Wild World

by Peter S. Rush

  Steve felt a sense of siege in the city—not wholescale destruction like Newark or Detroit after Martin Luther King’s murder, but one of creeping desperation and isolation. Washington had had its riots, and the toll could still be seen in the empty storefronts. Steve saw two older men in weather-beaten long cloth coats, drinking from brown paper bags—symbols of the city being relegated to the inner-city garbage heap. Steve had only seen it on TV; there weren’t any riots in the suburbs.

  As they pulled around the Mall, rows of police vehicles were lined up along its perimeter. Blue police barricades were being set up by men working from large open-back trucks.

  “Professor, thanks so much,” Steve and Roxy said almost simultaneously as they climbed out of the car.

  “See you around campus. And be careful,” the professor said. “I don’t think this will be the Democratic Convention, but you know some of the crazy Weathermen might be here, too—or that looney Abbie Hoffman. The cops might decide to club everyone in sight.”

  “This march is our history.” Steve stopped to look up at the eight classical Greek columns at the top of the stairs to the National Archives. “They have the Declaration of Independence, Constitution, Bill of Rights . . . Shit. All the real stuff, right here. And now here we are, exercising our rights.” Amused that this was the reason he had come to Washington for the first time, he was feeling a bit awed as well. With his family, visiting relatives in New Jersey was a called a trip. Jones Beach was the only family vacation. Working in Alaska had stretched his horizons: the work had been hard and mindless, but sleeping in the open and seeing so many stars had been new to him. Now Washington. He only had read about things, but reading was not doing, being. He wanted to experience it—he needed to.

  “Kenny is coming by bus with a whole group of kids from Oberlin,” Roxy said with a chipper glint. “We’re staying tonight in Arlington with my uncle, who works for the government, a second cousin on my dad’s side.” Her voice became deeper, and she twirled a strand of hair in her finger. “I can’t tell you the accommodations will be great.”

  “After this summer, I’m sure it will be fine. How long have you been going out with Kenny?” His politeness was devouring his intestines like a tapeworm, ravenous for more, even if it killed him.

  “Since senior year in high school. We did it the first time on the floor in his basement. Can’t say it was romantic, but at least it wasn’t in a car. I refused to be one of those girls who did it in a car—so cheap and trite.”

  Steve, shocked at her frankness, wondered why she was telling him details. She said it lightly. He had never met a girl who spoke so openly about sex—or about sex at all. Was she setting him up? He wasn’t going to tell her about his first time in the summer after freshman year. He had fumbled around in a car and came prematurely. “Seriously?” he said, searching for some type of answer but wanting to ask more—like why couldn’t you have waited for me? She was skipping on the Archives stairs like a child on a school trip.

  “It’s college. He’s my high school boyfriend. I haven’t seen him in two months.” Steve sensed she was satisfied with his confused look, even if it was only a mask to his deeper feelings.

  A boy ascended the stairs. He was five foot eight with blond hair that was short but not so short it was a crew cut. Dressed in jeans and an Oberlin sweatshirt, he was carrying a small duffle bag. Roxy ran down the stairs and kissed him before they ascended the stairs arm in arm.

  “Kenny, my friend Steve. He was gallant enough to escort me down to DC.”

  Kenny advanced to Steve with his hand outstretched. “Thanks for taking care of her.”

  “Not a problem—I was going to come anyhow, and we saved on the bus fare.” Steve could see the sincerity in Kenny’s face and its smile and perfect white teeth. He had an openness that was different from Steve’s Long Island upbringing. The urge to hit Kenny was a gust of wind as Steve steeled himself for more pain. He had never been west of New Jersey until the summer before, when he and a fraternity brother drove to Alaska. The Alcan Highway was twelve hundred miles of unpaved road, where the only traffic was moose crossing the road.

  That night, Steve debated Roxy’s uncle about the global strategy of containment of communism. Roxy and Kenny sat on the couch holding hands, spectators to the event.

  “You are better informed than most young people,” her uncle said, breaking off the debate. “Getting involved is the only way to change things—being part of the action. But your generation seems unwilling to sacrifice like your parents did to protect our freedom.” Steve didn’t need to argue as he did at family gatherings where his father, uncle, and the other veterans of World War II would cite patriotism and duty. Theirs was a different war in a different time, and logic had no impact on their beliefs.

