| It had been three weeks since the explosion
and the news media were promoting new entertainment for their
viewers. A bombed out brownstone in Greenwich Village without
further scandalous revelations moved from the front page to
filler material. Some of the bodies had been recovered and
the gory photos were displayed on TV and in the papers. Then
they were identified, autopsied and laid to rest. No connection
seemed to have been made to those of us who got away. Everyone
else in the group must have disappeared underground, because
no arrests were announced. My name wasn't mentioned anywhere.
Unless the F.B.I. had an informant, I was probably in the
clear. Although I wasn't certain that my worries were over,
it was a tremendous relief not to expect an arresting hand
at any moment. The tremendous tension I had been living with
began to diminish. My beard and mustache were growing in,
my hair was getting longer and I was wearing Steve's jeans
and old sweaters. I was beginning to look like a hippie, so
I decided to live like one for a while and forget my political
responsibilities. I told Steve that it was about time for
us to go out for some social diversion.
The next day I took a chance and went out alone. Nobody noticed
me. I went to a jewelry store on Broadway in the seventies,
where I obtained fake I.D. from a contact I had known about
for years. For $200 I got a drivers license, social security
card and a draft card. When we went out that night I was feeling
reasonably secure that I could pass all but the most rigorous
scrutiny. Steve reminded me that we didn't want to draw any
attention to us. We strolled on St. Mark's Place and watched
a lot of middle class people, dressed as hippies, trying to
convince everybody else that they lived in the east village.
We ended up at Achmed's Café, which I had been hearing
about for weeks. It was a small coffee shop located in a storefront
on East 6th Street. It blended in with the other faceless
stores on the tenement street. It was decorated with beaded
curtains and threadbare rugs. Tinny Arabic music blared. Cigarette
smoke filled the room like cumulus. The smell of pot was strong
enough to get high without smoking. People sat on the floor
on cushions placed around low tables, drinking tiny cups of
coffee, eating honey pastries and talking loudly. The energy
vaguely reminded me of the coffee shops that I went to in
college where we had intense conversations and greasy hamburgers,
but it was much more exotic.
Steve led us to the back where we sat down at Achmed's special
table. Achmed rushed out of the kitchen to greet us. He scurried
rather than walked. He embraced Steve, who introduced me as
his closet friend. Achmed was short and plump. Sweat was dripping
from the top of his bald head onto his pointy beard and mustache.
He looked like a genial little devil. He embraced me, smelling
pleasantly of spices, mostly saffron, and said: "You
are always welcome in my café." It was nice to
be welcome somewhere for a change, without having anything
to do with violence. He promised a surprise for us later and
dashed back to the kitchen.
"How did you get to be such good friends?" I asked
idly.
"I started coming in for coffee on my way home from
the community center. We discovered some tastes in common."
"Like what?"
"We both like poetry and hashish."
"That's quite a combination, but it doesn't explain
why he's so fond of you."
Steve smiled. "I brought him a lot of new customers."
We sat down and relaxed. While a waiter served tiny cups
of coffee, Steve introduced me to the people sitting at the
table as his oldest friend. They were all cheerful, friendly
and surprisingly intelligent looking. I repeated their names
as I was introduced to them. Some of them told me something
about themselves. There was Howard, who was a writer and his
wife Meg; Winston Bellingham III, who said: "My nickname
is Winnie Ille Pu. I'm the exiled son of a wealthy mid-western
father who was greatly disappointed in me." He quickly
took a false eye from its socket and proudly showed me the
American flag on the inside. He seemed grateful when I expressed
appreciation. There was Sonia, an abstract painter. She said
aggressively: "I'm a disciple of Barnett Newman's minimalism
and I insist that pop art is dead." I didn't dispute
the assertion of mortality. What did I care if pop art lived
or died?
