It was World War 3 around your house. Been that way since LBJ came to Century City. The yelling went on for days – your mom looks at you like “where did we go wrong?” – your dad doesn’t look at you at all. Your brother squints holes through you.
They are not on your side – parents voted for Goldwater – brother voted for Nixon. You wore a black armband when Martin Luther King died – parents blew a gasket.
It was nasty – it was forever – it was worse.
Didn’t help matters your brother was a Sheriff. The second he graduated high school he went to the Police Academy. Lucky for you he moved out before the War started. He used to like you – he was older – he looked out for you. That stopped.
Never saw him except once a week when he’d show up for dinner – the family get-together – the big silence. Meat Loaf – Mashed Potatoes and you could hear a pin drop.
Your only saving grace was your girlfriend. She understood – she was there – her dad was in World War 2 – she had scars to prove it. Rage-o-holic they call it. Black and blue and excuses before first period. You hugged a lot.
She was your rock – you were her rock. There was never a sentence either of you didn’t start that the other didn’t finish. And they say there are no soul mates.
So you had to sneak out of the house the day of the demonstration.
Ever since Kent State the crowds had been getting bigger. One big ocean, full of people.
You met on the corner of Fairfax and Wilshire – you waited for her. She took the bus – took forever but she made it.
Always gave out a sigh when you saw her. You were happy – you were relieved you didn’t imagine it.
Far as the eye could see – demonstration – chants bouncing off walls. Cops everywhere. A big party – for a while, anyway.
Getting dark – street lights fade on. A commotion at the front of the demonstration. Floodlights and news crews. People running away from clouds. The dreaded teargas.
Confusion with a capital C – you get separated. You’re running and you can’t see each other. You feel like you dunked your head in a vat of flaming red Salsa. Hacking, wheezing and blind. Head meets a nightstick. Crash into a bus bench and get tackled by some guy yelling and grabbing your arms, slapping on handcuffs. You get Dragged off to a side street.
That’s all you need – jail – bail and not guilty. Arresting everybody in sight, packing them on waiting buses with bars and black windows.
Just about to get on when an arm grabs you and pulls you out of line. Can’t make out what anybody is saying but the handcuffs come off and you’re let go.
You turn to leave and a voice yells “Idiot!”. You run. You know that voice. Maybe families are okay after all.
Away from Ground Zero, in front of May Company she paces back and forth, looking for you.
It was the long-lost Soul Mate hug – the one that had no sign of ending any lifetime soon. You clung to each other – orphans in the storm. Love was the best thing in life – at that moment, it was the only thing.
She looks at you and shakes her head.
You wind up at her place and pass out on her bedroom floor listening to the radio. You’ll make an excuse in the morning as soon as you stop shaking.
The hug did wonders for your heart – it always does.
Here’s an hour’s worth of KPPC with Cosmos and Zach Zenor from August 8, 1971.
