

### SIDE ROADS and DANDELIONS

## A NOVEL

## BY

W.H. HARROD

Copyright 2010 W.H. Harrod

Smashwords Edition

Smashwords Edition, License Notes:

Thank you for downloading this ebook. It remains the copyrighted property of the author, and may not be reproduced, copied and distributed for commercial or non-commercial purposes. If you enjoyed this book, please encourage your friends to download their own copy at Smashwords.com, where they can also discover other works by this author. Thank you for your support.

~~ Chapter One

The image of a bemused young woman staring back at her from within the darkened window pane held Allison's attention as she quietly gazed into the blackness of the cold winter night. The thought occurred to Allison that the imagined maiden before her might not enjoy seeing herself thirty-four years older. This youthful face belonged to a time when the possibility of great changes gave cause for young people, reveling in the sunshine of their days, to hope for a better tomorrow -- a tomorrow now long ago come and gone.

"What? You have a problem?" asked Allison. "That's right. I'm you! You never thought about being fifty-five years old, did you? Well, it happened. It's not all bad though. Remember how you always went on about looking so much younger than your age? Guess what? You don't have to worry about that any longer."

Allison shook her head to clear her thoughts halting the imagined conversation with the recurring vision of her twenty-one year old self. These mental digressions came upon her more often of late. She had grown accustomed to such intense periods of personal reflection by this time. Until a visit with her doctor, she worried she might be losing her mind. He only laughed and told her to not fret. He knew of her habit of taking the world's problems and making them her own. She had always been this way, even back in the sixties when they attended high school together. Often he admonished her to lighten up and take life easier. "Try being a hippie again," he chuckled, "like you were back in the '60s."

Her doctor gave a good laugh whenever he spoke of her experiment with the sixties counter-culture movement. Free love, drugs, and lots of rock-and-roll were the primary incentives to lure so many young people into taking part in such an intemperate, if not down right hedonistic, lifestyle. Her doctor had laughed because before she up and took off for San Francisco in an old Volkswagen bus, she epitomized the definition of the straight-laced, all-American girl. No one in town expected her participation in such craziness. In high school, the student body elected her senior class secretary, head cheerleader, and prom queen. Even her handsome boyfriend bolstered her elite status by becoming prom king and quarterback of the football team. She received full-ride academic scholarship offers by the bushel, only proving how ridiculous the whole hippie experiment seemed to every person who knew anything about her.

Allison reflected on this obvious conundrum as she recalled this amazing aberration in light of her now domesticated and, until recently, contented life. Although it never made sense to others, she simply had to do it. That's all. She had planned to settle down and start a family like everyone else. After graduating from college she expected marriage, children, and a long career with an organization to provide help to the needy would await her. She would be a great mother, wife, relative, citizen, friend, volunteer, employee, cook, etc. Until the end of her junior year in college, in the spring of 1968, she expected to graduate and begin her societal duties as a responsible young adult. Only something amazing happened along the way -- the country went nuts. For reasons that made sense only to her, she decided to go along for the ride.

"See what you did," said Allison, forcing herself to look again towards the vision in the window. "For thirty-four years I've lived with the wreckage of that decision. Hardly a day goes by that I'm not given some cause to reflect on your ill-conceived mendicancy. Most of the family still thinks I'm a brick short. They're waiting for me to jump up one day and yell, 'Let's all turn on, tune in, and drop out,' and hop into the VW bus and head back to San Francisco. There you are with your pretty blond hair, your flawless complexion, and that imbecilic look of youthful confidence that says, 'Make love, not war.'

You really showed them, didn't you? You practically lived in the back of that bus, inviting in every _toked_ out, un-bathed hairball offering to share his food or put you on to some Mary Jane. Why am I even talking to you?"

Allison decided that whatever action she chose to take, today or whenever, need not be burdened with the mistakes of her past. She had thirty-four years of successful living to her credit since returning home in the spring of 1969. If she needed to draw upon some reservoir of strength or experience to guide her through the coming days, she surely had learned something during those years to show her the way. She only needed to sit quietly contemplating awhile longer in her private room created by that same high school quarterback she came back home to and married following her year of what she now thought of as her time of "wandering in the wilderness." He said he understood her need for a place where she could be alone to think. For that reason, he remodeled the entire second floor rear sleeping porch into her private sanctuary. For almost thirty good years, she enjoyed her private moments there while never abusing this wonderful gift. She used it sparingly and only after her family's needs were tended to first. Her dedication to her family stayed the same throughout her marriage and would never change.

"You were lucky," she said to the vision. "You came out of that craziness with your life and most of your sanity. Many did not." How many of her generation perished from the weight of drugs, riots, war protests, civil rights marches, police violence, suicides, sexually transmitted diseases, and finally, the war in Vietnam? She had no idea. Over fifty-eight thousand victims, mostly young people, had their names chiseled on a wall in Washington, D.C., but, undoubtedly, there were many more casualties.

She had arrived back in the small town of Iliom, Missouri, the same place she left a year earlier without any forewarning or fanfare. One day she was simply there, bruised, battered, emaciated, and worn out but by her admission, much wiser for it all. In the future, she would not waste time like many of her peers who stayed safely at home during this most inharmonic convergence of pent up and destructive social forces wondering what life might have been like if they hadn't married early and had kids \-- if they had tested life's waters, so to speak. She had traveled extensively among the malcontents and dreamers. Time and again she recalled throwing her spirit and her body against the ramparts of a deeply entrenched military-industrial complex and the blind patriotism of a citizenry's conformist attitudes formed during the crucible of earlier wars. Better to cultivate weeds as far as she was concerned. Whatever life held in store for her, she intended that it come to this small town located eighty miles west of St. Louis, Missouri, to find her.

For the first time in many years though, latent forces stirred within her, and she could see dark clouds forming over the land. Not since the days when the country went insane during the '60s had so much greed, anger, deceit, intolerance, and self-indulgent excess come to the surface. She wondered what she could do about it now. Today she was a matronly, fifty-five year old woman with a home she loved, a wonderful husband, two grown children with their own families, and numerous volunteer responsibilities in various community services. She loathed traveling too far away from the safety of her supportive circle of family and friends.

For over thirty years she had directed many of the community social services agencies. Only in the last few years had she begun to work part-time due in large part to the wholesale reduction in funds to the agencies that provided the plethora of social services needed. Forced to either cut her own pay or the pay of the younger staff, she chose to cut her modest salary and be classified as part-time to keep her dedicated employees from leaving. Though now classified as part-time, she worked many more hours than she received pay for, but that wasn't all bad as it allowed her to begin an orderly withdrawal from her supervisory responsibilities. _So why let another bug get up my rear at this stage of my life? Why am I so intent upon going outside of my small area of the world looking for things to get upset about?_

Allison looked towards the reflection of her younger self in the window. "What is it you're after? What is it you want me to do?"

As usual, she received no reply. Only the unchanging and mysterious Mona Lisa like expression peered back at her. Never in all the years since the vision of her younger self first appeared had it ever done anything except be there to keep her company and listen to her problems as well as share quietly in her joys.

That explained why, at about the time when she customarily questioned the wisdom of this oft repeated and ambiguous occurrence her heart stopped. She witnessed the vision's lips move for the first time. Disbelieving her eyes, she neither spoke nor moved. Inside her head, however, it was an entirely different situation. Chaos ensued. _What did you say? What did you say?_ The vision's lips moved again, ever so slowly. Allison heard no sound, but she recognized the words formed, words never spoken and seldom thought about for thirty-four years. The vision repeated the words leaving no room for doubt in Allison's mind. The words echoed across the years from another place in time, "Remember the Dandelions."

Allison's eyes opened wide in surprise as she recalled the last time she had heard that phrase. It was while standing at the St. Louis railway station with her fellow refugees from a place in California gone insane. She even remembered who said it. It was Sam. He said it right before the group parted to go their separate ways, 'Remember the Dandelions.'

_No! Oh, no! Not that! That can't be what this is about. That happened a million years ago. This is about what's going on now. Why would I want to drag that old hurt back into my life again? I've tried for all these years not to think about what happened back there. No, it must be something else._ Allison's mind reeled under the sudden impact of hurtful memories crashing into her consciousness.

Turning back towards the window to confront the vision of her earlier self, she felt irritation at discovering the image had vanished. "Why do you do this?" asked Allison exasperated. "You always leave when the heavy stuff starts."

She knew it made no sense to badger an empty window. The vision, although it came often, arrived on its own terms and on its own schedule. Apparently, the subject now on the table for discussion presented too much heat for the vision's presence. Like so many times before, she had to figure this out by herself. No one in her family understood when it came to the sixties stuff. She had tried a few times to tell them about the initial excitement, the energy, the hope for a new world that thought and acted differently, and even part of the reason why her dreams came crashing down upon her in Berkeley across the bay from San Francisco. But, they couldn't understand. Not one of them ever would.

She wasn't being completely truthful. There were certain people who understood what she meant, or they did at one time. They understood that their individual as well as collective experiences in the San Francisco bay area during the '60s may well turn out to be the most traumatic events of their lives. Much of an entire nation had undergone dramatic, life altering changes during an intense confrontational period. It required only the barest amount of inductive reasoning to come to the conclusion that at least one of her fellow bay area escapees might have experienced a similar problem at some point.

Allison halted as the recollection of certain events rushed forth from the furthest recesses of her mind. At times over the years, she had thought about the individuals and the places that had played so great a role in forming the foundation of her present day mode of thinking. If something held any potential for having a significant impact on her life it filtered through those memories. That became her acid test. Her concepts of good and evil, right and wrong, truth and deception evolved from the lessons gleaned from those alternating moments of exhilaration experienced during a chaotic period of her young life.

Now thirty-four years later, she sat bursting at the seams. This sense of extreme frustration and anger had not come upon her quickly. Nothing came upon her quickly anymore, not since the time when she came up with the groovy idea of taking time off from life so she could go out to the west coast and go insane. All of her ideas now went before a committee in her brain, and for over thirty years, she never came close to repeating the same mistakes. That's part of the reason why her current agitated state of mind confounded her. She should have blown this away by now, but this time her thoughts became more and more directed towards the present crisis confronting the country. She could not believe that people bought into the warmed over horse crap the present administration in Washington, D.C., was offering up as an excuse to send U.S. troops into war again. _Didn't we learn anything from the Vietnam fiasco_?

Her heart sank as she thought about the senseless slaughter of those young people so many years ago. The numerous and uncanny similarities between the issues that propelled the country into war during the '60s and the forces that were leading the country inexorably towards becoming involved in a similar military quagmire today caused her to reread an article, "A New Call to Resist Illegitimate Authority" written in 1969 and published by a still existing anti-war protester group. The similarities between what the article spoke of in 1969 and what was transpiring in 2003 were so great that Allison had made a copy of the article and where it referred to Vietnam she lined through those words and wrote Iraq. Even as she reread the edited piece she could not help but feel a sense of anger and hopelessness as most of the underlying reasons that gave cause for the '60s disaster were again present.

Allison scanned the paper still amazed by the similarities. _The Vietnam [Iraq] war has reminded us that major decisions can be made in the United States in cynical disregard of the clearly expressed will of the people and with little concern for those most affected, at home and abroad. Closely linked to the government, providing its top personnel and shaping its policies, are the centers of private power, the great corporations that control the economics of the nation, and increasingly of the world. They are governed not by popular will but by corporate interests as determined by the autocratic elite._

Scanning down the page she resumed reading. _The war in Vietnam [Iraq] is neither a unique folly nor an error in judgment. Since the end of the last century, U.S. power has been used for economic, political, and cultural exploitation of smaller and poorer nations. The deceitful maneuvering in Paris [at the United Nations] are recent manifestations of a global strategy aimed at building an integrated world system dominated by the U.S. Thus seen, Vietnam [Iraq] is one of a long series of interventions in the affairs of many nations: Greece, Cuba, the Dominican Republic, Guatemala, Iran, Laos, Thailand, the Congo, the Philippines, [Granada, Panama, Lebanon, Honduras, Nicaragua, El Salvador, Somalia, Chile, Saudi Arabia, Kuwait.] Motivated by a mixture of private interests and misplaced convictions, Pax Americana continues to inflict suffering and subservience on much of the third world._

In an attempt to maintain her objectivity, Allison sought reasons to dispute the evidence before her. "But a war hasn't even started yet! You're not positive they'll go through with their threats. What about the millions of people around the world that demonstrated against war today? Hundreds of thousands marched in New York City alone. Surely people recognize the tragic consequences of blindly repeating the same mistakes. This is February 15, 2003, not 1969. There must be some way _we_ can stop this from happening again.

Hearing the word _we_ startled Allison. Right then she knew she would be involved in doing whatever was necessary to prevent this insanity from happening. She could not sit by because something bad had happened to her and her friends at Berkeley in 1969 and allow this nation to go crazy. Maybe she did have unresolved issues with her experiences in California, but this was too important to let that become an excuse to allow another fifty-eight thousand young people to die for the wrong reasons. She sighed as she looked back to the decades old paper she still held in her hand.

The triumph of illegitimate force has continued to enrich the rich. Defense contracts have guaranteed affluence to a handful of corporations and subsidized their growth, while the wages of workers have diminished. Welfare programs have been cut back or left languishing. Real welfare programs have been reserved for the wealthy: tax loopholes, airline subsidies, highway projects, and so on. Government policy has characteristically preserved or increased the distance between rich and poor.

Had thirty-four years really passed since someone authored the anti-war article she held in her hand? What actually changed in the world other than the invention of a never-ending procession of technological contraptions that were supposed to make life on this little blue planet better for everyone? From her vantage point she saw more people needing help, more illegitimate children, more violent kids, more destruction of the environment, and less effort to do anything about it. That only took into consideration where she lived. All over the world, millions of hungry, poverty stricken people perished yearly from starvation and violence. Yet, there was more food available and more affluence among the world's elite than ever before. The chasm between the haves and the have-nots grew larger every day.

"What blindness causes so many citizens of this country to ignore the plight of their fellow humans? Why can't they see they are only pawns being used by elitist groups of twenty-first century robber barons to achieve their own enrichment at the expense and detriment of the rest of the world?" said Allison aloud. "Don't they know that they are next? Someday they will realize, too late, that they are not part of some privileged caste exempt from all the economic pillaging and plundering?"

With resignation etched into her tired looking face, Allison finally halted her oft repeated and futile lamentations on the increasing economic disparity among the world's population and changed course once more pondering her earlier experience with the youthful vision of herself. _What does this have to do with what happened in 1969? I haven't seen or heard from those guys in years._

She couldn't help but smile at the recollection of her companions from so long ago. What a crazy experience that was. She could not begin to imagine another situation where four such completely different people from dissimilar backgrounds might come together like they did, for any reason.

"Remember the Dandelions," she whispered quietly. "Now those guys, for sure, would understand when I talk about the sixties!"

Allison radiated in the warmth of the memory of the individuals who provided her with the few pleasant recollections she retained of her 1969 adventure. "But, I can't see what that has to do with right now," she told herself as she made a mental note to table this matter pending further consideration. Whatever she decided to do could not be resolved tonight. Reacting quickly is what precipitated her disastrous San Francisco adventure in 1969, and nothing like that would ever happen again if she could prevent it.

"Dandelions," she said one last time.

~~ Chapter Two

Allison reread the note from her husband. _Morning Sunshine, It's about time you got up. Why were you rumbling around the house nearly the entire night? Was it the Mexican food I brought home? Sorry about that! I'll be at our daughter's home again for most of the day. Charley and I want to get the roof on the new garage. Love, Scott._

_What did I ever do to deserve such a wonderful human being as my husband?_ Allison thought to herself for the millionth time. Andrew Scott Carter, her husband of thirty-four years, still treated her as the most special person in the world. When other ladies complained about their husbands for whatever reason, she never commiserated with them because Scott was apparently the perfect male. Much earlier in their marriage she tried to find fault with her husband so not to be different at the office, but she failed, and it didn't take her long to begin to appreciate her good fortune. She dared to be different and excused herself when the office talk turned to husband bashing.

