Read Online Second Chance by Chet Williamson - Free Book Online
Authors: Chet Williamson
Tags: Horror
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song that Curly had written about the ROTC Rangers, to the tune of "The Ballad of the Green Berets":
Fighting soldiers still in school—
Pink berets sure make 'em cool . . .
They nodded grudgingly when the subject of shows came up, recalling Judy as Marsinah in Kismet , Alan as Volpone , Curly as Creon in Antigone ("Wasn't Keith in that?" asked Diane, and others nodded yes, but said no more).
They talked about the music even as they listened to it, quoting lyrics to Arthur Brown's "Fire," Donovan's "To Susan on the West Coast Waiting," The Band's "Tears of Rage," and others that never became standards, but whose lyrics, riffs, melodies, set them all down gently into that time they remembered more clearly with every note.
And they talked about politics, of the marches that had not gotten the sole radical poli-sci professor re-hired, the sit-ins that had caused the library only slight inconvenience, the rallies that had made the board of trustees waver only a jot in their views on minority recruitment.
"There's one thing, though," said Alan. "Our boycotts got the local pool integrated."
"For two years," Sharla said.
"Huh?"
"It closed in 1971, Alan. It integrated all right, but the town fathers stopped supporting it, and it died." Sharla took a drag on the cigarette Alan had given her. "And you know how many blacks joined? Seven. One family of four and three students who never even bothered to go once they got their memberships. So all our weeks of picketing and shouting did was get four niggers wet for two years. Down south the honkies did better than that with fire hoses."
"So are you saying it was all worthless?"
"What are four wet brothers over twenty years ago worth?”
“We wasted a lot of time," Frank said, perched on the arm of the sofa.
"It was a waste of time to protest racial injustice?" Alan said. "Hey, in case you don't remember, we made things a helluva lot better for blacks—"
Sharla snorted. "Thanks a heap."
"Well, we did, you know it. And what if we wouldn't have all spoken out about Nam? We'd still be over there now."
"I don't know," Frank said thoughtfully. "Yeah, we protested racial inequality and Nam, but we protested things like the food in the cafeteria, or because we wanted grass legalized, or because we didn't think female undergrads should have to room in Byers Hall in the summer . . . sometimes I think we protested just for the hell of it."
"Kids do that," Sharla said. "Even my second graders. Part of growing up."
Frank nodded. "Yeah, but we've been congratulating ourselves for it for twenty-five years now, and things are a helluva lot worse as a result."
"What are you talking about?" Alan said.
"Drugs, AIDS, racial problems, the environment. We have to take responsibility for what's here now. We did it."
Judy came into the room and handed him a glass of beer. "Watch it, folks. He's gonna start on the farms," she said.
Alan frowned. "Huh?"
"Yeah, I am," Frank said. "Because it's important." He turned to the others and spoke in the low, passionate voice they all remembered.
"We visited my folks last month up in Lancaster County, Pennsylvania, where I grew up, where the Amish live. Best farmland east of the Mississippi. People I talked to from Canada said that land like that up there would be protected so nobody could build on it. And what's happening here? Developers buy up farmland faster'n hell, drop crackerbox buildings on it, call it Sequoia Acres or Village Square or some other fucking lie. And why? For the quick buck. And if we run out of farmland and have to start buying food abroad, that's just tough shit, they got theirs."
"So what are you sayin '?" Sharla said lazily. "We shoulda protested homebuilders instead of the cafeteria?"
"Not should've," said Frank, "but should. Things are worse now than they've ever been. It's not just a race or a generation, but the whole damn planet's at risk."
"Pennsylvania's not the whole planet," said Alan.
"It's indicative, that's
Fighting soldiers still in school—
Pink berets sure make 'em cool . . .
They nodded grudgingly when the subject of shows came up, recalling Judy as Marsinah in Kismet , Alan as Volpone , Curly as Creon in Antigone ("Wasn't Keith in that?" asked Diane, and others nodded yes, but said no more).
They talked about the music even as they listened to it, quoting lyrics to Arthur Brown's "Fire," Donovan's "To Susan on the West Coast Waiting," The Band's "Tears of Rage," and others that never became standards, but whose lyrics, riffs, melodies, set them all down gently into that time they remembered more clearly with every note.
And they talked about politics, of the marches that had not gotten the sole radical poli-sci professor re-hired, the sit-ins that had caused the library only slight inconvenience, the rallies that had made the board of trustees waver only a jot in their views on minority recruitment.
"There's one thing, though," said Alan. "Our boycotts got the local pool integrated."
"For two years," Sharla said.
"Huh?"
"It closed in 1971, Alan. It integrated all right, but the town fathers stopped supporting it, and it died." Sharla took a drag on the cigarette Alan had given her. "And you know how many blacks joined? Seven. One family of four and three students who never even bothered to go once they got their memberships. So all our weeks of picketing and shouting did was get four niggers wet for two years. Down south the honkies did better than that with fire hoses."
"So are you saying it was all worthless?"
"What are four wet brothers over twenty years ago worth?”
“We wasted a lot of time," Frank said, perched on the arm of the sofa.
"It was a waste of time to protest racial injustice?" Alan said. "Hey, in case you don't remember, we made things a helluva lot better for blacks—"
Sharla snorted. "Thanks a heap."
"Well, we did, you know it. And what if we wouldn't have all spoken out about Nam? We'd still be over there now."
"I don't know," Frank said thoughtfully. "Yeah, we protested racial inequality and Nam, but we protested things like the food in the cafeteria, or because we wanted grass legalized, or because we didn't think female undergrads should have to room in Byers Hall in the summer . . . sometimes I think we protested just for the hell of it."
"Kids do that," Sharla said. "Even my second graders. Part of growing up."
Frank nodded. "Yeah, but we've been congratulating ourselves for it for twenty-five years now, and things are a helluva lot worse as a result."
"What are you talking about?" Alan said.
"Drugs, AIDS, racial problems, the environment. We have to take responsibility for what's here now. We did it."
Judy came into the room and handed him a glass of beer. "Watch it, folks. He's gonna start on the farms," she said.
Alan frowned. "Huh?"
"Yeah, I am," Frank said. "Because it's important." He turned to the others and spoke in the low, passionate voice they all remembered.
"We visited my folks last month up in Lancaster County, Pennsylvania, where I grew up, where the Amish live. Best farmland east of the Mississippi. People I talked to from Canada said that land like that up there would be protected so nobody could build on it. And what's happening here? Developers buy up farmland faster'n hell, drop crackerbox buildings on it, call it Sequoia Acres or Village Square or some other fucking lie. And why? For the quick buck. And if we run out of farmland and have to start buying food abroad, that's just tough shit, they got theirs."
"So what are you sayin '?" Sharla said lazily. "We shoulda protested homebuilders instead of the cafeteria?"
"Not should've," said Frank, "but should. Things are worse now than they've ever been. It's not just a race or a generation, but the whole damn planet's at risk."
"Pennsylvania's not the whole planet," said Alan.
"It's indicative, that's
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