In their apartment near Regent Street in Madison, Wisconsin, Jeremy Lawrence and Drew Jensen were both quietly studying as they waited for Chad Kubek, the third roommate, to get home. Jeremy had to work from six until closing time at the undergraduate library, and Drew planned to walk to Helen C. White with him to study for a biochem exam scheduled for tomorrow. They needed to eat early, and as it was already past four o’clock, Jeremy was starting to feel uneasy with the result that his concentration was wavering. More and more he found himself looking up from his book and blankly surveying the apartment from the recliner where he sat. Their place was one of thousands in Madison that catered to the student trade. The furniture was mostly nondescript, motel-like stuff—a gray sleeper couch, a utilitarian table and chairs, a small armless easy chair in the living room, and in the bedroom where Drew was studying at the student desk made of plastic fabricated to look like wood, the beds and bureau were likewise institutionally bland. On the floor a tightly woven commercial rug grayish in color went from wall to wall, stopping only at the small efficiency kitchen, which was tiled. The only personal touches were the recliner Chad had bought at a garage sale that Jeremy was now sitting on and a board and brick bookcase they’d bought together. The cheap pine was unfinished. The walls, painted an off-white, were mostly bare, though above the TV Chad had put a poster of a clenched fist with the single word SOLIDARITY under it. Jeremy stared at it for a while, thinking of everything he had learned from Chad. They had been roommates in the freshman dorm last year.
He forced his eyes back to the European history book, but after reading a few more pages on French society after the fall of Napoleon, he called to Drew. “Hey, Drew, you sure Chad remembered that it’s his turn to cook tonight?”
“Yeah, he said so, even made sure there was some hamburger helper in the cupboard.”
“It’s not like him to be late. He knows I work Thursday nights.”
Drew didn’t answer. He was a serious student, a biology major who wanted to be a doctor.
More time passed during which Jeremy somehow managed to read most of the assignment and make some annotations, and then the phone rang. Drew answered it—the phone was on the desk.
“Hello.”
“No way!” …
“How is he?” …
“Otherwise okay?” …
“Right. See you soon.”
He came into the room excited. His pale face was flushed. He was tall and thin and high strung, but now he was even more agitated. He smoothed his white-blond hair with one hand and scratched unconsciously at his chest with the other. “Chad’s found my brother on State Street. He’s bringing him here.”
His brother was Rick, born with and called by the name Dietrich after some old uncle until a few years ago when he announced that he always hated the name and henceforth preferred to be called Rick. He had been missing for a week. His parents in a small town about a hundred miles from Madison suspected that that was where he had gone, and his mother had called every night hoping for some information. Drew somewhat reluctantly had told his roomies a bit about the Jensen family dynamic. His father, a doctor, was a stern, cold man who demanded of his two sons the same excellence he expected from himself. Where Drew’s way of handling his father was to get straight A’s and be obedient so that he never gave occasion to incur his father’s wrath, Rick rebelled. He’d flunked several of his high school courses, did drugs and alcohol, and engaged in mindless destructive acts like deflating tires or snapping a whole street’s worth of car antennas that got him in trouble with the law several times. He was also going to a psychiatrist, though Drew said he frequently blew off the appointments.
All this information passed through Jeremy’s mind and made him feel uneasy. He suspected that they were going to be in for a lot of trouble. From Drew’s description, he was sure Rick hated authority so much that even a friendly suggestion would be taken hostilely. He was going to be sullen, filled with anger and mistrust. He might even steal things and then sneak away. The best way to deal with this kid, Jeremy decided, was to keep his mouth shut.
“So where’d Chad find him?”
“I told you, State Street,” Drew answered impatiently.
“I mean where on State Street.”
“Near the campus. He was coming out of Paul’s Bookstore when he saw Rick with a group of teenage boys.”
“Do you think he will be hostile—to us, I mean?”
Drew, pacing nervously up and down the living room, said, “I don’t know. We aren’t close—he won’t let me be. Last summer after one of his escapades I tried to talk to him brother to brother. I told him I understood how he felt about our father but that pissing him off wasn’t the way to go.”
“What’d he say?”
“Nothing really. It’s no accident that he’s in the city and hasn’t looked me up. I’m sure he thinks I’m on the side of the enemy.”
“Your father?”
“Not just him. Society, the whole thing. He’s very alienated.”
Simultaneously they sat down, Jeremy in the recliner, Drew on the couch. They became silent, both of them nervously brooding about how their routine and peace was under attack. That was the selfish part of their ruminations, the emotional part that knows no duty and understands no logic, but Jeremy did spare a thought or two for Drew’s brother. He must have been desperate to have run away, and it must have been scary for him living on the streets with no support to fall back on. Probably Drew was even more worried, realizing that a biochem exam was not as important as his brother’s life and future, and then worrying some more because even so it was an important exam. Nor was supper and getting to work on time anything to sneeze about. Jeremy’s scholarship covered tuition and more, but still he needed the money his mother sent him every month and the money from his campus job to get by.
Luckily, it was not long before they heard the door downstairs together with the sounds of heavy feet (those would be Chad’s) coming up the stairs. They stared at the door.
