juha

When he was much younger, Juha had attended protests nearly every weekend. He outgrew protesting in uni, but that didn't mean he didn't care anymore. His girlfriend, Iines, told him that he had sold out, whatever that meant. But he still cared, only not about the saimaa seal or mangabeys or marmosets. Marching in long lines with other people was great if you wanted whip yourself into a frenzied state and feel smug and satisfied, but it didn't change much. He remember when he marched past a raving lunatic on a street corner, preaching about the end of the world, and realized he was no different. Since then he'd stuck to quieter pursuits, though he still believed in animal rights and saving the environment.

A friend had encouraged him to get his hands dirty, so last week he'd arranged to have lunch with a former poacher and smuggler. Juha had met him in the jail cafeteria and discovered that his enemy was a man like him. He didn't think he could explain that to Iines, though.

He pushed his hair away from his eyes and tucked his hands into his pocket. He'd been scanning the street all afternoon, picking up trash and recyclables, and he was getting tired. Dirty hands meant hard work. The sound of music swirled through his ears and he lifted his head to see a band of buskers headed his way. Juha chuckled when he recognized the man with an accordion. They had rented a flat together a few years back, but lost touch after Juha moved out and stopped protesting.

"Juha, you ole rascal, good to see you!"

Juha grinned, caught up in the music and laissez-faire atmosphere the rovering musicians brought with them. He plucked a bottle from the bag of plastic bottles he'd spent all afternoon meticulously collecting, and danced in a circle around his old roommate, banging a bottle against his palm. Juha laughed as they made their way down the street. "Ahhh . . . the best kind of recycling!"