A factor noted by the study was that when evening flights, on which dinner and drinks had been served, disgorged their passengers, the bulk of the arrivals headed promptly for airport toilets, thus creating maximum demand for those facilities over a period of several hours.
The following Friday night, when incoming and departing air traffic was heaviest of all, several hundred volunteers, principally off-duty janitors and cleaners, arrived at the airport under Margot’s direction. From then until they left much later, all were quiet, orderly, and law-abiding.
Their purpose was to occupy, continuously throughout the evening, every public toilet in the airport. And they did. Margot and assistants had prepared a detailed plan and the volunteers went to assigned locations where they paid a dime and settled down, solaced by reading material, portable radios, and even food which many brought. Some of the women had their needlepoint or knitting. It was the ultimate in legal sit-ins.
In the men’s toilets, more volunteers formed long lines in front of urinals, each dilatory line moving with stunning slowness. If a male not in the plot joined any lineup it took him an hour to reach the front. Few, if any, waited that long.
A floating contingent explained quietly to anyone who would listen what was happening, and why.
The airport became a shambles with hundreds of angry, anguished passengers complaining bitterly and heatedly to airlines who, in turn, assailed airport management. The latter found themselves frustrated and helpless to do anything. Other observers, not involved or in need, found the situation hilarious. No one was indifferent.
News media representatives, tipped off by Margot in advance, were present in force. Reporters vied with each other to write stories which were carried nationwide by wire services, then repeated internationally and used by such differing journals as Izvestia, Johannesburg Star, and The Times of London. Next day, as a result, the entire world was laughing.
In most news reports the name Margot Bracken figured prominently. There were intimations that more “sit-ins” would follow.
As Margot had calculated, ridicule is one of the stronger weapons in any arsenal. Over the weekend the airport commission conceded that discussions would be held on janitors’ and cleaners’ wages, which resulted in increases soon after. A further development was that the corrupt union was voted out, a more honest one replacing it.
Now Margot stirred, moving closer to Alex, then said softly, “What kind of a mind was it that you said I had?”
“Convoluted-pixie.”
“That’s bad? Or good?”
“It’s good for me. Refreshing. And most of the time I like the causes that you work for.”
“But not all the time?”
“No, not always.”
“Sometimes the things I do create antagonism. Lots of it. Suppose the antagonism was about something you didn’t believe in, or disliked? Suppose our names were linked together at a time like that, when you wouldn’t want to be associated with me?”
“I’d learn to live with it. Besides, I’m entitled to a private life, and so are you.”
“So is any woman,” Margot said. “But I wonder sometimes if you really could live with it. That’s if we were together all the time. I wouldn’t change, you know; you have to understand that, Alex darling. I couldn’t surrender independence, nor ever stop being myself and taking initiatives.”
He thought of Celia who had taken no initiatives, ever, and how he had wished she would. And he remembered, as always with remorse, what Celia had become. He had learned something from her though: That no man is whole unless the woman he loves is free, and knows the use of freedom, exploiting it in fulfillment of herself.
Alex dropped his hands to Margot’s shoulders. Through a thin silk nightgown he could sense the fragrant warmth of her, feel the softness of her flesh. He said gently, “It’s the way you are that’s the way I love and want you. If you changed, I’d hire some other lady lawyer and sue for breach of loving.”
His hands left her shoulders, moving slowly, caressingly lower. He heard her breathing quicken; a moment later she turned to him, urgent and gasping. “What the hell are we waiting for?”
“God knows,” he said. “Let’s go to bed.”
3
The sight was so unusual that one of the branch’s loan officers, Cliff Castleman, strolled over to the platform.
“Mrs. D’Orsey, have you looked out of a window yet, by any chance?”
“No,” Edwina said. She had been concentrating on the morning mail. “Why should I?”
It was 8:55 A.M., Wednesday, at First Mercantile American’s main downtown branch.
“Well,” Castleman said, “I thought you might be interested. There’s a lineup outside such as I’ve never seen ahead of opening time before.”
Edwina looked up. Several staff members were craning to look out of windows. There was a buzz of conversation among the employees generally, unusual this early in the day. She sensed an undercurrent of concern.
Leaving her desk, Edwina walked a few paces to one of the large plate-glass windows, part of the street frontage of the building. What she saw amazed her. A long queue of people, four or five abreast, extended from the main front door past the entire length of the building and out of sight beyond. It appeared as if all were waiting for the bank to open.
She stared incredulously. “What on earth …?”
“Someone went outside just now,” Castleman informed her. “They say the line extends halfway across Rosselli Plaza and more people are joining it all the time.”
“Has anyone asked what they all want?”
“One of the security guards did, I understand. The answer was, they’ve come to open accounts.”
“That’s ridiculous! All of those people? There must be three hundred I can see from here. We’ve never had that many new accounts in a single day.”
The loan officer shrugged. “I’m simply passing on what I heard.”
