Wild World

by Peter S. Rush

  “Shit, playing or not playing isn’t going to impact the war,” Bill said. “For some of us, being here and playing is actually a big deal.” He looked at the Baltimore kid and the button-down shirt he wore under his practice jersey.

  “Yeah, but the symbolism is important as well. The government is lynching the Black Panthers in New Haven with trumped-up charges against Bobby Seale. I went to the protest. Are we just cogs in the machine, or do we have the right to think for ourselves?” Baltimore replied, his cheeks filling with color as he tossed his helmet into his locker with a clang like a recess bell.

  “Think for yourself, not me,” Bill shot back.

  Steve was surprised that even a kid from the establishment of Baltimore was so vehement.

  “They’ve got troops on over forty campuses. Students torched the ROTC buildings at Wisconsin and other schools. And there’s going to be another protest in Washington,” Andy reported, shaking his head in disgust.

  More of the boys spoke, thick with emotion. The team was composed of kids from Baltimore and Long Island, with a couple of New England preppies. The arguments became heated, and Steve could feel the argument going on in his head. The game would be forgotten but Kent State—never. Canceling the game would be symbolic, but would it be quitting? They had spent years to get here. Were they just going to throw it away with the finish line in sight? Steve stood and banged his wooden stick on the metal locker to get the room under control.

  “Let’s take a vote. Simple majority rules,” Andy suggested.

  There was grudging acceptance. “Let’s make it a secret ballot.”

  Steve was unsure. He knew the war was wrong, and the killings at Kent State had brought it home to campus. The country was at the edge of open rebellion. But he felt he needed to finish what he had begun and not duck his responsibility. He had come a long way from the south shore of Long Island. He printed the word slowly—PLAY.

  Andy collected the scraps of paper that contained the votes and counted them in front of the team. “Thirteen to play; eleven to cancel. I guess we’re playing.”

  “We have to make a statement,” Baltimore said.

  “We could wear armbands with the peace symbol,” Andy suggested. Others nodded in agreement, but the mood was pensive, not excited. The players left the locker room quietly in small groups, going back to campus. Steve sat alone in the quiet room. When he’d first entered this room, he was an excited freshman who couldn’t wait to play. Now he was weighing the right or wrong about playing after Kent State. He slammed his stick against the locker. Keep your feet moving, he thought. The demonstration was a day away; the game was on Saturday.

  Throngs of students and professors, many with their families, were milling about on the front green, looking down the hill. Roxy, Steve, Bill, Andy, and others with red peace symbol armbands were waiting for instructions as parade marshals.

  On the podium, Professor Whitney adjusted his tortoise-rimmed glasses as he gripped the bullhorn.

  “Stay in line. The Providence Police have promised that there will be no incidents. We have spoken to the governor and the mayor, and they understand that we intend to be peaceful, but we intend to exercise our right to assembly.”

  The march moved out of campus and down the hill on Angel Street, past the Unitarian Church used for graduation. Thousands of people were moving in a steady procession, with many students holding homemade banners on oak tag and bedsheets. The day was sunny and warm, and the atmosphere of the crowd was more of a party or an outing than a protest. Young men in shorts and women in tank tops were smiling, joking, and shaking hands. There was random chanting of “One, two, three, four, we don’t want your fucking war. Hell no, we won’t go” and singing, “All we are saying is give peace a chance. All we are saying is give peace a chance.”

  As they entered downtown at the park in front of the train station, rows of Providence police officers in riot gear—white helmets and batons—stretched the length of the park. Patrol cars and paddy wagons were stationed at each intersection. Many of the police were actively tapping their batons into their gloved hands and eyeing the crowd. The police line stretched across the road, blocking the protesters’ path.

  A thick-set captain with ruddy Irish features, his stomach overlapping his belt, stood on the back of a flatbed truck with a cigar stuck in his mouth.

