Florida Man Fails Anti-Lockdown Protest, Amber Deane-Johns, Imogen Day and Dylan Winward

Florida Man Fails Anti-Lockdown Protest

by Amber Deane-Johns, Imogen Day and Dylan Winward

3:23am

The cursor blinked at Jack as he stared at the empty search bar on the computer screen, hands hovering over the keyboard as he prepared to launch himself into the sea of results his next words would bring up.

Protest lockdown Florida he typed, hitting enter with an over dramatic tap to finish off the phrase. The page loaded sluggishly, desperately trying to connect to the website through the next-door neighbour’s WiFi, until one by one the results popped up below the search bar.

Jack clicked through several pages, scrolling through countless threads titled in angry capitals with a few too many exclamation marks, protesting the authorities and their fictitious virus. The further from the first page he went, the lower the risk of the protest being discovered and broken up early on by the police. A thread titled ‘JOIN THE REBELLION. JACKSONVILLE BEACH’ caught Jack’s eye, a refuge from the multitude of exclamation marks in the results above and below. Jacksonville Beach was a short bus ride from his apartment and the short description below seemed legitimate, rather than a thread obviously fabricated by the government to catch protesters breaking lockdown law. Clicking onto the page, Jack scrolled through the few comments that were already there, checking the time and exact place of the protest, before typing his name in the chat box to sign himself up, promising to show up at 3pm later that day. There were only a couple of usernames officially signed up, but many more had liked the original comment on the thread and would probably turn up for the protest anyway.

Making sure he’d read all the information he needed, Jack closed the tab and mindlessly entered into the world of conspiracy theories, resigning himself to watching video

after video explaining how the government was hiding aliens from the public and making up fake viruses to keep people indoors. Nearly two hours later, Jack found himself with his head lying on the table next to a video claiming that Finland doesn’t exist. He sat up and rubbed his eyes tiredly, wondering grimly how many videos he’d slept through. Closing the lid of his computer, he looked around at his dingy apartment, the streetlights shining dimly through his thin, moth-eaten curtains. Knowing he couldn’t spend the day sleeping, Jack made his way to bed, not bothering to change out of his clothes before he collapsed, exhausted, onto his thin mattress.

Jack was woken up by a heated argument in the street in front of his apartment block. He recognised the woman’s shrill voice as Mrs Williams’ who lived on the first floor, clearly kicking her husband out of the house for the third time that month. He rolled over to look at the clock by his bed which gave him the unwelcome message that it had just passed 2 o’clock in the afternoon. He swore under his breath, remembering that he had to be at the beach in less than an hour.

Groaning, he slowly heaved himself out of bed and groggily made his way to the kitchenette in the next room and over to the rumbling fridge in the corner. Jack grabbed a jar of pickles and the last slice of plasticky cheese from the top shelf, leaving the fridge bare except for a half empty carton of longlife milk. Finally, he picked up the last two slices of bread from the food bank making a luxury sandwich with two slices instead of the usual one sliced ‘open sandwich’ he ate to save food. He would drop by the food bank for his weekly basket of food after the protest.

Chewing on his sandwich, Jack walked back into his bedroom, crumbs trailing behind him as he opened his wardrobe and pulled out the few clothes that were hung up there in order to get to the cardboard boxes at the back. Putting his sandwich on his bed, he lifted out the first box and tipped its contents out onto the floor, sitting down beside them. This was the fruit of Jack’s hard work over the past 7 years.

In all his 25 years, especially ever since he’d aged out of the care system, he’d never been able to hold down a job for longer than a few weeks, but had just about managed to get by on the money he made from pickpocketing and stealing from the bustling crowds of tourists that swarmed the streets and beaches of Jacksonville. The contents of this cardboard box (as well as the two others) consisted of wallets and handbags and even some clothes that he hadn’t yet managed to sell on.

For the past couple of months, Jack had had to rely on cash that he’d missed when he’d originally rifled through the stolen wallets, as the social distancing measures had forced him to take a break from his job due to the high risk of being caught. That was why he was joining this protest, so he could start to earn some money again.

Fortunately, when he’d turned 18, his last foster mother had bought him the apartment he now lived in, so he didn’t have to worry about rent. He’d also managed to bypass the neighbours’ electricity meter so that he could use their energy. He used very little of it anyway, keeping the lights off most of the time and only using the heat-

ing in the very depths of winter; the Florida weather leant itself well to a life without heating. Despite all the money he managed to save, the occasional time he would need to buy something, the cash from his adventures through crowds was necessary. Times like today when he needed $2 for a bus ride. A ten-minute rummage through all three boxes made Jack 5 dollars richer and he left his apartment feeling triumphant, just in time to catch the bus that would take him fifteen minutes down the road to Jacksonville Beach.

I’m not normally allowed to talk to people I’ve met on the internet, let alone meet up with them, but I think my parents would allow it if they knew our mission. Coronavirus has absolutely ruined my life! I can’t see my friends, or leave my house, and senior prom has been cancelled! So I’m taking the matter into my own, capable hands; I am protesting.

Over the past few days, while I was meant to be browsing Google Classroom for schoolwork, I was browsing Reddit. I would normally never dare go on such a weird site, but as desperate times make for desperate measures, it was my last resort. Meeting up outside is now illegal (ish) and a hardened criminal would never post a picture on Instagram or VSCO, so I braved what is practically the dark web to find someone who I could meet up with to help me get my prom and life back through protest. I read the text about what the protest would involve: we’re wearing black shirts so we look unified, and we’ll meet at 3pm on Miami Beach. I read the comments of my fellow protestors, my fellow right-minded individuals, and I felt excited; the protest - unlike coronavirus- was real. I saw some fellow goth-look supporters, a man and woman in the designated black shirts walking towards me. I’m embraced awkwardly by what I can only describe as some guy. I’m scared. Could it be a paedophile, looking to take advantage of a young person like myself? Stepping back, I am not relieved: it’s a youngish man who gives off a college dropout vibe from him. But what do I say? I’m rendered speechless. I really don’t know how to act around people I don’t know, I literally just talk to other kids in my microcosmic high school and then the occasional boy near me on the Snapchat map.

