

### The Dark Avenger

### by

### Drew Banton

### The Industrial Strength Press

©Copyright 2019 Drew Banton

All Rights reserved

Smashwords edition

Also by Drew Banton:

A Dangerous Job

The Jack

The Gurry Room

The Mascot

The Printer's Apprentice

I Walk My Dog Every Morning

The Future Detective

e-mail: industrialstrengthpr@gmail.com

web: The Industrial Strength Press

Authors Note: This is a work of fiction. The characters and events are products of my imagination and are in no way intended to reflect negatively on any real person, living or dead.

### Table of Contents

Start

Midpoint

End

Author

It was one of the most epic sporting events of all time. The lithe, athletic, if somewhat under-sized right hander against the slim, crafty left hander, the former seemingly poised to break through at any moment, the latter precariously teetering on the edge but always managing to regain his balance. They battled through the late afternoon light into early evening, still deadlocked, the thwonk of the bat, the crack of the ball punctuating the running commentary describing and adding to the drama. A focused bright light shining from above allowed them to continue the struggle into the darkness.

And then, with the right hander threatening to finally break the will of his opponent and surge ahead, the light failed.

"What the hell do you think you're doing down there?" a shrill voice came from above through the darkened window where the light had been.

"Ma!" yelled the right hander, whose name was Lou. "We're trying to finish our game! Don't ruin it!"

"Get in here this instant!" the voice screamed in reply, the shrill note rising still higher.

But Lou was already running into the house to confront his mother.

Davis, the left hander, held his bat and watched the scene unfold. Should he just go home now or wait a while longer on the very slim chance that some sort of resolution could be achieved and the game be allowed to reach its natural conclusion? He knew he was probably going to lose, but losing was preferable to having this sort of abrupt ending. He was used to dramatic scenes between Lou and his mother. Usually they would escalate out of control and he would slip out the door or the yard unnoticed back to his own relatively serene home. But every once in awhile tempers would cool, the drama would subside and he could resume whatever it was he had been doing with his friend.

That didn't seem likely tonight, though. There seemed to be a struggle going on for possession of the spotlight that Lou had rigged in his bedroom window to allow them to continue playing. Davis couldn't make out the words but the tones of the voices were growing ever more hysterical. He took the bat and ball and began the walk home along the suburban streets, moving from the pool of light of one widely-spaced streetlight to the next. It had been one hell of a game.

***

If you excepted Myer-Myer, a man of indeterminate age who hurried around the village center talking to himself and sweeping out stores in return for food and lodging, Lou's mother, Vera, was the only genuinely crazy person Davis knew. She hadn't always been crazy. High-strung, neurotic, prone to operatic outbursts, yes, all of those, but at one end of what a reasonable person would call the normal range. Then had come her car crash. Davis never learned the exact details but knew it involved in some way her huge yellow Cadillac convertible, high speed and a light pole. After she had finally returned home from the hospital the obvious permanent damage was her disfigured face. Prior to the accident, she had a lean, somewhat hawkish look with a liveliness of expression that made it appealing, even to adolescent boys who were loathe to evaluate their own mothers in such terms but didn't hesitate when it came to the mothers of their friends. But despite the best efforts of highly skilled surgeons through numerous surgeries, there hadn't been much they could do to reconstruct her lower jaw. It was now a sort of half a jaw. With the half that was left she could eat some soft food and talk more or less intelligibly in a curious talking out of the side of her mouth adaptation. Lou and his friends had moved through initial horror to morbid curiosity to bland acceptance. They gradually forgot how she had looked before her accident. Any pictures around the house that showed her before the crash were discreetly removed.

Her new behavior, however, was not so easily ignored. It was normal, even for a sub-species typically lacking in a surplus of empathy like adolescent boys, to make allowances for someone who had been through such a traumatic event. But the statute of limitations had long since run out.

This day Davis had encountered the scenario he dreaded the most. He had ridden his bike over to get Lou so they could both ride to a pick-up baseball game at the Harding School ball field. But Lou wasn't ready yet. While he was upstairs doing whatever he needed to do, Davis was trapped alone with Lou's mother.

"Davis, my darling, how are you?" she gushed when he entered through the side door that opened from the garage.

She swept him up in an embrace that would embarrass pretty much any non-spouse, much less a hormones-on-the-march early teen boy. As he endured the unwanted physical contact, he had to admit to himself that although it couldn't end soon enough, she did smell pretty good for a grown woman. He gazed vaguely across the room, trying to ignore the sight her open robe had revealed. Although her faced was wrecked, there was nothing wrong with her body. She had no business displaying what could be seen through a flimsy nightgown, but it was part of her craziness to be oblivious to the effect it might have on a young boy.

"I'm OK, Mrs. Bernstein," he mumbled when she finally released him.

"Of course, you are, my dear boy, of course you are. Here, sit down. Let me pour you some orange juice." She guided him to a stool at a right-angled projection from the kitchen counter and moved to the refrigerator to get him the juice.

"That's OK, Mrs. Bernstein, I already had some at home. Is Lou ready?"

Without interrupting her movements, she screamed in a voice Davis thought might shatter the glass she was holding, "LOU! DAVIS IS HERE! GET YOUR ASS IN GEAR!"

Davis thought he heard Lou replying from somewhere in the house, but he couldn't make out the words.

She set down the glass of bright orange liquid in front of him, returned the carton to the refrigerator and leaned back against the counter across from him. "Oh, that boy takes forever to do anything. I don't know what I'm going to do with him. But I'm glad I have this chance to talk to you. I have a favor to ask."

Davis didn't reply. Lou's mother's "favors" were becoming a topic of much discussion among Lou's friends. He took a sip of the juice just to have something to do. He had to admit it was pretty good. No pieces. He hated orange juice with pieces floating in it.

"Lou's Social Studies teacher called me the other day. He said Lou hasn't been handing in his homework. When I asked Lou about it, he said he had and the teacher must have made a mistake, confused him with someone else. I know the little shit is lying, he always does, but I need to catch him at it. So, the next Social Studies homework assignment you have, I want you to ask Lou to show it to you and then watch him when he turns it in. If he won't show it to you, then tell me, and I know I've got the little bastard and I'll take it from there. And I'll give you ten dollars. Deal?"

Davis stared at his juice and then took another sip. He'd been asked to do enough of these favors now, and had compared experiences with Lou's other friends enough, that he now knew it was best not to respond. There would be no follow-up. The next time he got cornered, the current favor would have been forgotten and a new one, equally preposterous, would be proposed, only to be forgotten in its turn.

Now tears began rolling down her cheeks. "Oh, Davis, I don't know what I'm going to do with my poor, dear Louie. I'm just worried to distraction over him. It's so easy for a young man to go astray, so easy. All I want is a good life for him. Is that too much to ask? Is it? You have to help me save him. You have to! You will, won't you, dear Davis, you will, I know you will." She reached across the counter and touched his arm.

He felt like he'd received an electric shock but tried not to jump too obviously.

Like an act of deliverance, Lou finally appeared in the doorway. "Let's blow this joint," he said to Davis.

Davis got off his stool with a surge of relief. "Thanks for the orange juice, Mrs. Bernstein," he said.

"You'll remember what we talked about, won't you, dear boy?"

"Sure, Mrs. Bernstein."

Lou gave his mother a perfunctory kiss on the cheek as he swept past, counting on momentum to get him out the door. "Bye, Mom." He waved to Davis to hurry it up.

"But what about breakfast?" his mother cried.

"I ate before," Lou called, as he swung the door to the garage shut, leapt on his bike and was already pedaling out to the street as Davis hurried to catch up.

When Davis was pedaling alongside him, Lou said, "Let's stop at Berwick's," the lunch counter-soda fountain they would pass on the way to the field. "I'm starving."

***

After much poking and prodding Davis had finally convinced Lou to go out for the track team. Davis was fast enough to be a respectable if not starring member of the team. He had managed a fourth (out of eight, beat three people!) in the 220 yard dash. He was usually chosen to run the second 220 leg on the medley relay team that had won several times. Davis's job was to minimize how much ground he lost so that their excellent half-miler, Andre Dubose, wouldn't have to work too hard to regain the lead.

Davis and Lou sat next to each other on the infield of the track, stretching, imitating the Olympic athletes they'd seen on TV. The track coach, Mr. Goodwin, knew a lot about basketball which he'd played with much success in college, but not much about track and field. He did have one book on the subject but found he had a hard time keeping awake when he tried to read it. He had one coaching tool that he loved to use, his stopwatch. He delegated the coaching of the field events to Mr. Kulwicky who knew even less about track and field. Mr. Goodwin had his track boys (it was still in those primeval days before a girls' track team had been created) run a lot around the track. The stopwatch told the tale of who would run in a given meet and who not.

"You decide which race you're going for yet?" Davis asked Lou.

"I think I'll stick with the broad jump."

"But that's not a race."

"I know. That's why I like it. You don't get all tired and sweaty."

Davis stretched a little farther. He could just reach his toes with his leg flat on the ground. "C'mon. You're faster than most of these jerks. You could do good."

"Yeah, probably. But I'd have to work too hard."

"How about the mile? There's only Snyder. You probably couldn't beat him but you just get on his tail and follow him and you're probably second in every meet. That'd be pretty damn good."

Lou couldn't hide a bit of a grin. Something about the idea of taking on Bill Snyder, the one clear-cut star of the team, appealed to him. "OK. What do I have to do?"

"Just tell Goodwin you want to try the mile. Hardly anybody wants to run against Snyder. I don't even think he'll make you try out."

Lou nodded. He sprang to his feet. "Let's run."

***

Bill Snyder had transferred to the school the previous year. His father was moved around the country a lot by his company. Snyder was long-legged and lean, with pale skin, acne barely under control, stringy reddish hair and a level of athletic ability rarely seen in local kids. He won the state championship in the mile in near record time and was heavily favored to win again this year. His grades were good, too. His mother had a shoe box filling up with scholarship offers.

Bill was not unfriendly to the kids who had grown up in the town, but he mostly kept apart from them. He had a strong sense he was just passing through. This was a good enough location for him pursue his running and then move on to better, more interesting things. As Lou lined up next to him at the starting line for the mile, Bill gave him a bemused smile and nodded. Davis had been right. Lou was the only other runner from their high school. There were four from their opponent's school. They all knew very well who Bill Snyder was. This was a race for second place. Maybe Snyder would drag them to personal best times. Even if you lost badly, it was still sufficient for bragging rights to say you had run against him.

The starter raised his pistol, said "Ready," and fired. Snyder went right to the lead along the inside edge of the track. Lou went right behind him.

Davis jumped to his feet in excitement. "Go, Lou, you degenerate!" he yelled. He began cutting across the infield so he could shout encouragement on the backstretch.

Although Snyder was undeniably fast, his running style was not pretty. He held his head to one side, cocked at an odd angle, looking down at the oncoming track a few yards ahead. His right arm was tucked into his side while his left thrashed around spasmodically. He didn't lift his legs high but had more of a shuffling gait. He would settle into a steady shuffle that few could match, maintain it through three-and-a-half of the four laps and then shuffle and thrash even faster through to the finish, obliterating anyone who'd managed to stick with him that far. No coach would hold him up as a model of how to run, but his results spoke for themselves.

For his part, with virtually no coaching, Lou ran in a classic style that could've been used for an instructional film. Legs churning, arms rocking, body in a slight forward lean, he seemed to be floating slightly above the track as he followed Snyder. With barely half a lap gone, they already had a gap of several yards back to the other team's four runners.

Davis was jumping up and down, slightly deranged. "Oooh, that boy can run!" he wailed.

Snyder rarely had much competition in these dual meets and was rarely tested until larger meets with runners from far flung locations with reputations of their own. He was essentially running against himself. He was honing his sense of pace and his fitness, measuring his training progress towards the meets that would really matter. There was no reason to look back. But at some point as he completed his second and then third laps he became aware of the sound of footsteps. His normal trance-like state was intruded upon by the awareness that someone was staying with him. And then, as the final bend straightened out towards the final stretch, the steps got louder and a form, in the same blue jersey as he wore, pulled ahead. That kid from his school!

Snyder hesitated a moment from surprise, composed himself, turned his speed up a notch, pulled back ahead and crossed the finish line first as he almost always did. Lou crossed the line a moment later. It was a thirty second wait before the first runner from the other team finished.

Lou was bent over, hands grabbing the sides of his shorts, when Snyder came over to him.

"That was a hell of a race," Bill said. "What's your name?"

"Does it always hurt this bad?" Lou responded.

"About average. Depends on how many fast guys in the race. I thought I was the only one today, but I guess there were two."

"Then why do you put yourself through it?"

"You get used to the pain. And then it feels so good when you win."

"Before or after you throw up?"

Bill laughed. "Just don't get it on your shoes. It's hell to get the stains off." He slapped Lou on the back in a comradely way and walked off.

Davis was there, gushing. "Fer christ sake, you just almost beat the state champ in your first race. I wanna be your manager."

Lou finally felt he could stand up straight. "I'm switching to the golf team."

Davis laughed at his friend's joke as he contemplated his brilliant future track career.

"Let's go buy some beer," Lou said. He headed towards the locker room.

He didn't join the golf team, but he didn't run again, either.

