Читать книгу The Vultures - Mark Hannon - Страница 14

9.

HR looked out the storefront window of College A at St. Joseph’s School across Main Street at dismissal time. As nuns and lay teachers stood watch, the patrol boys with their white and orange belts dispersed and took up their posts while a few parents gathered at the end of the driveway on Main Street to meet the littlest ones. Children streamed from the school in orderly lines carrying book-bags and lunch boxes, their breath visible on the cold day. When they hit the street, shouts of joy erupted and the kids scattered running or waited for friends behind them.

Tom watched too. He remembered hoping to arrive on the sidewalk in front of the school just at the right time to meet up with a girl named Linda, perhaps to exchange a greeting that might lead to walking home with her in that incipient mating ritual.

“The Catholic Church is probably the biggest institution of fascist indoctrination in Buffalo,” HR said, standing just behind Tom. “Look at those kids. All in nice lines, learning to conform. Learning imperialism – they teach those kids Columbus discovered America, the annexation of the Southwest and the massacre of Indians as Manifest Destiny, and overrunning the Philippines as liberating the Filipino people. It’s really going to take something to wake these people up to it – direct action against the ruling class to show them the powers that be are using every facet of society to keep power and make money, waging war on the Vietnamese people to do it.”

Tom thought about Rory’s letter—so we set the cache and a bunch of hooches on fire and left. HR stepped a little closer to Tom and lowered his voice.

“We trashed the room where Dupont was doing recruiting over in Lockwood Library last night. They’ve got the contract from the Defense Department to make napalm. Shit, all they say on the news is ‘vandals attack library on campus’ and give the estimated cost of the damages. It’s going to take something bigger than that to make these people,” he said, nodding towards St. Joseph’s, “realize how they’re being used.”

They continued to look out the window for a few minutes more as the school children exited.

“I just heard they might be shutting down the experimental colleges,” Artie said from behind them. “The townies are complaining we’re a bad influence on the local kids, some of the faculty objects to the self-grading policy, stuff like that. It’s a mess, man.”

“Hey, that would make you eligible for the draft!” HR laughed, pointing where Artie was pinning up a poster for a Buffalo Draft Resistance Union Rally. Tom and Artie looked at the names of the speakers.

“Martin Teeley, Vietnam vet. He went to school with Rory,” Tom said.

“Jake Cross,” Artie said. “He’s the guy with all the connections underground in Canada.”

“That might come in handy if I don’t keep my grades up,” Tom chuckled.

“Hey, let’s go get a beer at the place next door,” HR said. “I’d like to check out the townie bar.”

“I gotta close up,” Artie said.

“I’ll go with you,” Tom said as they walked out the back door of College A, avoiding the stares and comments of the parents and children on Main Street. Walking down the alley, they entered the back entrance to Bickleman’s Lounge. As they approached the bar, two regulars turned on their barstools, their eyes narrowing when they spotted the long hair.

“Hey Tommy, long time no see, my man,” the white aproned bartender greeted as the regulars continued to stare.

“Hi Harley,” Tom said, taking off his Army field jacket.

“Paul, Joe,” Harley said, “You remember Tommy, don’t you? Pat Brogan’s younger boy.”

Paul and Joe looked again, their faces eased, and Paul said, “Oh, sure, sure. Hiya, Tommy. I didn’t recognize you with the hair. Get Tommy and his friend a beer on me, will you, Harley.”

HR stood stock still, his hands in his pockets.

“A couple of Schmidt’s drafts, Harley. Thanks, Mr. Paulino.”

“Cheers, boys,” Paulino said, raising his bottle of Genesee.

“How’s the family, Tom?” Paulino asked, “I haven’t seen your dad in here in a while.”

Tom froze, fearing Mr. Paulino would mention his dad’s occupation in front of HR.

“Ok, Mr. Paulino. He doesn’t get around much these days, I guess.”

“Yeah, that’s terrible about Rory,” Paulino said. HR looked on, fascinated as Tom interacted with the locals.

“Yeah, thanks,” Tom said, putting down his beer.

A few silent moments passed, then HR said, “Well, I gotta go, Tom, you coming?”

“Yeah. Thanks for the beer, Mr. Paulino.”

“Sure, Tommy, say hi to your folks for me, and we’ll keep Rory in our prayers. Don’t worry, kid, it’ll work out, I’m sure.”

Tom nodded as they went out the back door into the fading daylight. HR stopped in the small parking lot in the alley and Tom stood still, his head down, thinking about his wounded brother. Cause for concern, the telegram said. What the fuck does that mean?

“Imperialism, Tom, that’s what did it. LBJ and the other politicians, whipping up the people’s fear of communism to play on their loyalty to start a war in Asia to get control of the resources, make sure they keep the markets to shore up the capitalist economy. That’s what got your brother hurt.”

Tom looked up, his eyes flaring. HR took a step back. “The whole country got taken in, Tom, all of us. The domino theory bullshit, make the people afraid and they’ll seek security, even go to war. We’ve got to make them see, Tom. The National Liberation Front is our brother, not our enemy. We’ve got to stop the war against the downtrodden people, stop the wars against the worker states, stop fighting wars for the corporations. Then none of us will get hurt for unjust causes.”

Tom shook his head and the two were silent for a moment. A Ford station wagon pulled into a spot next to them. Two short-haired men wearing ties got out.

“This place here, Al,” one said, gesturing with the keys. Al got out of the car, looked at the two long-haired students and glanced at his partner.

“I have the keys, Al, let’s get the stuff unloaded.”

Tom and HR walked down the alley towards HR’s car.

“I wonder who those guys are,” HR said.

“Dunno,” Tom said. “Looks like they’re moving stuff into the empty store next to the bar.”

“Look!” HR said. “Those boxes. Some of them have DuPont on them. They’re from the place we trashed last night. They must be moving their location off campus!”

“Huh. They’re moving it right into the old Chicken Delight. The university must be renting a bunch of these places.”

They got into HR’s Volkswagen and started driving downtown.

“That’s another target for us, Tom. One of the three Rs – Recruiters, ROTC, Researchers. We chase ‘em off campus, then we’ll run them right off Main Street, and show them the movement is growing, striking back.

“Say, you tell your folks about moving into the apartment down in Allentown with me and Nancy yet? It’ll be great – you already got a job downtown and you can ride up to school with us or take the bus. You’ve got your own room and you can come and go anytime. All the action down there – it isn’t like the bourgeois neighborhood around here, it’s more like Greenwich Village in New York. And it’s cheap, too – you can swing it on your salary from the warehouse job. You said it yourself, they like you and’ll have you running a forklift any day now for a raise.”

Tom thought about his moving out of the house, the only place he’d ever lived. No more getting woken up for Mass on Sunday morning. No more lectures about drinking or smoking pot. I’ve got my own money from the warehouse job and the last roommate left all his furniture. HR’s got a decent stereo, too. Just bring my clothes, books and some other stuff. Yeah, and best of all, no more having to sneak around with a girl.