Casey was torn: he enjoyed campus life, but Dar was his best friend, and loyalty trumped school. He decided to stay too, but couldn’t tell his parents—they’d try to talk him out of it. Instead he confided in his sister, Valerie. She’d tell them. She owed him, anyway—he’d covered for her abortion six months earlier.
Rain couched it in political terms. Her father would be angry, but going back to campus life would rob her of the chance to change society. Her mother, a long-time labor activist, would understand—Rain was practically a red diaper baby.
Teddy wanted to stay as well, but knew his father would be furious. So he decided simply not to tell him. By the time he discovered Teddy wasn’t back at Michigan, it would be a fait accompli.
Alix talked to the guy who owned the film studio and came back with good news. They could all live in the Old Town apartment, provided they chipped in thirty dollars a month per person for rent. No phone or TV, but those were the earmarks of a materialistic society anyway. They didn’t need superficial contrivances.
That’s the way it started, Casey thought. People sharing their homes, their money, their beds. Together they would change the world.
TWENTY–FOUR
Decked out with turrets, Roman arches, and even a few Gothic touches, the Chicago Coliseum looked more like a fortress than a convention center, Rain thought. Maybe that was because the building’s façade once belonged to a Civil War prison in Richmond, Virginia, and had been transplanted, brick by brick, to Chicago.
“Spooky,” she said, as the six of them gathered outside the building at 16th and Wabash. “Why does SDS want to have their convention here?”
“It’s the only place that’ll have them,” Casey said. The Students for a Democratic Society had tried to find a venue for weeks, but no other spot in the city was willing to risk the violence they feared would accompany the proposed gathering.
“I think it’s romantic,” Alix said. “Like something out of Shakespeare. Or King Arthur.”
It was a few days after the Democratic Convention, and they’d taken the bus to the national SDS office on the west side. Rain wasn’t thrilled about it, invoking the Groucho Marx rule that any club that wanted her was not a club she wanted to join. But she made an exception out of respect for Dar.
The two-room office was small and patchy, with a few battered desks, a couple of secondhand typewriters, and a mimeo machine. The walls were covered with posters glorifying the Black Panther Party and Ho Chi Minh. Two men and a woman with brown waist-length hair were perched on desks. Rain didn’t know their names, but she was sure she’d seen them on TV. The woman, talking on the phone, didn’t appear to see them.
“There’s no question that the FBI is trying to infiltrate,” she said. “They’re probably listening in right now.” Her voice rose. “Hi, Feebies. Hope you’re having a good day.” She laughed. “Of course, it’s a hassle. Hoover’s a rabid dog. And Daley’s right there with him. The twin dogs of war.” She paused. “No shit!” She covered the phone with her hand and spoke to the two men. “Do you believe it? Congress is planning hearings to find out whether there was Communist subversion during the Convention. Like it matters.” She laughed again and went back to the phone. “Sure. Bye.” She hung up.
One of the men, his back to them, said to the woman, “You know we’re fucking sitting ducks.”
“That’s why we need to cement our relationship with the working class. Build some defenses … ” She swiveled around and caught sight of Rain, Dar, and the others. “Hello. Who are you?”
Dar introduced himself.
“From Michigan, right?”
“You know him?” Rain jumped in.
“Heard the name.” She looked them all over. “You’re all friends?”
“We’re a collective,” Payton jumped in.
She frowned. “Why are you here?”
“We want to help. I’m Eric Payton. From Iowa.”
If Payton thought he’d be recognized, he had to be disappointed, Rain thought. The woman made no sign that she knew him. “Well, well, that’s far out.” But she didn’t look pleased. She looked suspicious. She pushed a shirtsleeve above her elbow. “Well, if you’re serious about helping, there is something that needs doing.”
“Anything,” Payton said.
“We need someone to case the Coliseum. They’re willing to let us have our national convention there next June, and we want to make sure it’s cool.”
