Been Down So Long It Looks Like Up to Me (37 page)

The Demonstration. Dear sweet Mary.

Approaching the arts quad he could hear the swell of massive shouts and cheers, the throb of bass drums muffled by a milling crowd. Here and there a figure darted out of a building, carrying a torch. Madmen ran in the direction of the girls’ dorms, screaming warcries. The sky beyond flickered with violence, the undersides of clouds danced in reflected flame. He ambled toward the noise, rucksack on his shoulder,
campesino
hat squashing his curls.

A skyrocket shuddered, burst into sulfurous fragments, and inspired a deafening roar from the ground. From the law school, the ag quad, the engineering buildings, rose strong echoes. It sounded as if they were out in the hundreds.

But when he arrived there were thousands. Cars blocking the Harpy Creek Bridge, students standing on hoods with megaphones, banners fluttering colorfully in the wind, torches smoking, coeds surging back and forth on the lawns, whole fraternities shouting slogans. Men with microphones stumbled along, pigeonholing whomever they could. Photographers loaded cameras with frantic fingers. Reporters ran in circles, jumping between centers of activity, taking notes on little pads. One of them bumped into the rucksack as he was screwing in a bulb, and there was a moment of quick recognition. “My God,” he said, “it’s Pappadopoulis!”

Around him came a crush of Leicas, Rolleis, Speed Graphics. “Hey, babies,” was the startled reaction. He tried elbowing free, feeling the first muggy symptoms of panic. “C’mon, get away—”

They pressed closer, whispering, gaping at his clothes, shouting questions. “Look this way, please.” Pop. Click.

“Hey really, get out of here—”

“The wire services estimate seven thousand people, Mr. Pappopoulis—”

“How do you plan to manage them? Will there be a speech?”

“I’m from
Look
, buddy, hold still, be intense—”

He jerked the Cuban hat over his ears and barreled clear, taking refuge in a galloping cluster of students. But as they ran along they began nudging one another and whispering his name.

“That Greek,” said one, “the nut from Lairville.”

“Where’s the platform? Get him to the platform!”

They galloped right past Juan Carlos Rosenbloom, who was prancing on top of Fitzgore’s Impala, waving his arms, whipping the air with his cowboy hat, leading a cheer. Gnossos did an about-face and tried to get his attention, but he was jostled out of sight.

We bemoan the chaperone

We would rather be alone
. . . 

Still another chant began, merging with the first. When he tried creeping under the legs of the mob, he was lifted off the grass by anonymous hands and thrust across the shoulders of a trotting phalanx.

Gno-
ssos . . . 
Gno
-ssos

Gno-
ssos . . . 
Gno-
ssos

He used his rucksack to pound ferociously on their skulls, but all across the campus the demonstrators saw it as a signal and began to pound in kind.

A crimson banner rustled past, flying the cry
MOTHERS
’
MARCH
ON
SEX
. And behind it Judy Lumpers in a frenzied flash, dancing in fishnet leotards, high heels, a cheerleader’s sweater, holding Byron Agneau by the hand, both of them yelling, “Ying-Yang, Ying-Yang, Ying-Yang . . . ”

More skyrockets, Roman candles, cherry bombs, sparklers, fireworks, sirens, bass drums, bugles,
GNO
-ssos . . . 
GNO
-ssos . . .  He was being hustled toward an elevated platform, which rose above the bobbing heads at the far end of the mob. There were loudspeakers, spotlights, blood-red flags, and two figures side by side who seemed—impossibly enough—to be Oeuf and Kristin, Oeuf in a wheelchair. NON LOCO PARENTIS, read a sign at their backs. They wore serene smiles and looked upon the crashing multitudes.

Gnossos squirmed helplessly for a moment, trying to twist free of the hands that balanced his teetering weight, then threw out an enraged fist, howling without mercy at his betrayers, mustering the blend of outrage and hurt that tore at his senses, “Vennndettaa!”

But again he was misunderstood and the object of his cry was taken as the cue for wilder yearnings. Fists by the thousands jammed skyward, and the thunder of the vengeful word went up:

“VENNNNNNNDETTTAAAAAAAA!”

Right behind it came the rhythmic marching of an approaching legion, Dean Magnolia leading a chanting column of rebellious faculty:

One-two, what d’we do?

Three-four, smash the door.

Five-six, pick up sticks

Seven-eight, abdicate
. . . 