***

Occasionally someone's older brother would be driving in the direction of the beach, saving them the ignominy of having to ride the bus. On the weekends the boardwalk was well patrolled so it wasn't worth the risk of jumping off to avoid paying admission, but that wasn't a problem during the week. This was one of those times. School had ended, but they weren't yet engaged in whatever it was they were going to do for the rest of the summer. An older brother was going surfing farther out on the line of beaches and he dropped them on his way.

Davis and Lou were with two other friends today. Calvin Phipps, whose brother was the surfer, was a thin, affable math whiz. He did not conform to a math whiz stereotype. He played sports with moderate success and asked girls out on dates, also with moderate success. He did not own a pocket protector although he did know how to use a slide rule.

Danny Baker had the distinction of being raised by his father and his older brothers, his mother having died when he was in grade school. He was square-jawed and rugged, a wrestler, not one to ordinarily back away from a fight, but disciplined enough to avoid being goaded into one in school. A female French teacher seemed to like him more than was strictly appropriate although the signs were subtle. He got a lot of kidding from his friends about it but didn't mind. His grades in French class were somewhat better than he deserved.

It wasn't the most sparkling of days. A high thin haze was bright, but the sun was only a vaguely suggested presence. A breeze was blowing off the water, pulling the temperature down. The late June water temperatures would not be great for swimming. But none of that mattered to the four friends. You only got so many days to go to the beach. You didn't let them pass.

They scanned the boardwalk up and down, satisfied themselves no authority figure was in sight and dropped over the railing ten feet to the sand. There were few other beachgoers. This more than made up for the other less than ideal conditions. On the weekend the place would be packed. Now they could run around and have a good game of touch football when they were tired of swimming. They dropped their towels on the sand, stripped down to their bathing suits and raced each other to the water. They screamed curses as they felt the first cold sting as they plunged in, but after a few minutes they found it tolerable. Later in the summer it would get comfortably warm, but even now it was much easier to take than it would have been further north.

Though the surf here was not ideal for board surfing (nor was it allowed), it was close to perfect for body surfing. The drop off from the shoreline was gradual. They'd swim out until they could just barely touch bottom or just a bit further, watch the line of rollers until they saw one curling just where they waited and then swim furiously to match the speed of the wave. When timed right, they would be rewarded with a ride of dozens of yards until they scraped bottom and were left almost out of the water by the receding wave. Then they'd run back in and do it all over again. And they'd continue until their arms felt too heavy to catch another one or the cold finally seeped through enough to make their teeth chatter. When one felt ready to take a break, they all did.

After they dried off the touch football game began. Rough goal lines were drawn in the sand. Davis and Lou were one team, Cal and Danny the other. Cal was skilled enough to have made the JV football team as a defensive back, but Lou's speed more than evened things out. Danny was a good athlete, but Davis had spent many more hours watching games and throwing a ball at a target on his garage.

It was the most elemental form of football possible. One player would hike the ball and go out for a pass, covered by one of the other team's members. The second defender would stand and count "one Mississippi, two Mississippi, three Mississippi" and then, if the pass had not yet been thrown, run at the one with the ball, attempting to lay both hands on him. The one with the ball could either pass or run. It was more fun to pass so that was almost always what Davis did. The most fun of all was to wait until the defender was trying to catch him and then pass on the run at the last possible moment.

It was during one such play, as Davis twisted to avoid Danny and heaved the ball as far as he could towards a sprinting Lou, that his errant pass drifted on the wind towards a blanket where four girls sat. The ball skittered across the sand and stopped finally on the girls' blanket.

They had noticed the girls, but they seemed older than them, not ideal pick-up candidates, and besides they were really here for swimming and football, not to meet girls.

Lou had been chasing the ball in flight so he was closest to the girls when it came to a stop. He slowed down and stopped near them but not too near. Now that he was close he could see that they were at least a couple of years older than him and his friends and had a certain tough look about them.

"Hey," he said. "Sorry 'bout that. Can you toss me the ball back?" His tone was easy and friendly but not too friendly. No hint of flirting.

One of the girls rested her hand on the ball which lay on the blanket. She was sitting cross-legged so it was hard to tell how tall she was. She wore a loose-fitting sweat-shirt that said "Notre Dame" on it. She seemed broad across the shoulders. Her brown hair was tied back on her head in a loose bun. She squinted slightly as she looked up at Lou.

"What if I don't want to give it back?"

Lou was usually quite glib, more likely to get himself into trouble speaking too quickly than being at a loss for words, but this time he was taken aback.

"Huh?"

"You stupid or something? Maybe I feel like keeping your damn ball." She turned to her friend, a blonde who wore her hair in a ponytail. She wore a zippered, hooded blue sweat-shirt, the hood down. "What do you think, Mary? Should I give them their ball back?"

Mary shrugged. "Finders keepers," she said.

Cal, who had been chasing Lou, but slowed down when he saw Lou was going to retrieve the ball, now came up. "What's up?" he asked Lou.

"You're a tall drink of water," one of the other girls said to him. She had been lying down but now propped herself up on one elbow. She had dark hair that hung loose to her shoulders, and wore a sweat-shirt with some sort of logo that the boys couldn't read.

"I think they want to keep our football," Lou said to Cal who was glad to have something to focus on other than the comment by the dark-haired girl.

Davis and Danny, who had been expecting the rapid return of the ball and resumption of the game, walked over to see what the delay was about.

The first girl, her hand still resting on the ball, said, "Well, the gang's all here. I guess it takes four studly young men to get back one little ball." She laughed without much mirth.

Lou now found his voice. "Listen, sorry we bothered you. Just give us the ball back and we'll go away and make sure we don't bother you again."

She now picked the ball up and examined it as if it were some interesting art object rather than a generic sporting-goods store football. She placed it in her lap, pointed end up, placed her hands on the ball and stroked it suggestively. "Maybe one of you is man enough to come take it back."

The fourth girl had been lying down covered almost entirely by a blanket. She now spoke up. "For God's sake, Grace, give the little boys their ball back. You trying to make them cry?"

This was too much for Danny. "You want to play games? I'll show you how to play games." He lunged forward and tried to grab the ball away from Grace. Her grip was surprisingly strong. Mary laughed and lunged at Danny's legs. She grabbed the lower edge of his bathing suit and began trying to pull it down. Danny had to let go of the football to keep his bathing suit in place. But the distraction was just enough for Lou to dart forward and grab the ball. Danny wrestled himself loose and all four friends sprinted across the sand to safety. The peals of laughter from the four girls stung far more than cold seawater.

***

One might call it "The Paradox of the Car." One of the most desired achievements of the later high school years in non-urban America was to obtain a driver's license. But once this goal had been obtained it quickly became obvious that there weren't all that many places worth driving to. So many hours of driving around with no particular destination in mind or driving to destinations chosen solely because some place is better than no place ensued. This is why the four friends found themselves pulling into the Carvel parking lot on a mild early fall evening.

The driver was Lou in his white Oldsmobile Cutlass convertible. Although all four had passed their driving tests and had licenses he was the only one whose parents had given him his own car. The others had to beg for occasional use of the family car. While all of them liked Carvel's soft serve ice cream well enough they were really there because they had failed to come up with any other alternatives. The Carvel was located in Beech Park, the neighboring town to their own Centerville. The towns were demographically similar, sharing a similar mix of mid-level suburban housing and some more modest working class oriented houses and apartment buildings. Centerville did have some more upscale areas, however, which gave the residents of Beech Park something they could choose to resent if they were so inclined. Thus, one of the passengers of a battered blue Ford Fairlane, on observing the Cutlass pulling into the Carvel parking lot, commented to his three friends, "Hey, that looks like some Centerville pussies, Let's get 'em."

Davis, Lou, Cal and Danny were just getting out of the Cutlass when the Fairlaine pulled up alongside them. The driver of the Fairlaine rolled down his window. Danny had been riding in the front passenger seat, the shotgun position, and was just a few feet away. The driver said to Danny, "Hey, what're you Centerville assholes doing in our town?"

Had it been any of the other three he had spoken to they probably would've gotten right back in the car and said, "Let's get out of here." But Danny was not wired that way.

"We came to wipe the pavement with some Beech Park shitkickers."

All four doors of the Fairlaine opened and the occupants emerged.

Davis muttered to himself, "Oh, shit." His last real fistfight had been in summer camp when he was eleven. He had flown into a blind rage when Howard Beal had casually slapped him on the head and the cabin counselor had to pull him off as he was pounding Howard's head against the steel bedframe. He didn't like his chances quite so well this time. The Beech Park kids advancing on them looked kind of tough.

The matchups seemed to evolve as if from a chart based on seating positions. Danny and the driver of the Fairlaine were already grappling in the space between the two cars. The rear passenger in the Fairlaine on the driver's side was squaring up with Cal. The front passenger of the Fairlaine walked around the front of both cars to reach Lou who was standing by the driver's seat he had just emerged from. Similarly, the remaining occupant of the Fairlaine walked around the rear of both cars to reach Davis.

The young man approaching Davis was a good four or five inches shorter than he was but broader. His hair was cut short and he looked angry. But something about the look and the way he moved said to Davis that he thought he was supposed to be angry but that true rage was lacking. Maybe it would come once the fight started. He grabbed Davis's shirtfront with his clenched hands. "Rich bitch," he snarled in an only semi-convincing, actorly sort of way.

"Huh?" Davis said, not quite able to figure out the insult. He grabbed the wrists of the boy because he couldn't figure out what else to do with his hands. He supposed he could've punched him in the face, but he didn't feel that level of escalation was called for just yet.

The boy then released one fistful of shirt and punched Davis in the stomach with his free hand. Davis supposed this aggressive act required one of his own in retaliation, but the curious thing was that it wasn't really much of a punch. It didn't hurt and barely pushed any air out of Davis's lungs. Were his stomach muscles really so developed (unlikely) or was his opponent really so weak (also unlikely) that his punches had no discernible effect? Or was he simply not punching very hard (most likely.) And if that were the case what would be an appropriate response? As he pondered this question, the boy punched him a second and then a third time with similar lack of effect. It slowly dawned on Davis that the boy was punching him because he was supposed to, a ritualistic sort of punching, and Davis was expected to respond in kind so that they would then have a fight where honor was preserved before their friends, but no permanent damage would be inflicted by either party. Davis looked around. Nothing much seemed to be happening with Lou or Cal and their counterparts. The only ones who really seemed to be fighting were Danny and his opposite number who had grappled their way into open space, had each other in wresting holds and were trying to free up their arms to take a swing.

Before Davis could decide what to do next, the manager of the Carvel's stuck his head out the door. "I called the cops!" he yelled. "You kids better get the hell out of here or you're in big trouble!"

This was like a buzzer going off indicating time for the contest had expired. The combatants each separated, got back in their vehicles, started them and pealed out of the parking lot, shouting things like, "Pussies!," "Assholes!, " and "Fuck off!" as they drove in opposite directions.

Danny was so revved up you could almost hear him humming like a high tension wire. "That fucking guy! That fucking guy! Just another goddamn minute and I would've had him! Shit!" He pounded his fist on the dashboard. "Shit!" He was breathing heavily as he stared out the window.

Lou made some turns onto quiet residential streets. He was heading back towards Centerville but avoiding the main drags.

Danny's breathing had slowed a bit. He turned towards the others. "What happened with you guys? I was too busy to notice."

Lou gave a small laugh. "Nothing much with me. I'm not sure if my guy wanted to fight or dance."

Cal shook his head. "Pretty much the same with me. I was kind of watching Davis. If his guy had started wailing on him I was gonna help him out."

"Me too," said Lou. "Definitely."

Danny looked at Davis. "Well?"

On short notice Davis wasn't able to come up with a version of events better than the actual one. "He punched me in the stomach three times."

Danny slapped the back of the seat. "Damn! Did you hit him back?

"I was thinking about it, but it all ended before I could decide what to do."

Danny put his hands over his face and leaned his head back. "He was thinking about it! Lord save us."

Lou was laughing. "I was going to jump out of that burning building before I caught on fire, but I had to think about it first."

Cal smiled and laid a hand on Davis's shoulder. He had been thinking about what to do himself.

"I'll punch him back next time," Davis said.

They groaned and laughed and gave him a hard time for awhile longer. Then they tried to think of somewhere else to go.

***

Lou had a certain beauty about him. His hair was dark, almost black, with a slight wave that he made only token efforts to control. His skin was pale and unusually clear for a high school kid but would tan to a smooth, mellow chestnut in the summer with no particular effort on his part. He was slender without appearing frail, graceful in his movements without appearing self-conscious. His eyes were a pale shade of blue, cooler than the blue of the sky on a clear day, perhaps the sort of blue a water-colorist might choose to suggest the sky. Davis thought his own looks were passable, but he knew he was far down the scale compared to Lou. He would expect girls would be attracted to his friend and many were. Lou would give them a certain amount of attention in return, but he didn't seem as obsessed on the topic as were his friends. When Danny Baker organized a party at his house on a night his brothers and father were going to be out, Lou asked a sophomore named Karen, who had been mooning over him, to be his date. She was a cheerful, round-faced young woman who would've been a perfect fit in an ad for mid-western dairy products. Her complete lack of cynicism was at odds with Lou and Davis, but maybe that was what Lou found attractive. When she hung up the phone after accepting Lou's invitation she shrieked with joy.

Davis decided to ask Deenie. Slender, pretty, with reddish brown hair, she had been out on a few dates with Davis. They had not progressed beyond the goodnight-end-of-date kiss stage. She was co-editor with Davis of the school newspaper. Their joint editorship was mainly distinguished by how much more time they spent talking and joking in the small newspaper office rather than any actual editing.

