhem.
Most alarming, why Antifa hasn’t been complying with the local burn ban? We residents of Portland take burn bans seriously, and if we insist on outdoor fires, the city cautions us to use only propane fire pits. The video that accompanies the President’s announcement shows cars, tires, and dumpsters in flames. None of these are specifically mentioned in the burn ban, but I assume they are included.
A few years ago, I invited friends over for a backyard party. The evening became chilly, so I started a fire. Made from wood. In a small fire pit. About half an hour later, I heard a large diesel truck on the road in front of my house. Shortly thereafter, two rather burly firefighters appeared in my backyard.
“Do you know there is a burn ban in Multnomah County?” said the first brawny fireman. “Would you like help extinguishing that fire?”
I turned to my wife; “Is this some sort of firefighter cosplay you hired to sing me happy birthday?”
She broke away from staring at the hunky guy in uniform and looked at me. “It’s not your birthday,” she reminded me. “I think you should do what the nice man says.”
I politely agreed to put out the fire. Where they came from and how they knew we were breaking the fire ban is still a mystery. I learned good Portland residents don’t go starting random fires without consequences.
I’m curious how Antifa is getting away with this transgression.
Paid Insurrectionist
Antifa and their un-permitted fires is a thing to be concerned about, but I wasn’t aware insurrectionist were paid. As of this morning I need a new gig, so I search job sites for “insurrectionist.” I find none. Maybe if I find Antifa they will know where to interview.
In brief internet research, I discover their official uniform to be black pants, a black shirt, a black hat, and a black facemask. It often shows them fighting with ICE officers, who wear the identical uniform except they also wear a bulletproof vest with large I.C.E. lettering. If I am going to a potential job interview, I should dress the part. There is a Goodwill store on the way home and I acquire a pair of black denim jeans and black shoes. Goodwill doesn’t have black hats or facemasks so I will have to go without. I have seen photos of Antifa wearing inflatable frog costumes, but Amazon is sold out, and I wouldn’t be able to get same-day shipping, anyway. I’ll just have to wear what I can find and hope that Antifa provides its paid insurrectionists with a uniform.
nAntifa = k / garages
I’m currently standing outside the Goodwill at a street corner in Southeast Portland. Most of us living in Portland park on the street because we don’t have garages. The further east you go, the greater the number of garages per property. I believe there is an inverse relationship between the size of a garage and the probability of Antifa presence. More garage space implies more cars, which require more upkeep, leaving less time for burning and pillaging. Therefore, I will not find Antifa east of my location. West of here, the number of residential garages plummets, so the probability of finding Antifa increases.
Fortunately, there is a bus going west toward downtown Portland. Despite the hand-to-hand battles happening on the streets (somewhere), the buses are running on time, and I’m able to board in less than five minutes. I pay my fare and walk to the back. I’m in uniform, so I should be safe from getting knifed, punched, or set afire by one of the Antifa heading to support their comrades. None of the passengers are wearing Antifa black, so I assume they are traveling incognito and upon arrival will find a phone booth to change into the costumes they are wearing under their clothes. I find an empty seat, next to an older man with a ukulele.
“Going to see the riots?” I ask.
“You mean the ‘protests?’” he responds. “Actually, I’m participating. We’re having a sing-along. Most of my senior group is already there.”
“So you’re Antifa?” He doesn’t have the requisite uniform, but perhaps he is traveling plainclothes.
“Antifa isn’t a club you can join.” He gives me a suspicious look. “At least not at the retirement community I’m living at. I think it’s just an ideology.”
“Like Hakuna Matata?”
“Um. Sure,” He gives me a patronizing look.
In two more stops we are downtown, which seems like a good place to find political miscreants. I disembark and head north to the center of downtown. It shouldn’t be long before I see burning cars and hear people with bullhorns.
I’ve walked three blocks before I finally hear a disturbance. It’s coming from the central plaza and sounds like someone shouting through a public address system. I’ve finally found Antifa!
