by W.H. Harrod
~~ Chapter Nineteen
“Did we pass by the crater?” asked Ernest. “What time is it? I must have spaced out. Why aren’t you guys talking? You want me to drive this vehicle into that volcano Sam talked about a while ago? Someone needs to help keep me awake.”
“It was over an hour ago,” responded Sam from the back, “and to do that you would have to climb about five thousand feet straight up to the edge, so I wouldn’t worry too much about that. Since we passed by the crater a long time ago, you don’t have to worry about that one either. I do have the time. It’s just after 8:30 p.m. By my best guess, after looking at Allison’s road atlas, I figure our next landfall for gas and a pit stop should be somewhere around Needles, California. That should be in another three and a half hours, unless you think you can get away with driving even slower on this interstate highway.”
“I’m pacing myself,” responded Ernest in defiance.
“Yeah, well at the rate we’re going we may not get there before they send the troops off, but we’ll surely be there when they bring them home in a year or two.” Sam laughed at his own wit. “I would hate to have to come to you in a medical emergency. I can visualize it now. ‘Good afternoon Mr. McCarthy, what seems to be the problem? You say you’ve taken your new nuclear powered super-duper cordless drill and drilled a three-quarter inch hole completely through your head. Would that be the hole there where you have fingers plugging both sides of your head? Well, how can I help you with this small problem today? By the way, could I have my nurse offer you a tasty pickled pig’s foot while we discuss the situation? No? Well then, could I offer you a jug of pure animal fat to take along home for use on those occasions when the wife tries to slip in some of that insidious lean cuisine on you? What? You say you’re about to become unconscious. Well, of course you know there are different levels of consciousness and ...hello, hello.’”
Allison laughed out loud, and so did Bobby. Ernest did not.
“You know what?” said Ernest. “If we do end up in the middle of some protest that turns violent, and one of those nice men with the baseball bat sized clubs whacks you up beside the head again, don’t bother looking around for me because I’m going to have one of my disposable cameras out taking pictures for my upcoming documentary called, ‘The real legacy of the ‘60s – Why really dumb white men always forget this is exactly the same thing that happened to them the last time.’”
Allison and Bobby were thoroughly enjoying the verbal jousting of the two old friends.
“What are you two guys laughing at?” asked Sam as he caught sight of Allison and Bobby enjoying the side show.
“I’m only partly laughing at you two nuts. Something else occurred to me as you started in on Ernest about his slow driving.” said Allison.
“Oh, really? Well, maybe you wouldn’t mind sharing this moment of jocularity with the rest of us,” said Sam.
“I was thinking about something one of my co-workers said to me sometime back during one of the many periods of economic uncertainty relating to our annual budgeting hearings. She asked me one day if I knew how to make God laugh. I said I didn’t have the slightest idea. She said if you want to make God laugh, create a plan. When I think about it, it’s so true. We mere mortals spend so much time and effort making these grandiose plans that last about five minutes. It is the rarest of occasions when a plan can be followed to its anticipated or hoped for conclusion. It’s really about rolling with the punches and staying light on your feet so you can react to unanticipated occurrences.”
“Well, aren’t we a beacon of optimism this evening,” observed Ernest.
“That’s not what I mean,” added Allison hurriedly. “I’m just saying that things change from minute to minute at times. Look what’s happened on this trip. I had it planned out so clearly in my mind. Right now, its objective barely resembles the clear sense of purpose I had when I left home. Who knows what it will have morphed into by the time we get to wherever the heck we end up. Guess there’s no reason to think that the destination won’t change also.”
“You know, I haven’t been to Vegas for a long time. We could stop there and do some protesting. I’m especially keen on protesting blackjack tables. We need some practice anyway. Who’s for doing some practice protesting in Vegas?” Sam’s good mood didn’t surprise Allison since he didn’t have to sit there worrying about critical issues and events that awaited the other three upon their arrival in California.
“This vehicle will not be going to Vegas, I assure you,” said Allison using a tone of voice that left no room for discussion. “All I’m saying is, I left home thinking about the upcoming war and how angry it made me, and now I’m spending almost all my time thinking about what I’m going to do to that SOB who attacked me. I’m hoping I haven’t used the threat of a war to serve my own selfish purpose. What happened to me is in the past while the prospect of dying is very real to thousands of our young people today.”
“Why didn’t you go to the police that night and tell them what happened?” asked Sam.
Allison looked over at Sam puzzled by his question. “Why didn’t you go to the police that same night? If my memory is correct, they beat you within an inch of your life, too.”
