So my group wants to build teacher-only affordable rental housing. In the old Urban Safari store site, near the high school and the transit center. But “teachers-only” is too discriminatory for federal funds and maybe even for money from the state. We have to go deep into the city for the subsidies we need.

I’m having a little problem with it, philosophically. I got involved because I believe in urbanism and open space and inclusion. The more I think about it, the more the dormitory-like aspect of a teacher-only residential community bothers me.

I was there because of my group but I was of mixed mind. Maybe that made me more receptive to the big deal of the meeting.

Once a month there’s a bicycle demonstration in these parts. Riders take to their machines as the evening commute begins, and for ninety minutes or so they own the streets. There’s room on the road for cars too, but drivers only enjoy the event if they maintain a sense of humor.

There was trouble during last week’s ride.

I guess it was reported in at least the local paper – maybe in the big daily too – but I missed it. It might surprise my acquaintances to know how seldom I look at the newspaper headlines compared to the puzzles or comics. Too bright to be honest, I’ve always finessed my way through discussions of current events. My attention becomes deficient around the passive voice, so sociology and history were never my subjects, and government is not my work. With my attempts at nonprofit building I feel like I’m now surrounded by polysyllabics; lately my mission seems to be to give smart building an active voice as much as it is to erect anything.

The riders assembled as usual last Friday. Most of them were young and in their customary garb. A few wore outlandish hard-to-pedal get-ups, or rode bikes festooned in bells and streamers, on wheels embellished with crepe paper, tennis balls, playing cards. And there was the couch.

Towed by two old black ten-speeds, what had begun life as a cheap livingroom couch had since been wheeled and motored, and was capable of rolling along fully loaded (four people) on flat ground, at about eight mph without assistance, and about fourteen mph with.

The couch had nubby brown-green upholstery covered with an India print bedspread. Its short wooden legs peeked out from under a box-pleated skirt. Last Friday it had two small men and two large women on it, feet together on the traces to the bikes, drinking iced tea.

The police showed up for the ride as well.

For some reason that still isn’t clear to me, the cops were wearing riot gear. Their choice of apparel probably accelerated the conflict; soon after that at least one fire was set in a metal garbage can. There are reports of the police then herding folks toward the trouble, clubbing some people, dragging others. Arresting them for unlawful assembly without declaring the assembly unlawful. A parked police car was overturned, its windows smashed. That’s when the cops seized the couch and had it crushed in a following garbage truck. Also the two black ten-speed bikes.

Kids were arrested. For unlawful assembly and resisting arrest, some were held till an hour before they were due to be arraigned and then dismissed: having served four days, or twice as long as they would have if convicted on either charge.

It seemed like old times. The cops appeared to be in the wrong. Kids came to the city council meeting last night to complain.

This young couple were prominent in the group of cyclists clustered at the left front of the room. She was conspicuous first by gender – one of only three females among at least twenty kids – and also for a kind of vehement serenity; she simmered with anger but maintained a surprising poise. He stood out because he was so notably indignant about the cops’ actions. He fumbled his words and spat a little when he addressed the council, but they had to respect his passion. It reminded me of me, us, those council folks thirty years ago, sweating with passionate intensity, meaning it all, of course, but enjoying the sex afterwards anyway.