I don’t want to get in between the warring factions, so I approach cautiously. Sneaking around the lines of people at food carts, I see a small group making speeches.
The vocal group displays signs with Bible verses. It’s difficult to make out their message, but every third word is Jesus, pronounced as four syllables: “JAH-EEZ-SAH-USSS.”
One man is shouting into the microphone; three others are standing by. Maybe they know where to find insurrectionists.
“Excuse me,” I say.” Have you seen Antifa or ICE anywhere near here? I’m looking for a riot.”
“Have you found jah-eez-sah-uss?” He responds.
“No. Is he Antifa? Or perhaps an insurrectionist?”
“I don’t know about that, but he can save you.”
“Save me what?”
“From eternal hell and damnation!”
Hell and damnation sounds like what I’ve heard on TV newscasts, but I’m looking to join up with the forces causing hell, rather than being saved from them. I politely thank the nice jah-eez-sah-uss enthusiast and take my leave.
I’m downtown, but no closer to riots and chaos than I was when I woke up this morning. I fear that if I don’t hurry, all the insurrectionist jobs will fill up before I can even submit my application. I ask passers-by for the location of Antifa, but with no luck. Eventually I locate two police officers on bicycles.
“Excuse me,” I wave them over to the sidewalk. One of them is a burly man; the other is an intimidating woman. They’re wearing shorts and bike helmets, but they look prepared to squelch any attempts at burning and looting.
“I’m looking for Antifa. More precisely, I’m hoping to sign up to be an insurrectionist. Do you know where I should look?”
“Maybe that’s not your best plan,” says burly bike police guy. “Have you considered volunteering for a get-out-the-vote group? Or maybe getting signatures for a petition?”
They request my identification, take some notes and confer with their radios. I appreciate how helpful they are in my job search. After a minute, they return my driver’s license.
“You’re free to go, but you are probably not going to find what you’re looking for downtown,” says intimidating woman. “There are some protests going on down at ICE headquarters, but I don’t think you’re going to find much Antifa activity. Certainly not at this time of day. It’s a beautiful sunny day, why not head back home and have a beer on the back porch?”
“Thanks,” I reply. “But I’m interested in the paid positions I’ve heard about. Did you say ICE headquarters?”
“Well, good luck with that,” bike officer tells me. They give each other a look and nod towards their previous direction of travel, then mount up and pedal off.
They mentioned ICE headquarters, so I look it up on Google. The list shows several convenience stores supplying ice. If ICE is going there for supplies, then I will find someone who knows where to get an insurrection job application form. A supply depot for ICE is listed just a few blocks from here.
It’s not a very busy place. There are several rows of snack foods and soda with a feeble attempt at healthy foods hidden behind the canned beef stew. There are a few T-shirts, sunglasses, and sun hats, but nothing in black and no armored vests. I return to the bored adolescent at the front of the store. He’s wearing a well-worn name tag that says “Bo…” ending in what might be a letter “b”, or “L” or possibly “q.” I’m going to assume it’s “Bob.”
“Hi, Bob?” I ask.
He looks down at his nametag and wipes off a bit of mayonnaise, which reveals a “j.”
“My name is Boj,” he tells me. “Short for Bojangles. My mom was a fan of Jerry Jeff Walker. But that doesn’t fit on a name tag. So go ahead, call me Bob if that works for you.”
“I’m looking for ICE headquarters. I’ve heard there are lots of Antifa there, and I’m trying to apply for a job.”
Boj/Bob stands up from his chair and regards me with suspicion. “You know there’s a camera recording this conversation?”
“Oh,” I say. “I didn’t realize this was a hidden-camera interview. Is there a pledge you want me to recite?”
I turn around so they can see my left profile. When I spot what looks like a camera, I look slightly sideways into the lens (again, presenting my good left profile), affect my most likely Antifa expression, and begin a recitation.”
“The working class and the employing class have….”