“It was the police who beat me,” responded Sam, likewise showing surprise at the question. “They would have probably taken me out back and finished the job. My name was on the list of SDS radicals they were on the look out for.”
“Well, who do you think attacked me? It was one of the cowboy governor’s soldiers, that’s who! Do you think they would have cared, especially since all day long, uniformed public officials walked up and down the streets shooting at any humans that moved? Plus, Bobby didn’t leave the guy smiling and waving goodbye as he carried me away. He told me he thought he may have killed him when he him hit him with the iron bar he found on the street. They would have put us both in jail forever.”
“Yeah, you’re right. They would have put you both in jail for a long time. Guess that means technically we’re a bunch of fugitives,” said Sam.
“Hey, I’m not a fugitive. I never hurt anyone,” interrupted Ernest.
“Through no fault of your own,” replied Allison, disbelief apparent in her tone. “The whole thing’s amazing when you think about it. You’re out there on the street with a gun, intent upon shooting all the white people in the world and nothing happens to you. Sam and I, both unarmed and of no danger to anyone, are beaten to within an inch of our lives by the people who are supposed to protect the citizens of this country.”
Ernest replied, “What can I say? I guess no one wants to beat up James Earl Jones.”
“What’s your plan when we get there? In what order are we going to approach things?” interrupted Sam.
“What do you mean?” asked Allison.
“I mean who or what goes first? I know we’re going to make a stop for Bobby before we reach San Francisco, but then what? Do we go to the streets and start protesting? Do we hook up with some organized groups? When does Ernest go see the professor? When do you confront the scumbag who attacked you? Do we do these things together? Do you want to go alone? That kind of stuff,” said Sam as he sat back waiting for answers.
Allison hadn’t thought about the logistical part of their venture. Meanwhile, Ernest made a suggestion.
“The professor still lives at the same house in Berkeley, and I’ll have the use of the rear garage apartment while I’m in town if I want it. I suggest we stay there. It has two bedrooms, a full kitchen, a living room, plus a tub and a shower. I’m sure the professor will want to see all of you as well. You must remember the place, Allison. You stayed there in your bus for awhile.”
Allison shuddered as memories of the place suddenly flooded her consciousness. How would she react to being in those surroundings again and so close to where the attack took place?
“That would be a good idea,” she forced herself to say. “Let’s do that. That okay with you, Sam? Bobby?”
Both Sam and Bobby readily consented.
“Easy enough,” said Allison. “While we’re there I hope there is something we can do for the professor other than breaking the law to help him die. I hate the thought of that wonderful man suffering. I am at a complete loss with this. If he lives, he suffers. If someone helps him die, they can go to jail. I’ve thought about it myself over the years, and I know I don’t want to lie around bringing pain and suffering to my loved ones as well as to myself. I realize the fears opponents of assisted suicide are faced with about institutions and families using this as a method to get rid of sick, bedridden patients. I’ve been around long enough to know that well-intended laws can and will be abused by some people. But, in the end, I believe the right of a person to die in dignity supersedes those fears. Making people suffer the pain and the indignity of becoming a vegetable right before the eyes of their loved ones causes me to line up on the side of those people who support legalizing assisted suicide.”
“Well spoken,” said Sam.
“I wouldn’t want to become a vegetable either,” said Bobby.
“It goes against the Hippocratic Oath I swore to uphold,” pleaded Ernest. “I don’t see how I can do anything to help him under the circumstances, but I guess I understand why his friends would call me.”
“If you’re not going to do anything why would it help them to talk to you?” asked Sam.
“I don’t know how much the professor can do to help out in any attempt to end his life. Is he capable of any movement? I don’t know. One thing I’m sure of though, they don’t want to mess it up. If they try something without knowing what they are doing, they may only end up putting the professor in a coma where he could live for years while unconscious and hooked up to tubes. I’m sure they won’t risk doing something like that. To plan and carry out a humane ending to one’s existence depends on getting the right information and the right barbiturates, which is not a simple task. I expect they, at least, will want me to tell them how not to mess things up.”
“Is that what you intend to do? Tell them how to do it right?” Again it was Sam asking the question.
Ernest made no indication that he was prepared to answer the question as the other three people in the bus waited eagerly for his reply. Only after lengthy deliberation did he offer a weak response.
“I don’t know,” he said almost inaudibly. “I really don’t know.”
