Beyond the Song

by Carol Selick

  I wondered if it was true or just a line to get us into bed. I started to feel uptight. I’d never met anyone in the military. Everyone I knew was against the war and afraid of getting drafted. They were thinking up clever ways to get rejected from the army. One popular idea was to stay up for an entire week, never shower, and drop acid the night before the physical. The idea of wanting to fight in a war was way too heavy.

  We drove to Georgetown in their rented Volkswagen and found a parking spot in the middle of the action. As we walked along the quaint, narrow cobblestone streets it reminded me of Greenwich Village, but pricier. Jerry took my hand and we maneuvered through the usual weekend crowd of students, tourists, and hippies.

  Melanie peered into the window of a trendy boutique and suggested, “Let’s go in this shop.’”

  “Cool,” I said as we walked in the door. A light tan dress immediately caught my eye. It was suede and had beads and fringe on the bottom. “Look at that!”

  “Try it on, Carol!” Jerry said. There was a devilish twinkle in his eyes.

  “I don’t know. I couldn’t afford it. I guess I could try it just for fun.”

  Jerry’s eyes lit up as I walked out of the dressing room.

  “I’m buying you that dress!”

  As hard as I tried to talk him out of it, I had to admit it was my style. No man had ever bought me a dress before. I let him buy it but worried that the fringe on the bottom might not be the only strings attached.

  We ended up in an overpriced Italian restaurant. Melanie sat up against Bill in the booth and he curled his arm around her. I couldn’t tell if she was into him or just being polite, but I doubted she was taking him seriously. I picked at my Fettuccine Alfredo, thinking it was just a fancy word for pasta and cheese, and hoped no one noticed how little I was eating. All I could think about was what was going to happen after dinner. Meanwhile, Bill and Jerry ate as if it were their last meal, and joked around as if they hadn’t a care in the world. Were they that naïve about going to war? Or had they made the whole thing up just to get some weekend action?

  On the ride to the dorm, Jerry and I sat in the back again. He pulled me towards him and stared deep into my eyes with such intensity I knew this was the moment I’d been dreading.

  “Stay with me tonight, baby,” he whispered.

  How could I say no to a sailor who was going to war the next day?

  “Jerry, you are so sweet, but I hardly know you.” I shook my head and started to cry.

  I couldn’t tell him the truth. That my first time wasn’t going to be with a lonely sailor. It was too cliché. We would both have to be brave.

  I promised to pray for him whenever I wore the suede dress.

  Two weeks later, I got the chance to make good on that promise. Randy asked me to fill in for the hostess at her nightclub. It was another Saturday night without a date and I thought it might be a fun way to get out and even make some extra money.

  As soon as I walked into the club Randy came running over to me.

  “Great! You made it! Nice dress. It’ll be perfect for dancing!” she exclaimed, a little out of breath.

  “Dancing? You said I was gonna be a hostess. I’m not a dancer.”

  “Look, all you have to do is stand in that cage.” My eyes followed her finger as she pointed to the elevated platform at the head of the crowded room. I must have looked shocked, because she quickly added, “Just keep changing the records and move a little to the music. That dress is perfect with all the fringe and beads. You’ll be great. I’m really in a bind.”

  “Okay, but just for tonight.” I couldn’t believe I’d agreed to be a go-go dancer!

  Randy’s bar was called The Attic. It was located above a seedy lingerie shop right in the heart of DC. By day, the neighborhood diners and mom-and-pop stores bustled with office workers looking for a quick, cheap lunch. By night, the streets were deserted except for the patrons of the many clubs and bars, who were also hunting for something quick and cheap. The Attic attracted businessmen, traveling salesmen, and low-level politicians. That’s how Randy described them, anyway. The ratio of men to women was three-to-one and the women looked like they were “working.”