Scott, always a supportive father, absolutely lived for their two children: Scott Jr., 30 and Janis, 28. _Did you really have to go and name your only daughter after a singer who died of a drug overdose?_ That's why it didn't surprise her to see Scott spending so much time helping their daughter and son-in-law build a garage. Allison knew that without his help they would not be able to build the garage they had wanted ever since they bought the fixer-upper home, especially, since Charley lost his job at the phone company. As far as Allison was concerned, this was only another pathetic attempt by a large corporation to get rid of as many workers as possible so that future dividends and stock prices, in the short term, increased even more. The large institutional investors would view the company in good favor while huge bonuses were secured for the privileged few at the top. Forget about the long term disastrous effects of eliminating the nation's entire middle-class. Of more importance to the most corporations was putting the right numbers on the bottom line. Charley was fortunate that the same company had the effrontery to come back to him and hire him on as an independent contractor without any employee benefits, of course. They still made do, but for how long was anybody's guess.

Their only son, Scott Jr., practiced law in St. Louis, and his dad took great pride in his son's accomplishments. He told everybody how his son worked in the public defender's office. Scott Jr. had thought about it long and hard and decided he wanted to devote his efforts to providing help for people who might not otherwise be able to help themselves. The big bucks other young attorneys received for going into corporate law and other legal fields didn't appeal to him. He wanted to help people. Although she didn't display her sentiments as openly as her ebullient husband, Allison took much joy in having parented so fine a son.

_Another in a long list of things to be grateful for_ , mused Allison as she took a sip of her third cup of coffee and even more reason for her to question the crazy thoughts that tramped through her brain of late. She had everything a sensible person could want, so what was her problem? It was now March 15, 2003, over three weeks since the night she had the odd experience with the vision of her younger self. That occurrence, oddly enough, had not been repeated since that night, much to her relief.

Allison arose from the table, coffee cup in hand and walked into the hallway where a full-length mirror showed the passing of all who entered or exited the kitchen. She stood squarely in front of the mirror, taking in the reflected image before her. Not a particularly pleasant sight she admitted to herself. Her rumpled terrycloth robe hanging loose about her revealed a potentially attractive, middle-aged female. Her formerly long silky blonde hair now displayed a discernible gray tint, providing one could be sure that the errant strands hanging down from the tightly formed bun on the back of her head were representative of the whole. Blue eyes, which customarily distracted a beholder's vision from Allison's other features, were surrounded by dark shadows caused by too often being denied sleep. The multiple layers of clothing suggested more heft than actually resided on the poser's slight frame. One thing she obsessed over was her weight. Her mother paid the price for not minding her eating habits, and Allison was determined not to make that same mistake. She weighed less than ten pounds more than she did at the age of twenty-one. With her weight distributed proportionally upon her five-foot five-inch frame, she still gave cause for her husband's eyes to gleam with mischief on a regular basis. She had aged well by most standards. When she made time to make an effort towards her appearance, she could still present an attractive sight.

Walking back to the kitchen she sat down and resumed her earlier pose. "What am I to do about this? It can't go on!" she growled towards the pile of papers in front of her. Without forethought, she began to aimlessly search through the newspaper clippings. She was thoroughly familiar with the clippings by now having read and reread them many times. Picking one up at random, she recognized the headline: _Fifty-two-year-old schoolteacher awaits bombing as a human shield._ Setting it aside, she retrieved another from the pile: _Top military planner fears blood bath in Iraq._ Then others: _Man wearing anti-war T-shirt arrested at mall for demonstrating;_ _Vice-President's former business partners win oil field contract after war._ She continued on like this until she had gone through the entire pile: _Teens organize city against war; GI Joe replaces Easter bunny in baskets; UN weapons inspector doubts evidence; Thousands of high school students protest across country; President says using force in North Korea now an option; 5,000 Americans going to Iraq as human shields; UN predicts 500,000 casualties in Iraq;_ and finally, an article from today's paper, _Anti-war demonstrators arrested in San Francisco financial district._

As she finished reading, a cable news channel began showing live shots of the reported one hundred-fifty thousand demonstrators marching in San Francisco from the Civic Center to Jefferson Square. Allison knew this area well from her time in the city. Immediately upon seeing this, the first words out of her mouth were, "I should be there. I need to get up and do something!"

The post 1969 protective side of her personality responded as well. _What demons within cause you to even think of embarking upon this foolish mission? What can you accomplish there that can't be accomplished here? The prospect of war affects the whole country, not only California. Are you looking for something else? Do you think you can change the past? Are you seeking revenge?_

Allison grew more frustrated as she realized she didn't have a good answer. "I don't know," she finally whispered. "I really don't know, but whatever I need to do, it has to be done there." She felt a slight sense of relief with this honest response. Maybe it did involve more than she was consciously aware of, but one thing she now knew for sure, the answers to her questions awaited her in the San Francisco Bay area and nowhere else.

_What makes you think it won't turn out to be another disaster, and you'll only run back home again like the last time? Maybe this time you won't make it back._ Her inner guardian kept up the attack. _What about your family? What will this do to them?_

Allison recalled the words spoken by her husband over twenty-five years ago as she fought her way back from one of the several bouts of depression she had experienced since her return in 1969. "Something happened to you in San Francisco that you haven't told me about," he said, "and I'm not going to pry and force you to tell me what happened. But someday, you're going to need to deal with it, and when that day comes, go and do whatever you need to do. Don't worry about us; we'll always be here."

The decision belonged to her. Her family would be behind her. _Is that why Scott insisted on keeping my old VW bus?_ As she pondered the situation, her old VW bus was safely stored in the barn located on the back part of their several acre home site. Scott kept it in perfect shape, better condition than when she drove it to California and back the first time.

Alarm bells began going off in all sectors of her brain. Allison gave cause for this activity as she actually began to review the notion that she could drive her old VW bus back to the coast. She hated flying, especially now with the security delays and the threat of people blowing up planes with their shoes. Then, an even crazier idea came to her. "The Dandelions! Now I get it! Sam said, 'Remember the Dandelions.' He said if one of us ever went back, we must go back together. I distinctly recall him saying that. All four of us agreed to contact the others if that ever happened."

The agitation so apparent in her earlier actions vanished. "Dandelions?" she said in a tone of voice that implied disbelief. "Okay then, Dandelions it will be."

~~ Chapter Three

Tears continued to flow in spite of her constant personal remonstrations as Allison maneuvered the VW bus through the sparse Sunday morning traffic traveling south on the bypass that carried her around the city of St. Louis. Three hundred miles of monotonous interstate highway remained before she arrived at her first destination, Memphis, Tennessee, the lifelong home of Dr. Ernest Bartholomew Calhoun III, one of the original group-of-four that fled the bay area together in the same VW bus that dreadful May 17, 1969. Only back then, he insisted upon being addressed as Mustafa, the name given to him by the other members of the Black Panther group he joined when he arrived in Oakland in late 1968.

Distracted by her incessant weeping, Allison tried to stop crying several times to no avail during the hour and a half since she left home. She missed her family already, but for some unexplained reason she knew she had to do this. Her wonderful, absolutely amazing and undoubtedly shaken husband had stood beside the road waving goodbye as the oddly painted box-like vehicle she drove away in receded into the distance. When she informed him yesterday of her need to return to San Francisco to take part in the anti-war movement, he made no attempt to stop her. She knew this newest quest of hers caused him to worry, but he refused to make her decision more difficult. All he inquired of her was how she planned to get there, and when she told him she intended to drive the VW bus, he began to busy himself getting her chosen mode of transportation ready for departure. She held herself together until right when she was leaving. Scott leaned into the VW, gave her a long kiss followed by a frightened smile and said, "Remember, sometimes side roads become wide roads. That's the way life is – things change. I love you. I'll be here waiting for you."

She hadn't realized before then that he had picked up on the occasional side roads references she made from time to time. This, too, related to her 1969 adventure, and again, it was Sam who originally made the astute observation that contrary to what most young people think, the lifestyles that make the greatest number of people happy and content, don't take place on the super highways or in the fast lanes. They are constructed one day at a time, one brick at a time, one relationship at a time on the side roads, at places where people take time to think and care about what happens around them and notice the majestic, or more often, the simple wonders of creation. On the side roads, he said, is where people have a chance to make their stand and cease _Blowin' in the Wind._

"Too bad Sam won't be coming back with us," said Allison aloud with a note of disappointment underlying her comment. She called the Chicago area number she found on the Internet after only a few minutes search yesterday afternoon. His number was easy to find even though they hadn't spoken in over fifteen years when Allison gave him a call during a stopover in Chicago while flying home from a meeting in New York City. She had hoped to have lunch with him, but he was tied up with important legal work as an attorney specializing in putting together stock offerings for corporations wanting to go public. She found it hard to believe that a diehard, outspoken radical like Sam went to work for corporate America, or the enemy as he called them way back when.

Samuel Preston McCarthy, one year older than Allison and no relation to Senator Eugene McCarthy who ran for President in 1968, was born of the Chicago North Shore blue bloods and lived a privileged life absent of material want. You certainly couldn't tell that by his appearance back then. Like most of his peers, he wore the same faded jeans with holes in the knees until they fell off in tatters. For a shirt, he put on anything that wouldn't interfere with his buckskin coat adorned with leather tassels hanging down from both sleeves and across the breast and shoulders. He absolutely loved that coat. Allison suspected this the first night they carried him into the professor's house, bloody and almost unconscious from being beaten by the deputies in Berkeley. She saw how worried he was about getting his own blood on his precious coat. Other than his unkempt shoulder length brown hair, the other article of note was a necklace of multi-colored beads that he always wore. She also remembered that he smoked everything he could, legal and illegal as often as he could.

_What a difference a few decades make_ , she thought derisively. _Let a guy get a hot bath and access to a trust fund and you can never tell what will happen to him._ She called his answering service a second time late yesterday afternoon in desperation, afraid he may have forgotten who she was. She told the lady that Mr. McCarthy should contact Allison Yarbrough Carter by that evening if he wanted to have the opportunity to speak with one of the Dandelions before she headed back to the field of battle.

After she got off the phone and thought about the message to be relayed, she fully expected that the dumbfounded lady taking the message threw it in the trash as quickly as she got Allison off the line. Who in their right mind would relay a message that a dandelion urgently needed to talk to someone?

Allison had already written this effort off as a failure when right before 10 p.m. last evening the phone rang. It was Sam. He apologized profusely and blamed his tardiness on another of his stock deals. A lot of last minute details needed to be worked out before the corporation he represented went public for millions of dollars. He was obviously quite smitten by his legal prowess. Nevertheless, he had made time for a quick call to his old friend, Allison, to find out what she meant by her message about someone getting into a fight with some weeds _?_ "Are you okay?" he asked.

In all honesty, she expected this kind of response from Sam. What he said thirty-four years ago probably meant nothing to him now, given how much he had changed. _Too bad_ , she thought, _it sure meant a lot to me._ She could not count the times his words of simple wisdom, passed out so offhandedly during the long return trip east in 1969 had helped her out in times of personal turmoil and uncertainty. She never for one second over the intervening years forgot his side roads metaphor. Nor had she forgotten his and Bobby's extemporaneous analysis of their personal situation in relation to that of the unappreciated and often despised dandelions in the fields. _People really ought to listen to themselves more often,_ she reasoned. _No telling what they might learn -- good and bad_.

After the opening pleasantries, their conversation went something like, "Sam would you perchance recall that day so long ago when we stood together for the last time at the railway station in downtown St. Louis?"

Sam hesitated, "I kind of recall a sentimental moment if I'm not mistaken. I remember that we felt very fortunate to have gotten far away from a completely insane situation. Am I right?"

Allison felt relieved that he remembered what for her turned out to be one of the most revered moments in her life. She had thought about the group's parting moments often over the years. "I'm very pleased to hear that, Sam. Now, do you also recall what you said about us being like the dandelions in the fields? You and Bobby came up with the idea on the way back."

Several seconds elapsed before he spoke. "No...no, I don't. I'm afraid it's been too long. Maybe you can refresh my memory for me?"

Disappointed at his response, Allison proceeded. "I'm sorry to hear that, Sam. Then you probably don't recall asking us to promise to call the others if any one of us ever went back again. 'The Dandelions should go back together,' you said. Does that ring a bell?"

This time the pause lasted longer. "I'm so sorry, Allison, but nothing comes to mind. You must have a wonderful memory to recall that stuff from so long ago."

Allison's disappointment was complete, and she didn't know what to say next. Her hopes had been so great. "Sam, I'm sorry to have bothered you with this. I know how busy you are, so -"

Sam cut her off. "Are you planning to go back there, Allison? Are you going back because of what happened in 1969? But why? What can be done about that now? As I said, it happened so long ago."

Allison believed she detected a tone of genuine concern in Sam's voice. "I am going back, Sam. The country's about to go crazy again, and I can't sit here and do nothing. Just today one hundred and fifty thousand protesters hit the streets in San Francisco. I'm leaving tomorrow in the same VW bus that brought us home in 1969. I wanted to make good on my promise to let you know what my intentions are, that's all."

Sam's next question mirrored her own earlier self-examination. "Why San Francisco? They're marching in places all over the country."

"I don't have a good answer for that, Sam," said Allison. "I simply know I have to go back there, now." Allison waited for a response but none was forthcoming so she continued, "But again as you say, it's been a long time. I'm happy that you have moved on so successfully with your life. I guess some of us have a harder time forget-"

Sam interrupted, "Are you taking the same route back? It's probably mostly interstate highway now. I expect there are very few side roads left by this time. That's unfortunate."

Allison detected a tone in his voice, possibly disappointment even. _But at least he remembered about the side roads,_ she thought. "Not until Oklahoma City," replied Allison, "but after that it will be the same route all the way, excepting that now there will probably be no more side roads. Now it's interstate highway, and such is life, huh?"

"Such is life," agreed Sam.

"Goodbye, Sam," said Allison.

"Good luck, Allison," came the reply.

The line went silent as did Allison for a long while after she hung up the phone. "Well," she reflected, "at least he remembered about the side roads."

Now there were three: Ernest, Bobby, and her. Actually, she was the only one for sure. She called and spoke briefly with Ernest yesterday. Remembering how stubborn he could be, she only told him she was coming through Memphis and needed to talk with him. She intended to enlist him to her cause when they got face to face. As for Bobby, no one answered the phone any of the dozen times she called his listed phone number in Oklahoma yesterday. She planned to stop by his farm located within twenty miles of the interstate route that would take her from Memphis through Oklahoma City and then on to California. _He must be around there somewhere_ , she reasoned. _Farmers usually didn't go far with all the animal husbandry chores they have to perform._

The Dr. Ernest Calhoun she planned to meet in Memphis in a few hours, the man she had gotten to know much better on several occasions during the intervening years, bore slight, if any, resemblance to the belligerent, anti-social gang member she first met in Berkeley on the night of May 15, 1969. Black leather coat, black beret, dark sunglasses, and a constant scowl conveyed an attitude of unmistakable militancy. She couldn't believe it when the professor, who went out that night to aid and rescue many of the thousands of students and protestors as they ran and hid for safety, brought back to his home a full-fledged member of the infamous Black Panther Party. She knew the professor had a reputation for dropping acid occasionally but right then, she had thought, was really not the time. The entire town was occupied with the governor's storm troopers as well as every police officer in the entire bay area. The last thing Allison needed was another pissed off individual with a gun. Thousands of angry armed men in uniforms roamed the Berkeley campus as well as the surrounding community. The bloody bandage on the side of her face caused by the butt of a National Guardsman's rifle bore witness to the validity of her concerns.

For the first 24 hours, Ernest, or Mustafa as he insisted on being addressed at the time, said not one single word to anyone nor, to the best of Allison's knowledge, did he close his eyes to sleep. Allison was afraid to move lest their Black Panther guest reveal the hand he kept in his coat pocket, displaying the gun she expected he carried. If not for the sedatives administered to her by the professor, which caused her to sleep, she would have preferred to take her chances back on the streets. Based upon what she had heard about the Black Panthers that was not altogether a bad idea. Black Panthers did not carry guns to impress people. They carried them to shoot people. In 1968 and 1969, the papers reported numerous battles between the police and the Black Panthers. A lot of people died when they started shooting, and not all of them were Black Panthers or the police.

Knowing the man as she did now, it didn't seem real. Over the years, his physical growth had gone sideways. In other words, he'd added about one hundred-forty pounds to his previous one hundred-forty pounds without growing one inch in height. The man loved to eat, and the kinds of food they prepared in Memphis suited his unsophisticated pallet. He could look one of his patients, or a friend, right in the eye with a straight face and tell them to quit eating so much, so often. When someone made reference to his substantial girth, he informed them they didn't know what they were talking about as his ancestors were portly and lived to a ripe old age. What he didn't mention was that a ripe old age for his ancestors was about forty-five.

