AUDITION

The phone rang while Neil was watching the news, a stack of mail at his feet. “That’s the way it is,” said Walter Cronkite. Program credits rolled over a picture, that picture. A longhaired young woman knelt over a body on a sidewalk, one hand pointing behind her, mouth contorted in fear. Kent State.

Neil reached for the phone: “Hello.”

“Neil M. Martin?” asked the female voice.

“Yes, who is this?”

“This is Carol Hawton in Washington, D.C. I work for Public Television. Is this a good time?”

“Sure, uh huh.” Neil replied.

“I was given your name by the National Student Press Forum,” she said. “They tell me you are a college newspaper editor in Louisville. Well, we need you to appear on a special newscast after all the campus protests.”

“Right…”

“If you are willing, we’d like to fly you to Washington to be on national television.”
Neil a finalist for a job with the student press group in D. C., and they told him somebody would call about a TV thing, but his heart didn’t seem to remember and was pounding hard.

He quickly said yes and made arrangements to pick up the tickets at the airport the next morning. He fumbled the phone back to its cradle, staring at the rose-patterned wallpaper in his apartment, and then to the little black-and-white TV set with tin foil on the rabbit ears. Like the TV, Neil ran images in his head from a week like no other in his life. Nixon and the vile Kissinger, bombers over Cambodia, student rallies, empty classrooms, even here in the backwater. And then there were the killings. Neil had not been prepared for bullets and dead kids.

He grabbed the mail at his feet, grocery circulars and a bill from Louisville Gas & Electric. Captain Beefheart on the cover of the Rolling Stone. Staring back at him from the front of TIME was grainy black-and-white face of another woman with her mouth open, floating in front of a blood-red White House.

Her eyes caught Neil’s attention, not just the rage, but disbelief and deep sadness. “PROTEST!” was the headline. When he turned the page, a subscription card fell to the floor, then an envelope. He picked it up, looking onto its face, reading the words: United States Selective Service System. The show in Neil’s head stopped.

Ripped open, a single official page spread before him, a trail of perfect letters forming perfect words:

Petition for 1-A-O Conscientious Objector. (conscientiously opposed to training and military service requiring the use of arms).
GRANTED.

Time stopped. There was only this piece of paper, and there was life, life saying yes, a world suddenly filled with yes. Gradually Neil reoccupied the room, bringing into focus the books and papers piled upon a long church pew carved with the cross of Jesus. He pulled his long black hair back from his face and breathed deeply.

“You got it,” he thought, “You’re free, you will not die in this war.“

***

Neil smoked a very thin joint on the drive to the airport the next morning. Lately he had been copping a morning buzz, it helped him sort things out, get focused. He had rushed to pack and dress, grabbing a T-shirt printed with the logo of the underground paper he had started, Fellow Traveler. His jeans belled around scuffed brown Frye boots. It was beginning to sink in, going on national TV was kind of big, even if his main reason for going to D.C. was a job interview with the student group.

He needed to shine, he thought. If only he could remember what he had told Draft Board #314 that he believed, maybe that would help. He had proclaimed unwillingness to kill, and a deep moral commitment to right and wrong. Even though his own childhood love affair with Jesus Christ, fueled by mother love and loneliness, had been shattered by Sartre and Marx and a dozen new saints.

Did it matter? He knew politics, and he knew how to persuade people with his passion. Believe that I believe, he thought. It mattered less what was argued, only how one argued.

He was more concerned about the job interview, an audition, really. If he pulled it off, he would become Editor-in-Chief of the college press service for a year. He had finally applied for the gig two months before, when it had become clear that he would never get his dream job as a reporter for the Washington Post.

Neil was positive that the tight little fraternity of Establishment journalists had blackballed him. The Post didn’t want a guy whose student paper was a voice for the radicals. Somebody who printed the word ‘fuck’ on the front page, which he had done for an infamous April Fool’s Day edition. Or the guy who started an underground paper after he was fired as campus editor. Three strikes, you’re out. The student press job might be a consolation prize, but Neil wanted it badly. Washington, D.C. --- the Big League, where people came to be noticed.