  “The mayor has issued a parade permit. You will keep to the exact parade route.” The microphone shrieked as it touched his badge. He looked over the crowd, which was forced to look up at him. “Anyone who gets out of line will be arrested for disorderly conduct. Any violence, any disruptive behavior, anything un-American, we have orders to maintain the peace.” He raised his arm like Moses, and the brown sea of officers parted for the marchers.

  The mood of the crowd became less boisterous as scents of fear began to infiltrate the heads of the marchers. The show of force had intimidated even the most militant protesters. Roxy, Steve, and the group passed by the thick Irish captain, his badge reading Lynch.

  “Hippie bastards. We should run you all in and ship you to Nam tomorrow,” the captain sneered to the approval of his men.

  A group of construction workers in hard hats assembled a makeshift counter-demonstration. They yelled at the protesters, “America! Love it or leave it, you hippie lowlifes.”

  Several of them took several aggressive steps toward the protest line with raised wrenches and hammers. Steve, Andy, and the other marshals moved the line forward toward the capitol, pushing the girls behind them to the center of the crowd. One man in brown overalls moved toward Roxy.

  “You hippie cunt, you need a real man—” he grabbed his crotch with his right hand “—to show you what it’s like, not these wimpy college fags.”

  Roxy recoiled at his intensity and the hatred in his eyes. Steve put himself between the man and Roxy. The man glowered at Steve, who moved into his athletic stance, ready to hit or be hit. Steve backed away slowly without breaking eye contact until he and Roxy turned the corner.

  The line of marchers continued to move past the park, and the policemen in the line continued to pound their hands, looking to hit someone. The column proceeded from the square to the state capitol building, a smaller version of the one in Washington. Raised scaffolding had been set up so that speakers with bullhorns could address the crowd. The chanting and the singing of “All we are saying is give peace a chance” drowned out the words of Professor Whitney and the other speakers. The other marshals directed the crowd away from the capitol along the designated route.

  The crowd began to grow tired as it snaked up the steep hill on Waterman Street, spent of their enthusiasm but still cohesive in purpose. Random scuffles broke out as kids dumped trash cans and spray-painted the peace sign on traffic signs. Several brown-shirted cops caught two boys and began beating them to the ground with their batons. Bill started to go to their assistance, but Steve held him back.

  “You’ll only get arrested. There is nothing you can do.” Steve could see the anger in Bill, and he felt disgust with himself at not helping the bleeding kids. It wasn’t right; the punishment didn’t fit the crime. This wasn’t a fucking dictatorship, or was it?

  Back on campus, hand-lettered signs that said Teach-in Cambodia invasion and Teach-in Making Washington hear were nailed to trees or posted on the doors of various classroom buildings.

  Roxy and Steve, arm in arm, were walking across campus toward their apartment. A hand-lettered sign in neat blue ink attached to the wall in the Faunce House arch caught their attention.

  Sergeant David Durk, Amherst Graduate, New York Police Department. Reforming the New York Police Department. 7 pm. Alumni Hall.

  “I’ve read about him in a big article in the New York Times last month. Really caused a firestorm in the city.” Steve looked at the sign.

  “Want to go?” Roxy eyed him.

  The classroom was already populated by several dozen students who were sitting at desks arranged in a semi-circle around
the desk in front. Sergeant Durk was sitting on the wooden desk in the front, and Steve paused before he and Roxy selected paint-chipped desks for themselves. Durk had a shag haircut that was too long for an active duty cop, dark eyes, a narrow chin, and a thin mustache that made him look like a young lawyer, not a cop at all.

  The session was introduced by an adjunct professor, who started with some comments about the war but, he told the group that Durk was not specifically there to talk about the war. He said that Durk was touring a number of colleges to talk about making a difference.