Ernest was one of the most pleasant spoken and fair-minded people she ever met in her entire life. Her life would not have been as rich without the pleasure of having Ernest as a friend. She was eternally grateful that she did not abandon the professor's house that night and go back out on the streets. If she had, Allison expected the roving gangs of uniformed officials would have undoubtedly gotten another shot at her in the most literal sense and from which she was now sure, she would not have survived, and just as importantly, Ernest would not have become her friend.

~~ Chapter Four

The Memphis city limits could not have come soon enough for Allison. All she needed to do now was to cross the Mississippi River into Memphis and travel south on the same interstate route for a few miles before heading east for several more miles to LeMoyne-Owen College, Ernest's alma mater. From there, Ernest's home was only four blocks away. She remembered the directions from earlier visits to Memphis. Her watch read 2 p.m. She hoped to convince her old friend to get up from his big chair in front of the television where he undoubtedly sat watching every basketball game that came on the screen and take a little ride with her back into the past. If the University of Memphis basketball team was playing, she wouldn't be able to move him with the threat of a bomb. _The man is nuts about college basketball which may account for part of the reason he chooses to look something like a basketball,_ she reasoned with a laugh.

Driving through the old inner-city neighborhood where Ernest resided and practiced medicine for most of his life, Allison was reminded of one of the reasons she admired the man so much. He'd stayed where he felt his skills provided the greatest good for his community. He could have bailed out and taken the medical degree he earned after returning home in 1969 and headed for the suburbs, but he didn't. He stayed and made a difference.

Presently, Ernest practiced part-time at the clinic he founded thirty years ago, located five blocks from his residence. Most of his patients these days, he told Allison, were people of different races in the community without the necessary funds or insurance to secure medical treatment elsewhere. For these patients, he provided pro bono services. His résumé was quite impressive for an individual who at one point in his young life became so disillusioned with the inequities within our system of government that he left his community intent upon securing change by whatever means necessary, including violent acts against his fellowman.

Finding the well maintained, seventy-five year old, two and a half story, wood-sided home of Ernest and Rosa Lee Calhoun proved easy for Allison. She could see the flagpole from a block away. Ernest's loyalties, represented by Old Glory flying above the University of Memphis Tiger's banner, waved proudly for passersby to see. No sooner did she bring the VW bus to a halt then Ernest burst through the front door with a huge smile on his face.

"I didn't really believe you would do it! You drove our old escape pod all the way down here," shouted Ernest as he launched his hefty frame off the porch that covered the front of the house. His agility surprised Allison as he hurriedly closed the distance between them. He embraced her in a bear hug. "It's so wonderful to see you again," he said as he continued his hardy embrace. "What's it been, five years since we visited the last time? Much too long, much too long, come in, come in."

By the time they reached the front door, Rosa Lee Calhoun appeared in the open doorway ready to duplicate Ernest's welcoming ritual, and fortunately for Allison's rib cage, with less physical vigor. "So nice to see you, my dear. Please come inside away from the lunatic that attacked you just now," said Rosa Lee displaying a grimace towards her excited husband.

Allison had predicted correctly when she pictured Ernest sitting before a television watching basketball. As she entered the house, the sound of screaming fans came from the family room. "I hope I'm not interrupting your game," said Allison to Ernest as they entered the foyer.

"You come on in and hush up about interrupting something," barked Rosa Lee before her husband could respond. "That old fool plays that infernal contraption day and night. He doesn't even know who's playing as he watches all the games. Come in here and sit right down and let me get you something to drink. I'll be right back. Ernest, now you turn that noise off, you hear me!"

Standing in the entryway to the family room after Rosa Lee's departure, Allison got her first good look at Ernest's huge bulk. He noticed her staring at his waistline. "Now don't you go saying anything about my you know what. That woman's about to drive me crazy," said Ernest hurriedly in mock indignation.

Allison was surprised at being busted so easily. "I'm sorry. I'm so rude, but I can't help but recall how small you used to be. I promise I won't start any trouble while I'm here. Your secret's safe with me." This last statement was offered with a conspiratorial smile.

"Good. Now you come right on in here and sit down while I turn the volume down. There! Now tell me how long you're going to be here? You mentioned we needed to talk. Is anything wrong? Can I help?" Ernest halted his inquisition to allow his friend to get a word in.

Before Allison could respond, Rosa Lee came into the family room carrying a tray with hot tea and her delicious sugar biscuits with peaches. Allison couldn't help but notice Ernest's eyes light up as he caught sight of the feast coming their way. Her planned discussion must wait awhile longer which really didn't bother her as she could taste Rosa Lee's biscuits already.

Watching her long-time friend enjoy this afternoon repast helped reaffirm Allison's faith in the value of life's simple pleasures. She could not help but contrast the two very different individuals: the angry, potentially violent Mustafa of long ago and the affable community caregiver of today. What an amazing and wonderful metamorphosis.

"Okay, I'm ready to listen," blurted Ernest as he set his empty plate and cup aside. "I think I know you fairly well after thirty-four years, and I know you didn't come all this way just to admire my fat belly, so tell me what's going on. How can we help?"

Allison, caught off guard, didn't know how to respond at first. She knew both Ernest and Rosa Lee would be involved in any decision regarding Ernest's activities.

"Ernest," said Allison ever so slowly, "you are going to think I'm crazy when I tell you what I'm going to do but -"

"You're going back, aren't you?" His response surprised Allison. Her look of complete amazement made him smile.

"I'm right, you are going back. You don't have to tell me because I always knew someday you would. I have to tell you though, I don't understand why. They tried to kill you! They almost did! You were very lucky; we were lucky. There's nothing that can be done about that now. They didn't care then, and they won't care now. So what's the purpose?"

"There's more to it than that. There are crazy people trying to drag this country into another war. I can't sit around and do nothing. I've got to get involved, and San Francisco is the place I need to be to do that," countered Allison.

"There's more to it than that, Allison," said Ernest sternly. "That may be a valid reason, but it's not the only reason, is it?"

Allison attempted to arrange her thoughts to put forth a more persuasive argument for both her and him going forward with her proposed venture. She asked herself the same question again. _Why must you go back to the one place in the world that caused you so much hurt?_ _Why_? For the first time the truth came forth from somewhere deep within her. She offered it to her two friends in the same simple way in which she received it. "I was hurt so bad that I left a part of my soul in that filthy ditch, and I need to go back and get it and bring it home with me. That's why."

Allison knew then that she had nothing else to say about the matter. She had to go back to find a part of her she lost many years in the past. Although she would be comforted by having the company and the support of three special people, go she must, regardless. Their lives had moved on, so why should they want to be part of her crusade to save a country on the verge of making another catastrophic mistake? They had spent their time in the trenches already, so let a younger generation take up this fight. It was their future at stake. She was apparently the only one of the four who felt they had left something personal back there, so it made sense that she alone would end up returning to the scene of the crime. So be it.

It occurred to Allison she was imposing on these two wonderful people and their purposeful life. She had been wrong to come here and bother them with her problem. "Ernest and Rosa Lee, I want to apologize for barging in on you with this crazy idea. I had no right to do this. I'm very sorry. I am going to get up right now and leave you two wonderful people alone so you can go on enjoying your lives in peace. So -"

Rosa Lee cut her off before she could finish. "What about the Dandelions? You can't go back without the Dandelions, can you?"

Allison recoiled in shock. "Ernest told you about that? You remembered that, Ernest?"

"Of course, I remembered it. I'm a doctor, and it's my job to remember things," answered Ernest with a puzzled look.

"Well, I best get the Memphis Dandelion some clothes packed so you two can get on the road," said Rosa Lee in a matter-of-fact tone of voice.

"What? Hold on now, woman. I haven't said anything about going to California, have I? We've got to talk about this some more. There will be repercussions if I just up and take off without any notice." Ernest appeared indignant at her suggestion that he could leave without any forewarning.

Rosa Lee laughed, "The only repercussions will come from that poor Lazyboy over there when it finds out it's going to get a rest from your big butt for awhile. Look at that poor chair, and it's only a year old."

"You see what I have to put up with, Allison," moaned Ernest as if in physical pain. "When I leave, she will probably sell my TV, my chair, and who knows what else. I'm telling you this is a mean woman, she is."

Allison smiled, but she wasn't about to get in the middle of this. She sat back and quietly pondered her purpose there and waited to see what the outcome would be. The thought came to her right then that it would be best to dispel any false notions of control over the events that were in the process of unfolding before her today and during the coming days. Something was coming alive, she sensed, and for the most part, it would chart its own course.

The next thing Allison became aware of was the absence of one of her hosts, Rosa Lee. Only Ernest was in the room, and he sat looking at the muted screen as if nothing happened. The silence ended abruptly with Rosa Lee's voice booming from the top of the stairs. "Ernest, will you wear your new underwear if I pack them?"

Turning to Ernest with her heart about to burst with happiness, she asked him a single question. "You're coming with me?"

Barely bothering to take his eyes from the big screen, he said loudly, "Yes, I'll wear them." Then with a mischievous smile he turned to Allison, "Of course, I'm coming with you. I'm a Dandelion _,_ aren't I, and you know what Dandelions do, don't you?"

"They always come back," answered a very happy Allison. The relief she felt was indescribable. Two of the Dandelions were present, accounted for, and heading west.

~~ Chapter Five

Notwithstanding the fact that she was hundreds of miles from home heading for an uncertain rendezvous with the wreckage of her youth and angry that her government proposed to lay waste to another generation of young men and now women, Allison guided her loyal VW bus down the interstate highway stretching between Memphis and Little Rock during the pitch black early morning hours of Monday, March 17, 2003. Her partner, Ernest, with his head resting against the passenger side window, snoozed quietly following his half-dozen donut meal. He had directed Allison to stop so he could pick up some snacks not five minutes after they departed his home at straight-up midnight.

She did not stop willingly. Rosa Lee had specifically warned her of his affinity towards those tasty little round morsels with the holes in the middle. Ernest said he would guide her to the interstate, and he eventually did, but not before passing by his favorite all night donut shop. Still elated that he consented to accompany her on her venture, she couldn't say no. She had promised Rosa Lee to try and hold him in check, so the next time he went donut foraging, she intended to put up a fight.

Directing her attention to the present, she estimated their arrival time at Bobby's farm, 20 miles west of Muskogee, Oklahoma. Allison vaguely recalled how to get there, having stopped by to visit with Bobby and his family many years ago. She remembered being surprised when she saw that it was a real farm. He really was a farmer. He grew wheat, raised cattle, owned a tractor and a horse he loved to ride around his farm, and had all the other equipment and paraphernalia that goes with being a full-time farmer. He and his wife, Cheryl, had one child, a son named Fogerty. Although Allison disliked the name, she felt relief from knowing she wasn't the only person dumb enough to name a child after a rock musician. He must have been serious when he told them he didn't much care for his own name, Robert Floyd Owens, Jr.

She had not heard from Bobby in many years and not because she didn't try. She dropped notes to him for several years even after he stopped responding. Neither had Ernest heard from him in the last ten years. Hopefully, he was alive and well, but they would not know for sure for another five hours. As she thought about the amount of time that had passed since she last heard from him, she chastised herself for not being more persistent. She really didn't know if the guy was alive, dead, destitute, or starving. She should have found out before now. She owed it to Bobby. Bobby picked her up out of that ditch in Berkeley and carried her to safety. He fought off her attacker and saved her life.

Allison cringed at the memory of that day. May 15, 1969, started out for her no differently than hundreds of others since she arrived in the bay area in the same month a year before. During that time she lived a life far removed from anything she had experienced before. She made it her goal to try anything or everything at least once. For the most part, and for most things, once was enough, although she did enjoy smoking pot _._ It mellowed her out and helped her to dump her Midwestern, middle-class inhibitions. But, the truth of the matter was that the _Summer of Love_ image was but a distant memory in the bay area by the spring of 1969. Haight-Asburry, the epicenter of the free love movement, had degenerated into a haven for drug addicts, runaway teens, and panhandlers who were robbed, molested, and rousted by the police with regularity. Eventually, the flower children _,_ such as Allison, drifted away to other places. That's how Allison ended up sleeping in her bus parked in back of a UC Berkeley professor's house located in the hills above the city. Still, the psychedelic experience didn't die out. Across the bay in Berkeley, there were hippies and happenings galore. There they felt safe to continue their free love existence without the fear of being robbed and beaten by thugs and hustlers or being rousted by the police. They were wrong.

Allison appreciated Ernest's insistence that she rest before they started out for Muskogee. Nothing would be accomplished by arriving at Bobby's in the middle of the night. The trip required at least seven hours, and he figured they could rest until midnight and then head out without the hassle of a lot of traffic. They should be pulling up to Bobby's house early Monday morning. If that were the case, it's possible they could be back on the road by mid-morning, leaving another seventeen hundred miles to cover in the next two days.

It would mean a lot to Allison if Bobby could make this trip with them. If not for him, she wouldn't be here today. The first time she met Bobby was in April 1969 when hundreds of people came together to convert an unsightly piece of ground located close to the Berkeley campus into a public park. The People's Park, as it was known, started out as an eyesore, a muddy parking lot. When the volunteers finished, the little park included a sod lawn, a community garden, a play area for children, and places where people could sit and talk.

Bobby and Allison stood next to each other in a long line formed for the purpose of removing broken pieces of asphalt from the park, fire brigade style. During breaks from moving the tons of asphalt, she engaged the young ex-soldier recently returned from combat in Vietnam in conversation. It wasn't only the worn and faded jungle fatigue jacket he wore that suggested to her that the thinly built young man standing nervously beside her was a veteran of the war. His freshly scarred face drew her attention the first time she glanced at him. The next time she noticed his eyes – dark, sunken pits. She met a number of veterans that returned from Vietnam via the Oakland Army Terminal since she arrived in the bay area. Bobby's face displayed the symptoms of a young man who had experienced long periods of violent, inhuman activity before returning to _the world_ and released to the streets as if it were but another day on the job. For the rest of that day as well as several times over the coming weeks, she made a point of talking with Bobby whenever they saw each other in the park or elsewhere in the community. Even that far back her empathy towards her fellow human beings who were suffering was well advanced. Although Bobby said very little during their conversations and never complained, she knew beyond a doubt that this young man suffered much.

Her reveries were ultimately disturbed by the sound of Ernest's _harrumphing._ His little post adrenalin-rush nap caused by the sudden ingestion of copious amounts of sugar had come to an end. That was probably a good thing because the droning of the tires against the concrete surface of the road had become monotonous, and Ernest's company would help ensure her staying awake for the remaining few hours of their trip to Bobby's.

Ernest awoke and felt his lap as if looking for something.

"No use looking for those donuts. You ate the whole half dozen in one sitting," said Allison as her passenger looked inquisitively in her direction. "And for the record, I intend to tell Rosa Lee how you tricked me as soon as we get back."

"Huh! I might not even go back. I told you that mean old woman will sell my stuff. She's been waiting for a chance like this for 20 years. She will have a treadmill sitting where my chair is now. Somebody else will be watching my new TV at their home by this time tomorrow, I'll bet you." He chuckled then as he located the thermos of coffee Rosa Lee sent along. "Coffee?" he asked as he finished pouring a cup of the hot, aromatic liquid.

"Thanks, you big liar," responded Allison as she reached for the cup. "I can't believe you would say something so horrible about that wonderful wife of yours. I'm going to tell her about that, also. You better be on your best behavior from here on or you surely will be getting a whipping when you get back."

Ernest chuckled again as he poured himself a cup of the hot brew. "Are we about there?" he inquired. "Seems like we've been driving all night."

"Nope! We still have about three and a half hours to go. But you can keep me company since you're awake. You haven't told me about your son yet. How's that fine young man doing?"

"Humph!" said Ernest. "Did I tell you he went to med school? Same school I went to -- U.T. Memphis. He graduated at the top of his class and came into the clinic with me. And you know what? I apparently have gotten stupider every single day since his arrival. I tell you, these young people today think they know everything. I operated that clinic for years by myself, and now, everything has to be changed. New equipment, new computers and billing systems, new furniture, remodeling, you name it and we have it. Every day I go there I have to learn how to do something new."

Allison realized that she had struck a nerve. "You must be so proud of him. Aren't you happy to have him involved in the clinic so he can learn the job and take your place someday?"