Hosts of anarchists everywhere, itching to blow things up, tear things down, cave things in. A now steaming Pappadopoulis was rushed through their midst, handed over the heads of the denser crowd, flipped along like a sack of limp kidney beans. He held his rucksack between clenched teeth, the hat over his ears. As he spun nearer the platform the cheers grew more expectant, less purposeless, blending together in the single, lilting utterance of his name. Then, when the motion faltered and ceased, he found himself tipped forward, standing unsteadily, skipping a little from the momentum. For an instant Oeuf and Kristin were directly in front of him; but Youngblood appeared from a ramp, stepped quickly between them, and seven thousand people fell astonishingly silent.

Find a heavy weapon, man, strike the mortal blow.

Youngblood spoke in a forced whisper before he moved, side-stepping the podium microphone, gesturing for good sense. “Gnossos—”

But Greek teeth gave a malevolent hiss.

“Gnossos, take it easy. You may find this difficult to believe, but everything is for the good.”

“That’s right, baby, tell me all about it—”

“Don’t be rash, try to control yourself—”

An apprehensive clapping began when he failed to recognize the crowd. People picked it up in threes and fours.

“Gnossos,” from Kristin quickly, motioning Youngblood aside. “We can settle our differences later. I promise.”

“People are watching us,” said Youngblood.

“Speeeech,” came a distant call, echoed by the clappers. “Speeeeeeeeeech!”

He hissed once more, glancing around like an exhibited captive Apache. Oeuf leaned forward in his wheelchair, speaking under his breath. “Stop that ridiculous noise. Where’s your
amour-propre?
”

Speech
, came the call again. Bass drums picked up the clapping, claxons hee-hawed.

Speech-
speech
-speech-
speech
—

“They’ve heard us all,” from Youngblood desperately. “They just
won’t
be satisfied. You’re the only one left.”

Ven
-detta. . . .
Ven
-detta. . . .
Ven
-detta . . . 

Gnossos shifted weight to cover his flanks, but the crowd’s collective acumen picked up the subtle change and thought he might be about to speak. They sent forth a spectacular cheer. In the midst of the din, as confetti blossomed skyward and showered over their heads, Oeuf tried an importunate whisper, ignoring the pickup of the mikes.

“Bread, Gnossos. Immunity. Sex. Name it quickly, what in hell do you want? There’s no holding this goddamned crowd.”

Knuckles under the nose, came the thought. Stiff fingers in the larynx. But the Slugmen were standing at corners of the platform, Mausers in their coats. He felt his shirt pocket for the little white box he’d prepared in the Idlewild pharmacy, and “Kristin” was what he finally said.

At the sound she looked up, catching her breath.

Speech-
speech
-speech-
speech
—

Oeuf’s glance caught her parted lips, but returned to Gnossos all the same. “Kristin?”

“Check baby.”

Ven
-detta . . . 
Ven
-detta . . . 
Ven
-detta . . . 

“How long?”

“Half an hour.”

“Too long.”

“Forty minutes.”

“Jesus, Gnossos.”

“Sixty.”

“Hurry,” said Youngblood.

“You mustn’t harm her.”

“That’s right.”

Kristin began to protest but Oeuf motioned her into silence. “I have your word?”

Gnossos’ hand was on his heart.

VEN-DETT-
A
. . .  VEN-DETT-
A
. . . 

A short pause. “Forty minutes?”

“Okay, man.”

“For Christ’s sake,” said Youngblood, perspiring fiercely, “Hurry up!”

GNO-SSOS
. . . 
GNO-SSOS
. . . 

He grinned openly at Kristin, half concealing the menace that trembled on his lips. Then he threw up his arms for the crowd, palms facing, as if he were signaling a touchdown.

For fully five minutes he was Lindbergh at Orly, MacArthur on Wall Street, Ulanova at the Bolshoi, Sinatra at the Paramount. The cadence of stamping feet shook the campus as if it were an island on a seismic fault. Through the deafening rumble he motioned to Youngblood for words.

“Say something, Christ, it couldn’t matter.”

“What, man?”

“Oh God, Pankhurst, free love,
any
thing!”

GNO-SSOS
. . . 
GNO-SSO
. . . 

The touchdown arms came slowly to his sides. The chants subsided gradually, hushing noises ran through the mob like the whisper of doom itself, heads came up to listen. He stood, waiting for the periphery of the crowd, ignoring the urgings of Kristin and Oeuf, holding out for complete control. For a moment a lone bass drum continued booming, then nothing but embarrassed laughter, odd shouts from distant stragglers, the sizzle of sparklers burning in the dark.

