You might remember Lance and Norway. I said this story is about Alley and Downtown Eugene, but on a deeper level, this is a story about Lance and Norway. Right now, it’s story about something Norway said that planted itself in the core of my psyche.

When something really big is happening on a world-wide scale, those of us down on the streets can only experience it as a series of symbols. Sweeping, world-wide movements are too big for us to perceive whole. The economic meltdown was a symbol of something larger. The Patriot Act, the 2000 Presidential Election, The Iraq War are all symbols of a larger pattern. The zombie craze is a symbol; or Justin Bieber, or the Red Sox winning the World Series. They all add up to something different for each of us.

I was an English major in college. Back then, symbols lived in literature. The night I met him, twenty four years ago, Norway said something that brought symbols out into the real world.

This is a wicker man who burned in the town of Crow, back in the early 90's.

We were out on a beach near Big Sur, in the middle of the night. It was Memorial Day weekend, 1988.There was a big wicker man burning on a bonfire, and people were dancing and drumming and drinking and smoking. In the middle of all of that celebration, Lance was feeling mighty peeved. He and Raven were getting married. That’s why everybody was out on the beach that night. That made him the man of honor. That made it his weekend, and right in the middle of his weekend somebody went and lit up a sacrificial man.

Lance, Norway and I had just hitched a crazy ride in a VW Bus, with an even crazier driver. Then we hiked through the scrub oak in the dark, led on by the burning man. When we walked out onto the sand, Lance spazzed out. Even through the wine and the pot I understood his beef:. The wicker man is a symbol of a male sacrifice. Sometimes he’s made of straw, sometimes out of wood. He’s always meant to burn. Symbolically, he’s sort of like Jesus on the cross, but on a more bio-regional level.

Before I wandered off to investigate the festivities, I stood with Lance and Norway, in the heat of the burning man. Lance chewed on his lip while he stared up into the flames. He said to Norway, “It’s just a symbol, right?”

I didn't have a camera that night on the beach. I believe the community who burned this Man, was called Wise Acres.

“Dude.” Norway’s face flickered in the firelight. “Don’t give up your power.” When Lance didn’t respond, he said, “Know what I mean?”

“That it is just a symbol?” Lance asked.

“No.” Norway took Lance’s shoulders in his long arm. They were silhouetted in the fire. “You and Raven are making an agreement with Time and Space and, I don’t know, whatever Gods you worship.” Norway was having a personal talk with Lance, but at the same time he was pitching his voice so that the rest of us could hear. This put them both on stage. “I’m just saying you should negotiate from a position of strength. Not fear.”

“What fear?” Lance asked.

“Fear of symbols for one.” Norway took his arm off Lance’s shoulder and pivoted to face him. “Pandy lit up a wicker man on the night of your bachelor party. So what? Don’t be afraid to give your symbols power. You embrace your sacrifice and you control it.”

“Huh,” Lance said. “I guess so.”

“I know so,” Norway said.

Over the years since, I’ve damned near made my own personal religion out of that conversation. It’s filtered up and down the DNA chains of my psyche and reformatted the programming of my life. It’s broken the world around me into symbols and given me a sense of how to use them. Now, I would like, in a narrative fashion, to apply those lessons to the fight against the corporations.

Even when the odds seem insurmountable, they can be surmounted. Even when the opposition seems tougher than you, it might not be. So much of communication is the stuff that isn’t being said. In Occupy we have chosen to stand up to the forces that have taken over our government. That requires a new mindset that we as a culture don’t have.

I have never had a knife pulled on me before. Not in earnest. That slowed-down moment of peril is still imprinted on my brain: him flipping the knife out and it coming toward my eye. There was a moment while he was flipping his knife into stabbing position; I considered whether I should flee, or at least defend myself.

Another part of me watched the guy as he lunged awkwardly and drove the knife toward my left eye. I’ve worked security, and in group homes with mentally challenged adults; plus, I’ve raised kids. In all of my experience, there is usually some negotiating before outright violence. I clung to that belief as the knife came to a stop two or three inches from my eyeball.

