Braided Gold

by Glen Roylance

  Paul smiled as he contemplated the scene. “What about the police?” he asked. “Did any of your guys get arrested?”

  “Naw, they were just there for appearances. Those ‘oinkers’ didn’t know what to do with us. Our people were just sitting around all over the place when the police started giving them orders to move. Then somebody said, ‘If you don’t want us here, you’ll have to pick us up and carry us away.’ They finally decided to leave us alone.”

  “What about that ruckus out in the middle of the quad? Were you mixed up in that?”

  “They weren’t our guys. There were a lot of spectators out there and the mood just got pretty intense. Someone let a punch fly and then people started mixing things up.”

  Paul finished the last bit of spaghetti on his plate and pushed it aside. “So,” he said, “do you think we accomplished anything?”

  Kristel answered enthusiastically. “Your speech was great. I think it really fired people up.” Kristel was tall and thin, her long, straight hair falling well beyond her shoulders. She had a sallow complexion, a long face and small, plain features. As usual she was wearing a drab brown jumper that hung on her like a sack. “You got great coverage,” she continued, “both the Tribune and the Daily Aztec had the whole thing.”

  “With pictures, no less,” added Jerry. “I think we gave old Michaelson something to think about.” Jerry leaned back on the rear legs of his chair, interlocking the fingers of both hands on his waist. “We may have moved things in the right direction, but we’re really just getting started. There’s only one real way to deal with fancy pants people like him. You have to make a real mess for them to clean up. People like him are always concerned about the way things look from the outside – ‘got to preserve image, you know!’” Jerry’s imitation of Michaelson with an affected high-pitched voice and screwed up face brought smiles from Paul and Kristel. “‘Don’t like bad publicity! Oh no, we can’t have that.’ What happened at the ROTC building makes people like him go crazy. ‘Don’t like to sail the ship in rough waters, no, don’t like that at all.’ I’ll tell you what you do with people like him. You turn things into a big enough crisis that they don’t know how to handle things. They’re afraid to fight back and too chicken to tough things out, so they give you what you want.”

  The intensity in Jerry’s comments made him sound convincing. Paul contemplated Jerry’s bitterness. Something within him resonated with the fearlessness of this young man. That was why he liked him.

  This friendship would have presented an unlikely aspect to the casual observer – two men of dissimilar age, one carefully groomed and stylishly dressed and the other decidedly not. Jerry’s lanky fame was accorded no grace by the clothes that adorned it. He wore a blue denim shirt and, although it had been designed to lace up in the front, it was open to the middle of his torso. His jeans were ragged and, in the belt loops, braided strands of twine had been threaded, the frayed ends joined in a knot at his mid-section. Jerry wore leather sandals without socks and his long, sandy hair was tied in a ponytail. His bushy beard almost obscured the several strands of beads he wore around his neck. Though Jerry was not a handsome man, he stood over six feet in height and was physically imposing. There were strong lines in his face that, together with his staccato speech, seemed to accentuate his determined disposition. One’s first impression in meeting Jerry suggested that he was angry at life and that those who chose to oppose him would face a formidable adversary.

  Paul knew Jerry to be completely committed to the crusade he had undertaken. He admired his skill in mobilizing the efforts of others. Jerry was not merely a rabble-rouser or a miscreant, but an idealist, determined in his confrontation of the establishment. His place in the countercultural revolution was not that of “tag along” nor “dupe.” He was a leader! His education was broad enough and his intellect bright enough for him to fully crystallize the objectives of the new movement in his mind. These ideas he articulated with skill and ease. While some regarded him as heretical, no one questioned his sincerity. There was passion in his commitment that was contagious. It went beyond youthful mischief making or self-service. He validated his motives with the badge of personal sacrifice.

