the corners of his mouth.
They sat, eleven people in a large, dimly lit room, eight of them hiding twice the years of living that their fresh and unseamed faces showed, slowly remembering what being young was like, and starting to enjoy it again.
They ate pizza from cardboard boxes, drank beer from a keg. The pizza tasted better, spicier, the beer colder and richer than they had remembered. The music was fresh, the conversation more alive than any they had heard in years.
They listened to their young friends talk about music, about films and books. Their opinions were frank and unassailable, and they gave the exasperating yet charming impression of being absolutely right in everything they said. There was no subject too lofty, no problem so complex that it could not be encircled and solved by their simple, youthful logic.
For the most part, the eight kept silent, allowing Tracy and Keith and Dale to talk. When they discussed politics, Keith asked Frank why he had that stupid grin on his face, and Frank replied that it just felt so good to be a liberal and not feel guilty about it. The young ones looked around and shook their heads in mock pity, then talked some more, and slowly Woody understood that this was a Saturday night in the fall of 1969, that same fall that—
". . . get the damn ROTC off campus, for one thing."
It was Tracy who spoke, her pretty face aglow with righteous indignation.
"It could be done," said Keith quietly.
"Here we go again," said Dale. "The old blowing up the ROTC building routine. Careful, Keith, or somebody'll take you seriously."
"Maybe they should," Keith said, and gave Tracy a look. It was so quick that it would have been easy to miss, but Woody recognized it for the conspiratorial glance that it was.
And he became aware of the tension that had come over all those who shared his future, his memories of the past, and, it seemed, his consciousness. How long would it be before Keith and Tracy made their dark, fatal, visit to the ROTC building? A month? Weeks? Only days?
His mind whirled. Could anything be changed? He was in the past because of what had happened in the present, and his present ( now the future—oh God! ) had been dependent on what had happened in the past. If it had not been for the loss of Tracy, his nostalgia would never have been strong enough to make him want to come back. So wasn't his very presence there evidence that he couldn't change anything?
Even so, it didn't matter. Logic, even under the most illogical of circumstances, had to take a back seat to love and friendship. "Dale's right," Woody said. "You ought to forget it. Violence isn't the answer."
"It's an answer," Keith said. "When every other answer's been tried and doesn't work."
"Keith—“
"Woody, you know that old story. Sometimes you have to whack the mule over the head with a two by four to get its attention. We've whacked the mule, so now maybe we just have to shoot the motherfucker. Hey, nobody likes violence." The way he smiled made Woody wonder. "But if it's the only way to let people know you're serious . . ."
"Things will change without it," Alan said. "A couple years from now ROTC won't be mandatory on any campus.”
“Sure. And how do you know?"
Alan glanced at Woody, who gave his head a small shake. "I just know, that's all. Things are changing."
"Not fast enough."
"You can't blow up any buildings, Keith," Judy said, lecturing like a mother hen. "Please. Just don't." She turned to Tracy. "That goes for you too."
"Who made you my mother?" Tracy said, surprised.
"Well, I'm old en—"
“ Judy ." Woody's response came without thinking.
Tracy looked from one to the other. “Jeez, you guys are weird tonight. Let's change the subject, huh?"
"No," Woody said, looking at her, touching her hair. "It's important that you believe us, that you believe us implicitly."
"It won't matter, Woody," said Alan. "I don't think it can change anything . . . we can change anything."
What the
They sat, eleven people in a large, dimly lit room, eight of them hiding twice the years of living that their fresh and unseamed faces showed, slowly remembering what being young was like, and starting to enjoy it again.
They ate pizza from cardboard boxes, drank beer from a keg. The pizza tasted better, spicier, the beer colder and richer than they had remembered. The music was fresh, the conversation more alive than any they had heard in years.
They listened to their young friends talk about music, about films and books. Their opinions were frank and unassailable, and they gave the exasperating yet charming impression of being absolutely right in everything they said. There was no subject too lofty, no problem so complex that it could not be encircled and solved by their simple, youthful logic.
For the most part, the eight kept silent, allowing Tracy and Keith and Dale to talk. When they discussed politics, Keith asked Frank why he had that stupid grin on his face, and Frank replied that it just felt so good to be a liberal and not feel guilty about it. The young ones looked around and shook their heads in mock pity, then talked some more, and slowly Woody understood that this was a Saturday night in the fall of 1969, that same fall that—
". . . get the damn ROTC off campus, for one thing."
It was Tracy who spoke, her pretty face aglow with righteous indignation.
"It could be done," said Keith quietly.
"Here we go again," said Dale. "The old blowing up the ROTC building routine. Careful, Keith, or somebody'll take you seriously."
"Maybe they should," Keith said, and gave Tracy a look. It was so quick that it would have been easy to miss, but Woody recognized it for the conspiratorial glance that it was.
And he became aware of the tension that had come over all those who shared his future, his memories of the past, and, it seemed, his consciousness. How long would it be before Keith and Tracy made their dark, fatal, visit to the ROTC building? A month? Weeks? Only days?
His mind whirled. Could anything be changed? He was in the past because of what had happened in the present, and his present ( now the future—oh God! ) had been dependent on what had happened in the past. If it had not been for the loss of Tracy, his nostalgia would never have been strong enough to make him want to come back. So wasn't his very presence there evidence that he couldn't change anything?
Even so, it didn't matter. Logic, even under the most illogical of circumstances, had to take a back seat to love and friendship. "Dale's right," Woody said. "You ought to forget it. Violence isn't the answer."
"It's an answer," Keith said. "When every other answer's been tried and doesn't work."
"Keith—“
"Woody, you know that old story. Sometimes you have to whack the mule over the head with a two by four to get its attention. We've whacked the mule, so now maybe we just have to shoot the motherfucker. Hey, nobody likes violence." The way he smiled made Woody wonder. "But if it's the only way to let people know you're serious . . ."
"Things will change without it," Alan said. "A couple years from now ROTC won't be mandatory on any campus.”
“Sure. And how do you know?"
Alan glanced at Woody, who gave his head a small shake. "I just know, that's all. Things are changing."
"Not fast enough."
"You can't blow up any buildings, Keith," Judy said, lecturing like a mother hen. "Please. Just don't." She turned to Tracy. "That goes for you too."
"Who made you my mother?" Tracy said, surprised.
"Well, I'm old en—"
“ Judy ." Woody's response came without thinking.
Tracy looked from one to the other. “Jeez, you guys are weird tonight. Let's change the subject, huh?"
"No," Woody said, looking at her, touching her hair. "It's important that you believe us, that you believe us implicitly."
"It won't matter, Woody," said Alan. "I don't think it can change anything . . . we can change anything."
What the
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