A Story for the Dirty Hippies of Occupy Wall Street #ows

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My banker makes me a fresh pot of coffee, asks me to sit for a while and chat. This has become our ritual. I stop in to deposit a few donation checks; we get to chatting.

He asks me about current politics, what I think about this or that issue, what’s the history of this or that news story he heard.

He always asks me, eventually, if I think “real change” will ever come to the United States.

I tell him that change can only happen when we face the big picture problems: a standard of living dependent on oil that isn’t cheap or abundant anymore, and an energy addiction that will create a climate Hell on Earth—just in time for my twilight years, and just in time for our fossil fuels to run out with no viable alternatives.

“This weather is fucking crazy, Charles!” my banker shouts, picking up on that part of the point and gesturing out his plate glass window. And we just sit there, two middle-aged men, sipping our coffee in silence, shaking our heads at the Summer/Fall weather of Spring in New Jersey. And I try not to laugh out loud, I force myself not to madly cackle at reality, when my banker leans in and asks me, whispers, so his boss won’t hear:

“So, tell me,” his head nods, eyes brighten, an enthusiastic smile, “how are things going with Occupy Wall Street?”

Oh yeah, I think, shaking my head, those “dirty hippies” haven’t made a difference—not at all.

 

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