Читать книгу Black and Gold: The End of the Sixties - Mike Jr. Trial - Страница 6

Jeff laid a silver ankh and chain on the wooden counter and pulled out a five dollar bill. The guy behind the counter put the money in a box and handed him back a worn one-dollar bill. “I thought the price was three fifty,” Jeff said mildly.

“Tax,” the guy said with a snotty grin. His girlfriend tilted her purple granny glasses down and snickered. “For the revolution, man.” The guy adjusted his headband and eyed Jeff’s slacks and corduroy sports jacket with contempt.

“You’re not a revolution, man,” Jeff said, already regretting his sarcasm. “You’re just sex, drugs, and rock and roll.”

The other two laughed. “That is the revolution, man. Where have you been?”

Jeff shook his head. He was waiting for the guy to offer to put the ankh and chain in a box for him. “You’ve been listening to TV reporters quoting every half-assed ‘spokesman’ and rock star.”

“Bullshit!” the girl said. She put her sandaled feet up on the counter. “If you’re not part of the solution, you’re part of the problem. Do some righteous acid, man, get in touch with your head, get real.”

“Any more clichés you need to quote?” The guy unknotted his headband and shook his hair out of his eyes in a gesture Jeff disliked instantly. I sound like my parents, Jeff thought. “You’re not doing anything new.”

The girl put her feet down and got up. “I’ll tell you what’s new. It’s dropping 500 micrograms of orange windowpane and grooving to the lightshow at a Big Brother concert...”

“We’re hitching to San Francisco next week,” the guy interrupted her. “Golden Gate Park, the center of the universe, man.”

The girl speared Jeff with a glare over the top of her glasses. “There’s so much energy there, because people like you are all back here.”

Jeff put the ankh and chain in his pocket. “Draft’s going to get you.”

The guy brayed, “Not me, man. That’s for fascists like you. I’ve already got a cannabis conviction—felony charge—so I’m draft exempt.” His girlfriend straightened up and put her arm around him protectively, “So bullshit, arresting people for something that grows naturally in the world. So bullshit.”

Jeff turned, raised his fist in a salute, “Power to the people.” The little bell on the door jangled behind him.

* * *

That evening, Jeff ushered Susan ahead of him into the trailer. She walked around the living room he’d just neatened up after forcing Mark and Bill out for the evening. She studied the jazz posters he’d hastily pinned to the wall.

“This is nice,” she touched the coffee table he’d surreptitiously taken from his parents’ family room.

Jeff poured Jim Beam and Pepsi over ice in the highball glasses he’d bought at Kmart that afternoon, mixing one of the highballs considerably stronger than the other.

“Pick out a record,” he said, setting the full glasses on coasters. She flipped through the records and put on Herb Alpert’s Whipped Cream. “Love that sound,” Susan smiled.

He slid the stronger drink over to her and sipped his, making appreciative sounds. She took a drink, wrinkled her face, “Wow! That’s strong.”

“After you graduate, you’ll be moving to New York?”

“It’ll be exciting,” she said a little too brightly. “Anyway, that’s where the jobs are in fashion design.”

“The Big Apple,” Jeff said, raising a toast.

“And you?”

“Well…I don’t know—maybe McDonnell-Douglas in St. Louis…I haven’t really decided yet.”

The record ended and she got up to turn it over. “What’s this?” Susan said, picking up the ankh Jeff had laid on the table.

“A little gift. I was thinking of you, and so…”

“Thanks,” she said, turning it over and over. It suddenly seemed small and tawdry to Jeff. “Free love,” he said neutrally.

She laid it carefully on the table. “Actually it’s the symbol for eternal life in ancient Egyptian mythology.”

“Really?” Jeff said.

Susan took a microscopic sip of her drink. “The free love meaning is just hippie marketing.”

“Oh… I thought… well…” Jeff set his drink down, put his arm around her, and kissed her. She didn’t respond.

There was an awkward silence.

Jeff got up and took the arm off the record. He flipped clumsily through his albums and put on The Lovin’ Spoonful.

Susan was up looking out the window. Jeff tried to hug her, but she pulled away. “I’m sorry, I…” he trailed off.

“I think I should go back to the dorm now. I’ll call a cab.”

He tried to turn her around to face him but she walked away from him. “I’m sorry, let’s go out and eat,” he struggled.

