that, mythic. They trod through this vale of tears just like every generation. To confirm that truth all you have to do is read the newspapers and police reports of that time. I took ironic comfort in that fact; what did I have to bitch about when every generation had faced the same travails and terrors we have? And they didn’t even have Walter Cronkite.
Downtown was bright and crowded. Cliffie had put several extra cops on the street. We had to park three blocks away. The air was turgid and hot. The sidewalks were full of people hurrying. Even from this distance we could hear recordings of Reverend Cartwright singing. He hawked his records along with his diet tip books and his collected sermons, you know, just the way Jesus did.
Wolf packs of teenagers filled the streets with their low-slung cherry bomb mufflers competing with the tinny voice of the good reverend. As we reached the edge of the tiny park I saw that my prediction had been accurate. Gathered close to the stage were the faithful, probably a couple hundred of them. This was strictly BYOS, bring your own seating. They sat on lawn chairs, blankets, and even a few air cushions. Most of them had come family-size, wee ones as well as kids as old as sixteen or so. I had to wonder how many of the older ones had had to be dragged here tonight. Or maybe that was just my cynicism. Many of them could be just as sincerely devout as their parents.
Behind them were the smart-asses. You could identify them easily by their cigarettes, long hair, and smirks. Cops walked up and down in front of them, like army sergeants assessing their men. Cliffie would have given them strict orders to take no shit whatsoever. He was probably right in doing so. Abhorrent as Cartwright was-not to mention stone insane-he and his followers had the right to watch the play in peace. Of course when I was a teenager I might well have been one of the smirkers out tonight.
While the smirkers weren’t officially hippies-they got into too many fights to be all peace-and-love-brother about life-a number of them affected hippie styles. Bell-bottoms, vests, tie-dyed T-shirts, and peasant blouses and long full skirts for the girls. A number of girls had come braless and that was all to the good. A new crew of them arrived in an elderly van painted with flowers and a peace sign.
The stage was long and flat, buttressed by folding metal props beneath. Behind it were heavy wine-colored curtains held up by thick steel rods. You could set up and take down the stage easily. Over the years it has been used by some actual celebrities. Kate Smith sang here pushing war bonds during WWII. Johnny Ray appeared here pushing for the polio drive, then the scourge of young and old alike. And most recently a local kid named Ryan Boggs had brought his guitar and a three-piece combo here to sing his one-and-only hit song that had won him a spot on American Bandstand and The Lloyd Thaxton Show. He was riding a little too high one night in the Quad Cities when some loudmouth picked a fight with him. The guy swung on Boggs and Boggs hit him back. In falling down, the loudmouth hit his head on the metal edge of the footing underneath the bar and died. Boggs’s record company decided that Johnny was not a “decent representative of American youth” and canned his ass. He now plays beer parlors.
The first person to appear on stage was a teenager dressed up in a long-haired wig and a tie-dyed T-shirt covered in so many love beads he would probably suffer a neck injury from trying to support them. He wore jeans torn at the knees. He was barefoot. He came mid-stage. There were enough standing microphones to pick up just about every word. Music came up, sounding like Lawrence Welk playing something by The Doors.
The one thing the faux hippie was good at was portraying insolence. I wanted to slap the bastard across the fake beard and mustache. I knew tonight was going to be nothing but stereotypes, but nobody needed to make this town any more unfriendly to hippies. Even though the majority of citizens believe in live and let live, the aginners always spoke louder.
Subtle he wasn’t. He pulled from his front pocket a twisted runt of a cigarette. “Tune in, turn on, and drop out. Those are my words to live by. Excuse me a second.” He lit the joint, inhaled deeply, held it, then exploded smoke from his lungs. “If everybody smoked a little dope, this’d be a cool, cool world.”
The smirkers were nudging each other and grinning. The cops were giving them dungeon looks.
“I bet if Jesus was alive today he’d be smoking joints right along with the rest of us.”
