Free The Next Eco-Warriors by Emily Hunter Page B

got down to business. We wanted to blockade the UN with SurvivaBalls until everyone came to a fair agreement, but with the massive amounts of security and whole streets being blocked off, we knew even the SurvivaBall couldn't break that stronghold.
    So we would pretend to approach the UN building by water instead of land by “wading” up the East River shore in hopes to create some media buzz. Ironically, the SurvivaBall cannot actually float. In fact, the water seeps in quite quickly and fills up the ball, creating a potentially gruesome death trap either by drowning or electrocution from the fans' batteries. But I was sure the volunteers would still be lining up to participate anyway.
    The morning of, I arrived at the bank of the East River slightly downwind of midtown, donning my corporate attire with a veil of anxiety as an accessory. After the last couple of actions, I found out that even though I love the theatrics, I don't seem to quite have the stomach yet to deal with whatever unknown consequences us Yes Men tend to find ourselves in.
    The balled army of twenty-five was out in full force and ready to surge ahead. I was not in a suit but playing the part of corporate hack, ready to pass out informational brochures to any willing or unwilling passerby (and also to help volunteers into and out of the suits). But to first rally the troops, I played a rousing round of our anthem, Gloria Gaynor's “I Will Survive,” on the boom box. I marveled at the awe-inspiring spectacle: twenty-five six-foot- (1.8- meter-) diameter beige globoids adorned with corporate logos bouncing up and down as they try to navigate the shallow water and rocks along the bank.
    Then I saw the police boats show up. All of a sudden, the coast guard appeared, with their sirens, probably bemused by the bizarre pageantry displayed before them. Then more police boats showed up. Then a helicopter. Then a man from inside the helicopter descended out of the aircraft andhovered over the water as if ready to spring into action. Oh, crap. My stomach pit of nervous excitement just turned into an ulcer.
    I knew the SurvivaBall had an innate ability to attract stupid amounts of attention, including the occasional police officer, but never before had boats and helicopters been called to the scene. I never would have guessed that dancing beach balls on coastal waters would be considered quite the security risk. As if the police actually believed we would take the water by storm. I was torn between laughing at the ludicrous overreaction and my instinct to save myself and run for the high hills.
    As I watched the circus unfold before me, the next act entered the ring. If at first by air and sea, the last piece of the puzzle was put in place when the police finally showed up by car. So I tended to the balls while keeping an eye out as the Yes Men, Andy and Mike, coyly approached the policeman and asked the unsubtle question, “What seems to be the problem, officer?”
    I am not an aficionado at dealing with the police at actions, as I get quite apprehensive. In school, I learned things like chemistry and math, how to calculate solar flux, and the difference between carbon taxing and cap and trade, not how to work your way out of getting arrested. I had this image in my head of trying to shove SurvivaBalls into the back of a cop car and sitting behind bars. I fought my nervousness with logic. I knew they couldn't arrest us all, and I didn't think there was a law against running amok with large inflatable costumes. In the end, I watched as Andy was lead off to the clink on the charge of a previously unpaid bicycle ticket. Good job, cops, keeping the streets of New York safe from those rogue bicyclists who don't pay their tickets for riding through Washington Square Park. Later we would learn that the officer also lied through his teeth when filing the report, in that he stated he saw people jump the fence and ignore signs forbidding entrance to the beach, all of which