  “When the internal investigation unit started in New York, we didn’t know what we were getting into,” Durk began. “It didn’t take long to realize that corruption was rampant at every level of the department, from the narcotics detectives taking money and drugs to the cops on patrol being paid off by bookies, after-hour clubs, pimps, and anyone you can think of,” he said with a definite New York accent. “The systems in some of the precincts were elaborate, with designated officers assigned to make a weekly pickup and the money divided among the sergeants, lieutenants, captains, and precinct commanders. Everyone seemed to be on the take. We didn’t think we would ever get through—and we almost didn’t. We had to go outside the system to the New York Times in order to get the political cover we needed.” He looked thoughtfully around the room.

  “That didn’t make you very popular in the department,” an intensely acned freshman sneered. Steve stared at him, wondering why the boy had come.

  “I’m still not very popular in the department, nor are the other honest cops. And there are a lot of them. It’s just that scum often rises to the top. Taking bribes for not seeing something is very easy.”

  “Were you ever afraid for your life?” a student with a nasal accent asked.

  “I have had many threats—anonymous because they’re cowards. We aren’t giving up. And I carry a gun, too.” Durk smiled and tapped the pistol tucked into a shoulder holster under his blue windbreaker.

  “Did they try to kill you?’

  Durk paused and looked around the room as if he were sizing up a crime scene while he was formulating his response to the question. “There are threats. Not only personally but against any other cops cooperating, as well as against my family.”

  “Do you really think you can change anything? Or is this commission just a lot of whitewash by the politicians?” Steve asked, leaning in his chair while meeting the cop’s eyes. He needed to know the truth.

  “I think we did. That’s why I became a cop after Amherst. Law is what separates the civilized man from savages. It’s never perfect. We’re just beginning, but we have made an impact in New York. You can’t change a system unless you understand it and are part of it. That’s why I’m touring campuses. You want to change how things are? You have to get involved. It’s easy to talk about change, but to actually make the system change, you have to get your hands dirty, take risks. You have to have skin in the game.”

  The words had an immediacy. Protesting was exhilarating, intoxicating, and fun—and something he did with Roxy. But what next? He didn’t believe in bombing buildings like the SDS did in Wisconsin. He was going to law school. Law was the civilizing force. He had never thought about policemen quite like Durk. But when he watched the cops at the demonstration, he knew he wasn’t their enemy, but did they? Cops were referees. It was their job to keep the game in between the lines.

  “Sometimes, you have to risk your life for what you know is right. And if you don’t do it—if you let it pass—who will do it? Do me this one favor: think about it.” Durk checked his watch. “I think our time is up . . .”

  As the two-hour session finished, students filtered out, none coming up to shake hands with the cop. Steve and Roxy lingered. “Sergeant, you’re the establishment,” Roxy said. “Do you really think you’re going to change the New York City Police Department?”

  Durk looked carefully at Roxy and then at Steve, eyeing them as if they were suspects.

  He spoke slowly and sincerely. “If I am not there, things go on as usual. When I’m there, they know that a conscience exists and that the law must be upheld. Before, I was a pain in the ass they could ignore. Now, I’m in their face. Sunlight is the best disinfectant. If it is out of sight, no one cares, but once we show it to people, things happen. What do you plan to do with your life?”

  “I’m going to Georgetown law school in the fall,” Steve said.

  “Another lawyer. Just what the world needs.” Durk looked down at his notes. “Your generation can change the country, but you can’t just turn on, tune in, and drop out. You have got to be in it.”

  “Can you just beat people senseless like they did at the Chicago convention or shoot unarmed people down?” Steve asked. He was trying to understand it from Durk’s vantage point. Could one person make a difference?

  “It’s not that simple. The system works, but it’s not a one-shot deal. Life on the street can change in an instant. You can’t wait to be shot—that’s not the job. To be successful, you need commitment, and you will have to deal with the shit. And you will always be in danger of being set up and left out to dry.” He let his words linger a bit, looking at the two kids.

  “I could never shoot anyone, no matter how justified. There are other ways,” Steve said. Roxy moved closer to him. Having said the words, Steve realized he had never really thought about shooting someone. It was an abstract idea from the movies. But Durk wasn’t talking in the abstract.