His thoughts were interrupted by a squawking loudspeaker warning them as they bumped through the clouds towards the D.C. airport. He leaned over to look out of the plastic window and saw a scale model of trees and water, streets and the heroic buildings he remembered from civics class.

Neil grabbed his things and descended the wobbly metal stairs onto the tarmac. Ahead stood a black man in a black suit holding up a sign covered with very large letters:


M – A – R – T – I – N.


Neil burst out laughing. “I think you’re expecting me,” Neil said.

“I’m Samson, do you have any luggage?” he asked, shaking Neil’s outstretched hand. Neil showed him the red satchel with a faded University seal.

“Miss Hawton is back there,” said Samson, and led Neil towards the terminal.

Carol Hawton wore her hair in a short blond bob, and was dressed in a pale blue suit with low-heeled navy pumps. She smiled at Neil like a Miss America contestant. Carol was 26, but the five years between formed a great divide.

“Hi there Neil. I’m Carol. We spoke on the phone last evening. Thank you soooo much for agreeing to come. This is going to be just great.

“No problem, thanks for flying me in.”

At the curb Samson was holding open the door to a black limo. Neil looked for a moment at the car, and then into Carol’s face, searching for a glimmer of irony but found only encouragement. Neil entered the massive interior of the Lincoln and plopped down onto a black leather cushion. Three other young faces looked up at him, a black guy, a white guy and a white girl. Like Neil, they wore jeans and T-shirts. Everyone had long hair. Everyone was stoned.

“I’m Ellen from Florida,” said the girl with long reddish hair, handing Neil a joint. He was toasted again by the time they got to the studios in Virginia, not far from the airport. Nobody thought it unusual to get high before going on national television, although Carol had declined Neil’s polite offer of the joint both times it went around.

Their opponent was waiting on the set, and he was definitely not high. The studio was desert hot, but Undersecretary of State for Far Eastern Affairs Elliot Richardson was not sweating. Immaculately groomed, maddeningly sane, concerned and not bored, the patrician was a perfect foil for the scruffy student editors.

Neil took the swivel chair closest to Richardson and squinted at the bright lights, hating the slimy falseness of the makeup that a young woman had applied to his face. He glanced from the cheesey set to a monitor, where he saw himself. Amazingly, it looked just like regular TV.

He watched technicians fiddle with cables and unwieldy grey metal cameras with protruding lenses and red blinking lights. The other students made small talk with each other, but Neil was studying a stack of little 3x5 cards with key words printed, an old debate-club trick. He ignored Richardson and the host, another middle-aged grey man in a grey pin-striped suit.

A countdown came over the loud speaker. The host introduced them all and the topic: the war and campus unrest. The discussion was civil at first. But after the third time Richardson used the word “unfortunate,” Neil started screaming about dead students and dead peasants and a dead country. His shoulder-length black hair flew across his face, anger distorting his handsome features, requiring him to interrupt Richardson, and by the end, the students, as well.

Richardson vanished after the final sign-off, but the studio crew and the students went into a green room where an open bar and buffet table had been set up. They devoured a selection of cheeses and little crustless meat paste sandwiches. They knocked back tumblers of white wine, and relived the broadcast. Neil’s satisfaction was as tasty as the food, and he was flying. It felt righteous, getting out all of his rage. It felt really good.
Carol Hawton led them back to the waiting limo. As Neil climbed in, he could see Samson’s neck. A stripe of white shirt separated the black of Samson’s neck from the black of his suit. The limo moved quickly across the Potomac River, monuments drenched in light, tourist Washington beyond their pod of luxury.

Somebody lit another joint and passed it to Neil, who took a toke and started up the conversation. “This is so perfect, don’t you think?” he said, looking past the other students and targeting Carol. Her lips were pursed, and she glanced back and forth between the window and Neil’s face.

“We come to D.C. to smash the racist imperialist war machine, and we’re being driven around in a limo by a black man! I can hardly believe it. This is why we need a revolution!”

Carol’s eyes flashed as she turned toward Neil.

