Playground Zero

by Sarah Relyea

  Jim and Valerie understood only the most general flow of events. For them the story began:

  Once upon a time by the bay, there was redwood forest belonging to everyone. One day a man came bearing gold by the bushel from Sutter Creek. He cleared the trees and sold the lumber and founded a town. Then as roads and houses sprang up, he founded a college for the sons and grandsons of men who made money from the wilderness. Soon enough there was no more land by the bay shore for the people who came searching for the old forest, the lumberjacks and workers and those flooding West, and so they slept on the streets by the campus. As more and more of them came, grumbling how they’d been pushed from the land, a group began planning how they would repossess the people’s forest and make a new world.

  The planners found some muddy turf near Telegraph Avenue—a vacant lot belonging to the people of California, but controlled by a gang of regents and professors. The people gathered there, preparing the ground for planting. The planners knew the regents and professors had control of the land; even so, they thought, If we camp there and farm the land, there’s nothing in the world they can do.

  And so one day they made a park.

  They announced the plan in a local paper, naming a day for founding the park. When the day came, people flooded in from the Avenue, followed by others from the campus and the surrounding neighborhood. In small groups they worked the land by day and reveled by night, lounging on the turf and enjoying the fruits of man’s labor—performed freely and willingly in the absence of bosses—sharing grass and communal meals, resolving quarrels among themselves, and planning revolution.

  In the park, Jim and Valerie now ran among gardeners in colorful rags, planting and playing and feeding on roast pig. Every day they fled school for the people’s land, where they wandered from group to group, foraging and doing as the others were doing. Everyone laughed because they were children, and everyone had learned long ago that children should never be doing the things that happened in the park—everyone but Jim and Valerie, who thought they’d found the real world, where they could be free and wild, where they could belong. And the more they learned from the older group, the more amusing the older group found them.

  In the evenings they shared food with the others, gathered around some drummers on the grass, where Jim and Valerie lounged as they had in the playroom of the suburban home in Colorado, when they had shag rugs and television. Three women would come bearing a cauldron of soup for the park people, or a van would appear, carrying women who handed out sandwiches. The meals were fun and increasingly necessary; Dan was busy, and Jim and Valerie had no resources beyond the group from the Avenue who clung to the people’s land, gardening and planning for war. They controlled the park even more than the Avenue: now, as the sun dropped below the roofs, the group had a place for themselves alone, where they could gather far from the snooping eyes of cops or suburban couples who’d heard rumors of the counterculture and come to gawk at the passing herd. Jim and Valerie had a group, a home; they camped out in the park, where a spare sleeping bag could always be found, and where someone passed them a joint before bed. Then in the morning, they would head for school.

  More and more people were gathering in the park. They grew louder and louder, reveling throughout the evening, sleeping on the turf where they’d fallen, and planning for the defense of the realm. A few neighbors rushed from lonely houses to share in the work and merrymaking of those who’d gone wild and ungoverned. Others slammed their doors on the pandemonium: drugs and debauchery and the assembling of homemade gas masks.

  One day a rumor was heard: armed men were coming to fence and occupy the realm. The proud founders and defenders of the park gathered round. They dug a hole in the ground for a great bonfire and hung a slaughtered pig from a pole over the flames. That evening they fed on charred and greasy pork; they soon slumbered on the turf, garments loose and unfastened.

  It was May, and the nights were cool and fresh. As some made preparations for battle, Jim and Valerie lay with the people under the trees, dreaming of roast pig—the snapping and crackling fire, the aroma of burning pork. They were so far from Colorado, where nothing happened unless there was money.

  Suddenly someone grabbed Jim’s sleeping bag and dragged him along the turf, waking him from the sumptuous feast. Peering out, he saw a man’s leg, then a length of club; nearby, Valerie was groping her way from her sleeping bag, pulling up pants, pronto. She hollered to Jim that the pigs had come and everyone was clearing out. Jim’s eyes closed on a flaming pig, where someone had carved the words “No sleeping”; then he yelped as a cop shook him from the bag, roughing him up. He gaped around: the park had been overrun by uniformed men, and nearly everyone had already fled. He scrambled for the pavement just as the men were closing in, guns at the ready. Though they laughed and jeered, he escaped the park unharmed.