  The place was dark and smoky. I made my way past rows of packed-in tables and self-consciously mounted the stairs to the platform. I took a deep breath, stepped into the cage, and started flipping through the stack of 45s piled up next to the turntable. You can’t get out of this now, I figured, so you might as well make the best of it. I started with “Light My Fire”—a sexy, mid-tempo song—and worked my way up to “Jumpin’ Jack Flash” and on to “Dance to the Music” by Sly and the Family Stone. With the strobe lights blinking on and off, I could barely see the top of the dancers’ heads as they gyrated to the music. I swayed along with them and felt the fringe of my dress caressing my knees. As I spun around, I pictured my younger self as a star-struck little girl, dancing and singing to the records from the Broadway musicals my parents took me to.

  Sitting in the balcony as a child, I always wanted to jump on stage and be the star. At home, I played my parents’ records from every Broadway hit we saw: My Fair Lady, Camelot, Golden Boy—until I knew every lyric by heart. I imagined the day when I would be famous and newspapers would say how I always loved singing and dancing as a child. I could already see my name on the marquee—Carol Marks! Was I ready to set the room on fire tonight? I wasn’t sure, but if not, I’d better be able to fake it.

  As the night wore on, I gradually relaxed and got into my part as a sexy, aloof nightclub dancer. I thought about the “Sock It to Me” girl on Laugh-In. The wide-eyed, beautiful young woman who danced and pretended to be dumb. I was being viewed as a sex object, nothing but window dressing. A pulsating image like the staccato rhythm of the strobe lights. A flash of temptation to tease one’s senses. I could be anyone I wanted to be. By the end of the night, I knew I’d played the part well. Some men wanted more than a song but I turned them down. One gave me a twenty-dollar tip anyway.

  The dress had gotten me through. True to my word, I said a prayer for Jerry the sailor as I rode the elevator from The Attic down to the street. Back at the dorm, I counted my money with a sense of satisfaction. I’d worked hard for it, but I’d never do it again. It wasn’t my scene.

  And unlike Randy, I didn’t have to work my way through school. According to my parents, I had two jobs: to get good grades and stay out of trouble. Getting good grades was easy, but staying out of trouble was getting harder and harder.

  4

  CROSSING THE LINE

  Too many people are dealing in pain,

  Selling it over and over again.

  Sometimes I think I’m the one who’s insane,

  Or too damn dumb to get out of the rain.

  Ho, Ho, Ho Chi Minh! The NLF is gonna win! The chanting grew louder as I walked through Lafayette Park on my way to fencing class, ten blocks from the main campus, on a cold but sunny November afternoon. My curiosity got the better of me, so I took a detour to check out the crowd. About fifty protestors had gathered on the sidewalk in front of the White House, carrying signs. BETTER RED THAN DEAD! NO MORE—STOP THE WAR!

  I moved in a little closer and joined in the chorus. Hell no, we won’t go! Hell no, we won’t go! I chanted, caught up in their energy. Fencing class would have to wait until next week. Besides, I’d had enough of aggressive girls lunging at me with fake swords as I stood there barely trying to defend myself. This was way more important - there was a real war going on and soldiers were dying.

  Still on the edge of the action, I peered through the bars of the black, wrought iron fence and caught a glimpse of the White House looking unapproachable and virginal. Then, without warning, a blast from a bull horn assaulted my eardrums. Disperse Now! Swat Team pigs wearing helmets were surrounding us raising their billy clubs. The demonstrators just kept chanting, Hell no, we won’t go! Hel
l no, we won’t go!

  I was getting jostled by the crowd and knew I had to get out of there when I heard the sickening sound of wood hitting an innocent skull. I felt dizzy and scared and turned to make my escape when out of the corner of my eyes, I saw a guy with a Dylan afro get clobbered and topple to the ground. Blood splattered everywhere, staining the sidewalk in front of a White House that already had blood on its hands. I ran back to the safety of my dorm feeling scared and shaken. There was a line that I wasn’t willing to cross. I was still playing it safe.

  The room was quiet, my industrious roommates all in class. I collapsed on my bed, freaked out, yet grateful to be safe. Whatever happened to free speech? How did I get so involved in politics, anyway? I thought back to the summer after high school. My girlfriends and I were hanging out at Rutgers, going to frat parties and dances at the student center. The guys labeled us “Townies,” but we didn’t care. We were having fun! I became friends with Art Berman, a half-Chinese, half-Jewish history major who liked to dance, but whose true passion was politics. He was a Senior and President of SDS, Students for a Democratic Society. When I got to Rider, we kept up through letters until he wrote that it was too dangerous to contact him. “The revolution is coming,” he warned.