Seven thousand ivy league smiles flickered and gleamed. Two hundred and twenty-four thousand calcium-white incisors, canines, bicuspids, premolars, eyeteeth, and molars, anxious to bite, ready for the bacchanal, hungry and drooling. A tremble of despotic power shuddered in his loins. A flood of adrenalin buoyed up his blood. He could do worse than give them provender for a night of romping abandon.

With exquisite deliberation he made two loose fists, held them up, and gave everyone the finger.

And they loved it. If he’d called for the carnal defloration of Susan B. Pankhurst in Macy’s window, the ecstatic concourse would have been no less inspired. They went rabidly giddy, they danced up and down, they pounded one another on the head, they gave irrational screams, they wandered amuck.

Placards tumbled in the air, skyrockets tore through trees, automobiles rolled on their backs, brassières were raised on spikes, and fuel was added by the bushelful to an impetuous bonfire of male underpants.

Kristin wheeled Oeuf quickly to the microphone, and into the maelstrom of the frenzy he slipped the name of the university President.

“Carbon,” swelled the echo.

“Down with Carbon,” he said, again with hardly subliminal intent.

“Down with Carbon,” they repeated.

Through the crowd inched Fitzgore’s Impala, shooting off pinwheels, backfiring, horn blowing. Someone who looked like Heap was at the wheel, Juan Carlos Rosenbloom straddled the back seat, wielding a banner like El Cid.

“DOWN WITH CARBON!” was the cry.

Rosenbloom lowered his banner, and the car swerved suddenly toward Harpy Creek Bridge in the direction of the President’s mansion. The crowd parted as if it were the Red Sea. There was a moment’s pause. Then
torches in hand, all seven thousand of them followed with a bloodcurdling bellow, stampeding like the Pharaoh’s army.

“Come on,” said Youngblood, “let’s go.”

Someone fired a ceremonial cannon.

“Hurry,” said Kristin, “we’ll miss it.” She was starting to wheel Oeuf to a ramp at the edge of the platform.

VENDETTA * VENDETTA * VENDETTA

“Easy, baby,” from Gnossos, blocking the way.

“Hey,” yelled Youngblood, “move it, will you, the fun’s just starting!”

BOOOOOOOM, went the cannon again.

Gnossos was smiling, pointing at Kristin.

“Now?” she asked.

Oeuf glared back, looked at his watch, and said, “Forty minutes.”

Chi Psi’s fire engine clanged by, sirens wailing, a bikini coed sitting on the hood.

Gnossos had Kristin firmly by the hand.

“Later,” he said.

“Where?” from Oeuf.

“The Dairy Queen,” said Gnossos.

A nod from the departing Oeuf. The Slugmen fell in behind; and the sounds of night intensified, as if someone had turned up the volume on the entire televised scene.

It was precisely the place where Mojo had watched the flogged microbus. They sat once more in Youngblood’s Anglia, listening to the engine cool after the drive. Time was awasting, but Kristin turned on him suddenly, looking for the advantage. “If I’m pregnant,” she said, “I’ll just have to do something about it. You must have known that, Gnossos, for God’s sake.”

He reached into the rucksack and lifted out the open bottle of Summer Snow. “You want a drink?”

“It was such a damned
adolescent
thing to do. Do you realize it gave my father eczema from head to toe?”

He drank off two inches and smiled insanely, saying nothing.

“As if everything were so simple! I mean I
cared
for you too, you know, I could hardly have done all those things if you weren’t so damned attractive.”

He reached into his boy scout shirt pocket and removed the small white box, fondling it absently, still failing to speak.

“And Heffalump,” she tried, on a different tack, sighing, looking at the window, “I was sick about it.”

“Were you?”

“Don’t be foolish, Gnossos, of course I was.”

He slid the rubberband away, paused, then offered the bottle again. “Come on, man, have a taste. It’s good for you.”

Her mouth twitched fearfully from the menace in his inflection and she said, “No, thanks.”

He showed her the box. “Got a present for you. Little something for your head.”

The clearing was under the trees at the end of a roughed-out parking lot. The Dairy Queen was closed, there were no other cars in the lot, the only sounds came from the distant campus, unreal and remote. She reached casually for the door handle but he caught her arm with unmistakable pressure. “Gnossos, don’t!”