by Shawn Inmon
“Yep,” Curlee said, “I’ve been to some sit-ins where the smell was pretty bad by the end. I think they might have had to fumigate the place.”
Cassandra’s mouth fell slightly open. “Seriously?”
“Rule number one of all sit-ins,” Billie said. “Don’t listen to a word Curlee says. He’s a bullshit artist from way back.” She touched his cheek affectionately. “He’s cute though, isn’t he?”
I guess that answers that question.
Curlee just laughed, grabbed a bologna sandwich and wolfed it down in three big bites.
“You said they’ll try and negotiate with us, but how does that work? Nobody here at Berkeley can stop the war.”
“No,” Billie said, “they can’t. But we know that’s not the endgame. What we really want is to attract attention, to get the cameras on us, to make the evening news.”
“That’s sure to happen tonight, when they come to arrest us.”
“Uh-huh, right. Wait. What? Arrest us?”
An imaginary headline in The Middle Falls Chronicle flashed briefly through her head—Collins kin arrested in Berkeley—then she remembered that her father owned the paper and that no such story would ever see the light of day.
“Will they actually arrest us?”
Curlee shrugged. “They might. We’ve been arrested plenty. It’s a badge of honor.”
I doubt it would be received that way in the Collins household in Middle Falls, Oregon.
“Do they take us to jail and everything?”
“Not usually,” Billie said. “There’s too many of us. Where are they going to put all of us? Sometimes, though, they do like to put the ringleaders in jail overnight.” Billie scoffed. “Like that’s going to stop us.” She looked at the expression on Cassandra’s face and smiled. “Sorry you agreed to get up and sing with us, now?”
Cassandra thought back to the impact those few minutes had on her. The energy and life she had both given to and received from, the crowd.
“Nope. That was an amazing feeling, being up there with you. I couldn’t believe you plucked me out of the crowd like that.”
I almost said like Bruce Springsteen did with Courtney Cox in that video, but that wouldn’t make any sense to them at all. Surprised I haven’t messed up like that more often.
The three of them were soon surrounded by others. The landing filled with people, then the stairs, and more and more people continued to arrive. Soon, the staircase was filled with bodies as far as Cassandra could see.
Some people talked, others fell asleep. Curlee pointed at one of the sleepers and said, “Kids today. No stamina for a sit-in.”
“He just turned twenty-five,” Billie said, “so he’s kind of an old man.” She patted his knee. “He’s still got five years, though, before I can’t trust him anymore.”
That’s right. ‘Don’t trust anyone over thirty.’ Forgot all about that. What would they say if they knew how old I really am?
Eventually, a few people started singing again. It wasn’t all protest songs, although they did run through Eve of Destruction. It turned out that Curlee had a good voice too, a baritone with a bit of hash in the lower end of his register. He made a good stand-in for Barry McGuire.
They also sang songs like Puff, the Magic Dragon, and Hello, Muddah, Hello Faddah. They were protesting, but they still maintained some sense of humor.
All the bodies packed in provided a lot of heat and most everyone who had been wearing a coat took it off, folded it up, and sat on it. The steps were hard, as they would experience first-hand very soon.
Because the sit-in filled the staircase all the way to street level, it acted like an epic version of the kid’s game Telephone Line, where someone would whisper a phrase to the person next to them and then on to the person after that. By the time it got to the end, it barely resembled the initial phrase.
Being clear up at the top, Cassandra, Billie, and Curlee only got messages after they had been passed through many people and greatly distorted. They ranged from “Somebody bought enough pizzas to feed all of us,” to “They’re about to gas the whole building.”
A little before midnight, though, a disturbing rumor that had more of the ring of truth came through. The police had already arrived and were physically carrying people out of the building.
It took a long time for the limited police presence to work their way up the staircase, but eventually, that rumor proved to be true.
One by one, they could see people at the bottom of the stairs were grabbed around the ankles and hauled unceremoniously down the stairs, bouncing on their butts as they went.
By the time they worked their way up to Cassandra, it was almost 3:00 a.m. and the cops were exhausted and irritated.
They hauled the row away below Cassandra, then a young cop stepped in front of her. He couldn’t have been older than his late twenties.
He stopped in front of her, wiped the sweat off his brow, and said, “Are you gonna stand up and walk out of here like a lady, or am I gonna have to carry you out?”
Cassandra was flummoxed. She turned to Billie, slightly panicked.
“We will be carried out,” Billie said, mustering her dignity, “like ladies.”
Chapter Twenty-Nine
It was a painful ride for Cassandra, as the young cop grabbed her by one ankle and pulled her at a steady rate, bouncing her butt from one step to the next with no regard for what it did to her. By the time she got to the bottom her tailbone was bruised and battered.
At the bottom of the stairs, another police officer joined the first and they picked Cassandra up and carried her to a makeshift bullpen they had built just for the occasion. There was no paddy wagon or prison bus in sight, so Cassandra correctly guessed that they were not going to jail.
There were several officers at the exit of the bullpen who were writing citations, then letting them out into the pre-dawn morning. The only way out was to provide a driver’s license or other proof of identification.
