She was excited, even in the limousine, even as they entered the main drag through L.A. she felt the vibrant pulse of the people of the city. The driver slowed as they neared the hotel, stopping several times as people with posters and placards crossed willy-nilly mid-block. She tried to read the signs they carried but it was all too mobile, the shouting undecipherable in their exuberance. She wondered if there was another conference going on that inspired such protest, for the crowd of mostly women did indeed seem seriously mad.
"You better let me come in with you," her friend Tom told her as the chauffeur brought the car gliding to a stop at the hotel’s main doors.
"Why?" she asked. "It looks like they’re waiting for the Governor or President or somebody." They’d all jammed together, filling the sidewalk in both directions of the entrance to the Grand Hotel. She bent her head but couldn’t see the signs they held up high above them through the windows of the car. "If it’s a feminist thing–and I’m guessing it is judging by the amount of women here, then I’m safe." She turned to him and giggled. "But you’re on your own."
The driver got out and she could hear him opening the trunk and taking out their luggage. She heard him start to argue with the angry crowd. "They likely thought he was driving their target in," she said. She felt a bit sorry for him and anxiously waited for him to come around and open the door.
"Hope it’s not that remark you made about hating kids," Tom remarked.
"Pshaw," she said, "that was just a joke."
Suddenly the driver was standing there and opening the door to let them out. She swung a long leg out onto the sidewalk, then the other as the driver took her hand and helped her to her feet. He was saying something she couldn’t hear above the shouting.
The crowd fell upon her with sticks and placards and the last thing that she saw coming at her, she read: "M.others A.gainst A.uthors A.gainst S.mall C.hildren.
The Lost Children: A Charity Anthology