  Jerry was an unofficial kingpin in the dissident student subculture at San Diego State. He was a perennial student – a very bright and articulate philosophy major whose primary focus was student issues rather than classes, credits, or graduation. Getting out of school and getting a job were not among his highest priorities. He and a handful of other students published an unofficial newspaper, “The Student Voice.” Its issues came on a somewhat irregular basis, usually weekly, but sometimes more often when hot topics on campus called for its fiery commentary.

  “The Voice,” as everyone called it, was a liberal organ intended for the expression of sentiments from the extreme left. Its articles made no effort at subtlety, generally favoring radical approaches to the issues of the day. Jerry belonged to a loose coalition of student activists on many campuses across the country that called themselves “Students for a Democratic Society” (SDS). Their revolutionary rhetoric was a staple in most issues of “The Voice.” Jerry’s newspaper was a shoestring operation with some financial support from a few clients who were brave enough to advertise in its pages. Of greater importance were the funds that came from those who wrote its articles and manned its press. They were an idealistic bunch who were unabashedly uncouth in their lifestyle.

  Jerry did have a substantial amount of money at his personal disposal, setting him apart from many of his peers on campus. These resources had come to him following the death of his father, a professional military man whom he despised with some justification. At the time of his father’s self-inflicted death his mother had turned over the lion’s share of her husband’s pension and death benefits to Jerry. This she did in an effort to somehow compensate for the abuse Jerry’s tyrannical father had inflicted upon him throughout his young life. He lived frugally, willingly diverting much of his inheritance to what he regarded as his personal crusade at San Diego State.

  Jerry’s home was in a warehouse-like compound in El Cajon which was inland from San Diego some fifteen miles. Real estate in this locale was considerably less expensive than in San Diego proper, making rent costs quite manageable for him. He had purchased a small printing press and thus “The Voice” was born. Jerry also printed a variety of leaflets and small pamphlets, all of which were incendiary in character. The building which housed the press had become a nerve center for SDS activities at San Diego State and was an activity hub for students who immersed themselves in what they considered to be “the revolution.” Jerry was known for his all-night parties and particularly for what was called, “Saturday Night Class.” Here, fifty or sixty students typically gathered for a weekly “happening.” The primary chemistry of these events involved marijuana and LSD. These, together with strobe lights, grotesque posters in psychedelic colors, burning incense, and the relentless beat of acid rock music charged the psyches of those present with expansive perceptions of life that were largely illusionary.

  “Saturday Night Class” always took place in a portion of Jerry’s Quonset compound that had been impressively remodeled as private living quarters. Here, the warehouse flavor of Jerry’s building gave way to a bit of extravagant decadence. The carpeting had been specially ordered and bore a design that immediately captured the senses of anyone who entered the expansive living room. Its fabric was midnight blue and, near the center of the room, incorporated a large white spiral design that expanded out concentrically in all directions. These circular swirls of white wrapped around and around, giving the effect of a large whirlpool. The acoustic tiles in the ceiling were black with a multitude of tiny inset lights. When illuminated, these lights appeared to be strewn across the ceiling as paintbrush strokes. They were set to blink off and on, providing ever-changing patterns of movement. In addition to these sparkling miniature lights a large ceiling light in the shape of a crescent moon had b
een affixed. It cast a blue ethereal light throughout the large room when illuminated. The flip of a master wall switch would bring additional light into the room from rapidly pulsating strobe fixtures mounted in the corners of the ceiling. Another switch keyed all of the lights to vibrate in unison with the heavy bass tones of the music emitted from large stereo speakers positioned about the perimeter of the room.

  These Saturday night happenings ran the gamut from blistering rantings on political or social issues to the recitation of poetry or freewheeling musical improvisations involving guitars and bongo drums. Typically the tenor of these meetings gradually rose in a crescendo of sensual experience that could allow anything to happen. In this setting, traditional behavior restraints and limits gave way, like sandcastles engulfed by the advancing ocean tide.