  “It is a dangerous world. Life is taking chances. Lawyer, that’s safe—make a lot of money and move to the suburbs. But some people pay with their lives—look at the Kennedys and King. You know your history; go back to the Gracchus brothers. You put your life on the line for change.” Durk’s eyes were intense, almost drilling into Steve. He could feel the cop’s passion.

  Steve let the words sink in. Yeah, Classics 101: Roman tribunes assassinated for wanting to represent the Plebeians, the common man. This cop was the real deal.

  “What does your family think after Amherst and everything?” Steve asked.

  Durk laughed. “They think I’m crazy. ‘Not why you went to college,’ my dad says. But it’s what I want to do.” He stopped for a minute, looking at the now-empty classroom. “What else could they think?”

  Steve had never thought about it as conscience. The Times article had forced the mayor in New York to appoint a commission—for the better. Durk was a realist who was making the system answer. How many more would it take?

  They shook hands firmly while holding each other’s eyes.

  Returning to the apartment after the long day, the highs and lows were leveling out with the security of school. The sight of the armed phalanx of police hovering over the crowd at the march and the intensity of the emotions against the war still lingered.

  In their room, the blue work shirt fell from Roxy’s shoulders. She looked into Steve’s eyes as he took off his shirt in front of her. He did not move, but rather watched her as she tossed her long hair over her shoulder and effortlessly unsnapped her bra, allowing it to slide to the floor. His breath quickened as she came closer to him, their breath meeting at the tip of their lips. They embraced gently, touching with their fingers, lightly, to feel, not grasp. Their tongues explored each other’s mouth in slow movements, first hers, then his, allowing the taste buds time to savor the flavors of each other.

  Before she pulled him to the bed, her panties and his shorts floated to the floor. On top of her, he supported his weight as he looked into her eyes, totally in her grasp. She pulled him down to her again, attacking him with kisses as their hands touched and explored. She guided him inside her and softly moaned, and he rhythmically stroked, gentle and slow, looking at Roxy, seeking approval before surrendering to her.

  Roxy looked back at him with rapture and smothered him with kisses and sounds of pleasure. He could taste the saltiness of her as she began to sweat, little beads that sprang from her forehead to tease his lips. She tapped him
gently, and he rolled to his back, holding her hips to not lose their connection. She swung her dark hair over his face, creating a tent of tresses that captured her sweet scents, which he inhaled.

  She thrust her hips slowly and reached down to touch herself. She moved faster and he responded, meeting her every move, their bodies in total rhythm. He could feel her tense and begin to shudder, subtle at first as her excitement built within her. As she began to climax, her rapid breathing brought him to match her intensity. He matched her rhythm as he came inside her. She fell forward on him, her head on his right shoulder, her body still engaged with his now-softened member. They each took deep breaths.

  “Now I understand what making love means,” she said, wiping beads of sweat from his temple.

  “I love you.” He ran his fingers through her long, dark hair, now as damp as her skin. “I don’t want this moment to ever end.”

  “What are we going to do with our lives? Anything anyone will remember?” she asked, looking at the ceiling from the comfort of his shoulder.

  “Nothing. I just want this moment to last forever.” His voice was just above a whisper as he ran his fingers down her back. “You know what I mean. Like Durk. He was upset how things were being done in the police department in fucking New York City. He is not afraid of the consequences,” she said.

  “Seems we college kids are scaring some people in Washington—that’s a start. We won’t settle for the suburbs like our parents.” He turned to face her. “I don’t know. What was Woodstock about? Why do we see things so differently? I don’t want to be just a cog in the machine,” he said.

  “We’re different. We don’t blindly follow authority like the World War II generation. There’s no great evil to fight. Maybe we’ve become the great evil. I think we can find a new way. Us. All of us.” She was up on her elbow, one nipple pointed directly at his face.

  He looked in her eyes. “I love you so much. I don’t ever want to leave you, ever want to be apart from you.”