Rick lived up to the expectations his brother’s description had engendered. Jeremy could see the family resemblance—the nordic hair, the straight nose, the fair skin, and even the facial features showing the same contours, but somehow all this similarity was rearranged so that while Drew’s face was pleasant, his brother’s wasn’t. He was frowning and pouting as if he’d tasted something unpleasant, and his eyes darted around as if he was looking for danger. He was like a stray dog that might lunge out and bite you at the slightest provocation. His first words were not a greeting but a warning. “Don’t you call home. Drew,” he said, displaying no happiness or relief in seeing a familiar face. “I’m not going back to that house. I’ve had it with them.”
Drew rolled his eyes for Chad’s benefit, but if he was planning on saying something harsh, Chad’s slight shake of the head stopped him. He took a deep breath, turned in a circle, and said calmly and softly, “Well, what are your plans?”
He didn’t have any, at least none he could put into words. He hung his head while his brother glowered in exasperation.
Chad, handsome with dark hair and light brown eyes flecked with gold, tall and muscular and always in command of himself and any situation, said, “There’s plenty of time to figure everything out. First we need to get this young man cleaned up. He’s already confessed to me that he’s been a stranger to a shower since he left home.” His eyes went from Rick to Jeremy and back. “You look to be about the same height and built as Jeremy…” He turned. “Jeremy, you got some clothes you can spare our friend?”
While Chad showed Rick where the soap, shampoo and towels were and Jeremy found a flannel shirt, a pair of jeans and underwear and socks, Drew nervously paced. Perhaps he too noticed how Rick regarded only Chad as an ally; perhaps, like him, he was worrying about supper and the need to be at the library. After Chad brought the clothes into Rick, at any rate, Drew wasted no time in bringing up supper. “Jeremy and me have got to be there by six, remember.”
But Ch
ad had a simple solution. “We’ll order a couple of pizzas.” That being agreed upon, a phone call was made.
Then they all sat down in the living room, Chad now occupying his chair, the recliner, and got the story of Rick’s discovery in more detail. Chad was coming out of Paul’s bookstore when he saw a group of teenaged boys, four to be exact, hanging around in front of Starbuck’s. At first he didn’t think anything of it. They were typical high-school-age boys, dressed in jeans and trying to be cool. But as he crossed the street and approached them, he recognized Rick from the photograph Drew had showed him. When he asked the boy if he was Rick Jensen, he looked frightened and was about to run.
“Why didn’t he?” Drew asked.
Chad shrugged. “I told him who I was, and just like that he lightened up.” He looked at Drew with a bemused expression, the hint of a smile at the corners of his mouth. “Hey, I had no idea you thought I was such a hot shit.”
Drew colored slightly. “I told him about you last Christmas because he’d asked me who my roomies were. I think I said nice things, but that’s all.”
“Well, whatever you said, it made him trust me. He said, ‘I know who you are. You’re a radical and student agitator.’ I think that’s why he trusted me. I think he hates adults and assumed a lefty hates ’em too.”
“Well, he’s a confused boy. I do know one adult he hates—”
“Your father.”
“Right. And my dad being a Republican and supporter of Bush’s wars, that puts you on the right side.”
“It describes you too.”
Drew managed a wan smile as he raised his eyebrows. “But I’m his brother, the guy my father approves of because I get A’s and never get in trouble. He—my dad— doesn’t know much about what I think of Bush. It’s a topic to be avoided.”
“What about the kids he was with?” Jeremy asked.
“Oh, they gave no trouble. Were real casual, in fact. ‘See you around, man,’ they said. They looked a lot like him, you know, defiant, playing it cool, scared and hiding it. It’s probably a good thing he found those kids, though.”
“What do you mean?” Drew asked.
“Only that it’s safer. You know—safety in numbers. Keeping from getting rolled, maybe safe from sexual predators and the sex trade. I’ve known some runaways back in Detroit who got into bad trouble. They ended up with AIDS or drug addiction or even dead. It can be suicide to be alone on the streets in America.”
“What will we do with him tonight?” Jeremy asked. “I mean he can sleep here, but who’s going to babysit him? Drew’s got that big exam tomorrow and has to study.”
“I’ve already got an idea—one that will keep him here even if alone.”
“What? Are you going out too?”
“Only for an hour. I’ve got to meet some people about planning the rally for tomorrow. But that’s my idea. Suppose we harness Rick’s anger and alienation in a productive way? He doesn’t like adults? What about Bush, Cheney, Rumsfeld and the boys? They could use some more hating.”
Jeremy smiled. He could see why Chad hurried Rick into the shower. As always, he had a plan. “You mean take him to the demonstration tomorrow, don’t you?”
“Yep. It’ll give him a taste of campus life and it will keep him here tonight. If we’re lucky, it’ll be good for what ails him too.”
Drew looked doubtful.
“What?” Jeremy asked.
“You’ll keep an eye on him, won’t you, Jeremy? You know I’ve got to take that exam so I can’t be there. He might do something stupid and get himself arrested. You’ll keep by his side?”
“Oh, sure.”