"Someday! He took it over the second day he was there. I mostly stay out of the way and do the pro bono patients now. Anymore it requires so much billing and scheduling that I don't know what the heck is going on. I tell you, I don't know what's happening with these young people today, they want to change everything right now."

Allison could not help but laugh at what she heard. "I don't suppose you can remember another young man who was in a hurry at one time to make some changes, can you?"

"Oh now, I knew you were going to say that," replied Ernest. "Things were different back then. We were in the middle of a revolution."

"And you think this isn't?" responded Allison hurriedly. "I tell you what, some days I am almost swallowed up by the never-ending flood of technological changes. It's constant. There is no time to get comfortable with the changes in the equipment or the procedures before they are outdated and need to be changed again. If a young professional person today takes a break to kick back and see what's going on, they will either be run over or pushed aside. I'm not sure, but I sometimes think that we have reached a point where much of the change is purely for the sake of change. 'Growth for the sake of growth,' said someone I can't remember, 'is the philosophy of the cancer cell _._ ' These young people may be working within a diseased environment and don't even know it. I feel sorry for them."

This quieted Ernest as he pondered what Allison said. "Are you trying to make me feel good? Because you are," said Ernest with a giggle.

"Why you evil man! I can't believe a person could be so insensitive. I am going to tell Rosa Lee about this!"

Then they both laughed heartily, mostly for the relief to again be in the good company of a kindred spirit.

"Do you ever think about those times?" Allison asked not bothering to turn and look at her friend. "Do you ever think about the excitement, the energy, and, of course, the fear? I sure do. I probably think about it too much. I can't seem to help myself; it's just there with me at times."

"Sure I do, from time to time," said Ernest.

Realizing this terse comment represented the totality of his response, Allison sought to draw him out. That way she could compare notes to ensure that her memories were not the distorted product of an active imagination. She read one time that what a person really remembers is not the actual event, but their last recollection of the event. Overtime what you end up with varies significantly from the original if each succeeding recollection isn't exact to the smallest detail.

"What was it that originally brought you to the bay area? How did you end up there? I don't believe you ever actually said?" asked Allison, attempting to draw him out.

Ernest's eyes narrowed as the speaker finished her question, not quite certain he had heard her correctly. "I beg your pardon?" he replied.

"Why did you go to the bay area?"

"I went to the bay area to kill white people," Ernest stated calmly. "I thought you knew that."

Allison felt like an idiot. She knew of his affiliation with the Black Panthers and their proclivity towards violence, especially, against their oppressors, the white race. What a stupid question to ask this man. She needed to engage her brain before she opened her mouth.

"Of course, I did. I was just checking your memory," she replied with a forced laugh. "And I want you to know right now that if I see any of them when we get out there I'm going to let you know. But what I actually meant was, were there any particular events that pushed you out the door or finally got you moving? I know for myself there were."

"The answer to your question is yes. There were specific events that made me get up and do something," said Ernest. "There were many reasons, but two events in particular very close together put me on my way in a hurry. I expect now you want to know what they were. If you think for a moment I'm sure you know the main reason. It happened on April 4, 1968."

"Yes, I do. That was the day Martin Luther King, Jr. was assassinated. That day stands out vividly. My roommate told me about it when I returned home from a forensics team practice. I couldn't believe it happened. I remember I felt so ashamed when I found out a white man did it. I felt almost like I did it. I hated the man who killed him."

They both sat for a moment refreshing their memories regarding that tragic occasion. Although it happened over a lifetime ago, it seemed like yesterday.

"What else?" asked Allison, after an appropriate interval.

"It happened two days later in Oakland. The police ambushed several Black Panthers driving down the street. After a gunfight, Bobby Hutton was killed, and Eldridge Cleaver was wounded while trying to surrender after having laid down his weapon. Witnesses claimed the police shot Bobby twelve times as he lay on the ground." Ernest took a deep breath. "The next day I dropped out of school and caught a bus to California to join the Black Panther party."

Only the constant hum of tires rolling on pavement made any sound until Ernest spoke again. "And you, what happened to get you up and moving?"

"For me, Martin Luther King's death was the last straw, too, but the other two catastrophes that made me mad had to do with the war. First was the Tet Offensive in January of 1968 that proved outright that we were being lied to about winning the war. Next came the My Lai Massacre. I couldn't believe American soldiers were capable of such atrocities. Right then I knew something was terribly wrong when young people like me could be taken off the street and sent to some far away place and caused to murder women and children. I was halfway out the door, and when James Earl Ray murdered Martin, I hit the road. The whole sterile middle class life I was headed for no longer made any sense. Everywhere I looked around this country or the world we were beating, killing, or bombing somebody. I had to get some air and make some sense out of what my life was about. And you know what really troubles me? Right now, I'm hoping there are young people who are beginning to feel exactly the same way I did back then -- feel it so strongly that they will get up and do something about it and not wait until it's too late, like so many of us did the last time."

That's as far as either one of them wanted to go for the moment on this subject. Maybe it did happen over thirty years ago, but the site still registered radioactive to those who witnessed the explosion. In the back of Allison's mind another question went begging. Ernest's immediate consent to accompany her on this journey came as a surprise to her. _Why is he so eager to go back? Had he accomplished his original mission? Does my traveling companion have his own demons to vanquish somewhere along the path of this journey?_

~~ Chapter Six

An occasional glance in the rear-view mirror revealed the beginning of a new day catching up with the VW bus as it journeyed towards the west. In front of the bus, the blackness of night prevailed, but not for long. Allison felt relieved, because for her the loneliest time of a day occurred during the period right before sunrise. Ernest had said little following their brief conversation. She hoped she hadn't put a damper on his enthusiasm with her questions regarding his motivation for getting involved in the bay area insanity in '69. They would have sufficient cause to visit more about their previous experiences as things progressed. Allison decided not to worry about it.

A road sign informed her that their planned exit point from the interstate was just ahead. They had made good time, so far. After a stop at a well-lit truck plaza located a short distance from the off ramp to gas up the bus and refresh themselves, they could expect to get back on the road and arrive at Bobby's by no later than 7:30 a.m. "Are you ready for a pit stop?" she asked, ending an extended period of silence.

Ernest aroused himself in preparation for the much anticipated restroom-refreshment break. The only comment made in the last hour related to his observation that Allison could drive farther without a potty-break than any female he had ever known. Needless to say, once the bus came to a stop with the engine turned off, Ernest exited the vehicle without any attempt to coordinate a plan of action. He obviously had other things on his mind. Gas, oil, food, coffee, or whatever could be discussed later.

As Allison watched her companion scamper towards the sign directing customers to the lavatories, she caught sight of a group of men standing off to the side of their pickup trucks staring intently in her direction. Before she could begin to feel flattered by their attention, she realized their interest lie in the exterior of the VW bus. Both she and Ernest were accustomed to the less than professional multi-color rainbow paint job along with the large golden sunflowers and peace signs that adorned the exterior of the bus since before they had fled Berkeley in 1969. She hadn't stopped to think that the sight of an original 1965 hippie VW bus operated by two aging children of the sixties, one white and one black, sitting at a rural truck stop in 2003 less than thirty miles from Muskogee, Oklahoma, the same Muskogee the _Okies were proud_ _to be from_ , might be of particular interest to certain individuals who flaunted their atavistic tendencies. The watchers looked harmless enough to Allison if potbellies and bib-overalls could be considered a fair indicator of docility. Still, she would just as soon Ernest return from his pit stop and refreshment run and finish filling up the tank so she could do the same thing he was now doing. Until then, she intended to stand defiantly and return the stare of the ogling group of observers.

Ernest eventually came dawdling out of the truck stop smiling and whistling a tune. He carried a plastic bag full of goodies that he professed to have purchased for both of their benefit. Just the usual stuff he told her when pressed to describe the bag's contents: six powdered donuts, two jelly rolls, a snickers bar, a honey bun, and a large strawberry slurpie. He topped off this feast by providing for her drinking pleasure, either a can of cherry cola or a diet Fresca. He looked sincerely pleased with his effort.

Not prepared to bring him to justice right at that moment given the amount of interest their presence created for the local gawkers, Allison simply asked him to stay by their vehicle while she took care of her business inside, which included getting her own breakfast of hot coffee and an apple. Before she departed she did, however, subtly indicate to Ernest that something of interest was taking place off to the side of the lot.

Glancing in the direction of their audience as she exited the station a short while later, she noticed that the smiling dispositions of the local lookers had changed to something more akin to scowls. _What's happened?_ she asked herself as she hurried towards the bus. She got her answer as she neared the vehicle and spied a large belligerent looking black man wearing a black beret and dark sunglasses sitting in the driver's seat staring straight at the crowd.

"What do you think you're doing? Do you think you're going to scare anyone with that look?" asked an incredulous Allison standing outside the passenger side of the bus with the door open.

"Why don't you ask them," said Ernest as he started the engine. "Which way to the highway?"

"Go right, for the next twenty miles, I think," answered Allison as she climbed in and glanced one last time at their enraptured roadside audience. She flashed the universal two finger peace sign of the sixties and displayed her warmest smile as they drove past the idlers. What she received in return for her effort was the bewildered look of earthlings having seen a flying saucer land and take off again. They would probably be retelling this tale for years, even to their children's children.

"Oh, my God!" said Allison in disbelief as she turned back to look at her laughing companion. "You are going to be in such trouble when I tell Rosa Lee. Now hand over that bag of junk food you bought back there. Here's an apple to go with that Fresca."

The earlier scowl that Ernest had offered up to the men at the truck stop flashed in Allison's direction from time to time as the bus headed across Oklahoma towards Bobby's last known residence. A single bite of the apple washed down with the tangy diet beverage he thought he had secured for his traveling companion brought a look of disgust to his face. "This is going to make me sick," he whined. "Is that what you want? Do you want to make me sick? I will if I don't get something to eat. I know about this stuff. I'm a doctor!"

Allison ignored him as she scanned a map of the countryside they now traversed. "I think all we need to do is take a left at the next intersection, about five or six miles ahead, and then go for another ten miles or so, and we should be there."

Ernest acted as if he hadn't heard a word she said. "How about giving me the rest of that jelly roll I started on. I swear that's all I'm going to ask you for."

Allison could see she wasn't going to get his full attention until she gave him something, so she conceded to this one request. "Okay, but the rest of these are going to be parceled out slowly. Starting this afternoon when we stop for lunch we're both going to have a big summer salad with a vinaigrette dressing. You heard me promise Rosa Lee I would see that you got at least one decent meal a day, didn't you? Well, I am going to keep my promise."

Ernest reached for the partially eaten jellyroll and wolfed it down in a couple of bites. He actually seemed pacified for a moment until he took a swig of his diet soda. That's when another look of agony covered his face.

Silently observing his theatrics, Allison made a suggestion. "There's always the cherry cola if you would rather have that."

Ernest spent the rest of the short drive to Bobby's shaking his head from side to side and talking silently to himself. Allison, on the other hand, busied herself by looking for anything that might be familiar to her from her visit here many years earlier. She was still looking when the bus sped past a large sign just off the road that read Owens Straightbred Angus Cattle.

"That's it," yelled Allison, "that's it! I remember that sign. Turn around and go back."

"Oh, really? You want me to go back?" remarked Ernest sarcastically, obviously still sore over losing his stash of goodies. "You don't want me to go straight ahead and drive around the world until we come back to this spot?"

Allison ignored his poor excuse at humor while Ernest found a wide spot to turn the bus around. After turning onto an entrance road just past the sign, the road wandered up a long gradual slope flanked on both sides by fields that during her earlier visit held hundreds of head of cattle. Allison spotted the farmhouse a quarter mile away. She couldn't remember most of what she saw during her first visit, but something told her that things had changed. There was no sign of activity anywhere: no cattle, no crops in the fields, no fields being readied for spring planting, nothing. Something was wrong. She didn't know what it was, but everything looked wrong to her.

"Look sharp Ernest, something's wrong, I know it," said Allison.

Ernest did not bother to respond, but instead allowed the professional lifesaver inside of him take the lead. He joined Allison in scanning every building, every field, and anything else that might conceal a live person or a critter. Not a living creature appeared anywhere.

"Looks abandoned to me," said Ernest as they drove closer to the main house. Gates to empty fields stood wide open as did barn doors and out buildings. Not a piece of farm equipment could be seen. Whatever occurred here had not happened recently. The lack of tire tracks or footprints in the soft soil indicated traffic had not gone into the fields or stock pens in a long time.

"Keep driving around to the back of the house, that's where I remember Bobby kept his truck. No one ever uses the front doors on farmhouses. If you want to go inside you usually have to go through the kitchen," said Allison, continuing to scan everything in sight.

Turning a corner flanked by a row of tall cedars placed there as a wind break, both Allison and Ernest spied an empty pickup truck parked askew, its front fender up against the wire fence that surrounded the house protecting it from roaming critters. They noticed as they moved closer that the driver's side door stood wide open. Allison began to have a queasy feeling in her stomach. Something _was_ wrong.

Ernest brought the bus to a halt, and Allison exited towards the gate that allowed passage to the back door of the residence. "You check out the barn and the sheds. I'll check the house."

Again, Ernest followed instructions, looking as if he, too, feared that something was amiss. Meanwhile, his partner banged loudly on the back door to the house. If they were wrong and someone was home, they might be more than a little puzzled by their visitors' actions, especially if Bobby didn't live here anymore.

Allison, tired of waiting for a response to her loud knocks, opened the unlocked door and yelled inside. "Hello! Anyone home? Bobby, it's me, Allison, and I've got Ernest with me. Is anyone here?" Receiving no answer she decided to search inside the house. As she made her first step inside the door, Allison heard Ernest calling her name.

"Allison! Allison! He's out here behind the barn. Bring my kit from the bus, hurry!"

Allison grabbed the kit and ran to Ernest's side. A frightening sight stopped her in her tracks as soon as she turned the corner. Ernest was leaning over Bobby who was unconscious and flat on his back on the ground. Ernest finished his examination for signs of obstructions in the breathing passageway and started checking the body for wounds or broken bones. Only after he was certain that Bobby would not incur further trauma from being moved did he ask Allison to help him move their unconscious friend.

Where Bobby laid caught Allison's attention. In a ditch! She recalled the time when it was the other way around, and Bobby saved her from a terrible fate as she lay in a ditch, beaten and bloody. There beside him in the ditch was a large handgun.

"Hurry, Allison! Although he didn't shoot himself with that gun, I still don't know what's happened to him." Ernest's strong voice got her going again, and they lifted Bobby from the ditch to higher ground. Allison said nothing as Ernest performed an emergency evaluation. Bobby had not moved a muscle. He was out cold.

Finally, Allison couldn't help herself. She needed to know what was going on. "What's wrong with him? Was it a heart attack? Did he fall and hit his head?"

Ernest did not respond so Allison asked again. "Please tell me what has happened. Is he going to be all right?"

"Here's the culprit, I believe," said Ernest as he reached his hand inside of Bobby's work jacket and pulled out a near empty bottle of Kentucky Bourbon Whiskey. He handed it to Allison as he stood up. "He's drunk, very, very drunk."

Allison unscrewed the top and put the bottle up to her nose. The harsh smell of the strong whiskey caused her to jerk her head away. "Oh my lord, that is so foul. He drank this much already?"

Ernest laughed at her comment. "No, I don't mean he's drank that much. I mean he's drank ten times that much. His heart sounds okay, and he seems okay otherwise except for that big bump on his head, but it's going to take him some time to get over this binge." After thinking about it a while longer as Allison stood there wondering what to do next, Ernest spoke again. "I don't see how he can go with us, Allison, even if he wants to."

This news hurt Allison to the core. She had counted so much on Bobby going along. The distinct possibility that he would not be able to grieved her deeply. "Can we get him inside the house? We can't leave him out here."

Ernest, being a practical man and knowing how difficult it was to carry dead weight, which is exactly what they had at the moment, looked around for help. He spotted an implement that fit their needs to the letter, a heavy wheelbarrow leaning on the side of a small shed thirty yards away. He retrieved the implement without stopping to explain to Allison, pushed it up alongside Bobby, and then asked her to give him a hand loading Bobby into it. Her common sense told her this was a good idea.

