and the way he managed to present his own freakiness in a fairly convincing context. Sitting there, half listening, I was reminded of those old B movies with midgets dressed up as cowboys—the hero and the outlaws and the Shetland ponies—all midgets, but they play it straight, so after a while you begin to think that’s how the world is, it’s pint-sized, it comes at you in small doses. With Ollie Winkler, however, there was the added dimension of danger.
I finally stood up.
“One personal question,” I said casually, smiling at him. “When you were a kid, I mean, did you ever fool around with chemistry sets? Like testing nails for their iron content?”
He gave me a stare.
“Maybe so,” he said. “What if?”
“Just a question.”
“Yeah, but so what?”
“Fine,” I said, “don’t get defensive.”
“I’m
not
defensive. What
if
, though?”
I nodded soberly and picked up my tray.
“Those nails,” I said. “I’ve always wondered. Iron or no iron?”
Ollie slapped a fork against the palm of his hand. There was a pause, then he chuckled and rolled his shoulders.
“Super wit,” he said. “Chemistry sets, I like that, very shitty-witty. And here’s another funny one: What’d the chef say to the terrorist? There’s this chef, see, and there’s this jerkoff terrorist—real namby-pamby, can’t get no results—so the chef says, he says: Listen up, asshole. You don’t make a revolution without breaking a few legs.”
A week later he joined me on the line. He was carrying a home-made model bomb. “Audiovisual device,” he said, “like in show-and-tell.”
It wasn’t friendship, just an alliance. Two of us now—me with my poster, Ollie with his bomb—and together we established a makeshift front against the war. It was entirely my show. No broken legs, I told him, and although there were complaints nowand then, he generally played along.
“You’re the boss,” he’d say softly, “but the time’ll come. You can mark it on your calendar.”
I didn’t let it influence me.
Slow and steady, I thought.
It was a routine. All through December, then time off for Christmas vacation, then the brittle cold of January. Long hours on the line, stiff fingers and tenacity. There was schoolwork, too, and exams and humdrum classes, but there was also a subtle new sense of command. I slept well. Fluid sleep, smooth and buoyant, a plush new laxity in my bowels. I was healthy. I was almost happy.
The only drawback, really, was Ollie Winkler.
“Letter bomb?” he’d say. “All I need’s a zip code. Send it COD.”
“No.”
“Yeah, but Jesus, we’re not
getting
anywhere.”
“Negative.”
“No, you mean?”
“I do. I mean no.”
By temperament, obviously, I was not inclined toward violence, and therefore even his mock-up bomb made me a bit queasy. A demo model, Ollie called it, but it had the heft and authority of the genuine article. A steel frame with nasty appendages at each end, bright copper wiring, a soft ticking at its core.
“The bombs are real,” Ollie said, and tapped the hollow casing. “Say the word, I’ll arrange some surprises.”
I just shook my head.
In a way, though, he was right. The bomb had credibility. People made wide turns as they entered the cafeteria. The power of firepower: it delivered a punchy little message.
“What I could do,” Ollie said, “I could—”
“No.”
He grinned. “Oh, well,” he said, “live and learn.”
Mostly it was drudge work. We doubled our picket time—Mondays and Fridays. No theatrics, just moral presence. We were
there
. All around us, of course, the apathy was like cement, hardand dense, and to be honest there were times when I came close to chucking it. Goofy, I’d think. And futile. I was no martyr. I hated the public eye, I felt vulnerable and absurd. Fuck it, I’d tell myself, but then I’d remember. Headlines. A new year, January 1967, and eighteen GIs died under heavy mortar fire outside
I finally stood up.
“One personal question,” I said casually, smiling at him. “When you were a kid, I mean, did you ever fool around with chemistry sets? Like testing nails for their iron content?”
He gave me a stare.
“Maybe so,” he said. “What if?”
“Just a question.”
“Yeah, but so what?”
“Fine,” I said, “don’t get defensive.”
“I’m
not
defensive. What
if
, though?”
I nodded soberly and picked up my tray.
“Those nails,” I said. “I’ve always wondered. Iron or no iron?”
Ollie slapped a fork against the palm of his hand. There was a pause, then he chuckled and rolled his shoulders.
“Super wit,” he said. “Chemistry sets, I like that, very shitty-witty. And here’s another funny one: What’d the chef say to the terrorist? There’s this chef, see, and there’s this jerkoff terrorist—real namby-pamby, can’t get no results—so the chef says, he says: Listen up, asshole. You don’t make a revolution without breaking a few legs.”
A week later he joined me on the line. He was carrying a home-made model bomb. “Audiovisual device,” he said, “like in show-and-tell.”
It wasn’t friendship, just an alliance. Two of us now—me with my poster, Ollie with his bomb—and together we established a makeshift front against the war. It was entirely my show. No broken legs, I told him, and although there were complaints nowand then, he generally played along.
“You’re the boss,” he’d say softly, “but the time’ll come. You can mark it on your calendar.”
I didn’t let it influence me.
Slow and steady, I thought.
It was a routine. All through December, then time off for Christmas vacation, then the brittle cold of January. Long hours on the line, stiff fingers and tenacity. There was schoolwork, too, and exams and humdrum classes, but there was also a subtle new sense of command. I slept well. Fluid sleep, smooth and buoyant, a plush new laxity in my bowels. I was healthy. I was almost happy.
The only drawback, really, was Ollie Winkler.
“Letter bomb?” he’d say. “All I need’s a zip code. Send it COD.”
“No.”
“Yeah, but Jesus, we’re not
getting
anywhere.”
“Negative.”
“No, you mean?”
“I do. I mean no.”
By temperament, obviously, I was not inclined toward violence, and therefore even his mock-up bomb made me a bit queasy. A demo model, Ollie called it, but it had the heft and authority of the genuine article. A steel frame with nasty appendages at each end, bright copper wiring, a soft ticking at its core.
“The bombs are real,” Ollie said, and tapped the hollow casing. “Say the word, I’ll arrange some surprises.”
I just shook my head.
In a way, though, he was right. The bomb had credibility. People made wide turns as they entered the cafeteria. The power of firepower: it delivered a punchy little message.
“What I could do,” Ollie said, “I could—”
“No.”
He grinned. “Oh, well,” he said, “live and learn.”
Mostly it was drudge work. We doubled our picket time—Mondays and Fridays. No theatrics, just moral presence. We were
there
. All around us, of course, the apathy was like cement, hardand dense, and to be honest there were times when I came close to chucking it. Goofy, I’d think. And futile. I was no martyr. I hated the public eye, I felt vulnerable and absurd. Fuck it, I’d tell myself, but then I’d remember. Headlines. A new year, January 1967, and eighteen GIs died under heavy mortar fire outside
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