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By
Gary Beck
: While I feel
the following fictional
contribution is a little
condescending toward the
Peace Movement as a whole,
I do feel it has great
merit in illustrating
something that Country
Joe has been trying to
tell us for years and
years: "Blaming the
solider for war is like
blaming the firemen for
fire." For that purpose,
I think this piece offers
a look at the complexity
of what it means to call
for peace, to support
your troops by wanting
them home alive, and to
start modeling what safe
conflict resolution looks
like so that we might
keep our "freedoms"
without resorting to violence.
Roy Cafferty, an anti-war
activist, and his girl friend
Tanya, an up and coming
actress, went to the Cafi
Wha. Roy hadn't been there
for almost a year and the
atmosphere had changed considerably.
The relaxed casual, arty
bohemianism was gone. Now
it had a tense, suburban
hippie, artificial cool
attitude. Carefully costumed
folk singers shrilled anti-war
and anti-establishment folk
songs. Roy, with his long
blond hair and Salvation
Army green corduroy suit,
seemed to fit in. Tanya,
sexy, glamorous and 'in',
could fit in anywhere. The
patrons, many of whom were
stoned or tripping, were
babbling loud, overly
sincere, slightly hysteric
claims to despise America
and all it stood for. Roy
had heard the same conversations
from the radical SDS many
times. But at least they
took action once they finished
droning on. Not like these
ineffectual lipmongers.
After an evening of safe
flirtation with the fringe
group that they pretended
to admire, they would go
home to the
comfortable suburbs.
Roy ignored his growing
irritation with the cafi
and avoided locking glances
with one of the local machos,
who was looking for a collision.
Tanya listened sympathetically
when he explained that he
left the anti-war movement
when the group wanted to
bomb government buildings.
They agreed he had no other
choice and she said hopefully:
"Maybe they'll become
more sensible and you can
rejoin the movement next
year." "That's
another chapter of my life
that's over," Roy said.
Then he asked about her
health. Tanya had been plagued
by some sort of fatigue
syndrome that her doctor
couldn't identify. She brought
Roy up to date on her medical
treatment, which was not
going well, but she didn't
want to talk about it. Instead,
she told him about her new
film project. "We start
shooting in April. I play
an innocent student who
gets seduced by a criminal.
He turns me into his ccomplice
and we both get killed in
a police chase. Roy laughed.
"Talk about type casting."
She slapped him playfully,
which drew attention to
them. Tanya was already
a minor celebrity and some
people at nearby tables
recognized her. Then they
tried to be cool, pretending
not to notice her.
The evening would have
ended pleasantly, except
for an incident that started
with the entrance of a young
Marine with a girl. They
quietly made their way to
a table, drawing some hostile
stares from the anti-war
weekend hippies. They sat
down and immersed themselves
in a tense discussion. Mr.
macho, who had been unable
to find another target,
called out in a loud voice.
"Look at the baby-killer."
The baby killer in question
was at most seventeen years
old, as innocent looking
as Bambi, fresh out of boot
camp and gawky in his new
uniform. Only a few people
heard mr. macho's comment,
so he repeated loudly. "Look
at the baby-killer."
This attracted more attention
and a few comments from
others. "How many kids
did you kill today?"
"Napalm any gooks lately?"
One righteous girl in an
expensive cashmere sweater
walked to his table and
spit at the Marine. "I
hope the Viet Cong kill
you." He was completely
bewildered at the venemous
assault. But the
girl he was with burst into
tears, jumped up and yelled.
"He didn't hurt you.
Leave my boy friend alone."
She took his hand and started
for the door. Roy was surprised
at the vehemence of the
coffee shop extremists against
the baby-face Marine. Roy
could
understand hostility when
demonstrators faced soldiers,
but this was senseless bullying,
aimed at a kid in a coffee
shop.
There was a silent moment
and the confrontation seemed
to be over. But once again,
mr. macho couldn't keep
his big mouth shut. "Are
you gonna bayonet a kid
for LBJ, before you go to
bed?" Then he started
chanting "Baby killer,
Baby killer." Others
joined him, until a dozen
people were chanting "Baby
killer." The hapless,
baby faced Marine froze
in the headlights of accusation.