  “I’ll drop you off at the Key Bridge,” Roxy’s uncle said, looking at Steve. Her uncle gave Steve a nod to acknowledge the conversation. “Good night.”

  Steve looked at Roxy and Kenny, who were still holding hands.

  “See you in the morning,” said Roxy with a shy smile.

  Steve took his sleeping bag and moved it to the far side of the room. Roxy slept next to Kenny in her sleeping bag. Steve knew he had been showing off for her by debating foreign policy with her State Department uncle. He was trying to compete with the boy she’d given her virginity to. He looked over at her, lying next to Kenny on the floor. He wanted to feel her warmth, to stroke the gentle slope of her shoulders. He rolled to his side so he didn’t have to look at them, but he thought he could hear her gentle breath. Another stupid idea?

  The Mall was packed from the Capitol to the Lincoln Memorial with 500,000 people. Steve, Roxy, and Kenny moved with the crowd. It wasn’t so much of a march but was rather a surging, slow-moving organism that had enveloped the Mall. The excitement of the crowd on the cool autumn day was contagious. College students were mixed with forty- and fifty-year-olds and even families with young children. News reports from portable radios carried here and there said millions of people had joined local demonstrations across the nation, voicing their opposition to the war in Vietnam. Energy radiated from person to person in the form of knowing smiles and righteous nods exchanged among strangers, who felt like a family.

  Steve saw a small older woman with a bright turquoise scarf wrapped around her neck. She looked like his grandmother and was holding up a homemade banner that said Grandmas for Peace. A father in a blue trench coat, a two-year-old boy on his shoulder holding down his Phillies hat, swayed with the movement of the march. The speeches seemed far away, but everyone broke into periodic chants of “No More War” and “Hell No, We Won’t Go,” and various versions of “All we are saying is give peace a chance.” All sung off-key.

  Steve used his strong body and hips to keep some space around Roxy, who seemed to be in danger of being crushed by the crowd. Kenny kept moving forward to get a better view of the speakers on the stage by the Washington Monument, but Roxy got swallowed by the human wave until Steve brought her back up for air. He wasn’t going to leave her side.

  The orderly demonstration changed gradually from angry to festive as Pete Seeger led the crowd in a more-unified singing of “Give Peace a Chance.” And the crowd, still off-key, reacted with revived energy as people locked arms.

  As the afternoon faded, the march slowly dissolved into groups of people along the Washington streets. The party atmosphere continued with people spontaneously sharing food or drink. Conversations from the different parts of the country intermingled with the congestion and traffic along Constitution Avenue. Kenny and Roxy were in the lead as the crowd moved past the Lincoln Memorial into Foggy Bottom. Steve slowed to observe and record his first visit to the Capitol and the largest crowd he had ever seen. When he came to college, he wasn’t against the war. At his high school, getting into West Point was a great honor. But the escalation under Nixon and the reality of the draft made him realize it wasn’t a war worth fighting.

  “I’m hungry,” R
oxy announced at the top of the hill in front of a bakery. “It smells so good.” She entered, followed by the two boys, and bought a pain au chocolate, several croissants, and two large baguettes. She ate her chocolate pastry while the boys ate their croissants.

  “What’s the other bread for?” Steve asked.

  “I thought other people might be hungry, too,” she said, scanning the crowd of people coming up the hill.

  “Hungry? Want some fresh bread?” She approached a group of middle-aged women who were wearing grey republican cloth coats. They stopped for a minute as Roxy chatted excitedly with them before she handed them the last of the bread.

  Smiling, she returned to the boys. “They’re from Indiana.” She raised her hands. “We are not alone.” Steve watched her take Kenny’s arm as they continued to Foggy Bottom As they arrived at the George Washington University campus on 22nd St, Kenny motioned toward a line of buses.

  “That’s my ride,” he said with the regret of someone having to leave a good party early.

