A House Divided: A Saga of the Sixties

21

Archivists’ Note

Armed with pen, paper, pencils and tape recorder, my aim was to pull together a long overdue graduate thesis chronicling the turmoil of our time. I would interview college students, veterans returning from Vietnam, and middle-aged parents struggling to understand the upheavals unfolding in their midst – but that plan changed when I became reacquainted with my younger cousin last summer. Though only in his teens, we stayed up talking into the wee hours one night, and I was spellbound as a torrent of poignant experiences poured out. By the time the sun came up, it dawned on me that his story captured the tenor of our tumultuous times better than anything else I might dig up.

What follows is Paul’s story, woven together from a string of visits and patchwork of notes, clippings and letters. Told mostly in his words, it’s the tale of a carefree, gum-chewing kid struggling to find his niche in a family and nation increasingly torn by the divisive social movements at home and the Vietnam War abroad. More than just a tale of lost innocence, however, it is also a story of hope and illumination. But I’m getting ahead of the story, of Paul’s story. M.W. – Fall, 1968

May 31, 1967

Like everyone else, I’m psyched for school to be over. Joining the stampede of students charging out the double doors of Forest Parke Jr.-Sr. High, I took the weathered concrete stairs leading away from the school three at a time, then hopped on the smoke-belching bus with Mark, Murph and dozens of other kids itching to start summer vacation.

But as much as I’m ready for the TV-watching, ball-playing, bike-riding, gone-swimming days of summer, I’m worried about the coming week. The one good thing is I get one more chance to break five minutes in the mile before eighth grade is over, but it’s not the track meet I’m fretting about. What’s bugging me is Chris. He’s my older brother who turned eighteen last month and is about to graduate. That’s great for him, since there was a time when it looked like he might not make it, but the real problem is Mary. She’s our older sister – or should I say, our Anti-Establishment older sister. She blew in from college when I was stuck in some boring end-of-year class. I haven’t seen her in four months and should be glad she’s home, but I’m not.

Actually, it’s not her I can’t stand; it’s the way she and Chris go at it. Like today. I was psyched because Coach gave us the day off so we could be rested for tomorrow’s meet, and I figured I’d find the guys, ride our bikes down to the creek, take a swim and start plotting our summer adventures away from the prying eyes of the nosy neighborhood moms. I knew we’d have to ditch that plan when I saw jagged bolts of lightning crackling across the darkening sky on our bus ride home, except now it’s looking like the nasty storm I ran into back at the house may be more ominous than any of the ugly clouds rumbling overhead.

The weird thing is, I’d almost forgotten that Mary and Ravenne – the granola-munching college roommate she’d spent the past two weeks hiking around New England with – were even due in. But when I got home, there they were. Or rather, there it was. While I was counting the minutes till the bell rang, the two had chugged into town in the eye-popping microbus they’re planning to sputter out to San Francisco in. They’re planning to crash at Ravenne’s parents house and supposedly have summer jobs lined up, but I think they mostly just want to get in on some groovy scene they’re calling the Summer of Love.

Either way, I’m not so sure about the little mural on wheels. It’s splashed with bright swirls of day-glow paint and may not turn any heads in California, but it sure sticks out on our tree-lined streets here in Forest Parke. Even if they hadn’t parked their groovy microbus beside Chris’ camo-green ‘57 Chevy, I’m sure Mary and Chris would’ve found a reason to go at each other; and with the psychedelic peace-and-love van sitting next to Chris’ beer-fueled hood-mobile, I cringed to think what Mary’s visit might bring this time around. After all, back at Christmas she’d baked a couple of tasty apple pies, but had also dished up a fiery batch of anti-war remarks after we said grace, declaring the best way to get peace on earth was by going to every protest between here and LBJ’s war-making White House. Unfortunately, her preachy tone didn’t add much in the way of holiday cheer to the family meal, and left an especially sour taste in Chris’ mouth, since the hot looking cheerleader he was dating back then – his girlfriend-of-the-month, basically – had an older brother serving in the marines. Even worse, his favorite football coach – Bulldog Brown, a tough-talking, fireplug of a guy who fought in Korea and has gotten Chris out of a few jams – is still in the army reserves.

