Agents of Change

by Guy Harrison

  ***

  René’s is a quaint lounge for those of the intellectual yuppie elite in downtown Montreal, around the corner from the Bell Centre on René-Levesque Boulevard. From the outside, it looks like just another hole in the wall dive bar. But on the inside, its lighting is dim, its table tops are granite, its seating is plush, and there is no beer on tap.

  This is not where I met Thérèse. That place was much louder, with a lot more flag-waving and drink-swaying. It’s not that people at René’s aren’t watching the game; they’ve just taken a country club approach to doing so. Although I enjoy living in the midst of the pandemic gripping this city, I have no rooting interest in Les Habitants.

  Besides, my reason for being down here isn’t to party, although, I must admit to having indulged in a Jack and Coke during the second period. Once this game is over—and it’s currently tied at 3-3 with 2:17 left—I’m looking for a helicopter. Such is my life. Everyone will either be climbing light poles and flipping over cars while in a euphoric state or climbing light poles and flipping over cars while pissed off. I’ll remain stoic, searching for one measly little helicopter.

  Although I told Jimenez I wanted no part of this, I couldn’t stay away. I couldn’t in good conscience sit in my apartment while innocent lives were lost. At the very least, I didn’t call her back. That way, if she was bluffing, I will not have given her the satisfaction of knowing that she got me.

  The barkeep looks in my direction, ostensibly checking to see if I need anything else to wet the old whistle. I shake him off. If I didn’t have a mission to carry out, I’d take him up on his offer.

  The others in the establishment groan. I look up at the television overlooking the bar. The referee has awarded the other team, the Vancouver Canucks, a penalty shot. Based on the replay, the referee’s judgment and integrity will be questioned, especially given the time left in the game: 1:35.

  The gentle murmur that filled the lounge has been replaced by a hush, all eyes on the penalty shot. The Canucks’ player glides toward the goal, the puck on the blade of his stick. With one fell swoop, the player slides the puck between Montreal’s goalie’s legs. The scene in the lounge is a stark contrast to that on the television. With the taste of champagne on the tips of their tongues, the Canucks explode into elation on their bench. In the lounge, the patrons swear at the TV in French. Some walk out. One guy even throws his shot glass on the floor. Unless the Habs pull off a miracle, the verdict is in: the masses will be pissed the hell off.

  When play resumes, I give the barkeep a bill and wait for change. Outside, there’s only silence, calm before an inevitable maelstrom. Wrappers and leaves slide down René-Levesque, pushed by a moist, early summer breeze. As I look through the front window, I imagine what the scene will look like in only a few minutes when fans start filing out of bars, restaurants and the Bell Centre.

  “Merci,” says the barkeep, breaking my concentration.

  I count the change and place a bill down for tip. I look up at the TV and see the Canucks celebrating their championship. The Canadiens, meanwhile, sit on the bench, sitting forward, heads down.

  I step down off of my stool and trade glances with the barkeep.

  “Stay inside,” I say.

  The barkeep nods and smirks—he’s anticipating a riot. I’m anticipating something else. As I step outside, I hear him ask his patrons to leave. He wants whatever damage his lounge will incur to be minimal.

  I turn off of René-Levesque and head toward the Bell Center. With that, the opening salvo is fired. A citizen throws a Molotov cocktail through a car window. I watch the car go up in flames before pressing on toward the arena. When I reach the corner, the street is engorged with one giant mass of human destruction stretching into the next city block. Men and women climb up and hang from the tops of light poles like a group of angered apes. A group of five guys, all dressed in Canadiens jerseys rock a GMC Yukon, eventually forcing it on its side.

  Go big or go home, I suppose.

  Fans drive down the street, through the blob of humanity, waving Le Bleu-Blanc-Rouge, despite their team’s demise. Men and women—and, in some cases, women and women—make out in the streets.

  Directly across the street from the Bell Centre, next to me on my left, is a high-rise office building. Next to the high-rise, across the street on my right, is a large parking lot. I can’t imagine the devastation being caused there.

