Читать книгу Standpipe - David Hardin - Страница 14

SIX

A middle-aged man with red, rheumy eyes claims they’ve cut off his water, wants everything we can spare. He’s keen to find his phone, bellows to a guy across the street, maybe did he leave it over there? He ducks into his house, reappears waving a thick, dog-eared folder stuffed with clippings, legal and medical documents. Says the water made him sick, hikes his pants to expose a discolored leg. Yanks his waistband down displaying mottled flesh below the beltline. Brandishing the found phone triumphant, he taps. Here’s his interview with the Detroit Free Press. Swipes through photos taken at rallies, protests, and public meetings.

By now, media interest in Flint is waxing and waning with every fresh news cycle. A coppery Donald J. Trump announced his presidential bid from the bottom of a gilded escalator in Trump Tower nearly a year ago. The 2016 Republican National Convention will be held at Rocket Mortgage Field House in Cleveland in four short months. Only Trump, Senator Ted Cruz, and Governor John Kasich remain in the Republican race. In our semi-official-looking vests, sporting laminated badges, perhaps we represent one last, unpromising opportunity to capture the world’s attention, if only for a moment, before the room is sucked dry of oxygen.

Evidence presented, he rests his case. We deliver our verdict—six cases of Aquafina—then wish him the best of luck, three of us inhaling diesel exhaust at the rear of the ERV. We have our instructions. The less time we spend at each stop, the more water we can distribute during our shift. How many thirsty people would it have cost to give the guy a few more minutes, read the interview, maybe watch a couple of videos? He recedes in my side view, passionately appealing his sentence alone in the middle of the street until I lose sight of him around the next corner.