Which means I was definitely nervous when Chris and his crew-cut buddy pulled up in a hot Mustang convertible complete with black racing stripes and chrome wheels. It screeched to a halt right when I reached our driveway, and Chris – wearing a sleeveless football jersey that made a big show of his veiny biceps – hopped out the passenger side. His hands were flailing in disgust at the offensive microbus parked beside his pride-and-joy beer wagon; while Glenn – his football teammate who’d been a decent, if not exactly Johnny Unitas-type quarterback – got out, glanced at the darkening skies, and started putting the convertible top up. Meanwhile, Chris’ angry scowl had me thinking I should’ve taken cover at Mark or Murph’s house, since I could’ve mooched a snack, showed off the dozen baseball cards I’d traded for at lunch, and waited for the crappy weather and Chris’ even crappier mood to pass. It was tempting, but then Glenn finished with the convertible top, jumped back in his Mustang, gunned the engine and screeched away, leaving behind a spray of loose gravel, burnt rubber and a sullen older brother glowering right at me.

Hey Twerp, get a load of this shit! he called. It looks like a certain somebody’s parked their mind-blowing microbus in the middle of the goddamn driveway, so the whole world can see how the biggest freak show between here and Berkeley’s rolled into town!

That’s when I got my first close-up look at the brightly colored bus.

Yeah, I – I guess that must be one of those psychedelic paint jobs, I said, taking my cue to check out the microbus, thinking it looked like something from the glossy pages of a Life Magazine spread on the growing hippie movement. But since Chris would’ve ripped into me if I got too interested in the colorful eyesore, I made sure not to act too excited.

It looks like they’ve got about every kind of flower you can imagine painted on it, I said, not sure what else to say as I made my way to the driver’s side, a sinking feeling hitting me when I realized that neither Mom’s brown-paneled station wagon nor Dad’s rust-bitten Rambler were anywhere to be seen – meaning neither of our parents would be there to referee any skirmishes that might flare up.

And it doesn’t get any better on the inside, Chris grumbled, cupping his calloused weightlifter hands as he peered in the opposite window.

Brushing back the unruly bangs that Mom’s always threatening to cut, I snuck my own look inside while Chris slid toward the front of the bus. The first thing to jump out was a dashboard plastered with buttons and stickers sporting snappy little movement slogans like ‘Make Love Not War,’ and ‘Get out of Vietnam!’ Meanwhile, the rest of the van was littered with more empty food wrappers and dirty clothes than my bedroom floor, with a pair of mud-caked hiking boots peeking out from under the driver’s seat for good measure.

And just in time for your graduation, I said, stepping aside to let Chris pass, hoping he’d find more humor than annoyance in my remark.

Yeah, that’s the last thing I need, he said, is to have a pair of grungy freaks come marching into school waving their bullshit protest signs. And look at this crap, he added, scowling at the van’s hood where the original VW logo had been replaced by a makeshift peace symbol, they’ve got one of those chicken-shit peace stickers slapped on the front.

But check it out, I said, pointing to the foam mattress and flannel sleeping bags laid out in the back. It’s all set up to camp out, kind of like a little crash pad!

I saw that, Chris said, his lip curling in a sneer, except they’ll need to get rid of the beat-up guitar and bullshit songbooks. Look at this crap – Dylan, Baez, Pete Seeger –

Along with the rest of it, I said, my curiosity beginning to outstrip my caution as I scanned the cluttered interior. But since the junk littering the van’s inside included hand-scrawled cardboard posters with ‘War is Not Healthy for Children and other Living Things,’ and ‘Vietnam: Love it or Leave It,’ scribbled on them, along with an array of stray books and pamphlets with titles like Reveille for Radicals, The Feminine Mystique, and Vietnam: The Logic of Withdrawal, I decided I’d better not call Chris’ attention to these.

Just then, the front door of the house swung open, followed by Mary demanding, Which one of your Neanderthal friends just roared out of here in the obnoxious muscle machine?

Pausing long enough to send a reasonably friendly, but thoroughly distracted ‘Hi Paul,’ in my direction, a glaring Mary – her freewheeling friend trailing airily in her wake – marched out of the split-level brick house she’d once dubbed a conformist box in the suburbs. It wasn’t the warmest greeting I’ve ever gotten, but then again, it seems like I’ve never amounted to much more than a twerpy pawn in their high stakes feuds, so with her annoyed glare fixed squarely on Chris, I shuddered to think what kind of response her prickly greeting would bring.

For your information, he began, a little smirk creasing his face as he pointed toward the fresh tire marks fishtailing away from the house, what you see there is a work of four-wheeled art, courtesy of that bitchin’ Mustang Glenn snagged from his old man’s dealership.