“Revolution!” she said, her voice rising. “Let me tell you about the so-called revolution, you little self-absorbed shit. My sister died for your fucking revolution. You ever hear of Martha Hawton? My beautiful sister, Martha. Dead. Blown up in a townhouse in New York City. And, what for? Nothing. Absolutely nothing. It’s all bullshit. You people don’t want revolution, you want attention!”

And then she threw her drink in Neil’s face.

By the time he finished mopping off the wine off, Carol was sobbing, making a tiny sound like a puppy.

“I’m sorry,” she said. “That was so inappropriate. I’m sorry, I’m just so sorry.”

“We’re all sorry, Carol,” Neil said.

“Why don’t you drive a little faster now, Samson,” said Carol.

***

Neil was almost late again. By the time he found the right block near Dupont Circle, his T-shirt was soaked with sweat. As he turned the corner he was stopped by the sight of a magnolia tree towering over the grimy sidewalk, green-black shiny leaves reflecting an already blazing sun, saucer-sized white blooms absorbing the heat until they could stand it no more and fell to the ground.

The street was mostly residential, although, like many in D.C., mysterious enterprises with unknowable missions hid behind bay windows, like undercover cops masquerading as dog-walkers and GS-14’s on the way to work. The only clue that this townhouse was not a private home was a small brass plaque above the doorbell: National Student Press Forum, PLEASE RING.

Neil fingered the bell button and waited until the heavy wooden door opened. Harry Krause stood before him, well over six feet. Fine, honey-colored hair fell onto his broad shoulders. His carefully trimmed beard was coarse and dark, surrounding full lips and hiding a slightly weak chin. The sleeves of his T-shirt did not quite cover his biceps. A woven belt secured snug Lee jeans, and he wore scuffed tan work boots.
Neil reached out to shake hands, but Harry flashed a dazzling smile and moved in for a hug instead.

“There he is, Mr. TV Radical,” said Harry. “Welcome to the NSPF, brother, this is so cool.” He pronounced the acronym as if it was a real word: “Niss-Puff.” Harry had called with lavish praise after the broadcast the evening before. “You whipped that motherfucker’s ass,” he said.

Harry was a BMOC with impeccable working-class credentials: his dad was a garbage man from Buffalo. Editor for two years running, a scholarship student with a high GPA, and a jock, which mystified Neil. And now, Executive Director of Niss-Puff.
Harry led Neil into the main room of the building’s first floor, originally a parlor. Desks were shoved against walls, each with its own unruly pile of newspapers and documents. A Teletype machine in a gunmetal cabinet sat idly in the corner. Above a tile fireplace was the familiar image of a black man seated in an African fan-back throne chair, holding a rifle and wearing a black beret, with the words “FREE across the poster.

Tradition demanded that the aspiring Editor-in-Chief produce a story on deadline. Neil was ready for his close-up. He was a fast writer, and he knew his craft. He also understood that there was another type of audition underway. You’re so hot, prove yourself,. Wear the right mask. Make us like you.

“So, Neil are you ready to get down to work?”

“Absolutely,” Neil said.

“You can use this desk,” said Harry, pointing to a boat-sized piece of furniture in the parlor’s bay window. A wedge of maple carved with the words ‘Editor-in-Chief’ made Neil smile.

“Any subject, any style, so long as I have it by 4 p.m,” said Harry.

Neil pounded furiously on the keys of the IBM Selectric, which had its own little metal table. His spiral bound Reporter’s Notebook was to the left, along with a stack of clippings and some wire copy. He was nearly finished. He would make the deadline, barely.
At first he had considered writing a profile, but there wasn’t enough time. So he would rely upon an old stand-by, what he called ‘dramatizing the revolutionary moment’. When Bernadine Dohrn issued her Weather Underground manifesto --- ‘white youth must choose sides now’ --- Neil had printed it on Page One under the headline: “Will You Choose?” His companion story chronicled the choices that local radicals had made, himself included.

He needed a topic that had produced a lot of press coverage, stuff that he could quickly package with a few original quotes, a fresh spin. When the idea came to him, he searched the Yellow Pages to find the local listing for the Black Panther Party. He dialed but got only a recording that gave out the address and hours of operation.