“Not tonight.” She went to the door.

“Come on,” Jeff said. It sounded like a whine even to him. “Sit down, finish your drink. Let’s talk at least.”

“No, Jeff.”

He circled the room while the music asked if you’d ever had to make up your mind. He started to sit down, but the silver ankh was still lying in the middle of the coffee table. Instead he picked up the two highball glasses and took them to the kitchen. He stood there looking at the glasses for a minute, then he drove her back to her dorm in silence.

* * *

Four thousand feet over Columbia in a clear blue sky, the Cessna’s engine throttled back to an idle. Dave stepped out the open door into the prop blast, one foot on the step and one foot on the plane’s wheel. Mark scrambled off the bare aluminum floor. He shot a glance at the ground below, pried Dave’s hand off the strut, and watched him tumble away into empty air for a second before following him. For an instant it was silent, then as Mark accelerated toward the ground, the blast of air rose around him. Below him the drop zone was a tiny smear of orange on the green grass beside the row of parked cars. With his body parallel to the earth, arms and legs outstretched, he fell as slowly as possible, extending his time in free fall.

This high above the surface it didn’t feel like falling, more like being suspended above the earth, balanced on an upward jet of air. He pivoted, using his hands as airfoils, saw Dave below him, and pulled his arms and legs in tight to fall faster. When he came level with Dave, he pushed his arms and legs back out to slow down. They were only twenty feet apart, but the blast of rushing air prevented any communication.

Mark glanced at the altimeter at the front of his harness. It was almost down to twenty-five hundred feet, time to open their chutes. Mark turned and tilted head down to propel himself away from Dave, then flattened back out. There was nothing around him in any direction except the clear blue sky and the flat green landscape below. Perfect freedom. He brought his hands in to his shoulders, hooked his right thumb into the ripcord handle, and extended both arms while pulling the ripcord. The chute opened smoothly and he was sitting in his nylon harness under a perfect circle of white and orange nylon, a half mile of empty air under his boots. It was silent. The cars parked on the grass by the drop zone looked like toys.

A hundred feet away, Dave sat in his harness admiring the scenery. He pulled his left toggle down a little to face Mark. “Jerk!” he called. Mark laughed. Mark pulled down the left toggle line on his riser, turning his chute left and moving downwind, closer to the target in the dying evening breeze. When he was only a hundred feet above the pea gravel circle he turned to face upwind for the landing. The ground rose up smoothly toward him. He touched down gently, flexing his knees, and strode away to keep the chute straight as it floated to the ground behind him. He was about three meters from the paper plate set dead center in the circle of pea gravel. His chute crumpled silently to the ground behind him.

“Nice jump,” the pilot’s wife said as she finished putting her folding chair and picnic basket in her van.

Dave came down fifteen feet to the other side of the target. “You owe me a beer for that stunt,” he told Mark.

Mark stepped back to straighten the nylon lines and pull his canopy out, then walked toward it figure-eighting the nylon risers and canopy panels loosely around his arms. He carried it to his Chevy and laid it neatly in the trunk while the Cessna came in for a landing.

Wings rocking, the plane taxied off to its parking space at the end of the row of planes. Mark changed his jump-boots for tennis shoes and slid out of his jumpsuit. “Well, I’m going to go study.”

Dave sat on the grass by his gear, helmet off, massaging his temples. He nodded and slowly rose to begin gathering up his parachute. “I don’t feel so well.”

“I know what you mean,” Mark said, misunderstanding completely. “I still can’t believe Tim’s dead.”

Mark closed the trunk of his Chevy and slid in behind the wheel. “See ya.”

* * *

Dave drove back to Paquin Avenue, slowed to jounce over the rutted driveway, and parked his TR3 in his usual spot under the big oak tree. He carefully closed the screen door behind him and went up the narrow stairway holding on to the handrail. The dim light seemed hazy. His stomach felt queasy. He was sweating. He laid his head against the cool wall, soothing his pounding pulse. After a moment he eased himself up the last few steps and into his room. Outside the window, insects chirred and the oak leaves rustled in the afternoon wind. He lay down on the mattress and fell into a sleep clogged with frustrating dreams.