Danny was the only one of the group who had a steady girlfriend. She was a dark-haired young woman named Janet from the neighboring town of Beech Park, scene of their Carvel parking lot dust-up. She was the younger sister of a friend of one of Danny's brothers. She knew a couple of the boys who had been involved in the Carvel incident. Janet gently teased Danny how it turned out that both sides had won decisively depending on whose version you heard. She had a friend named Elana who consented to be Cal's date.

They'd had a few of these parties and the concept was simple. Drinks, but not too much for those who had to drive people home without getting arrested. Music and some dancing. Then, at a strategically selected moment, lights turned low, certain carefully selected albums on the turntable and couples separating for some making out. Although the friends loved to regale each other in the retelling after the parties about the wild times they had, in truth the parties were most notable for an almost quaint, touching civility. They were close enough friends that they could check any incipient bad behavior without rancor. If one of them drank too much the others would see to it that any messes got cleaned up and the afflicted one and his date got home safely. And the young women were quite safe with this group. Gratitude was the dominant reaction to sexual favors bestowed and resignation, not aggression the reaction to those withheld.

The other couples had moved to other parts of the house, leaving Davis and Deenie alone in the living room. The record ended leading to a break in the action so they had come up for air. They leaned back on the couch, Deenie's head resting on Davis's extended arm.

Making out was always a sort of negotiating session. Kissing had gone on with mutual enthusiasm. He had been allowed a brief foray in the fondling of breasts which revealed small soft objects with hard nuggets in the center. When he escalated to a hand at the junction of her thighs, however, he had been firmly denied access. When he took her hand and placed it on the bulge in his pants there had been an encouraging brief pause before she removed it. He couldn't rule out the possibility of trying that one again later.

"Maybe I should put another record on," said Davis.

"I don't think I want to give you your arm back just yet," Deenie said. She shifted a bit to get her body closer to his.

"No rush."

Lou wandered in through a doorway. His hair was in somewhat greater disorder than usual, his shoes were off and his shirt was untucked.

"Well, aren't you two the cozy couple," he said.

"Put another record on, why doncha, since you're so upwardly mobile."

"Yeah, yeah, what do you think I came in here for, the exercise? What should it be, The Mamas and the Pupas or more of that Johnny Mathis crap."

"What do you say, Deenie darling?"

"Mamas. Any more of Johnny and I'll barf on your shirt."

Davis loved that about Deenie. She could be a wise-ass.

Lou dutifully put the selection on. "As you were," he said and padded out of the room.

"I wonder how Karen's holding up," Deenie said.

"From the way Lou looked, I'd say he's been struggling to defend his honor."

Deenie laughed lightly. She loved his wise remarks. "Get ready to defend yourself, big boy," she said and began kissing him again.

***

Gym class, a traditional source of torture for some, was simply tedious for Davis and Lou. Had it consisted solely of playing games, soccer and flag football in the good weather, basketball and even, for goodness sakes, volleyball in the bad, they would have enjoyed the break from sitting in a classroom. But the gym teachers insisted on inflicting activities like gymnastics, agility drills and rope climbing. And when they did allow games it was most often that most sadistic of all ball sports, dodgeball.

Their friend Miles Kushman was one of those who suffered. Miles was short and wide, not fat so much as roundly and softly formed. He was on his way to becoming a gifted acoustic guitarist, but that counted for little when the balls were whizzing towards his head. Davis and Lou found they could make the game somewhat more interesting by working to protect Miles rather than just looking out for themselves, the usual goal of the game. They would shield Miles and then attack his would-be tormentors with vigor. The end result was usually the same, Miles would get slammed with a round projectile to the sound of a sickening splat, but he appreciated the effort of his friends nonetheless.

The three of them had already been eliminated and were standing on the sidelines watching the survivors on each team trying to decapitate their counterparts. Standing next to them was a tall, lean classmate named Norris Gold. He was the quarter-mile star on the track team, not quite of the caliber of Bill Snyder, the miler, but still very good. He had curly brown hair and a wide mouth that had an unfortunate habit of spraying his listeners while he talked. He was a nervous sort who seemed to be in motion even while standing still. He had strong opinions on many topics and was not shy about expressing them.

Norris was now returning to a topic he had expounded on several times already. "You can't be serious about quitting the track team," he said to Lou.

Lou would have liked to simply walk away, but he was more or less trapped on the sideline until the game finished. "OK, I'm not serious. I'm joking. But I'm still quitting."

"But you did so good against Snyder. You could rack up points in just about every meet. You're letting your teammates down."

Lou looked at Davis. "Am I letting you down?"

"Somehow I think I'll get over it."

"How about you Miles. Am I letting you down?"

"I'm not on the team."

"Yeah, but speaking hypothetically, if you were on the team, do you think you'd feel like I was letting you down?"

"I'd give that a hypothetical fuck no."

"So, you see, Norris, who exactly is it I'm letting down?"

Norris grimaced. He had a wide range of facial expressions but a grimace was one of his primary ones. "Well, I feel like you're letting me down."

Lou almost smiled. "But you see Norris, I don't even like you so why should I care if I'm letting you down?"

Norris was sputtering his way towards a reply when the last head was smashed by the last thrown ball, ending the game and permitting Lou, Davis and Miles to sprint towards the locker room to change for their next class.

"We gotta get that guy," Lou said to Davis in a low voice as he buttoned his shirt.

"You mean like beat him up or kill him or something?"

"No. Something better. Some form of non-violent punishment. You've got the most warped mind I know. Think about it."

***

They were sitting across from each other in the Cozy Cupboard Diner, the frequent end point after a night of driving around town. Often it was the four friends, sometimes with additions to the cast of characters, but tonight it was just Davis and Lou. They were waiting for their toasted onion rolls and vanilla (Davis) or chocolate (Lou) egg creams to be set before them.

"I think I have an idea," Davis said.

"Could you perhaps be a little more specific?"

"About what to do to Norris."

"Ah. Speak O Demented One."

Davis leaned forward. He spoke quietly so only Lou could hear him. "Well, you know how Halloween is coming up?"

"I am dimly aware of that. You want to put razor blades in an apple and give it to him?"

"Not exactly." Davis laid out his plan. Lou embraced it with enthusiasm. They set a date and a time. They shook hands on it just as the onion rolls and egg creams arrived.

***

Davis's parents were used to him staying up late, well past their own bedtime. He'd do some reading or finish overdue homework while the radio, volume turned low, played jazz hosted by honey-voiced DJ's. He'd then make up for his sleep deprivation by napping when he got home from school and sleeping late on the weekends. On this particular night, when he was sure his mother and father were safely asleep, he took the keys to the family Ford station wagon and quietly slipped out the back door.

He waited in front of Lou's house, engine idling. It was a few minutes past 2 a.m., their pre-arranged time. He didn't see any lights on in Lou's house. He hoped his friend remembered their plan. There was a tapping sound on one of the rear windows. He turned but didn't see anything. The door opened and a dim form slipped into the back seat.

"Let's move it." The voice was Lou's.

"OK, James." Lou was a big James Bond fan.

Davis put the big Ford in drive and pulled away.

"Not James tonight, my friend. Even better."

"Who then?"

"Mr. Abraham Davis, you are privileged tonight to be riding with the master of stealth known as The Dark Avenger."

Davis started laughing so hard that he had to pull over to the curb and stop. He turned and looked at Lou in the dim light coming in from a streetlamp. Lou appeared to be entirely dressed in black including a black balaclava that covered everything but his eyes and mouth. "Some getup," Davis said when his laughter had subsided.

"Laugh all you want, ye of little faith. You won't be laughing when you see The Dark Avenger in action."

"OK. I can't wait. Let's get started. I did a little scouting today. The north side of town seems to have a high concentration of our targets."

"Get us there, wheelman."

After a few minutes, Davis spotted a likely house. He pulled over to the side of the road, making sure he was not too close to a streetlight. "OK," he said. "I'll lower the tailgate window. You make the grab and I'll get going as soon as you're back in the car."

Lou slid out of the back, closing the door softly. Hunched down, keeping close to a line of shrubs along one side of the yard, he really was hard to see. He snuck up to the front steps of the house, grabbed the two pumpkins that were there and, in a moment, had them in the back of the station wagon and was back inside the rear seat. "Beat feet," he said, somewhat breathlessly.

Davis was already pulling away. "All right! Two down, umpteen to go! What a team!"

"How did I look," Lou asked, slipping out of character for a moment.

"I gotta say, Dark Avenger, I was impressed. Can I call you DA for short?"

"No, you haven't yet earned the right." He had resumed the slightly arch tone that signaled it was the Dark Avenger talking, not Lou. "Look, over there, some more."

"Got it."

They repeated the operation a dozen or more times. They never did more than one house on any block and avoided any that were too well lighted or were set back too far from the street. At one a dog started barking and they left quickly, emptyhanded. But that was the only difficulty. Soon the rear of the station wagon was full of pumpkins.

"Think we got enough?" asked Davis.

"Yes. Time to execute Phase Two. Why don't you drive by slowly and we'll size up the situation."

The house in question was a Tudor style that was common in the town with the front door and stoop on one side next to the driveway. There were two cars parked in the driveway. They liked that because it provided some cover. The one negative feature was a light over the front door.

"What do you think?" asked Davis as they drove by a second time. "Should we try to unscrew the bulb?"

"No," said the Dark Avenger. "Not worth the time. After we park, you get the pumpkins out and put them next to the second car and I'll take them from there. That'll be the quickest way."

Davis had decided on a place to park, next to a hedge near the driveway. The light was dim there, a little harder to do their work but less likely that they'd be observed. He pulled the Ford over and killed the lights. They both got out and gently closed the doors. The Dark Avenger grabbed two pumpkins and slunk alongside the parked cars until he was close to the stoop. He placed the pumpkins on either side of the front door and slunk back for more. Davis was removing them from the station wagon and lining them up alongside the car in the driveway.

Davis saw a pair of headlights swing onto the far end of the street. He froze and gave one short whistle, their agreed-upon signal for danger. He squatted down in the shadows next to the car in the driveway. The Dark Avenger became invisible. Before the headlights reached them, the car pulled into a driveway further up the block. The headlights were extinguished, a car door opened and slammed shut and, after a few more moments, their heart rates slowing, they resumed their work. They were done a few minutes later.

Lou slid into the front seat this time and removed his Dark Avenger mask. "Go slow," he said. "I want to get a good look."

They both glanced at their work. The pumpkins were stacked high on either side of the front door and continued on either side of the walkway in widening arcs. It was quite an artistic display considering the stealth and hurry involved.

"Man," Davis said, "that is really something." He was genuinely impressed. He didn't think he would've had the nerve to do anything better than stack them helter-skelter and run.

"Pretty good." Lou turned his neck to get a last glimpse as they pulled away. "Pretty good. But I don't know. Somehow, just not quite there yet. Something's lacking."

"No more pumpkins. We pushed our luck on that far enough for one night."

"No, no more pumpkins, I agree. The pumpkins are fine. It just needs something else, one more thing."

They were quiet as Davis drove up and down the streets.

Lou spoke. "I got it. Head towards Shumley's."

"Shumley's? What the hell do want to go there for this time of night?"

Shumley's was a very modest kid's amusement park and carousel on the other side of town. They had outgrown the rides but still went on occasion to play miniature golf or try to grab the brass ring on the carousel which took some skill hanging off the horses moving up and down and in a circle.

"You'll see when we get there."

Shumley's was set back from the main road through town along the sparsely developed stretch between their town and the next one. There were no lights on in the park or the parking lot. The only illumination was from the widely spaced lights along the main road.

Davis pulled into the parking lot. "Oh man, what are you getting me into now?"

"Pull all the way to the back of the lot as close to the mini-golf as you can get."

Davis did as instructed. He had been nervous at several points during their adventure, but his heart rate was considerably elevated now.

"I'm going to need you to come with me on this one," Lou said.

"You have to tell me what we're doing first."

"Well, the pumpkin display was good, but it really lacked a focus. Something that really catches your eye. I figure the rocket ship should do."

"Pumpkins are one thing, but we could go to fucking jail for this."

"Calm down, my good man. First of all, we're not going to get caught. Second of all, even if we do get caught, they're probably not going to send us to jail. And third of all, even if we do get sent to jail then we get out of the draft, so that's not the worst thing in the world, is it? You told me yourself you weren't sure you wanted to go to college but had to because of the draft. Well, your problem would be solved. But mainly, we're not going to get caught."

Davis had been shaking his head the whole time. Ah, Lou! "We have to lower the rear seats or it won't fit."

"That's my Davie, baby!"

It was a bit of struggle to get the seats lowered because they kept the interior car lights off so as to be less visible from the road. There was a low chain-link fence around the miniature golf course which they easily climbed over. Davis was half-hoping the rocket ship would be bolted down so they would have to abort the mission, but it was free standing on its four long fins. They tipped it over and laid it on its side. It was made of metal, but thin metal and was not particularly heavy. They found hand holds and lifted. They were quickly back at the fence

"Now what?" Davis whispered. There was no one nearby, but somehow whispering seemed appropriate when you were engaged in an activity like this.

Lou thought for a moment. "OK, let's stand it up. I'll get over the fence and you kind of lift it and tip it over the fence to me."