I said hello to Barbara J., a choreographer and her dancer
roommate, Vanessa. Steve said with a lecherous grin: "I
nicknamed her Vanessa the undressa;" Calvin H. was a
sharply dressed, strong looking Negro. He said pleasantly:
"I'm a gambler and I work for the syndicate servicing
juke boxes. Maybe you'd like to come out with me on my route
sometime." That would be different and I answered politely:
"Sure. Thanks." Nelson Tremaine said: "I'm
an ex surfer from southern California, and we can talk later
about the transmogrified world of time and space." Leland
was an emaciated Negro dressed in black and he told me: "I'm
a musician and I plays the pianer;" Sheila was a very
sincere animal rights activist; Maria was a Hispanic actress/director;
Joyce, a beautiful Negro girl, said sweetly: "I'm a blues
singer;" Martin Lincoln, a neatly dressed young man who
was the only one wearing a tie, said: "I'm a new realism
painter and I disagree with Sonia's claim that pop art is
dead." They were a lively, interesting group, talking
energetically, passing joints around and enjoying themselves
tremendously.
I immediately felt very comfortable with them and listened
with interest as Maria passionately presented an argument
for a Spanish language theater in New York City. She said
fervently: "It would be dedicated to bi-lingual performances
of Spanish classics and new social issue plays. We'd also
give free performances for the poor in poverty communities."
It sounded like a good idea to me. I was amused by her enthusiasm
for her cause, which she took very seriously. I respected
her commitment, even though it seemed less consequential than
the cause that I had been recently involved in. The arts were
the main topic of conversation in the group. It was a pleasant
change from the vicious political debates of the movement
that I was used to. They were always ugly and frequently ended
up in our carrying out a violent project that hurt people.
I never heard of anyone getting killed in a dispute about
theater. Everyone was intent on expressing their own point
of view, but they listened to each other in relaxed exchanges
that were serious without being confrontational. I was really
enjoying myself.
Steve asked in a whisper, reminding me of my alias, "Everything
all right, Carl?"
"Fine."
"Do you need anything?"
"A little less supervision, Pappy."
He got the message. "That can be arranged."
A medical student named Gwen joined us and a lot of doctor
jokes were directed at her. She took them with good grace
and reminded us: "You won't tease me someday when you
need a doctor." Gwen sat down next to Steve and made
it clear that she was interested in him. Joyce, who had recently
become involved with Steve, leaned over and suggested: "We
don't need a doctor at the moment so find another patient."
Without being the least bit upset at her rejection, Gwen turned
and started questioning me.
"Are you an artist?"
"No."
"All right. Are you a writer?"
"No."
"Do we play twenty questions?"
She was as single-minded as the F.B.I. "If you like."
"I'll give it a try. Are you self employed?"
"No."
"Let's see. You wouldn't work for the government or
a large corporation with a beard like that. Do you work for
a charity organization?"
"No."
"I give up. What do you do?"
I answered vaguely. "I'm a political consultant on
economic issues."
"That sounds interesting. Who do you work for?"
"A small think tank that's concerned with third world
problems."
"Do you travel a lot?"
"Sometimes."
"You're really not saying anything. Can we stop questions
and answers and talk like people?"
She was relentless and I answered indifferently. "Sure."
"Well?" she asked impatiently.
I thought I missed something. "Well what?"
"Tell me about yourself."
I had just about enough of her and said coldly: "I
really don't like talking about myself. If you don't mind,
I was really enjoying the discussions about art that I was
listening to."
She didn't seem regretful. "I turn you off because
I come on too aggressively, don't I?"
I started thinking about the beauty of a sledgehammer. "I
just don't like being interrogated."
Nothing penetrated her shield of density. "I guess
that's a bad habit I developed from working in the emergency
room."
Gwen was definitely a pushy broad and she was really beginning
to annoy me with all her questions. Steve was nuzzling with
Joyce, completely unaware of my growing irritation. I was
about to say something rude to her, when Achmed bustled in
and insisted that Steve and I step into the kitchen. I went
in eagerly, pleased to leave Gwen behind. The kitchen was
tiny, steamy and aromatic with unfamiliar pungent spices.
Achmed ceremoniously offered us a water-pipe. Steve took the
first hit. At my turn, I drew in deeply, filling my lungs
with the sweet smoke. Before I could even exhale, I felt a
tingling sensation that started in my toes and quickly worked
its way up, making me light-headed. I took another hit and
floated back to the table and sat down next to Maria. She
was happy to see me and immediately started describing touring
performances that she wanted to take to public housing developments.
It was very pleasant sitting there, listening to her enthuse
about bringing theater to the people. I was all for it. It
was my most peaceful night in years.