Several people in front of them didn’t have any identification. They were separated, put into police cars, and taken to the station.
Cassandra, Billie, and Curlee all had their ID on them, and so were cited with trespassing and illegal assembly and required to either pay a $72.00 fine, or appear in District Court in January.
“Another successful day,” Billie said.
“She’s weird that way,” Curlee said. “A day without being arrested is a day we didn’t accomplish anything. Hey, I think we’re gonna head to Denny’s for a cuppa. Wanna come with?”
Cassandra shook her head. “I’m totally beat. Next time we do this, remind me to wear something with some padding on the bottom, will you?”
Billie and Curlee began to drift away when Cassandra realized she had no way to find them again.
“Wait!” she said, running after them. She pulled a pen and piece of paper out of her pocket and scribbled her name and the number at the house on it. “I don’t want to lose touch with you guys.”
Especially you, Curlee, just in case you turn out to not be Billie’s boyfriend.
“Not to worry,” Curlee said with a smile that showed even white teeth and dimples. “Once you meet us, we have a habit of showing back up.” He took the paper, winked at Cassandra, and walked away.
Cassandra turned toward home. More than anything, she wanted to sit under one of the elm trees that lined the sidewalk, lean her head back and go to sleep.
Probably get another citation for loitering, if I do that. I think I’m at my limit for one day.
She pressed on through the half-mile walk home as the sun rose in the east. She unlocked the door and opened it quietly.
All four of her roommates were sitting around the kitchen table, drinking coffee and staring at her.
Her entrance caused a stir of questions and comments. “Where have you been?” And, “We thought we were going to have to come bail you out.” And, “We were taking up a collection to spring you.” And, finally, “Are
you all right?”
Cassandra had expected to slip unseen into the house, so she was taken aback. After the incredible events of the previous twelve hours, it was too much for her. Tears sprang to her eyes, her lip quivered, and she barely made it to the couch before her legs gave out on her.
She was surrounded by everyone, holding her, hugging her, all talking at once so that she couldn’t hear anything through her tears. She sobbed and blubbered, what her mother would have called an ugly cry, for quite some time.
Finally, she was through, and she leaned her head over on the shoulder of the woman on her right, who happened to be Dara.
“What happened?” Dara asked. “One minute you’re sitting in here, planning on doing your nails, the next thing I know, I’ve lost you in the crowd. When I look up, you’re at the top of the steps, singing your heart out. I didn’t know you can sing!”
Shaking her head, Cassandra mumbled “I’ve never sung in front of anyone before. Well, I sang This Land is Your Land at the fifth-grade talent show, but I don’t think that counts.”
“I tried to catch up to you, but you were with the bigwigs at the front of the line. By the time I got there, Sproul was completely filled and they were already saying they were going to call the police and arrest you all. My father would kill me if I got arrested, so I left. So, what happened?”
“I got arrested. My father will probably kill me.”
That made all the girls smile and laugh a bit. When Cassandra looked at them, she noticed that several of them had sympathy tears in their eyes, too. Carol leaned down and took off Cassandra’s shoes and rubbed her feet. The other girls stood and pushed Cassandra down on the couch, putting her pillow beneath her head.
Cassandra hated trying to go to sleep while anyone else was awake in the house, but at that moment, it didn’t matter at all. Within seconds, she was fast asleep.
When she opened her eyes again, it was full daylight and the house was empty. Her head ached, and her mouth tasted terrible. She sat up and immediately regretted it. Her tailbone was excruciating.
I think next time, I’ll just walk out. Save wear and tear on the bottom.
She stretched and shook her head, trying to loosen the cobwebs inside.
Wait. Will there be a ‘next time?’ Do I want to do that again?
She sat back on the couch. One scene filled her head. She and Billie standing in front of the collected students, leading them in song. It lifted her heart.
It’s an interesting situation. I believe that what we are protesting is wrong. But I know that no matter what I do, the war’s going to go on for a long time. Does that mean it’s useless for me to try to stop it?
She stood up and walked into the bathroom. She turned the shower on and was rewarded with a blast of cold water that quickly turned hot. Welcome steam poured out. She stripped and stepped into the hot water, luxuriating in it as it washed the fog from her brain.
I think that’s a question for after breakfast. Or lunch. Probably lunch.
She started to sing.
Chapter Thirty
Cassandra stepped out of the shower feeling halfway human. She wiped the fog off the mirror with her towel and was surprised to see there were no major bags under eyes. Her posterior was sore, and she knew it would be for a while, but aside from that, she felt pretty good.
If I’d been dragged down those steps in my last life, it would have popped my dentures out and put me in the hospital for a few months. Now, here I am, twelve hours later, ready to take on the world. Nothing in the world like being young.
She ran a comb through her wet hair, which she noticed was getting longer. It was past her shoulders now, and part way down her back.
She went to the small portion of closet she had been given and flicked through her clothes. She had noticed yesterday that most of the people who were on the plaza protesting dressed differently than she did. She still dressed in the same cutesy, small-town way she always had. That meant sundresses or shorts in the summer and color-coordinated pants and tops, or equally coordinated skirts and sweaters for cooler weather.