  Jim and Valerie found a narrow passageway leading by the side of a house; from there they saw the fence go up. Then they saw the armed men tearing away at the park.

  Dawn was glowing over the hills as they fled toward the jeans shop on the Avenue, for the Northside apartment was too far away now in the early morning hours with the area crawling with cops. Passing through a small doorway, they climbed to a room over the shop, where they slumped on the floor among four others who crashed there, sharing what they had. When they woke up, there was no use in heading for school; everyone knew the day had come, the day they’d planned to defend the park. Crouching by a window above the Avenue, they surveyed the scene below. People passed in groups, squads of cops had begun moving in, and up and down the Avenue roamed the park people, ready for the opening maneuvers.

  The war began around noon when a throng of people appeared, marching from the campus along Telegraph Avenue toward the park. Valerie refused to budge, saying the important things could be seen from the room, but Jim was on edge as soon as he heard the throng. Bolting from the room, he was soon in the doorway by the jeans shop. Then he took off along the edges of the crowd.

  Jim was running among the crowd, who moved up and down, scavenging bottles from trash cans. Soon they were confronting the enemy, crouching by cars, lobbing objects from the curb, running from tear gas exploding nearby. He followed a group of young men rounding a corner. There was pounding—a throbbing in the heart and temples. The young men he ran among had a sour odor, like Hawk; he could almost feel Hawk’s hand grasping a shoulder, the way he would when he was mad. Now the odor came from men moving around him, through him, wolves of the forest opposing a common enemy.

  As the group rounded the corner, a heavy droning surged in waves from the sky, pounding through the atmosphere. An ugly wind inhaled upwards, whirling debris. Craning his face toward the roar, Jim saw the deafening blades churning the sky.

  “Flying pigs!” The words fell dead under the roar.

  The group gazed up at the machines, hovering over the rooftops, spewing heavy gas and then moving on.

  “Run from the gas!” The group stampeded forward down a street newly freed of cars: for once, it belonged to them. Something reached down, burning and scraping throat and lungs—Jim was running through tears. He slowed, coughing, as the others surged on and away.

  Jim stumbled alone through the abandoned street, desperate for an escape from the tear gas. The uproar had faded to the edge of awareness. A corner opened out, carless and unpeopled; caught in the momentum, he was fully unwound, lungs heaving, one flapping rubber sole stubbing the pavement. Here was a way around the tear-gas zone.

  An upended trash can lay in the street, debouching garbage. Jim rummaged for a bottle: he would be more of a man with something heavy on hand.

  He ran south, planning to loop around and head for the park another way. Looking along Parker Street, he saw hordes of cops massed on Telegraph. Where was Valerie—in the room? There was no way back there now.

  There came a jolt of stampeding feet. Jim lurched as a posse of older boys rounded the corner. Then as they passed he sprang into mo
tion, nearly fouling one of them—a high-school boy who’d come out for the park, same as he had. The boys slowed, closing around him, laughing among themselves, welcoming him, and soon he was running among them toward the war on the Avenue.

  Approaching the corner of Telegraph, they came upon a throng. Jim ran on, abandoning the older boys, who hung back from the gathering energy. As he entered the mob’s warm vehemence there came an opening, revealing a squad car, surrounded and taken hostage. Some boys from the Avenue were bouncing on the hood as though they’d found a trampoline. Jim struggled toward them, demanding his chance; but before he knew what was happening, they’d sprung away as the mob pulled back, flinching, and flames erupted from the hood. For a moment, an enthralled hush fell over them, underscored by the gasping of flame.

  Then came a shout: “Burn the pigs!”

  Jim heard the roaring flames, and they surged away from the bonfire. Then he jumped at the sound of loud crackling.

  There came a loud and urgent shout: “The pigs are shooting!”

