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  • The winter rains had come and so had the cops, so Zucotti park was no longer so much of an option, and Occupy Wall Street had finally moved onto Wall Street, to an indoor public-private space that was a kind of corporate lobby food court, with newsstands, and moveable tables and chairs, and potted palm trees flanking oddly shaped pieces of powdery stone that pretended to be some kind of art, surrounded by mirrors in the walls that made it feel like a Syrian Mosque or a very boring disco or some odd combination of both.

    The activists were holding interminable meetings about when to have meetings to elect the people who would facilitate the following meetings and whether these meetings should be announced in any other way than by email, the website, and at the end of the previous meetings.

    They were sitting around or standing, moving between the various meetings and slowly building consensus, while Wall Street women in pant suits and heels went clip-clop clip-clop through the atrium and collapsed their umbrellas and shook off the water and looked around at the dreadlocks and piercings and tattoos and trench coats and then back down at their heels and their pant suits, and they shook their heads and dried their hair and swiped their cards to take them up to higher floors to smaller rooms and other kinds of meetings.

    Occupiers were bumping into each other and hugging and saying hello again how are you, after coming back from trips to other east coast camps in Philly, Boston, DC, and Georgia.

    “How are you, Jordan?” said one of the traveling girls. “I haven’t seen you in a hot minute!”

    “I’m good, I’m good,” said Jordan. “Yeah, I been outta town for a hot minute! But I’m good. I’m good.”

    They nodded at each other awkwardly, searching for what to say next and looking around at the crowd, and then back again at each other, smiling and nodding some more.

    Just when the silence was getting uncomfortable, Jordan put both of his hands in the air and twinkled his fingers up to the ceiling, which is camper code for, “Yes!”

    “Yaaaaaay! Twinkles!” he exclaimed suddenly.

    “Twinkles!” answered the girl, doing the same thing with her fingers.

    They twinkled back and forth like this for several pregnant seconds, looking like mimes in a mirror.

    “Or, as we say in the south, Twankles!” said Jordan, emphasizing the ‘Twankles’.

    “Twankles!” answered the girl, and they smiled and hugged again, looking now like mimes that had merged.
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