Shantih Journal 3.1 | Page 109

​​ o they marched the next morning, a tattered band. Three of them on canes or S limping, while trying to hold up homemade signs: CORPORATE GREED; DON’T TAKE OUR HOMES; SAVE SPANISH RETREAT. And, despite Gil’s objections, there was Clara’s beat-up placard, probably left over from some long-forgotten labor battle: POWER TO THE PEOPLE. ​ nrique wore a beret, and his guitar hung at his side. He walked in a stoop, his E head thrust forward, like a myopic turtle. He held an old Spanish flag, like a torn red-and-yellow hanky on a stick . Enrique had told of marching with that flag in Manhattan as a kid in the 1930’s, on May Day—they’d been pelted with tomatoes and eggs by fascist sympathizers. ​ uddenly Gil stopped walking, just where the scarred road yielded to smooth S paving, a border separating the old street from the new. Beyond were flat lots, and the wooden skeletons of growing houses. A large sign read Coming Soon, Escorial Shores. They had named the new seaside development after a pious king’s fortress in the middle of dry Castile. To Gil, this was offensive in a number of ways. F ​ rom the large unfinished structures came the echoing sounds of nails confidently driven. Gil felt more disheartened with each sharp bang. It seemed the others did too--heads dropped down, placards were lowered—except for Carla’s. She began to chant: “Stop the building! Save our homes! Stop the building! Save our homes!” Gradually, they all took up the chant, even Rosa and Enrique. As Gil watched Carla’s reddening face as she screamed at the distant men, he felt some of the old ire and hope rising in him. As their chants continued, Gil saw one of the workmen stop in the middle of a conversation and look their way. A glance, at first, then a long stare, and he began striding toward them. He was a stocky man in blue jeans and a checked-pattern shirt of the sort Gil was wearing himself. Gil disliked the man’s red, round face and the smile on it, but as he got closer Gil could see he wasn’t as young as he’d appeared at first: hair graying, face lined and more puffy than robust. The smile looked uneasy. He was, Gil realized, a guy doing his job, or trying. “You folks again,” the man said. Gil stepped up, extended a hand. 109