I gather my thoughts and tell myself my usual mantra of ‘You’re being an idiot, Fiona!’ in my head. I need to lead with something not so awkward, but as he greeted me with a hug first, do I really need to be overthinking it? He clearly has no standards. In the emotionless monotone of a Starbucks employee, I say ‘Hi, my name’s Fiona. And you are?’

Congratulations, self, you officially made yourself look like an idiot in front of this guy who you don’t even know and this other girl who’s come to stand with you. I had been wrong to think that this guy was the paedophile I was meeting, as looking at this new chap, it is certainly him. A textbook internet predator, the epitome of ‘over-enthusiastic’. He looks so normal, so there is definitely something fishy going on behind the scenes.

Why did I sign up for this? How could I have been so stupid? We stand as a trio for a few seconds until the new one breaks the silence. ‘So, I’m Dylan, and, erm, you are?’. He pockets his phone.

‘Fiona,’ I say. I don’t continue, aside from my name and views on Lockdown, what more do they need to know about me?

The first guy says ‘Jack.’ You can hear the full stop, making it clear that both he and I agree that we’re here for a purpose, not for niceties.

Then, the silence hands in the air like the supposed germs. We collectively realise we have nothing more to say, and so much for the protest! It’s mind-numbingly obvious we are the only people who’ve shown up, despite the thread having hundreds of viewers, and people commenting that they’re looking forward to it. Now, it looks as though the internet were excited to laugh at how gullible we are; I feel like a meme. But while I grimace, Jack says ‘Well, all good things take time! If we do this everyday until Lockdown is lifted, we’ll raise awareness and more people will join us later!’

It’s the first time I’ve met up with people from the internet, and it has gone worse than getting groomed. I’ve been publicly made a fool of.

Nothing has been the same since that moment on the beach.

Suddenly, sitting on the same old couch, cereal bowl welded into hand has lost its thrill. Overnight, the thrill of sitting down with nothing to do had faded like old paint, into a deeply unsatisfying bore. Going down to the kitchen or changing the set of pyjamas which I kept glued to my body no longer drew out the happiness that I once attached to such mundane daily tasks. I couldn’t escape my memories of the beach earlier today. I sat down, my mind wandering to the excitement of the wind in my face and the soft sound of the ocean beating on the shore. Tick. The second hand slowly revolved around the pastel outline of my kitchen counter clock. Tick. I could think of nothing but the excitement of breaking the bars of my self-imposed imprisonment. Tick. I had to go out. There was nothing else for it. Like the first time, I grabbed my coat, muttering an excuse about forgetting to buy the milk, sliding my phone gently into the pocket of my Levi’s. As if in a trance, my legs carried me through the door and out into the street. I was doing it again. For the second time in my life, I was breaking the rules. A rush of adrenaline seeped through my veins; my eyes brimmed full of the rush of excitement that my open defiance took with it. I drew up to a halt on the pavement, frozen by the fear of discovery and punishment. What would happen to me if caught out past curfew?

I glanced around, half-expecting to catch a glimpse of a busy-bodied police officer, ready to chastise me for my irresponsibility. But I saw nothing.

Before I knew what was going on, I found myself back at the entrance of that beach, heart addicted to the sweet vapour of liberation. The smell of the sea assaulted my nostrils, triggering a most violent smack of nostalgia. Even though it had only been a couple of hours ago, that glorious afternoon of freedom flashed before my eyes.

The sight of the ochre sun on the horizon line snapped me back to reality, realising that I was in a battle for dominance with the darkness that would inevitably set in. Like a battle drum, the sea slowly thrashed

against the soft sepia sand. My trance took me back to the same spot, desperately craving the recreation of the scene from earlier. My eyes scoured the grounds, desperately scanning for any sign of the footprints of our defiant meeting earlier. Finding nothing only made me more frantic in my desire to find evidence that the meeting was real, that it had happened.

Still, no matter how hard I looked, the footprints and tracks had vanished, swept away by the all-conquering tide. Just as I was about to turn away out of disappointment, my eyes caught a glimpse of a small paper card corner, poking out of the sand. Slowly, I plucked it out of the ground, curious for what it would reveal.

I stood there, alone on the beach, bathed in the fading light of the sunset, trying to rearrange the smattering of ink into a recognisable form. A cauldron of emotions hit me. What would happen when this was over? Would I still be standing here, hopelessly in love with a beach that I had never visited before all of this? My phone buzzed mindlessly in my pocket, but I ignored it. Once upon a time, I would have been distracted by it, but the sea itself was enough to set me in an inescapable trance. In that moment, I was ready for the incoming tide to sweep me away to sea. Unlike the world on pause, the ocean was ignorant to pandemics and lockdowns, transcendent of the petty concerns that strike us as so material. My brain began to wonder what it would be like to get swallowed up by the vast expanse in front of me.

Out of nowhere, I heard the rustling of tires coming towards the beach. It was late. While I had been standing there, the sun had sunk its final couple of feet, swallowed by the expansive horizon.

Terrified of the consequences of my endeavours, I quickly pocketed the business card, safe by my breast for another day. The combination of the fading light and my escaping imagination made it impossible to read anyway. But as I travelled home, there was only one thought beating resonantly and repetitively in my head.

That was not the last time I would visit that beach.

Lonely Unity

by Sia Patel, Jaya Emery and Brian Donohugh