His girl friend tugged at
his arm to get him to leave,
but he remained rooted in
place from their scorn.
mr. macho sensed his vulnerability
and grew bolder. He stood
up and yelled. "Let's
strip off his uniform and
burn it." He looked
around the room, eagerly
seeking supporters to join
the lynch mob. But he had
misjudged the bravery of
the coffee shop warriors,
who just sat there and looked
the other way. They were
willing enough, hiding in
the safety of the crowd,
to make derogatory remarks.
But there was no way they
would get up and attack
someone; no way they would
risk their comfortable skins.
The incident would have
ended right then, but some
stoned idiot said:
"Yeah. Let's burn it."
supporting mr. macho.
Roy had been watching the
situation with mixed feelings.
He recognized the anti-war
sentiments that he had in
his very small way helped
build in his anti-war activities.
But he hated the bullying
of a young kid and the contempt
shown for the uniform that
his father had worn. Roy
stood up abruptly. His chair
fell over with a crash that
drew all eyes to him. He
addressed the room. "This
has gone far enough."
Then he turned to mr. macho.
"You are inciting people
to assault and public riot.
You better sit down and
cool off." Mr. macho
desperately looked around
for help, but none was forthcoming.
He tried bluster. "Oh,
yeah? Are you a cop? Where's
your badge?" All eyes
shifted to Roy. He assumed
a bored attitude and answered
calmly. "If I have
to reach in my pocket for
ID, we'll both continue
this talk at the nearest
precinct and you'll stay
there when I go home."
Roy stared at mr. macho
until he wilted and sat
down. Then he spoke to the
Marine and his girl friend.
"I don't think anyone'll
bother you now." But
they were too afraid to
move.
Roy threw some money on
the table, motioned to Tanya
that they were leaving,
walked to the Marine and
gently ushered him out.
Tanya and his girl friend
followed. Roy couldn't resist
a farewell address to the
crowd and paused at the
door. "Make love, not
war, folks." When they
got outside, Tanya was giggling,
the girl friend was embarrassed
and the Marine was confused.
He turned to Roy. "Thanks
officer. I don't know what
happened in there. One minute
we were drinking coffee,
the next minute this mob
wanted to burn me. I didn't
know what to do. Thanks
again." Roy said paternally
to the Marine, who was only
a few months younger. "That's
all right, son. Next time
pick another neighborhood
when you're in uniform."
His girl friend was still
crying. "I told him
not to enlist. Everybody
hates the Marines."
Roy was kind, but firm.
"Not everybody, Miss.
Now why don't you two run
along and have a good evening."
The girl friend took the
Bambi Marine's arm and turned
to go. "Thank, mister.
What's your name?"
Before Roy could answer,
Tanya chimed in. "It's
Officer Muldoon, and I'm
Mrs. Muldoon."
Roy and Tanya watched the
shaken couple walk away.
Roy exaggeratedly offered
Tanya his arm and asked:
"Shall we go, Mrs.
Muldoon?" "And
it's a fine thing you did
for them youngsters, Muldoon
darlin'," she answered
in a thick brogue. "I
hate bullies," he said
vehemently. "I couldn't
sit there and watch that
punk stir up a mob against
that kid. A lot of members
of my family wore that uniform."
"And where did you
learn crowd control, Officer
Muldoon?" She asked
teasingly. Roy grinned from
ear to ear. "Did you
like my cop
performance? You never know
when I'll get a chance to
play one again." "I
know your head will meet
their night sticks again."
Tanya said fatalistically.
"Now let's get out
of here before your friends
come out to play. Come stay
at my place tonight. I don't
want to be alone."
Gary
Beck's plays and translations
of Moliere, Aristophanes,
and Sophocles have been
produced Off-Broadway. He
is a writer/director of
award-winning social issue
video documentaries. His
poetry has appeared in dozens
of literary magazines. Excerpts
from his recent unpublished
novel of the '60's, 'On
Brightest Days', appeared
in 3AM Magazine, Fullosia
Press and Nuvein Magazine
and will appear in EWG Presents.
His most recent fiction
publication is in The Vincent
Brothers Review. |