They scratched a little blue paint off the side of the rocket getting it over the fence, but otherwise it wasn't difficult. Davis opened the back of the station wagon. It took a little jockeying to get it at an angle that allowed them to close the tailgate, but that was done and they were moving again in a few minutes. Shumley's was well behind them and they were headed back through town.

Lou clapped his hands. "See? What did I tell you?"

"We're not done yet. What if somebody noticed the pumpkins in the meantime?"

"Relax. We got this nailed."

Lou pulled on his mask as they approached the pumpkin house.

"Why bother? I don't have a mask. And I'm not dressed in black."

"I know. It just gets me in the right frame of mind. Besides, if the cops do come, I can fade into the shadows and escape and let you take the fall."

"You asshole."

Lou laughed. "I wouldn't leave you like that. No, really."

"Right."

Davis parked in the same place as before. The house seemed quiet. The array of pumpkins was as they had left it.

"Where are we putting it?"

"Just to the left of the front door. That should complement the display perfectly."

"Oh, god help me. Let's go."

The rocket slid out easily. They carried it across the front lawn and set it where Lou had indicated. There was no crouching or skulking when you were carrying a rocket ship. You just carried it along, set it up on its fins, hesitated the barest of moments to admire your handiwork and got back to the car and down the street with haste.

Lou glanced back. "Perfect! Abso-fuckinig-lutely perfect!"

Davis couldn't drive straight back to Lou's. He was too worked up. They rehashed their caper as Davis drove at random up and down the streets. Finally, he pulled to the curb in front of Lou's house. "Well, we did it."

"Fucking A right we did it."

"Does the Dark Avenger have a secret handshake or something? You know, to kind of wrap things up and say farewell, job well done, that kind of shit?"

"No, he doesn't have one of those yet. Good idea, though. I'll work on it. You going to school today?"

Davis nodded. "Oh, yeah, got to. Just like nothing happened, you know."

"Yeah, you're right. But I don't know if I'm going to be able to look at Norris Gold without laughing my ass off."

"You do that anyway. Nothing unusual there."

"He's going to know."

"Well, sure. That's kind of the point isn't it? But we let on nothing. Nothing, no way, never. You with me on that?" Davis's tone was serious.

"It might kill me, but yeah. I'm with you."

"OK, then. See you later."

Lou looked over at him. "You know, you make a hell of a super hero sidekick. Any chance I can talk you into wearing a costume?"

Davis laughed and shook his head. "Get the fuck out of here."

Lou closed the car door quietly and made his way back to his house. He hoped his mother was still asleep. He was greatly relieved to find that she was.

***

There were graduation parties all over town. Davis, Cal and Danny were making the rounds, evaluating the food offerings at each one, finding out which ones were serving beer (eighteen was the drinking age in New York in that enlightened era), and looking for Lou who had promised to catch up with them somewhere along the circuit.

Deenie's parents were having one of the parties in their spacious backyard. Cal and Danny headed directly for the food and drink, partly because that was what they were interested in and partly because Deenie had come over to greet the three of them and they figured Davis might want to talk to her alone.

"Nice party," Davis said. He was determined to say something, anything but wanted to punch himself in the face for being so lame.

"I wish I could be party hopping with you guys," Deenie said.

"Well, come on. We have room in the car."

"My parents would kill me. I tried to talk them out of having this, but they wouldn't listen."

"Yeah, parents are like that, never listen to reason."

"I got into college," Deenie said, looking across the yard.

"I knew that."

"Not the state college. Holmes University, the one I really wanted to go to. I was on the waiting list and I just heard yesterday that I'm in."

Davis tried to sound enthusiastic. "That's great, Deenie. I'm really happy for you. That means we're both going to be in Boston. Maybe we can meet up sometime or something."

Things had gone awry between him and Deenie. Just when she was giving him clear signals that she was amenable to being his girlfriend to the exclusion of others, he became distracted by a girl from France who thought he was interesting and odd enough to go out with him on a few dates. By the time the girl from France had moved on to other candidates, a distance had grown between him and Deenie.

She shrugged. "Maybe. Well, I suppose I better go play the good hostess some more."

"Yeah, sure. If I don't see you before you leave, have a good year at Holmes." He knew there were better things to be said, but the words weren't there for him.

Deenie gave him a quick look. Was it a question? A look of regret? Of goodbye? He'd puzzle about that for a long time.

"You too, Davis." And she glided off across the yard.

Danny noticed that Davis was alone now and he came over. "Good food," he said as he finished off a chicken wing.

"I don't suppose you saw Lou anywhere," Davis said.

"No. Where the fuck do you think that perv got himself to?"

"No idea. Listen, I'm leaving. You and Cal can stay. I'm sure you can catch a ride to the next one."

"You sure?"

Davis nodded. "Sure." He didn't want to have to watch Deenie making friendly conversation with all the other party goers.

Danny punched him lightly on the shoulder. "I was thinking Rosen's next. See you there?"

"You got it."

Davis turned and left the yard, walking around the side of the house and out towards the street. There were thick hedges in front of the house. Just as he reached the hedges he heard a low "Sssst" sound. He stopped.

"Just stand still and look out at the street like you were trying to remember where you parked your car or something like that," said Lou in a low voice.

"I was wondering when you'd turn up." Davis had turned and addressed the hedge where Lou's voice came from."

"Look at the street, damn it!"

"Oh, sorry. Right. The street."

The hedge rustled. Davis could just make out Lou in his Dark Avenger getup. "Works pretty good," Davis said. "Wouldn't have known there was anything but a hedge there, if it wasn't talking to me, of course."

"This is the third party I've followed you guys to."

Davis shook his head. "What the fuck, man. You're supposed to eat and drink beer and talk to people you don't want to talk to, not hide in the shrubbery. What the hell kind of fun is that?"

"Are you having fun?"

Davis gave it moment's thought. "No."

"OK, then. There are more important things than having fun."

"Like what?"

"To Observe and Protect."

"Catchy."

"Oh, my good man, the things I've heard and seen this evening. I'll give you a full report tomorrow."

Davis shook his head again. "I'll look forward to that. Listen, I'm headed over to Rosen's now. You want a ride or you just want to slink your way over?"

"Go to the car, start the engine and wait."

"Got it, Dark Avenger." Davis walked towards the car. He got in, started the engine and waited.

The rear door opened and closed. He didn't see anyone in the back.

"You can go now," Lou said. "And you can call me DA if you want."

Davis smiled as he pulled away from the curb. He had made the grade.

***

Lou's older brother was named Robert. When he was eight years old he had informed everyone he knew that he no longer wished to be addressed as "Bobbie." He was henceforth to be called "Robert." A few adults smiled, but something about the seriousness of the young boy made them go along. He had been called Robert ever since.

Unlike Lou, who had been three years old when their biological father died and Bonnie, their sister, who had been just one, Robert, four years older than Lou, retained memories of their father. He adjusted and gave a level of acceptance when their mother remarried a few years after their father's death, but he always kept a certain reserve in his dealings with his new father. When he grew to adulthood, he retained respect for his stepfather and gratitude for the fact that he had stood by his mother through all her troubles, but he never really liked the man. Arthur Bernstein was not a warm man. He was solid, intelligent, a shrewd businessman, hard-working and loyal, but he was lacking in the qualities of warmth and humor. Vera had seen him as a reliable man to help raise her three children. He had seen her as a lively, attractive partner to help him succeed in the world. He didn't mind that she had two boys and a girl. He liked kids well enough in an abstract sort of way. The fact that she came with three already well underway relieved him of the task of having to produce some of his own. Oddly or not, he felt no biological imperative on that score.

As far as Arthur was concerned, Robert had been a perfect son. He did well in school, did as he was told at home and treated him with respect. That Robert didn't treat him with the affection he showed his mother didn't bother Arthur. In fact, it seemed perfectly natural to him. When Robert was ready to go to college, Arthur was happy to provide the funds. Robert went off to Hancock College, a prestigious small liberal arts college in central Massachusetts.

Lou had proven to be more of a challenge. Both because of his young age and his inherent nature, he hadn't maintained a reserved distance from the new man in the house. He had climbed in his lap and gotten him to read books before his bedtime and had raged in fury when made to do things he didn't want to do. As Lou had grown older, the quiet moments of bonding had grown fewer and the moments of rage far more frequent. When it became time for Lou to go to college, Arthur was again happy to foot the bill, but this time it was with a sense of relief that Lou was finally going to be out of the house. Bonnie, sweet natured and accommodating, learned to avoid the crossfire between Lou and his step-father. When Lou's friends were around, she provided a convenient target for them to practice their teasing skills, but she was Lou's secret ally in his battles with Arthur.

Lou's academic record was nowhere near Robert's but because Robert had done so well at Hancock and because he was a fervent advocate for his younger brother with those who made such decisions, Lou was admitted. And he was happy to go. He had thought he was going to have to go to the large state school in the same area of central Massachusetts. It was not a bad school at all but had none of the prestige or charm of Hancock. Instead of a massive high rise dorm, he'd be living in a small stone building with "suites", a limited number of rooms with a comfortable common area. The classes were much smaller and more varied. And somewhat counter-intuitively, it was less competitive. There was a winnowing out process at the big school that didn't happen at the smaller one. The administration at Hancock worked to keep you in there once they had brought you in. At the large school they admitted more than the school could handle like over-booking a flight. They figured the students who were most capable and wanted it the most would endure.

Lou's happiness at being accepted to Hancock was given a further boost when Davis decided to go to Burns College in a suburb of Boston. Davis's grades and test scores had been well above Lou's but, in the end, not quite good enough for the upper echelon of Ivy League schools. Burns was on a par with Hancock if without quite the cachet. Only a couple of hours on the highway separated the two friends. They vowed to weekend together at one place or the other often.

***

Davis had found it easy to get a ride out to Hancock for a weekend visit in the fall. Lou had found a vacant bed for him and promised a party-filled time. Davis's ride dropped him in the small town square and Davis wandered towards the center of the campus.

Now this is what a New England college should look like, he thought. Burns had some old buildings with a measure of charm, but overall, the ugly new overshadowed the quaint old. Not so here. The gray stone buildings were solid, more like geological features than architectural ones. The quadrangles they formed varied in size and always seemed to have some features to surprise and please the eye; an archway, a row of trees, a flight of stone steps to a lower level.

Davis stood at one corner of an expanse of green. A touch football game was in progress, six players on each side. One side wore loose-fitting sleeveless yellow jerseys over their normal clothes so the players could distinguish teammates from opponents. As Davis watched, a yellow-jerseyed figure sprinted from the line of scrimmage as a play began. Another yellow-jerseyed figure received the ball, took a few steps back and waited as long as he could. He then threw the ball in a long arc, impossibly long, what an arm, Davis thought, well beyond where the running figure could reach it. But no! The runner had seemed to have been running flat out but that was an illusion. In a burst that made his previous speed seem like a mere jog, he accelerated, reached the intersection of the ball's arc and his path, caught the ball and crossed the goal line in a fluid series of motions that made Davis laugh and shake his head. Lou.

Lou's teammates crowded around him and slapped him on the back. The game was over and they had won, thanks to Lou's touchdown.

"Cool it guys," Davis heard Lou saying as he approached the group. "You'd think money was involved or something."

"Not bad for a track team dropout," Davis said when he was close to the group.

"Hey, you shit bum, glad you made it." Lou tossed him the ball which Davis managed to catch. "Gentlemen, and I use the term very loosely, this is my good friend from the lower regions of hell, Abraham Lincoln Davis. I renamed him Davis in the seventh grade and now everyone calls him Davis, even his own mother."

That little bit of history was true. Lou's teammates shook Davis's hand or nodded hello, and then began moving off to collect the yellow jerseys and the orange cones that had marked the boundaries of the field, leaving the two friends alone.

"My good buddy, the sports star," Davis said. "Pretty impressive."

"Yeah, right. The slightly larger fish on the smallest possible pond."

"Looks pretty well organized."

"Yeah, leagues and schedules and all that shit. Even a trophy at the end for the winners. I'm sure it'll be the high point of my life if we win. They don't have that where you are?"

"Nah. Pickup games but nothing organized."

"Well, you have an actual city where you can go do things. We have cows. You have any trouble getting out here?"

"None at all. Lots of people driving out to the State U for the weekend."

Lou nodded. "We may end up over there before the night is out. For now, let's go to my room. We can chill until dinner time."

They walked over to Lou's dorm, a newer structure that blended well with the older ones.

Lou had his own room off a central living area.

"Not bad," Davis commented.

"Yeah, could be worse. I lucked out. The singles go on a lottery."

His room was about as disordered as expected of a college dorm room, but no worse. Unmade bed, a pile of laundry in one corner, but no signs of uneaten food or hazardous fungal growth.

Davis moved some clothes and sat at the desk on the lone chair in the room. Lou flopped on the bed and put his feet up.

"So, how's it going?" Lou asked. "You turning into Mr. Party Animal like I predicted?"

"Not exactly. Been to some mixers with, er, how shall I say, mixed results. A couple of fix-up dates that are better left unmentioned. How about you?"

Lou swung his legs off the bed and moved over to a bookcase. "Well, my friend, you may not believe this, but I'm turning into something of a brain. Real courses, doing the work, actually kind of getting into it."

He handed Davis a thick book. Davis opened it to the title page. "'The Raw and the Cooked,'" he read out loud. "Claude Levi-Strauss. I take it it's not a cookbook."

