Eric Stepansky
An Insurrection
Dear Neighbor,
Blue, Red, Green, Yellow
Grey not pink, not blue, not green, not yellow, not any other godforsaken color. In my eyes, the world is nothing but grey. The taxis, the roads, the buildings, the lights, the pavement, the people, nothing but grey.
I used to see the colors; the bright lights doing the sun's work during the night; in fact, I used to enjoy the colors. Hopping into Lior's, a coworker of mine, if you could call what he does work, dark-green minivan, invariably stopping at a red light for far too long, proceeding when the light turned green, passing young women in bright dresses and young men in blue business suits, the drive to work every morning was always filled with color. Not anymore. No more colors, only grey.
Red; I used to love red. Bright fire trucks racing down busy streets with the bravest men in the city at their helm. Apples whose skin is too tough to chew; yet the way they slept in that bowl on my grandmother's dining room table brought life to an otherwise deathly home. Blood; the blood of a girl who fell and scraped her knee while learning to ride her brand-new, shiny bicycle. Red can be exhilarating; the lips of a woman who makes your heart stop, your mouth open, and your penis stand up, damn I used to love red.
Green too; green gets a bad rap sometimes but it's just extraordinarily misunderstood. Leaves that can brighten any scene; the blades of grass that remind you how incredible nature can be; green is the voice of our earth; we must love it, cherish it, and protect it. The almighty dollar; the lubricant that allows Jeff, while sitting in his underwear and eating a popsicle at home in Pierre, South Dakota, to buy an AC/DC t-shirt from Thomas, who in turn is sitting in his underwear at home in his London flat, only Thomas prefers handfuls of cashews and also wears his slippers for the floors get cold during this time of the season.
Blue; never had a thing for blue, but always respected its authority. The bastard writing you a ticket as you run with fistfuls of quarters ready to argue to no avail. But I don't want to talk about him. --- I don't want to talk about any of this. Just thinking of the colors makes me miss them that much more.
So no colors; don't feel bad for me; worse things can happen far worse we'll get to those later. As a matter of fact, I don't even like colors; the world is simpler, clearer in tones of grey. For some godforsaken reason, I say godforsaken a lot, on December 12, the colors stopped. There I go again about the stupid colors; can't I discuss anything else? Anyway, there's nothing I hate more than listening to a story and not knowing a thing about the person telling it. That's just me, I guess I'm kind of nosey in that way; I like to know about people's lives, I like to get a read on 'em the funny thing: I don't really care about what I learn or find out, it just entertains me for those few short moments.
Hi
"Keep moving ladies and gentlemen, please keep moving," over and over again, day by day, I would utter these words continuously. No one ever listened to me; what did I know? I was just a security guard. Hey, at least I was a security guard at one of the most highly guarded and dangerous airports in the world, at least I had that distinction; at least I wasn't some ordinary security guard. I guess I might as well tell you the name of it, just in case you were interested; well, here it goes, I was a security guard at Ben Gurion International Airport in Israel, the largest, busiest, and probably most targeted airport in the country. Trained in krav-maga, intelligence, and armed, my job was to keep all airport patrons safe and sound. I loved my job, as tedious and boring as it was sometimes. To tell you the truth, I always thought a terrorist or suicide bomber would never attack the airport; Hamas wanted to kill Israelis, they wouldn't risk harming people from other countries in fear of a global backlash, and what do airports have a lot of? Well, they have a lot of people from other countries; so basically, at least in my meager security guard opinion, I was there mostly for show. Checking bags, combing through makeup cases, wallets with baby pictures, and providing a sense of safety; that's what I did best.
"Ariel, do you realize that dangerous men with automatics will have to stand in this exact spot, and guard this airport, until the end of time, men just like us? Doesn't that just sound like the saddest news ever?" Whenever we pulled door-duty, Lior would constantly talk my ear off; politics, his sister's Palestinian boyfriend whom his family disapproves of, his fianc whom his family dislikes as well, but for other reasons, the crap his dog leaves on his carpet, his fianc wanting another dog, on and on; door-duty was a guard's worst nightmare, but with Lior sharing the shift, it was hell.
That's it, more or less, born in Tel-Aviv, did my stint in the Force, and now the king of Ben Gurion International Airport, a king with a walkie-talkie and handcuffs. My parents moved to Israel after the War, you know, the War; the one that killed 6,000,000 Jews; I guess they figured if we all went to one place, packed in like sardines, no one would bother us. Anyway, I've only left Israel once; it was a trip to New York and one of those damned yellow taxis nearly killed me; I had a great time though the women, yes the women, they were incredible.
Insurrection?
It was morning and I couldn't wait to get to the park; it was my first day off in a while and I had planned a volleyball match with several friends. Friends, volleyball, beer, maybe some women, I had been anticipating this day for quite some time. That morning did not work out as planned. I woke up full of anticipation, the anticipation quickly turned to anxiety.