"We'll take him straight into the bathroom and put him into the tub, if he has one, clothes and all," said Ernest as he and Allison labored to get their passenger into the wheelbarrow and then to the house. With a lot of grunting and a lot more dragging, they accomplished their mission. Inside the house, they found an old cast iron bathtub in the large first floor bathroom. They removed Bobby's boots and jacket and his wallet from his back pocket before they turned the cold water on to fill the tub with Bobby already in it.

While Ernest watched over Bobby, Allison went to the kitchen to start a pot of coffee. She wouldn't give up this easily. She had to try something. When she returned to the bathroom with a steaming hot cup of coffee for Bobby, Ernest took it from her and started to drink it himself. She stared at him, wondering why he drank the coffee they needed to be putting into Bobby, but Ernest paid her no attention as he sipped the fresh brew.

The cold water began to have an effect on their patient if moaning and jerking qualified as progress. "As soon as he awakens and we can get some caffeine into him, we will refill the tub with hot water. That will sweat the impurities out of his system faster. Then we can start to work on him. I know you're not going to leave here without doing everything we possibly can to get him on his feet. Get me a notepad so I can make a list of items we will need from the nearest store if they're not here in the house," said Ernest without looking up to see the beginnings of a smile on his partner's face. Allison wasted no time complying with his request. By the time she returned, Bobby's movements were more pronounced than before. _Maybe there is reason to have hope_.

Allison checked the house to make sure the items on the list were not present. In short order, she had the bus on the road heading towards the junction they went through ten or twelve miles back where they had spotted a small market. She reviewed the list once again. _One liter of regular cola, honey, aspirin, bananas, probably for the potassium she thought. Peanut butter, white bread and finally, a bottle of vitamin C tablets._ Not exactly her idea of advanced medicine, but then she wasn't the doctor.

Within thirty minutes she was racing back along the same road with most of the items on the list having been located on the shelves of the well-stocked little market. The only item the store didn't have were the vitamin C tablets and the loaf of whole wheat bread she requested instead of the white bread which she was simply loathe to buy for any reason. It turned out this was white bread country, and she had to take what she could get. Allison glanced at her watch. It read straight up 9 a.m. They would need to get moving if they wanted to get back on the road by no later than noon. A go, no go, decision needed to be made regarding Bobby fairly soon.

She pressed on the gas pedal anxious to get back to the farm and see if Ernest had made any progress in getting Bobby awake. As she finished the thought, she sighted the large sign that announced the turnoff to Bobby's house. Absent-mindedly she expressed her sentiments out loud, "If anybody is listening we could use a little help right now. It's for a good cause." That was it. Allison wasn't real big in the area of formal prayer. Although she subscribed to the existence of an all knowing, essentially benevolent, creative energy, she had a hard time believing this force played an active roll in the every day lives of the wee creatures that inhabited this speck of sand located in the far corner of one of the billions of star systems located in one of the billions of galaxies that made up the known universe.

She came to a stop behind Bobby's house. Hurrying from the bus, she entered the back door to the welcomed sound of Bobby's loud voice wailing that he was being roasted alive in the hot water Ernest had him sitting in. Not bothering to see whether Bobby was clothed or naked, she went straight to the bathroom to see for herself if their subject's condition had improved.

To her relief, he was still clothed in the jeans and shirt he had on when they started, and for the first time, she got a good look at Bobby's weathered face. He looked as if he had not spent ten minutes out of the elements in the last thirty years as lines and cracks ran in every direction. His face was as haggard looking as a piece of old leather. He looked to be a hard seventy years old if he looked a day. _He's three years younger than me_ , calculated Allison.

Allison went right to the important questions. "What do you think? Can we do it? Can we get him straightened out so we can take him with us?"

Ernest didn't bother to answer her questions as he kept busy holding Bobby in the tub. "Come over here and hold him in here until I can mix up the items you have there and try to get him to ingest something." Ernest arose from beside the tub and exposed the drenched clothing he now wore. Allison could see that she was about to get wet. _No matter,_ she thought as Ernest's earlier beret and sunglasses caper had given her an idea. The khaki pants and designer sweatshirt she wore with the quilted lettering across the chest proclaiming her proud position in the family hierarchy as _Grandma_ seemed out of place. She had brought along other clothing better suited to their mission.

An hour later, the situation was only marginally better. Bobby regained consciousness to the point that he partly recognized his old friends. Ernest got a half pot of coffee with honey down him by this time and persistently engaged Bobby in conversation about anything and everything. Allison rummaged around the home and located a change of clothing for their patient, assuming he would be able to stand up at some point in the near future and put them on. Things didn't look good at the moment. It was already past 10 a.m., and Bobby couldn't stand up by himself. Ernest seemed content to encourage Bobby to drink the sobering liquids as well as keep him talking. Allison, meanwhile, investigated the property, inside and out.

Allison saw everything she needed to see and headed back to the bathroom where she found Ernest finishing the chore of getting Bobby out of the tub and dressed. Even with clean clothes on, Bobby still looked anything but capable of functioning on his own, but he certainly looked much better than he did in the ditch.

"What's the prognosis?" asked Allison tersely. "Any hope?"

Not taking his eyes off his patient, Ernest allowed the professional physician in him to respond. "Given time he'll make it if he chooses to. He's malnourished, probably because all he does is drink. If he could stay off the booze it would help, but by the looks of this place with the empty whiskey bottles that seems doubtful. Essentially, his vitals, while reacting as one would expect to the alcohol he's ingested, are fairly strong. He simply needs to stop drinking. Where is his family? What's going on?"

"It looks as if his wife has left him. There are divorce papers on the dining room table. It's not final yet, apparently. I don't know where his son, Fogerty, is. It looks like he's been alone for quite awhile. I also checked outside. The place is empty of everything -- no equipment, no farm animals, nothing. I also saw a notice from the bank that they intend to foreclose on the outstanding loans they hold on the farm. From the looks of this house, it hasn't been cleaned in months. This place is a dump." Allison watched Bobby as he tried to take a drink from the cup of liquid Ernest held up to his mouth. _What has happened here?_

Ernest turned to Allison for the first time while assisting Bobby in his effort to sit erect in the straight-backed chair. "I don't know what to tell you, Allison. I doubt it would be wise to walk away and leave him like this, but I don't know if he could handle riding -"

Allison, not ordinarily one to cut people off, interrupted him before he could finish. "Here's something I found on the dining table." She showed him a pad of lined paper displaying a short note scrawled on it. _Well, looks like I've screwed things up pretty good this time. Sorry for the mess. Tell our son I'm truly sorry for being such a bad father. Please forgive me, Bobby._

Ernest read the note. He looked at the handgun that Allison held in her hand, and then back to Bobby. "Pack him a bag and find his wallet. He's going with us," said Ernest in a tone of voice that left no doubt that this was not an arguable point.

"That's already been done." Allison pointed to a bag setting outside the doorway.

"Of course it has," said Ernest smiling. "I should have known. One more thing though, I want you to bring along the gun and when we go by the pond on the way out, I want you to throw that ugly thing right out in the middle of it."

Now there were three of the Dandelions together again. "You're the doctor," said Allison from behind a smile. "Let's go to California!"

~~ Chapter Seven

"We are fifteen minutes ahead of schedule. Is that good scheduling, or what?" Allison was rather filled with herself at the present. Admittedly, their newest passenger had not actually consented to this unannounced trip down memory lane, but she felt that as soon as he got well enough to participate in any of the conversations, he would become a most willing accomplice. "I may have gone into the wrong line of work. I should be in charge of scheduling and planning things. Maybe I should have gone to work for NASA. They always need help as they are constantly putting things off for some reason. Do you know anyone at NASA by the way?"

Ernest sat in the driver's seat maneuvering the bus back towards the interstate highway they diverted away from to go to Bobby's earlier that morning. Given her level of excitement at having secured Bobby's participation, or at least attendance, Allison consented readily when Ernest suggested he start out driving. This eliminated the prospect of her wrecking the bus and killing them due to her constantly turning around to monitor Bobby's condition.

"I would suggest you delay the celebration until our passenger becomes fully awake and learns he's not only still alive, but hundreds of miles away from the place where he thought he would spend eternity and instead, going back to California," said Ernest wryly. "Just a suggestion, though."

"You're right," agreed Allison, "but with three out of the four of us together again, isn't it amazing? I never expected to see the day." After she finished speaking, Allison's expression saddened as she thought of Sam's disinterest in going back with them. _It would have been so wonderful, but... but things and people change,_ she reminded herself _. It wasn't meant to be._

Allison checked on Bobby who slept on the floor of the bus on a bed of blankets taken from his home. They decided to leave the center seat of the bus behind in Bobby's barn to give them plenty of room between the front seats and the rear bench. Near their patient sat a cooler filled with ice and concoctions mixed by Ernest for Bobby to drink when he awakened. Plus, there were two peanut butter and banana with honey on white bread sandwiches prepared for Bobby's first solid meal.

"How much longer until he's awake?" asked Allison.

"I can't say," answered Ernest. "Could be any time now. I checked his vitals again before we left, and they seem to be coming around okay. Just be patient. There's a lot of ground between here and the bay area."

As they passed by the truck stop where the excitement occurred earlier that day, Ernest looked tempted to toot the horn and wave, but the distinct possibility that many of the cowboys and farmers from around these parts toted rifles around in their trucks undoubtedly caused him to decide against it. Better to pass by quietly and go on their way.

"Do you think we packed enough clothing for him?" asked Allison. "All I could find in his closet were blue jeans and cowboy shirts, so that's all I brought except for socks and underwear. I did find one more thing in his closet." Without waiting for Ernest to respond, she reached behind her seat and retrieved a bag from which she extracted a faded jungle fatigue jacket. The same jacket Bobby wore in 1969. "Now, we all have our uniforms. You have your black beret and shades. Bobby has his jungle fatigue jacket, and me, well, I have my ankle length calico striped dress along with my old jean jacket, my peace medallion necklace, and my headband. What do you think? Are we ready to do some protesting?"

With eyebrows raised, Ernest looked over at his co-pilot now attired in her thirty-five-year-old hippie clothing. "You really don't want to hear what I think," responded Ernest with a chuckle.

His thinly veiled slight did not go unnoticed by Allison who immediately made a thorough inspection of her driver's ample physical attributes along with his attempt at taking his appearance retro, via the beret and shades.

"You don't, do you?" responded Allison sarcastically. "And pray tell, why is it that _Mustafa, the chosen one_ , feels it is okay for him to get into character for this trip and not okay for anyone else?"

Ernest shook his head slowly from side to side in disbelief. "I knew it. I knew it. I knew that someday I would have cause to regret ever divulging that name to you. I told you, I didn't pick the name out. They assigned it to me when I joined. They didn't see how anyone could be afraid of a guy named Ernest. They told me from then on my name was _Mustafa_. Only, I never lived up to the name, I'm relieved to say."

When Allison heard this last remark she felt a great sense of relief. "You didn't?" she asked meekly.

"No, I didn't. Didn't you know that? I thought Sam told you. I know I told him I never accomplished what I went there to do. Were you worried about that?"

Allison tried to not display her relief from this important revelation by her friend. "No! No! Course not. It never even occurred to me. I'm surprised you asked."

They both sat quietly for a time as the freshness of the new day and the excitement of their purpose imbued them with a sense of adventure not experienced by either for a very long time.

"Too bad about Sam," said Allison as much to herself as her partner. "Now wouldn't that have been something. All the Dandelions together again for one more last assault on those same out of control and unresponsive governmental institutions that continue to deceive the citizens of this country yet today over thirty years later. What a way to go out, huh?"

Ernest and Sam had been the last two in the group to come together on the earlier trip, so Ernest's tardiness in responding did not surprise Allison. "It would have been something, you're right," he answered in a measured tone. "But, remembering what Sam was like, it couldn't have come as much of a surprise that he went over to the dark side, did it? Sam was pure intellect. He was always thinking, always looking at an idea from as many perspectives as he could imagine. It makes sense to me that he finally figured out that college radicalism was not destined to become a future growth industry. He gave it his best shot. He went to the wall repeatedly for the rights of his fellowman, and the very same groups that were supposed to protect us tried to beat him to death with their clubs and the butts of their rifles. The man had a price on his head, and if the governor's thugs had known who they were beating on that night, they would certainly have finished the job. Sam was smart, he saw what was coming and he did the sensible thing, he crossed over and got in line with the winners."

Allison didn't try to argue with Ernest because what he said made sense. As a matter-of-fact, it's the only thing that did make sense. _Maybe the next time I get to see Sam, if I ever do get to see him, we ought to compare head scars to remind us why we ran for our lives in '69. We were both supposed to be dead long ago if our attackers had had their way. Ernest was right. Sam never held himself out as a martyr for lost causes back then, and he certainly couldn't be expected to now. No matter that thousands of people were irreparably harmed then and that many more are about to be harmed now, one thing has not changed -- most of the citizens of this country didn't care back then and most of them don't care now._

"Maybe the next time he'll come." Allison forced a smile. "If we stay on the thirty year cycle, we should be getting back together again when we're close to ninety."

"That's a date," said Ernest laughing. "For sure, that's a date."

"Good," answered Allison. "That's good."

Both of them lapsed into another long period of reflection until Allison, as usual, broke the silence.

"He's still out like a log back there. When do you plan to make a pit stop? How far are we from Oklahoma City? I'm anxious to get back on the old road." Allison's unexpected barrage of questions and declaratory statements caused Ernest to have to think a moment before answering.

"Good," answered Ernest. "Just let him sleep. We'll try to get him to eat something up ahead when we stop for gas and have some lunch. That is if there are any decent looking restaurants around. I expect that will be in about an hour and a half from now at some place on the other side of Oklahoma City, if it's okay with you?"

"Sounds like a good plan to me," said Allison. "You know I can hold out as long as you can."

Ernest laughed heartily at her bravado as he guided the well-tuned vehicle along the smooth surfaced road. He seemed to enjoy driving this semi-antique machine. Although well built, it contained only the basics and no extra power -- as in power brakes, windows, steering, air conditioning, seats, or horsepower. A person had to stay alert when sitting behind the wheel of such a vehicle, especially on the interstate highways. It took only a big puff of wind for a person to find himself driving on the other side of the road. Essentially, the vehicle they rode in possessed the aerodynamic characteristics of a kite.

Allison decided to use the time before they stopped to recall as much of their original trip from California in '69 as possible. She realized things had changed in the last thirty-four years and that many of the places where they'd stopped earlier no longer existed. They had either fallen down, been torn down, paved over, etc. Plus, Interstate 40 ran all the way to Barstow, California, now, whereas back then there were many places where the interstate was incomplete and traffic detoured back onto the old side roads for miles. Those were the places she cared mostly about, the side roads. That's where four strangers got to know one another, and where they began to come together. Not while they roared down the interstate at seventy miles per hour. Sam said it a long time ago, "The side roads are where life comes into focus."

Continuing her trip down memory lane, she certainly had no problem recalling the start of their journey from the U.C. Berkeley professor's well-concealed rear guesthouse garage in the early morning hours of May 17, 1969. How could she ever forget their terrifying passage through the streets of Berkeley filled with uniformed officials patrolling every square inch of the area hoping to find more students and protestors to bludgeon with their weapons. Next came the nervous flight through Oakland and the Castro Valley where they finally started to experience hope that they were going to make it out in one piece. They continued on southward through the central valley all the way to Barstow where they turned east for the long trip home. Not one of them seemed overly eager to strike up conversations, much less friendships, during the initial unsettling part of the journey through the belly of California. Not until they were in the middle of the Mojave Desert heading for the Arizona state line did the group begin to lighten up. From then on, amazing things happened the whole way home.

Allison searched her memory for some recollection of the events that took place in the state they were driving through presently. She knew something had to have happened _, but what was it?_ Still searching without any success, she turned to Ernest and considered asking for his help. Then it hit her. She remembered.

"Looks as if we're coming into Oklahoma City," commented Allison innocently. "Are we getting anywhere close to a place to stop?"

Completely unaware he had been busted, Ernest answered calmly. "I kind of thought it would be best if we went on through the city before the afternoon traffic picked up, and then we could find something on the other side, out a ways. Surely there's something suitable there. Wouldn't you think?"

Allison did not respond, but rather she sat calmly smiling directly at Ernest. After a minute of this Ernest broke. "What? Why are you looking at me like that? Have I asked you for any of those goodies you stole from me this morning? No, I haven't. Why are you staring at me?"

Allison said nothing as she watched him squirm.

"I'm telling you, I'm innocent; I haven't done a single thing," whined Ernest who displayed signs of weakening. "So you quit giving me the evil eye."