He saw his friends smiling broadly and knew why. He pronounced “sure” the Maine way, “Show-ahh.” One time with Chad and Drew someone asked them where a classroom was, and he’d said, “It’s upstairs,” pronouncing it “stay-ahhs, and pointing, “There,” which came out “they-ahh,” and the guy had a panicked look in his eyes as if Jeremy was a foreigner who couldn’t break the language barrier. Ever since, his Maine accent was a joke among them.
“Remember to bring your passport tomorrow, Jeremy,” Chad said.
But they heard the sound of the shower turned off and changed the subject to other things. Presently Rick emerged. The clothes fit him fairly well and he looked more comfortable now that he was cleaned up.
“Feel better?” Chad asked.
“Do you need a belt?” his brother asked.
He paid attention to Chad’s question and ignored his brother. “Yeah, actually I do.”
“We ordered pizzas. They should be here pretty soon.”
Drew’s remark elicited a shrug, but when Chad said that they had ordered a combo and a pepperoni and asked which he preferred, he brightened and said, “Oh, pepperoni!”
Seeing the dynamic of barely disguised hostility, Jeremy remained silent.
Drew, not giving up, asked Rick what he’d been doing for the past week.
“Just hanging.”
“Did you have any trouble—with cops or others?”
He shrugged. “Not really.”
“Mom said you brought a backpack with you. I don’t see it.”
“It was stolen.”
“So you did have trouble.”
He didn’t answer.
Then Chad said, “You were starting to tell me something about some street preacher. What was that all about?”
“Yeah, we got bugged by some fundamentalist creep who kept telling us that Jesus was just about to come to earth because the place was so sinful, but we ignored the asshole.”
Jeremy saw Chad’s eyes flash in approval. Like his high-school friend Josh Gilbert, Chad was very hostile to religion, as he found out last year when they were roommates in the freshman dorm. Chad’s great-grandfather was a Wobblie, his grandfather a communist until Stalin’s show trials in the 1930’s turned his stomach and thereafter he was a fervent socialist, and his father was a labor organizer in Detroit. The irreligious sentiments in Chad’s family went back to that Wobblie great-grandfather, an immigrant from what is now the Czech Republic, who was rabidly anti-Catholic because the church back in Bohemia was always on the side of the rich and powerful. But Chad’s background made him an interesting roommate. Sometimes last year Jeremy thought he was getting two educations, one in the University of Wisconsin classrooms and the other in the long conversations about politics, philosophy, and life in general he’d have with Chad. Religion, though, was a topic Chad didn’t think merited much discussion. He maintained that only stupid people believed in God. Jeremy, thinking of Charlie (and to a lesser extent of his mother with her interest in Buddhism) would deny so categorical a statement and defend his own open-minded agnosticism, arguing that since the origin of the universe is a mystery, then it was perfectly legitimate that many people called the author of that mystery God. “Call it what you want,” Chad would retort, “it still ain’t nothing to pray to.” When Jeremy would point out that many Christians were progressive and on the side of poor and working people and trying to alleviate hunger in the third world, Chad would say, “Their help’s welcome, but I don’t have to like their opinions.”
It was the one subject he was close-minded about. Thinking of those past conversations, Jeremy hardly listened to him railing against the meddling idiots trying to ensnare everyone who was in need. The word “fundamentalist” had triggered memories of Charlie. That days and even weeks went by now without his thinking of her made him feel sad. It was almost like a betrayal of some finer instinct of youth. He had not seen her since graduation night almost two years ago when they had wished each other good luck in college and exchanged glances that communicated worlds of secret, shared regard. He remembered the time he was about to ask her to go to the prom and realized that she had feelings for him. But now she probably hardly ever thought of him as well. Life went forward.
“So what do you think, Jeremy?’
Chad’s question swept the nostalgic memories from his head. “
About what? I was thinking of something else.”
But just then the pizza guy arrived and fundamentalism was dropt from the conversation and Charlie from his mind.
Chad was clever in suggesting Rick come to the rally tomorrow. First he brought it up casually. They had the TV news on as they ate, and a report about the latest casualties in Iraq offered an easy opening. Chad went on about the lies the Bush administration used to draw us into the war, the incompetence and arrogance of Rumsfeld, the torturing of prisoners and other war crimes, the administration’s use of fear to manipulate ordinary Americans, and so forth for a long time before saying, “Tomorrow our campus Stop the War organization is going to have a demonstration against the war. Would you like to be part of it? Jeremy and I will be there, and Drew would be too except he’s got a late class and a big exam he can’t skip.”
Of course Rick, already besotted with admiration for and hero-worship of Chad, said yes, and he even seemed surprised that Drew supported the rally. Almost instantly the patent hostility he had been showing his brother disappeared. Taking a sip of milk and reaching for another piece of pizza as he regarded his brother with a look of wonderment, he said,“Dad’s a big Bush supporter, you know.”
“Yeah, I know. He’s like millions of Americans, luckily fewer now that Bush’s poll numbers are in the sewer. He thinks Bush is protecting us, not using us for his agenda for making the world our slave so that his rich pals get richer.”
“You believe that?” Rick asked, wide-eyed.
Drew reclined his head slightly as if doubtful of his brother’s good opinion. He took a bite of his pizza slice to delay any comment, but one was supplied by Chad as he was busy chewing:
“You’ll believe it too after you see what we stand for tomorrow. I’m guessing you’ve never thought about politics much.”