"Hah. Actually, really cool stuff. A little bit dense going but, miracle of miracles, I find myself with enough of an attention span to keep at it. I even understand some of it. The new me. Lou, the student."

"My courses are pretty bad. If you can believe it, the best one is French. The lady professor hands me back my papers covered in red ink corrections, but gives me an 'A' anyway because she likes the content. You should hear her lay into Camus. The poor guy better not ever wander into her class by mistake. I think she'd beat him senseless with a copy of 'The Stranger.'"

"What about English?" Lou knew Davis had aspirations in that direction.

"The teacher is a total dick. But they have these seminars, they call it the 'Experimental College,' they sound pretty good. I'll try to get into one of those next semester, if I last that long."

Lou had gotten off the bed and was pacing up and down the small space. "Anyway, tonight fuck all this academic shit. Tonight, my good man, we party. A guy I know rented a motel room and invited us and a few other guys to bring our dates over and party till the cows come home, which around here you interpret literally."

"You got us dates?"

"Not exactly, but don't you worry. Uncle Lou will provide."

***

Lou, Davis and two of Lou's suite mates were in the lobby of one of the high-rise dorms on the campus of the state university. Lou was on the in-house phone.

"Yeah, well, it'll be for you to decide if we're good-looking or not. We all have the standard number of arms, legs, eyes, ears, etc. No visible drooling. Think you can round up three friends who you can say the same thing about?" Lou looked at his friends and winked. "Yeah, I'll wait. But not forever." He covered the mouthpiece with his hand and addressed his three companions. "We can always sprint for the door when we see them."

They had come into the building a few minutes earlier, found out which floors female students resided on and designated Lou, the glibbest of the group, as their spokesman. This was the first time any of them had personally tried this method of getting a last-minute date, but had been assured it was a time-honored method that usually produced results.

"Yeah, still here." He listened for a few moments. "Hey, great. OK, Laurie. See you in fifteen."

He hung up. "Well, she sounds reasonably normal, anyway. She says they'll be down in fifteen minutes. "

***

Somehow, the pairing off had seemed to take care of itself. No doubt deeply hidden psychological and bio-chemical processes had been at play, but the four young women had emerged from the elevator and midst halting introductions and nervous laughter, they were paired with their dates for the night by the time they reached the door. Lou was with the shortest of the four, dark-haired Laurie, while Davis was with the tallest, brown-haired Sarah. Paul, one of Lou's suite-mates had a vast Buick station wagon that swallowed them up with room for more. He knew the way to the motel, only getting lost a few times.

Per the plan that had been worked out ahead of time, Lou called the person who had rented the room, named Arnie, and Arnie let them all in a side door so they wouldn't have to parade through the lobby. Renting the room had seemed like a good idea to Arnie at first. His girlfriend was coming over from her college in New York, and he was planning (hoping) she would stay with him in the room after the party-goers left. But now he was having second thoughts. What if the party got out of control, the way they did sometimes? There were already more people than he had expected and he didn't know all of them. What if the room got damaged? Who would pay for it? What if somebody called the cops?

Arnie was rubbing his hand nervously through his short, curly hair as he spoke to Lou while they walked down the corridor towards the room.

"Who are all these people? I thought it was just you and your friend from home?"

"Easy there, pardner. All certified, A-One fine individuals. 'Course we just met the females ten minutes ago, but so far none of them seems like a psychopath."

They reached the room. Arnie was shaking his head, but there was nothing he could do about it now. Fate would take its course. Arnie opened the door and ushered them all in.

It was a good-sized room with two twin beds and a living room-like area with a couch, an arm chair and a coffee table. On the coffee table were arrayed a selection of bottles of alcohol, soda and juice for mixers, an ice bucket and plastic glasses. Next to it was a cooler filled with ice and cans of beer. There were a couple of bowls with chips and pretzels. A compact stereo sat next to the TV and was playing Motown, quietly. Arnie had provided well.

On the ride over Davis and Sarah had exchanged the basic information necessary to place each other in the world- place of origin, course of intended study, what they liked to drink.

"May I mix you a drink?" Davis asked after they had been introduced to the people in the room and had found some room for themselves in the now somewhat crowded space.

"Sure. Vodka and orange juice. Go easy, for starters."

"You got it." He mixed bourbon, water and ice for himself.

They were standing against a wall near the window.

"So, you're a poli-sci major," he said, having received this information on the ride over. "What do you do with that?"

"Oh, maybe pre-law. Be a lawyer. Run for Congress. Be President. Something like that."

He was nodding. "Sounds perfectly reasonable to me."

"What does an English major do when he's thrown out into the real world?"

"Write the Great Un-American novel. Get arrested for sedition. Rot away in prison. Something like that."

She nodded and took a sip of her drink. "Sounds like a good plan. Or you could go into exile and rot away on a tropical beach instead."

"Hmm. Interesting suggestion. I'll take it under advisement."

They grinned at each other. This was going better than expected.

***

Most of the lights had been turned out, the music selections were now of the slow and sultry variety and the couples had for the most part found places to recline on the beds, couch and floor. Davis and Sarah had been fortunate to find some bed space. They seemed mutually interested in investigating each other's kissing techniques. Groping had so far been on top of clothes only. Davis excused himself for a quick visit to the bathroom.

There was someone using it and one other person waiting ahead of him. It was the young woman who had been Arnie's motivation for organizing this event. Davis had heard her name but couldn't remember what it was.

"Nice party," he said, lamely.

"What's nice about it?" Her tone didn't have much heat of anger in it, more like resigned disgruntlement.

"Hmm, well." He hadn't expected to need specifics. "You know, booze, music, beds, the usual nice party stuff."

Much to his surprise, she moved closer and pressed up against him.

"Um. Where's Arnie?" It wasn't much of a response, but it was the best he could manage.

"Oh, that dweeb. He can't tell his dick from his earlobe."

She pressed even more firmly. "Do you like me?"

"Well, yeah, sure, but I have a date." He tried to carefully pull away without giving offense.

The bathroom door opened and one of Lou's suite-mates emerged. "Next," he said.

"Don't you need the bathroom?" Davis asked Arnie's erstwhile girlfriend.

"No, go ahead." She waved him past her. "Want me to hold it for you?"

"Er, thanks for the offer, but I think not."

She was gone when he finished and opened the door.

Sarah was in the same place he had left her. "Successful?" she asked as he nestled down next to her.

"You wouldn't believe the trouble I had getting back to you."

"Here, let me check." She put her hand on a strategic location which responded accordingly.

He took this as an invitation to try to venture explorations of his own. It proved to be a not unwelcome gesture. They continued to investigate the variations for some time.

***

They had returned the four young women to their dorm. Davis and Sarah had exchanged phone numbers. He sincerely promised to call her and she did the same. The fact that neither of them ever did was not evidence of insincerity. It was just the sort of thing that happens when you're young, slightly drunk and happy to have been allowed access to a virtual stranger's private parts.

"Jesus," Lou was saying on the short drive back to their dorm. "I thought that girlfriend of Arnie's was going to attack me."

Davis started laughing. "Me too."

Paul, who was driving raised his hand. "Three."

Will, the fourth of the party, was shaking his head. "Not me. I better start using breath mints or something."

"Don't feel bad," Lou said. "I'm sure it was just an oversight. She would've been happy to be with anyone as long as it wasn't Arnie."

***

Davis was sitting on the bed that was to be his for the night, his back leaning against the bedframe. Lou sat on the floor opposite, his back against the wall. They were sipping the beers Lou had found for them for a nightcap. They were recapping the night's events.

"Your date seemed OK," Lou said.

"Yeah, more than OK. Nice, smart person and generous with her possessions. Yours?"

"Kind of nervous. I think she was worried I was going to take advantage of her which of course I would've been happy to do but no more than she was going to agree to. It was exhausting trying to figure it all out. I seriously thought about taking Arnie's girlfriend up on her offer, but in the end my somewhat better nature prevailed. What was her name, anyway?"

"No idea."

They nodded and drank a toast to Arnie's nameless girlfriend.

"Mainly, I just wanted to show you a good time."

"You did that in spades."

"Good. No pressure or anything, but I'm going to come visit you in a few weeks."

Davis knew he wasn't going to be able to come up with anything like tonight. On the other hand, this was his good friend Lou who still seemed to be pretty much the same Lou he knew from home so he didn't worry himself too much about it. They'd think of something.

"Bring your dancing shoes."

"You mean I'll get to see you dance?" Lou thought Davis's dancing was the most hilarious thing he had ever seen.

"No promises but it might happen."

"All right! That's worth the trip right there."

Lou seemed happy when he said goodnight and went to his own room. Davis would remember that.

***

Miles Kushman was unhappy with the hand he had been dealt from the genetic deck. Shorter and wider than average, but also lacking the solid musculature that sometimes accompanies that type build, he suffered as if from physical blows to hear himself described as pudgy, dumpy or, once in a while, although it wasn't true, fat. But by way of partial compensation, he had been given nimble fingers and a fine musical sense. While others were playing sports, he was playing his guitar, an acoustic Gibson, strung left-handed, learning folk and blues at a time they were riding a wave of popularity. Yet he was not one of the ones who minded when Dylan went electric. The Gibson would do for now, but he started eyeing the electric guitars in the music stores in New York City.

He would regularly get on the Long Island Railroad on weekends with his guitar and go to Washington Square to play. He would sit on the fringes of groups of other players, watching their work intently, seeking to stay on key, complement and fill in without messing up. Some of the established regulars began to recognize him and nod in his direction when they noticed he wasn't half-bad, not bad at all. Eventually, he was invited to apartments for free-flowing sessions with some of the better players. His own playing got much better as a result.

Joints got passed around. It was commonplace by then in the city but hadn't quite reached the suburbs. Miles didn't like it very much. He didn't feel all that secure in the world and pot made him feel even less so. But he felt duty bound to bring some home to his friends. And so, dope reached Centerville.

***

Davis had gotten a job with the town highway department through the influence of a friend's father. Similarly, Lou had gotten a job as a "cabana boy" at a beach club through one of his father's business connections. When they compared notes, Davis was much the happier with his job. He got do things that led to some good stories such as fill in on a garbage truck for a day and paint every parking meter in town. Lou had to wear a polo shirt with the club logo and serve drinks with a barely credible fake smile.

Davis's parents had gone on a month-long car trip out west with his younger brother and sister. His grandparents were staying on the fold-out couch in the downstairs den to "supervise." They would watch TV all evening while Davis and his friends hung out upstairs in Davis's room. As long as there were no streams of blood or violent crashes coming from above, Davis's sweet Grandma Tania and Grandpa Carl considered everything just fine. The open windows upstairs dispersed the clouds of marijuana smoke sufficiently that it was only faintly noticeable downstairs, enough for a dope-sniffing dog to notice, perhaps, but certainly not an elderly couple from the Old Country.

A shifting crew occupied Davis's room. Davis, of course, and often Lou and Miles Kushman. Other regulars present tonight were: Doug Babcock, curly headed would-be saxophonist; Janie Stein, slim, blonde, "older" (by a year) girlfriend of Doug, who worked in an office; Mia Slovin, small, lively, long-haired, "younger," (by a year) who Miles would have dearly loved to claim as his girlfriend, but alas, could not.

Country Joe and the Fish was on the stereo. Miles, being most up on the music scene, had brought it over. There was a single desk lamp on. A joint was being passed around. People were sprawled on beds and the floor. Mia stood in the center of the room, swaying with the music.

Davis passed the joint to Lou, who took a deep drag. Like Miles, Lou had a somewhat ambivalent attitude towards the drug. Sometimes he enjoyed the enhanced sensations it gave to music and lights, but other times it made him uneasy. As he exhaled his lungful, he suddenly felt like an electric current had been shot through his body. He jumped up.

"Three of clubs," he shouted. "Three of clubs! Don't you see it?"

Several of the others started laughing. They thought Lou was putting on a performance. He sometimes did that.

But Davis, clouded though his mind was, didn't laugh. He had sensed his friend's uneasiness on other occasions, though it had never taken this dramatic a form. He managed to get himself off the bed, stood next to Lou and put a hand on his arm.

"It's OK, man."

"Bats!" Lou said loudly, not quite in a panic, but surprised and he waved his hand in front of his face. "Now it's the five of diamonds!"

"Calm down, Lou. It's just the dope. It's making you see things. There's nothing there."

Lou stared at Davis, not recognizing him.

Mia was now standing on his other side, stroking his arm. "It's OK, Lou. It's just what Davis says. It's just the weed doing crazy things to you."

Lou looked back at Davis. He opened his mouth to speak, but then his features began to relax. "Oh, it's you. Guess I got a little carried away there for a minute. But I couldn't believe how real it was. Hanging right there in the air in front of me. The three of clubs and then the five of diamonds. Clear as day."

"And bats," Davis added, ever helpful.

"Yeah, bats. They were just kind of fluttering around the edges. I couldn't see them as clearly as the cards." He shook his head. "Wow."

They led him back to the bed. He was still shaking his head, trying to clear it of the vision.

"Maybe lay off the stuff for the rest of the night," Davis suggested. "Unless you want to go through the whole deck."

Lou looked at him sharply at first but was comforted by the familiar smirk. His wise-ass friend. He leaned back, listened to the music and passed on the joint without indulging.