The other women had been in more practical clothes, both heavier and warmer, and no one seemed to be much concerned about coordinating their outfits. Their outfits said, I’m all business instead of Aren’t I cute?
Cassandra pulled on a pair of jeans and a white-striped, long-sleeved sweater. She pulled her hair back into a simple ponytail and grabbed an armload of her clothes out of the closet. She let herself out of the house, locking the door behind her, and tried to remember where she had parked the Mustang.
Her first guess was a block off, but she found it eventually and tossed the clothes into the back seat. She hopped in and her tailbone reminded her she shouldn’t hop anywhere for a few days. She drove to downtown Berkeley. She parked in front of a store she had seen when she was looking for a place to live—Pre-loved Things.
She scooped up the clothes and hurried inside.
The store was well-merchandised and well-lit, with much of the inventory displayed on large round racks and the rest folded and stacked on shelving units against each wall. At the back of the store, a middle-aged woman was folding clothes.
When she heard Cassandra come in, she looked up and said, “Can I help you?”
Cassandra walked to the back of the store and dropped the pile of clothes beside those the woman was folding. “Can you buy these from me?”
The woman plucked a blouse up and looked at the label, then did the same to several pairs of slacks and sweaters.
“Good brands.” She held them up to the overhead light. “Good condition, too. Lots of life still in them.” She looked at Cassandra over her half-glasses. “But this isn’t exactly the style everyone around here is looking for.”
“They were expensive,” Cassandra said, hopefully.
“I can tell. Still, most of these are summer clothes and it’s wintertime now. Plus,” she said again for emphasis, laying out a matching top and slacks, “this isn’t really the style people want here.”
“I know. That’s why I’m hoping to sell them and get some other clothes.”
“I usually work on consignment, but...”
Cassandra saw her chance. “But?”
“But, if you’d be interested in a store credit, I could maybe do something for you.”
“That would be perfect.”
“Go look around, then, and see what you might like. Bring whatever you find back to me and I’ll see what I can do for you.”
Cassandra bounced with a little excitement, then began to circle through the store. She had never been much of a shopper—that had always been her mother’s forte—but today she had a plan.
She flipped through the racks, holding a picture of the way she had seen the other women dress the day before in her mind. Before she was done, she found two skirts, two pairs of slacks, several heavy sweaters and a sailor’s pea coat.
I can mix and match all of this with what I still have at the house. I won’t stand out quite so much, then.
She took the armful of clothes to the woman and laid them on the counter.
The woman picked them up, looked at the tag on each item, then made a notation on a pad. When that was complete, she compared it to a list of numbers she had written on another slip of paper.
“You’ve got more value here than what you brought in.”
Only in Berkeley. In Middle Falls, it would be the other way around.
The woman tapped her pencil against her cheek. “I’ll tell you what. If you want to throw in ten dollars cash, I’ll do the swap.”
I can see how you manage to stay in business. You come out on the right end of every transaction. That’s business, though, as Daddy would say.
“Deal,” Cassandra said and pulled a ten-dollar bill out of her purse.
You may have gotten the better end of the deal, but where else could I have gotten this much for only ten dollars? Nowhere.
The woman bagged up Cassandra’s new
clothes and handed them to her with a smile. “Thank you for coming in.”
Cassandra drove from the consignment store to a laundromat a few blocks away.
Mother would be shocked if she knew I was shopping for used clothes, but she would positively die if I wore them without washing them first.
Inside, she separated the clothes into two piles—what could be washed and what needed to be dry cleaned. Happily for her, there were only a couple of items with the dry clean only tag.
Ninety minutes later, she walked out with a nice pile of clothes, washed, dried, folded, and ready for her new life.
Now I just need to decide what that life will be.
Chapter Thirty-One
On Christmas morning, Cassandra woke up to a strange feeling—being alone in the house. UC Berkeley had let out for the holidays a week earlier and one by one, her roommates had gone off to their own homes and families.
Dara told Cassandra to use her bed while she was gone, so she felt like she was living a life of luxury.
She had watched everyone else leave for home with no thought of doing so herself. When she left Middle Falls four months earlier, she didn’t feel like she was flouncing out, never to return or be heard from again, but with each passing day and week, it seemed farther away. She hadn’t been able to think of a single reason to make the trip north, or even call her parents.
More than anything, she hadn’t wanted to answer the sharp questions she knew her mother would ask. “How is school going?” Great, I flunked out. “Do you have a boyfriend, someone who we’ll like?” Depends on how you feel about under-employed beatnik painters who have no interest in women. If that’s your type, then I’ve got an Ethan for you.
When Ethan had first told her that he didn’t feel like he was her boyfriend, but rather just a boy who was a friend, she was put out. She didn’t see him or talk to him for a week. With a little time and perspective, though, she saw things differently. It wasn’t his fault that he was wired differently and so didn’t meet her expectations. He had been a good and kind friend who had gone out of his way to help her with her painting. In fact, Cassandra felt that the hours she spent with Ethan had taught her as much as any class she might have taken at school.