  “Peace,” Steve said, giving him a handshake before wandering off a distance to give Roxy and Kenny space to say good-bye. He glanced over his shoulder at them but didn’t stare. The two lovers talked while locked in an embrace. At least he would have her alone on the way back to Providence. It wasn’t enough. Steve had hoped he would win her, but as he watched them kiss, he knew he had lost.

  When Roxy tugged at his sleeve, she asked, “How do you suggest we get back to Providence?”

  Steve held up his handwritten sign on a piece of cardboard box: Providence. “Hope they can read.” As they walked out to Pennsylvania Avenue, which was a good place to catch a ride back to school, Steve was impressed with how many people had come to the march. If it wasn’t for Roxy, he’d still be at his apartment doing the ordinary things of life. But he was here—part of the movement to stop the war, stop the madness. He felt good and was glad Roxy had encouraged him to go.

  The car pulled to the side of the road on the New Jersey Turnpike near the Outerbridge Crossing exit, where Steve and Roxy got out.

  “Thank you. Peace.” They waved to the parents and kids from Brooklyn, who honked as they drove away in their Oldsmobile.

  They didn’t have to hold up their sign for long before a young couple in a Volkswagen Bus slowed to pick them up.

  “We’re going back to Boston, so you are on our way,” the young man said. “Where are you coming from?”

  “DC.”

  “At the march?”

  “Yes, you?”

  “Man, the war really sucks.” The driver motioned to his girlfriend with matching granny glasses and her brown hair parted in the center with long pigtails. “Now, back to school. We should blow up the Pentagon or something. SDS has some cool ideas.”

  Roxy and Steve settled in the backseat, both tired. Roxy moved over and put her head on Steve’s shoulder. Steve remained upright, feeling a little uncomfortable at her intimacy. He was exhilarated at the experience—so many people, so much passion to end the war. Steve felt it was as right as right could be. He was happy she had asked him to go. The experience had instilled a feeling of being part of something big. And he shared it with Roxy, which made it that much better.

  “I . . . I . . . You know, I’d like to think that we made a difference in how the war . . .” he stammered.

  “Thank you. You are so wonderful,” Roxy snuggled closer to him.

  “I’m glad you got to see Kenny. He seems like a nice guy.”

  Roxy knitted her eyebrows as she stared at him. “Don’t you get it?”

  “What?”

  Roxy reached up and kissed him very hard on the mouth. “That was a good-bye.”

  CHAPTER 7

  PEOPLE ARE STRANGE

  Crowley returned to the car with two coffees, a glazed donut for himself, and a French cruller for Steve from the Dunkin’ Donuts shop. Crowley balanced the coffee and donut in his right hand so he could drive with his left. Steve needed both hands.

  “Car 24, Industrial National Bank Building. Report of a bomb threat.”

  “Car 24 on the way. Bomb? What is this, fucking Vietnam?” Crowley looked at Steve, who was surprised that there were radicals in Providence. A bomb here? Had it gone this far? There were three cars and a sergeant waiting at the front of the Art Deco style bank.

  “Dispatch received an anonymous call about a bomb. We have to take it seriously. It may be those crazy Weathermen. Look for something out of place, something unusual.” The bank manager arrived with the key and opened the door. He stood in the lobby but didn’t proceed inside with the police.

  “Weathermen? What the hell are they?” Crowley adjusted his Sam Brown belt under his protruding belly. He followed Steve behind the ornate brass teller cages.

  “Weathermen, SDS—Students for a Democratic Society. They’re the radical fringe of the student movement. They planted some bombs in some New York police stations. And they blew themselves up a townhouse in Greenwich Village, trying to make bombs,” Steve said as he looked behind a desk.

  “That’s crazy. Blew themselves up?”

  “Yeah, and they’re aligning with the Black Panthers over the killings in Chicago. Hardcore Marxists, they want the overthrow of capitalism and imperialism.”

  Crowley stopped looking under a desk and turned askance to Steve. Maybe that level of detail was too much because Crowley didn’t comprehend any of the anti-war sentiment and certainly didn’t understand why rich college kids could be against the country.

  “How the fuck do you know so much?”

  “New York Times.” Steve smiled. “I read more than the sports pages.”

  “Why do college kids hate this country so much?” Crowley moved a wastebasket.