“Get the fuck out of here,” he told me, “or I’m going to shank you.” I know that I squinted my left eye a little bit, but other than that I didn’t give him any response.

It was all about communication. He wanted me to leave. I wanted something more. I’m not certain what I wanted, but it encompassed much more than that kid and his girlfriend. I spend a lot of time these days thinking about how to prevail in this fight with the corporations. What I keep seeing is: it’s not even a fight. It’s just communication.

Because his knife wasn’t sticking in my eye, I knew that he didn’t want to stick it in my eye. I stopped worrying about the knife and shifted my attention to the guy behind it. I looked into his eyes. “Are you really going to do that?” I asked.

“Yeah,” he said as he quickly pulled the knife back. “I do it all the time.”

“You stab people all the time?” I asked him.

He slouched as he walked away. He was no master of the universe. He was just some dumb kid who didn’t know how to deal with his problems. I’m a middle-aged guy with plenty of uncertainty in my own life. We both live in a world where the odds are stacked against us, at levels we can’t even begin to comprehend.

In Occupy we are communicating. We don’t want our homes and financial security stolen from us. We want things that other countries have provided their population; things like health care and worker’s rights.

Forces that hope to make a profit from our financial insecurity get their hackles up when we point these things out. They get all threatening and scary-looking. It’s up to us to control our reaction. They are communicating fear and uncertainty. We need to communicate calm, certainty.

Knife guy went back to his girlfriend. She was still leaning against the wall, watching us. He ordered her back into his car.

She said, “No.”

He cursed us as he walked backward to his SUV. He told her she was going to have to find her own way home. She walked away from him, toward the front of the bar, like she was going to head up Sixth Avenue. Ultimately, though, I don’t think she wanted to walk home. She turned around and walked back to him.

In Occupy, we’ve discovered that when we march to close banks, we succeed. The banks will surround themselves with cops, but when we march up to their doors with signs and costumes, they lock their doors. There is a lot of bluster between Occupy, the cops and the corporations, just like there was between Knife guy and me. But once it was all done, he backed off.

Maybe that’s the lesson we as a nation need to learn: Sometimes all it takes is standing up.

I’m not a superhero. I don’t take action before second guessing that action. Then I third guess it, and fourth guess it, in case I missed something. I’m an underdog and I’ve been one all my life. Maybe that fact isn’t always clear to others, but it’s always been clear to me, and that’s what counts.

I come from a culture of underdogs; all of us barking, and none of us biting. So much so, it’s become a cultural habit. We are all underdogs. Even the people with the guns and the badges and the ones with really platinum plated checkbooks, are underdogs. None of us can stand up to the myth of the true American. We can’t all have celebrity good looks, master of the universe business acumen and NBA prowess. We all fall short of the goals our culture has set for us.

In order for us to be Americans, we have to continuously fall short of the standard by which Americans are measured. It’s the cross we all bear, quietly; hoping nobody sees it in us, but knowing that they do. America is a nation of superheroes, inhabited by underdogs.

That’s what makes it tough for us to stand up. We have all been convinced that there will always be somebody more qualified to stand up, than us. We have all been convinced that the superheroes who run our country have got it all figured out. There’s no need for us to step up and there is no point. How can we underdogs face down the superheroes?

Last Monday, I coasted my bike up to the couple, arguing behind the bar. I wasn’t thinking about superheroes and underdogs. All I knew was that I was watching a large man assaulting a smaller woman. As I approached them, I hoped that I wasn’t making a mistake.

He was dressed in a hoody and jeans. She had long, black hair and pale skin. Her red scarf looked a lot like the Occupy bandanna that I like to wear. He had her backed into a corner behind the bar.

It felt wrong, invading their space. I’m sure it was a personal matter, and they didn’t have the skills to solve it. I circled in close enough so that they knew I was there, and then out toward the people who had gathered for the show.

Was I making a mistake? I looked for clues in the crowd. Why weren’t any of them intervening. Did they know something I didn’t?