"Ariel! Turn on the television! Ariel!" Jacob, my older neighbor, a widower who constantly berated me with requests for moving furniture, fixing leaks, and other such nonsense young men are supposed to be good for, was usually a soft-spoken man. My first thought was that another bombing had occurred; what I did not expect was to turn on the television and to see what was being broadcast. Lior's picture was on the television and images of ambulances and injured people were all over every channel. After minutes of confusion and shock, I began to listen closely to what was being said. Apparently, a group of men had orchestrated a bombing on the Likud headquarters; Likud, the center-right political party of Israel surely had enemies; however, what had me frozen in my seat and in quite a daze was what they were saying about Lior. Security cameras had caught three men wearing masks storming the headquarters in the wee hours of the morning; the three men sped down the street bordering the building, opened their windows, and began heaving approximately seven hand-grenades at the front door and surrounding areas. Lior was a suspect, one of the three masked men.
It just didn't make any sense. Lior was born in Israel; his father had fought on the border against Egypt, his uncles are heroes of the Yom Kippur War. The newswoman kept discussing Lior as though he was some sort of terror mastermind and how the government suspected he was secretly working for Hamas for many years. The man who I spent countless hours working with, driving with, laughing with, and speaking with was now the most wanted man in the country. All of our colleagues and supervisors knew we spent a lot of time together; it would only be a matter of time before I received the phone call.
"Ariel Murstein, we would like you to come in to answer some questions about Lior Druskin, your coworker." The call came at 6:00 A.M. the following morning; clearly these people weren't big on getting eight hours of sleep. If the reports were true and the news outlets were, in fact, right about Lior, I wanted him caught as fast as possible. I put on my only pressed suit and marched out of the apartment in a hurry. I had decided to walk to the police interview as the office was only six blocks away and walking was probably much faster than hailing a taxi during the morning rush. I walked quickly, passing the local bakery, I enjoyed the intoxicating smell; the flower shop across the street was just opening and the line at the breakfast stand was tremendous. Surprisingly, I was very attentive and noticed many details in the neighborhood during the brisk walk. It was around the fourth block that I had noticed something rather peculiar. There was a black van with a paintbrush logo on the outside. A man, dressed in overalls, was leaning against the van and smoking a cigarette. The peculiarity of the situation lied in the fact that there were no open businesses on this corner; if this man was getting ready to paint this morning, he was definitely in the wrong location. Some people say I am too friendly, too helpful, and even too curious; "Sure you in the right place sir?" When I asked him the question, he pulled a photograph out of his pocket, took a look, and his eyes lit up. "Ariel Murstein?" The random painter on the corner knew my name; I confirmed that the name belonged to me and the rest, well the rest gets a bit fuzzy from there. "How do you know my name?" As soon as I uttered these words, the van's sliding door flew open; three men in painting overalls came out and circled me quite casually. The smoking painter pulled a small handgun out and told me to get into the van. With the gun still drawn, they blindfolded me and away we went.
Insurrection!
"Ariel! I'm so glad you're here. Take that thing off his face guys! Come on, I told you he's one of us. Did they treat you okay?" The brightly lit room burned my eyes; still in shock, quite a bit nauseous from the bumpy ride, and scared out my wits, I was glad, yet cautious, to see Lior's familiar grin. "I'm sorry about the blindfold and all that stuff, but we had to make sure that you'd come." I politely nodded and eyed the crew who had, in essence, kidnapped me and brought me here. To be perfectly honest, I didn't know where "here" was; I had absolutely no idea where I was; maybe a large storage warehouse or something of the sort; brightly lit, that was for sure. The men, still armed, hung around as though we were all at some local bar; they laughed, joked, smoked cigarettes, and acted as though they hadn't just kidnapped a man off of the street in broad daylight. Lior led me to a small room with a desk and two chairs where we could talk privately.
"It's happening Ariel; for the past seven years, we have been putting together an organization, a group of individuals who are unhappy with the hard-line stance the government of Israel has taken. We believe it is a stance and position that will never allow peace to prosper; it will hold us in captivity forever. Don't believe everything the reporters are saying in the newspapers and on television. We are not out to hurt anyone; we want to bring about change peacefully." I couldn't believe what I was hearing; what Lior was describing was a full-out revolution, however cloaked in a warped sense of logic. "Lior, you know full well the hawks in the government will not go down without a fight and more bombings will only help them paint you as terrorists to the public. I don't agree with what you're doing; you're going about it in the wrong way." I paused for a moments and Lior glared at me, maintaining a confident grin throughout. "And what the hell am I doing here anyway? What do I have to do with this?" I erupted as I realized that simply speaking to Lior could land me in prison for the rest of my life. "Ariel, I didn't want to include you in this. I realize what you're saying is true, but the bombings are tremendous statements; an insurrection of the magnitude we are trying to achieve is not possible with only words; actions are necessary. We are willing to do whatever it takes. As far as you're concerned, I am sorry to bring you here, I didn't want to get you involved. Unfortunately, after the first statement against the headquarters, they somehow fingered me as a suspect; apparently someone in the organization slipped and my name was thrown out there. I'm going to tell you something that you won't want to hear. Are you ready?" My heart was pounding, the "statements" he was referring to put people's lives in danger; mothers, fathers, children, sisters, brothers, people lives were at stake and he didn't seem to realize this crucial fact. "Say what you have to say," I told him.
