When Stokely finished speaking, the protestors cheered and erupted into a chant, “No more war. No more war.”
A young man in a short-sleeved shirt and dark tie climbed up onto the truck. He pushed back a lock of hair, pulled out his wallet from a back pocket, and extracted a white card. Holding it up for the crowd to see, he spoke into the mic.
“By this nation’s laws, I am required to always have this draft card on me. At our government’s whim, I can be plucked from where I am at any time and told I have to learn to kill. To kill is against the way my parents raised me to behave. I believe my religion has taught me to live as a peacemaker and that to take another’s life is a terrible wrong. I try to live my life according to these lessons and have faith in them with my whole heart. A few years in prison for my beliefs seems a worthwhile price to pay for standing up to the government and telling them,” he raised his voice to a shout, “hell no, I won’t go fight in your immoral war.”
In his other hand, he raised a pack of matches. “In protest against the government’s policies in Vietnam and the Selective Service Act, I will no longer carry this draft card.”
The crowd held its breath as the man struck a match and held it to the card. There had been a steady breeze all day, and the match blew out. He lit another one, but it quickly fizzled too. We all groaned in unison when another flame died even after he cupped his hands around the match and turned his back to the wind.
I was standing in the front of the throng near the hood of the truck. Packed tight with little room to move, I half-turned at a nearby commotion as an Asian woman jostled up next to me and shoved a Zippo into my hand. I recognized her as the woman I had walked home almost two weeks earlier.
“Give him this.”
“Got it.” I put a foot on the bumper and scrambled up onto the hood. People pushed at my back and butt, helping to hoist me. An excited murmur began to ripple through the crowd.
The draft resister was struggling with another match and hadn’t noticed me. “Hey, man, try this. Here’s a lighter.”
His expression turned hopeful when he spotted the stainless steel box in my hand.
I handed it to him, and he calmly flipped open the lid. With a flick of his thumb, the flint threw a spark. The flame held. The crowd cheered. Without any sign of wavering, he brought the fire to the card. It quickly erupted into a blaze of protest. A wave of silence spread through all of Whitehall Street. It seemed we all were crying quietly within ourselves at this man’s act of conscience. I felt out of place on the truck and slipped back onto the asphalt, staring with a humbling reverence as the draft card turned to ash.
He held that card, not flinching, until it burned down to his fingers.
A rustle of sound began and grew into an overpowering chant. “Hell no, we won’t go.”
The protester climbed down to street level and handed me the lighter.
“Thank you. That was very thoughtful of you.”
I looked around for and pointed out the Asian woman nearby. “It was quick thinking on her part. We all owe you thanks.”
He stuck out his hand. I shook it, and my eyes watered at the thought of his selfless act of political protest. Did he really not fear prison? Did he possess the ability to feel free no matter what his circumstance?
“I’m Bruce.”
“Deets.” I began to stammer, wanting to tell him he was too good a person to linger in a jail cell. Finally, I half-whispered, “That was one crazy-ass, brave thing to do.”
He smiled with his eyes, and the corners of his lips lifted slightly. “I have to get going. Keep getting the word out, y’know. Not much time before they come goose-stepping after me. God bless you.” He gave me a wave as people surrounded him, wishing him well, calling out questions, blessing him.
“The fire he started today will spread.” The Asian woman said as she maneuvered to stand by me again.
Handing back her lighter, I noticed a smudge of gray ash had smeared off from Bruce’s hand onto mine. I hoped some of his fearlessness came with it.
The woman and I decided to hike the few miles up Broadway back to the Village. She introduced herself as Phuong. She was pretty, probably in her early thirties, with straight black hair that hung halfway down her back.
“Does Phuong have an English translation, like Jane or Polly?”
“You know the story of the bird that rises from the ashes?”
“The phoenix? Phuong means phoenix? Cool.”
“In Vietnam, girls are named for attributes of the female, for beautiful things, or for certain mythical creatures. My sister’s names are Pink Rose and Precious Stone.”
