Garfield Flats (eBook)

Before leaving for Uptown, we returned to our flat, making sure the extra key worked. The rain had stopped, but we knew it was just a matter of time before it would start again. I grabbed a baggy flannel shirt to go over my tie-dyed tee and tucked my crazy, wild hair under my Minnesota Twins ball cap, a gift for my 17th birthday; my dad loved baseball. I was good to go. Debbie, always the epitome of fashion, wore platform shoes, faded bellbottoms, and a stylish Mary Quant blouse with a crochet sweater. She grabbed her yellow paisley umbrella as we headed out the door.

A ride on bus #17 brought us up to Hennepin and 26th in less than 15 minutes. The Embers was packed, typical for a Saturday morning. Standing at the cash register was a gentleman wearing black pants, white shirt, and black tie. A manager nametag saying “Bill” was pinned just above his breast pocket, which held a plastic casing with two ink pens. He was greeting and directing patrons to various tables as they entered.

Giving us the once over he asked, “Are you here for the rally?” Already his eyes had moved beyond us and were surveying the people coming in behind us.

“Yep,” Debbie replied before I could even process the question.

“What the heck are you doing?” I whispered in her ear.

She shushed me and whispered back, “Follow my lead.”

The last time Debbie told me to follow her lead we snuck out the back of a restaurant, sticking a couple of guys with the bill. Debbie was a no nonsense kind of gal; but her sense of adventure sometimes scared the crap out of me.

Bill directed us to a group of about twenty people who were gathered in the back of the dining area, eating donuts and drinking coffee. We grabbed a couple of cups off a small cart, and I poured us each a coffee from the bronze carafe. Once we took our seats, a plate of donuts was passed our way. A man, presumed to be the head of the gathering, stood before the group. He dressed as though he had been on a long, laborious journey searching for fossils in the deserts of Egypt. Khaki pants, a button-down shirt and bomber jacket. His face had a five-o-clock shadow, covering a tan complexion; his eyes peered through wire-rimmed, rose tinted glasses. With his hand, he brushed his sandy blonde hair back off his forehead and addressed the group. His voice was calm and his demeanor was authoritative. “It’s almost time to leave for Coffman Union. We have the banners and signs already loaded up. Now, remember, this is a Peace Rally. No violence. We want our voices heard and our veterans to come home.”

The Vietnam War had appeared to be ending throughout 1969, but in early 1970, President Nixon authorized the invasion of Cambodia, bringing more American soldiers home in body bags and killing innocent Cambodian civilians. Many hated President Nixon, feeling his actions only exacerbated conflict. Campuses across the country were exploding with protests and rallies. Kent State in Ohio put every student across the nation in fear of their freedom after shootings from police had killed four students and wounded nine others.

Along with many college campuses across the United States, Coffman Union at the University of Minnesota was known for being the meeting place for war and civil rights protests, speeches, and rallies. Attending a peace rally induced fear right down to the core of my being. They had been known to turn into anarchy on occasion.

“We have to get out of here,” I whispered to Debbie.

“It’s cool. We’ve got nothing better going on. I’ve never been to one of these rallies; we can take the city bus back if we don’t like it.”

Her mind was made up and I knew nothing I could say would change it. After a donut and a half cup of coffee, we trailed after the group outside; following them as they dispersed to their various forms of transportation. We hopped into a Mini-Van with childlike flowers painted all over its rusted exterior. Crawling over worn out Persian rugs, which covered the metal floor of its gutted interior; we quickly found our spots. Two guys followed us into the van and sat to the right of Debbie. Each had hair past their shoulders and scruff on their faces. They sat cross legged and their boney knees stuck out through the rips in their jeans. They each had a guitar, and one of them had painted on the back of his, “Stop the Bombing.” Propping them on their laps, they busily started fine tuning.

Next entering the van were three college aged girls, crawling quickly past us and huddling in the corner. All three are wearing faded corduroys and baggy, hooded sweatshirts. They looked like they were stuck in a high school state of mind; I surmised they had decided the attire for this event collectively. They whispered quietly amongst themselves, as if they were in a deep conversation of freedom.