Allison's expression did not change. Ernest looked guiltier with every second that passed.

He became defiant. "Okay, then tell me what I did, if you know so much. Go ahead tell me about something I've done. You ain't got nothing on me, nothing!"

_He's about ready to pop,_ thought Allison _. Men are such children_. She never met one that could abide a woman staring at them. She kept it up awhile longer.

"You are one lady who is wasting her time trying to see if I'll break under the stress of that evil look." Ernest couldn't take it any longer. "You can't do this to me. Go ahead and blab to Rosa Lee, I don't care. I'm getting old, and I may never pass this way again, and I've thought about those onion-fried burgers for over thirty years. I've got to have one of them, do you hear me. You better not try to stop me because I'm driving, and I might do something desperate."

Now Ernest gave a look that told Allison he was determined not to relent. Earlier it merely involved a few pieces of bread products, but this involved onion-fried burgers _,_ a whole town full of onion-fried burgers. Great, mouthwatering, smothered with caramelized onion, onion-fried burgers. A few miles ahead was the onion-fried burger capital of the world, and Ernest appeared ready to put up a fight.

Allison could see the fire in the man's eyes. He looked determined to go to the wall in defense of this one. They were still forty-five minutes away, so she had time to do something if she could come up with a suitable threat to get him to change his mind. She, too, remembered the onion-fried burgers _._ They _were_ to die for. She ate meat sparingly, but even she would have a hard time resisting grabbing hold of one of those monsters. They were a delight to the palate indeed.

Their verbal scuffle never got the chance to escalate as providence intervened and Bobby came back to life.

"What? What the hell! Where am -" Bobby's first words upon his resurrection were cut short by Allison's effusive greeting.

"Bobby! How wonderful you're awake. How do you feel? Ernest has some liquids for you to drink. Let me get one for you." Allison turned in her passenger seat to head for the rear of the bus where the specially concocted liquids awaited Bobby's awakening.

"Allison? What the hell?...Allison, where are we? Is that Ernest?...Ernest, what the hell is going on? Where am I? Why am I in this...is this our old bus?" The flood of unexpected events took its toll on Bobby's weakened system. He fell back upon the pile of blankets.

Allison arrived by his side and quickly began to reassure the confused man on the floor of her VW bus that all was well and he should not worry. "Bobby, it's going to be okay. The Dandelions are back together and everything's going to be alright."

"What... The Dandelions are back? What the hell are you talking about? Where are we? Why are we moving?" Again he fell back exhausted by the effort.

"Don't you remember when you and Sam came up with the idea that we were like dandelions? We agreed that if any one of us went back, then all of the Dandelions would go back together. Remember?"

Bobby opened his eyes and tried hard to focus on Allison's smiling face looming over him like a mother hen. "Lady, all I know is that you have got to be drinking something strong, and if you have any decency, you'll share some of it with me before my head explodes."

From the front of the bus Allison heard Ernest's laughter. "What are you laughing at? What's so funny?" she asked indignantly.

"I'm sorry," said Ernest. "That was rude, but I suggest you slow down and let him get his bearings before you go telling him he's what most people consider a noxious weed. He may not possess your same vivid recollection of every single event that transpired during the '60s. Why not concentrate on getting some of that liquid I mixed up into him before you give him the good news?"

Allison understood the wisdom in his words and commenced to re-hydrate their long absent friend before commencing his reindoctrination into the _Most Exalted Order of Worthy Dandelions,_ the semi-official name Sam came up with.

Allison's plate was full. Her work spread before her. First, she needed to find a way to convince Ernest it was not in his best interest to consume a huge greasy pile of artery blocking dead meat no matter how great it tasted. Secondly, another of the original members of the Dandelions had forgotten about his pledge made long ago. She needed to move cautiously because she didn't want to lose Bobby like she had lost Sam. She must find a way to help him remember.

~~ Chapter Eight

Bobby looked totally confounded as Allison related their plan to take democracy to the streets of the San Francisco bay area. If it were any other two individuals who hijacked his miserable life causing him to stay alive even a minute longer than necessary, Bobby probably would have raised holy hell. However, the longer Allison sat with him helping him consume the revitalizing liquids prepared by Ernest while at the same time ensuring him they were going to find a way to help him work things out, the longer he remained amazingly docile.

Allison could see Ernest watching her progress in the rear-view mirror while he drove the VW bus through the heart of Oklahoma City and out the other side. Allison knew it pleased Ernest to no end that he looked to have clear sailing the rest of the way to the home of the famous onion-fried burgers. _He has to be thinking that there's no way I can watch them both_. _Maybe he's right_. Bobby's questionable physical condition precluded directing any attention elsewhere for the time being. She resigned herself to the fact that nothing less than divine intervention stood between Ernest and his fancy pile of dead meat.

Reconciled to the inevitable, Allison took a quick inventory of the time of day and the progress made to this point. By her best reckoning another seventeen hundred miles were between them and San Francisco. The time on her watch read just after 3 p.m. They likely required another forty-eight hours to reach their destination. Arrival time would be late Wednesday afternoon unless they ran up against more of Ernest's culinary fantasies.

Bobby's situation improved. He sat upright on the pallet of blankets with his back against the rear bench drinking one of Ernest's concoctions and listening to Allison's barrage of encouraging words. Not since his opening salvo of questions had he made another outburst regarding what was going on and where they were taking him. This had to do more with Allison's constant chatter than his lack of interest. Allison could care less as long as he showed signs of progress. She very much wanted an alive and alert Bobby to participate in this crusade to help the country regain its sanity and her reclaim a missing part of her soul. During the brief intervals when she wasn't busy encouraging Bobby she wondered if he, too, perhaps left something behind the first time, something that would give him the courage and the strength to battle the illness that underlay his abusive consumption of alcohol.

Try as she might, she could no longer block out Ernest's guilt inspired outbursts. She had conceded defeat regarding his insistence that he would not be deterred from his devious plan to consume one of those delicious, onion-fried burgers awaiting him a few more miles ahead. _Who was he arguing with?_

"I'm telling you, a man's got to be allowed to eat some food that has some taste to it occasionally. All this baked this, and broiled that, and fresh green this, and fresh green that will break a man's spirit. I'm tired of baked skinless chicken. I want something red, and I want it fried!"

Allison didn't know whether to laugh or worry. Before she had time to do either, Ernest started again.

"I know you're back there giving me that evil eye just like Rosa Lee, but I'm still gonna' do it. That's right, I am! So I won't live to be eighty-five or ninety years old. Do people ever stop to think that most people who live to be that age don't know they are that age? Why put off enjoyable experiences right now so you can live a few more years with the presence of mind of a big turnip?"

Allison's instincts told her nothing had to be done as this entire matter headed towards a climax of Ernest's own making. Ernest's conscience as well as his years of scientific training was preparing to do battle with those self-destructive inclinations that from time to time resurface from some dark chamber within our psyche and urge us to participate in childish, irresponsible behavior, and they stood a much greater chance of stopping him from going ahead than Allison. _Besides this might be fun to observe,_ she reckoned.

"I'm not an unreasonable man," said Ernest in a slightly more conciliatory tone. "Although, Rosa Lee says I am. So at times like this I open my mind and look for signs, or I listen for a message. That's what I am going to do at this very moment. If I'm not supposed to enjoy one of those delicious onion-fried burgers I've remembered with such fondness for all these years, there will be a sign or a message. So show me the sign. Send me the message."

After quietly asking Bobby to excuse her, Allison returned to the front passenger seat to watch the events unfold. A sign along the side of the road informed them the exit to the onion-fried burger community lay ten miles ahead.

Turning to Allison as she finished reseating herself, Ernest displayed a smile of confidence. "Now in the future during one of your conversations with Rosa Lee, if this little matter should come up, which I expect it shall if I know anything about wives, I would appreciate your acknowledging my willingness to be directed."

Allison nodded, agreeing to become an open-minded observer to Ernest's scheme. _Be careful what you_ _ask for_ , _ancient wisdom says, because you might get it._ After glancing back to check on Bobby, she returned Ernest's smile in kind, then sat back to watch the show. With nine miles to go to the exit, all looked well for Ernest. At eight miles to go and at seven miles to go, he tried hard not to gloat. Six miles to go and he acted as if he imagined smelling the onions frying on the grill. Only five miles to go and she figured he probably wondered if he should get two, one to take with him. Four miles to go and Allison decided he'd likely made up his mind to get three in case he had to share. At three miles to go road signs began to appear. One sign proclaimed the community ahead to be the home of the world famous onion-fried burger. A second sign informed the traveler that Big Tom's was the best place to eat onion-fried burgers. The third and last sign unceremoniously informed passersby that "Heart attacks are the number one cause of deaths in older adults."

A surreptitious glance at Ernest revealed a defeated man, a person quite possibly pondering why life should go on. Two miles to go and a heavy pall blanketed their small corner of the universe. At one mile to go the off ramp appeared. Allison spoke not a word lest she risk incurring the wrath of a wounded creature. This was a time to be wise, and the easiest way to be wise is by not saying something stupid _._

Allison felt sad for Ernest as they came to the onion-fried burger exit and passed on by. Ernest kept his pledge to listen to the signs although his moaning revealed a broken man. She felt so guilty she thought about telling him to turn around and go back. Before she had time to wrestle with that decision, Ernest spoke.

"What? I'm not speeding! Why is that trooper behind us with his red light on? This is all I need right now!" Ernest slowed the bus down and pulled over to the side of the interstate, all the while mumbling incomprehensively.

Allison, too, shared his concern. _Why were they being pulled over_? The thought raced through her mind that the people of this state might have something against hippies, even old hippies. The vehicle's psychedelic paint job made a strong statement as to their politics. The stares they got from the group of locals at the truck stop earlier that morning came to mind. She started to worry.

Bobby also took interest in the events happening around them by this time. Although weak, his comment caused Allison and Ernest to be grateful they weren't back in '69 again. "I hope you guys don't have any drugs in this vehicle because if you do, we are in a world of hurt. We'll be on a prison farm shoveling horse crap for years."

The question had not come up between the two front seat occupants until now as they looked pleadingly towards one another.

"Not me," proclaimed Allison hurriedly.

"Me either," said Ernest with relief evident in his voice. "I haven't messed with that stuff since '69."

Ernest brought the bus to a safe stop well off to the side of the interstate. Behind them the Smokey Bear prepared to exit his vehicle. The obvious fact that they had not broken any traffic laws or carried any contraband helped not at all. Both passengers sat apprehensively awaiting their fate, and Bobby returned to his resting position still feeling the effects of his recent binge.

The state trooper, wearing his Smokey Bear hat, approached the driver's side window smiling as if old friends awaited his arrival.

"Afternoon, how are you folks today? May I see your driver's license please, sir?" A pleasant smile accompanied the request.

Allison watched intently as Ernest presented his license to the patrolman along with the customary first question to come from motorists who have been pulled to the side of the highway. "Something wrong, Officer?"

The patrolman did not respond to Ernest's question but instead heightened the anxiety of the occupants of the vehicle by requesting the identification of the other passengers. Allison complied by presenting both hers and Bobby's, which she carried in her bag for safety until his condition improved. The patrolman excused himself and returned to his patrol car. Watching intently, Allison noticed the patrolman conversing with another person sitting in the back seat. _This is odd_ , she thought. The patrolman then exited his vehicle and returned to the side of the bus.

This time there was no smile as the patrolman began to ask questions. "Sir, are you the same Ernest Bartholomew Calhoun III who tried to stick a vacuum hose up the rear of one of your grandma's chickens to make it lay eggs faster?" Ernest's mouth fell open. He sat stunned. Allison almost laughed, but before she could, the next question was directed at her. "And you ma'am, are you the same Allison Marie Yarbrough who threatened to beat up little Jimmy Joe Jamison when you were both eight if he didn't show you his _special thing_ that he claimed made boys better than girls? Allison also sat stunned as the patrolman leaned his head partway into the open window and looked back where Bobby helplessly awaited his fate. "You sir, are you the notorious Bobby Floyd Owens eater of dried horse-turds to win a ball glove in a bet in the third grade?"

Not a single occupant of the bus could imagine a more surreal event. They looked to one another for some sign of a return to reality. All the while, the proper young state trooper stood beside the bus oblivious to the traffic behind him and awaited their responses to his charges. Allison responded first.

"Sam? It has to be Sam!" Allison exited the vehicle heading for the patrol car. No one had time to stop her. Ernest looked towards the officer hoping he wasn't going to shoot her for running away.

"Officer, please don't shoot her. I'm her doctor, and she is under my personal care for severe psychiatric problems. When we get to California she's scheduled to be committed for long term care."

Ernest finished with his plea for her life right as Allison arrived at the patrol car demanding that the rear seat passenger, sitting behind the heavily tinted window, exit the vehicle. The state trooper made no move to halt her.

"You better get out of that car and defend yourself like a man, you big snitch. How dare you tell that story! You have ten seconds to come out, or I'm going to tell this young officer about your little experience involving the horny old lady in your mother's flower club who had the peg leg and lived down the street from you when you were a kid. One, two, three... What... What do you mean the door can't be opened from the inside? It has a handle, doesn't it? It doesn't? Officer, will you come back here and let this sick individual out of this car so he can get what's coming to him?"

The young patrolman did exactly as asked. He pressed on the outside door handle in front of Allison and the door swung open. Inside sat a middle-aged white man laughing uncontrollably. Allison promptly reached into the car and forcefully pulled him out and wrapped him in a bear hug.

"Sam, you came! You wonderful man! Why did I ever doubt you? I'm so happy to see you." Just as quickly, she relaxed her embrace and asked, "But how did you get here? How did you know where to find us? And how did you get this wonderful young trooper to help you pull this off?"

Sam halted his laughing to answer Allison. "I'll tell you the whole story later. Help me get my stuff into the bus so I can let Trooper Johnson return to work protecting the people on the roads from the likes of you guys." Sam turned around to face the trooper as Allison began to carry part of his grip to the bus.

"Trooper Johnson," he said, "you have been a wonderful help to me and a very good sport. I'm going to be speaking to the Lt. Governor again soon, and I assure you, I will let him know how grateful I am for your assistance. I promise to make sure this rowdy-looking group obeys the traffic laws as we travel the interstate west."

The four old friends gathered beside the busy interstate highway. Bobby, still feeling queasy, couldn't get up so he smiled and waved. Ernest came around to the side of the bus smiling and lifted Sam off the ground with his embrace. Allison, overcome with happiness, stood there allowing the tears to flow openly for the world to see.

Sam, to no one's surprise, took control of the situation. "Okay then, I believe we've got some miles to cover, don't we? Let's get this bunch of Dandelions moving." Ernest turned to head back around to the driver's seat. "Hold on there, Ernest. I think you ought to take a rest and let me drive for a while. Besides, it's going to be hard to steer this bus when you're wrestling with a couple of these monsters."

What happened next was nothing less than the act of divine intervention Ernest had hoped for earlier, when he asked to be given a sign. He had his sign in diamonds – a large brown paper bag partially soaked through with grease containing two onion-fried burgers. Probably not since the time when he was but a child had Ernest expressed such glee at receiving a present. Sam could see that a cord had been struck as he guided Ernest into the rear of the bus to enjoy his feast without interruption.

Allison allowed the moment to soak in. She was happy for Ernest, and maybe he had a point when he alluded to the wisdom of enjoying the moment and not worrying so much about the future. _For the future has no plan_ , she realized, _no agenda. It only has witnesses stumbling among the ruins of unrealistic expectations._

_Maybe that is true_ , thought Allison. For the moment, though, her fondest wishes were fulfilled. The Dandelions were together again, and they were going back to San Francisco.

~~ Chapter Nine

"Allison Marie Carter, are you crying?" inquired Sam as he adjusted the driver's seat to accommodate his long legs. "Why I believe you are crying. I do see a tear on that pretty face. I have to admit, I always did suspect you kind of had a little crush on me, and now I know I was right."

By this time the bus and its cargo were up to a speed more consistent with the other vehicles traveling west on Interstate 40; every passenger in the vehicle, for the moment at least, was happy and at peace with the world. Even Bobby's previously ashen pallor had changed to a color more closely associated with a live human being. Ernest sat by himself on the rear seat enjoying his grease dripping, nostril pleasing, onion-fried burger recently delivered into his personal care, he proclaimed, by a messenger from on high. Allison, meanwhile, busied herself attempting to prove Sam wrong as she turned away from his exaggerated display of conceit.