  In Jerry’s defense it must be said that he was not intentionally wanton in these weekly incursions into the “bizarre.” But he was completely committed to this strange new culture with its own unique philosophy, art forms, and transcendent experiences that resembled, in a counterfeit way, the conversion power of religion. These synthetic, drug-induced experiences were of an inexplicable, mystical quality – a ribald imitation of spiritual experiences associated with their Christian counterpart. These were the experiences that effectively brought new and strange meanings to such words as love, peace, duty, honesty, and humility. They were at the core of a movement that spawned a new system of values that effectively supplanted light with dark and bridged the gulf separating self-restraint from indulgence. With terse slogans it called for immediate change, rallying adherents who would be willing to embrace the cause with self-sacrificing idealism. Jerry was among the foremost of these adherents, having yielded his fine mind and enormous talents to something destructive, yet something he sincerely believed to be right.

  Though Jerry had repeatedly invited Paul to attend “Saturday Night Class,” he had never been seen in these gatherings. His reticence to “imbibe” brought good-natured ribbing from Jerry, who caricatured Paul as his ascetic patron saint in the cloistered halls of academia. Theirs was a first name relationship allowing a kind of familiarity Paul did not accord most of his students. Despite his friendship with Jerry and his willingness to be a torchbearer for him and his friends, Paul drew the line when it came to being one of them.

  On one occasion Rex Hale, observing Paul’s fraternal relationship with what he regarded as “campus riffraff,” suggested that Paul was less of an ideological leader and more of a pied piper opportunist, using the student causes for his own advancement. Whatever the real nature of this relationship, both Paul and his radical retinue found the relationship mutually satisfying as well as advantageous. This evening’s conversation at Lorenzo’s was typical of the way that relationship worked.

  Not only had much of Jerry’s personal inheritance gone into the financing of “The Student Voice,” but he had also chosen to ignore the allurement of corporate America, where one with his capacity might have hoped to draw a handsome salary. He regarded this venue as superficial and corrupt, according to the standards he embraced. The profit incentive driving that sector repelled Jerry. It ignored the needs of the masses – the cries of those who lived in poverty – people who were expendable in the eyes of the wealthy.

  Jerry identified with the plight of the refugees in Southeast Asia – the faceless and numberless casualties of war. He, likewise, identified with the agony of young men torn from the privacy of their personal lives by the draft to provide a critical mass in wartime strategy. These, too, he perceived as casualties of a war driven by a political agenda. That phrase in vogue since the early 1950s, the “military industrial complex,” incensed him. In his paper he had spoken of it as “the fruits of 20th century political immorality.” His disdain also extended to the professional military where his father had served. These he had written off as “the mercenaries of our day, spilling the blood of villagers and farmers in exchange for ribbons of valor or rank advancement.” He had bitterly resented the ROTC which had brought the ethic of professional soldiering to the college campus. In his paper he had referred to the ROTC program as “the illegitimate offspring from the unsavory union of warlords and misguided academicians.” The ROTC had been the target of biting literary satires he had written in “The Voice” for nearly a year. Some of his writings had been less satirical and more of a call for action. In one piece he wrote:

  Are the students of this campus so wrapped up in the requirements of prescribed study as to be blind to the problems of a decadent era? How long will we continue to think and say what is required to take our place with the corrupt generation that has gone before us, perpetuating that lifestyle that perceives right and wrong according to red or black ink on a profit and loss statement? What does it take to wake up our generation to the urgent need for change? This is not a day for passive acceptance of old ways of doing things. If you don’t like the America that is being left to you, then do something about it, and if it’s necessary to disembowel the old system, then so be it. If civil disobedience was necessary for the establishment of this republic two centuries ago, then let us be fearless in using it today for an end that justifies that means. How do you feel about the hypocritical materialism and war mongering that have become a way of life in this country? If you don’t like it, then do something about it! Remember, the force of one is increased exponentially when people join together. Perhaps the greatest patriotism you’ll ever show is in a rally, a demonstration, or a sit-in.