When he woke, the room was gray with dawn. He’d slept the night through. His head had stopped hurting. He sat up slowly, straightened his back, and focused his eyes on the wood floor a few feet in front of him. He took a long breath, in through his nose, out through his mouth, then another breath. He tried to think only of the air going into his lungs and back out. Random thoughts intruded—get gas for the car, review the last three chapters in international banking…he pushed them away, concentrating on making his mind the surface of a mirror. He adjusted to a more comfortable position and meditated for a time. He concentrated on breathing slowly, completely filling his lungs with each inhalation. His mind cleared. The dawn was silent except for the occasional scratch of the oak leaves on the window.

Empty the mind, live only in the present moment, go straight ahead without confusion or hesitation. He thought of a statement in a book he was reading—I thought I had a long way to go to reach my destination, but when I turned around and looked behind me, I realized I had passed it long ago.

By the time he had showered and dressed he felt great.

* * *

Mark strolled out of the library into the hot clear sunshine, stood for a moment on the steps, then turned left. Time for a beer at the Italian Village. He checked his watch. He’d spent exactly one hour studying, although some of the time had been spent daydreaming. A car separated itself from traffic and pulled into an empty parking space beside Mark. Larry Mitchell grinned up at him from the open window of his Mustang. “Let’s go inside and get a beer, I’m buying.” Larry was already out of the car and putting a coin in the meter.

Mark made a show of checking his watch. “I don’t think so, not right now.” Larry’s ebullient energy could sometimes get a little abrasive, but Mark allowed himself to be propelled down Lowry Street.

“It’s a big day, help me celebrate. I’m getting married,” Larry announced.

Mark stopped and stared. “What? Now?”

“Next spring.”

Mark didn’t need to ask who Larry was marrying. Larry and Brenda had been dating since junior year in high school. Mark shifted his books and they shook hands. The I.V. was pleasantly empty. They slid into a booth while Grant poured a pitcher of Hamm’s and set it in front of Mark, “You jumping next Sunday?”

“Yeah. You?”

Grant nodded.

Mark poured the glasses full and they toasted. “Well, Brenda is a great girl.” He didn’t say that he thought this was one of the dumbest ideas he’d ever heard. Get married to the same girl you’ve always dated. Straight out of college to work. Probably have a kid right away. House in the suburbs with a mortgage to match. The beer spread a glow of contentment in Mark, embellished by his sense of superiority over Larry, whose life was now over for all intents and purposes. Married at age twenty-one.

In the past Mark had often been a little intimidated by Larry, with his new Mustang (bought by his parents), his extensive wardrobe (bought by his parents), and his blonde and beautiful girlfriend (insisted on by his parents), and his sense of purpose. He was also a mechanical engineering major, making passable grades, studying hard but not appearing to be over-stressed.

Mark kept the smile on his face from becoming smug. “Congratulations Larry, I know this is what you want.”

Larry gave him a quizzical look. “You don’t?”

“Someday, but not soon.”

“You still dating that girl from Columbia College?”

“Yeah.” Mark studied his beer.

“Well, don’t be afraid of commitment. The days pass, she won’t wait for you forever…”

“We see each other all the time.”

“Sure, sure,” Larry drank a healthy mouthful of cheap beer, “but does she know you’re serious, or does she think you’re just dating. Get serious or get out.”

Mark sighed, not quite a snort. This, from a guy who never got out of a relationship in his whole life.

“Hey, you know her?” Larry’s voice dropped to a conspiratorial whisper. “She’s giving you the eye.”

Mark spotted Debbie standing just inside the door, waiting for him to recognize her. “Yeah, slightly.” Mark lifted his hand and Debbie came over with a big smile. Larry got up so she would sit between them.

“Hi,” Larry said with a predatory grin, “I’m Larry Mitchell.”

“Been looking for you,” she said to Mark while Larry went to the bar for a glass.

“Yeah, well, I’ve been studying.” Mark pulled some change out of his pocket. “Go play some music, would you Debbie?”

Larry admired Debbie’s tight blue jeans and white tee shirt, no bra, as she studied the selections in the jukebox. “Nice. Where’d you meet her?”

Mark snorted again. “Get serious or get out, right?”

But the sarcasm was lost on Larry, who was admiring Debbie as she came back to the booth humming along with the music, “‘...lazy diamond studded flunkies’…I really like that song.”

Mark stood up and gave her a hug. “Listen Debbie, I really have to leave, sorry. Drink a beer with Larry.”