Boj/Bob interrupts. “Okay. That’s enough. If you’re not going to buy something, you can leave.”
“Do I get the job? Am I getting called back for a second interview?”
“No. Please don’t come back. Maybe you’ll find Antifa down at ICE headquarters. It’s not far from here. Please.”
A search for Immigration and Customs Enforcement (instead of ICE) reveals a different headquarters building, and I can reach it in about twenty minutes by bus. I have an all-day pass, so this is totally convenient. Portland public busses are some of the best in the United States and in spite of the riots (which I am still hoping to find) run on a reliable schedule. I hop on the bus and in twenty minutes I’m standing outside of ICE.
I.C.E.
The Immigration and Customs Enforcement building is a fortress, sporting a large gate across the driveway and plywood over the ground-floor windows. I look around for the Antifa job fair and see a small group gathered near a canopy on the sidewalk. This is promising.
“Hi, I’m looking for a position as a paid insurrectionist,” I say.
The man I am speaking to is loading vegan hot dogs from Williams-Sonoma into a charcoal grill. He turns a few of them over, replaces the lid and looks up.
“Sorry, none of us are paid. But these will be ready in about ten minutes if you want one.”
“No more openings for insurrectionists? How about Antifa?”
“There may be some folks showing up later, but they just wear black as a fashion statement. They’re kind of random, and they certainly aren’t going to pay you. Maybe you should talk to the bloggers, but they don’t show until after dark.”
The only other folks here are wearing frog costumes or roller skates. I figure I’ll go find a bar and wait until the Antifa hour.
Antifa Bar
ICE Headquarters is located near the South Waterfront, an upscale development filled with multistory apartment buildings and overpriced condominiums. “Overpriced” is a subjective term; all housing in Portland is overpriced. If everything is overpriced, doesn’t that make it all average priced? I add this to my list of deep subjects to ponder and start walking to the nearest average bar.
By applying nAntifa = k / garages, I surmise this is prime Antifa territory. True; there are large parking garages, but less than one space per apartment, and bussing is encouraged. I arrive at the Lone Wolf Watering Hole with high expectations.
I only intend to mark time until it gets dark enough for the riots to start, but I can’t rightfully occupy space at the bar without ordering something. Like most average bars in Portland, there is a wall-sized beer menu and a row of taps.
I’ve always suspected there are really only three beers being served, with one keg feeding multiple taps. Seriously, who can really keep track of which beer is which, especially after consuming one or two pints. Personally, I can’t even accurately calculate a 10% tip after more than an hour; I certainly can’t discern a lager from an ale from a Coors Lite.
The bartender wanders over. “Beer?” he asks.
“Actually, I’m hoping to find Antifa.”
Bartender guy turns to study the wall o’ Beers. “Nope, no Antifa this week.” I can ask the manager if we can order it. Do you know the brewery?”
“I didn’t know Antifa has a brewery,” I say. “Is that how they fund their paid positions?”
“Probably?” The bartender seems uncertain on this point. “I mean, breweries rely on beer sales to keep the doors open. So yah, I suppose whoever brews Antifa beer uses the sales to pay their people.”
“But you don’t have it right now.”
“Nope. Don’t have it. Can I pour you something else?”
“How about the lightest beer on tap?” I figure that will come from at least a third of the taps.
In a minute, I am sitting at the bar with a pale pint of beer. I’m equipped to wait until darkness falls, and possibly the influx of Antifa.
Four beers later, I realize it’s past sunset. I’m missing the rise of Antifa! I’m halfway to the door before I remember to settle accounts; if this bar is connected with Antifa, I don’t want to stiff my future employer, so I flash my credit card and stagger out the door.
Return to I.C.E.
It’s dark, and I’m hopeful of finding some rioting Antifa carrying job applications. Off to one side is a large group of photographers waving a large American flag. The hot dog station is still here, although sadly the dogs are gone. I guess if I really want this job, I’ll have to endure some tribulations.
