Читать книгу Allied Zombies for Peace - Craig Nybo - Страница 15

Chapter 8

It could have been how they looked; it could have been how they smelled; for whatever reason, parade spectators parted to allow Schecky and his friend, Arnold—a black man with a basketball sized afro and mutton chops—move to the curb, a prime seat for any parade enthusiast.

Schecky Lewis wore a pair of pants that he had sewn himself. His mother had taught him as a child to use scissors, pins, and a pattern to make clothes. His first project was a pink sundress for his little sister. He had given it to her for her birthday on a long ago spring day. Schecky’s father—on one of his few good days, on a day long before Schecky had sawed off the padlock on his father’s backyard tool shed, gone inside, and learned a new respect for his dad—had shot some footage of little Circy running around the back yard in her new, hand-sewn sundress. In the choppy, 8mm footage, she tottered about, holding a spraying garden hose, trying to douse the family cat, Roosevelt. The film always brought a smile to Schecky’s face.

He gave up sewing altogether when his father had gone to Korea to fight communism. By the time his dad had returned, Schecky had found a new group of friends: young revolutionaries with new ideas. A new movement was on the horizon and Schecky and his friends fought on the front lines. War could be turned into love. Tumultuous times could be refashioned into peace and tranquility. It was in the music; it was in the slogans; it was in the hair, the clothes, and in the mentally stimulating drugs that Schecky and his revolutionary friends smoked.

Schecky took up sewing for one last project in the fall of 1966. He took down the American flag—the one his father had brought home from Korea—and went to work with a pair of sewing sheers, some red, white, and blue thread, and his mother’s antique singer, which smelled like old furniture polish and grease. Four hours later he had a pair of signature, Schecky Lewis pants: one of a kind, star-spangled trousers. His feelings for America became clear each time he slid the Star-Spangled Banner over his butt to go to another free love and drugs party.

“This is a drag, man,” Arnold said, “What are we doing here?”

“We have business,” Schecky said, reaching into his pocket and feeling the little weapon he had made out of a galvanized steel pipe and a pen-spring firing pin.

“These people don’t like us. Let’s go back to Stan’s.”

“You can go back to Stan’s if you want. I’m not going to abandon our people in their hour of need.” Schecky glanced around. The parade would start in a few minutes; he wanted to join the rest of his click: the New Revolutionaries for Peace and Love. The movement had begun during the summer of ’67. Though Schecky had never seen any written articles of incorporation or even known who lead the organization, he recognized its members as his brothers and sisters. At a party in the neighborhood of Haight and Ashbury in San Francisco—the exact place eluded him; it was an apartment full of smoke and music—Schecky had proclaimed his membership to the NRPL. That was a year ago, now they were converging in his hometown of Columbus to protest on Veteran’s day. He wasn’t about to miss it.

“Alright, I’ll stay, man. But after the parade, lets go back to Stan’s,” Arnold said.

“No problem, brother.” Schecky patted his friend on one bare arm.

“There they are.” Schecky nodded towards a large group of hippies—at least a hundred, more arriving by the minute–nested in the crowd of spectators along the curb across the street. The colorful mob stood out, decked in tie-dyed shirts, sequins, sunglass, and hair. Two women held a long banner across the front of the group. In blood red letters, the words, War: Good for Few, Bad For Most, were scrawled as if someone had used a shammy rag to paint the banner.

Someone walked through the host of hippies with a tray of brownies, taking fists full of greenbacks and handing over the baked treats. Schecky’s senses surged; he really wanted one of those brownies. “Come on,” he said to Arnold, and cut across the street towards his people. They greeted him and Arnold with grins and pats on the back.

“Well met, brother,” a man with oversized sunglasses said, throwing up the peace sign. Schecky and Arnold returned the two-fingered solute.

“Hey, man.” Schecky said, “Where’s the candyman?”

“Over there,” the hippie smiled and thumbed over his shoulder.

Schecky spotted the dude with the brownie tray. He and Arnold cut through the mob until they caught up with him.

“What can I do you for, bro?” The man with the tray said.

“I’ll take two of those magic brownies,” Schecky said, taking a fistful of singles out of his pocket. The man with the tray took the money and held out the tray. Schecky picked two of the largest brownies and handed one to Arnold.

Arnold smiled and took a bite of the little cake. “Things are looking up already,” he said.

“Like I said, I’ll take care of you, my brother. Who needs to go to Stan’s; the party’s right here.”

Arnold took another bite of the brownie and put on his widest grin.

Across the street, Schecky spotted a pair of Vietnam vets playing a game of cards on a bus bench. The two men stared at Schecky with icy eyes. Schecky was used to it. Every time he wore his American flag pants, people got their feathers ruffled. Schecky smiled at the two men. He raised one hand and made it into a gun. He took aim at the two vets and, just before firing the pretend weapon, opened his hand and flapped his fingers, making the gun fly away like a dove. The two vets shook their heads in anger and went back to their game.

Schecky checked his watch, only a few minutes before the parade started. He popped the rest of the brownie into his mouth and rubbed his hands together in glee. Things were about to get interesting and he planned on being a big part of it. In truth, a storm swelled in the offing and Schecky Lewis would stand right in its eye when it came.