And I’m guessing you’re Chris, Ravenne broke in, sliding between my seething siblings, a wrist-full of copper bracelets jangling together as she offered her hand in a token gesture of peace. Ignoring Mary’s scowl as she brushed her mane of flowing brown hair off her forehead, she added, I hear you’re the football player?

Yeah, that – that would be me, Chris hesitated, probably as shocked by the newcomer’s friendlier-than-expected greeting as by the fact that her tie-dyed tank top wasn’t doing much to conceal the fact that it had been a few years since she’d shaved under her arms.

Meanwhile, Mary – sporting a white t-shirt boasting a red Power-to-the-People fist stenciled on the front – opted to stay out of it for the moment. She was probably just trying to think of a snide comeback of her own, but I was grateful her shirt at least had sleeves, sparing me a glimpse of her under-arm hygiene. But other than their shirt sleeves and facial expressions – Mary’s hostile and ready for a skirmish, Ravenne’s more curious and welcoming – the two looked like they could’ve been twins. They had the same beaded headbands, granny-style glasses, and flowing waist-length hair. And just like the hippies you see on TV, their raggedy-ass blue jeans looked like they’d been stitched together with a couple of dozen patches, the fraying bottoms cut out to flair over their dusty bare feet.

Oh yeah, Ravenne said, still doing her bell-bottomed best to win Chris over, And sorry to hear about the bummer scene with Penn State.

It’s no big deal, Chris mumbled, pushing a shock of dark hair off his glowering eyebrows. I’ve got other things I’m looking into.

And you must be Paul? she said, turning her gaze toward me.

That’s right, I said, happy to have been acknowledged by this mellow but surprisingly confident guest who’d drifted into our midst.

Which means you’re the runner? she asked.

Trying to be, I beamed. Our last junior high meet got rescheduled for tomorrow and I’m trying to break five minutes in the mile – but this is your van?

It’s my baby, she said, our ticket to San Francisco.

And it’s all decked out for the trip! I said, despite the withering glare I felt from Chris.

Yeah, it’s been on its share of trips, if you dig what I mean, Ravenne said, flashing me the kind of conspiratorial wink which I didn’t quite get, adding, and it’ll go a lot further than you’d think, but it’d be even groovier if we had a record player for those deadly stretches of road that are so flat and dull, and there’s nothing on the radio except a bunch of hick music mixed in with those god-awful doses of Sunday morning gospel.

But if you were driving something like that ass-kicking Mustang that just pulled out of here, Chris cut in, you could cruise all day and listen to anything you want, since Glenn’s new ride’s rigged up with an eight-track tape player, custom speakers –

Except, Mary cut in, I doubt if any of the chauvinist shit you and your retarded friends listen to even qualifies as music, so we’ll just stick with our guitar and harmonica and make our own tunes.

And the screeching noises will scare everyone else off the road, Chris said as he brushed me aside, throwing an annoyed elbow to my chest that made me cough and spit out my gum. Swaggering back to the front of the van, he added, if the raunchy smell doesn’t get them first; what the hell is that anyway – more of that cannabis crap you smoke at college?

I don’t know what you’re talking about, Mary snapped, unless you got a whiff of your own armpits. And with that, she spun on her heels and marched toward the house, even as the first over-sized drops of rain began pelting down, leaving me to follow in her wake, shaking my head and massaging my aching ribs as I wondered why the hell my feuding siblings always had to act like such idiots whenever they’re around each other.

* * *

Unfortunately, they kept squabbling for the next half-hour after stomping into the house. Now, it’s almost midnight, and even though they called a truce before our parents got home, and even though the walls aren’t rattling from Chris blasting his stereo, I still can’t fall asleep. Luckily, the new baseball cards I snagged at lunch are tucked away with the rest of the cards in the ‘67 set I’m building, and Elsa – our golden retriever mix who’s ten times friendlier than either of my human siblings – is curled up at the foot of my bed. Every so often her back leg twitches and makes me wonder if she’s chasing a stick or following a hidden scent in her doggie dream world. It’s kind of funny to watch, but not much comfort, since every time she snores or jerks one of her paws, I feel jealous that I can’t doze off myself, knowing I should be getting a good night’s sleep if I’m going to be ready for tomorrow’s race.

I guess the good news is Mary’s only here for a week, and the lousy weather’s supposed to stop tomorrow. The rain’s still coming down now though, and every flash of lightning gives me a glimpse of the Billy Mills running poster taped over my bed, making me think how cool it would be to win a big race like the one in Tokyo three years ago when he exploded into a wild, come-from-behind finish to win a gold medal at the ‘64 Olympics. I know I’m a long way from that, but at least it’s a way of getting my mind off Chris and Mary for a while.