“Those are beautiful names. America’s pretty stale.”
“Your name is not common. Is it a nickname?”
“Nope, I think my parents had been drinking—even forgot to give me a middle name.”
We came to a busy intersection. Absorbed in conversation, we mistimed our crossing, and when the light changed to green, she raced ahead of me while I got caught in oncoming traffic midway across the street.
“Oh, be careful, Deets.”
I concentrated on dodging one car while the air and dust kicked up around me from another one accelerating past me. The next car, a yellow cab, honked loudly but slowed to a crawl. The driver laid his palm on the horn repeatedly. Scooting across in front of the car, I raised my hand in thanks to the driver. Stogie man sat behind the wheel, glowering. He was about to bite his cigar in half as his mouth worked out choice curses.
When I reached the other side, Phuong was upset and couldn’t understand why I started laughing.
“What? What is so funny about almost being run over?”
“No, it’s not that. It’s that taxi driver. He must be the only cabbie in all of New York. I see him everywhere.”
When we reached the Village, we continued talking over pizza and a beer.
Phuong was the granddaughter of a Vietnamese diplomat who had been stationed in France. She had lived in Saigon, then Paris, and now attended NYU.
“Grandfather didn’t want me to stay in Vietnam. Too much fighting. When my uncle was killed fighting the French, Grandfather brought me to Paris. My sisters were married and stayed in Saigon.”
“And your parents?” Instinctively, but too late, I realized the answer would be a painful one.
“My mother and father died together on the day I was born. It seems like there has always been fighting. Back then, in the 1930’s, the Communist Party was planning the beginnings of an uprising against the French colonials. My parents got caught in the crossfire between some rebels and the French soldiers.”
“I’m sorry, Phuong. What a terrible thing to happen.”
She dabbed at her lips with a napkin, pulled a compact mirror from her purse, and ran a slim finger along one of her eyebrows. After tilting her head back and forth to study her reflection, she snapped the mirror shut and leaned back with a sad smile. “It was a long time ago. My forehead was bleeding when my uncle found me. I still look for a scar. It is my way to connect with my parents.”
Not knowing how to respond to the depth of personal revelation the conversation had taken, I nodded my head, stuck a soda straw in my mouth, and sipped.
“My uncle raised me. That story is also the reason I am named after the phoenix.”
I thought of Greg and the baby he heard cry out. Could the child’s fate have turned out to be as lucky as Phuong’s?
The day after the anti-war rally I answered a knock on my door and Chang, the Chinese guy from upstairs, asked excitedly, “Hey, man, you seen today’s Times?”
“The Times? No, man, what’s happening?”
“Look at this.” He shook a folded section of paper and shoved it in my hands.
“What? What am I looking for?”
“It’s right there. Look, man. Check out the photo.�
�� He poked at an article on the page.
The headline announced 10,000 Protest Vietnam War. There was a photograph of Bruce standing on the truck holding his burning draft card up for the crowd to see. Off to his right, at the edge of the picture, I was half-crouched on the hood of the truck. Arms and hands reached out to steady me as I climbed down. Though most of the crowd appeared as grainy blobs, I could clearly make out Phuong grabbing at me.
“Man, who’s that chick with her hand on your butt? The biggest protest, ever, hits the papers, and you make front page with some hot pussy groping you.”
“Ha. Imagine that. Hey, the story’s all about some guy burning a piece of paper and some war though.”
Chang laughed and pulled out a miniature Sherlock Holmes style pipe. “Let’s celebrate that dude.”
Although I didn’t know him well, more and more people I met were smoking marijuana, so I didn’t feel any apprehension at the invitation. He stocked the bowl with a heaping mound of weed while I read the article.
“Man, they say there was one hundred thousand people protesting the war all over the country.”
We passed the pipe back and forth, laughing, talking about art, music, world peace, and general nonsense.
