The Vultures. Mark Hannon
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.
10.
The next telegram arrived as Rita was pulling laundry out of the dryer. She rushed up the stairs at the doorbell and had change ready for the tip by the door. She sat down at the phone stand as she read,
...HE HAS SUSTAINED TRAUMATIC AMPUTATION OF THE LEFT ARM BELOW THE ELBOW AND THE LEFT LEG BELOW THE KNEE. HIS LEFT EYE AND JAW HAVE BEEN SERIOUSLY DAMAGED. THESE WOUNDS HAVE BEEN STABILIZED. HE IS CURRENTLY IN CLARK AIR FORCE BASE HOSPITAL IN THE PHILIPPINES AND WILL BE TRANSFERRED TO WALTER REED HOSPITAL, WASHINGTON, DC ON TUESDAY MARCH 28 FOR FURTHER TREATMENT...
What have they done to my boy? she thought, looking over at the little cabinet in the coat closet where they’d kept mittens and hats for the boys. He’s lost an arm and a leg. What about his eye! His jaw? “Who do I call to find out!?” she screamed into the empty room.
When Pat came home half an hour later, she was curled up on the couch in the living room, rosary in hand.
11.
Pat scooped another shovelful of the wet, heavy snow, threw it onto the front yard and looked behind him. It’s March already. Gotta be the last snowfall of the year, he thought, another fifteen feet to finish shoveling the driveway. The streetlights came on, and he looked up into the darkening sky as another few snowflakes fell onto his face. He wondered if it would stop soon. He tugged the skier’s headband down farther over his ears and leaned on the shovel. I wonder where Tommy is, he thought, he should be home by now. Pat smiled, thinking about how the boys used to help him shovel the driveway. They had their own tiny orange shovels and would fling snow everywhere. Snowballs thrown and angels made, runny noses and Rita calling them inside for hot chocolate when they were