The thing is, I can’t get over how nasty they were – and how my ribs still ache from that obnoxious elbow Chris threw. I know he was just ticked off and wants me to side with him about how much of a freak Mary is, but it still stinks. And I’m sure Mary’s worried I’ll turn out like Chris and all the other fast-driving, slow-thinking jocks she can’t stand, but the way they were going at each other bugged me. At least Ravenne was nice. She asked about my running and seemed really sorry when Chris elbowed me aside, acting like he was Ray Nitschke or some other bad-ass football-playing linebacker while I was the pathetic running back for the other team – which I’d never be since I’m still pretty scrawny and he’s been lifting weights all these years and looks like the hulking guys you see in the muscle-man ads.

Either way, the whole thing made me wonder why Mary even bothered coming home. I know Mom and Dad say Chris’ graduation is a big important family thing, but I’ve got a lousy feeling about it. And I know Chris managed to pass his classes and really is supposed to graduate without going to summer school, but I’m still worried Mary will get on a roll and think she’s at one of her anti-war marches and start yelling the kinds of things that give hippies a bad name.

Maybe I’m making too much it, but after they went in the house, Chris started badgering her about how their sputtering little van won’t even make it over the first ant hill they come to. Mary wasn’t in the mood though and yelled for him to mellow out, saying not everyone has the same taste in tough-guy cars as he and his dumb-ass friends. Chris tried to act all innocent, like he was just worried about them making it to California, but then added how he’d hate to see them stranded in the middle of nowhere in a broken-down piece-of-shit peace-mobile, and they’d be better off going cross country in something with more balls. That’s when Mary lost it, screaming they’d make it to San Francisco just fine, and the last she’d heard the bigger the engine a car had the smaller the dick you’d find on the asshole driving it!

Whoa! I think Chris was even more blown away than me because he just grumbled, ‘who needs to mellow out now?’ At which point Mary stomped upstairs, while I ducked for cover in my own room. By the time our parents got home, they were giving each other the silent treatment. As usual, Mom and Dad acted like everything was fine when we sat down to dinner, even though meatless Mary – I guess she got turned on to being a vegetarian at college – wouldn’t eat the charred hamburgers Dad threw on the frying pan and made a big production of slurping down a lumpy-looking bowl of lentil stew instead. I thought that was kind of funny because Mary – and Chris too – always used to complain when Mom and Dad enforced the Church’s fussy old rule about not eating meat on Fridays, and I remember them both getting grounded for sneaking lunch meat or stray hot dogs when they thought no one was looking.

Either way, with Mary’s nose turning up at Dad’s burnt-burger masterpiece, and Chris making a big show of piling not just one but two of the charred burgers onto his ketchup smeared bun, my parents just smiled and said how nice it was to finally meet Ravenne after hearing so much about her. Then Mom asked about their drive from Boston and the different places they’d gone hiking, while Dad made his usual highbrow inquiries into their classes in the psychology-of-this and the history of who-knows-what. Through it all, I noticed Elsa decided it was safer to curl up in a far corner instead of claiming her usual begging spot beneath the table, and neither Mom nor Dad figured out that Chris and Mary weren’t exactly talking to each other. Or maybe they were just ignoring the spat, but either way, they seemed oblivious when Chris scowled at Mary’s lentils like they were a toxic gruel, and didn’t bat an eye when Mary’s lip curled anytime Chris took a bite from his over-sized hamburger or mentioned the list of graduation parties he’d be going to. But that’s my parents. They’re so busy with work, reading, going to bible study and dragging me off to Sunday Mass that they miss out on junk happening right under their noses. And what’s weird is that Mom – who went back to work when I was in third grade – is a social worker for some government program helping underprivileged kids, and Dad’s a big-deal psychiatrist in one of the downtown hospitals, so it seems they’d be more tuned in. But no. Even before missing today’s fireworks, they didn’t know Chris had started ditching class after his Penn State application got rejected, spending more time sneaking back home or making out in the parking lot behind school than he did in class – until he got busted, that is. Mom and Dad weren’t too thrilled about being called into school for a meeting with the principal, but managed to get it straightened out, and it looks like he’ll graduate on Saturday. After that, who knows?

