yelled, and they scooted in to join us.
“We’re gonna say, ‘One, two, three, Buy Local,” Nadia said. “One, two, three.”
“BUY LOCAL!” we all yelled.
“Does Whole Foods count?” Nelson chuckled as we broke apart. I handed Nelson and Jason signs. Jason’s read: HONK IF YOUR THIGHS TOUCH, which made him laugh.
As a motley group of five, we walked toward Lululemon.
“I thought you and Nelson were scheduled to work today,” I said.
“We are,” Jason said. “But we told Dirty Steve we were walking out to support you and your mad cause.”
“I bet he loved that,” I said.
“He said anyone who follows the cult of Poxy Roxy deserves to be covered in chickenpox boils.”
“Ouch!”
We were now standing in front of Lululemon. I could see a couple of employees inside craning to see what we were doing, but I couldn’t spot Artemis among them. I tentatively raised my sign up high and everyone else followed suit. We marched in a small circle. I started the chant timidly, but my voice grew stronger when you and the others joined in. “Hey, hey, what do you say. Down with Lulu, all the way.” After about five minutes of that I realized again how idiotic this whole endeavor was, how stupid, and how much time and energy I had wasted painting these ridiculous signs, organizing this nonsense, and daydreaming to myself about how I would wrest this previously fantastic spot from the clutches of a lame corporate store selling tights sewn by children in the developing world to tech trophy wives recently moved to Austin from California. But I forced myself to soldier on. Next we chanted, “Sixth and Lamar is for Local Stars,” then “Lululemon is a full-blown lemon,” which was a crowd pleaser. A couple heading into Amy’s Ice Creams stared at us. A car driving by honked at my sign and we all waved.
But other than that: nothing.
My big protest was in reality just me marching in a circle with four friends.
This march would affect no change.
It was a Failure with a capital F.
Artemis cruised by the window of the store. I refrained from waving, not wanting to give her away as an informant. I put down my sign to text her. TOTAL FLOP, I wrote. I’M GOING HOME.
HANG IN THERE, she texted back. MY EIGHT BALL TELLS ME THINGS WILL PICK UP SOON.
Sure enough, ten minutes later, Kate, Rosa, Yolanda, and Barclay showed up. Yolanda is trying out some eyelash extensions to see if she likes them enough to wear them at her wedding, and though in theory I object to eyelash extensions—what could be more horrifying and patriarchal than having women hot-glue appendages practically on their delicate eyeballs?—they looked amazing. “These signs are incredible!” Yo said. I went with the girls to my car to grab more.
“These are glorious!” Barclay gushed. “You’ve always been so talented.” Barclay, Kate, Rosa, and Yolanda are the best. I’m so glad we are back on the road to seeing one another regularly. (Thank you, Venus!)
Barclay’s sign read: KEEP AUSTIN LOCAL, YOCALS! Kate’s sign read: HER LIPS ARE LIKE THE GALAXY’S EDGE with hot-pink lips that bled off into the Milky Way. “It’s so bold, surrealist, and political,” Kate said. Rosa’s sign read: MY BIG SEXY THIGHS TOUCH. CAN YOUR CRAP TIGHTS HANDLE THAT?
Yolanda’s sign had Betty White’s face like a Warhol painting with the quote: “WHY DO SOME PEOPLE SAY ‘GROW SOME BALLS?’ BALLS ARE WEAK AND SENSITIVE. IF YOU WANT TO BE TOUGH, GROW A VAGINA. THOSE THINGS CAN TAKE A POUNDING.” The sign was a little off topic and I’d had to write the words really small to fit them all on the piece of cardboard, but I thought it was still pretty impactful.
When my college crew of four joined our existing five, the protest started to feel legitimate. More cars honked in encouragement and everyone passing by stared. Several people stopped to ask what we were protesting and I handed out a flier I’d made outlining the reasons Lululemon—as a corporate store with a pseudofeminist agenda—did not belong at an intersection that symbolizes the real Austin of music, books, local businesses, quirkiness, etc. People walked away reading the fliers.
Progress was being made.
Next a few of your friends from Kerbey Lane Cafe showed up and I gave them signs, too. Then Lulah, the bartender from Deep Eddy, arrived with her husband and daughter in tow. Our chants were growing louder. It was getting to be a respectable protest. All of a sudden, I felt