  Was this what Art meant? Was the war between protestors and the government just as dangerous as the war in Vietnam? Last summer, I’d watched the Democratic Convention in Chicago turn into a war zone on tv. The news showed shocking footage of police attacking protestors with clubs in front of the Hilton and Grant Park. Then the National Guard rushed in, bayonets fixed on the crowd. All hell broke loose. One reporter described the chaos as “a sea of tear gas and billy clubs”. Reportedly, Mayor Daley had given the pigs permission to shoot to kill.

  Not until the next semester was I ready to dip into political waters again. The first thing I did was volunteer to help at the Counter-In-Hog-aural Ball, in protest of Nixon’s inauguration. The flyer said:

  Now is the time to let Nixon know what the people expect him to do.

  The National Mobilization Committee to End the War in Vietnam

  is calling on Americans to come to Washington—

  on January 18-20 in a peaceful affirmation

  of the country’s true priorities and needs.

  Box seats & Orchestra seats (For the People) — $2.00

  Outer Rim & Back Row seats (For Republicans,

  Regular Democrats & Such Folk) — $35.00

  I was proud to be one of “the people.”

  Nixon had gotten elected by a slim margin, running on a “Law and Order” platform, and he was using the violence at the Democratic National Convention to instill fear in Middle America. He also lied about his intention to stop the war, calling it, “Peace with honor,” but there would be no peace and he was far from honorable. Even Walter Cronkite admitted that the only way out of the war was by negotiation, not victory. Young soldiers were still being slaughtered every day in Viet Nam and pictures of their dead bodies were plastered all over the front page of every newspaper.

  On Saturday there was no real job for me to do other than showing up, so I stood around in a muddy circus tent listening to Phil Ochs and The Fugs. I’d tried convincing Melanie to go with me, but she was studying Buddhism in her Comparative Religion class and didn’t want to “cause any ripples,” as she put it. I respected her choice but I wanted to make some waves.

  Eventually, the crowd started marching toward Pennsylvania Avenue. I kept looking around, feeling alone, hoping to find a kindred spirit, but I was too shy to approach anyone. There were freaks, hippies, and protestors from SDS and other student organizations. They were carrying the usual signs and some I’d never seen before: ABOLISH the DRAFT, FREE POLITICAL PRISONERS, BRING the BOYS HOME, STOP EATING GRAPES, DEFEAT IMPERIALISM. Others were playing kazoos, and a guerrilla theater group in green camouflage jungle fatigues and gas masks was staging fake ambushes on the onlookers. The whole scene was a rainbow of color and energy.

  As we approached the museum on the National Mall where Vice President Agnew’s Inaugural Ball was being held, women in ball gowns and men in tuxedos were lining up at the entrance, protected by a line of police on horseback. Suddenly, a gun fired! No, a firecracker—purposely thrown at the line of mounted police. A horse reared up amid the screams, and a policeman hit the sidewalk. “Grab some horse shit!” a protestor yelled from the front. He threw down his sign, scooped up a fistful of steaming manure, and walloped a woman in an elegant white evening gown. It landed in a big gob on the front of her white silk gown, just above the knees. After a moment of silence, the “shit hit the fan” and other protesters tossed their signs and started hurling horse manure. I could feel my stomach churning. I’d reached my limit. Once again, this was a line I wasn’t willing to cross, and I ran back to the safety of my room.

  I may have been closer to the political action, but I was still no closer to becoming a real woman. Melanie and I were sitting on her bed with the window open, smoking a joint and bitching about how bored we were. Second semester was flying by and it was another dateless, depressing Friday night. Melanie had scored the weed from a frat boy she knew from her “former life,” as she liked to call it, as a sorority girl.

  “Paul still thinks there’s a chance I might sleep with him,” she said, giggling as she passed the joint.