The other thing bugging me is the day after they had to meet with the principal, Mom and Dad were getting on Chris for ‘throwing away his future,’ as they put it, and Chris snapped back in that smart-ass tone he gets, saying ‘maybe he’d just go out and join the stinking army if that would get them off his back.’ I doubt if he’ll really do it because he’s never said anything else about it, so I think he just said it so they’d lay off – but either way, if he comes out with anything like that while Mary’s here, all hell’s going to break loose.

June 1

As messed up as yesterday was, today was great! At least till I got home; but that can wait.

During school, I was pretty nervous about our track meet. The weather had cleared up and was nice and cool like back in April, but on the bus ride there, everyone was super rowdy because we got to leave school early. I had a bad case of the butterflies though, since I really wanted to break that five-minute mile – partly for me, partly because Chris hasn’t ever done it, and partly to get my mind off everything at home. I guess I could’ve been messing around like everyone else, but I couldn’t stop thinking about stuff, like when Chris was the hotshot sprinter going after the school’s 100-yard dash record, how he’d always be there for my races, wandering over like it was no big deal, but always there at the start. That was before he got kicked off the team for skipping practice though. And Mom and Dad would go to some of our meets, but with work and Chris’ graduation, they said things had gotten too busy. And I knew Mary wouldn’t bother, since her idea of exercise includes things like hiking, playing guitar or marching off to different demonstrations, but nothing that’s really a sport.

So there I was, chewing my wad of stale gum and staring out the window at the parade of nice houses, wondering how many picture-perfect, leave-it-to-Beaver families there were behind the manicured lawns, trimmed hedges and curtained windows. Seeing that none of these homes had a psychedelic microbus parked beside a tough guy beer-mobile though, I just plunked my head down on the seat in front of me, trying to tune out the noise around me and forget the dysfunction at home. That’s when I heard a husky kid two seats back hollering my name.

Hey Milton, he called. Why the hell are you being so quiet?

It surprised me and I must’ve jumped three feet, but I recovered and mumbled that I was thinking about the race.

Well, you were looking a little spooked, he said, as another kid snickered at the witty little racist remark he’d made, adding, we thought you might be scared shitless that you’re about to have a pack of jungle bunnies chasing your scrawny ass around the track.

No, I just want to run a good race, I said, staring back out the window, trying to ignore the taunts, even as I noticed the parade of nice houses giving way to clusters of cramped apartments and run-down strip plazas. Sensing we were getting closer to town, I pulled my gaze back inside and stared at the beat-up canvas sneakers I’d be wearing until it was time to change into my track spikes, thinking how what I really wanted was to turn around and tell the two loudmouths to shut the hell up.

Maybe I am a chicken-shit or mama’s boy or whatever else Chris says, but their snide jokes made me wish I had his size and strength so I could’ve told them to shove it and not worry about starting something. I suppose I could’ve joined in, but I guess I’m like my parents – I don’t like the racist stuff. It’s not like I have any Negro friends to speak of, since the next black kid who moves out to Forest Parke will be the first, but I’ve been down to the Head Start place where Mom works enough times to know that, ‘Hell – they’re people too.’

Which isn’t to say I wasn’t nervous about running against the Booker T. Washington kids. In fact, when we got to the beat-up asphalt slab outside their weed-choked track, there were all these tough looking guys with big afros and baggy sweats hanging around the rusted chain link fence, eyeing the yellow school bus that was about to dump a bunch of suburban white kids onto their turf. My butterflies started getting bad and made me wish Chris was there to tag along with. It’s weird because he can be such a jerk and doesn’t even like long distance running – in fact, he gave me a hard time about it when I first started last fall.

Cross country? he’d said with that snotty tone he gets when he thinks something’s really queer. Why the hell would you want do that? Those kids are just a bunch of scrawny rejects who couldn’t even make water boy on the football team. Coach even said they look like they escaped from a concentration camp, scurrying around the woods like they’re scared of their own shadows, their bony-ass ribs poking out of their scrawny chests.

It sounded pretty harsh, but I knew I wouldn’t get anywhere arguing so I just said that, being a foot shorter and weighing only ninety-five pounds, maybe I should check it out.

It’s up to you, he said, but I’ve never heard of anyone getting paid for running like you can playing in the NFL; plus, all the hot chicks go for the football players. But suit yourself – if it doesn’t work out, you can always hit the weights, hope you grow some more, and give football a try next year.