As I circled and pondered, she darted out of the corner and around toward the front of the bar. He chased her and grabbed her by the arm. I pedaled to keep up. As I rolled past them, he let her arm go. “Stop backing away from me,” he told her, as she backed away from him.

I stopped my bike and set my foot on the ground. “She’s backing away because she feels threatened,” I said. If I had to defend myself, I realized, I would have to do it while straddling my bike.

The angry guy turned to me and barked, “I’ll threaten you!” For the moment, he forgot about her. “What would you do if your girlfriend told you she was going to fuck some other guy? Said she was going to get in his car…” I had his attention, and I really didn’t want it. She stood against the wall and watched us. “So why don’t you butt the fuck out?” he yelled at me.

That was all the energy he had for me. He turned back to her. “I can’t,” I answered, “because you’re threatening a woman.”

He was shorter than me, and rounder and angry. He took a step toward me with his hand in his pocket. He flipped his butterfly knife out and around, and it occurred to me: ‘oh yeah, I could get stabbed too.’

Isn’t that how it always is for us underdogs? He had a knife, and all I had were words and good intentions. That’s us, always outgunned; always facing superior force. As I watched him flip out his knife, and as I saw it coming toward me, I hadn’t realized yet, that he was an underdog too.

There are people in Homeland Security, who are paid to watch Occupy Eugene. Which means, I belong to an organization being actively surveilled by federal cops. That’s still a rarefied space, but probably not for too much longer. When the ninja’s went marching downtown last week, a marked Homeland Security van showed up to watch them. I suppose it signals that we, as an activist organization, have arrived.

Homeland Security probably hasn’t hired anybody full time to watch Occupy Eugene. Maybe the agency has us on a watch list. We only get attention when their data crunching apparatus says we should be given attention. I don’t know how it all works, but I do know that Homeland Security cares about us. As an attention-hungry extrovert, I that gives me a certain degree of cheer.

Lance and I talked about cops, and rent-a-cops and Homeland Security while we walked around the Jantzen Beach Mall, last Black Friday. We were walking across the entryway, between the Target and the jewelers. Everywhere I looked, people were holding their copy of Lance’s flyer.

“I’m more afraid of Rent-a-cops than I am of real cops,” Lance said. We were walking toward Olvera; who was standing next to the jeweler’s, watching us. “Rent-a-cops don’t have nearly the type of restraints that real cops do.”

“They don’t have the power of the state behind them,” I pointed out.

“And they don’t have the limits of the state, either,” Lance said.

He was in the lead as we reached Olvera. “Do you know how to sing?” he asked her.

Olvera looked amused. “I’ve read your flyer,” she said with a smile..

She’s tall and solid. When I looked into her eyes, I remember thinking, ‘she’s too smart to be a rent-a-cop.’

“You’re planning on having a concert?” Olvera asked Lance. She had her arms crossed just under her badge, but she looked relaxed. She rocked back and forth on her right hip while she spoke.

“It’s more like opening up a radio frequency,” he said. “But once we get it open, I want to try that.”

“You want to get everybody to stop what they’re doing and sing with you?”

Lance shrugged. “Yeah.”

“In the whole mall?”

“Yeah.”

“If you do that,” Olvera stood up straighter, “the mall will charge you with trespassing and disturbing the peace.”

“Yeah. I know. That’s why I’m wearing the leash. To make it easy for you.”

Like most malls, Jantzen Beach has a large promenade stretching its length, filled with kiosks and lined with shops. In its heyday, most of those shop spaces were filled. Now, the majority of business has settled at one end of the mall. A patch of stores, with Target at one end and the food court and merry-go-round at the other end, get most of the foot traffic.

Santa sat at the center of the mall. Commercial ghost town on one side, thriving social space on the other. Lance and I hit the Target and filled up a cart with pop tarts and cup o’noodles. Before we left, he decided to take a quick lap around the store, “Looking for something symbolic.” He settled on a basketball. It was big, and it cost over $20, but it was Lance’s money.

After we left Target, Lance approached a group of teens gathered near the photo booth. “Hi there, Merry Christmas,” he said. I wouldn’t call Lance a charming individual, but I think the dog leash worked in his favor. All five of the kids seemed willing to talk. “Have you heard about mic-checking?”