“Isn’t that where the Doors show was a few months ago?” Casey asked. “And where Hendrix is coming next month?”
“That’s right.”
“How about we check it out then, like from backstage?” He grinned hopefully.
A sour look was her answer. The woman spotted Rain’s camera, which was slung over her shoulder. “Is that a 35 millimeter?”
Rain nodded. “It’s a Minolta.”
“Cool. Could you take some shots of the place? It would really help us figure out the lay of the land.”
And keep us out of your hair until you check us out, Rain thought. She glanced over at Dar. He was watching her. Probably thinking the same thing. She turned back to the girl and shrugged. “Sure. Why not?”
“Damn. My lens isn’t wide enough.” Rain stopped snapping pictures of the exterior, which occupied the entire block of Wabash between 16th and 17th. “I’ll have to take a series and bracket them.”
“Where’s the door?” Payton asked.
She pointed to an entrance with an overhanging canopy. “Right in front of you.”
“Let’s go in.”
They filed into a huge, cavernous arena with a gently arched ceiling. It looked bigger than two football fields, not including the balcony that ran around the perimeter.
Payton whistled. “I bet you could fit fifty thousand people in here.”
“Probably,” Casey said. He scanned a flyer he’d picked up near the entrance. “Did you know both Republicans and Democrats have held conventions here?”
“How many is SDS expecting?” Rain asked.
“I’ve heard ten, maybe twenty thousand.”
They climbed up to the balcony. Rain framed the widest shot she could manage and clicked. “We’re becoming a force.”
“Maybe.” Dar leaned over a railing.
“Maybe?”
“The convention was one thing,” Dar replied. “But now everyone’s trying to figure out what direction SDS should take. There’s a lot of politics and saber rattling.”
“What do you mean?” Rain asked.
“Some people want to forge an alliance with blue-collar workers. Convince them it’s in the financial interests of the powerful to keep the war going. Encourage them to take action.”
“Stand over there,” Rain ordered. “With Payton and Teddy.” She took a shot of the three of them together, the hall in the background. “So?”
They headed back down the steps. “Other people want to open channels with the Black Panthers.” Dar glanced at Payton. “And others want to organize on the community level, using the Methodist church or other grassroots organizations, like Saul Alinsky.”
“It’s all bullshit,” Payton cut in. “The next step should be direct action. Confrontation.”
“There’s that too,” Dar said.
“Hold on, Payton,” Alix spoke up. “Just because things aren’t perfect doesn’t mean you have to destroy them.”
“That’s counter-revolutionary thinking,” Payton said.
Alix crossed her arms. “Actually, it seems to me we have a choice whether to see things in political terms or not. That’s the beauty of living in this country. I choose to think you can improve things without annihilating them.”
“Spoken like a true member of the ruling class,” Payton sneered.
Rain finished shooting her roll of film, rewound it, and popped it out of the camera. Alix didn’t look happy.
“Issues and agendas are created for all sorts of reasons,” Dar offered, clearly trying to calm the waters
. “You have to look at their motives. Most SDS members aren’t from the working class. They aren’t oppressed. They aren’t even poor.”
“Like us,” Alix said.
“Well … ” Dar hesitated, as if the answer was obvious.
“Are you saying it would be better if we’d been born poor?”
“Not necessarily. When you have an organization with factions splitting off in different directions, there can be a vacuum of leadership. No matter where you come from.” He paused. “They didn’t coin the term ‘divide and conquer’ for nothing.”
“Like what the FBI is doing to us,” Teddy said.
“It’s not just them,” Dar said. “We’re starting to do it to ourselves.”
“What do you expect, man?” Payton shook his head. “You can’t just wish change. Or pray for it. Someone has to take a stand.”
“Dar was arrested twice at the convention,” Casey said. “I think that’s taking a stand. What about you?”
“Just because the pigs didn’t get me doesn’t mean I’m not committed.” He looked around. “Do I have to be a martyr like Gantner?”
