He stood firmly on top of the bluff, looking out over a wide ocean of grain. He opened the film canister and emptied its contents into his hand: a piece of shredded paper on which a childish poem had been written; a scattering of sequins from his last birthday party; and a handful of thistle seeds gathered the night before on a whim. The wind brushed his sandy hair against his forehead, and he held his arm aloft with the solemnity that only a twelve-year-old child can muster. "Go forth and multiply!" he shouted, his thin voice quickly lost in the wind, and thrust his hand into the air.
Michael Prout may have grown a hundredfold in nearly every way since that afternoon on the bluff, but he remained susceptible to overdramatic gestures for his entire life. This was occasionally well-received, as it was on the day he asked Cassie Taylor to the spring formal (employing 23 balloons of various colors, a school janitor, the principal, and a handpicked set of Carrie's closest friends who would otherwise have had a much less interesting fourth period).
On other occasions, however, it was nothing short of disastrous.
"You can't back out now," Michael said to Gordon. "We've been planning this for months."
"I just don't know that it's such a good idea," Grover said, twisting his arm out of Michael's grasp. Michael eyes blazed.
"Should have thought of that yesterday, huh? Or even in the van on the way over. Not here, not now. Take the paint." As Grover opened his mouth to argue, Michael thrust the bucket into his arms.
They walked over to the maintenance stairwell, and Grover jimmied the lock reluctantly. It wasn't very secure; it had only the basic security measures, more of a tradition than anything else, because nobody could discover any immediate reason to break into a parking garage. Michael had thought of one. The Google Earth satellites would be passing over to update their imagery that very night, and it provided a convenient podium from which to address the world.
As a college freshman, turning eighteen the summer before leaving home, Michael had been filled with elation at his long-awaited election to the voting elite. But a week later, when he calculated the odds, he found that a single vote couldn't possibly change the outcome. In all likelihood, he realized, the weight of voting errors would easily drown out his single patriotic vote, no matter how well-considered. Upon this thought he founded his decision to protest the system in a big way.
When he talked to Gordon, his friend and partner-in-crime agreed that political protest was very much a part of the American way of life. And so they were in business. Gordon, however, had some idea of a protest march or an awareness campaign, or something. But Michael couldn't think his way out of the prank mentality. As usual, he overrode Gordon's objections with a casual wave of his hand.
"Oh, come on, Gordon. Protests haven't meant anything since Vietnam. Today, you see all these 'Vegans against the Oppression of Cattle' signs that have more to do with the identity of the groups holding them than with whatever it is they're protesting. It’s pitiful."
They made it to the top of the stairwell, Gordon carrying the giant buckets of black paint, and Michael carrying an armful of mops. When they came out onto the top level of the parking lot, he breathed in the cool night air. The twinkling stars felt to him a good omen. He looked at Gordon and whispered, "Let's get to work."
Michael daubed his message across the parking spaces with broad, bold strokes. Gordon lugged the buckets after him, for Michael to use when his mop went dry. The letters, visible from high altitudes, spelled out the message, "YOUR VOTE IS A MISCOUNT." It would probably be discovered by Google Maps fanatics before the week was out. They kept a careful eye on cities because there was more action there in a much smaller space. He stood back to gaze at his handiwork. Gordon twitched at every small sound of the night-time city. Whenever a police siren rose in chase of some quarry, he would look absolutely terrified. Michael looked at him with disgust.
"Only one more thing to do," he said.
"What? I thought that was all." They hadn't discussed this part of the plan. Michael had thought Gordon would be less than thrilled with it.
"We need to make sure nobody parks on our message before noon."
Gordon looked near to fainting. "H—How are you going to do that?" he asked.
"You'll see," said Michael. "Bring the paint." He ran to the stairwell and flew down it. Gordon came a few flights behind.
When Gordon caught up, they were on the first level. Michael had opened the operator's booth that took the money from clients leaving the garage. He took one bucket from Gordon and doused the register and operating panel with the remaining paint. He ran to the ticket dispenser on the incoming driveway and covered that with the leftovers from the other bucket. Now, the garage would be out of order for at least the day.
Another siren rose above the background noise. Michael and Gordon ran to the stairwell, and let themselves out. As they ran to the van, the police car pulled up behind it.
"Is this your van?" asked the officer. And with sinking hearts they knew it was over. "Is this your black paint?" The officer pointed to the buckets Gordon held in his hands. "You're going to have to come with me."
I would like to say that Michael Proust learned his lesson that day. Gordon certainly did. But Michael was doomed to repeat his mistakes for the rest of his days.