Black and Gold: The End of the Sixties. Mike Jr. Trial
isn’t about political systems, or even rich and poor, it’s about media, about publicity, about style.” He looked at Allison. “The riots in Detroit and Watts, the Black Panthers and the Weathermen, the peace marchers, the SDS, SNCC, the communist demonstrators in Tokyo, the student riots in France, even the war in Vietnam, it’s all just entertainment.”
Steve got slowly to his feet. “Guess I’d better be going.” He seemed embarrassed. “Anyway. I’ll do my time, regardless of what TV says. Citizenship has a price and each of us is either willing to pay it or not.”
Mark looked up, “Heinlein, Starship Troopers,” he pronounced slowly. Then he grinned at Steve. “And Heinlein was right.”
While Coltrane’s saxophone stroked the night, Allison opened the apartment door wider to let more cool evening air in. Steve shook out a Marlboro and lit it. In some trick of candlelight, Steve and Dave and Allison’s faces all seemed both familiar and unfamiliar to Mark. They seemed both old and filled with wisdom, and young and naïve. The MFA calendar on the wall said September, 1968.
This is just a small room on the third floor of an old house on a side street in a small town in the Midwest, Mark thought. But it’s where friendship lives, where we are at this moment in time.
But nothing lasts forever. Mark said his goodbyes, made his way down the dim stairwell and out into the cold night air. He got on his motorcycle, shivering, and rode through the cold toward the trailer.
We’ll go our separate ways, the years will pass, times will change, we will change. Irreversible processes.
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