***

It was a clear night in October. Davis stood at the base of massive stone steps and looked up. He could see crowds of milling people illuminated by brilliant lights, seemingly brighter than daylight, giving an added aura of unreality to the already strange scene. He couldn't really tell what was going on from ground level. People were climbing the steps so he joined them. As he approached the top, he could see a broad open area almost filled with people pressing against a line of soldiers in riot gear. There was much random movement in the crowd coming and going, but the line of soldiers, anonymous behind their shields, was motionless. He heard a sound, a sort of "whumpf," like if you punched a bean-bag chair, and then another and a third. He heard someone yell, "Teargas!"

Many people were now running down the stairs, and he was running with them. He didn't really smell the gas so much as he tasted it, a sharp, bitter taste, and then he felt it in his eyes, stinging, but not severely. He must've been far enough away to miss the worst of it. He slowed when he got to the bottom of the stairs and began walking. He turned to see what was going on up top. He could hear shouting and see clouds of the gas and more people streaming down. He stopped to watch. Slowly, the flow down the stairs ebbed and the gas dispersed. People began climbing up the stairs again. He shrugged, shook his head and joined them. He wasn't thinking much or analyzing the situation. His natural reaction when figures of authority ordered him to do something he didn't want to do was to resist. The figures of authority at the top of the stairs were, in effect, telling him he couldn't be there so that's where he was going to be. He was part way up when he heard the "whumpf" of the teargas cannisters again. And once again, he turned and ran down the stairs to escape being gassed.

He moved a little further away this time and paused to reflect a bit. He understood now how a soldier in battle could just turn and run. The animal-in-residence simply took over and the human-in-the-control-room had nothing to say about it. Once things calmed down a bit, the human part might be able to regain control and consider a more reasoned course of action. As his breathing and heart rate slowed, he thought about what he should do now. This game of running up and down the stairs could go on for some time. Or maybe whoever was directing the tear gassers would get tired of it and decide clubbing and arrests were more effective. He hadn't actually seen any of that himself during the long day, but he had heard it had happened around the city. His desire to resist didn't go that far. He had lost track of the people he had come with long ago. Maybe he could find a bus headed back in the general direction of Boston. He wandered off into the night.

***

Davis and Lou were sitting in Lou's room as they had so many times before. They each had their own designated orange cloth-covered arm chair that swiveled, and they could swivel and talk for hours. The Doors were on the stereo. Davis had just told Lou that he was dropping out of school.

Lou swiveled and digested the news. "Well, that sounds like a shrewd career move. What are you going to do?"

"I'll keep living at the school for now. There's a room I can stay in for nothing. I'll get some work with Manpower just to have a few bucks. And wait to see what the draft board's going to do."

"Ah, yes, that. Once they hear you're out of school they'll start licking their chops."

"Yeah, and the fact I turned in my draft card."

Lou swiveled and stared for a few moments. "Say again."

"They had this thing at the Old North Church where people turned in their draft cards and I turned mine in."

"Why didn't you just go down to the draft board with a sign around your neck saying, 'Draft Me, Please'?"

"Well, that's pretty much what we did only doing it in a bunch all at once got more attention."

"I'll bet it did. My, my. My pal the draft dodger."

"Don't you think the war stinks?"

"Of course. I hate it. But I'm not quite ready to put my head on the chopping block. What're you going to do if they draft you?"

Davis sighed. "Haven't quite figured out that part yet. Try to get out of it somehow, I guess. I don't really want to go to Canada, but that's a last resort. I don't even like hockey."

"People are strange, indeed. And you're stranger than most, my friend."

"How about you? Still getting off on the heavy duty scholar stuff?"

Lou frowned. "Some of the time. Other times, I can't stand the sight of another book. I need to get out and do things, and there isn't that much to do out there in farm country. I learned how to ice skate. I know! I'll teach you how to ice skate for when you go to Canada."

"I'm not going just yet."

"But for when you do."

Davis grinned at the flash of Lou's enthusiasm. "It'll make the transition much more bearable, I'm sure. Anymore dorm phone dates?"

Lou shook his head. "We tried it again, but it wasn't as much fun. Some mixers and dances and that kind of crap, too. Pretty interesting being at a dance where every single girl there is smarter than you. Didn't know whether to ask for a date or ask if they'd be my tutor."

They swiveled and listened for a while.

Lou spoke again. "Maybe I'll drop out, too."

"Why?"

"Something to do. Keep you company in Canada or jail or wherever. I'm sick of school. I'm sick of my parents. I'm sick of this ugly orange chair. I don't think I can keep doing it. It's too hard." The frown was back.

Davis had seen Lou glum before. The boy did have his mood swings. Seemingly changing the topic, but not really, he asked, "Ever been to California?"

Lou shook his head. "What's that got to do with anything?"

"Isn't your brother out there?"

"Yeah, he's a teaching assistant at Berkeley."

"So, here's an idea. Finish out this year where you are and then go out and stay with him in the summer. Scout it out. If it looks good, transfer to a school out there and I'll come out, too."

"If you're not in Canada or jail."

"Right."

Lou's frown had faded. He got up from the chair and began pacing. "That might just work. California. Yeah. I'll call him tonight, see what he says. I think I like your idea. I think I really do. Whoever said you were a shit-for-brains didn't know what they were talking about."

"Thanks, pal. Learn how to surf. I'd rather surf than ice skate."

Lou pretended to be balancing on a surf board. The record ended and he went to flip it over.

***

A line of young men waited patiently, not that they had much choice. They had been doing this in fits and starts since they had arrived in the morning. Davis took a half-step out of line to see if he could tell what they were doing at this stage of the process. They were standing in their underwear, holding their clothes and shoes in a bundle. He was standing in line in front of another young man who had become a sort of friend for the day. His name was Brad.

Davis had the longest hair and scruffiest clothes of any of the draftees in his group. Some of his fellow draftees had looked at him with contempt or derision but not Brad. They had developed an easy sort of camaraderie that had made the repeated waits easier to take.

"What's going on this time?" Brad asked.

"Looks like maybe weighing and measuring, but I can't tell for sure. Maybe they're checking for dreaded diseases. Got any you can share?"

"I wish. I've had about every childhood disease known to man. Think that counts?"

"Not unless it did permanent damage."

"No such luck."

When Davis finally got to the head of the line, one soldier manning the station measured his height (five feet, ten inches), and another told him to step on the scale. Davis had noticed a marked lack of reaction to his appearance from the soldiers who worked in the draft center which surprised him a bit. But maybe, doing this every day, they had seen it all in terms of variety and probably had seen plenty who looked even less like soldierly material than himself.

"Hmm," the soldier said as he adjusted the sliding weights on the scale. "One hundred seventeen." His eyebrows raised a bit.

"Something interesting?" Davis asked.

"Lower limit for your height is one twenty. Did you know that?"

"No clue. What's that mean?"

The soldier shook his head. He was a few years older than Davis and had short hair, but put him in civilian clothes and let him wander around campus and no one would think he was the least out of place. Davis had started the day with the curious notion that soldiers somehow carried this soldierly essence around with them as a sort of aura, but he had quickly realized this was delusional. They were, more or less, just like him.

"Not for me to say," the soldier said, not unkindly. "Next."

***

They were back in the large room where had returned numerous times during the long day. The room was filled with rows of folding chairs. About half of them were occupied by the members of their group.

Davis and Brad were in a discussion about their favorite Twilight Zone episodes.

A soldier in the front of the room was looking at a clipboard.

"OK, now, listen up," he said. "The following people come with me."

Davis's name was second on the list.

Davis looked at Brad and shrugged. "I didn't think they could find any other body part to poke."

Brad grinned. "They're very creative that way."

"See you in a few," Davis said and followed the soldier out of the room. In the years to come, he regretted not being able to give a better farewell to Brad and often wondered about his fate.

The soldier led them down a corridor to a desk manned by another soldier. "Wait behind the yellow line," he instructed and then left.

They had been well-trained by this time so they formed a line and waited. Davis was second in line. The soldier behind the desk looked up from his stack of papers and waved the first young man forward. The distance between the yellow line and the desk was just far enough that you could hear the murmur of voices but not make out what was being said. Davis wondered if they'd run experiments to determine the optimal desk-to-line distance.

The person in front of him was given a piece of paper and then moved past the desk away down the corridor. The soldier at the desk waved Davis forward.

Without being asked, Davis handed over the folder he'd been carrying around most of the day. He learned that's what you do when you get to the man at the desk.

The soldier opened the folder. "Abraham L. Davis?"

"That's right."

"Sign here."

Davis scanned the form quickly. Something about his draft classification. It didn't seem to say anything about him agreeing to be in the army so he signed.

The soldier tore out a yellow sheet from the middle of the form and handed it do Davis.

"Continue down this corridor to the end and turn left. Keeping going until you get to a green door. There'll be somebody there to tell you what to do next." He was already looking past Davis to the next one in line.

As he walked, Davis read enough to get the gist of what the yellow piece of paper said. Under the heading "Classification" there was a column of letters and numbers. "1Y" had been circled. There was another soldier sitting on a stool at the green door. He motioned for Davis to give him his yellow piece of paper.

The soldier quickly scanned it. "Go through this door and keep going until you can't go anymore and then turn right. When you get to the end, you'll have to show this form one more time. You got money for the subway?"

"Uh, yeah."

The soldier handed back the yellow form.

Davis stared at him. "That's it?"

"For now. You'll be hearing from your draft board."

Davis shook his head trying to clear the fog that had seemed to settle there. He took his precious piece of paper back and went through the door.

***

The final soldier at the final door had given him directions on how to walk to the subway. He was shuffling along the sidewalk, still not quite believing that his release had been so matter-of-fact and anti-climactic. No shouting, no threats, no brave stand against the powers of imperialist domination. Just bye-bye, you'll hear from your draft board.

"I see you got your yellow paper, too."

Davis looked up from his reverie at the speaker. He was a tall young man, solidly built with a somewhat unkept head of reddish blond hair and a beard to match. He waved his own yellow paper at Davis.

"What'd they let you go for?" the man asked.

Davis had been wondering the same thing. "I'm not sure. I had some doctors' letters and stuff, but they didn't tell me if they made a difference. One guy did say I was under the weight limit for my height."

"That's it, man!" He slapped Davis on the back hard enough to send him staggering forward a few steps."

"Me, I got a dose of the clap. I thought it might work, but I wasn't sure. What'd they classify you?'

"Um, 1-Y."

"Me, too. Good for three months. You just keep starving yourself and I keep getting a dose and we got this thing knocked!"

"I didn't even starve myself. That's just how I am."

"Even better. Don't know about you, but I got better things to do than go in their fuckin' army."

"Yeah, me, too. Like eating dirt or setting my hair on fire."

The tall young man started laughing so hard he had to stop walking and bend over before he could speak again. "Hey, that's a good one. You're all right. What's your name?"

"Davis."

A large hand was extended. Davis's disappeared in its grasp as they shook. "Buster."

They began to walk again and talked about the days' events. At one point, Buster reached into his wallet and, as unlikely as this seemed to Davis, handed him a business card. Davis read:

"You have been assisted by a member of the Headhunters Motorcycle Club."

Buster explained. "We see people broken down by the side of the road, anybody, families and crap, you know, we stop and help them, change their tires, whatever, and then give them that card. They think, 'Hey, these biker guys ain't so bad after all.' The public thinks all we do is sell drugs and bust heads so this gives them a different idea."

"Do you?"

"What?"

"Sell drugs and bust heads?"

"'Course we do." Buster started laughing hard again. "But not all the time. We can be good guys, too, when we feel like it."

"That a relief," said Davis.

"See that phone number in the corner there? Anytime you have a problem, any kind of problem, not just a breakdown. Let's say somebody's giving you a hard time and you could use some backup, just call that number and tell them Buster said to call and there'll be guys there to help you before you know it. Anytime, day or night. We stick by our friends."

Davis looked at the card again. He took the image in the center to be a representation of a shrunken head although the art was a little dodgy. "Well, thanks, Buster. I'm honored to be considered a friend of the Headhunters."

Buster got off the train in Brooklyn. He stood on the platform before the train pulled out, looking through the window at Davis. He made motions with his hands as if eating from a bowl of food and then a "no, no" wagging motion with his finger. He was laughing with gusto as the train pulled out.

***

Davis was chaining up Hannah in the backyard. The little black and white dog was turning fat and blind and smelled faintly of rot, but she'd been part of the family for twelve years so they didn't pay much attention to these signs of decline. She was as sweet-natured as ever. Whenever Davis would come home, even after months of absence, the dog would jump around in absurd little circles until he gave her a good rump rub. She'd enjoy basking in the late summer sunshine.

He clipped the chain to her collar and looked up. Lou walked into the backyard through the driveway opening.

"Lou, for god's sakes! I didn't know you were home!" Davis ran over and gave him a good slam of welcome on the back. "How the fuck are you?"

Lou winced. He looked around. "You could say I've been keeping a low profile. You wouldn't believe some of the shit that's been coming down, man. Heavy. I've been watchin' out for my ass."

"Huh?"

"Anybody been around asking about me?"

"Well, no. I mean, I haven't been here."

"Where've you been?"

"Boston, where else?"

"Right, of course. Did you get my letters?"

"Yeah, sure. Hey, that's some tan. So, did you learn to surf or what?"

Lou touched his own face as if surprised it looked different. He seemed not to have heard Davis's question. "I was worried they were cutting off my mail. I think they are now. I know the phone's bugged. That's why I walked over."