If that was all there’d been to it, I wouldn’t have cared if Chris ever watched any of my races or not. But it wasn’t long before he came around and started acting like a big brother should. In fact, he helped me get started on the right foot my first day of practice, even if it was in his tough guy way. The truth is, I was kind of nervous. I’d always beaten the other kids in the 600-yard dash back in grade school, but I wasn’t sure how I’d do at longer distances, let alone how I’d compare to a bad-ass older brother who was a big-deal sprinter and All-Conference football player. So, I’d snagged my shoes and shorts from my gym locker and was hanging my junk in one of the bigger stalls when I heard this deep voice calling behind me.

Hey you little shit, what the hell do you think you’re doing?

Uhhh, I – I was getting ready for practice, I stammered, thinking I might shit my pants when I saw a beefy-looking kid a foot taller and a hundred pounds heavier sauntering toward me. That might not be saying much, since Chris always says I look like the poster child for the skeleton diagrams in biology, but I still wasn’t too happy about my predicament.

"Well, you just so happen to be putting your crap in my locker, the kid snarled, his jowly cheeks and burly chest heaving up and down with each breath. And what the hell kind of practice are you getting ready for, because it sure as shit can’t be football from the looks of you."

No, I’m – I’m trying out for cross-country, I said, wishing I wasn’t trapped in the corner of a stinky high school locker room feeling like a squeaky mouse about to be pounced on by a hungry lion.

Cross-country? the other kid said, his lip curling in an ugly sneer as he shoved my clothes aside. I should’ve known, you puny little shit, except I don’t know why anyone would waste their time with a stupid little pussy sport like that. For all the good it does, you might as well go out for band or cheerleading – now take your goddamn crap –

I was feeling totally humiliated and had probably turned white as a sheet by then, but that’s when Chris showed up.

Hey Bradley, I heard him call, his voice more a growl than a greeting.

Milton – what’s up?

Bradley’s smirking, slow-witted response told me he had no idea there was any fraternal bond between Chris and the frightened prey he was planning to have for lunch.

I thought maybe you could tell me what’s up, ‘Pardner,’ Chris said, quickly sizing up the situation. I could tell he was seething inside, even if the steely John Wayne voice he uses when he’s pissed off wasn’t letting on that he knew me from the mailman’s kid.

Nothing much, Bradley said, but it looks like the gym door got left open and a few of the cross-country girls snuck in, with this one deciding to put her shit in my locker.

By now, Chris had had enough.

Bradley, let me tell you something chump, he said, jabbing an agitated forefinger deep into my nemesis’ portly chest, his fists and teeth clenching tightly as his face flushed beet red. "In case you didn’t know it, ‘this one’ happens to be my kid brother."

Oh, I – I didn’t know, Bradley stammered, going pale as he realized his mistake, suddenly acting like he was the one about to shit his pants.

Sooo, Chris went on, the veins in his neck and forehead bulging out the way they do when he’s super pissed or lifting really heavy weights, I’d suggest you take your own goddamned shit and find yourself another fuckin’ locker –

Okay, okay, I didn’t know he was your little brother.

Well he is, you fat motherfucker, Chris yelled, and if I ever hear you’ve even thought about giving him a hard time, I’ll kick your ass across this locker room till I’ve got shit all over my shoes!

And that was the end of it. Chris checked to see if I was okay, and Bradley didn’t think about pressing the point, since Chris had gotten a reputation for being someone you didn’t mess with long before he’d been voted All-Conference in football. In fact, Bradley had been there two years earlier when a team captain made the mistake of trying to pin the blame for a loss on Chris. When Chris first told me about it, he’d played it down and said he’d tried walking away, but the story going around school the next week was that it had turned into a one-sided brawl after the other kid said something to make Chris snap, and even the team’s bad-asses couldn’t believe how bad he’d messed him up, saying he’d torn into him like a rabid dog who’d snapped its chain.

* * *

Even if Chris – who’d picked up a ‘Mad-dog’ nickname after the infamous locker room brawl – had been there for today’s race, I’d have probably still been nervous waiting for the start. Not sure what else to do, I shadowed Coach around even though he was busy with the sprinters and jumpers. He finally told me to get lost and go do my warm-ups, so I changed into my spikes and started doing the pre-race jogging and stretching he’d taught us.

Things were going okay until I heard a Booker T. kid calling me.

Yo – blond boy, he said, your name wouldn’t happen to be Milton, would it?

Yeah, I said, trying to think why this tall, lanky kid with the bushy Afro seemed familiar. We hadn’t run against Booker T. in any of our two-way cross-country meets in the fall, but there was something about him.