Chapter 11
Hours after Chang left, I felt like getting high again and had just struck a match to light up a joint when there was loud rap at my door.
“Mister Parker, this is the FBI. Please open the door.”
A jolt of panic shot through me. There wasn’t a comprehensive thought in my mind.
“The FBI? What, well... what... uh, are you here for?” I stumbled over the words in my confusion.
“We’ll ask the questions, Mister Parker. Please open the door.”
My mind cleared as self-preservation mode kicked in. I quickly categorized possible reasons the FBI would be interested in my activities. The LSD cubes were in my sock drawer, but acid wasn’t against the law. I didn’t have a stash of marijuana, and a quick glance around the room revealed no incriminating drug evidence. My last remnants of the illegal weed were rolled up in the skimpy jay I held in my hand. It went into my mouth automatically. After my saliva had dissolved the paper into a mush, I crunched on a tough little stem a few times before I was able to gulp the joint down.
“Okay.”
Some dry bud was scratching at my throat, stuck behind my Adam’s apple. As I pulled open the door, I fought back a cough but couldn’t stop myself from struggling to swallow and clear my throat.
There were two agents. They both flipped out their badges and held them directly in my line of sight.
“I’m Agent Orville and this is Agent Harlan. Can we talk inside?” They stepped past me as I motioned them in.
Their eyes jumped around the room taking in details. Harlan looked into the kitchen while asking if I was alone.
“How many other rooms?”
“Just a bedroom and bathroom back there.”
He poked his head into my bedroom and turned back to face me.
They were both square-shouldered men, dressed identical. Harlan wore a grey fedora hat.
Orville planted his feet wide apart, as if ready to attack or defend himself. “Nice picture of you in the paper today, Mister Parker.”
“Yeah. Hey, do you think I should frame it?” I tended to be polite around law enforcement officers as a matter of self-preservation, so I was surprised at my flippant response.
“Heh, depends. I don’t think they let inmates hang pictures in their cells. Do they, Harlan?”
“What do you mean, cells?” The inferred threat of arrest brought about its intended spasm of jittery fear into me.
Orville opened a manila folder he was carrying and placed a black and white photograph on my drawing table. Gesturing for me to look at it, he asked, “How long have you known Mister Mueller?”
The picture captured the moment Bruce and I were shaking hands after he had burned his draft card. The shot was taken from an angle above and across the street from where we stood. Orville flipped another photograph next to it. A telescopic lens had zeroed in on us talking. Phuong stood nearby, part of the crowd.
“I just met the guy right then. You got a picture of us introducing ourselves to each other.”
“Is that so? What did he say to you?”
“What do you mean? He said his name was Bruce.”
“Is that all he said?”
“Yeah, I mean, we just met each other. I told him my name. He said he had to be going.”
“Did he say where he was going?” Orville pulled out a notepad and made a few scratches in it with a pen.
“No.” I shook my head and raised my hands, palms up in a helpless gesture. “I don’t know anything about the guy.”
Harlan let out a deep sigh and walked over to the window. He lit a cigarette, then turned to me and held out a pack of Winstons, shook it so one cigarette poked out above the others.
“Smoke?”
“Uh, yeah. Thanks, I’ve got my own.” I lit up a Kool.
Orville let a harrumph. “Menthol. You kids are going to hell in a hand basket. Do you know when you handed that lighter up to Mueller you were an accessory to a federal crime?”
It sounded like they were trying to con me. The hints of fear I had been feeling dropped away. If I was fighting for my life, I wasn’t going down like a gibbering idiot. I might not have had the bravery of Bruce Mueller, but I felt indignant that the FBI was harassing me for handing someone a lighter.
“I think Bruce Mueller lives by his conscience and doesn’t believe in war.”
Harlan said, “Hey, Ron.” Almost imperceptibly, he motioned with a slight movement of his head for Orville to join him.
Orville clenched his fist, flexing it a couple of times, then gave me a hard look before crossing the room. I caught the harshness in Harlan’s voice but not the words as he spoke in low tones to his partner.
