A Nation of Mystics_Book II_The Tribe

by Pamela Johnson

  Kathy took the joint from him. “What’s the university going to say about that? Don’t they actually own the land?”

  “Oh, fuck the university!” Andy cried angrily. “They don’t own anything! They ripped the land off from the Spanish, who ripped it off from the Indians. The people are only taking back what belongs to them. Communities should be places that minister to the needs of the people—particularly the poor and the working class. Those without financial resources. Not the wealthy, the people who already have enough and want more …”

  Kathy took the joint from him and settled back in the chair. She’d seen him this way before and knew when he was on a roll. For the better part of an hour, Andy outlined the new parkland’s history. McKinley High School, he explained, used to be located near the campus. But the pigs wanted Telegraph cleared of undesirable young people, especially blacks. So they pushed the high school down into the black neighborhoods. Then, they tried the same technique to get rid of members of the youth movement who weren’t in school by tearing down the older housing where they lived near Telegraph Avenue. Where once there were houses, all that remained was an unused vacant lot just off the Ave. The land had sat idle for months after the demolition, but today, people had begun to build a community park on it.

  “The university runs Berkeley the way the auto industry runs Detroit,” he told her. “Exercising enormous power. Controlling the very substance of people’s lives. A word here, a dollar there, and whole neighborhoods go.

  “Where’s the playing field they were going to build for intramural sports? Or the faculty offices? The parking lot? Where’re the residence halls for the students? That was the excuse for destroying the homes.

  “I’m telling you that mess of a lot has sat for over a year. There was no pressing need for the bulldozers to plow over inexpensive housing. The university simply likes playing Monopoly—buying up all the property. Spreading out. But you can believe they’re not going to go into the hills, into the white neighborhoods. They’re going to attack the weak and the vulnerable …”

  Now Andy was pacing, his imagination stirred. He began naming the regents appointed to the UC system by Governor Reagan, pointing to the printed statistics on his desk. Together, three regents on the Board controlled 20 percent of Orange County, 285,000 acres of Kern and L.A. counties, and large areas of Coachella.

  He went on to name other regents. Everett Carter held the directorships of Del Monte, AT&T, Pacific Mutual Life Insurance, Southern California Edison, and the Stanford Research Institute.

  Norton Simon controlled McCall’s, Reader’s Digest, and Canada Dry.

  Edward Polli headed Western Airlines and was chairman of Polli Petroleum, the very company polluting and destroying the Santa Barbara channels and tidelands.

  Alan Grant had been appointed president of the California State Board of Agriculture by Reagan in 1967, automatically making him a regent—the same Alan Grant, Andy reminded her, who was the agriculture industry’s major spokesman against the grape strike led by Cesar Chavez. The same man who headed the California Farm Bureau Federation, whose strong arm group, Associated Farmers, had terrorized small farmers in the interests of large growers for fifty years.

  “These men,” Andy assured her, “are members of the corporate elite who would systematically break the backs of the poor for profit. Better to have a bottom line on a piece of paper for your shareholders and bonuses for management than to ensure that a Delano farmworker’s child gets milk or goes to school.”

  His speech was stumbling, as if he couldn’t find the words, so confounded was he by the sheer magnitude of the greed, he cried, “Kathy, workers are sprayed with pesticides … There aren’t even toilet facilities in the fields. And after a grueling day’s work, they return home to rundown shanties covered with tin, without indoor plumbing or electricity or the means to cook. And for the privilege of working for the growers, they’re paid the exorbitant wage of ninety cents a day plus ten cents a lug. That’s … that’s ten to fifteen dollars a day!

  “When men like the regents want something, nothing stands in their way. Not people. And certainly not homes. All the regents and the university need do to own anything is claim ‘eminent domain,’ and they can usurp the land.

  “But this time, we’re fighting back. This time, we’re taking back what’s ours. The park’s not about land, it’s about ideas. It’s about the people who have to struggle for their share, against the people who keep control of the God-Almighty dollar. Men like Reagan and the regents must be stopped somewhere! We’ll stop them at the park!”

