18
A day or two later — shortly before Halloween — Nate got an alburn by a guy I’d only vaguely heard of: Phil Ochs. A folkie, but not the blunk-blunk banjo kind who used to show up on Hootenanny. The album cover, which showed a rumpled troubadour sitting on a curb in New York City, went oddly with the covers of Nate’s other records — Dean Martin looking tipsy in a tux, Mitch Miller with his sing-along smile, Diane Renee in her middy blouse and perky sailor cap. The Ochs record was called I Ain’t Marchin’ Anymore, and Nate played it a lot as the days shortened and turned chilly. I took to playing it myself, and Nate didn’t seem to mind.
There was a kind of baffled anger in Ochs’s voice. I suppose I liked it because most of the time I felt pretty baffled myself. He was like Dylan, but less complicated in his expression and clearer in his rage. The best song on the album — also the most troubling — was the title song.’ In that song Ochs didn’t just suggest but came right out and said that war wasn’t worth it, war was never worth it. Even when it was worth it, it wasn’t worth it. This idea, coupled with the image of young men just walking away from Lyndon and his Vietnam obsession by the thousands and tens of thousands, excited my imagination in a way that had nothing to do with history or policy or rational thought. I must have killed a million men and now they want me back again but I ain’t marchin anymore, Phil Ochs sang through the speaker of Nate’s nifty little Swingline phono. Just quit it, in other words. Quit doing what they say, quit doing what they want, quit playing their game. It’s an old game, and in this one The Bitch is hunting you.
And maybe to show you mean it, you start wearing a symbol of your resistance —
something others will first wonder about and then perhaps rally to. It was a couple of days after Halloween that Nate Hoppenstand showed us what the symbol was going to be. Finding out started with one of those crumpled leftover newspapers in the third-floor lounge.
19
‘Son of a bitch, look at this,’ Billy Marchant said.
Harvey Twiller was shuffling the cards at Billy’s table, Lennie Doria was adding up the current score, and Billy was taking the opportunity to do a quick scan-through of the News’?, Local section. Kirby McClendon — unshaven, tall n twitchy, well on his way to his date with all those baby aspirins — leaned in to take a look.
Billy drew back from him, fluttering a hand in front of his face. ‘Jesus, Kirb, when did you take your last shower? Columbus Day? Fourth of July?’
‘Let me see,’ Kirby said, ignoring him. He snatched the paper away. ‘Fuck, that’s Rip-Rip!’
Ronnie Malenfant got up so fast his chair fell over, entranced by the idea that Stoke had made the paper. When college kids showed up in the Derry News (except on the sports page, of course) it was always because they were in trouble. Others gathered around Kirby, Skip and me among them. It was Stokely Jones III, all right, and not just him. Standing in the background, their faces almost but not quite lost in the clusters of dots . . .
‘Christ,’ Skip said, ‘I think that’s Nate.’ He sounded amused and astonished.
‘And that’s Carol Gerber just up ahead of him,’ I said in a funny, shocked voice. I knew the jacket with HARWICH HIGH SCHOOL on the back; knew the blond hair hanging over the jacket’s collar in a ponytail; knew the faded jeans. And I knew the face. Even half -turned away and shadowed by a sign reading us OUT OF VIETNAM NOW!, I knew the face. ‘That’s my girlfriend.’
It was the first time the word girlfriend had come out of my mouth tied to Carol’s name, although I had been thinking of her that way for a couple of weeks at least.
POLICE BREAK UP DRAFT PROTEST , the photo caption read. No names were given. According to the accompanying story, a dozen or so protesters from the University of Maine had gathered in front of the Federal Building in downtown Derry. They had carried signs and marched around the entrance to the Selective Service office for about an hour, singing songs and ‘chanting slogans, some obscene.’ Police had been called and had at fir st only stood by, intending to allow the demonstration to run its course, but then an opposing group of demonstrators had turned up — mostly construction workers on their lunch break. They had begun chanting their own slogans, and although the News didn’t mention if they were obscene or not, I could guess there had been invitations to go back to Russia, suggestions as to where the demonstrators could store their signs while not in use, and directions to the nearest barber shop.