Neil swam through the D.C. morning, squinting at people and his reflection in the dirty windows. He was aroused by the street life that unfolded as he walked north. There were liquor stores and oddly named places of worship, restaurants that served food from other countries, and vacant storefronts behind criss-cross grates.

A sign with big block letters drew him to his destination: Black Panther Party, Washington D.C. Chapter. He took out his notebook and jotted down a few details for later. “Capitalism Plus Dope Equals Genocide.” A neat stack of Mao’s “Little Red Book.” A hand-lettered schedule for free hot breakfasts.

Neil knocked, waited and knocked again. He was about to give up when the door swung open. Before him was very large man with a medium Afro. He had no beret, but he was wearing an Army flak jacket, despite the heat. Neil noticed a few pockmarks and a narrow one-inch strip of scar tissue on his cheek.

The man looked down at Neil, a full head taller, but there was no expression whatsoever on his face.

“I’m from the student press, writing a story about the FBI campaign to eradicate the Panthers.” The man’s eyebrows lifted. Neil continued. “We need to ignite a revolutionary movement on America’s campuses to support the vanguard role of the Black Panther Party. I believe that the student masses are ready to take action.”

The man looked at Neil and said nothing for what felt like a full minute.
“I don’t know if you are full of shit or what, but the Party does not cooperate with the bourgeois press,” and he slammed the door.

It took some time before Neil could begin to move back down the street. He had less than three hours before his finished copy was due, and he had no quotes. Neil started to trot. A beer can rolled towards him. He kicked it, and got an idea. By the time he reached the office, he was soaked and out of breath, but he had a plan.

At four p.m. sharp Neil handed his finished story to Harry, the copy paper littered with red proofreading marks, inserts held in place with shiny cellophane tape. Neil went out and sat on the front stoop of the row house, not wanting to show how nervous he was. In ten minutes Harry emerged, a backpack hanging from his big shoulder and a smile covering his face.

“That’s one helluva a piece of work, Neil. We just put it on the wire. Congratulations, Mr. Editor-in-Chief.”

“Oh shit, man, really? You’re serious? I got the job, just like that?”

“Not everyday we get to scoop AP and the big papers,” said Harry. He pulled some pages out of his backpack and started to read.

D.C. PANTHERS NEXT FBI TARGET

By Neil M. Martin.

WASHINGTON (CPS) -- The Federal Bureau of Investigation will target the Washington, D.C. office of the Black Panther Party, using tactics that could include assassination and misinformation, according to a College Press source who declined to give his name for fear of government retaliation.”

Harry flashed a magic grin at Neil, who was only able to maintain eye contact for a few seconds before looking down the block at a magnolia tree towering over the grimy sidewalk, green-black shiny leaves reflecting the sun, plate-sized white blooms absorbing the heat until they could stand it no more and fell to the ground.

***

Neil and Harry finished their meal with two slices of apple pie, two cups of black coffee and two tabs of lysergic acid diethylamide before heading over to the movie house.

“This is the last of a great batch, only the best for a celebration like this!” proclaimed Harry, grinning as they walked into the evening air, a breeze offering the hope of slight relief.

They didn’t get nauseous and the drug began to come on as the movie began. A graffiti-covered wall gently vibrated and the words FELLINI SATYRICON swayed insistently on the screen. Within minutes, Neil and Harry’s blood had been replaced with fire. Their nerve endings received special transmissions that brought them out of their seats and onto the screen above. They watched themselves become the film’s impossibly beautiful pilgrims, adrift in a savage world of grotesques and dwarfs and cripples, queers and hermaphrodites, gluttons and killers and robbers of graves.

From time to time an especially arresting image compelled Neil to grab Harry’s arm, bringing them down from the screen and back into the red plush seats of the theatre. But mostly, they lived inside the horrifying beauty of Fellini’s imagination, a glistening journey by two perfect sweaty Roman heroes with beautiful smiles and exposed backsides. It was intense and erotic, but Neil unable to notice the sensations in his body. He was overloaded.

