Free Yield by Bryan K. Johnson Page B

of the downtown streets. Rain clouds continue to blanket the city. They beat down upon civilization with an awakening wrath.
    People walk quickly along the sidewalks. Umbrellas overhead, society huddles inside their pockets of security, gazing contemptuously at those without. Taxicabs and buses clog the streets. They intermittently stop for drenched customers before moving on into humanity ’ s assault.
    Children await a beckoning school bell from the brightly-colored jungle gym outside Shoreline Elementary. Rain traces the lines of a rusting fence just in front. Their hoods are pulled up to ward off the unrelenting drizzle, yet their laughter emanates happily through the storm.
    “ No, I ’ ll be working from my car most of the morning, ” Tracy says impatiently into her cell phone. She tries to merge over to pass a green and yellow Metro Transit bus shuddering to a stop in front of her. Her orange signal blooms, but the Porsche ’ s momentum carries it too close.
    Infuriated with the delay, a silver Jaguar X-Type guns it and swings around her. The tail slips out, hitting a large puddle alongside. A dirty wave splashes onto the red sports car ’ s windshield.
    “ Lovely, ” Tracy says, turning her wipers on high. “ Damn Seattle rain. I can count on one hand the times I ’ ve actually had the convertible top down. ”
     
    *  *  *
     
    “ Tragic, ” a sarcastic voice responds 170 miles to the south. Isabel ’ s fiery tone is sharper than usual this morning. “ How do you make it through the day? ” Wearing a tight, purple and orange-piped Northwest Airlines uniform, Isabel Gonzalez walks reluctantly through the revolving door at the front of Portland International Airport. She rolls a well-used piece of floral-print luggage behind her. The 34-year-old, pregnant Latina adjusts a bulky cellphone against her ear, dragging her Reeboks along the floor towards a check-in mob she wants no part of today.
    The creases of maternity already wear on Isabel ’ s slender face. Her light-brown Hispanic skin is etched around chocolate eyes and a pouted mouth used to wearing both the smiles and rebukes of parenting.
    “ Is everyone in a cynical mood this morning? ” Tracy asks.
    “ Just pregnant, ” Isabel says wearily. Her eyes run down the awkward bulge jutting out from an otherwise slight frame. The word itself crushes down upon her shoulders.
    “ Well, stop already, Izz. A couple more kids, and you could start your own religion. ”
    “ Tell that to my husband, ” Isabel laughs. “ I think the fat bastard wants to be the next Buddha. Son of a bitch swore we ’ d stop at three. ”
    “ Try pushing him off every now and then, ” Tracy says. “ He ’ ll amuse himself in other ways. ”
    A feisty smile shoots across the flight attendant ’ s face.
    Isabel pulls the phone quickly away from her ear, hearing loud honking and voices on the other end. “ You okay? ”
     
    *  *  *
     
    Rows of angry protesters shout from in front of the Jackson Federal Building in downtown Seattle. Screaming through their megaphones, the varied dissidents raise angry fists and hastily scrawled signs at a line of countering viewpoints. Heated words smash against steadfast minds in vain, neither backing down. Their voices shriek at one another across the sidewalk. Hate rises into an unintelligible roar.
    “ Just some unemployed illiterates protesting downtown, ” Tracy says.
    “ Peace activists? ”
    “ Something like that. ” Tracy slows down to read one of the battered signs. THE END IS HERE. BRING OUR TROOPS HOME ALIVE. “ Sounds peaceful, right? ”
     
    *  *  *
     
    “ Yeah, ” Isabel laughs. She switches the scuffed phone to her other hand. Her eyes dart around the airport lobby. Hundreds of people fill the extended ticket area, clutching bags and children with the same concern.
    “ Hey, I ’ m at the airport now, ” Isabel groans. She can think of at least a million other places she ’ d rather be. “ I have