"Don't flatter yourself," answered Allison, her face still turned towards the window. "You better not say something stupid like it must be a woman thing because there have been rumors spread around over the years that I have a tendency to turn rather surly when I'm accosted by individuals displaying anything that resembles a misogynistic attitude. Besides, I have a very handsome husband at home who makes you look like a geek."

Both Sam and Allison laughed then as Allison reached across to clasp Sam's right hand and squeeze it tightly. They had picked up right where they left off in '69. There was nothing romantic about their relationship, and there never had been. A special connection existed between them back then, and obviously, it remained. This having been reestablished, they could now go forward.

"How in the hell did you get here?" asked Allison. "How did you know where we were? What made you change your mind?" The earlier smile on Allison's face had been replaced by a look of confusion.

"Before I tell you what happened, I have to give you a message from your husband whom I suspect must be the most understanding and supportive human being I've ever talked to. Where did you find this guy? How could a man be that trusting? All I can say is I hate him! It's guys like him that ruin it for the rest of us slobs. But anyway, he told me to tell you when I saw you, and I quote, 'Turn on that damn cell phone you carry in your purse and, occasionally, let him know you are still alive. Also, no skinny dipping!' I can understand the first message, but is this second request due to some kinky thing you guys do back there on the farm?"

Allison frowned "You know we don't live on a farm. We live in a lovely small town located right in the middle of the universe. His remark about the skinny dipping must relate to the stories I told him about you guys jumping in every mud hole, pond, creek, river, or lake we came across when we made the trip back in '69."

"Okay! Yes, I did get wet a time or two back then. It also occurs to me that you didn't. For some reason you were not in any mood to be taking your clothing off in front the three nicest guys you could ever expect to escape from California with." Sam lapsed into thought. "Why was that? Why didn't you go swimming with us?"

Before Allison could respond, Sam turned to Ernest. "Hey Ernest, how come we didn't make Allison get _au naturel_ and come swimming with us?"

Ernest, having finished one of his prized burgers, was at peace with the world, maybe even the entire universe. The pleased look on his face conveyed a message that indicated the onion-fried burger had lived up to his expectations \-- that his recollection, for once, had not failed him, and he wasn't going to let anyone steal this moment so quickly.

"Please don't talk to me. I'm reliving this wonderful event in my mind. It's getting better and better." Having said this he went back to _reliving_ the experience.

Allison observed Sam as he smiled into the mirror that reflected his old friend's enjoyment. Bobby had fallen back into a much more restful sleep. When Sam gave indications he would ask the same question of Bobby, Allison cut him off before he could get the words out of his mouth by first pointing back to Bobby and then placing her finger up to her lips.

Sam got the message. "Well, I guess it's up to you to explain your actions young lady or, in this case, your lack of action."

Allison knew the reasons she could not be a part of their childlike frolicking so long ago. She also wondered at the time if she would ever be able to allow the child inside of her to come out to play again. "Maybe I'll be able to answer that question for you someday, Sam. I hope I'll be able to do that."

In an obvious attempt to change the subject, Allison brought up another matter. She had taken a close inventory of Sam's appearance during the few chaotic minutes when they stood outside the vehicles along the highway. She noticed that he maintained the same lean six-foot tall wiry figure and still owned all of his original hair though now streaked with grey and shorter by at least a foot. The same quick smile greeted you from among the many attractive features on a face that showed less age than men many years his junior. Only two things caught her attention as being significantly different in the time that it took her to make a complete inspection of his person. She noticed his eyes because they were the first things she ever noticed about Sam -- those sparkling green eyes that jumped out to meet you. Now they resided in dark caves almost out of sight at first glance. In her line of work she met people from time to time whose eyes resembled his. They were most often sad and sometimes desperate people. The next thing that occurred to her was he lacked the proper attire. The other three were back in uniform, and Sam could not possibly be in uniform without his leather coat. "I hope that in your haste to catch up with us you didn't leave a very important item at home. If you did we are going to have to turn this bus around and take you back to Chicago to get the proper uniform. Well, did you?" Allison waited for his response.

Sam acted as if he had no idea what she expected from him. He squinted and frowned setting Allison's heart to racing in fear that he had gone off and left his most important article of clothing at home. Preparing to scold him for his shortsightedness, she stopped short as Sam began to grin mischievously.

"You brought it, didn't you? I knew you would. Where is it? You have to put it on. The rest of us are wearing our colors." Allison looked around for Sam's bag.

"Look in the side pocket of my carry on, and I believe you will find what you are looking for," said Sam.

Allison wasted no time retrieving the bag, almost tearing open a zipper hindering her entrance into the compartment that held the essential piece of attire. She pulled the heavy leather jacket out for everyone to see and noticed how well cared for it appeared. This coat had not suffered the last thirty plus years in a dank chest somewhere in a basement. The jacket's appearance as well as the absence of odor told her a professional storage facility, perhaps the same place where his wife kept her expensive gowns and stoles, provided long term lodging for this fortunate garment.

"Pull over so you can put it on," said Allison.

"What? You want me to pull over right this minute?"

"Right this minute!"

Sam did as told, and after putting on the coat, the bus again proceeded west on the interstate with him now in the proper uniform. Once more Allison looked as if she might shed another tear, but upon observing Sam watching for her reaction, she dug in her heels and kept her eyes dry. She contented herself to sit there smiling politely on the outside while a veritable party went on under her skin. This had been a very good day.

The rolling hills and fields of western Oklahoma surrounded the small group of modern day crusaders. Their expectations of success increased exponentially upon Sam's arrival. He represented pure intellectual energy, sometimes annoying, admittedly, but ultimately vital for their mission's success. His ability to dissect ideas and break them down into their smallest elements would prove invaluable. His typical reply to those offering opposing viewpoints was, "Ah bullshit!" A contributing member of a forensics team debating hypothetical situations, Sam would never be. However, if you happened to find yourself in the middle of the proverbial shit storm and all you really wanted was a way to cut through the crap and find some clean air, you went to Sam.

"I'm still waiting for an answer to my original question," said Allison after the excitement about Sam's coat had tapered off. "How did you pull this off?"

Sam searched for air vents he could direct upon his now amply clad person. He acted surprised when he remembered that the VW bus lacked air-conditioning and the outside venting systems produced completely ineffectual results. Beads of perspiration formed on his brow. He looked towards Allison pleadingly.

"Okay, okay, you can take it off until we get to a cooler location. Just lean forward and give me your arm." Sam followed her instructions to the letter and after taking the coat off reported he felt much better.

"Actually, it came together quite easily," he started, "once I decided early this morning that, for some still unexplainable reason, I had to get up off my skinny behind and catch up with you lunatics. Quick calls to your husband and to Rosa Lee told me exactly where you were heading and by what route. All I did after that was make a call to a good friend of mine who happens to be the lieutenant governor of this fine state of Oklahoma and explain to him my little problem. From that point on, this vehicle from a 1960's time warp has been under surveillance by the state patrol. While they were keeping me informed of your progress I chartered a plane and headed in this direction. I finally realized where I should plan to head you off when it was reported that Ernest was doing the driving. Ernest hates to drive! Then it came to me, the onion-fried burger city. That's where Ernest was taking you. I remembered how we had difficulty getting him out of that place in '69. He loved those things. When the trooper picked me up at the airport in Oklahoma City, I expected I would find you either at or heading to our favorite restaurant in the community that serves Oklahoma's version of health food. Turns out I arrived in burger town well ahead of you guys. While we sat outside the restaurant, which by the way is now in a new metal building lacking any of the original atmosphere out closer to the interstate, I recalled how persuasive my good friend Allison could be if she set her mind to something. So I simply hedged my play by ordering a couple of those delicacies that Ernest held in his possession up until a few moments ago for insurance. Then we went back to the highway and waited for you to come along. It was a good move on my part because, sure enough, poor Ernest, having been brain screwed by you, I'm sure, drove right on by the exit. That's when the trooper and I found it necessary to employ plan B. That's all there was to it."

As Sam told his little tale, Allison's mouth opened wider and wider. Sam had made the entire adventure seem like the most trivial thing. Maybe it was to him, but normal people possessed none of the foresight or the where-with-all to accomplish things like this. That's why Sam's presence meant so much to Allison on this trip. He got things done. Maybe Allison didn't agree with the results of Sam's professional efforts, but for this particular effort, his keen intellect would prove invaluable.

"Good," said Allison casually, "glad you were able to find us so easily." Both of them laughed at her remark. Allison, though, was not yet finished with Mr. Sam _it's no problem_ McCarthy. "Now for the million dollar question, why did you come? You said you didn't remember anything about the Dandelions. What happened?"

Sam took his time before responding. He didn't appear to Allison to be as sure of himself as before. She remembered the dark caves that served as his eye sockets.

"I really don't know for sure," said Sam with resignation in his voice. "I woke up in a heavy sweat about 3 a.m. this morning and haven't been the same since. I felt as if I experienced a panic attack. I wrestled with any number of causes and solutions until it came down to just one -- finding this vehicle and going with you to San Francisco. It never made sense this morning and it makes no sense now, but for some weird reason, I feel strongly that this is where I need... and want to be. Go figure."

Allison reflected on Sam's response as she took a moment to look into the back to see how Bobby and Ernest were doing. Both looked sound asleep, especially Ernest, if the grin on his face could be trusted. She considered that this might be a good opportunity to get some insight into their newest passenger's real reason for being on the bus. So far, if her hunches proved correct, she wasn't the only one of the group who had an additional motive to make the long journey back into the crucible that forged the attitudes of so many young people of their generation.

"Tell me about your family, Sam. What's your wife's name again? Isn't it Courtney? How is Courtney doing? And your son Blake, how about him?"

Sam looked at her as if to be asking, _Why the hard questions all of a sudden?_ "She left me ten years ago," he said simply. "Said I wasn't the person she fell in love with. She called me a self-centered fraud and a deserter. Told me I had abandoned every principal I ever possessed. She moved to Oregon and joined some environmental movement and lives on a small farm a few miles from the coast. She remarried a few years back. My son told me the guy's a carpenter building environmentally friendly homes."

Allison knew from many years experience that this story was not finished. If she stayed quiet long enough, she felt certain he would start talking again. The only sound she heard came from the VW's engine located in the rear of the bus. The late afternoon sun lay off to the left front side as it made a run for the far horizon. Another hour of sunlight was available at most. Miles of open highway and empty hours ahead would allow Sam sufficient time to tell his story at his own pace.

Allison had no idea how much time had passed before Sam started back into his story.

"I don't know, I guess I saw it coming. She said early on how much she admired my radicalism during the sixties, but I never imagined it was that important to her. She was too young for most of that stuff. She was still in high school when the war demonstrations began. I was twenty-nine, and she was twenty-three when we got married. I had grown weary of the constant hassle of trying to get people involved with important causes that affected their own lives. People only wanted to forget about the sixties and get on with their pathetic lives, which they've devoted mostly to conspicuous consumption. I tired of always being the one going against the flow. One day, I simply said, 'Screw this, I'm getting mine, too _.'_ I took my law degree and headed for corporate America. After a few years I knew where the money was, and I knew how to go get it. The rest was nothing more than a constant repetition on the same theme. I thought she liked the big houses, the cars, the vacations, and the ability to spend money without worrying about how much money you had in the bank. I know I worked a lot, had to be away a lot, but she had her friends at the country club, her son, and lots of stuff to do."

Allison could see that Sam was still puzzled as to why his wife left him ten years ago. He had finally stopped swimming up stream and joined everyone else in the mad dash for the cash. He played the game like he thought he was supposed to, so why did he get punished for it? The way he probably saw it, it was damned if you do and damned if you don't.

"And your son Blake, how old is he now?" inquired Allison.

"He's twenty-six. He stayed with me until he finished high school, then he also moved to Oregon. Got his degree in some environmental science field and is working for one of the many save the earth firms that headquarter in that region. He probably earns about as much as a low-level discount store manager, but I guess the kid's got to learn on his own. When he gets tired of beating his head against the indestructible walls of multi-national corporate America, defended by those greedy die hard adherents of corporate dominated free market capitalism, I figure he'll come around, and then I'll put him on the right track."

Allison attempted to reconcile her earlier memory of Sam and his rabid opposition to intrusive government, large corporations, militarism, and the destruction of our natural environment with the wealthy individual sitting beside her who expressed little regard for those former sacred causes. She felt a deep sense of sorrow. It occurred to her that if individuals of his intelligence and dedication had abandoned the causes of their generation, then what future did this country have? Who would the young people follow into the streets? Who would be there to pass on the hard learned lessons?

_Sam, what the hell are you doing here_? she thought to herself. Not only had he forgotten about the Dandelions, he had forgotten about the entire planet. For Ernest, Bobby, and herself, she expected that the demons that vexed their souls were at least suspected, if not identifiable, and hopefully could be dealt with. But for Sam, greater difficulty awaited. He must first rediscover that he possessed a soul, the one endeavor where he could not simply rely on his intellect.

The thought came to her as she again reached across to grasp Sam's arm, _This trip is long over due._ "You did the right thing in coming with us, Sam," she said. "You brought the body. When we get back to the streets, we'll find the spirit."

~~ Chapter Ten

Sam talked non-stop about his personal life and his career. Allison encouraged him to keep talking whenever he seemed inclined to slow down. Ernest and Bobby were dead to the world so she made use of the opportunity to get Sam to open up and talk about anything and everything relating to his personal life for the last thirty-four years. It didn't take long for her to realize, most likely, this was the first time he had ever done anything like this. This surprised her as it wasn't as if the guy couldn't cover the price of an occasional visit to a shrink. _What do wealthy people do with their money?_ she wondered. Most of the wealthy few she had known or had reason to consult with over the years didn't seem to be able to make themselves any happier for having so much more of the material things people needed to survive. That's what confused her most. Why bother going to the work of getting it, or keeping it, if it didn't make you or the people around you happy?

Allison's mental wandering ultimately ceased upon the realization that the subject matter of Sam's conversation no longer related to his pathetically rich, yet shallow existence. Now he spoke of logistical matters concerning their current mode of transportation and the need to stop for gas and other essentials. They were less than an hour east of Amarillo, Texas, and as neither recollected any fond memories of having stopped there on the return trip in '69, they decided any well-lit truck plaza this side of the next big city would work fine.

Glaring lights on the horizon told them a potential oasis lay just ahead. As the bus slowed to exit the interstate, the two passengers in the rear came to life. The prospect of stretching their legs and enjoying some refreshment appealed to everyone.

"I need to find a john," voiced a raspy but reenergized Bobby.

Sam responded first. "Bobby, my man, how in the hell are you?"

Bobby, still prone to using short declarative statements as a way to converse with others, replied. "Doing better, I guess."

Allison, delighted in hearing Bobby speak, asked, "Ernest, what can we get Bobby to eat that will make him feel better?"

"I can handle it now, Allison," said Bobby calmly. "I'm coming out of it. I need a black coffee."

All three of Bobby's old friends had many questions, but they would have to wait until later. Right now matters of nature and mechanical necessity superseded everything else. There would be enough time ahead to find out what happened to their friend.

"I've forgotten," cracked Sam, "does this contraption use gas, diesel, or kerosene?"

"I'll let you figure that out while I excuse myself," said Allison, exiting the vehicle towards the bright lights of a convenience store that looked exactly like thousands of others that now played such a large part in the oil industry's plans to dominate commerce on the country's road systems. Sam exited the bus and started filling the tank with gas. Ernest hesitated while watching to ensure that Bobby could get himself out of the vehicle and into the restroom facilities. Bobby did not disappointment him, although, his progress came slowly. Without any help, he exited the bus and began to follow the same route as Allison. Ernest followed along behind him at a cautious distance.

By the time Allison returned to the bus, Sam had replaced the pump nozzle into the island gas pump/car wash approving/credit card machine.

"I don't expect you've given any thought to stopping somewhere for the night, have you? You know we're not the destitute young people we were the last time we did this," Sam said jokingly to Allison as she approached.

"We have less than two days before the President's ultimatum expires. That means we need to cover the remaining fifteen hundred miles in less than forty-eight hours. If we stop for a night we will have difficulty making it there in time. However, this is a democracy, so I will go along with the group." Allison expected Sam to say something but instead he stared past her towards the building.