Tottenhoe, the operations officer, joined them at the window, his face transmitting his normal grumpiness. “I’ve notified Central Security,” he informed Edwina. “They say they’ll send more guards and Mr. Wainwright’s coming over. Also, they’re advising the city police.”
Edwina commented, “There’s no outward sign of trouble. Those people all seem peaceful.”
It was a mixed group, she could see, about two thirds women, with a preponderance of blacks. Many of the women were accompanied by children. Among the men, some were in coveralls, appearing as if they had left their jobs or were on the way to them. Others were in casual clothing, a few well dressed.
People in the lineup were talking to each other, some animatedly, but no one appeared antagonistic. A few, seeing themselves observed, smiled and nodded to the bank officials.
“Look at that!” Cliff Castleman pointed. A TV crew with camera had appeared. While Edwina and the others watched, it began filming.
“Peaceful or not,” the loan officer said, “there has to be a motive behind all these people coming here at once.”
A flash of insight struck Edwina. “It’s Forum East,” she said. “I’ll bet it’s Forum East.”
Several others whose desks were nearby had approached and were listening.
Tottenhoe said, “We should delay opening until the extra guards get here.”
All eyes swung to a wall clock which showed a minute to nine.
“No,” Edwina instructed. She raised her voice so that others could hear. “We’ll open as usual, on time. Everyone go back to their work, please.”
Tottenhoe hurried away, Edwina returning to the platform and her desk.
From her vantage point she watched the main doors swing open and the first arrivals pour in. Those who had been at the head of the line paused momentarily on entry, looked around curiously, then quickly moved forward as others behind pressed in. Within moments the central public area of the big branch bank was filled with a chattering, noisy crowd. The building, relatively quiet less than a minute ea
rlier, had become a Babel. Edwina saw a tall heavyset black man wave some dollar bills and declare loudly, “Ah want to put ma money in th’ bank.”
A security guard directed him, “Over there for new accounts.”
The guard pointed to a desk where a clerk—a young girl—sat waiting. She appeared nervous. The big man walked toward her, smiled reassuringly, and sat down. Immediately a press of others moved into a ragged line behind him, waiting for their turns.
It seemed as if the report about everyone having come to open an account had been accurate after all.
Edwina could see the big man leaning back expansively, still holding his dollar bills. His voice cut across the noise of other conversations and she heard him proclaim, “Ah’m in no hurry. There’s some things ah’d like yo’ to explain.”
Two other desks were quickly manned by other clerks. With equal speed, long wide lines of people formed in front of them.
Normally, three members of staff were ample to handle new account business, but obviously were inadequate now. Edwina could see Tottenhoe on the far side of the bank and called him on the intercom. She instructed, “Use more desks for new accounts and take all the staff you can spare to man them.”
Even leaning close to the intercom, it was hard to hear above the noise.
Tottenhoe grumbled in reply, “You realize we can’t possibly process all these people today, and however many we do will tie us up completely.”
“I’ve an idea,” Edwina said, “that’s what someone has in mind. Just hurry the processing all you can.”
Yet she knew however much they hurried it would still take ten to fifteen minutes to open any single new account. It always did. The paperwork required that time.
First, an application form called for details of residence, employment, social security, and family matters. A specimen signature was obtained. Then proof of identity was needed. After that, the new accounts clerk would take all documents to an officer of the bank for approval and initialing. Finally, a savings passbook was made out or a temporary checkbook issued.
Therefore the most new accounts that any bank employee could open in an hour were five, so the three clerks presently working might handle a total of ninety in one business day, if they kept going at top speed, which was unlikely.
Even tripling the present complement of clerks would permit very few more than two hundred and fifty accounts to be opened in a day, yet already, in the first few minutes of business, the bank was crammed with at least four hundred people, with still more flooding in, and the line outside, which Edwina rose to check, appeared as long as ever.
Still the noise within the bank increased. It had become an uproar.
A further problem was that the growing mass of arrivals in the central public area of the bank was preventing access to tellers’ counters by other customers. Edwina could see a few of them outside, regarding the milling scene with consternation. While she watched, several gave up and walked away.
Inside the bank some of the newcomers were engaging tellers in conversation and the tellers, having nothing else to do because of the melee, chatted back.
Two assistant managers had gone to the central floor area and were trying to regulate the flood of people so as to clear some space at counters. They were having small success.
But still no hostility was evident. Everyone in the now jam-packed bank who was spoken to by members of the staff answered politely and with a smile. It seemed, Edwina thought, as if all who were here had been briefed to be on best behavior.
She decided it was time for her own intervention.
Edwina left the platform and a railed-off staff area and, with difficulty, made her way through the milling crowd to the main front door. Signaling two security guards who elbowed their way toward her, she instructed, “That’s enough people in the bank. Hold everyone else outside, letting a few in as the others leave. Except, of course, allow our regular customers to enter as they arrive.”
The older of the two guards put his head close to Edwina’s to make himself heard. “That won’t be so easy, Mrs. D’Orsey. Some customers we’ll recognize but a good many we won’t. We get too many here each day to know ’em all.”