Now it was the turn of the followers to react. Some booed; others poked each other and shook their heads.
“And he’d be into a lot of things the squares don’t understand. Like how everything should be free and how people like me should run the government and how this whole war thing is a complete lie. He’d be on our side.”
More subtlety. The sound effects of lightning and thunder, the music quick-fading underneath. The whole stage shook. And then from behind the drapes a new character appeared, the Lord Jesus Christ himself. He was tall, he was bearded, he wore the flowing white robe of all the traditional paintings. The one difference was the face. Where Christ was usually portrayed in a sentimental, almost sweet way, this Christ looked like he’d kill your mother for fifty cents. The broken nose, the long scar on the left cheek, the big fists dangling from the arms.
And then he spoke. He had the voice you’d expect from that face-rough, deep, threatening. He walked right up to the hippie and slammed his hand into the kid’s chest, shoving him back a few feet. The hippie almost went down. “You’ve got some of your hippie friends here. Bring them out. I want them to hear this, too.” He snapped his fingers.
While we waited the half minute for four other hippies-two girls, two boys-to appear, Kenny leaned in and said, “You know that bumper sticker: ‘Jesus is coming and boy is he pissed’?”
My laugh was loud enough to attract attention, including that of the cops. Kenny was right. I had been raised to believe that Jesus Christ had been an understanding and forgiving man who helped the sick and the poor and the troubled. That was the Jesus I loved-whether he was merely man or son of God didn’t matter much to me-and this cartoon travesty was perverse even for Reverend Cartwright.
All four of the new hippies wore wigs, meaning that they were the children of church members where long hair, among many, many other things, was forbidden.
“Now get this and get this straight. I’m going to tell you how to live the right way and unless you want to go straight to hell when you die, you better listen to me. You got that?”
The hippies all pretended to be terrified. They looked like bad actors in old silent films, hands over their faces as if trying to repel an attack, one of them falling to her knees and folding her hands in eager prayer. And they all chorused, “Yes, Jesus! Yes!”
“You know how in the Western movies there are towns that need to be tamed? Well, that’s what you’re going to do right here. And you’re going to start right now. No more drugs, no more sex before marriage, no more pornography reading or writing and no more rock and roll.”
They faked confusion, standing there in their bell-bottoms and tie-dyes and wigs, looking at each other in theatrical bafflement. Finally, the girl rose from her knees and said, “But how can we do this, Lord?”
There was a long pause filled with babies crying. A few of the smirkers were lighting joints.
“I am going to send one of my most loyal servants to the mountain the way it was done in Biblical times. There he will commune with me so that when he returns he will share my message with you. And from that message you will learn how to rid your town of the filth that stalks your streets.”
The sound effects were better than I would have thought. Crackling lightning, deafening thunder.
And while it was startling the ears, the good Reverend Cartwright strode onto the stage wearing colorful biblical robes and carrying a staff. This was a very different get-up from the recent time when he’d set himself on fire trying to burn Beatles records. You had to admire him for trying again. Of course, being Cartwright, he stumbled as he moved to center stage.
He threw his hands wide the way he did when he healed people. His staff flew off stage right. And somewhere the kid with the tape recorder hit the thunder and lightning sound again.
“You heard the Lord. I will go to Pearson’s Peak, where I will wait until he contacts me with his word of how to bring this entire town to his ways. And I will broadcast my daily shows from there with a live remote so you will not have to fear for my well-being.”
The smirkers were already laughing and shouting. “Pearson’s Peak ain’t a mountain!”
In case you allowed yourself to be misled by the biblical use of the word “mountain,” just as there is no ocean or surf in Iowa, there are no mountains. Pearson’s Peak is a tall spot of red clay above the river road. It is approximately a thirty-foot drop to the pavement below. Many years ago, back when even the most elegant among us still used outhouses, somebody sarcastically named it after Pike’s Peak.
This was typical Cartwright, the whole thing. His followers genuinely wanted to run the hippies out of town,
