Sheriff’s deputies have seized Ric’s restaurant and the adjacent storefront clinic. They wouldn’t let the LES DIY take their stuff. Stores of food and beverages and medical supplies are missing—stolen by the landlord and his state goons. They’re probably parading around in my protective gear, right arms twitching, braying about order.
The NYPD showed up in riot gear so the First Amendment wouldn’t be exercised. They carried writs that threatened to arrest Anna and the LES DIY doctors for “operating an unlicensed medical facility” and for “operating an unpermitted place of assembly that serves as a public inducement to gather, thereby spreading disease.” Sounds like those public schools they’ve stuffed with sick and hopeless New Yorkers on cots.
They busted Bruno, the tattooed drummer and delivery coordinator. He turns out to have been wanted for years on some old pot charges.
Someone went to a lot of trouble to obliterate a volunteer community service in the middle of a national catastrophe. Incomprehensible.
Anna intends to continue preparing food from her tiny apartment. She can’t stomach the thought of telling the old folks and little ones that they’re on their own. They’re her grandparents, aunts, uncles, cousins—some sick, others merely weak, all helpless. It’s not just about food or doctors. She doesn’t want these people to feel alone.
She’s lovely in battle, even when hopelessly outgunned. I want to share peace with her. We’ve both survived H5N1. If we can endure how other people respond to it, a grand future awaits us.