"Lucky you caught me. I'm just down for a day or two."

"Yeah, lucky."

He hadn't glanced at Davis once. He paced around, stooped to pet the dog, looked at the driveway entrance, up at the house.

Davis wondered what was going on. He'd seen Lou assume various different personas over the years, but this was a new one. He found it vaguely disturbing.

The first few letters Lou had written him from California had been heavy on the angst-ridden philosophy. It didn't sound like Lou was having much fun in Berkeley. The last letter been borderline incoherent. Out of nowhere came hints of political dealings, intrigues, trouble. Davis thought it might have been meant as a satire of California radical double-speak but, if so, the humor had fallen flat. The idea that Davis might come out to join Lou in California had seemed to quietly fade away.

Lou stopped pacing and stared directly at Davis. He looked radiantly healthy with his deep tan, but his expression was grim.

"I can trust you not to repeat anything, right?"

"Yeah, sure."

"This'll blow your mind."

"What?"

"Chicago, the convention. The end of one phase and the start of a new one. Some very together people out there got fed up with playing games. Can you dig what I'm laying down?"

Davis started to grin. Dig? Laying down? Lou was playing this radical thing to the hilt.

Lou went on. "Nothing funny about it, man. No more kid's stuff, gettin' beat up by the pigs. That's all over, we've had it with that scene. From now on, it's for real."

Davis couldn't help it. He started laughing. "Lou, you are too much."

"Listen, I'm serious, man. These people I'm in contact with are talkin' organization, they're talkin' power. We're talkin' some real action."

"What people?"

"Never mind for now. Better for you if you don't know."

"Which James Bond movie is this from? You know them better than me."

Lou seemed exasperated. "Listen to me and listen good. All hell's gonna break loose. I'm lettin' you know so you can watch your ass 'cause I know you're a brother an' you'll get behind the rest of the brothers when the shit comes down. Can you dig it?"

Davis's amusement was fading. This was going on a little too long. He was hoping for some sort of wry smile, a glint in Lou's eye that told him the real Lou was in there somewhere, laughing along with him. "So, tell me, who are you in this thing, Fidel or Che?"

"This is gonna be bigger than Cuba, man, much bigger. It's gonna make Cuba look like a garden party."

"I got it. You were hanging ten and the surfboard flipped up and hit you on the head."

Was that almost a smile? "I know what you're sayin', but it's not that way. Listen, I shouldn't tell you this, but October twenty-fourth, you watch out for yourself that day, you hear? Some heavy dudes are gonna take care of business that day, so you take care."

"OK, sure. I'll mark it on my calendar. I'll have to buy a calendar first, but once I do that, I'll mark it on it. Listen, you wanna shoot some hoops?" There was a basket and backboard nailed up on the garage.

Lou shook his head. "Not today, man. Listen, It's been good rappin' with you but I gotta split now. Lots of shit to take care of."

"I'll be going back to Boston tomorrow."

"Right. You at the same place?"

"Yeah."

"OK. Well, I'll be in touch. Catch you later. And take care."

Oh Lou, be over this one next time I see you, please?

***

Davis timed his next visit home from Boston to coincide with the college winter break. Although he had dropped out of Burns and was working in a print shop, he wanted to see some of his friends who would be in town.

His mother called him to the phone. It was Danny Baker.

After some preliminary chatter, Danny asked, "Have you seen Lou yet?"

"Not yet. Last time I saw him was the end of the summer. He was doing this radical jive-talking routine, kind of annoying. Why?"

"Did he seem like his usual self to you?"

"Well, you know how Lou plays these roles every now and then. I just figured he'd get tired of it after a while."

Danny hesitated on the other end of the line. "I called him up when I got home a couple of days ago." He paused again. He was choosing his words. "Now I know you're going to say I'm getting carried away by all these psych courses I'm taking, but I'm not trying to play doctor. Lou scared me. He wasn't making any sense at all, couldn't stay on the same topic for more than twenty seconds. I think he's wigged out."

"Oh, come on."

"No, I think he's gone round the bend for real this time."

"You're exaggerating."

"You call him up, then call me back and tell me what you think."

"Fair enough. Later."

He hung up, then dialed Lou's familiar number.

"Hello." It was his tight-ass step-father.

"Hi, this is Davis. Is Lou there?"

"Oh, hello, Davis. No, he's not. We had a very trying night with your friend Lou. I got back from Connecticut less than an hour ago." He was quiet for a moment. "This is a family matter, but as his close friend, I suppose you're entitled to some information. I'm sure you'll be discreet." Firm, authoritative, clipped tones. He was always at a business meeting.

"Sure. What happened?"

"Here it is briefly. Last night at dinner time we noticed Lou wasn't around. One of the cars was missing, his mother's Lancia. We thought nothing of it, Lou often does this, but by  
midnight we were quite concerned. About one A.M. we received a call from Torrington, Connecticut. Lou was in police custody there. We're not certain about everything that happened, but we do know that he was involved in a fight in a bar, broke some store windows and ended up ramming the car into a police cruiser."

"Jesus!"

"Not a pretty story, I know. The police thought he'd had too much to drink at first, but then it became obvious that he was disturbed. They called us, we contacted a psychiatrist friend of the family as well as our lawyer and drove immediately to Torrington. A local doctor had already been called in to put him under sedation before he harmed himself further. Rather than  
charge him, they released him later in the morning to a private hospital near Westport. It was highly recommended to us, and we were assured he would get the best of care. They specialize in  
treating young people."

Davis was trying to absorb what he'd just heard. "Can I see him?"

"I'm afraid not. The doctor expected at least a week before outside visitors were permitted, possibly longer. His mother is up there now, of course, and I'll be going back tomorrow. If you call again in a couple of days, I'll let you know if there's any news. I have to go now. Thank you for calling. Goodbye."

Davis replaced the receiver and sat staring at the phone. Best friend goes nuts.

He was angry at himself for not seeing it coming. He was angry at Lou for going crazy when he wasn't around to help. A trickle of guilt began seeping in but he resisted. If he wasn't there when his friend broke, at least maybe he could help fix him again. He'd go see him as soon as they let him. He picked up the phone to call Danny back.

***

Davis turned at a sign for the "Willow Acres Hospital". The black-topped driveway, overstretched by bare tree limbs, crested a hill above a broad expanse of snow-covered fields. Boot tracks made irregular patterns across the snow. The road ended beside a rambling white frame building that had the look, with its gables and porches, of an old seaside resort.

He entered a high-ceilinged lobby. Far from the door a wide staircase led upwards. He expected antique fixtures and plush old furniture in these surroundings, but the couches and chairs could have been from any doctor's waiting room. The floor was covered by a dull carpet like an artificial putting green, the walls by light wood-like paneling. Only the rich brown carved banister that followed the stairs lingered from times past. To the right of the staircase sat a Christmas tree. The tree was real enough, but the decorations had a regularity as if done according to a schematic diagram, displaying token recognition of the seasonal activities without the possibility of giving offense to anyone. Except himself, of course.

A fiftyish woman sat behind a chest-high reception desk, her face seemingly flushed from the cold although it was warm inside. She wore a white nurse's uniform and a cornered hat. She almost smiled.

"I'm here to visit Lou Bernstein."

"One moment please."

She picked up a phone and dialed three numbers. "Visitor for Lou Bernstein." She nodded and hung up. "He'll be down in a minute. Would you please sign in here." She indicated a book on the counter.

He looked up from the book to see Lou bounding down the stairs two at a time. Davis would have fallen on his face if he'd tried that.

"Hey Davis!" Lou pumped his hand and grinned widely. "Mrs. Williams, this is my real good buddy Abraham Davis, but call him plain Davis or he'll slit your throat. Only kidding, Mrs. Williams. He's not really a murderer, even if he looks like one."

"Glad to hear it," she said as they moved away from her desk.

Lou called back over his shoulder, "Only a child molester."

Davis pulled on his sleeve. "You want them to keep me here, too?"

"Don't worry. They don't believe anything I say. I'm real glad you came up. This place is getting to be a drag. How long can you stay?"

"How long do they let me stay?"

"Forever if you foam at the mouth. No, really, only an hour."

"So, I'll stay an hour."

"Great. Let me show you what a nut house looks like." They began to ascend the stairs.

"How you feeling?"

"Oh, pretty good. They still have me on Thorazine, great stuff, I'd try to sneak you some but it's hard to do. Anyway, they cut down my dose, and I should be out of here in a few weeks,  
they say. If you'd come a while back, I would've needed toothpicks to keep my eyelids propped open."

At the top of the stairs on the left sat another reception desk. A younger nurse stood there writing on papers spread out on the counter. Auburn curls bounced round the edge of her hat as she turned and directed a red lipstick smile at them.

"Hello, Lou."

"Hi, Martha. This is my friend, Davis. Whatcha doin' tonight?"

"Going home to my husband and family as always."

"Well, I'll leave my door unlocked and you can sneak back in anytime after ten."

"Lou, you're incorrigible."

"See you then." They walked down the corridor to the right.

"Pretty nice, huh? She's in love with me, but won't admit it to herself yet." He grinned to show he might not be serious. "On the other side when we came up the stairs are the hard core cases. We can't walk down there. That's where I was at first, but I don't remember to tell you the truth. They call this the 'residential wing' as if we had a choice. Actually, a lot of people do ask to come here. I wouldn't go home yet, even if they let me. To listen to my mother? Are you kidding me?"

They were passing doors on both sides of the corridor. Some were open showing identical beds, desks and chairs. Lou stopped and opened a door.

"My executive suite."

An angle-iron bed, neatly covered with a white spread, a maple desk and dresser and a cane chair spoke of convenience and long-term use in muted tones of anonymity. Davis crossed the small space and looked out the window at the evergreens beyond the fields. There was a toothbrush, a comb and a few other items scattered across the top of the dresser. Two sweat socks hung on the bedframe.

"Well, if you're gonna get yourself locked up, it could be a hell of a lot worse."

Lou was still by the door. He didn't seem to want to enter. "It's OK." He rapped a knuckle on the blue-speckled wallpaper. "No padding. Let's go to the sun room."

At the far end of the hall was a wide room, windows on three sides. To one side, three boys sat watching football on TV. The sound was turned down low. Across from the entrance, two boys and two girls sat with their backs to Lou and Davis, looking out on the grounds. A blonde head turned from the couch and said, "Hi, Lou, come sit with us."

Lou turned to Davis. "You want to watch the game or sit with the nuts?"

"Ah, football doesn't interest me much these days."

Lou walked around and sat on the couch. Davis pulled over a vinyl-covered chair.

"This is my friend Davis, visitor from the planet Earth. This is John A., John R., Susan and Mary Ann. They're all crazy to varying degrees, but don't say I told you, it might hurt their  
feelings. Anyway, they're harmless."

The blonde girl pushed Lou's shoulder. "You're awful."

"Hello, Davis." Her cheeks and nose seemed puffed out as if formed from rising dough. Her lips were pale, and she had two crimson pimples on her chin. She was young, possibly sixteen. She turned to Lou, next to her on the couch. "We were talking about New Year's Eve. Do you think they'll let us have a little party?"

"With what to drink? Water on the rocks?"

One of the Johns spoke. "You don't have to drink to have a good time." His hollow cheeks seemed to emphasize the stare from his dark eyes.

Lou scowled. "On New Year's Eve you do. Isn't that right, Davis? Boy, some of the New Years we had. Remember those girls from Beech Park? That red-headed one with you was pretty hot. Mine was pretty good, too. Cal got so potted he didn't know his own name when we asked him. Remember that?"

"Maybe they'd give us a little wine." The other girl looked out the window after she spoke. She had straight hair of a washed-out brown, like faded drapes, framing high cheeks and a narrow nose. Alone of the group, Davis imagined he saw pain in her eyes. The second John seemed content to sit and listen, his round face half-smiling, his pink mouth showing no inclination to emit words.

Lou snorted. "Fat chance. We'll be lucky to get Welch's grape juice." Now he also looked out the window. "That lawn must be pretty nice in the summer. Could have a real good game of touch football out there. Remember the time we were playing at Clinton school and you caught that pass and kept running right out of bounds even though no one was near you? That was a riot. And remember that wiffle ball game we had on my front lawn, and the score was still tied and it got dark so we set a spotlight in the window, and my mother tore the curtains down when she tried to take the light down?"

Davis nodded. The blonde girl smiled at him.

Lou's eyes were bright. "And remember that really funny little cartoon face you drew, and we named it 'AI Glitch' and made a little shrine out of a shoebox and pretended it had magic  
powers and all? Whatever happened to that shoebox, I wonder?"

That bit of nonsense had been a secret. No one else ever knew. Davis shook his head. "Probably still hidden up in my attic."

"No kidding. Al Glitch. We'd say his name six times and that would supposedly cast a magic spell or make whatever we wanted happen. Remember all the sixes? Sixth day, sixth month, six letters in the name."

"Yeah, I remember."

"We were crazy then, weren't we?"

"Yeah. But harmless."

***

They were standing by the main entrance, the hour almost gone. Lou bounced a bit on his toes. "You want something to eat?"

"No, not really."

"That's good. The food sucks."

"Write me some letters."

"Maybe I'll come up to Boston for a visit when I get out."

"I don't know. I might not be there much longer. The cold's getting to me. I might take off for a while somewhere."

"Like where?"

Davis shrugged. "Down south. The coast, maybe."