Listen, my man, he continued, flashing the kind of devious grin Chris gets when he’s up to something, I hear you’re running the mile this afternoon, so I just wanted to say, if you have any trouble out there – making a wrong turn, not sure where to go, something like that – just follow me and you’ll find your way to the finish line no problem.

Sure – whatever, I muttered, even as I thought there’s no way you can make a wrong turn on the track. That’s when I remembered. We hadn’t run against Booker T. in a dual meet, but we had run against them in a big eight-team race at the end of the year. And that was the day I’d taken the lead a half-mile into the race but then made a wrong turn – and the kid who’d just come up to me was Benji Jefferson, one of two kids who’d slipped by and beaten me.

Next thing I hear is Coach Patterson, who must’ve seen Jefferson getting on me.

Milton, get over here! he called. I don’t know what that kid’s been saying, but you need to get out there and run your own race. Don’t panic and start too fast, but don’t let the pace lag. The word is he ran a 5:01 in his last race and has a pretty good kick at the end.

Hearing that made my already queasy stomach feel even worse, but it also made me want to win really bad. Finally, after another twenty minutes of stretching and pacing, it was time for us milers to toe the line. Jefferson took a spot on the inside, while I got stuck on the outside, with ten or twelve kids crammed between us. It wasn’t where I wanted to be, but it would have to do. Meanwhile, we got the usual instructions about giving our best, running a clean race and all the other stuff about good sportsmanship. Just when I felt like I was going to pop from anxiety, the gun went off and we burst from the line. Everyone was sprinting at first, but we started stringing out after the first turn. I already knew I could beat the other Forest Parke kids, but it sounded like this big-talking kid with the beat-up spikes and floppy shorts might be another story.

Coming out of the turn, another Booker T. kid bolted to the front and opened a fifteen-yard lead. I could tell he was a rabbit though, because he was already breathing hard and I’m sure Jefferson was hoping I’d go with him and burn out.

Sure enough, he was right with me, calling, C’mon Milton, we gotta catch that boy.

I ignored him, and heading down the backstretch the leader opened a thirty-yard gap, but I wasn’t too worried. It was Benji I was focused on, and after the first lap he pulled alongside me, calling out again about catching the other kid even as he surged ahead of me.

I decided not to take the bait, and sure enough, he eased off, with the rabbit kid starting to fade. Halfway through the second lap, Benji and I reeled the leader in, spent from going too fast. Just like I figured, it was looking to be a two-man race. I pulled alongside Benji as we came out of the far turn, but he surged again. Pounding down the straightaway toward the race’s halfway point, Coach sprinted alongside us, yelling, 2:36 Milton – you gotta pick it up!

I knew he was right. We were at a 5:12 pace, and if Benji had already run 5:01 and had a good kick, he’d have plenty of sprint left if we didn’t pick it up.

You ready to go? he said as I pulled alongside him, putting on an extra spurt to keep me from getting by.

It was too early to press the issue, so I just kept it steady. I knew I was making him work harder as we matched each other stride for stride into the third lap’s backstretch. By then, I was working pretty hard but still feeling mostly okay, so I decided to turn it up another notch.

That’s it, now we’re going, Benji said, except this time he let me by and I could tell his breathing was coming harder. As we pounded through the turn leading to the three-quarter mark, I’d opened a five-yard lead, with the next runners sixty or eighty yards back. Still, five yards was nothing if it came down to a sprint at the finish and Coach knew it too, because he was red-faced as he screamed our three-lap time, "3:48 – that’s it; push that pace!"

He was right. If I was going to win this thing, it wasn’t going to be with a spectacular come-from-behind Billy Mills kick, so with a lap to go, I went for it. We’d run three seconds faster on our third lap and it was too soon for Benji to hit full sprint gear, but that didn’t mean I couldn’t try to grind him down. It was risky because I was starting to hurt from my last surge and would need to hold on until the finish, still three hundred yards away. Go too fast too soon and I’d die on the homestretch. Hold back too much and Benji would come flying by at the end.

Pressing like I was, I knew I was forcing him to make some tough choices too. He could stay with me and maybe sacrifice his kick, or he could let me go and hope I’d bolted too early. Going into the last turn, I stole a glance back and saw I’d doubled my lead, hoping it would be enough. My arms were churning, but I could feel my legs tightening, screaming for me to back off. Suddenly, I had the dread feeling I’d gone too early and Benji would come roaring past. But then the thought flashed, ‘We’ll see who’s following who to the finish line this time.’ With that, I felt a surge of energy that carried me through the last turn, kind of like the adrenaline rush Chris must have felt when he beat the snot out of that kid after the football game.

