Black and Gold: The End of the Sixties. Mike Jr. Trial
He made his way down to the rec room in the basement and sat on one of the barstools at the little bar. Conversations upstairs drifted down the stairs in the tone and tempo of funerals, the dichotomy of mimicking normalcy while consoling a great loss.
Tim’s slot car track was still set up on the ping-pong table. Mark ran his finger through the dust. At the end of the table were four model car boxes. Mark opened one and took out Tim’s beautifully detailed Ford GT40. Another box held a red Mustang with white racing stripes.
He replaced them in their boxes and sat back down at the bar. The leaves on the trees outside made dappled patterns in the melancholy light coming through the high basement windows.
Tim sat on the other barstool, wearing his familiar black-framed glasses. “Remember the old slot car place over on Business 70?” he said softly.
“I remember,” Mark whispered. “We had some fun there didn’t we? Remember that model Ferrari I had back in high school?”
“Yeah.”
“That was the summer we double-dated almost every week. Diane set me up with her friend.” Mark grinned. “I remember the night we were driving around in your car. We were always in your car, you kept your Plymouth looking and running perfectly. My old Chevy, well… anyway, remember we drove over to Boonville just for something to do and got into that drag race with those guys in that ’55?”
“Yeah,” Tim said. He was staring at the pale light coming in through the basement windows. “They beat us pretty bad.”
Mark laughed. “I remember afterwards we drove up to that little park on Old Highway 63 overlooking Hinkson Creek…”
“The old makeout spot.”
“Yeah,” Mark laughed again. “My date and I were in the back seat. I had my shoes off and one foot down alongside the front seat. In the dark, Diane mistook my white sock for her white purse and tried to pick it up.”
“Those were good days,” Tim said, suddenly subdued. He ran his finger down the vinyl padding at the edge of the bar. “I always liked the long summer evenings here in Columbia, high school days. I’d get home from stocking shelves at Nowell’s, take a shower and put on Levi’s and a white tee shirt, pick up Diane for a drive-in movie or cruise around town, maybe a hamburger at McDonald’s or a root beer at Mugs Up. I wish they’d never ended.” Tim’s ghost faded into the shadows. The conversations upstairs continued in soothing whispers.
* * *
Mark’s spirits lifted when Jennifer came down the stairs of her dorm. She was beautiful. As they walked to his car arm in arm, the scent of her Chantilly took him back through all of their days together. Life was what mattered, the days and hours of our lives, not the words of priest when we die.
“Keith is playing guitar now?” Jennifer said as they drove down Ninth Street toward the Hofbrau.
Mark nodded. “He said he’d never play for money, and now he’s playing down at the Hofbrau once a week.” Mark shrugged. “But I don’t think it’s about the money, not really. His parents are pretty well off. I’m sure they’re paying his way through school. Funny thing is, he’s kind of a tightwad.”
“I remember that time he refused to pay for his date’s lunch,” Jennifer laughed. “That won’t get him many dates.”
“I think his parents bought that ratty little trailer for him, so he wouldn’t have to pay rent. What a dump.”
“It had its uses,” Jennifer said coyly.
“Yeah,” Mark grinned. “Rednecks outside drinking Old Milwaukee and throwing the cans in the yard, while we’re inside talking about Andrew Marvell’s poetry, and later, in the bedroom….”
The Hofbrau was crowded, but a booth opened up just as Mark and Jennifer walked in. They ordered bratwurst plates, a draft beer, and a Coke.
“...cups overflow with wine and well-turned words amaze…” Jennifer arched an eyebrow at Mark.
“Gerard Manley Hopkins?”
“Thomas Campion. A distant relative of mine no doubt,” she laughed.
“You look great tonight, did I tell you that?” She smiled, embarrassed. Keith made his way between the tables and stepped up on the little dais in the spotlight. His lank yellow hair disappeared in the harsh light, making him look like a balding northwoodsman in his worn jeans, plaid shirt with sleeves rolled up, and hiking shoes. He tuned his Gibson intently. There was a piece of paper taped to the inside top of his guitar case that spelled “thanks” in flower power letters. Jennifer and Mark traded looks.
But his playing was strong, complex and stylish. He covered a handful of folk-rock classics, then some bits of Reinhardt and Les Paul, and slowed the tempo down for a medley of pop tunes. After a pause he played “Suzanne” more beautifully that Mark had ever heard it.
“He could play for a living,” Jennifer told Mark as they applauded.
“But he says the chances of making a good living as a musician are miniscule. He wants a sure road to big bucks.”
Keith disappeared on break.
“He talks about a Porsche, a glossy apartment, all that stuff, but every once in a while, he’ll get this wistful tone in his voice and talk about hitting the road, playing guitar, living the free life, playing what he wants, how he wants.” Mark touched Jennifer’s hand. “I guess we all dream about unlimited freedom sometimes.” She didn’t answer.
By the time Keith started his second set, the front tables were full of girls in rapturous silence. At the end of his set, one requested he play “Suzanne” again and he slid into it, slowing it down even more. “Looks like he’s acquired a few groupies,” Jennifer whispered.
When he’d finished, the applause went on for a long time. Mark assumed he was going to do an encore, but instead he sorted through sheet music in his guitar case until he found what he was looking for. He shaded his eyes in the spotlight. “Let me read you these all too familiar lyrics. ‘Greeting, you are hereby inducted into the armed forces of the United States.’” He put the paper down gingerly and stood up slowly. “I’ve been drafted.”
The room went silent. One of the girls said softly, “For real?” He nodded, and suddenly he was surrounded by girls making solicitous sounds. Mark and Jennifer made their way out past the throng of admirers, but Mark caught his eye and told him, “Meet me tomorrow at the Heidelberg.”
On the drive back to Jennifer’s dorm, Jennifer started a quote, “…the shadow of death…sorry,” she said.
But Mark nodded. “But you’re right. Another one of us about to enter that valley.”
* * *
Thursday afternoon Dave was walking down Ninth Street mentally reliving the discussion just ended in his International Politics class. He chuckled. He’d manipulated the discussion so that he could list some of Milton Freidman’s liberal views as to what government should not do: agricultural price controls, minimum wage setting, public housing, the draft. His planning and memorization had paid off. His classmates, and even the grad student teaching the class, could think of no logical argument against his points, and best of all, Dave was sure they thought he had thought them up himself.
“Want to do some acid, man?” somebody said. There was a girl in a burgundy sweater and lush brown hair sitting on the lawn in front of Lowry Hall. She had lush brown hair and her infectious smile made her beautiful in the way plain-featured girls can be.
Caught off guard but propelled by her engaging energy that left him no choice, Dave said, “Sure.”
“Well, let’s go then.” Unasked, she linked arms with him and they walked the four blocks to Paquin Street. Completely off-balanced by this engaging girl with big hair, a big smile, and big breasts he hoped would be pressing close to him, Dave lectured her on politics and Zen.