Trophies And Dead Things

'Yeah-but that guy's produce isn't even organic.'

'And organic,' Rae said, 'is always correct. As is oat bran, anything made out of soybeans, recycling, and taking public transit.'

'Great,' Hank said. 'Just when I finally bought a decent car. I guess I'm politically hopeless: until three months ago I was still calling Asians 'Orientals.' I was corrected by a high-school girl, for Christ's sake. I've now got that one licked, but I still slip up on calling blacks 'African-Americans.''

Anne-Marie said, 'High-school woman.'

'Huh?'

'Woman, not girl.'

'Jesus!'

The subject of the conversation was beginning to irritate me, as trendy things-whether on the left or the right of the political spectrum-tend to do. 'You know what all of this is?' I asked. 'Just trappings. People are finally emerging from the selfishness of the Reagan era, and they want to act socially responsible again, but they don't know how to go about it. And you know what else I think? I think a lot of the people who are into being politically correct are the same ones who took up jogging and Cajun cooking and BMWs with a vengeance. It's something to do, and it makes them feel less guilty about having money.'

Willie said, 'Nice rant, McCone.'

'Thank you.'

Rae said, 'Well, wasn't it just trappings back in the sixties, too? No, I guess not. The sixties were about peace and love and freedom-'

I interrupted her. 'What the sixties were about was rage.'

She stared at me, her expression shocked.

'Think about it,' I told her. 'SDS was formed because the students were enraged by what their elders were doing to the world, and particularly by the war in Asia. The Weatherman bombings: rage because the revolution hadn't come off as they'd hoped. You probably think of the Beatles as an upbeat symbol of the sixties, but have you ever really listened to the lyrics of songs like 'Happiness Is a Warm Gun' or 'Piggies'? Sheer rage at the establishment.'

Hank said, 'Shar's right. Our generation was raised to expect the good life. And then what did we get? The threat of annihilation by nuclear weapons. The assassinations of the Kennedys and King. An undeclared war whose origins were so complex that most of us had to take a history course to understand them. And it was us who were being drafted to fight it, while our elders feathered their nests with the proceeds of defense contracts. No wonder people were pissed.'

Rae frowned, unwilling to give up her illusions. 'But what about the Summer of Love? The hippies?'

'They were pissed, too. What better way to get back at the Establishment than by growing your hair down to your ass, dropping acid, and going to live in a commune?'

She was silent, her romantic visions shattered. I felt a little sorry for her.

Apparently Hank did, too, because he said, 'You know, I think I have a copy of the Beatles' White Album around here someplace. Let's listen to it one last time. And then let's kiss the sixties good-bye. Frankly, I'm kind of sick of them.'

He rooted through a big stack of LPs and put the two-record album on the stereo. It was scratched and tinny- sounding, but nostalgically familiar. For a while time rolled back for me, to the days of Rocky Raccoon, Sexy Sadie, and Bungalow Bill. And to 'Helter Skelter,' the song that had fueled Charles Manson's twisted imagination. When I finally heard the weirdly atonal strains of 'Revolution 9,' I thought, Yes, that's what it was all about-rage. I looked up. Hank was watching me, reading my expression. He nodded in agreement, and I knew he was also wondering what that rage might have done to Perry Hilderly.

As soon as the record ended, Rae announced that she and Willie had better be going. He'd fallen asleep with his head on her lap five or six songs before, and she had to shake him awake. They thanked Hank and went down the stairs, Willie leaning heavily on her.

I took my half-full bowl into the kitchen, dumped its contents down the disposer, and rinsed it before Hank could discover my lack of appreciation. Then I debated staying for another glass of wine, but thought better of the idea. Hank followed me into the hallway, and was just reaching for my coat when the sudden explosive noise came from the street below.

It sounded like a gunshot.

He froze, hand stretched toward the hall tree. Then a woman-Rae?-screamed outside.

I whirled and ran down the stairs. Yanked the door open and looked out.

Willie lay face down on the sidewalk near the bottom of the steps. His arms were thrown over his head, and he was frighteningly still.

Eight

Rae was running toward Willie from the corner, where her old Rambler American was parked. Under the streetlight her face was white; her breath came in ragged gasps. I scanned the street, saw no one except people peering through the doors and windows of nearby houses. Then I rushed down the steps to where Rae was now bending over Willie.

As I knelt beside her, he groaned and uncovered his head. He wasn't wounded or hurt, I saw with relief. And when he struggled to sit up, I saw that he had been scared sober. Rae said, 'Thank God you're all right!' and started to cry.

'Good thing old habits die hard,' Willie said shakily. 'I heard that bullet whine by and hit the dirt as fast as I ever did in Nam.'

Footsteps came up behind me. Hank. 'Anne-Marie's calling nine eleven,' he said. 'You okay, Willie?'

He nodded. 'Help me up, would you?'

Slowly other residents of the street-some of them clad in nightclothes-had begun to come out of their houses and off their porches. They glanced around fearfully, afraid of more violence. A low murmur started and swelled to a clamor of questions and exclamations. I heard a man's voice say shakily, 'Jesus, it must of been another of those random shootings!' As Hank and Rae got Willie to his feet, I asked the people near me what they'd seen. Most had only heard the shot, although one man had been standing at his front window and glimpsed a figure running toward Church Street, where the J-line streetcars operate all night long.

Anne-Marie pushed through the crowd. 'Was anybody hurt?'

'Willie's reflexes saved him,' Hank said.

'Reflexes, hell! If I hadn't been drunk, I'd be dead right now. First time I ever got any benefit from that.I was real unsteady, so Rae went to get her car. Guess I staggered right when he squeezed off the shot. I heard that bullet up close before I hit the dirt; sucker couldn't of gone past more than a couple of inches from my head.'

'Who fired at you?' I asked. 'You get a look at him?'

Willie shook his head, then glanced at Rae and said, 'Come on, honey, quit crying.'

Rae wiped her eyes on her sleeve and grabbed his arm. He patted her hand absently.

'Did you see anyone?' I asked her.

She shook her head. 'No, nothing.'

'Willie, where was he?'

He gestured vaguely at the other side of the street.

'Can't you pinpoint it more exactly?'

'Christ, McCone, I was dog shit drunk!'

I looked over there, thinking of the random shootings-and of my earlier feeling of being watched. And of Hank's similar feeling at All Souls the previous week.

Anne-Marie suggested we wait for the police in her flat, then led us through the crowd, fishing her keys from her jeans pocket. Sirens were audible in the distance now.

I followed on Willie's heels. 'Can you think of anyone who would want to take a shot at you?'