'68 - A Novel...

CHAPTER 24: WEDNESDAY, AUGUST 28


The small crowd at the bar sat mesmerized as they gazed at the images on the television screen, alternating between shots of the activities inside the convention hall and rioting in the streets of Chicago. In front of the Hilton Hotel, the police in their light blue shirts and helmets were charging into the demonstrators, nightsticks flying, while the demonstrators heaved rocks and bottles and bags of urine in the direction of the police.

Inside the convention center, Senator Abraham Ribicoff was at the podium, nominating George McGovern for president, using the national stage to denounce “…Gestapo tactics in the streets of Chicago.” The Illinois delegation, seated right down front and led by Mayor Richard Daley, shouted back at Ribicoff, inviting him to go home – or go something.

Back in front of the Hilton, the demonstrators were chanting, “The whole world is watching.” They were right. And to the world – including the regulars at Skip’s Place – it seemed that America had gone crazy.

“Can you believe that shit? I say ‘go police,’ bust some heads. Who the hell are these people?”

“Did you see Daley? Did he just say ‘fuck you’ to Ribicoff?”

“Damn, I think you’re right.”

“Well, the Democrats just gave the damn election to the GOP. Humphrey hasn’t got a chance now.”

“Hey, you never know. A lot can happen between now and November.”

“Are you kidding me? Nixon will eat this up. He’ll beat ‘em over the head with ‘law and order’ and they’ll run these film clips over and over again.”

“I feel for old Hubert. He’s not such a bad guy.”

“Oh, gimme a break. He’s a dinosaur from the New Deal days. A bleeding heart liberal. All he wants to do is take your money and give it out to a bunch of welfare queens.”

“He’s not that bad. He had some good ideas – like the Peace Corps. Wasn’t that his brainchild?”

“Big deal. Anyway, Nixon is gonna kick his ass, you wait and see.”

“Shoot, I thought Nixon was dead back in ’62. Remember his speech? ‘You won’t have Dick Nixon to kick around anymore.’”

“You can’t keep a good man down. Besides, nobody understands politics in this country better than Dick Nixon.”

“Ah… I don’t trust a guy that wants it that bad.”

“I think he’ll be a good president. And I like this guy Agnew, too.”

“That sonofabitch? I think he bites the heads off of puppies.” (laughter)

Back in the streets, the whole world continued to watch as the police cracked heads with wild enthusiasm. For every demonstrator who dared to stand his ground, there seemed to be two cops ready to whack him – or her. And somewhere out there, Richard Milhous Nixon was watching and waiting.
_____


CHAPTER 25: SATURDAY, SEPTEMBER 7


John Harris rinsed his coffee mug and left it in the kitchen sink. He went looking for Martha to tell her he was leaving, heading down the street and around the corner for a haircut. He found his wife folding clothes in the bedroom.

“Okay, hon, I’m gonna go get a haircut. Should be back in an hour or so.” He gave Martha a quick kiss on the cheek and headed for the front door.

John knew there would be a wait on a Saturday morning, but that was okay. He enjoyed the chance to sit and shoot the bull in the neighborhood barbershop. It was a beautiful September morning, clear and sunny, a real Indian summer day. He took his time strolling down the block, checking his neighbor’s houses and yards as he went, looking for changes in landscaping or paint, perhaps a new car parked in a driveway. He was pleased with what he saw: the neighborhood was holding up pretty well. He rounded the corner on Georgia Street and headed for Barney’s Barber Shop, situated in the collection of small storefronts anchored by a mom-and-pop market.

As John approached the shop, he saw the door swing open and a short compact figure burst out onto the walkway, closing the door with a bang. He recognized Kenji Hashimoto and started to call out to him. Kenji turned sharply and marched away, head down, eyes fixed on the pavement, clearly upset about something.

John opened the door and stepped into the shop. The two chairs were occupied and three customers were waiting. The lively conversation slowed just a bit as John came in.

“Hey, Big John! Time to get your ears lowered?” It was Barney with his usual greeting.

“Yeah, sure…” John was still puzzled by Kenji’s rapid exit.

“Well, you missed all the excitement. We just had a Jap in here, looking for a haircut. I told him we don’t serve Japs, that we remember Pearl Harbor. Right, guys?” This drew a murmur of approval from the other men.

