When the protesters began to shout back at the construction workers and the construction workers began firing pieces of fruit from their dinner-buckets at the protesters, the police had stepped in. Citing the protesters’ lack of a permit (the Deny cops had apparently never heard about the right of Americans to assemble peaceably), they rounded up the kids and took them to the police substation on Witcham Street. There they were simply released. ‘We only wanted to get them out of a bad atmosphere,’ one cop was quoted as saying. ‘If they go back down there, they’re even dumber than they look.’
The photo really wasn’t much different from the one taken at East Annex during the Coleman Chemicals protest. It showed the cops leading the protesters away while
construction workers (a year or so later they would all be sporting small American flags on their hardhats) jeered and grinned and shook their fists. One cop was frozen in the act of reaching out toward Carol’s arm; Nate, standing behind her, had not attracted their attention, it seemed. Two more cops were escorting Stoke Jones, who was back to the camera but unmistakable on his crutches. If any further aid to identification was needed, there was that hand-drawn sparrow -track on his jacket.
‘Look at that dumb fuck!’ Ronnie crowed. (Ronnie, who had flunked two of four on the last round of prelims, had a nerve calling anyone a dumb fuck.) ‘Like he didn’t have anything better to do!’
Skip ignored him. So did I. For us Ronnie’s bluster was already fading into insignificance no matter what the subject. We were fascinated by the sight of Carol . . . and of Nate Hoppenstand behind her, watching as the demonstrators were led away. Nate as neat as ever in an Ivy League shirt and jeans with cuffs and creases, Nate standing near the jeering, fist-shaking construction workers but totally ignored by them. Ignored by the cops, too. Neither group knew my roommate had lately become a fan of the subversive Mr Phil Ochs.
I slipped out to the telephone booth and called Franklin Hall, second floor. Someone from the lounge answered and when I asked for Carol, the girl said Carol wasn’t there, she’d gone over to the library to study with Libby Sexton. ‘Is this Pete?’
‘Yeah,’ I said.
‘There’s a note here for you. She left it on the glass.’ This was common practice in the dorms at that time. ‘It says she’ll call you later.’
‘Okay. Thanks.’
Skip was outside the telephone booth, motioning impatiently for me to come. We walked down the hall to see Nate, even though we knew we’d both lose our places at the tables where we’d been playing. In this case, curiosity outweighed obsession.
Nate’s face didn’t change much when we showed him the paper and asked him about the demonstration the day before, but his face never changed much. All the same, I sensed that he was unhappy, perhaps even miserable. I couldn’t understand why that would be — everything had ended well, after all; no one had gone to jail or even been named in the paper.
I’d just about decided I was reading too much into his usual quietness when Skip said,
‘What’s eating you?’
There was a kind of rough concern in his voice. Nate’s lower lip trembled and then firmed at the sound of it. He leaned over the neat surface of his desk (my own was already covered in about nineteen layers of junk) and snagged a Kleenex from the box he kept by his record-player. He blew his nose long and hard. When he was finished he was under control again, but I could see the baffled unhappiness in his eyes. Part of me — a mean part — was glad to see it. Glad to know that you didn’t have to turn into a Hearts junkie to have problems.
Human nature can be so shitty sometimes.
‘I rode up with Stoke and Harry Swidrowski and a few other guys,’ Nate said.
‘Was Carol with you?’ I asked.
Nate shook his head. ‘I think she was with George Gilman’s bunch. There were five carloads of us in all.’ I didn’t know George Gilman from Adam, but that did not prevent me from directing a dart of fairly sick jealousy at him. ‘Harry and Stoke are on the Committe e of Resistance. Oilman, too. Anyway, we — ‘