The Shy Protester

The shy protester wants to take part but doesn't know how to belong or how to even start. So, she seethes privately building a rancor with no release but to turn to a community that can't be hers. The action group she founded, part of the social media overload, was unable to threshold her to "viral" heights, which wasn't surprising given her unimpressive collection of "friends". Her disappointment that her grandiose fantasies would not be achieved was mild. Still, curious how it's done, this business of activism, she faces down the phone. Not her friend, never her friend. She lends her voice to the collective outrage of the moment. A simple task really, calling the congressional folks. The phone numbers provided by an action group that was successful, unlike hers. The shy protester prepares a script to make the odious task bearable. The area code (202) Washington D.C., connecting, no doubt, to some cubicle inside the Capitol Building. A stranger with no eye contact, no gesture, no smile that could be beguiling, nor furrowed brow, no speck of lint on the no collar, nor fingernails bitten to the quik. No real human connection save for a voice that could even be a recording.

"Hello, Congressman Issa's office, how may I help you?" The shy protester blanked. The script, where was the fucking script?