“You mean Ken… I mean Kenji Hashimoto? Hell, he’s my neighbor.”

“The hell you say? Your neighbor? Since when do we have Japs in this neighborhood?”

John ignored the question. He exchanged hellos with the waiting customers, picked up a magazine and took a seat. The conversation moved to other topics – sports, politics, pretty women – and Kenji Hashimoto was forgotten for the time being, by all except John. He felt a sense of unease that he couldn’t explain. Time passed, the chairs turned over, customers paid and left, calling their goodbyes on the way out the door.

Suddenly the door swung open, the bell attached to the door jam ringing brightly. Kenji stepped into the shop and approached Barney’s chair, glaring up at the slightly taller man. John could see that he was wearing an Army uniform jacket, and he could see a military medal pinned to the breast; he recognized it as a Purple Heart.

“See this?” Kenji pointed to the medal. “Ever see one of these? I got mine in Italy, 1945, fighting for Uncle Sam. Where were you during the war, asshole? So you remember Pearl Harbor? I’ll tell you what I remember: Monte Cassino in Italy, Biffontaine in France. That’s what I remember.”

The shop went dead silent. Barney stared at the medal, then looked at Kenji. The silence continued for several seconds. Finally, Barney spoke up. “Look, friend, I made a mistake. I didn’t know. If you want to take a seat, I’ll be glad to cut your hair.”

Kenji moved closer, inches from Barney’s face, as though he were ready to take a bite out of the man. “I wouldn’t let you cut my hair if it was free – for life.” He turned and walked out of the shop, closing the door hard as he went.

“Well, I’ll be…” Barney could think of nothing more to say. John dropped the magazine on the table and headed toward the door. “Hey, John, you’re not staying? You’ll be up soon.”

“Nah, Barney. Not today. Maybe later.” He left the shop and headed for home.
_____


John opened the front door and went straight to the kitchen. He had a pretty good idea where he’d find Kenji Hashimoto. He looked out the kitchen window, across the low picket fence at the back of the property, and sure enough, there was Kenji sitting on the stone bench by his rock garden. John opened the refrigerator, took out a couple of bottles of Falstaff and headed for the backyard.

“Hey, Kenji, mind if I join you?” Kenji looked up and thought seriously about building a taller fence. He motioned for John to come over. John approached the bench and held out one of the bottles. “I don’t have any of that good Jap beer, but at least it’s cold.”

Kenji looked up, saw the half-smile on John’s face and knew he was being messed with. He accepted the beer. He moved over and patted the bench for John to sit down.

“So, you served in Italy and France? How did that happen?”

“I was with the 442 Regimental Combat Team. All Japanese, mostly from Hawaii, but about 800 of us from the U.S. internment camps. They came around at Rohwer and asked for volunteers.”

John had heard of the 442 RCT, the “Go For Broke” regiment, the most decorated unit in the Army. “And you signed up? I heard of lot of guys refused, even renounced their citizenship.”

“There was a lot of anger, John. Some guys renounced. Others said they’d volunteer if their families were released and their full rights were restored.”

“But you volunteered. Why? Your family was locked up. You were moved across the country. Why volunteer, for God’s sake?”

Kenji glared at John, a look of pure defiance and pride. “Because this is my country too. My parents are Nisei; they were born here. I was born here. I’m every bit as American as Franklin Delano Roosevelt, or Earl Warren, or General John Fucking DeWitt!” He looked away, fighting for composure. More than 20 years and it was still an open wound.

“I saw the Purple Heart. Where did you get hit?”

Kenji rubbed his right leg. Thinking about it always seemed to make it hurt. “I took some shrapnel in my right leg. Nothing too serious. Just bad enough to get me shipped home. The 442nd was back in Italy, 1945. The fighting was almost over anyway.”

John looked at Kenji and pondered everything he’d learned about the Hashimoto family and what the war had done to them. “Damn,” he said, “and now my friend Barney doesn’t want to cut your hair. Well, Mr. Hashimoto, you and I are going to have to find a new barber shop.”

Kenji laughed in spite of himself. He and Big John clinked bottles and drank deeply of the fine American beer.
_____


CHAPTER 26: WEDNESDAY, SEPTEMBER 11


Bobbie pulled her car into the space next to John’s, killed the engine and turned out the lights. John was standing next to the railing that ran along the walkway overlooking the Mare Island Strait, the lights of the shipyard burning brightly across the water, the balmy fall air filled with the clank and bang of steel being transformed into warships. Bobbie joined him at the railing where they exchanged a quick hug and a kiss.