“Not really.” He seemed afraid that the admission would lessen him in Chad’s eyes.
“Well, tomorrow you’ll see committed citizens opposing the evil their government does.” He turned to Jeremy. “What is it the Bible says? You shall know the truth and it will set you free?”
“Something like that, though I’m not totally sure it is from the Bible, and I didn’t know I was regarded as the expert on that book.”
Chad, chewing on his pizza, turned to Rick and with his mouth full said, “Jeremy believes in respecting people’s beliefs. Myself, I draw the line at religion.”
“Me too,” Rick said. My parents are devout Lutherans. It makes no sense to me.”
His brother saw an opening here. “But it doesn’t hurt to see others’ point-of-view, Rick. Sure Dad’s a Republican, but he thinks it’s the party of self-reliance and individual responsibility. He’s wrong, but you aren’t going to change his mind.”
Chad didn’t like where that was going. Putting his juice box down on the table with as much of a bang as cardboard allowed, he said, “So he supports torturing people and imperialistically crushing small countries? That has nothing to do with self-reliance. It’s greed, it’s arrogance, those creeps stand for.”
“Yes, it is, but he lives in a small town. He believes what the newspapers say about Bush’s doings.”
“So he doesn’t know the truth and he isn’t set free.”
Chad’s remark brought a smirk to Rick’s face. He wasn’t a candidate for open-mindedness, at least not when it applied to his father.
But there was no time for a rebuttal. Jeremy and Drew had to leave Rick to Chad, who was already talking about the purpose of tomorrow’s demonstration as they left. Naturally they discussed the changes they both perceived in Rick as they walked to Park Street. It made Drew hopeful that his brother could escape his teenage nihilism and straighten his life out; at the same time he was still afraid that his impetuous brother would get into trouble tomorrow at the demonstration and made Jeremy once again promise to watch him like a hawk. At the library Drew found a carrel and Jeremy was put to work by the night librarian restacking books. Later he manned the check-out desk and still later was sent to clean out all the carrels of books and paper. Before that last assignment Drew had already left. He was anxious about his brother, he said, and knew the material cold. He had great powers of concentration, so Jeremy did not doubt him.
He didn’t have to walk home alone, though. Carol Abercrombie, who had been at Memorial Library, stopped by just before closing time to walk home with him. It was she who told him and Chad about the availability of an apartment in the same building she and her two friends, Liz Prendergrass and Margo Wagner, rented. He had been in two classes with Carol freshman year, and they had become friends. All three girls, including Liz, who was a business major, were open-minded and progressive. This semester the six of them had formed a social unit. They often barbarqued together in the small backyard of their building, went to movies and parties together as a group, and often socialized at each others’ apartments on weekends. Margo had a car, and they also did their weekly grocery shopping together on Sundays. None of them ever paired off. Margo had shown a keen interest in Chad until she found out he was engaged to his high school sweetheart back in Detroit, where she attended a community college. And there was one embarrassing thing that concerned Jeremy. One night a few months ago when the women found out that Jeremy was still a virgin they had giggled and said that as his friend they would have to do something about that. Nothing had yet happened, but if and when it did, Jeremy rather hoped that Carol would be the one. He liked her in that way. She was pretty in a dark-haired and dark-eyed way with milky white skin and a terrific figure. And she was a nice person, a good sport, unpretentious and kind.
Walking the darkened streets of Madison, he told her all about Drew’s brother being found and Chad’s plans to make a committed radical of him.
“He probably will,” Carol said. “He’s got a very forceful personality and is very persuasive.”
“Yes, and without arrogance too. I think his father’s work as a labor organizer has taught him how to compromise and accommodate others. He’s a good guy.”
She started humming as they waited for a traffic light. For some reason Jeremy started thinking about Camp Randall just down the street and how on Saturday afternoons when the Badgers played this area was as busy as Time Square. Everyone would be wearing red with the Bucky Badger logo or WISCONSIN either on their hat, T-shirt or sweater.
“How about you, Jeremy? How’d you become a progressive? It wasn’t all Chad’s doing, was it?”
“Not really. It wasn’t that big a jump. I was ten when my father died, but I’ve always remembered his lessons about hating bullies and accepting people for who they are. And my mom’s a liberal Democrat, so Chad’s radicalism made sense.”
“How did your dad die?”
The light finally changed, and they walked in front of a big truck. Jeremy could see the driver leering at Carol. “He was killed in a car accident.”
“That must have been horrible.”
“It was. I suppose that was also a factor in why I can easily side with oppressed people. For a long time after he died I could feel nothing but desolation. I know how it feels, see?”
In answer she touched his arm. They walked on a bit in silence, but when they got to the door she said, “I understand what you said and how it led to compassion for the poor.”
“It’s funny you said that. In those discussions we had in our dorm room last year we finally decided that the difference between us was there.”
Under the porch light he could see her crinkle in nose. She looked beautiful. “You mean…?”
“Chad has a very strong sense of justice. The money those C.E.O.’s make he finds disgusting. He doesn’t think anyone has the right to be as wealthy as Bill Gates. I agree, but what motivates me more is when we hear of billions of people living on less than a dollar a day or even a week. If their cow dies they can be ruined. They’re absolutely defenseless. It’s their situation that makes me want to change the world.”