“Hi, remember me?” I ask a woman standing under the canopy. She has a hot dog, nose ring and extensive tattoos. “Did Antifa show up yet?”
All conversation stops. Everyone turns and stares at me.
“Are you a blogger?” she asks me. “The blogger pod is over there, by the flag.”
I turn to look in the direction she is pointing. That group seems bored and are not wearing Antifa uniforms. Even I can tell this isn’t where I need to go for a paid insurrectionist position.
“Nope. Not a blogger. I was hoping to talk to someone about a position as a paid insurrectionist.”
There is some muffled conversation at the back of the group, and the woman slowly shifts away from me, moving behind a man wearing an orange vest. I’m reminded of the two bicycle officers I met earlier.
“I choose to exercise my constitutional rights,” he says. “Am I being detained, or am I free to go?” He delivers this in a manner similar to reciting lines in a play. I’m unclear why we’re having this conversation. Perhaps this is another hidden-camera interview?
“Of course, you should go. Do you have an appointment somewhere? Theater tickets? I hope you’re not late!”
Again, more muffled conversation at the back of the group and puzzled looks. Mr. Orange Vest turns to consult with another orange vest standing behind him. They look at each other, then they look at me, then they look at each other again.
“We think you might be happier if you go chat with the bloggers.” He points to the folks with the flag. “We’d be happier if you go chat with the bloggers. You make us nervous.”
And that’s the end of the conversation. They continue to be civil, but won’t discuss Antifa or any sort of paid position. After getting nowhere, I wander off past the inflatable zebras towards the blogger cabal.
Bloggers
There’s no visible line between the bloggers and the insurrectionists, but it is clear they are two camps. The bloggers don’t have a tent or free hot dogs, but there is a sense of excitement. I’ve noticed several new participants joining the group in the last ten minutes, some of them sporting press passes. They all have cameras: some with large lenses and multiple attachments, some just simple handheld phones. They all seem to know each other, and I’m reminded of the cliques that gathered in my high school before classes started in the morning.
I summon my most friendly demeanor and saunter into the scrum.
“Hi. I’m looking for a position as a paid insurrectionist. Do you know where I can apply?”
I am instantly the center of interest. The group falls into a semicircle with every available camera at attention and facing me. These folks likely get a quantity discount at Pro Photo Supply: they trick out their serious cameras with fuzzy microphones, stabilizers, and sophisticated lighting gizmos. The cheaper crowd films with the cameras on their phones, but have also purchased handgrips that pivot and swing according to tidal forces. All of them have floodlights turned up to maximum blinding power.
I’m unable to see any faces behind the wall of floodlights, but there is a cacophony of voices shouting questions. I look around me, hoping to spot the celebrity who must have recently arrived to generate this excitement. Nobody here but me. This is the most attention I’ve received all day, so I straighten my posture and try to present my left profile to the entire array of lenses and floodlights. The questions come faster than I can answer:
“Why does Antifa endorse the left-wing terror threat facing our country?”
“What are your plans to overthrow the government?”
“Why are you obstructing enforcement of Federal laws?”
“When are your meetings to recruit, train, and radicalize young Americans to engage in violence and suppression of political activity?”
“Why aren’t you wearing an inflatable frog costume? Do they leak? Are the costumes made in China inferior to those made in the U.S.A.”
At this question, there is a loud chant of “YOU-ESS-AAA. YOU-ESS-AAA.”
It’s all very difficult to hear, much less parse how I am to apply for the job. My four beer lunch and lack of a hot dog isn’t helping me figure this out.
After a few minutes of general havoc, I give up and wander away. When I leave, the camera lights instantly go dark and the questions stop. I wonder if the scrum works like an automatic door opener: stand in front of the door and it opens. Take a step back and it closes. Move closer and it opens again. Step back, door closes. If it weren’t getting late, I would want to experiment to see how close I needed to be for the cameras to turn back on.