The next person in our group appeared young, but was wearing the clothes of someone much older. His wing tipped shoes were scuffed and looked a size too big for his feet. His shirt had a button-down collar and his slacks were of a sales clerk style. He was clean shaven and his hair was short and nicely groomed. He sat calmly with his eyes closed; I feared he may have possibly had deep-seated issues with the propensity to become radical at any moment.

Once the van was in motion, the two-man-band started strumming their guitars. Their harmony worked well together, but after two blocks of the Buffalo Springfield song “For What It’s Worth,” I wished I had stayed home. I turned to look at Debbie and saw that she was locked in a stare at the wing-tip shoe guy.

“Debbie,” I whispered, “stop staring. What are you looking at?”

“I always knew that guy was a fake,” she whispered back.

“What are you talking about?”

“That pan handler with the long beard who hangs out at 6th and Market.”

“Yea, what about him?”

“It’s him. That guy over there.” She hushed, “Only he doesn’t have his fake beard and ragged clothes on… I knew he looked familiar.”

“Are you serious? Crap, I gave him my lunch last week.”

“What was it?”

“What was what?”

“Your lunch. What was in your lunch?”

“A peanut butter sandwich and some potato chips.”

“I can’t believe what you eat. How do you stay so skinny?”

“Debbie, what are we doing here? I feel like we’re on our way to a funeral. This is the end. I just know it.”

“Don’t you have, like, a steady diet of peanut butter and honey toast?”

“Stop talking about my food!”

“Don’t you get constipated from all that peanut butter?”

“No!” I answered, totally insulted by the implication.

“When was the last time you ate a vegetable?”

“1962…what difference does it make!?”

I began to freak out as quietly as possible, trying not to draw attention from the others. The rain was beating down hard on the metal roof of the van, a deafening prelude to a tragic fate.

“Would you chill?” she ordered me. “When we get to the rally, if we don’t like it, we’ll hop a bus back to Garfield. Simple.”

Nothing was ever simple when Debbie was on a role.

After four versus of the Buffalo Springfield song, we arrived at our destination. The guitar players had stopped their singing, but the lyrics and melody remained playing in my mind.

At the University of Minnesota, a large crowd had gathered in the park in front of Northrop Auditorium, where a stage had been constructed out of plywood and two by fours. There wasn’t any age: young couples, middle-aged adults, high school and college students, even some elderly, were all there. They appeared cold and wet, but determined. Their faces were serious with concern.

“Somethings’ happening here, what it is ain’t exactly clear.”

Debbie and I huddled under her umbrella as the rain lightened to a steady drizzle. A girl, looking to be in her twenties, approached me with a smile.

“Hi, don’t I know you?” She asked, looking at me somewhat mystified.

“I don’t think so.” I smiled back.

She was wearing a makeshift raincoat out of a black garbage bag with holes cut out for her head and arms. It hung mid-thigh, allowing her cut out for her head and arms gauze sack dress to appear from underneath, stopping just above dirty socks and sneakers. Her right shoulder secured a fishnet purse and her left hand held a sign that read “Make Love Not War.” She mixed well with the surroundings.

“Sure!” she insisted, “We met last weekend. I was waiting outside the Nankin restaurant for the bus and you told me how much you liked Chinese food, too. I said I had just eaten the best moo-goo-gai-pan and you said your favorite was chicken chow-mein, then I said, Wow, what a coincidence because my mom likes chicken chow-mein, and you said you were going to call me. …Then…”

“Does the bus come soon?” Debbie mockingly interjected.

“I’m pretty sure you have the wrong person,” I insisted.

Debbie started snickering and joined in. “I agree. You have the wrong person.”

I always knew when Debbie was about to implode from containing her laughter. We had done it many times at work, like children in church. The harder we tried to behave, the harder it became to regain our composure. Debbie was having one of those moments. I wasn’t

“Mia, take your hat off.” Debbie ordered, just as she lost all self-control over her laughter.

“What? No, my...