  RICHARD

  BERKELEY, CALIFORNIA

  APRIL 1969

  Almost immediately after his visit to Merlin’s farm, Richard had returned to his house in the Berkeley hills one evening to see a white four-door sedan parked on the corner. The sight startled him, and without pulling into his driveway, he cruised by to check it out. When he passed, he saw the car had two occupants. Unable to tell whether it was a stakeout, he went straight to a phone booth and told Marcie to start packing. In his haste to move, he settled on cheap student housing on College, near the corner of Dwight Way. For days afterward, Marcie’s gaze kept asking, Was this really necessary?

  Four months later, they were still living in the small, two-bedroom apartment. Richard had grown to enjoy it, because Kevin had moved close by, and he could get together quickly with any number of people by walking a short distance. But for Marcie, the problems of managing a household up second story steps had its drawbacks.

  “Good. You’re up,” Marcie said to Richard as she set down a bag of groceries. “And working hard I see.” She eyed the joint he and Gary were smoking. “Hi, Gary. You two want to walk with me to the new park?”

  “What new park?”

  “There’s a new park just a block away. Now we’ll have somewhere to play.”

  “You mean on that vacant lot that belongs to the university?” Richard asked.

  “It doesn’t belong to the university any more. It belongs to the people now. I heard someone call it People’s Park. With all the travelers coming into Berkeley this summer, they’ll need a place where they can gather and check out a community billboard. I can’t imagine what I would have done if I hadn’t met you when I hit Haight Street.”

  “Hey, John, come give your Dad a big kiss.”

  “He’s not giving kisses these days.” Marcie watched John waddle over to his father on unsteady legs, curls bouncing. “He’s giving five.”

  Richard picked John up, held up a hand so John could slap his palm, and squeezed him tight. “Gary, how’s that Panama Red deal coming? Price still at three hundred dollars?”

  “Everything’s good,” Gary answered, passing the joint he and Richard were sharing to Marcie. “They’re weighing now.”

  Richard grinned. “I can’t wait for a sample. I’m going to take it over to Kathy and watch her eyes pop.”

  Marcie blew a huge cloud of smoke toward him. “Did you tell her it’s coming in?”

  “Are you kidding?” Richard cried, putting John on the rug and reaching for his boots. “I’ll tell her when I have it in my hands. The last fuckin’ Panama deal took me three months of maneuvering, only to have it fall to someone else at the last minute. Jesus, I don’t know about pot. I just seem to have one problem after another with it. I’m gonna stick to acid, I think.”

  “You want some reds or bennies?” Gary asked. “I’ve got tons of that shit.”

  “Maybe a few reds to keep around for emergencies.” Richard murmured absently, still thinking about the Panama Red as he slipped on his belt. He was really counting on this deal and hoped Gary wasn’t just giving him some mojo.

  “Whose idea was it to make a park out of that lot?” Gary asked Marcie.

  “I don’t know,” Marcie answered, unloading groceries and putting things in cupboards. “But everyone’s working on it.” She stopped and turned to grin at Richard. “Listen to this—David’s thinking of donating ten
grand for a pool.”

  Richard finished pulling on his boots and thought about all the things he had to do. A park was the furthest thing from his mind. What was really occupying his thoughts was the base trip he had going with Peter. Although Peter had delivered as promised in December, he was waiting for a second kilo. He’d told Peter he’d go anywhere, do anything to get that base down from Vancouver. Peter kept assuring him it would be next week. That was two months ago. Unless he actually got that new kilo soon, Christian might think he was shining him on.

  On top of everything else, Marcie had started hassling him about some music festival in upstate New York that was supposed to happen in August. Some place called Woodstock. What if he missed something? If Christian went, it might be alright. But the lab had to be into heavy production with the second kilo before they left.

  “Richard, it’s hard to get John and groceries up from that underground garage. Too many stairs.”