“With that attitude
, maybe you will,” Carol said with a laugh and another light touch to his arm, and then they went inside and up the stairs where they bade each other good-night. Inside his apartment the other three denizens were sitting around and talking, but having had a long day that started at six P.M., Jeremy hardly spoke to them. He went straight to bed and was almost instantly asleep.
II
Mid afternoon the next day found Jeremy sitting on the steps of the Catholic Church next to the bookstore and facing the side entrance to Memorial Library. It had just occurred to him that the church’s modernist architecture was designed to suggest a giant pipe organ, making the steps he was sitting on the keyboard, but he didn’t pursue the thought. At breakfast this morning they had arranged that the rendezvous spot for meeting Rick was these very steps. Drew’s part was to go back home to collect his brother and deliver him to Jeremy before taking his biochemistry exam. Having arrived first, and having put his backpack with his books and things in one of the bookstore lockers, Jeremy was watching all the activity at one of the liveliest places on campus. The vendors in their carts who sold everything from hot food to T-shirts were hawking their wares; students and professors strolled by; among them were many students who were going to be part of today’s anti-war rally, which was to begin on the library mall, using the steps to the library as a kind of podium, followed by a march across University Avenue to University Square where the military recruitment office was, and then end by marching up Bascom Hill to the chancellor’s office where they would demand to see him and ask him to refuse to allow military recruitment on campus.
To occupy his mind while he waited Jeremy made a sort of game out of identifying which people walking by were demonstrators. With many it was easy. Those wearing T-shirts with the peace sign or a picture of Che Guevara, or slogans such as BUSH SUCKS or WAR IS NOT THE ANSWER gave themselves away without a fight. Others revealed their intentions by snatches of conversation he overheard as they passed by: “How many do you think will show?” “Jenny says we should be prepared to get arrested if the cops try to make us leave in front of the recruitment office.” “I wonder if the chancellor will meet with us? Somebody told me he’s snuck out of town.” Other students who gave no obvious sign of left-wing politics still revealed themselves by their eyes. What was it? An expression of determination? A certain nervousness, or relatedly, a certain look of excitement at the anticipated action?
His guessing game ceased when he caught sight of Drew and Rick walking towards the church from the direction of Park street.
He stood and they caught sight of him. Coming over, Drew said, “I told Rick to listen to you and follow your advice.” With a slight tilt of his head and narrowing of his eyes he added as plain as words: “Keep an eye on him, Jeremy. I’m depending on you.”
Jeremy went for a light, jocular tone. “Rick, are you ready to exercise your rights as an American to protest your government?”
“Oh, yeah,” Rick said, deadly serious, and yet he was so excited his eyes shined.
Drew started to say one more thing but thought better of it. He left, both roomies exchanging good-luck wishes and another eye reminder given and received. Drew didn’t want to be a nag, but Jeremy could tell he was very worried. For a moment he caught the feeling and started worrying that Rick was going to be a loose cannon. And how was he going to talk to someone who didn’t understand irony?
They started walking the short distance to the center of the library mall where the protesters were gathering. “Drew gave good advice, Rick. The safest thing for you is to do only whatever I do. Does that sound okay?”
“Sure.” That he spoke off-handedly did not reassure Jeremy at all.
They were in the library mall now. Memorial Library faced the Wisconsin Historical Society (whose extensive library Jeremy as a history major had already begun to make use of). They were separated by a hundred yards of grass and walkways that radiated out in a circle from the central fountain. To his right was Langdon Street with the old red gym and the parking lot for Memorial Union on Lake Mendota. There were two campus police cars parked next to the mall. Four policemen leaning against the cars appeared calm. They were even joking amongst themselves. One of them pointed to the gathering crowd and said something that made the others laugh. To Jeremy’s and Rick’s left was the Presbyterian Church, the faculty club and at the corner on Park Street the Humanities building. Its modernist architecture, comprised of cold slabs of concrete and columns supporting irregular higher floors, stood in strong contrast to the rest of the architecture. The library and historical society were institutional and the faculty club red-bricked traditional. But the focus upon entering the mall was always the fountain—not only did the concrete pathways lead to it, but the eye too was led to its central spot. Except in winter it was always a popular spot filled with people tossing a Frisbee, just hanging around on the benches or, like today when it was a very warm day even for early May, cooling themselves off in the spray or soaking their feet in the pool. A few coeds running through the spray amidst loud shouts of laughter as Jeremy and Rick approached were in effect competing in an ad hoc wet T-shirt contest. Rick stared at their perked breasts longer than he should have.
But women’s breasts were not his only interest. Presently and decidedly with an air of anxious excitement he surveyed the crowd in search of Chad. From the intensity of his search and the sheer neediness his eyes betrayed, Jeremy suspected Chad had instantly become a father figure to him. He found him on the steps of the library where his hero-father was standing with the other student leaders. For a long time he stared raptly until he was startled into panic by a test of the sound system that was very loud and so indistinct that at first one could not discern that the word being repeated was “testing.” Judging by the way the buzzing of the crowd ceased, the sound had startled just about everybody. It was quickly cut off, and the sound man made a few adjustments before the second test was a sheepish apology by one of the student leaders for the first test.
