The Fight Over Abortion
“Yes, Mr. Harroll. I understand. Thank you.” Juan was enjoying the calm professionalism of the customer in front of him.
Mr. Harroll was the Production Manager for PhoenixData Nexus, a new data center scheduled to come online in the summer. Juan was overseeing the construction of a massive bank of steel shelving designed to hold the enormous computer servers that were waiting to be installed. Juan’s crew was ahead of schedule.
Mr. Harroll was complementing Juan’s company for coming in under budget.
“We can finish the install when those parts come in,” Juan reveled in the praise. “Yes sir, the supply chains were down a long time, but things are catching up.”
Retreating at last from the effusive praise, Juan dismissed his team for the day and headed for his fabrication plant. “There’s nothing left for us to do today. I’ll see you tomorrow.”
He didn't know what to do with all his extra time. He drove back to the office at a leisurely pace, taking time to stop at a taco stand for lunch. He took his time, chatting amicably with a few guys waiting on their tortas and chilaquiles.
Back on the road, Juan’s good mood was upset by the chaos he encountered when he approached the intersection leading to his fabrication plant. A sea of colorful banners and signs filled the street, and the air echoed with chants and slogans. Juan squinted, trying to make sense of the commotion ahead. As he got closer, he realized a group of protestors blocked the road.
His heart sank when he realized they were carrying pro-choice signs and banners.
Juan clenched the steering wheel. He was determined to reach his office. The protestors, however, were strategically positioned, blocking every possible route. He angrily mashed the button that rolled down his driver's side window, quietly cursing the pane of glass for sliding open too slowly. "Hey! What are you doing?" He shouted at the young people who approached him. He loathed their green and purple hair, tattoos, and piercings.
These estupido kids were shouting at him. Something about women's bodies and rights. Juan wasn't listening. The blood was pounding too loudly in his ears. "Get the hell out of the way! People got to get to work.”
Somewhere, somebody started drumming, and the mob began chanting. Why the hell do these white kids always act like they have some kind of tribal customs? Juan thought. Their only customs are video games and marijuana.
Some idiota girl stared at him, her glare unyielding. “We’re here to raise awareness and fight for women's rights. Please be patient or find another route.”
"What are you even doing here?" Juan was dumbfounded. "This is an industrial section of town. Why don't you go over to the capital or somewhere where people give a damn about this kind of la mierda?"
She said something, but Juan wasn’t listening. He'd seen an opening in the crowd that he could drive his truck through. He gunned his engine to scare them back a little and then slowly guided his truck into an alley that led to the back gate.
As he passed, a few kids pounded on his pickup, and Juan was tempted to get out to confront them. But he saw that the crowd was growing and calculated that he'd be better off just getting out of there. To his dismay, the demonstration seemed to have grown larger. The protestors had multiplied, and their chants echoed louder. They’re trying to block the whole intersection. Juan finally understood their strategy. The road they were blocking was a major Phoenix thoroughfare. It probably didn't have anything to do with his metal fabrication plant. Here come the news trucks.