Steve stood up and read some of his poetry. One poem was
about Vietnam and the horrible waste of young men dying in
its distant jungles. Other poems were about people trapped
in meaningless consumerism, buying things they really didn't
need, trying to convince others that their lives became more
meaningful if they owned expensive watches and foreign cars.
The poems were thoughtful and moving. Steve read in a solemn,
intense voice that reached us with a painful message. We all
applauded when he finished. Joyce sang blues songs that had
us keeping the beat with our hands on the table. She was an
exciting singer and everybody yelled and whistled when she
sat down. Nelson had been accompanying the performers on the
guitar. Now he started playing folk songs and when he strummed
the opening chords of 'The Times They Are a Changing,' I sang
aloud without even realizing that I was performing for an
audience.
Steve was really amused and said teasingly: "Well, my
man, underneath that radical exterior beats the heart of an
exhibitionist. Maybe we can sing duets together?"
I was embarrassed. "I don't think we'll have an encore."
"But this was the most promising career opportunity
you've come up with since you were a kid."
I had to grin at his personal humor. "My loyal fans
will learn to get along without me."
I barely noticed when Steve and Joyce lifted me up hours
later and headed for home. I was stoned out of my mind. I
started bowing to people on the street as we passed. Steve
and Joyce thought it was funny and started to bow with me.
No one took offense and some people even bowed back. I announced
the first annual East Village bow-off and said in a comic-German
voice. "Ve vill all now bow like Prussians." We
clicked our heels together, snapped to attention and stiffly
nodded our heads. A number of people courteously nodded back.
This encouraged us to continue.
Steve said: "We will bow like Arabs." And we touched
our hand to heart, lips, forehead. This proved to be a popular
salute and we got a big response from the growing crowd.
Joyce joined the spirit of things and said: "We will
bow like Hindus." We put our hands together and leaned
forward from the shoulders. Almost everyone enjoyed this and
lots of people returned our bows. We were really starting
to attract attention. I was oblivious to everything but our
game, until it was my turn again. I said in a thick accent.
"Madame and Monsieurs. We shall bow like French courtiers."
We almost created a comic ballet, gesturing elegantly with
arms and hands, bending our knees, pointing our feet and bowing
low at the waist. By this time we had involved a large audience
that was completely enjoying the spectacle of 'typical' east
village life. A taxi pulled up to the curb next to us and
a handsome, well dressed couple started to get out. I was
inspired and opened the door for them, bowed low and proclaimed
loudly: "The Duke and Duchess of Carpathia." Everyone
applauded and some people even bowed to them. They acknowledged
us graciously with a nod and went into a nearby restaurant.
When I saluted a lamppost and began talking to it a cop suggested
that it was time for us to move along. I started to protest,
but Steve hustled me away, before I caused any trouble.
"You're always looking out for me," I said gratefully.
"That's what friends are for."
I felt a flash of remorse. "But I didn't look out for
you when you went to Vietnam."
"It wasn't possible. We both had choices to make. I
respected yours."
"I still feel guilty about your getting wounded. I
should have been there."
"There was nothing you could have done," he explained
patiently. "It happened without warning. I was walking
to a helicopter that would take me to a combat zone when there
was a sudden mortar attack. I got hit with shrapnel in my
legs and buttocks. I was lucky. Other guys got killed."
"That's why I feel I deserted you."
"Would you feel better if you had been there and got
wounded with me?" he asked reasonably.
"I guess not."
"Then forget it. That was the end of my military career.
I never even got a glimpse of the enemy."
"You make it sound so simple."
"It is. We made our decisions and we have to live with
them."
Months of frustration suddenly poured out of me. "Do
you have any idea how badly I wanted to join the Corps with
you?"
Steve was surprised. "I didn't think it was important
to you."
"It was. I wanted to be with you, just like the way
we joined as kids."
"I'm glad you felt that way. But this wasn't kid stuff."
I didn't know if I was making sense anymore. "What
was it like? Basic training, officers candidate school, going
overseas? I'd really like to know."
"I'll tell you about it sometime, but not tonight.
Let's go home. Between singing and street performing you've
had a long night."
As we walked the gritty, east side streets, Joyce sang some
fast paced blues songs. We joined in when we knew the words
and hummed along with her when we didn't. The singing sped
us home. I vaguely remember them lugging me upstairs. I don't
know what they did, but I went to bed and slept soundly. For
the first time in years I didn't have a single nightmare.
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