  They abandoned the burning car. Jim ran for cover, crouching in a doorway as the line of cops advanced, guns at the ready, firing in the air. A man appeared running, one shoulder splashed with blood. As though pulled by magnets, Jim surged headlong from the doorway, hurling something toward the advancing line. Glass burst on the pavement. He stared dumbly as one of the cops swung round; a burn scorched his thigh. He lurched toward the doorway where, crouching, he fingered the dark smudge spreading from a hole in the denim. The wound stung: he’d been branded.

  The cops moved in, surrounding the burning car as though covering a fallen comrade. Jim took a chance and ran from the doorway. He’d gone about twenty feet when a hand grabbed one shoulder, reminding him of Hawk. He struggled hard but the hand was clamped on his upper arm. He turned and saw Bobby.

  “What the fuck!” Bobby was wrenching Jim’s arm. “They have guns!”

  “I know, man.” Jim held up the bloody leg.

  “Come on, head for the house—there’s a bunch of us there.”

  “No way, I’m here for good.”

  “You’re not that tough. They have guns, man.”

  “I’m gonna kill ’em.”

  “Not now!” Bobby gripped him by the arm, and they were running.

  They hauled past a used-car dealership and Willard School. The door to the gym was propped open, and through the door they saw some jocks going at it under the basketball nets. Bobby slowed.

  “Look at ’em,” he nodded toward the gym. “It’s only a game, and they’re ready to kill.”

  “Yeah, school’s such a bummer.” Jim was staring through the door. “Please God, don’t make me kill anyone.” Suddenly he choked up. “Maybe we’re gonna have to, before it’s over.”

  “No, we’re gonna be free.”

  “Yeah, free.” Jim gave an angry laugh.

  VALERIE FOUND HERSELF alone in the Telegraph Avenue room with Arlene, one of a loose band who shared the rooms above Dan’s shop. Arlene was large and vaguely regal, with sun-bleached hair and a ski-slope nose. She wore frayed bell-bottoms low around her hips and a poncho embroidered with cannabis leaves. Nearly seventeen, she’d been a presence on the Avenue for over a year, where she made some bread by dealing and dropped by the Derby commune for meals when she was hungry, bringing Valerie. The way they’d begun confiding, Valerie thought of her almost as family. Even now, as they surveyed the clashes from an open window, Arlene was confiding some of her men problems.

  For a few months Bobby had been her old man, though they refused to do the monogamy thing. Bobby was a good lay, and he’d shown her how to deal. Now she had another guy, Marlboro Man. The cops called him Lawrence. She knew that because one day when they’d come by looking for Marlboro Man, they’d hassled her, saying, “Where’s Lawrence?” She’d told them there was no Lawrence on the Avenue, not that she’d heard of. That was true enough. When she turned away, though, one of the cops grabbed her and snarled, “That guy you’re balling, that’s Lawrence.” Then he shoved her around the way he would a whore, the way her father had. That was why she’d come to the Avenue: her father had found her sleeping with a guy. As it happened, Marlboro Man had just split for Montreal, where he was scoring some kilos, so there was nothing those narcs could do. He cooled it in Montreal for almost a month, and she and Bobby were sharing a pad at the Derby Street house, but then Marlboro Man showed up with a carload of grass and he had her dealing and that ended things with Bobby for a while.

  Valerie was too young for men problems—that would come soon enough. She was glad; she had her freedom. Marlboro Man was a drag: he reminded her of Hawk, when Hawk was in a bad mood. Through the window, they could see the cops moving up the Avenue, grouping to seal off the streets leading to the park, as the park people charged the clubs. So much was happening in the street; Bobby or Marlboro Man—what was the big deal?

  “Look—they’re fighting!” Valerie cried, feeling a sense of righteousness. “They’re defending the park!”

  Arlene leaned from the window. “Damn right, they’re fighting. Look at those guns.” She paused, chewing hard on her lip. “Oh, Val, can’t you see what’s going down?” She moved from the window.

  “They’re saving the park!”

  “Saving nothing. I’m just so scared for them.”

  “You’re scared? But why? Dan says—”

  “Oh, fuck Dan and them. I just hope Marlboro Man’s okay.”