“Thanks for coming, Johnny. I wanted to talk to you in person…”

“You look great, Bobbie. Is that a new shirt?” She always looked great to John, but especially tonight, wearing a new dashiki, tight fitting jeans and tall leather boots. The clothes, the jewelry, the regal bearing – it all came together to stir John’s feelings for her.

“I want to tell you right away, Johnny, I’m not pregnant. I got my period this morning, just out of the blue. I would have told you earlier but I didn’t want to do it on the phone.”

“Geez, Bobbie, I don’t know what to say. I mean, that’s good, right? You’re okay? Heck, we’re okay!”

He put his arms around her and held her close for a minute or so. A great feeling of relief washed over him. They stepped away from the rail, holding hands, and began to walk south along the waterfront.

Just then, a police cruiser pulled into the parking lot and drove toward them, the headlights glaring brightly in their eyes. The vehicle came to a stop and they could hear the crackle of the two-way radio inside the car. The doors opened and the officers stepped out of the car; the driver approached, giving them a quick nod of his head.

“What’s your business here, folks?”

“We’re just talking, officer…” John wasn’t sure what more to say.

“Are these your vehicles?”

“Yes, sir…”

“Okay, I want the two of you to return to your vehicles. I’ll need to see license and registration.” The first officer, the one who had been driving, went with Bobbie while the second officer approached John. Two very different conversations ensued. While John produced his license and registration, Bobbie was having a different experience.

“Where is your license, miss?”

“In the car… in my purse.”

“Bring the purse out here where I can see it. Do you have any weapons, anything sharp in there?”

“No…”

“Okay, open it so I can see inside.” He pointed a long flashlight into the large, floppy handbag and scanned the contents. “Whoa, what is that?”

“What? Oh, that’s a comb… a hair pick… for my hair.”

“Nothing sharp, eh? Okay, take it out and set it on the hood.” She did as he asked. “Now your drivers license.” She opened her wallet and retrieved the license. “And registration.” She pulled the small holder containing the document from the sun visor and handed it to him. “Is this your vehicle?”

“It’s my father’s.”

“Name and address?” She provided the information and the officer seemed satisfied. “Again, what’s your business here? Is this your regular stroll?”

It dawned on Bobbie then that she’d been pegged as a prostitute. Of course! A black girl walking the waterfront with a white boy: a new generation of the world’s oldest profession.

“There’s no business… we’re just talking… he’s my boyfriend.”

“I’ll bet he is.”

“Look, I’m not a hooker...” She was beginning to see red now.

“Don’t give me attitude, miss. This is a high crime area. More prostitutes than we can count. So no attitude, got it! Stay here while we check you out.” With that he walked back to the patrol car to confer with his partner.

“What do you think?”

“Hell, I think they’re just lovebirds. Salt ‘n Pepper style. Let’s turn ‘em loose and move on.”

“What’s a nice white boy want with a soul sister, anyway?”

“Hey, did you get a look at her? She’s a fox. Hell, I’d do her.”

“Hell, you’d do anything female. That’s why your daddy won’t let you around the sheep anymore.”

“Screw you, too. I’m just saying, I’d like to pat her down. She’s got a nice lookin’ ass.”

“Shit, just give ‘em back their IDs and let’s get out of here.”
____


The patrol car pulled away, leaving them in a state of shock, and in Bobbie’s case, rage.

“So that’s it, Johnny. If you’re a black girl in this part of town with a white boy, you must be a whore. Right?”

“Bobbie, calm down… they’re gone now… it’s okay.”

“Sure it’s okay. This is where we live, Johnny. The land of the free and the home of the brave. Where all men are created equal. America the beautiful.”

“Okay… okay… I know you’re upset…”

“Go home, Johnny.” She opened her car door and got in. “Go on home to your neighborhood and I’ll go home to mine.” She was choking back tears now. “And just be damn happy that you’re not going to be the father of a little brown baby.”

The tires screeched as she backed away from the curb, then again as she sped away, leaving John to feel like a hapless piece of shit.
_____

Next week: Ellamae goes to church for an interesting sermon, and Skip’s customers watch the Olympic Games from Mexico City.
_____