Rick, high-strung and embarrassed at his public fright, nervously laughed and said to Jeremy, “That’s better than the first time, isn’t it?”
Jeremy nodded. The regular students, seeing that the rally was about to start, were leaving. Some of them appeared to be afraid of being caught up in something dangerous and unamerican. One of them was a student Jeremy knew from his freshman English class last year. He nodded to Jeremy in an embarrassed, half-hearted way. Last year when they read Euripedes’ The Bacchae, the student, Alan Klein, had asked the T.A. if dionysian frenzy could be what anti-war protesters felt, and the T.A. had said, “Why don’t we ask Jeremy?” At first he’d denied it, saying that it was a duty to address a moral wrong and that all the student leaders emphasized the need for discipline so that the only time anyone should get arrested was when it was part of nonviolent resistance as in a sit-in. Then he’d grinned and admitted that it could be an adrenaline rush and that it was very liberating to burst through the ordinary restraints that politeness and civilization expected of us and yell at the top of your lungs. He’d concluded by conceding the point—yes, protest could be dionysian even though its origin was an ethical one. Alan was remembering those remarks. He was a shy and conservative young man, whereby Jeremy, partly because of his friendship with Chad and his involvement in the antiwar movement, was becoming less shy and had never been conservative.
Alan’s presence was another reminder that the dionysian impulse would have to be tempered today if he was to keep a proper eye on Rick. The resolve was easy; implementing it far more difficult, for even as he was making it the student leader yelled into the microphone, “Are you ready?” and instantly the intoxicating cry of the crowd followed by the rhythmic chant “Stop the War!” overwhelmed Jeremy’s restraint and he joined in. Then the banner that would lead their march across University Avenue was unfurled. When the crowd of over three-hundred students saw the hand-painted, three-line legend on it they screamed even louder:
STUDENT STRIKE
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BOOKS NOT BOMBS
THE MONKEY WRENCH FOR THE WAR MACHINE
The crowd’s chanting continue until Jeremy’s ears began ringing, yet he was yelling at the top of his lungs and felt the blood surging through his veins driven by his thumping heart. Rick’s face was contorted as he too had caught the crowd’s spirit.
When finally things quieted down, one of the student leaders spoke at length about the lies the Bush administration used to justify the war, the incompetence with which it was run, the war crimes it gave rise to, including the torturing of prisoners at Abu Ghraib, and the fascist tendencies of the administration shown in their contempt for the constitution and international law.
Jeremy noticed that Rick listened with a blank face. These issues, which spoke of the dark forces that endangered democratic liberties perhaps for all time and stated plainly the reasons the students were opposing the war, did not really interest him. The only thing that brought him to attention was something he didn’t like. The speaker mentioned the military’s hostility to gays and lesbians as another example of what the rally opposed.
With a troubled and puzzled expression, Rick whispered, “How come he’s defending gays?”
Jeremy could tell what lay behind the question, even though it surprised him since he himself had learned about these issues in health class at Courtney Academy. But Rick had learned no tolerance and had a teenager’s fear of different sexualities.
Trying not to sound professorial, Jeremy explained the thinking. “We stand for tolerance for all people, no matter what their race, religion or sexual orientation. Gays deserve the same rights as everyone else. The military’s policies are discriminatory, do you see?”
But he did sound professorial, and though Rick said he did understand, it was doubtful. With Chad about to give his speech, however, this was not the time to pursue the matter. Rick had seen Chad making his way to the microphone, and instantly his whole attention was directed at the library steps. Chad’s assignment was to talk specifically about military recruitment on college campuses. He began with a history of ROTC and then talked about student action a few years ago that had forced the military to cancel a free lunch with a recruitment talk. Then he gave various statistics that told the lie to the military’s claim that the skills learned in the military were valuable in life. Only six percent of females and twelve percent of males ever actually used the things they had learned in the service in their careers. The crowd was mostly silent during the talk, though unlike Rick who listened closely, they were mostly being polite. When Chad started talking about how the military targeted poor students because they had limited choices, Rick betrayed a bit of adolescent self-importance. Speaking loud enough for people standing nearby to overhear him, he said, “Chad told me that last night and gave some good examples. It’s a good point.” Seeing people roll their eyes and smile patronizingly, Jeremy was at first embarrassed for him, but then he reminded himself that Rick was just a kid. Chad’s idea of planting a seed in him to get his adolescent alienation directed outward to useful purposes that would help him grow into maturity was just the first step. He himself had gone through a similar process of being proud of himself for standing up to misguided authority. Seeing Rick’s behavior reminded him of how far he had come in just one year. If he were to be honest with himself, he had to admit his first days as a student protester had gone to his head too. Many fellow students told him they agreed with him but didn’t dare put their beliefs on the line. It had made him feel like quite the special fellow for way too long. Only over the summer in contemplating his behavior had he found the wisdom to be humbly proud.
In the meantime Chad was finishing his speech. His peroration, “We shouldn’t have to kill people to get an education,” brought a huge roar from the crowd, followed by the chant “Stop the war” that went on for a long time until everyone’s voice grew hoarse.