“Another thing,” the other guard put in, “when anybody arrives, those outside are shouting, ‘Back of the line!’ If we play favorites it could start a riot.”
Edwina assured him, “There won’t be any riot. Just do your best.”
Turning back, Edwina spoke to several of those waiting. The surrounding constant conversations made it difficult to be heard and she raised her voice. “I’m the manager. Would some of you please tell me why you’ve all come here today?”
“We’re opening accounts,” a woman with a child beside her said. She giggled. “Nothing wrong with that, is there?”
“An’ you guys put out them ads,” another voice injected. “Ain’t no amount too small to start one, is what they say.”
“That’s true,” Edwina said, “and the bank means it. But there has to be some reason why you all chose to come together.”
“You could say,” an elderly cadaverous man chimed in, “we’re all from Forum East.”
A younger voice added, “Or want to be.”
“That still doesn’t tell me …” Edwina began.
“Perhaps I can explain, ma’am.” A middle-aged, distinguished-looking black man was being shoved forward through the press of people.
“Please do.”
At the same moment Edwina was aware of a new figure beside her. Turning, she saw it was Nolan Wainwright. And at the main doorway several more security guards had arrived and were assisting the original two. She glanced interrogatively at the security chief who advised, “Go ahead. You’re doing okay.”
The man who had been thrust forward said, “Good morning, ma’am. I didn’t know there were lady bank managers.”
“Well, there are,” Edwina told him. “And getting to be more of us all the time. I hope you believe in the equality of women, Mr.…?”
“Orinda. Seth Orinda, ma’am. And I sure do believe in that, and lots of other things besides.”
“Is it one of the other things that brings you here today?”
“In a way, you could say that.”
“Exactly what way?”
“I think you know we’re all from Forum East.”
She acknowledged, “I’ve been told that.”
“What we’re doing might be called an act of hope.” The well-dressed spokesman mouthed his words carefully. They had been scripted and rehearsed. More people drew close, conversation stilling as they listened.
Orinda went on, “This bank, so it says, doesn’t have enough money to go on helping Forum East get built. Anyway, the bank has cut its lending cash in half and some of us think that other half will get chopped too, that’s if someone doesn’t beat a drum or take some action.”
Edwina said sharply, “And taking action, I suppose, means bringing the business of this entire branch bank to a standstill.” As she spoke, she was aware of several new faces in the crowd and of open notebooks with racing pencils. She realized that reporters had arrived.
Obviously someone had alerted the press in advance, which explained the presence of the TV camera crew outside. Edwina wondered who had done it.
Seth Orinda looked pained. “What we’re doing, ma’am, is bringing all the money we poor folks can raise to help this bank through its time of trouble.”
“Yep,” another voice threw in, “ain’t that good neighborin’ for sure?”
Nolan Wainwright snapped, “That’s nonsense! This bank is not in trouble.”
“If it ain’t in trouble,” a woman asked, “why’d it do what it done to Forum East?”
“The bank’s position was made perfectly clear in its announcement,” Edwina answered. “It’s a question of priorities. Furthermore, the bank has said it hopes to resume the full financing later.” Even to herself the words sounded hollow. Others evidently thought so too because a
chorus of jeers erupted.
It was the first note of antagonism and ugliness. The distinguished-looking man, Seth Orinda, turned sharply, raising a hand in caution. The jeering ceased.
“Whichever way it looks to you folks here,” he asserted to Edwina, “the fact is, we’ve all come to put some money in your bank. That’s what I mean by an act of hope. We figure that when you see us all, and realize the way we feel, you’ll maybe change your minds.”
“And if we don’t?”
“Then I reckon we’ll go on finding more people and more bits of money. And we can do it. We’ve a lot more good souls coming here today, and tomorrow, and the day after. Then, by the weekend, word will have got around”—he swung toward the press reporters—”so there’ll be others, and not just from Forum East, who’ll join with us next week. Just to open an account, of course. To help out this poor bank. Nothing else.”
More voices added cheerfully, “Yeah man, a whole lot more people” … “We ain’t got much bread, but we sure got numbers” … “Tell your friends to come an’ support us.”
“Of course,” Orinda said, his expression innocent, “some of the folks who are putting money in the bank today may have to come and take it out tomorrow, or the next day, or next week. Most haven’t got so much that they can leave it in long. But then, soon as we can we’ll be back to put it in again.” His eyes glittered mischievously. “We aim to keep you busy.”
“Yes,” Edwina said, “I understand your aim.”
One of the reporters, a slim blond girl, asked, “Mr. Orinda, how much will all of you be depositing in the bank?”
“Not much,” he told her cheerfully. “Most have come with just five dollars. That’s the smallest amount this bank will take. Isn’t that right?” He looked at Edwina who nodded.
Some banks, as Edwina and those listening were aware, required a minimum of fifty dollars to open a savings account, a hundred for checking. A few had no minimums at all. First Mercantile American—seeking to encourage small savers—compromised at five dollars.