Tuesday, June 4, 1968

 from ’68 – A Novel

 

It was just before midnight and Skip’s Place was busy, a good crowd for a Tuesday night. Marty was behind the bar, helping Skip keep pace with the orders. She had a definite bounce in her step tonight. It was primary election night in California and her candidate had been declared the winner by all three networks. She listened casually to the chatter at the bar, refusing to be drawn into any of the debates. She and Skip had an unwritten rule: never discuss politics or religion with the customers; it was bad for business. They did not need to know that she had worked tirelessly for the campaign, making phone calls, stuffing envelopes, walking the precincts and leaving door-hangers on every knob. It was hard not to respond to some of the comments, but she bit her lip and moved on. He won! We won! There’s hope! She said it over and over as she worked the bar; it was all that really mattered.

            And now, just after midnight, all eyes at the bar focused on the television screen, the scene from the Ambassador Hotel in Los Angeles, where Robert F. Kennedy was about to make his victory speech. It was short and to the point: praise for staff and special friends, punctuated with humor, acknowledging that this was just one battle in the war with many more to come.

Marty watched all of this with pride, her smile barely suppressed, wishing that she could just have a few minutes with the Senator from New York to take a pair of scissors to that unruly shock of hair, trimming it just enough to keep it out of his eyes. She wondered how many women were out there, watching this scene, thinking the same thing.

And now his entourage was turning, leaving the podium, heading off the back through a service kitchen. Look—there goes Rafer Johnson, and big Rosie Greer, and Jesse “Big Daddy” Unruh, and of course, Bobby’s wife Ethel. Marty turned back to the bar where several patrons were signaling for refills.

And then suddenly the screen was filled with chaos. Shots had been fired. Reporters were shouting into live microphones. The crowd at the Ambassador that had been cheering and laughing just moments ago was gasping, screaming, on the verge of panic. How many shots? Six? Eight? Get him! Grab him! Get the gun! Break his arm if you have to! Grab him! I want him alive! We don’t want another Oswald! The Senator is down! He’s been hit! He’s been hit in the head! Get back! Get back! Give him air! Is there a doctor here? A doctor, quickly! A jacket tucked under his head. A rosary placed in his hands … Is there a priest here? We need a priest …

 Marty shut the door to the small office that was situated just off the end of the bar.  She leaned back against the desk, her arms wrapped around her body, doing her best to stop the shaking. She felt the hot, bitter tears rolling down her cheeks and she looked around the desk and found a box of tissues.

Never again. Never ever again. I’ll never let myself get sucked into it again. First with Jack Kennedy, and now with Bobby. You let yourself care, you let yourself hope, you let yourself believe, and then some idiot out there sits in front of his goddamn TV screen and says, “Oh, I could be famous. I could be somebody! Where did I put my gun?” Well, they can all go straight to hell, and they can do it without me. Never ever again. Making the phone calls. Walking door to door. “Can we count on your vote for Senator Kennedy?” Doors slammed in your face. Dogs barking, baring their fangs. And for what? To be a part of this great democratic process, the magnificent, peaceful transfer of power? Peaceful, my ass! Democracy, my ass! It’s democracy from a gun barrel. Well, fuck ’em all, unto the hundredth generation. They can all go fuck themselves. Why? Why did I let myself care? Why did I let myself believe?

Skip stuck his head in the door. “Hey, are you okay?”

Marty glared at him, fire in her eyes. Hell no, she wasn’t okay. She wasn’t even on the same planet as okay. But … he was a good man, her Skip, a damn good man. It wasn’t his fault. No need to take it out on him.

She smiled at him weakly. “I’ll be okay. What’s the latest?”

“He was shot in the head, at close range. They’ve taken him to a hospital. As far as anyone knows, he’s still alive. The guy that shot him—I think they said he’s from Jordan—his name is Sirhan Sirhan. That’s about all.” Skip walked over to where Marty was leaning against the desk.

“Okay. Gimme a minute and I’ll be out to help you.”

“No hurry, babe. The place is emptying out. Take all the time you need.” Skip wrapped her in his arms and they held each other for a moment. “I’m sorry,” he said. He kissed her forehead and then turned and headed back to the bar.

Marty’s thoughts were tumbling now, looking for a place to land. Alive? He’s still alive? There’s hope. I should be hopeful. I should … pray.  She closed her eyes and tried to pray for Bobby Kennedy’s life, but she couldn’t make herself believe. Instead, she prayed for his family—another son, brother, husband, father taken too soon. And she prayed for his mortal soul.

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