  Richard knew the beginning of that conversation and ducked it. “You ready to walk down to the park?” he asked. At the moment, a half hour at the park was better than a half hour about moving.

  The area that came to be known as People’s Park was an unused piece of land full of rubbish and scruffy shrubbery. Some thought it would be a straight shot to usurp the land, because it was becoming easier to make demands of the city and the university, especially since the successful ending of the six-month student strike at San Francisco State University. Although S. I. Hayakawa, president of the university, had called in the police with all their riot gear and batons, and although there had been bloody battles and many arrests, the students had hung in there for the full length of the strike, five months, the longest to date in American history. Their demands had finally been met, and for the first time, an American university would have an ethnic studies department, would hire a greater number of minority faculty, and would admit more minority students.

  On this mild April day, like an abandoned seed that finally feels the rain, the unkempt lot near Telegraph Avenue was continuing its transformation into a park. Hundreds of people were involved in the remarkable makeover. In one corner, in huge six foot letters, the word KNOW had been sculpted. Near it appeared the word YES. Children were already busy sliding down the angles of the letters, climbing and jumping, or sitting in the donut hole of the large O. Directly before the sculpture, a plywood stage was being hammered into place. In the center of the park, at least three new swing sets had been erected. From somewhere and everywhere, wood, nails, rope, and tools appeared. Caught by the spirit of the idea of a true community park, people for miles around had emptied their garages of unused supplies or had added money from their pockets to cover what was needed for a project. A sign was raised: “People’s Park, of the people, by the people, for the people.”

  When Marcie and Richard arrived with John, men and women were hard at work with pickaxes and shovels turning the ground and laying out stakes for a garden. Compost and sawdust were being delivered from the bed of a pickup truck by wheelbarrow. Teams worked in pairs, digging holes for trees, bushes, and flowers. A few people were busy arranging sprinkler systems. Some served free food for travelers and workers. On one corner, a long line of college students waited for a chance to jump rope, book bags still on their shoulders. Bicycles zoomed around gardens, marking the beginnings of new paths.

  “Oh, Richard, isn’t it grand!” Marcie cried, putting John down.

  “Yeah.” Looking around, he spied David. “Gary, give me a minute. I need to talk to someone I know.”

  Marcie followed his eyes, saw David, and said tactfully, “Come on, Gary, let’s swing John.”

  “Hey, old buddy!” David gave Richard’s hand a firm shake. “What do you think?”

  “A happening. There’s some energy here!”

  “I’m thinking of donating a swimming pool.”

  Richard nodded. “It’s good to know you’ve got that much money to donate.”

  “I’ll make it back in a week,” David assured him. “Listen, I’ve got some dynamite coke. You’ve got to try this stuff. Ninety-nine percent. I mean, when you try this, you’ll know why only kings and royalty among the Inca were allowed to use it.”

  “You have some on you?”

  “Yeah. Let’s go over to your house and you can take a look.”

  “I just got here. Wait awhile. Is Michelle around?”

  “No. Didn’t you hear? We split up. I’ve got a new old lady now. Hey, Dove, come over here. Meet a buddy. This is Richard. He’s big time. Be nice to him.”

  Dove was very young, with long straw-blond hair, cocaine thin, angular, and agitated. “How ya doin’?” She smiled up at him.

  “Okay,” Richard answered numbly. “David, let’s have a word.”

  Richard walked him away, hand hard around his elbow. “Chris-sake, man, what the fuck are you doin’ blowin’ my cover?”

  “Huh? Take it easy. She’s cool. She has to know how my business operates so she can take my calls and maybe make some deliveries. She’s smart, too. Don’t worry.”

  “God, is she over eighteen?”

  “Hey, sure. I just like ’em a little on the young side.”

  “And where the hell’s Michelle?”

  “Gone. Said she had to make a choice. Moved out to Inverness with some dude.”

  “What about your kid? Don’t you want to be with your kid?”