But just as I hit the final straightaway, the pain came back worse than ever and I heard Benji closing the gap. Now everything hurt – my legs, arms and chest, even my head. Another glance back. Benji’s arms were pumping, but my lead had stopped shrinking. Maybe I could still do it, but it seemed like the finish line was getting farther away! I could make out Coach and the other kids screaming, but it was like seeing them in a fog while slogging through a pool of quick-drying cement. Finally, just when my lead-filled thighs couldn’t take anymore, I leaned forward and hit the tape, stumbling to the track as I did. Looking up, I saw Benji stagger across the line a half-second later, barely staying upright as his coach rushed over to help him.

Meanwhile, Coach Patterson came over and dragged me to my feet, even as I flopped in his arms like a rag doll.

You did it! he yelled, And I’ve got you clocked at 4:58!

I – I didn’t know if I’d make it, I choked, trying to find my legs, but I – I held on . . . and I’d been hoping to go under 5:00.

You did, Coach said, but forget the time – you won! That was an excellent race, a fantastic effort!

As the air started seeping back into my oxygen-starved body and the win began sinking in, I managed to regain my feet and shuffled toward the end of the straightaway where I saw Benji, still doubled over with his hands on his knees, unsure what kind of response I’d get in the wake of our battle.

Hey Milton, helluva race, he called, straightening up as he spied me, his voice sounding tired but surprisingly friendly as he reached his hand toward me.

Yeah, th-thanks, I said, a relieved smile spreading across my face as I wobbled closer, but I was worried you’d track me down at the finish.

I tried, he said, his grin as friendly as it had been mischievous just twenty minutes earlier, but I gotta give it to you – those last two laps got me.

I didn’t know if I’d be able to hold on, I said, but I’d heard I couldn’t let it come down to a last-second sprint or you’d come flying past like some kind of crazy Olympic runner.

I wish I had that kind of speed, Benji said, but I knew from back in the fall that you were pretty fast too, and since you weren’t about to make a wrong turn on the track –

"I knew I recognized you from that meet," I cut in.

Yeah, I managed to get you that day, Benji said, a sly grin crossing his face, but I also know I got a little help, so I was trying to mess with your head a little today.

You had me worried, but Coach drilled it into me, ‘run your own race.’

That you did, Benji said, adding, Listen my man, you’re okay. You beat me fair and square today, but you helped me get my first sub-five mile so you’re cool. But wait till next year, ‘cause I’ll be working my butt off and I’m gonna be looking for you!

Cool, I said, because it’ll give me something to work for too.

Heading back to the bus later, Coach strolled beside me, saying, That was a very impressive effort, and picking up the pace when you did completely took away that other boy’s kick.

Yeah, I really wanted to win that race, and especially since I remembered him from the fall and saw that he was playing some head games with me before the race.

I’d noticed that, Coach said, but he seemed like a nice enough kid in the end.

He was, I said, and I even feel like a bit of a creep for getting so freaked out, but to have him congratulate me afterwards when he could’ve made up some excuse about his beat-up spikes or crappy shorts; heck, I don’t know if I could’ve been as good a sport if he’d have won.

That’s a good observation, Coach said, eyeing me like I’d just earned another measure of respect, since it’s one thing to be all smiles when you win, but it takes even more character to be a good sport when you don’t. Either way, I think you both learned some important lessons today, and if you keep training, you could be looking at some varsity times next year.

* * *

It was a proud moment, but unfortunately the excitement pretty much got left on the track. Chris took a few seconds to congratulate me when I got home, but it didn’t last long, since more fireworks started going off between him and Mary.

How’d your meet go, Twerp? he asked as I slogged up the stairs, my legs still tired and heavy from the race. He’d just come out of a steamy bathroom reeking from the half-can of deodorant he always sprays on before one of his dates. His hair wasn’t combed, but he’d splashed on some after shave, put on a clean pair of Levis that definitely weren’t bellbottoms, and had a wet towel slung over the burly shoulders that, no matter what Mary says, have turned the head of pretty much every good looking girl in Forest Parke.

After stopping to pet Elsa – who’d popped up and started wagging her furry tail when she heard my voice – I started telling him about the race, raising my voice to be heard over the plucky guitar and harmonica chords filtering out of Mary’s room.

Sounds like you’re turning into a hot-shit little runner, Chris said, a note of approval in his voice after I mentioned my 4:58 time, but before I could give him more details from the epic battle, he turned his attention to the grating noises escaping