"California?" For the first time, there was an edge of fear in Lou's voice.

"I don't know. Maybe not. Anyway, take care of yourself."

"Yeah, sure, you too."

They shook hands.

Lou grinned wildly. "Say hello to Al Glitch for me." He turned and ran back up the stairs, taking them now three at a time.

***

Davis and his friend Lars had arranged a ride to take them across the country in exchange for gas money and sharing the driving, but Davis wanted to see Lou one more time before he left. Lou was living in a half-way house in Greenwich Village, so Davis took the Greyhound from Boston to New York. He found the address, a brownstone amid a row of similar brownstones. A tall black man answered his buzz and opened the outer door.

"Up those stairs, room 2F on your left," the man said when Davis asked for Lou.

Davis thanked him and received a not-unfriendly nod in return. No reception desk, no book to sign in, but a discreet guardian at the gate. Half-way to freedom.

Lou opened the door to Davis's knock.

"Hey, it's you," Lou said, pleased, but not without some measure of restraint.

"None other."

"Welcome to my cell."

Davis came in and looked around. There was a rug, a wooden-framed bed, a dresser, a desk with papers scattered across it. A poster of a photo that looked to be a Paris street scene in the rain hung on one wall. "Looks pretty comfy as cells go."

"Yeah, not bad, really. Kind of like a dorm. Curfew at night, but they let you come and go whenever you want otherwise. No meals, but they have a kitchen you can use to make your own. I'm getting to be a real whiz at mac and cheese."

Davis regarded his friend. Skin paler than usual, but this was New York in the winter. Maybe a few pounds lighter than usual, but he was apparently surviving on his own cooking so maybe that was to be expected as well. "So, what have you been up to?"

Lou shrugged. "Reading a lot. Doing some writing, too. Just a journal, not anything I would show anybody. Kind of feels like exercising underused muscles. I'm auditing a course at NYU. Introduction to Twentieth Century Philosophy. Pretty dense, but I manage to catch about ten per cent of what they're saying. In between staring at the co-eds who totally ignore me because I'm not cool. But that's OK. It leads to a rich fantasy life. And seeing the shrink, of course. Down to twice a week. He's not a bad guy. I don't know that it's doing much good, but I don't tell him I said that. Wouldn't want to make him feel bad." Lou grinned at this last comment.

Davis grinned back. It wasn't the same Lou exactly, but it was recognizably Lou all the same. "Pretty cold out, but maybe we could walk somewhere anyway. Maybe get something to eat?"

"Yeah, there's this place with killer French toast. Let's go."

***

They sat across the Formica tabletop from each other, the partially consumed slabs of French toast sitting in front of them.

Davis was explaining his California plan to Lou. "Lars has this friend named Mason who said we could crash in his living room for a while when we first get out there. I figure I'll look for some kind of crappy job. Maybe travel around some. Maybe buy a motorcycle. See what there is to see."

Lou had been shaking his head. "It's not going to be like you think it is."

Davis shrugged. "Good or bad, at least it's something different."

Lou continued to shake his head. He looked glum.

Davis hesitated, but then spoke. "I don't want to stir up any bad memories or anything, but if you feel like talking about it, I'd like to know what happened to you out there."

Lou stared at the table as he answered. "It's not that I don't want to tell you, it's just that I don't really remember. It's all this big hazy blur. I don't remember a lot of what happened after I got back either. The fog didn't start to clear until sometime during the time at that place in Connecticut. I remember you visiting me there, anyway." He stared out the window. It was a dreary New York City winter day, people hurrying along, hunched against the cold.

"Do you think maybe you got some bad drugs out there?"

Lou shook his head again. "Don't know. Do one thing for me when you're out there, will you?"

"Sure. What?"

"Be careful."

Davis sat back, surprised. It wasn't the sort of thing they usually said to each other. "Well, sure. I got to get back to my good friend Lou in one piece, don't I?"

***

In the chaos of the day Davis had lost track of his friends. He had been chased by and had in turn been part of groups chasing law enforcement officers in various color uniforms. He had been in crowds getting tear-gassed. He had seen the clouds of tear gas sometimes drift back towards the lines of police, scattering them to the delight of the protesters. He had thrown some broken shards of paving material to no discernible effect. He was tired and sweaty but not ready to pack it in.

The group of strangers he was now travelling with was a representative sampling of Berkeley society. Long hair and jeans predominated, but also represented were generous numbers of sport shirts topped by clean faces and paid-for-with-money haircuts. Many women were present, with or without make-up or accompanying boyfriends. Young blacks, fewer in number and generally better dressed than their white counterparts, walked along waiting for the action to resume. Here and there, a professorial-looking type surveyed the scene with apprehension. Kids on banana-seated bikes were having fun zooming through gaps in the crowd.

Not everyone was making a political statement. Part of the group was there only to see what the other part was going to do. Nonetheless, they were there. No one could be a pure spectator. The mere physical fact of being present at that place and time was a measure of participation. Strangers talked freely about the events of the morning and what was likely to follow. There was a hum of tension, anticipating what was to come next, fear and excitement comingled.

The issue that had nominally started all of this, the closing of the People's Park, hardly seemed relevant anymore. It had become something much more basic. The authorities, in all their many and varied forms, had said, "Go home!" The people, many of whom had never been to and couldn't care less about the park, said, "No!" The anger had been accumulating for months and years. It had chosen today to spill out.

At this point in the day's activities, there was no longer any center to the action. It had spread out across a wide area of the city, ebbing and flowing through charges and counter charges. A line of cops down the street from where he now stood wore the blue jumpsuits of the Alameda County Sheriffs. That particular arm of the law enforcement community had, in earlier actions, won a reputation for particular ferocity in the use of their long black truncheons. To Davis and the comradely strangers around him, they radiated menace.

Davis reached into his pocket and fingered the grainy surface of a chunk of brick. He waited and watched. The group he was in seemed to grow.

The blue suited men seemed agitated and began looking behind them up Telegraph Avenue towards the campus. The people around Davis sensed the change. The tension and excitement now hung in the air, being inhaled with every tight breath. Something was going to happen.

The blue line suddenly launched a lumbering charge but, astonishingly, they moved away from the crowd. Apparently, a group on a side street had grown bold enough to break through a police line, invading an area thought to have been secured. The Sheriffs were running towards the breach.

When a dog sees something running its instinct is to chase it. This wasn't much different. The crowd raced forward, arms whipping skyward anything that would fit in a hand. Davis almost laughed from the thrill as lingering fear was swept away by the exhilaration of the charge.

Davis was still running forward when he heard a sharp noise like a board being snapped. There was confusion as those ahead of him abruptly stopped and turned, colliding with others still running forward. Davis got a brief glimpse of a shotgun being raised to a shoulder and aimed. He heard more sharp reports and then screams.

"They're shooting at us!"

The scene was so sharply etched that it was almost unreal. He had prepared himself to deal with the complications of arrest or the pain of clubs, but guns were something else entirely, you could be dead in the ground, welcome to the void, hope you enjoy your stay. Lou had told him to be careful, but Davis doubted this was what he had in mind. He was quite certain he didn't want to die today.

He rounded the corner and slowed as he moved along a side street. He glanced back. People were still running. Behind them, the line of cops advanced slowly, half a dozen of them holding pump-action shotguns ready but not firing, at least for now. Some people stood on the side street looking back, mouths agape, struck dumb. Others couldn't shut up.

"Guns."

"Anyone hit?"

"Can't believe those fuckers."

"Saw someone go down."

Davis continued down the street to the next corner, now a full block from Telegraph, and stood trying to organize his errant faculties. The panic subsided slowly.

He was shocked but not really surprised. Ultimately, that's what cops carried guns for- to shoot people. The predominantly white, middle-class character of the crowd was no longer  
sufficient to keep fingers off the triggers. Whether orders had come from above, or it had been a spur-of-the-moment reaction of the men in the blue suits didn't really matter. In any case the last restraint was off. This was no longer a game of cops and rioters. It had become deadly serious.

Davis resumed walking in what he thought was a direction that would take him to safety. He was half-way up the block when new shots rang out. He reacted quickly but, even so, the first runners were past him by the time he was in motion. A lean sprinter with a beard and  
receding hairline, dressed in t-shirt, jeans and tennis sneakers, bolted past, then seemed to pause in mid-stride as he let out a cry. Davis almost tripped over his heels as the man slowed, still  
trying to run, but with great difficulty as one leg refused to function properly.

The bearded man lay down under a shade tree. He stretched the reluctant leg out, closed his eyes and, facing up at the branches of the tree, said through a tight jaw, "Fucking hell." After his moment of pain, he leaned forward and tried to look at the outside of his right ankle. From where he stood, Davis could see blood.

The rag-tag army had medics, med students wearing red-cross style armbands. Usually they ministered to tear gas victims. One of them hurried over to the fallen runner. He eased the sneaker off and examined the wound. Davis walked up to them.

"Is there anything I can do?"

"Stick around for a minute. I'll wrap some gauze around this, then you can help me get him out of here," and he bent to the task.

A huge form loomed over them. The man looked as if he'd skipped football practice for the riot. He peered over the medic's shoulder.

"John! What the fuck happened to you?"

"I think I'm shot," managed John, though he obviously wasn't in a conversational mood. His face was starting to take on an ashen tinge.

The football player turned and yelled across the street.

"Hey Greg, c'mere. It's John."

A second massive character separated from the group across the way and joined them.

"OK," said the medic, "lift him easy and follow me. I think I can borrow a car to get him to the hospital."

John's friends hoisted him carefully and carried him without strain as they followed the medic. Davis watched them go, not feeling left out. He'd offered to help and had waited when he could have been blocks away. He'd done well enough. Fear and anger, outrage and shame, it was all a jumbled mess inside him. He had run, but so had everyone else. It was the only thing to do when someone was shooting at you.

He stood in the shade of the tree watching as some of the men and women who had recently been fleeing alongside him tentatively began moving back towards Telegraph. Either they were unaware that some of their number had been shot or were determined to carry on the unequal fight, stones against buckshot, regardless. This time Davis didn't join them. A negligible variation in trajectory and the load of pellets would have been his instead of John's. He felt he had used up his supply of luck for today.

It was time to go home.

***

The Dark Avenger was in a really tight spot this time. The nefarious Colonel Mantis had pulled one of his classic ploys, arranging a meeting at a place he knew the Dark Avenger would consider safe, but then converting it into an elaborate trap. The Dark Avenger had known Colonel Mantis was up to no good as always, but sometimes it was best to let his schemes play out and then react. That way the Colonel would think he had the upper hand until the Dark Avenger suddenly turned the tables.

The trap this time was a good one. The doors to the garage were secure. The Dark Avenger could pick locks, of course, but these were of a type he had never seen before and might take some time. There were no windows or vents he could pry open. The walls were of reinforced concrete. And the Dark Avenger knew there would be no one to hear calls for help should he attempt them. But he had no need. When the situation was at its most dire, the Dark Avenger was at his best. He would use his enemy's own stratagems against him. He would fool the Colonel into thinking that he had been overcome by the noxious fumes and then, just at the right moment, would spring into action and finish his adversary once and for all.

He settled in to make himself comfortable as he waited. He smiled to himself. You think you've got the Dark Avenger this time, do you? Well, I've got a surprise in store for you, my friend. The Dark Avenger will never succumb to the likes of you. The Dark Avenger will prevail.

***

His poor, dear parents had given him the news about Lou when Davis got home. They seemed to suffer more in the telling than he had in the hearing. He was shocked and saddened but not that surprised. He hadn't heard from or about Lou while he was on the West Coast, but he had been very self-absorbed in his own events and hadn't given it much thought. But he had known his friend was in trouble, if not being fully aware of the extent and depth. He needed some time to himself. He took, Hannah, the dog, for a walk on the nighttime streets.

Despite her years, she had still managed her skittering dance of joy when she had recognized Davis upon his return. She carefully sniffed the well-tended suburban lawns as they walked, her sense of smell seemingly the only one that still functioned properly.

What a thing, what a thing. What was he going to do now? Go back to Boston, he supposed. Get a job. Be some variety of left-wing radical. Find a girl. Live something resembling a life. He'd make it up as he went along.

Hannah eventually found a spot acceptable for doing her business. She gave a few perfunctory kicks at the dirt when done and then led them back in the direction they had come.

***

Davis felt a jolt of recognition as he got to the bottom of the box and saw the bat and ball. Through how many moves, how many miles and years, had he carried these with him? He reached into the box and pulled them out. They weighed almost nothing. He assumed his stance, bat held high, waiting for an imaginary pitch from Lou and swung hard. No twonk of bat on ball, but a satisfying whoosh as the damp cellar air was pushed aside.

O, Dark Avenger, where are you now when we need you so? There would be no answer. And yet Davis felt, somehow, that his friend was hidden just out of sight, waiting for precisely the right moment when he would step forward out of the shadows to save them all.

###

About the Author:

Drew Banton has published novels, novellas and stories. He has had pieces appear in Event Horizon Online magazine and Bicycling Magazine. He has worked as a printer, welder, auto mechanic, bicycle frame builder, industrial mechanic and manufacturing engineer.

He lives in Brookline, Massachusetts with his dog. When not writing he can usually be found walking the dog or trying to keep up with his grandson.

e-mail: industrialstrengthpr@gmail.com

web: http://dbanton77.wix.com/industrialstrengthpr