Success
I’ve found a space between the competing camps and take a moment to reflect. I’ve blown an entire day pursuing a paid job with nothing to show for my efforts. No application forms, not the slightest interest in seeing my resume or my LinkedIn profile.
Perhaps that’s the plan. Antifa makes it difficult to apply so they can weed out casual wanna-be’s. I suppose I could find them if I were dedicated.
It’s become suddenly quiet. The hot dog team stands to one side, bloggers to another, inflatable zebras in the middle. Each group watches me with obvious anticipation. The blogger cabal is at full ready.
A commotion erupts from behind me and I am only able to partially turn to look before I am tackled to the ground by someone in a G.I. Joe cosplay, complete with gas mask, camouflage, and helmet. It’s an impressive halloween costume, except that it isn’t halloween. Which isn’t unusual in Portland, people wear costumes all year just for the fun of it. But this cosplayer is very enthusiastic about his LARP.
“You’re on federal property and under arrest” screams the cosplay army guy. Several of his buddies appear and drag me up the ramp towards the main building. I’ve been at science fiction conventions where the Star Wars storm trooper squads enact mock battles, but this team of cosplayers are taking this much more seriously.
“Okay. This is an impressive enactment, but seriously, you can put me down now.” I inform them. They are dragging me on the concrete and my shirt has come untucked.
They aren’t saying anything, but even if they were, it would be hard to understand through the gas masks. These guys (girls? Hard to tell through the costume) have found a supplier of authentic-looking uniforms and equipment. Not as good as the serious Star Wars enthusiasts, but still, impressive.
The bloggers rush in for a close-up of the action, cameras and floodlights blazing. I hear several narrators describing how Antifa is being arrested by the ever-vigilant federal peace keepers. Amidst the commotion, I see zebras and frogs waving signs.
I was an extra for a made-for-TV movie filmed in Portland. When the director shouted “EXTRAS” my job was to walk across the street behind the stars of the show. Until then, we were to remain motionless. This is similar, but I don’t see a producer shouting for extras to spring to life in the background.
The dragging, filming, and protesting frogs lasts about thirty seconds after which the army actors carry me past the main gate and into the reception area inside the building. The bloggers turn off their cameras and the zebras go for hot dogs.
I’m placed on the floor and encouraged to stand up. The green storm troopers are taking off their costumes.
“I hate these gas masks,” says one trooper. “The strap is still catching on my beard.”
“I told you,” says his partner. “Shave it off. I’ve started to use a dab of vaseline around the pinch points. It helps.”
They seem to have forgotten I’m still standing here with my shirt untucked, so I cough politely.
“Oh, you,” says a third cosplayer. “Sorry, you probably don’t know the drill. There’s a break room around the corner. Coffee is free, but you’ll have to pay for anything from the machine. And don’t steal anyone’s stuff from the refrigerator like the last guy.”
“Am I here for an interview?” I ask. I think they are treating me like Antifa, so perhaps the interview has already started. Or I’ve already passed the audition and I’m just waiting for a contract and Antifa vest. “Is there an orientation video I’m supposed to watch while I’m waiting?”
The army guy with the beard gives me a look not unlike the ukulele player I met earlier on the bus. “There’s no video. Just hang out until the bloggers leave and we’ll escort you out the back way. Do you need a bus pass?”
“Thanks, but I have an all-day pass. What time do I start?”
Bearded army guy scratches around the places where the gas mask straps rubbed his skin raw. “I suppose you can start any time you like. But we can’t arrest you again tomorrow. Twice in two days looks like we’ve set up a plant in the audience. Take a few days off before you come back.”
The break room is located just off the reception area. Everyone else is occupied with putting away their costumes, so I take the opportunity to fill my pockets with coffee pods to restock my Keurig supply at home. There is a television showing replays of the evening’s events and I even see myself being dragged into the building.
“Excuse me,” I call to the storm troopers. No answer, and the lobby is empty. “Hello? Can we reshoot? You didn’t get my good side.”
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