  Your participation may be the most important thing you’ll ever do in helping provide a wake-up call for a generation that has gone to sleep at the switch. The place to start for you may not be Wall Street or the Pentagon, but certainly it is on this campus where the people who will run this country in the days ahead are making important decisions about what they will or will not tolerate. And if this campus is a ready-made opportunity for you to do something, you might turn your attention to one significant malady that continues to go unremedied. We have a local installation of the military industrial complex right here on this campus where it doesn’t belong. Are you willing to allow the ROTC program to have a legitimate place at San Diego State? If not, then do something about it!

  A waitress approached the table where the three were sitting and cleaned away the remnants of their meal. She handed the bill to Paul, this having become the standard procedure when all three had dinner at Lorenzo’s.

  “Jerry has a proposition for you,” said Kristel, grinning mischievously.

  “Yes, you said something about that earlier,” said Paul, looking quizzically at Jerry.

  Jerry was obviously pleased with himself. “I had a phone conversation with one of my friends up at Berkeley,” he said. “He’d heard all about our rally at the ROTC building. The campus newspaper there gave us high marks. We compared notes, this friend and I, and the more we talked about what’s happening both here and upstate, the more I got to thinking about things, things that might really get people’s attention. What I’m thinking about is something enormous, like maybe several thousand kids from campuses up and down the California coast. We could get them all here on the quad and make a big thing out of it. We’d build us a stage right out there on the grass and have a group of acid rockers give us some music to get everybody in the right mood. We’d have a high-powered sound system out there that would blast things all over the campus. We would also have a couple of powerhouse speakers, you for one, to get people really turned on.

  “My plan is this: We start with a lot of publicity and pump people up for a couple of weeks so that everybody’s expecting something big. By that time we’ve got the administration on edge – they’ll want to stop things and will probably issue some warnings or make some empty threats. Whatever they do will just stir things up all the more. Then, when we get the quad packed with kids, and I know we can get them, Paul, we’ll make it an anti-war demonstration like this campus has never seen. We tell them we want the ROTC off this campus a
nd in its place we want some new classes and programs that have some social conscience designed into them. We stage a sit-in at the Administration Building and let it go around the clock until we get some action. We tell Michaelson we want a public statement declaring that San Diego State is officially opposed to the war in Southeast Asia. We make a list of demands and tell the Administration we want commitments now. Then we call for a campus strike and shut this place up as tight as a drum while they think it over – and we’ll get our strike, Paul. Just as sure as we’re talking about it, it’ll happen and it’ll give Michaelson a coronary. He’ll give in and set up some sort of a committee to study the problems and then we just keep hammering away until we get what we want from him.”

  Jerry was grinning. “So, Chief, what do you think?”

  Had Paul been speaking to a typical student at San Diego State, the kind that read the text the night before an examination or forget the due date for a term papers, he might have regarded Jerry’s comments as just so much wind blowing in the night, but he knew something of Jerry’s steel resolve and of his incredible organizational skills. Jerry could make things happen just as he had described them, and the outcome would likely be exactly as he had envisioned it.

  In the brief moment before he responded Paul’s mind reverted back to his meeting with Claire Duncan and her prescient warning about bad publicity and the Shelter Island workshop. But the thought angered him. Approvingly, and with obvious admiration, Paul returned Jerry’s smile. “I like your ideas, Jerry. I think you should go ahead with your plans – and count me in for a verbal hand grenade or two.”

  As the conversation continued, Paul posed several practical questions regarding Jerry’s proposal. But Jerry was not a loose cannon or “fly by night” in making things happen. Although he was somewhat impetuous by nature, he seldom did anything of any consequence without thoughtful planning and careful attention to detail. Paul’s approval of the enterprise was exhilarating for him. He was self-confidant and independent by nature, but seldom moved forward with these kinds of things without using Paul as a sounding board.