authority

Intern and I walk down the hill toward the perimeter. We’re to meet coworkers outside of a bar downtown. We round the curve, the arena comes into view.

Chain-link fence cuts through the median. Just days ago it was a busy artery to the center of town, now void of cars but for the sheriff and police patrols and the occasional military Humvee. Within the barrier at the corner closest to us are a half-dozen men and women in varied uniforms.

Encircling the arena, in a three-block radius, are different levels of security. For a mile radius there are police and sheriffs from all over, some from out of state, with their eyes out for threats. Most of the city center is on lock-down.

We walk a bit further, joking along the way about the assembled force on the other side of the fence. Ahead there’s a sheriff patrol unit. There are seven or eight uniformed officers on the opposite side of the car, in a half circle facing another who stood alone. He’s in the middle of recounting a story.

The others stand, watching intently. Most of them have their arms across their chests and are leaning against posts and barriers. Their beige uniforms are standard but they also wear knee and elbow pads and there are black helmets strewn about.

Still too far to hear, the storyteller becomes animated. He starts to shift back and forth, pivoting and darting, pushing against an imaginary wall. It’s quite obvious he’s reenacting.

His voice rises and he pushes an unseen assailant to the ground. Storyteller then leans over and starts punching the invisible attacker violently. He kicks slightly then dances back punching the air. It’s like the elaborate dance of a bee just returned to the hive.

The officers laugh at some comments, smile at others and nod at the rest. They are an attentive audience. Storyteller’s actions are dramatic and strong but the chill between my shoulders has nothing to do with that.

Recently I read about how the security forces have been told of imaginary riots at previous conventions. There have already been raids and arrests on ambiguous charges. The fences and forces are just the physical manifestation of fear.

A cold hand that isn’t there presses against my back while I look at the Storyteller’s face. Like a child playing spaceman or finding an unexpected gift, his face is painted with joy. Paired with the violent display, the look is unsettling.

These are the ones assigned to keep everything secure. The look on his face reflects more enthusiasm than responsibility. Put in front of an aggressive mob, how would someone with his mentality react? Would he calmly keep the mass at bay, fending off pathetic attempts at bravado? Would he return the belligerence?

Storyteller finishes his scene and the group continues their jovial conversation. We walk through the park, over a pedestrian bridge and along a couple streets on our way to drop off our shopping bag of supplies for the coworker’s beyond the fence.

Men in suits wander about in all directions. Most people have credentials of many types strung around their necks. We wait for someone to come to our side of the security line for our supplies and watch hundreds of people. Something occurs to me.

Storyteller is surrounded by trained security personnel, wears protective vests, pads or helmets and has the authority to detain with only vague charges anyone he wishes, at least temporarily. These men, the ones in the suits, surrounded by other suits and media and cameras, have far more influence over the nations opinions and direction.

I’m not concerned with Storyteller or the suits mulling about within the perimeter but with another set of suits, rarely on camera, unaccountable and beyond credentials.