They emerged unsteadily from the darkness of the theatre onto Connecticut Avenue, a grand boulevard in the French style. It was melting. The sidewalk was a surfboard, the lights of the marquee an ersatz sun invading the darkness of the night.

“I don’t think I can do this,” said Neil, squinting as he put his arm on Harry’s shoulder. “I can’t handle any more.”

“It’s OK buddy,” said Harry. “This shit is mellow. We’re going across the street and we’ll sit down. You can do it, I know you can,” and he took Neil’s hand.

Neil stepped with extraordinary care towards an illuminated window on their left. Suddenly, books started moving clockwise in a precise pattern of geometric choreography.

Novels were on the march, Love Story pressing against the spine of The French Lieutenant's Woman. Graham Greene tried to pass Irwin Shaw, but froze as they were overtaken on the right by a pair of slender Rod McKuen poetry books. This was stupid. This was not happening. He turned quickly to Harry who was staring at his fingernails.

“Did you see that?” Neil asked Harry.

“What?”

“The books, they’re moving.”

“What? No, man, you’re just tripping. Let’s keep moving.”

“How long have we been standing here?” asked Neil.

“I don’t know, I don’t ever wear a watch when I’m tripping, bad vibes. Turn this way,” and they started to move. Neil felt better about walking on his own, and he let his hand drop from Harry’s arm.

They made it to the curb, and a complex of lights blinking secret messages to a vast circle of moving vehicles and rushing pedestrians. A young black boy sauntered by, his blue jacket’s afterimage trailing behind. Two men with identical suits and briefcases walked in lock step from the other side of the Avenue. Neil and Harry both laughed, looking at each other in a wordless conspiracy of their own.

They made it to a bench on the concrete plaza formed by Dupont Circle. Lights beneath the water of a grand central fountain illuminated faces on a marble statue. One looked just like the Fellini hero, aquiline nose and full cruel lips, a brazen smile that forced Neil to look away and into Harry’s glowing face. His eyes were closed and Neil stared for a while.

Time became edible, and they devoured it, wandering alleys and streets, just the two of them, wondering where the people were. They talked to cats and bundled found street treasures into their T-shirts, which they had peeled off of their moist flesh. After a while the acid stopped galloping, leaving a sweet pink nimbus that covered everything within their gaze, especially their own bodies. Coming upon a Chinese red townhouse door for the third time, they locked eyes and let the laughter they could not contain penetrate the surface of their skin. Their smiles merged, hearts calm, life beyond joy.

Finally, Harry insisted upon sitting on the curb of a particularly picturesque one-block street, gently placing his T-shirt bundle to the side in order to extract a sliver of paper from his jeans pocket. It was the address for his own apartment.

“Just wanted to make sure,” said Harry, grinning and tucking his head down like a kid. They hoisted themselves up and set out for Harry’s apartment, an eight-story brick building on 16th Street across from the zigzag Masonic temple. Two winged sphinxes flanked a giant door, catching the last shimmer of LSD still leeching from their cells.
When they entered the apartment, Harry turned on the fan in the window of his living room and Neil collapsed on a brown plush chair. Harry began taking off his clothes.

“I’m going to take a shower,” said Harry. “You are welcome to have one too.”

Neil’s eyes drifted down Harry’s bare chest, lightly dusted with brown hairs tipped by the sun, and he thought of the Fellini movie. He was stupefied with the kind of fear he used to have in the locker room of high school gym class.

He felt a sudden coldness and pulled the T-shirt from his waistband where he had stuffed it after the street treasures had been lined up on the doorstep of a bank. His torso was covered with goose bumps, and he shivered visibly.

“But, hey, this isn’t like that fucking movie,” said Harry, winking. “One at a time in the shower. People might start thinking funny things about us,” he said, pulling off his briefs.

“That would be a lie,” Neil thought, his breath caught in his throat. He was unable to speak. “I don’ lie,” he told himself.

He watched Harry turn and enter the bathroom. He got up to look out the window, taking in the rosy sky and the waving green of the tree line that framed his view of the roofs. He reached down to touch the front of his jeans and whispered to the coming day, “I don’t lie.”