“No one’s attacking you, Payton,” Dar said peaceably. “All I’m saying is that this might be a good time for me to shift gears.”
“You’re gonna do a Timothy Leary? Just drop out?”
Dar started back toward the front door. The others followed. “Actually, Alix has convinced me I’ve been neglecting my spiritual side. I’m going to India.”
Payton rolled his eyes. Teddy looked shocked.
“What the fuck’s in India?” Payton asked.
“Maharishi Mahesh Yogi,” Dar said.
“The dude the Beatles went to see?” Teddy asked.
“He teaches transcendental meditation. Which is supposed to help you achieve a higher level of consciousness, creativity, and energy.” Dar smiled at Payton. “How about you, Payton? Want to come with?”
“I have all the consciousness I need. I don’t have the time—or the bread.” Payton frowned. “Hey. How can you afford it?”
“I’m lending him the money,” Alix said quietly.
Payton looked at Casey, then Dar. He started to say something, then stopped.
“Is she going too?” Teddy asked.
Dar shook his head.
“Well, you can’t go alone,” Casey said. “I’ll go with you.”
“You?” The surprise in Payton’s voice was genuine. “You’re about as spiritual as Teddy’s tennis racket.”
“There’s always a first time,” Casey said. “You’ve got enough commitment for the rest of us, anyway.” He turned to Rain. “What about you?”
“Actually, I think Payton’s right. There is work to be done here. I met some people who work for The Seed.” She held up her camera. “I’m gonna be their photographer.”
“What about you, Mr. Markham from Madison?” Casey asked.
Teddy scratched his cheek with his little finger, an oddly feminine gesture, Rain thought. “I think I’ll help Payton mobilize the Black Panthers.”
TWENTY–FIVE
October 1, 1968
Dear Alix,
Well, we made it! It took us over twenty-four hours to get to Delhi, what with changing planes in New York and Frankfurt. When we got to Delhi we didn’t know whether to take a train or hitch— Rishikesh is about one hundred fifty miles north. We ended up taking the train. Which was freaky. You know how they say you can set your watch by the trains in Italy because they’re always on time? Not in India. It was four hours late—which someone told me afterwards was par for the course—and then it made all these stops. Took us all day to get here.
Rishikesh itself is beautiful. They call it the gateway to the Himalayas because the Ganges River flows out of the mountains right through the center of town. In fact, mountains ring the city everywhere you look. I’ve been taking lots of pictures. Maharishi’s ashram is practically on the river, and it’s a peaceful place. In fact, the whole city is full of religious significance, if you’re Hindu. It’s supposed to be the place where Vishnu vanquished the demon Madhu, and there are tons of temples and ashrams.
Oh—it turns out the Beatles wrote most of their new album while they were here. It’s coming out in October, and they’re calling it the White Album. Maybe you should reserve a copy at the record store.
People are heavy into meditation here. You’ll be walking and see someone clasp their hands and close their eyes, right in the middle of the sidewalk. There’s also lots of time to think. I remember what you said about me being a “connector.” Meditating helps me realize you’re right. I wonder if that will be my life twenty years from now. Hard to imagine, since I usually don’t know what I’ll be doing twenty minutes from now. But I’m trying to go with the flow. Focus on my consciousness and all that.
We met Maharishi once, but he’s been gone most of the time. We were initiated into TM by a monk named Bansal. “Monk” isn’t really the right term, but I don’t know what else to call him. He works here. He’s very spiritual, but still grounded, if you know what I mean? And he has the patience of a … well … a monk. He tells me that, if I meditate twice a day, I’ll be much more creative and live a longer life. We promised to keep in touch after we come home.
Hi to Rain, Teddy, and Payton. And of course, you.