  “Vietnam. It’s a war for no reason, and kids are being drafted to fight it.”

  “But it’s your country. Love it or leave it,” Crowley said.

  “That’s the problem, Crowley: no discussion. It’s called freedom of speech. It’s okay to disagree with the government—peacefully.”

  “So what the fuck are we looking for?” Crowley edged some boxes away from the wall with his baton.

  “Peacefully, I said.” Steve looked around at the wooden desks neatly arranged in three rows. Peacefully. So here he was, looking for a bomb possibly placed by someone his own age who disagreed with the war in Vietnam just as much as he did. How fucking sad. And the only people who would get hurt were bank clerks just making a living. It was an inverted universe.

  Steve looked behind some file cabinets and under the desks in the loan department. “Crowley, I have a question for you. What the fuck do we do if we find something? We don’t have a bomb squad.”

  “Good question, kid.” He stopped to think. “With my experience, we call for a sergeant and let him decide—that’s what sergeants are for. Meanwhile, we would quickly set up a perimeter on the exterior of the building to make certain no civilians get hurt.”

  “Got it.” Steve suppressed his smile. Nothing was going to get in the way of Crowley’s pension. But he had to agree with Crowley. The bank wasn’t something to die for.

  Steve watched a white Bonneville make the right-hand turn onto Chalkstone Avenue, and a smile crossed his face. Shifting the cruiser into drive, he pulled out from the alley they had been parked in. Crowley was drinking his first of many coffees of the evening, his usual: light with double sugar.

  “I’m not done yet,” Crowley protested.

  “I need to up my traffic count,” Steve replied, knowing that Crowley didn’t care about tickets as long as Steve did the paperwork. He followed the car several blocks as it drove toward the Capitol. It was headed back to college hill.

  Pulling on the lever that activated the red light on the top of the car, Steve edged up close behind the car and, with his left hand, hit the siren, which gave a sharp whine before it settled into a more rhythmic doo-op beat. The driver looked into his rearview mirror at the flashing lights behind him as he slowed the car, pu
lling it to the side of the road. Steve put on his hat to exit the car, and Crowley fumbled to put down his coffee.

  “Finish your coffee; this is an easy one,” Steve said to a visibly relieved Crowley, who was still chewing his glazed donut. The red flashing lights created a strobe effect on the car windows, and Steve realized he was the uniform—another generic cop—as he approached with the black flashlight in hand.

  The driver rolled down the window but didn’t look up at Steve, who systematically searched the front seat with the light. He finished with the light on the driver’s face. The driver was tense and nervous. Before joining the force, it never occurred to Steve that the one time most people deal with the police was during traffic stops—and fear of embarrassment was their major reaction. At the Academy, they were told that the approach to a car during a stop was one of the most dangerous actions most police officers ever encountered.

  “Hands on the steering wheel, where I can see them,” Steve ordered, deepening his voice a bit for effect. “License and registration.” The driver took his wallet out and quickly found his license but fumbled through the crowded glove compartment for the registration.

  “I know it is here somewhere,” the man said, sliding along the bench seat and dumping paper napkins and a mountain of maps onto the seat. Steve kept his flashlight on the activity, his smile becoming wider as he watched the driver’s increasing frustration at not finding it.

  “Where are you going?” Steve asked, returning to his normal voice.

  “Home,” the man answered, sitting back up. “I must have left the registration at home.” He gave the mess on his front seat a defeated look.

  “Do you know why I stopped you?” Steve asked.

  “Was I speeding?” the driver asked.

  “No,” Steve answered, watching the confusion on the driver’s face. When he had joined the force, the idea of power was abstract. Others had power—the nuns in second grade had enough power to keep fifty petrified seven-year-olds sitting straight up in their seats. The government had power to send you to Vietnam for two years or more. Coach had power to make you do endless laps and decide if you played or not. Now he had power, standing with his flashlight over this driver, who, not knowing his offense, was probably thinking about the time and money a ticket would entail. It was the uniform, the badge, the gun—it conferred power. Before he became a cop, the uniform was a threat, just like it was to this driver. Power to take away freedom. Steve waited and watched as the man tried to process other transgressions he might have made while driving.