“Yeah.” A tall, thin kid with a bandana on his head said, “They do it at Occupy Wall Street.”

“Right.” Lance opened his messenger bag and pulled out some flyers. He handed one to each of the kids, and one to me. It was a glossy flyer with a picture of Santa drinking a can of “Cope.”

“Back when Occupy Wall Street first took Zucotti Park, the NYPD wouldn’t let them have amplified sound. So, they figured out a way to amplify their voices by saying things as a group.” Everybody studied their flyers. “We’re going to do a Mic-Check here in the mall in a few minutes,” Lance told them. “So, when you hear somebody say, ‘Mic-check,’ you yell, ‘Mic-check. Then, just say what is written here. Got it?”

“Got it,” bandana kid replied.

“And we might do some singing…” Lance said.

“Cool.”

Back behind the elves’ shack, Lance handed out flyers to our crew. He sent about a third, including Jason, his kid, and the hippie chick down toward Ross, in the emptier part of the mall. He sent Virgil’s group back toward the Target entrance, and Merry’s group toward the food court. He told everybody else to wander with the crowd.

Lance had the whole thing figured out. I was impressed at how well he set up his action. As I was watching, I noticed Olvera noticing us. The first thing I noticed was her uniform: short sleeve, gray, with a badge and a utility belt. She stood by the back entrance to Target, watching us. Every now and again, she would tilt her head and speak into her radio.

Later on, I would realize that the whole action was all about Olvera, but just then, she was only a rent-a-cop to me.

Lance led us past the merry-go-round and into the food court at Jansen Beach. He walked backwards, at the front of our line, guiding us between tables covered in fast food. “Rate of change and simple math,” he called out. He was loud, he didn’t need us to mic-check it for him. People looked up from their burgers and tacos. “That’s what you all need to know: Rate of change and simple math.”

By the time he stopped moving, I had already slowed down. He stood relatively alone, at the edge of the dining area. “Rate of change,” he repeated, “and simple math.” Everybody was staring at the long-haired guy in the sweater vest, the dockers, and the dog leash.

“And one more thing:” Lance said. It had been ten years since I last saw him. I noticed that his face was more creased. It looked wind worn and tan. Nobody would mistake Lance for an office worker. “I want you all to remember, that if there are going to be amazing times, somebody has to live in them. It might as well be you.”

I’ve never known Lance to smile much, but he did then. I couldn’t tell if I believed him, or if his smile was part of the show. The smile slowly faded away as he surveyed the room. “Mark your calendars,” he said, then he nodded at me, turned and strolled on into the mall.

He was moving at a pretty good clip, so it took a couple storefronts for me to catch up. “What was that all about?” I asked.

“I was just updating their operating systems.”

“That’s what that was about?”

“Yeah.”

I remembered: Lance always did like being on the upside of an inside joke. “I don’t get it,” I said.

He turned to look at me as we stopped in front of Santa. “Yeah.” Lance said. “The update doesn’t install until you re-boot.” He walked around to the back of the elves’ shack, off to the side of Santa’s throne. We all followed.

“Alright everybody,” Lance waved us all into a semi-circle. He stood with his back to Santa and the elves. “I’ve got one hundred dollars.” He produced five twenty dollar bills. “Each group gets twenty bucks.” He handed bills to Jason and Merry. “Buy things in big packaging. Be sure to get at least two bags of stuff.” He gave Virgil a twenty, and he gave one to a hippie chick. He gave the last one to couple of older gals in matching sweaters. “We meet back here in half an hour.”

I ran into my old buddy Lance, when I was up in Portland for Thanksgiving. I wasn’t surprised. Lance is one of the people who naturally gather in Norway’s wake. Whenever Norway enters my life, like clockwork, Lance will not be far behind. We never seek each other out, either. There’s an invisible hand that nudges us toward each other. This time, up in Portland, Lance was doing a Black Friday People’s Mic workshop.