  “Yeah? Keep him guessing as long as you can. This weed is pretty good!” I said and winked as I took another toke. We both started to laugh. We were stoned enough for everything to sound funny.

  “Last semester this guy Stu, from my psyche class asked me out for coffee and he wanted to know if I was a virgin! Just came right out with it! When I said yes, he looked surprised!” I told her, trying to balance the last of the joint in the tweezers we used as a roach clip.

  “What an ass!”

  “God, can you believe it? But dig this, it gets worse! A few times after class he walked with me and asked if “things” had changed. I guess he didn’t want to be my first! I’d rather stay a virgin forever than sleep with him!”

  “Geesh!”

  After another burst of giggling, Melanie got a bright idea. “Maybe it’s time to expand our territory! We’re spending waaay too many Friday nights like this.”

  “Yeah! I know! Let’s go to California this summer!” I jumped up and almost overturned the full ashtray precariously balanced on the edge of the bed.

  “San Francisco is where it’s all happening: communes, free love, Flower Children, Haight Ashbury. Hell, yeah! You could lose your virginity there for sure!”

  “Far out! Let’s do it!”

  It was my “geographic cure.” Change the scenery and change my life. Only problem was, I had to convince my parents.

  “Everyone’s going to California and I’ve never even been on a plane.” I was pleading with my father during one of our Sunday night phone calls. I knew my mother would go along with whatever he decided.

  “Melanie’s aunt is a travel agent and she can arrange everything.”

  “Ca-rol!” When my father said my name like that, chills ran up my spine. This was the sign he was on the verge of getting angry. “Why do you need so much excitement? You already moved to Washington. Don’t you want to rest this summer so you can do well Junior year?”

  “I’ll be okay, I promise. I’ll work for a month and use that money for the trip. I really want to see California!”

  “I guess you’ve made up my mind for me.” There was a long, torturous pause as I held my breath waiting to hear his decision.

  “Okay, as long as the trip doesn’t interfere with your Junior year.”

  I got a temp job for a few weeks and saved some money. After a month spent typing labels eight hours a day feeling like a fucking machine, I had my trip money and on July 5th, my father drove me to meet Melanie at Newark Airport. I knew he wasn’t happy about the trip and my whole hip
pie thing, but I’d kept my part of the bargain.

  We pulled up to the airport entrance and my father got my suitcase, knapsack, and guitar out of his trusty station wagon. As he hugged me goodbye, he whispered, “Have fun, but think for yourself, Carol!” His comment didn’t surprise me. He’d said many times that he thought my rebellious ways were due to my friends’ influence. I had to admit he was partially right. I was attracted to older men like Woody, my first boyfriend at Rider, and my activist friend Art. Maybe that’s why I found My Fair Lady, a play based on Pygmalion, about an older experienced man transforming a young, naïve woman so romantic.

  Melanie was already at the gate. We both had on army jackets, black t-shirts, and blue jeans. As we boarded the plane I asked to sit in the aisle seat. My claustrophobia was kicking in and I didn’t know what to expect. I fastened my seatbelt and prepared for takeoff by popping a couple of Dramamine—there was no turning back now. I didn’t dare look out the window the whole trip! After the Dramamine, a few cigarettes, lots of prayers, and some white-knuckling, my fear turned into excitement as we landed in Chicago, home of the blues.

  We got into the city and headed for the YWCA, where we settled into a small, bare room with a shared toilet down the hall. We unpacked and took a walk along Michigan Avenue near the lake. There were tons of tourists in Bermuda shorts carrying cameras and shopping bags, and conservatively well-dressed businessmen walking in groups, eyeing us up and down as they passed. I felt bummed-out and started to question why we came to Chicago in the first place.

  “Looks like a bunch of suits, Mel. I don’t like the way they’re looking at us!”

  “They’re probably convention guys searching for some action. Yuck!”

  “There’s got to be more to the city. This isn’t our scene!”

  We sat down on a park bench, and Melanie pulled out the map of Chicago we’d picked up at the Y.

  “According to this map, we can take the “L” to Old Town. That’s supposed to be a happening place. It shouldn’t take very long to get there.”