When it finally subsided, another student leader gave instructions for the march to University Square to protest in front of the recruitment office. The protesters were to group in lines of five or six behind the large banner (that was so that after they crossed University Avenue they could make their way down the street on the sidewalk, as the police permit required). Following the instructions, the crowd moved to the end of the library mall between the Humanities Building and the state historical society. Almost everyone was serious and somber. The exception, a student who was laughing and joking as if he was on his way to a party, caused resentment. Many people frowned, and one guy snapped at the young man to quiet down. Jeremy rather thought the guy’s nerves were jangled and joking was his way of releasing tension. The vague anticipation of danger was something he always felt. Something could happen that sparked violence which could lead to being injured or, worse, arrested, not for political reasons but on a misdemeanor disorderly conduct charge that could find its way into one’s personal records. But most of the protesters were probably not thinking of that possibility. The potential for danger simply gave an edge to their ethical duty; it was the vinegar in their salad dressing.
There was a great deal of jostling and bustling about as friends sought each other’s company. People with signs wanted to be on the outside so that they could be seen, and if a protester found him- or herself next to another sign carrier, he or she sought a better location. So despite the instructions, the situation was rather chaotic for a while. Most of the signs were routine, with STOP THE WAR the most common. A few were very clever. One was based upon Goya’s The Colossus with Bush’s face superimposed over the giant’s. When someone said, “He must be an art major,” Rick looked at Jeremy for an explanation. “It’s a take-off on a famous Spanish painting,” Jeremy explained. “Back then France under Napoleon was ravaging Spain just like what we’re doing in Iraq.” Rick nodded, but once again Jeremy could tell that most of what he said went right over the boy’s head. He wasn’t even sure Rick knew much about Napoleon.
Rick’s historical and intellectual naiveté continued to reveal itself as the people in front of them began discussing the outrage of the prisoners held at Guantanamo without the right of a court hearing and the evil outrage of Abu Ghraib prison in Bagdad where Americans routinely tortured prisoners. “A lot of the people they picked up in Afghanistan were completely innocent,” a shapely woman with tight shorts and revealing T-shirt said. “The stupid Americans asked locals to finger Al Qaeda terrorists, and some of the townspeople took advantage of that stupidity to get rid of some enemy of their clan or someone they owed money to.”
“Yeah,” her friend said, “and in the meantime Ben Laden is playing dominoes in some cave and enjoying hot tea.”
“Bush doesn’t want him captured. He needed him free as one of his excuses to invade Iraq.”
Jeremy noticed that Rick did not so much listen to this conversation as watch the woman with the nice body as she spoke. He wasn’t sure, but Rick didn’t seem to know who Ben Laden was. “What they’re saying is true,” he whispered, tapping Rick on the shoulder. “The Bush administration is not only evil—they’re stupid too. Incompetence is their hallmark.”
“My father loves Bush,” Rick said with an ugly frown. “I hate him.”
Jeremy tried to convince himself that that was a good start, but he couldn’t get by what Rick’s hatred implied. It meant he hated Bush for the wrong reason, seeing him the same way Bush, that little man, that mediocrity, saw himself: as a father figure.
They started moving down Park Street the one block to University Avenue. There were no cars in the intersection, so the cops had already stopped traffic. Students on the bridge between the Humanities Building and Bascom Hill were leaning over the railing. Some of them were shouting their support. Others wore displeased expressions of sticky repugnance as if they were watching a freak show. A few students on the sidewalk spontaneously decided to join the demonstration. They were welcomed with a cheer. As they crossed University Avenue many cars honked in support. Some drivers even thrust a clenched fist out t
he window. In a rusty old car in front of one of the cops stopping traffic, a big burly man with a dark scowl on his face looked so dangerous that Jeremy was afraid he might do something stupid like plow into the protesters. When he looked into the man’s eyes, the man leaned out the window and screamed, “Fuck you, commie!” It was scary, but the cop pointed a finger at the man and said, “Hey!”
That guy needs to be taught a lesson,” Rick said.
“Maybe, but not by us.”
They found a surprise awaiting them inside University Square. A group of about forty campus Republicans were there, and their presence instantly set off an absurd shouting contest. The protesters started shouting “Stop the war!” and the Republicans answered with “Support our president!” but it didn’t last long as the protesters easily drowned out the Republicans. There were many Madison police in front of the recruitment office. While the shouting contest was in full swing, Jeremy noticed several of them looking nervous and feeling their billy clubs in their belts. When things quieted down, one of the Republicans suddenly stepped forward and said, “You people are traitors. You don’t deserve the freedoms of our country.” Someone shoved the guy, and for a moment a scuffle ensued before the cops separated the two. Rick started towards the scuffle, though it appeared he had picked out a little mousy guy with thick glasses as his antagonist. “Hey, you, tell him to shut up,” he said before Jeremy grabbed his arm to restrain him.
A look of anger flashed in the boy’s eyes, but it was quickly suppressed. “Okay, okay. You can let go.”
Jeremy dropped his hold. “The situation’s already under control,” he said. “But remember, this is a nonviolent demonstration. That’s our tactic, see?”
When Rick as expected looked doubtful, Jeremy delivered the clincher. “Chad agrees.”