As the busiest shopping day of the year, Black Friday gets its name for no sinister reasons. Legend tells it, that particular Friday is black because: financially, that’s the day most retail businesses go into the black for the year. It’s become a cultural holiday on par with the Super Bowl. Nobody gets time off from work, and the mail gets delivered, but we all know that something special is going on that day. People make plans for that day. They save up money for that day.

All of which is why it has become a target. Black Friday is the collar tied to the chain that we keep getting yanked by.

Lance showed up out at the parking lot of the Jantzen Beach mall, wearing a metal dog collar and leash. Otherwise, he was nicely dressed. His brown hair was combed back and tied in a pony tail. He didn’t have any rings in his lips. There were around twenty of us, gathered between the packed rows of cars. We were dressed for our best; cleaned and coiffed.

Merry introduced herself as “Merry with an E.” Jason brought his kid, Noah. Virgil called himself an old hippie, but he was clean shaven and wearing a polo shirt. I would have mistaken him for middle management.

“The cops aren’t the enemy,” Lance told us. A cool wind was blowing steadily off of the Columbia River. It wasn’t a warm day. “People who tell us to ‘get a job,’” Lance said, “haven’t learned the secret yet.”

Right on cue, Jason asked, “What’s the secret?” He was kind of short, wearing rumpled jeans and a hoody. I don’t think he dressed special for the occasion.

“The secret is: you can join us now, or you can join us later.” Lance played with the leather wrist loop at the end of his leash. “One way or another, it’s going to happen. But, we could really use your help now.”

Okay Norway. You want me to start writing. I want me to start writing too. Right up until this last Spring I was churning out work. I was writing about May, 1988. The weekend you and your friends lit up that wicker man on the beach. Back when you all first entered my life. I’ve probably written over a hundred thousand words about it, and it still doesn’t make sense.

I want to write. I’ve got this great Occupy story sitting right and front of me. I want to write about it, but I can’t seem to get it started. Maybe that’s because the story is bigger than Occupy.

If you didn’t catch my earlier post, Norway is Norway Hansford and he thinks we live in a work of fiction. Sometimes I buy into this philosophy. Like when I’m doing exciting things, I buy into it. When I’m at Occupy Eugene, I buy into it. Then there’s all the time when I’m not doing exciting things. If I’m not doing exciting things, why would somebody want to write about me?

That’s where the whole “we all live in a work of fiction” idea breaks down for me. How many of us are living lives that somebody else is going to write about? At best our lives are fit for a highlight reel. We have a number of exciting moments, but not in any cohesive narrative arc. Maybe we are ultimately a collection of short stories.

That’s the problem I have with Norway’s theory. I’m willing to accept that he is living in a work of fiction. It’s his theory after all. He can believe anything he wants. Who am I to say he’s wrong? That means Norway is in my world, living a work of fiction. There are times when we are hanging out that I believe him. The stories he tells, and the things that happen when he’s around; sometimes I think that the crazy circus he has orbiting around him has got to be fictional.

He clearly thinks it’s fictional.

Maybe you see my problem. If Norway is living in a work of fiction, and he believes it, and I believe it, what does that make me? Norway is very comfortably seated right in the center of the story. He’s in the story about Norway, living in a work of fiction. If I ignore him, than he’s the crazy guy who believes he’s living in a work of fiction. That doesn’t have any impact on my life. But, as soon as I accept his fictionality, even a little bit, I’m in the story with him.

I’m the guy off to the side of the story who doesn’t completely believe Norway. I’m an incidental character. My story is really just a point of reference on Norway’s story. Which is perfectly fine if Norway is a crank and I don’t care what he believes. As soon as I accept that I might live in a world where Norway is living a work of fiction, I’m in that world too. But I don’t want to be an incidental character.

All of which gets me back to the assignment Norway gave me. I have to start writing it all down. According to Norway, eventually the fiction will become so irresistible, it will pull itself into reality. It’s all tied in with Heisenberg’s Uncertainty Principle. How each atom only pops into existence when we choose to make it pop into existence.

Norway will tell you all about it, if you can find him. In the meantime, I’ll take the assignment. Narrator, at least, is a better assignment than incidental character.