  My attention turns skyward. A Montreal Police helicopter, its royal blue and white paint shimmering in the moon light, appears from behind the Bell Centre and settles for a holding pattern above the chaos. A single light shines from the chopper, illuminating the crazed, destructive mob.

  Next, my attention is turned over my right shoulder as an army of cops arrives on the scene, approaching on foot, horse, and motor scooter. An officer onboard the chopper barks through its loudspeaker, speaking something in French. Whatever he said, I’m sure he didn’t tell the citizenry to continue what they were doing. Of course, the zealots on the street show no signs of slowing down.

  This could get tricky.

  With the infantry of police officers bearing down on me, I move closer to the chaos between the arena and the office building.

  “Oh my God!” I hear a woman scream in French as she points up at the helicopter.

  A canister falls from the sky, leaving a trail of smoke as it lands thirty yards from me.

  Tear gas.

  I turn away from the bouncing can and cover my nose and mouth with my shirt. Of course, tear gas goes for the eyes as well but I can’t sacrifice my vision. The police haven’t left me much of a choice, I’ll have to navigate the area now permeated with tear gas.

  When I start running towards the chaos, the gas helps scatter some of the rioters, but some hold their ground, picking up empty bottles and any other debris they can find.

  In the middle of the street, I notice a tall man wearing a nylon pullover golf jacket. Most people in the crowd are either running away or salivating over the approaching horde of cops. This man is doing neither. He is facing the arena, looking up at the helicopter. He appears to be younger than I and a bit of a pretty boy.

  As I pass through the tear gas, a slight burn in my eyes, I see the man raise his right arm toward the helicopter. The chopper, which was once steady, takes a slight left turn and tilts downward toward the Bell Centre.

  “No!” I exclaim. With a thrust of my right hand, the man leaves his feet and falls onto his back, five feet from where he stood.

  The helicopter slowly rises back up to a safe depth. The man lifts his head off the ground, peers over his stomach, sees me walking toward him and makes eye contact. The man mutters something in French before throwing his hand in my direction.

  It feels like I’ve been punched by a gust of wind. The punch isn’t hard enough to hurt but is strong enough to throw me to the ground.

  Turning onto my side, I look ahead and see the man climb to his feet. As he starts to run away, I get up and chase after him. Running away from the Bell Centre, the man flails his right arm every which way, hurling cars, parking meters, even a manhole cover in my direction. His aim isn’t very good, however, most likely because he’s on the run.

  When he comes to a clearance between the arena and another office building, he turns into an alley next to the arena. A second or so behind him, I turn the corner, surprised to see that the man his disappeared into the riot that is now spilling into the alley.

  I study each person within twenty yards of me, observing their movements and expressions, my eyes darting and scanning the scene. Everyone has either gone mad or is scared shitless. The man has vanished, despite being slow and otherwise difficult to miss.

  A loud crack diverts my attention to whence I came. I peek around the corner of the arena and see the chopper’s propellers break away from the rest of the machine, clanking to a stop on the roof of the arena. The chopper then starts a precipitous decent toward the street and all the rioters. I come out o
f the clearance and throw up both of my hands, ignoring my pursuit of the man as I slow the falling chopper. I tremble as I strain to keep the machine of the ground—even with the power of telekinesis, the chopper’s heavy. With the craft hanging just thirty feet above ground, the mob scatters and screams.

  With a bead of sweating trickling down my neck, I let out a testosterone-laden yelp as I force the chopper upwards. I glance at the mob as its collective scream becomes a gasp. Once the chopper reaches a safe altitude, I slide it over the arena and let it down easy onto the roof. My eyes shift to the mass on the street and several people have their phones and digital cameras in hand, pointed toward me. I make a run for it down the street, away from the arena, the alley and the office building until a black Ford Taurus makes a sudden u-turn and pulls up next to me.

  “Calvin,” I hear a voice say.

  “Elena?”

  “Hurry,” Jimenez says through the open passenger side window. “Get in.”

  I climb into the car and close the door.

  “You okay?” she says.

  I nod my head, out of breath. “You were right. They did try to attack.”

  Jimenez shifts the car into drive and steps on the gas, pushing through the calming riot.