Orville, rigid with tension, adjusted his tie and smoothed his jacket as he turned back to me.
Harlan blew a long stream of smoke that bounced from the glass pane, swirled in the sunlight, and dispersed in different directions.
“Mister Parker, who’s the Oriental woman near you in that picture?” Orville tapped the photo heavily with his forefinger.
“I just met her too. Her name’s Polly Jane. Nice lady.”
“Nice ladies don’t go instigating federal crimes. She handed you the lighter.”
“Mister Orville, you don’t get it, do you? We don’t like the war. If there are laws protecting the criminals that wage war, they should be changed. There will always be someone somewhere saying this war is wrong until the clowns that are running things catch on. Man, it’s all backwards and upside down.”
Harlan chuckled. “We don’t need any speeches, Parker.”
Orville poked his finger against my chest. “Mister Parker, I’m going to let your youth be an excuse for your arrogance. The fact is you and your woman friend could be held accountable as accessories to a federal crime.”
“Yeah, y’know, I think someone else gave the lighter to her, said it was handed to him by somebody else in the crowd. It’s a long chain back to the president of Zippo, who probably supports the war. This is ridiculous. Don’t you guys have real jobs?” My attitude was reckless, but I still believed they were bluffing. They probably were looking for Mueller or already had him and wanted to check out my connection to him.
Harlan didn’t react to my risky outburst.
Orville’s eyes became a dead flat stare. Whether he was deciding to cuff me or kill me, I didn’t know, but I recognized an enemy as he gathered up the photographs.
“Thank you for your cooperation, Mister Parker. We’ll be in touch with you if we need further information.” He raised his arms exaggeratedly as he fiddled with one of his shirt cuff links. His j
acket flipped open to reveal a revolver in a holster at his hip. He never took his eyes off me, and they never wavered in their threat. I knew it had been a deliberate show of power.
Harlan opened the door, took a drag of his Winston, then waved it at a group of framed drawings on one wall. “This your artwork?”
A soft “Yeah” escaped my throat. Orville had managed to unnerve me again. I couldn’t find the revolutionary resolve I had spoken with moments before.
“Word of advice, kid, stay away from people like Mueller and Carmichael. I served in Korea, saw my share of hell. But if the president says we have to fight, then we fight. Right now though, Parker, stick to your artwork. Make your statement there. Ever see Picasso’s Guernica?”
I nodded my head up and down, slow and dumb-like.
Chapter 12
After the Feds climbed into a green Impala sedan and pulled out into traffic, I flicked my eyes up and down the street, nervously diagnosing every pedestrian and car, on the lookout for more agents. I’d been to one protest rally in my life with ten thousand other people, and the FBI knocks on my door? For me to appear on their radar for routine information gathering indicated they must be either extremely ruthless or stupid.
Getting angrier the more I thought about the idea that the government could kill, harass, or interfere with anyone anywhere, I pulled out my markers and poster board. In bold black letters, I printed out the chant that Bruce had inspired.
Hell No! We Won’t Go!
I made a dozen of them, tucked them under my arm, and set out to the student union building.
It’s odd how some days shape themselves. No one was around as I made my way to the student’s storeroom and stacked the posters next to the ones I had made earlier. Noticing some wear and tear on the first batch, I was glad for the small part I could play in the anti-war movement.
There was a scraping sound above me. A few moments later, I heard it again, still in the ceiling, but further away. I started across the lobby, turning down the hallway that led to the restrooms. The men’s room was locked. My bladder couldn’t wait. Near desperation, I went around the corner to the women’s bathroom. A large yellow ‘temporarily closed’ sign outside the entrance apologized for any inconvenience. Ignoring the notice, I twisted the door handle, half-opening the door and poking my head in. A mop stuck up from a bucket sitting in the middle of a wet floor.
Mayhem (The Remarkable Adventures of Deets Parker Book 1) Page 6