  “I’ll see her. More now. Cause I’ll go and pick her up and spend real time with her. Like, man, I wasn’t comin’ home hardly at all before. All Michelle did was complain that I wasn’t around.”

  “What’d you expect? You never were around. She wanted an old man and a father for the baby.”

  “I just couldn’t do that, man. Like, you know, play that role. Besides, the kid’s a child of the universe. She’ll have lots of parents.”

  Richard tried to keep his voice steady. “Do you have Michelle’s new address and phone number? I think Marcie would like to have it.”

  David took a pen and paper from the pocket of his jacket and wrote out the numbers. “By the way, you got any of those purple tabs left?”

  “About ten grams.”

  David’s eyes never stopped darting from one corner of the lot to the other, never met Richard’s. “Hey, there’s Kevin … and Mick. It’s turning into quite a party!” He grinned, waved. “Look, when can I pick up those ten?”

  “Early evening. After rush hour. I’ll call you.”

  “I might not be in. Let me call you. Hey, Kevin, what’s happenin’?”

  “Plenty. Heard you have some dynamite shit.”

  “Yeah,” David agreed. “I’m tryin’ to get Richard here to take us home and try some.”

  Stuck on the thought of Michelle, Richard suddenly said, “What’s goin’ to happen to your kid? You should really think about it.”

  “I’ve got that all worked out. Dove will be her second mother.”

  “Have you met Dove?” Richard asked Kevin. “She’s about eighteen and raw.”

  “She’s cool, man,” David told him defensively. “We connect.”

  “David, you’re rappin’ out the whole scene to her. She’s never been tested. What’s she made of? In a pinch, which way will she turn? I mean, I want to know her politics before you give her my name.”

  “I swear to God, Richard, you’re always on some kind of control trip. You know, you really are fuckin’ straight sometimes. I mean, straight-arrow uptight.”

  “Hey, David,” the words were hot and sharp. Being called “straight” was like being slapped in the face. “I’m talking about being really hip, man. Not phony hip, irresponsible. I mean, hip, like you’re thinkin’ about what you’re doin’ before you do it.”

  “And I say, live here now. For the moment. You have to make use of every fuckin’ moment you’re given. Jesus Christ, it could all end at any time.”

  “I like to get stoned. I like to party. But doin’ it all the time interferes with your judgment. Decis
ions you’ve got to make. Getting high, David, means heightened perception. Learning to do the right things. Moral things.”

  “You tryin’ to tell me I’m not bein’ moral? Well, go ahead. Let’s hear what you think morality is.”

  “It’s takin’ care of your family first,” Richard told him pointedly, emphasizing the words by tapping David’s chest. “It’s not thinking about yourself first all the time.”

  Kevin cleared his throat uncomfortably. “C’mon, man,” he said into the dry silence. “Let’s … let’s go try out that product.”

  “Alright,” Richard responded slowly. “I’ll be right with you.” With an unhurried gait, thinking, he walked over to Marcie and Gary.

  “What happened?” she asked, watching his face.

  “David and Michelle split up. Know anything about that?”

  “Oh, Richard, really? She finally did it. She was so unhappy.”

  “She’s moved out to Inverness.”

  “I suppose it’s with Tom. Red Tom. You know him. Dark red hair. What’s bugging you?”

  “Check out the blond.” He nodded at the woman. “Her name’s Dove. David’s new old lady. See what you think.”

  Gary walked from around the backside of the swing set. “Richard, how about that investigator you were going to turn me onto?”

  “You have a pen? I’ll give you the number.” Richard tore a corner off the piece of paper with Michelle’s address and wrote Joe O’Brian’s number on it.

  “And I can talk to this guy? He’s confidential?”

  “The best. Get that sample of Panama to me right away if it happens today. I’m sorry I can’t stick around any longer. I’ve got to get going.”

  “I’ll call you later,” Gary answered, and, waving, walked away.

  “Oh, Richard, really. Must you leave? We just got here.”

  “Marcie, something’s up with David. I’ll see you around eight-thirty for dinner.”