Allison sensed they had pushed Ernest far enough on this subject for the moment, so she attempted to change directions. No matter what order they decided on to take care of their business in San Francisco, they needed to concentrate on Bobby first. Even as slowly as Ernest drove, they would arrive in Rodrigo Mendoza’s hometown before daylight. Realizing this, an idea occurred to her.
“Bobby, do you know Mr. Mendoza’s full name?” asked Allison.
Bobby was again caught off guard. “Yeah, his name was Rodrigo, also. PFC Mendoza talked about him all the time. He ran his own garage and had a big tow truck that Rodrigo loved to drive in the summer when school was out. That’s what he planned to do, go back home and work with his dad at the garage. When his dad retired it would be his. He had his life planned out as soon as he got back home.”
“I’ll try to get a number for him from information with my cell phone. That way, you can call him and let him know you’re coming.”
“No!” said Bobby hurriedly. “I can’t do that. I have to see him face to face. I can’t do it any other way.”
“Okay… well, how about me at least finding out if there is still a Rodrigo Mendoza there?”
“That’ll be all right, I guess,” answered Bobby.
“That reminds me,” interrupted Sam as Allison began to hunt for her cell phone. “It occurred to me that I may want to make time to visit with a certain individual myself as we get on down the road. I can’t say that I have wasted time worrying about the pain this person produced in my life during the brief meeting we had a long time ago or that it is as important as the reasons for making this trip that each of you cited, but I would sure enjoy the opportunity of meeting up with him again if it could be arranged.”
Allison did not hear what Sam said in her effort to put a street address with the Mendoza name.
“What are you talking about? Did somebody else take a stick to you before we got run out of California in ‘69?” asked Ernest.
“Metaphorically speaking, I guess you can say that,” replied Sam. “When the deputies beat me in Berkeley it was about the physical pain they inflicted. The next cop that assaulted me didn’t lay a hand on me, but still he inflicted pain. I felt humiliated that night.”
“The cop in the pickup truck that stopped us outside of Needles is who you mean, isn’t it?” asked Bobby. “I remember that; I wanted to kill the bastard, but Allison held me back. He shouldn’t have done that to you, Sam.”
“Alright….alright, now I remember! When we left the diner in Needles, he followed the bus out of town and made us pull off the highway onto a deserted road. I remember it now,” said Ernest.
“Do you remember what he did?” Sam asked.
“What are you guys jabbering about now?” asked Allison as she finished with her calls.
“Sam’s talking about the county cop who stopped us outside Needles,” Bobby informed her.
“Oh, crud! I hoped you would forget that. I felt so sorry for what he made you do. Bobby was so mad he wanted to jump him. I had to hold him back.” Allison said.
“Don’t get me wrong, I haven’t wasted a lot of time over the years worrying about something a moron who was obviously unfit to be a police officer did to me a long time ago. What he did hardly makes it to the list of things that people have done to me that really pissed me off. All I’m saying is I would like to meet up with that guy again in the light of day. Do any of you remember his name?” Sam waited but no one answered.
“His name is Curtis Johnson, Deputy Sheriff Curtis Johnson. I remember the big black nametag he wore on that foul smelling, sweat-stained white shirt that hadn’t seen a laundry in its entire existence. He had a fat white belly that bulged out between the shirt buttons and hung over the holster belt covering everything but that big pistol he kept his hand resting on the entire time he had me stand there naked in front of his pickup’s headlights that night. He laughed at me through those nasty tobacco chewing stained teeth and kept calling me boy and telling me I sure didn’t look so cool standing there without my britches and my fancy hippy leather coat that lay on the ground in front of me.”
“It’s what he did next that was so mean and uncalled for,” said Allison. “I stood outside the bus holding on to Bobby and Ernest’s wrists so tight I expected my fingernails drew blood thinking I should let go and let them both jump on that sick bastard, knowing full well they would put us in jail forever if I did. To this day, I don’t know how I managed to retain control and hold on to you guys so tightly.”
“It wasn’t right what he did,” repeated Bobby.
“It truly wasn’t,” said Ernest in a low deliberate voice. “It truly wasn’t.”
“He told me to urinate on my leather coat or else he was going to take me to jail and run a background check to see if any hippy boys displaying numrus cuts on their pussy whooped faces was wanted for questioning by any other jurisdictions in the state,” Sam recounted with only the slightest hint of bitterness.
“Man, I was so happy to get out of that state,” said Allison to no one in particular while staring out into the darkness.
“That wasn’t right,” repeated Bobby.
“It truly wasn’t,” repeated Ernest.
“Maybe we’ll find the time to stop in to see how things are going with Deputy Johnson,” observed Sam.
