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discouraging day of
elbow-rubbing with the folks who wandered in and out of the kitchen he ran in
the basement of St. Joseph's church, even Dan found a certain guilty attraction
in Crenshaw's Domicile Plan. Sometimes he wondered if maybe Crenshaw could
indeed do more for them than he ever could. But at least with Dan they had a
choice, and that was important.
    And that was
why they had come here tonight.
    They stood
quietly now, waiting for their last-minute instructions. They numbered about
thirty, mostly males. Dan had hoped for more. Forty or fifty had promised to
make the march but he was well satisfied with a two-thirds showing. You quickly
learned to lower your expectations when working with these people. It came with
the territory. After all, if they had enough control over their lives to act
responsibly, if they knew how to follow through with a plan--even as simple a
plan as gathering in Tompkins Square at six o'clock--they probably wouldn't be
homeless. About half of the ones who were here carried signs, most of which Dan
had hand-printed himself during the week. Among them:

    SAY No!
    TO CONCENTRATION CAMPS
    FOR THE HOMELESS!

    and:

    WHAT ABOUT US?
    WHERE DO WE FIT IN?

    and Dan's favorite:

    are we our
brother's
    keepers?
    VIRGIN
    OR DO WE TELL
    BIG BROTHER TO KEEP HIM?

    "All
right!" he said, shouting so he could be heard in the back. "Let us
say this once more in case some of you have forgotten: We're not here to cause
trouble. We're here to draw attention to a problem that cannot be solved by
putting you folks in camps. We're here for informational purposes. To
communicate, not to confront. Stay in line, don't block traffic, don't enter
the hotel, don't fight, don't panhandle Got that?"
    Most of them nodded. He had been pounding this into them
all week. Those who could get the message had already got it. This last
harangue was for the benefit of the press microphones and the police within
earshot, to get it on the record that this was intended as a strictly peaceful
demonstration.
    "Where's
Sister Carrie?" one of them asked.
    That had to be
One-Thumb George, but Dan couldn't place him in the crowd. George had asked the
question at least a dozen times since they'd left Tompkins.
    "Sister Carrie is in her room at the convent, praying
for us. Her order doesn't allow her to march in demonstrations."
    "I wish
she was here," the voice said, and now Dan was sure it was One-Thumb
George.
    Dan too wished
Carrie were here. She'd done as much as he to organize this march, maybe more.
He missed her.
    "And I'm
sure she wishes she could be here with us!" Dan shouted. "So let's
make her proud! Waldorf, ho!"
    Pointing his
arm uptown like an officer leading a charge, he jumped off the sculpture base
and marched his troops the remaining blocks to the Waldorf. He was just
starting to position the group when Senator Crenshaw's limousine pulled up
before the entrance. Dan had a brief glimpse of the senator's head--the famous
tanned face, dazzling smile, and longish, salt-and-pepper hair--towering over
his entourage as he zipped across the sidewalk, and then he was through the
front doors and gone.
    Damn! He'd
shown up early.
    He heard groans
from the demonstrators but he shushed them.
    "It's
okay. We'll be all set up for him when he comes out. And we're not leaving
until he does."
    They spent the
interval marching in an oval within the area reserved for their demonstration,
demarcated by light blue horses stenciled in white with police line - do not
cross. Dan led them in chants updated from the sixties, like: "Hey,
hey, Arthur C, why you wanna imprison me?" and "Hell, no! We won't
go!" And of course there were the endless repetitions of "We Shall
Overcome."
    The choices
were calculated. Dan wanted to bring to mind the civil rights marches and
antiwar protests of the sixties to anyone who saw this particular demonstration
on TV. Many of the movers and shakers in the country today--the President
included--had participated in those