Rick quickly looked over to where Chad and the other leaders were talking to the cops and one of the student Republicans. He was happy Chad had not seen his indiscretion.
“There are times when we want to get arrested,” Jeremy explained. “But that will be nonviolently. We go limp, see? It’s a tactic from Gandhi.”
Of course the name had no meaning for Rick, nor would any lengthy explanation of satyagraha. To Rick’s “Who’s he?” he said, “He was the leader who drove the British out of India. Martin Luther King used his techniques in the 60’s with black liberation.”
He had heard of King, thank God. Jeremy was beginning to think turning Rick into an outer-directed activist was hopeless. “You know how effective Dr. King was with his nonviolence. Jim Crow laws were changed throughout the South.”
“Yeah, I see your point. It makes the big boys in government look bad.”
Jeremy smiled. Maybe there was hope.
The message to the recruiters that they were not welcome on the campus of the University of Wisconsin was delivered to the door, for no recruiter left the safety of their office to come out. The portable sound system was loud enough, however, to blast and vibrate its way through the window glass to the finely-tuned military ears, so with mission accomplished, the group got back into rows—more efficiently this time—and began the march back to the campus. The sound guys, two serious-looking individuals who looked as if their idea of fun would be calculating pi to the millionth digit, hurried ahead of the marchers to set up in front of the chancellor’s office.
The protesters saluted honest Abe Lincoln, sitting in his chair in front of Bascom and staring at the Wisconsin capitol dome a mile away, but that was the last spontaneous and happy event of the demonstration. The rumors of the chancellor being out of town turned out to be true, rendering the demonstration in front of his office anticlimactic. Nevertheless, the leaders decided to go forward with their plans, which included a demand that the chancellor disallow recruitment on campus, and, to give the edge to the demand, a speech by a mother of a national guardsman who had been taken out of the university and sent to Iraq. She spoke feelingly about the terror she felt every time she heard a car stopping in front of her house. She also held up a large photo of her son as she spoke, making him a living example of the statistics Chad had cited in his speech earlier. Their family was not rich, and her son had joined the National Guard as a way to help pay the cost of his education.
The end of her speech was temporarily delayed as complaints from nearby offices and some distant classrooms of the noise level led the campus police to suddenly turn off the sound system. While this was happening and a compromise of using a megaphone was being negotiated, Drew joined Jeremy and Rick fresh from his exam, which he felt he aced—at least that’s what the circle he made with his thumb and index finger indicated when Jeremy asked him how it went. When Rick’s attention went back to the discussion (Chad was doing most of the talking), the two roomies exchanged yet another glance, Drew asking how Rick behaved, and Jeremy with pursed lips and a slight tilt to the head followed by widening eyes answered, not too bad but it could have been better.
But Rick’s attention was not just on Chad, for he asked a surprising question. “Was the exam really that important, Drew?”
“Yeah, it was. If I hadn’t taken it and therefore flunked it, I would have flunked the course. That would very likely mean I’d never be a doctor.”
Rick didn’t seemed convinced. “If you turned out like dad, would that be such a loss?”
When Drew didn’t defend himself, Jeremy intervened. “But your brother wants to serve people, people who are poor and still need medical attention, in a clinic, maybe overseas.” He turned to Drew, “That’s right, isn’t it?”
Drew didn’t usually like to talk about himself—maybe that’s why his brother had never understood him—but the situation was different here. “Yes, it is. And you know something else, Rick? It’s not the job; it’s the person doing the job that makes the difference.”
That set Rick to thinking, which he seemed quite intent upon while the mother finished her speech through a megaphone and then the student leaders negotiated with a dean to meet with the chancellor next to discuss their demands.
Then after a little talk by the student leaders about the nature of a pep rally to induce a feeling of solidarity, the demonstration came to an end.
Outside Rick revealed that he had indeed been thinking. He looked very serious. “How many students go to Wisconsin?” he asked. “I know it’s a lot.”
“Over 40,000 including graduate students,” Drew said.
“And we only had three hundred at the demonstration? Shouldn’t it be more?”
Drew didn’t know what he was looking for, but Jeremy did. “First all all, a huge number of students are more interested in the Camp Randall jump-around than serious things. But second, thousands agree with us, but for various reasons don’t dare put their beliefs on the line. It’s always a minority that changes the world, you know. When we demonstrate we are the voice of the campus. In that sense we’re all leaders.”
“Jeremy’s right,” Drew said. “Most people just stay at the personal level as if the larger world had no role in their lives.”
“Not demonstrators,” Rick said.
“Not demonstrators,” Jeremy and Drew said in unison as they exchanged yet another glance. Both could see Rick’s mind working as he calculated the pros and cons of private vs. public reality. Jeremy also knew that the boy had found the demonstration exciting in the primitive, dionysian way that was not to be discounted. He had role models now, not only Chad but Jeremy and Drew as well. And his asking some of the right questions showed he was starting to get it, if only a little.
As they started walking back to the apartment, Rick was silent for some time and still thinking, but before they had even left the campus he made a suggestion that showed Jeremy and Drew their intimations were correct.
“Drew, I think you should call home. Mom’s probably worried as hell.”
Finding Home