  “I just hope we win!”

  The Avenue had been busy for days; everyone knew something was about to come down around the whole park thing. Valerie had heard the rumors, how they were preparing for the war, how they would ambush the cops. Now she leaned from her veranda over the enemy line, feeling a rush. Up and down Telegraph, she could see people leaning from windows or gathered on rooftops; in the street below, armored cops swarmed like wasps, the noonday sun gleaming on ugly helmets. She hung from the window as some park people gathered in loose formation before the helmets below. One of the wasp-men broke ranks, nearing the building; her rush turned to fear as something plunged from the roof, passing her and smashing the pavement close by the cop.

  “Down!” came the command from Arlene, followed by random crackling. “Away from the window!” she growled, shoving Valerie to the floor and pinning her there.

  “Ow!”

  “Down, girl, you wanna get shot?”

  “Who says?”

  “What the fuck was that?” Arlene’s eyes were moving scared. “They’re going for the roof.”

  “Something fell . . .”

  “Marlboro Man’s up there . . . Bobby, too.”

  “Uh-oh . . .” Valerie finally understood.

  Arlene crawled away, taking refuge out of range of the window. Valerie lay on the floor, pinned now by fear. A strange odor pervaded the room—some skunky new incense, burning Valerie’s eyes and throat. Arlene groped her way toward the window, keeping low, and then reached up, slamming it shut.

  “Here comes the gas,” she wheezed. “They used gas last summer . . . was Dan here?”

  Valerie was coughing, and anyway, she hardly knew; she’d been in Colorado.

  “C’mon,” Arlene urged. “They’re gonna smoke us out, same as before. There’s no way out, ’cept the roof—down the fire escape.”

  She led Valerie along the hall, passing the open door of another room. The room was empty, the window open; Valerie fled past, coughing. Around the corner was a small ladder leading through a trapdoor to the roof. Arlene scrambled up the ladder and through the opening, as though she’d done it before. Looking up, Valerie saw Arlene’s dangling flip-flops surrounded by blue sky. They too sprang through the opening, for a moment leaving only a splash of blue. Arlene’s head reappeared, then her arm, reaching through the trapdoor. Imagining a jungle gym, Valerie swung up the ladder and grasped Arlene’s hand. Soon she was kneeling on a tar roof above the Avenue.

  Up here was another world.

  Or so she thought.
Then she saw how many people there were on the roof, more than anywhere else—so it seemed to Valerie. She’d found her magic carpet, and it was a popular place. Many of them were known to her from the street below, and for a moment she found no reason to worry—one more day at the park, same old gang. For sure, the group had planned where to go. They crowded away from the edge overhanging the Avenue, one of the men grasping a bloody cloth.

  Arlene was nearby, eyes glancing around in fear. “Where’s Marlboro Man?”

  The man flung down the bloody cloth. “They’re gone, those guys.” He glared at her. “They got away from the firing range. No one warned us—”

  “No one knew . . .”

  The man spat and turned away.

  Valerie was shuddering; she could feel someone by her shoulder. “I’m gonna get you out of here,” Arlene was saying.

  “Where’s Dan? He’s coming—”

  “Over here, Val—”

  “No. You can go. I’m staying here.”

  Valerie sat, hugging her knees, as Arlene moved off. She glanced along the edge of the roof. Now she saw the heaps of rubble she’d been looking for. In the park, as she’d heard them planning for what was happening now, she’d wondered how she would manage to be here. People from the park hung all around her on the roof—and on roofs up and down Telegraph. She would stay here, surrounded by her people, as long as she could. She’d been hauled from her sleeping bag and chased from the park, but she was no homeless dog. Her father had founded the park. She and Jim had unrolled sod and even planted a tree, helping anyway, going with Dan and Wanda to some man’s house so they could borrow a van, riding along to the tree farm to buy the tree and bring it back to the park, and then holding the trunk steady as some guys shoveled soil around the heavy root mass. No, she belonged to the park. And for days, as everyone was planning the response to the inevitable government occupation of the park, she’d been imagining heaving something—a hunk of cement—down on the cops below.