"As I said Ariel, I didn't want to get you involved; however, since I am now probably the most wanted man in Israel, they have obviously taken away my job at the airport and my security clearance. Our next target is our airport, where we worked together and became good friends. Like I said, I lost my security clearance to get in; we need your help." A main aspect of defining terrorism includes instilling fear and terror into the minds of civilians in an effort to make them resigned to the fact that change is coming. This man had the audacity to ask me to support a terrorist act of violence that could, and most like would, kill innocent civilians. I wouldn't do it; I told him absolutely not and told him to take me home. He tried to convince me, but I wouldn't have any of it; I insisted he take me home immediately and I gave him my word that I would not talk to the police. The smoking painter and his handgun drove me home, blindfolded once again.
Two weeks went by; Lior was still on the run and I had not told anyone about what had happened for I was afraid Lior's men would find me. Quietly, I prayed and hoped that the organization would be unable to accomplish it's goals; maybe they had given up on their silly revolutionary antics, maybe they had realized that dangerous acts are not a necessity at this moment in time. My prayers went unanswered. It was almost noon and I was stationed at gate four at the airport; my shift had just begun an hour earlier; fatigue had not yet started to settle in. It seemed like any other day in the airport; children walking by, trying to keep pace with their hurried parents, elderly gentleman being pushed around in wheelchairs by elderly airport employees, and so it went. The regularity of it all even took my mind off of Lior for a few moments; and as soon as I began falling into my daily routine once again, I noticed a young man, couldn't have been older than twenty-five, seated across the hall. He had no bag and seemed a bit nervous; you know, fists clenched, a bit sweat on his lip and constantly looking around. He saw me approaching when he pulled a notepad out of his jacket pocket; he scribbled something down on the pad. "Excuse me sir, may I see your boarding pass?" He stood up, shivering, he looked me in the eyes "Lior is sorry to have involved you; it would be best for you to leave the country immediately." He handed me the note and ran off; I was frozen, I couldn't move; why was Lior doing this?
"10 Minutes Channel 6!" I couldn't wait for 10 minutes, I turned to one of the televisions at the gate waiting area and made sure it was on the right channel. Sports, weather, the result of a local tennis match, I knew that if Lior wanted me to watch the news, something horrible was going to happen. And there it was: "BREAKING NEWS: Explosion Outside of Government Offices." I watched, listening intently, thankfully, no one had been injured and the fires were put out within minutes. And then it happened; the newswoman announced that the leader of a group had taken responsibility for the attack; filled with anticipation, I waited for Lior's photograph to pop up once again. However, Lior was nowhere to be found; I fell into a chair, staring at the screen with my mouth open and my mind racing. The photograph on Channel 6, depicting the leader of a terrorist group, responsible for these bombings, was a photograph of Ariel Murstein, me!. Video was released of my meeting with Lior and the men wielding guns in the warehouse; the video, with no audio, made it seem as though we were just chatting away; the newswoman predicted that the video was the scene of our planning this bombing. I ran to the bathroom, ripped my nametag off of my uniform and vomited for what seemed like eternity. I ran through the airport, avoiding my superiors and fellow employees and caught a taxi to my house. The police would have never believed me; I had to pack and get out of the country immediately. As I ran up the stairs to my apartment; I didn't bother unlocking my door; I simply ran right through it. "Welcome home Ariel! Please, calm down." Lior was sitting on my couch in the living room. "What have you done to me? What have you done to my life?" I yelled. "Like I told you before, the Insurrection has begun Ariel. And now you are in the heart of the fire." Without thinking, I pulled my weapon and pointed it at Lior. "I am the only man who can help absolve you of your new reputation, you can't kill me my friend." My mind was racing, I didn't know what the next steps were, I didn't know where this path would lead, but I did know that anger had taken over common sense; I wanted all of this to end; I wanted everything to be back to normal; I pulled the trigger. Lior sat on my couch, blood dripping from his head, motionless; not only did I just plan a bombing on a Government building, I had just killed a man in my living room.
Running didn't last very long; I made it an hour away from town when six vehicles surrounded me, and what seemed like three thousand men pointed semi-automatic weapons at me. I know I killed Lior; but the son of a bitch really deserved it. Jail isn't such a bad place; the food is okay and working out has never been more accessible; I don't mind being here for Lior's death; I do mind, however, that the whole country thinks I am some sort of left-wing terrorist bomber. I'll get out of here soon though; I already have a plan my friend. When I leave, the colors will return; for now though, in this god-forsaken prison - no colors, no colors at all, only grey. Will you help me escape? Your cell is precisely below a staircase that leads to the roof.
Sincerely,
Your Neighbor,
Ariel Murstein