Peace,
Casey
October 8, 1968
Dear Alix,
Maharishi says an unlimited source of cosmic life energy is at our disposal. We have only to begin to connect our individual minds with the universal and we will gain eternal freedom. That is what I am learning in Rishikesh. I wish you were here and that we could expand our minds together. To be one, in more ways than merely physical. Although that is pretty special too. Almost holy. I know you were afraid you wouldn’t understand TM, but Maharishi says you don’t have to understand the theories in order to benefit from them.
We were initiated the day after we arrived. It was a lovely service. The student being initiated brings a small offering—I brought flowers—to a room with a table. There were candles, dishes for water, rice, sandal paste, incense, and camphor on the table. There was also a picture of Guru Dev. He was Maharishi’s teacher. I put my offering on the table, then our teacher, a guy named Bansal, sang something in Sanskrit. After that, I was given my mantra, and he told me how to meditate. We do it for twenty minutes twice a day. We repeat the mantra over and over. If we do it long enough and can block out any unnecessary thoughts, we’re supposed to gain consciousness.
TM is not a religion, really, although some people think so. The main doctrine, from the Advaita Vedanta, is that the true self is the highest and ultimately the only Reality. Sometimes this Reality is called “God,” though it is not a personal being but an unchanging Absolute, an impersonal state of consciousness. Through meditation we become one with the Absolute Being, which Maharishi calls “God-consciousness.”
He is persuasive. I can almost believe there is a primal source of all happiness and energy, from which spreads all the happiness in the world. If it’s there, I want to find that happiness, Alix. I want to live in that energy and serenity. And I want you to live there with me. I love you.
Your soul mate through time,
Dar
October 15, 1968
Dear Alix,
Well, I think we’re about to come home. We just found out that Maharishi may not be the guy we thought he was. Remember when Mia Farrow came here to meditate after the Beatles were here? Well, apparently, Maharishi came onto her. WHILE THEY WERE MEDITATING! He put his arms around her and tried to kiss her. He claims it was just affection. She says it felt sexual. I kind of believe her. Whenever you ask him something he doesn’t want to answer, or he doesn’t know the answer to, he giggles. Like a little kid. Shit! It’s really disappointing. I thought we were onto something. Dar says the guy’s a dirty old man.
Still, it hasn’t been a total loss. I really like Bansal, the guy I told you about before. When I told hi
m about Maharishi, he shrugged and said, “Isn’t it all in the eye in the beholder?” I suppose that’s true. But it is a shame. Especially for Dar. I’d never seen him so peaceful. Wearing his white robes, making flower necklaces. He was even smiling. At least twice every day! This will be a major disappointment for him. I miss the apartment and all of you.
Peace,
Casey
October 22, 1968
Dear Alix,
We will be home soon. India has turned out to be just another place on the map. You are what matters. Here is a poem I wrote.
Falling into Alix
What would it be like,
I used to wonder,
Tumbling from a plane into the body of a cloud?
Soft like milkweed silk?
Bouncy like a box spring?
I don’t wonder anymore,
For I’ve fallen into Alix,
And every dream of cloud
Has been fulfilled or surpassed.
Now, when I look up at the blue sky above,
At the cotton clouds there,
It’s Alix that I see.
And I understand why they call it heaven.
TWENTY–SIX
On a Saturday afternoon in late September, Rain and Alix walked past the Irish bar on Wells to the head shop two doors down. A song by Gary Puckett and the Union Gap pounded out from an open door. A group of thick-necked, rowdy white guys crowded in front watching college football, and as Rain passed the bar’s window, she caught a few leers and smirks.
For the few taverns still hanging on, while Old Town evolved into Hippie Central, the clash between the cultures was palpable. The straights were jealous of their freedom—hers and Alix’s. They dressed the way they wanted, wore their hair the way they wanted. Rain had happily thrown away her rollers, bobby pins, and the hair dryer that looked like a shower cap with a hose attached. They were natural. Authentic. Working at things that mattered. No bourgeois affectations for them. No living in “little boxes made of ticky-tacky.”
Set the Night on Fire Page 14