"What the hell happened with Bobby?" he asked. "He looks like he got run over by his own tractor."

"I plan to get him to talk about it when we get back on the road," commented Allison absent-mindedly as she looked back to observe Bobby's slow progress. Right behind him walked Ernest carrying two large cups of coffee, one for him and one for Bobby.

Sam smiled, "Oh! Kind of like the way you got me to start blathering away on the way here? You must be very good at your job, I'll wager. Nevertheless, I'm anxious to hear what happened to him, so I'll keep my mouth shut and listen."

Allison, Ernest, and Bobby took their time resettling into the bus while Sam took his turn in the house of bright lights. When he returned refreshed and stocked up with goodies, his passengers were ready to go. This time Bobby sat on the backbench with Ernest while Allison and Sam reclaimed their previous spots. Sam checked to see that everyone was secure and then started the engine and maneuvered the bus towards the interstate ramp. Now it was Bobby's turn to give up some personal history for the group, and it would be Allison as the group's designated information gatherer who asked for it.

Soon the familiar sound of the VW engine provided soothing background noise. Sam remained quiet as he said he would. Ernest, acting as if he knew what lay ahead, also stayed silent as he sipped his coffee. Bobby busied himself emptying six bags of sugar and four creamers into his steaming hot coffee. Only when the refuse of this effort was disposed of properly and the added ingredients stirred did he take his first small sip.

"That's better," he stated to no one in particular. "Well, you might as well get to work on me now, Allison," he added calmly. "Let's get it over with."

If Bobby could have seen the look on her face, he would have seen her surprise at his correctly anticipating her intentions.

Not waiting for her to start, he asked a simple question. "Where'd you guys find me, and when?"

This wasn't Ernest's job so he stared straight ahead while sipping his hot truck stop coffee, and Bobby didn't bother to look towards him as if he expected it would not be for him to answer. They were now waiting on Allison to respond. She was the Grand Inquisitor.

Allison collected her thoughts and gave some quick consideration to what information she wanted to extract from Bobby and then turned around sideways in her seat to get an unobstructed view.

"We found you on your back in the ravine behind your machine barn," she stated in a non-accusatory tone. "We have no idea how long you were there. I'm grateful it wasn't January with ice on the ground. We carried you into the house where Ernest put you into a tub of hot water and began forcing liquids down you. While he did that I took a look around to see if I could find out what happened to bring this on. What I found was a farm with no farm equipment, no animals, and no crops growing or in storage. The place showed no signs of any farming activity in a long while. Inside the house, I discovered that you were obviously living by yourself and had been for a long time. On the dining room table was a notice of foreclosure from the bank and the unsigned divorce papers. That's about it, except, for the handgun we found beside you that I personally threw into the middle of your pond and the little suicide note you left on the table. The presence of these last two items caused us to automatically include you in our little adventure. If you are pissed off at us for interrupting your attempt to kill yourself with either that ugly gun or the liquor we found on your person, well that's going to have to be your problem. There's is no way we were going to walk away and let you wake up and take another shot at it, pardon the pun."

"Boy, it's sad when you can't even kill yourself." Bobby still lacked the strength to put much emphasis on his words. "Now even you guys get to see how screwed up I am. Not that I'm not glad to see you folks, but I'm real sorry that you're seeing me like this."

It became evident that Bobby had nothing else to say at the present. This time Allison didn't adhere to her usual rule of out waiting the other person in the discussion. She had a personal experience in mind that could make an impression on her troubled friend. A long time ago she recalled an occasion when someone said something to her at a time when she was sure she didn't want to live one more minute. What was said to her very possibly saved her from killing herself following the most horrible and painful experience of her life. Now that person sat behind her thirty-four years later with similar thoughts of killing himself because he, too, did not want to live with the pain that consumed his existence.

"Bobby, you said something to me that night in Berkeley when I asked you to please leave me there in that ditch so my attacker could kill the rest of me. Do you remember what you said to me? I've never forgotten it, and I never will."

"That was a long time ago, little girl, a long time ago." Bobby smiled weakly and shook his head as he recalled the night.

"What did you say to me, Bobby?" demanded Allison.

Bobby didn't look as if he was trying to be recalcitrant, but considering the amount of booze he'd consumed of late it was probably pushing it a bit to ask him to repeat the exact words he employed in a dramatic encounter thirty-four years earlier.

"Well, no matter," said Allison. "It's only important that I remember and say the same words to you. The words that saved my life were, 'If you will find a way to stay alive to wash away the blood, someday your spirit will wash away the pain.'"

Bobby looked up at Allison and smiled. "I remember hearing that from a Chaplin at the VA hospital. I remember thinking about it a lot, wondering if it was true. I said that to you? Is it true? Did the pain ever go away?"

"Much of it did, more than enough to allow me to enjoy a life with my wonderful family. I'll admit there were difficult times when the memories resurfaced, but I would remember what you told me that night, and it always made things better. I stayed alive and washed away the blood, and over time my spirit washed away much of the pain. My family and I are indebted to you for sharing those words with me. You saved my life in more ways than one."

Now Allison did what any good salesperson would do when they finished with their pitch. She shut up. This time she intended to outwait Bobby. It was essential that Bobby be the first one to speak. Whoever spoke first conceded that the other person's ideas or proposition held merit. She had to bite her tongue and keep her mouth shut. Sam and Ernest said not a word.

The steady drone of the VW engine kept pace with the passing minutes. Five minutes passed, then ten minutes, then fifteen minutes, and still not a sound. Allison began to have doubts, but she held on. Twenty minutes, twenty-five minutes passed.

"I'll be damned," said Bobby only barely above a whisper. "So I actually managed to help someone after all, well I'll be damned."

Allison felt overwhelming relief. It took all of her self-control to keep from hopping into the back and hugging Bobby. This simple declarative statement from him meant there was hope for his survival. He had conceded to the notion that he did something worthwhile in his life. They could build on that.

Ernest and Sam sensed the breakthrough, and they, too, began to show signs of life.

"We have a long drive ahead of us, Bobby," said Allison, and we're prepared to listen without judging. We're not here to judge; we're here to help. The reason we came by your home is because you're important to our lives, and I believe you know you're with friends you can trust with your life. Tell us why you did this. What happened?"

Once again silence ensued. Once again Allison displayed infinite patience.

Bobby didn't take long to make his decision. He responded as people do who know instinctively that they are confronted with a pure yes or no situation. Most of the time people function in a world of indecision and multiple options with their actions and words having slight importance or effect on the world around them or their own well-being. Every once in awhile though, something happens where the clutter is shoved aside by the gravity of the situation, and they arrive at a place where affectation and hyperbole are dispensed with, a place where you put up and shut up. Bobby had arrived at such a place.

Bobby took a long sip of his coffee before beginning his story. "I wish I could tell you guys I fell on some real hard times or got snookered by some con men or got done dirty by a wife or something like that. I truly wish I could. But I can't. Nothing like that happened. I pretty much did this by myself, to myself."

No comments or responses were necessary from the listeners. All that Bobby needed was their attention.

"I hate whiners and I've tried hard not to be one over the years. Shit happens. So what? Sooner or later it pretty much happens to everybody to some extent. Everyone has problems, so shut up and get back to work. Soon enough we'll be dead and somebody else will deal with it. I stopped believing a long time ago that there was any kind of plan or purpose for this g _aggle screw_ we call life. Whenever something happens good or bad, I try to not make too much of it as next week it could change. I tell myself to go with the flow, to roll with the punches, to expect everything, and to expect nothing. If you wake up in the morning, get up and go to work because you're alive and that's what living people do."

Another sip of coffee temporarily halted the story. "That's the way I lived ever since I can remember. I tried to never be a bother to others or to inflict any pain on to other people's lives. I tried to be fair, and I tried to stay out of the way giving people time and space to move around unhindered by my personal activities. I tried even harder to be nonjudgmental. I never felt I had the right to judge others as I felt they had no right to judge me. As much as possible, I tried to leave other folks alone and for the most part, I wanted to be left alone."

"That's the way it went for years, and I suppose I figured it would be like that forever. The first thing that happened that changed things was my son deciding he didn't want to be a farmer. He went to the state college and got himself a degree in sociology, whatever that is. He lives in Dallas now and works with developmentally disabled children _._ I'm not sure what that means either, but he's found something he enjoys doing and says he has no plans to ever come back to the farm. I told him that the farm belonged to him to pass along to his son someday as my daddy passed it along to me, and as his daddy passed it along to him, but it didn't make any difference."

"Sometime later my wife told me she thought the real reason my son left was because he could no longer stay there and watch me slowly waste away. She said he referred to me as the Oklahoma _Dead Man Walking_. Couple of years later, she did the same thing. She was even less flattering with her description of my life. She said I was the finest dead man she could ever hope to be married to, but she wasn't going to stay until somebody got around to throwing the dirt over me. I would have to get someone else to do that. She's also living in Dallas. It's been about five years now. I'm the one that filed for the divorce. I expected that if she hadn't come back home by now, she wasn't going to. I tried to sign the papers a couple of times, but something held me back. The last thing she said to me was, 'If the real Bobby I knew and loved ever comes home from Vietnam, tell him his family is waiting for him in Dallas _._ '"

The ensuing silence was more pronounced this time but still not another person filled the void. Bobby wasn't finished.

"Well, after that I guess I lost interest in things. I went through the motions of farming and ranching but as you saw, I didn't do a very good job. The cattle market got upside down again, and I ended up on the down side of it. The government dropped the wheat support payments and that coupled with some dry spells and hail damage, which resulted in bad crops, put me in a hole. You put together a few bad years along with some bad farm management and it can make for a small disaster. It got to where I couldn't make my bank payments so they came and took my equipment and now, they're going to take most of the farm as well. I've said all along, crap happens to all of us if we live long enough."

"What you guys stumbled into," continued Bobby, "was the last act of my own version of the true American g _aggle screw_. It occurred to me that it was finally time for me to follow up on the single recurring thought that has been with me for thirty-four years. I might as well take the pistol my daddy left to me and use it to bring this miserable excuse of a life to an end. That's what I was trying to do when you folks so rudely interrupted my plan. So as they say, that's my story."

To say that a somber mood prevailed inside the bus would be a more than fair assessment of the situation. Sam, for all his smarts, refused to say anything. Allison needed time to assimilate the new information. Only Ernest was willing to ask a very pertinent question.

"Bobby," Ernest blurted out, "I have a question. If you were so intent on killing yourself why did you try to do it with an empty gun? I checked the cylinders and the cartridges had been fired earlier. I don't care how drunk you were you couldn't have missed six times at that close of a range. Didn't you know the gun was empty?"

"It wasn't empty when I started," said Bobby rather meekly.

"Are you saying you did shoot at yourself and missed six times?"

"No, what happened is, something interfered with my plan."

"Something interfered with your plan? What happened? What could possibly have stopped you out there by yourself behind your barn?"

Bobby looked too embarrassed to tell the true story. "Damn it! There's been this old coyote coming around the house nosing into everything for better part of two years now. I tried everything I could to run it off but it kept coming back. The few nights that I did go to bed sober, I'd always hear this damn coyote howling. I blew the side out of the tool shed one night when I thought I had that critter in my sights, but it got away as usual."

"And?" asked Ernest when Bobby halted his story.

"So wouldn't you know it! When I finally did make up my mind to end my useless life, I figured it would be best to do it behind the barn in case it made a big mess. I stood with a jug of whiskey in one hand and that old pistol up to the side of my head when this damn coyote started yelping. I became incensed, and I decided to take that noisy critter out the door with me. That's when I messed up."

"And?" persisted Ernest.

"Well damn it, I started firing away at that beast and before you know it my gun was empty. The worse part about it is I was out of bullets and still alive. That's when the idea came to me that the situation called for drastic measures. I decided I was going to have to pistol whip myself to death. Unfortunately, it looks as if I only got in one good whack."

Ernest spit out a mouthful of hot coffee. Sam, feeling the hot liquid on the back of his neck yelled as if someone stuck him and almost ran into the side of a semi trying to pass. Allison also turned away so Bobby couldn't see her trying to keep from laughing out loud.

Let the healing begin.

~~ Chapter Eleven

Bobby watched Ernest's huge belly bounce up and down from uncontrollable laughter. It wasn't as if Ernest didn't try to restrain his hysterical reaction to Bobby's tale. The situation deserved serious attention, and Ernest, being a physician knew this. But, the thought of Bobby forgetting that his main goal was to shoot himself, and instead, in a fit of anger towards a noisy coyote, using up his ammunition in a vain attempt to dispatch a source of irritation that would not have mattered to him anyway if he had simply gone ahead and pulled the trigger, struck him as hilarious.

A glance towards the front of the vehicle only made matters worse for Bobby. Allison leaned forward with her hands covering her face, moaning in an obvious attempt to keep from laughing. Sam, meanwhile, whistled the theme song from _The Bridge on the River Kwai_ movie over and over. A typical support group, this was not.

After a time the inability of Bobby's audience to restrain themselves had a peculiar effect on him. He must have realized the ridiculousness of the situation and how insane the whole story must seem to others.

"Well, all I can say is I'm happy to see that I have brought joy to your lives. Personally, I never pictured shooting critters as being particularly funny, but if it will help brighten the mood, we can stop up ahead and buy us a firearm so I can shoot at something else for you. There are plenty of cattle in the fields along the road. I could keep you guys hootin' and hollerin' all the way to wherever we're going and back."

"I'm sorry, Bobby," said Allison, her embarrassment obvious. "You have to admit, there is a certain irony involved here. We're not laughing at your life's story or the fact that you considered killing yourself. That's serious stuff! You screwed up, and the way you screwed up is funny. You're smiling yourself, admit it!"

Allison was right. Bobby no longer looked the pale, slack-jawed drunk they piled in the bus earlier. He now had a touch of red in his cheeks and a hint of a smile on his face. Allison's optimism grew exponentially. _This is a good thing that we are_ _doing,_ she confirmed _. This is a very good thing_.

Sam stopped whistling, thankfully, and Ernest attempted to catch his breath. The mood inside the vehicle had changed dramatically, and for the better. Much of the barrier between the four, created by time and distance, now lay in ruins around the mountain of common purpose recreated by Bobby's story. Together, they were a more potent force to reckon with. Individually they were deficient in certain areas in spite of their impressive résumés, but as a group, they presented a solid front.

"Well, if I'm going to be part of this cattle drive, then you better tell me where we are heading and what we're going to do when we get there," came the delayed response from Bobby as he joined with Ernest who had resumed sipping his hot coffee.

Once more the three men deferred to Allison, the organizer and unofficial leader of this pilgrimage.

"We're going back to San Francisco to help prevent this country from going to war. I hope you're not for it by the way," responded Allison energetically. "If you are, I suppose you'll have to stay in the bus."

Sam laughed, Ernest smiled, and Bobby thought about it.

"Actually, I've been kind of indisposed, if you know what I mean." said Bobby in all seriousness. "I haven't been keeping up-to-date on those kinds of things. We're going to war again, are we? Who is it this time?"

Allison didn't know if Bobby was serious or just kidding. "It's Iraq, Bobby. We're going to make a preemptive attack on the Iraqis."
"I thought we did that already," answered Bobby. "Didn't we do that already?"

"Yes, we did. Twelve years ago we went to war against Saddam's army, and now, we are going to do it again." Allison could see Bobby struggling to get up to speed, but his five-year drinking binge had left him deficient in the area of current events.

"Well, what did he do this time?" asked Bobby.

Allison looked around to see if anyone wanted to jump in and give her a hand, but her two helpers offered no signs of wanting to make an assist.

"That's just it, Bobby. He hasn't done anything different from the last time we fought him. He's still a tyrant and a murderer among his own people, but he was that way the last time we walked away and left him in power. The current administration claims he has weapons of mass destruction and intends to use them. They are sending our troops there again to throw him out of power and find those weapons for the safety of the world."

"Is saving the world a bad thing, then?" asked Bobby.

Allison's eyes revealed her surprise at this question.

"It's a bunch of bull crap, Bobby. There's no proof he has such weapons or would use them if he did. The rest of the civilized world condemns the action and refuses to have any part in it. That is except for the British and a few more countries that are dependent on the United States. Most of the United Nations advisors that were in Iraq report that there most likely are no weapons of mass destruction. They couldn't find any. Most other countries believe it's about the oil, and many Americans agree whole- heartedly with them. I know I do."

"When's this war going to start?"

"The deadline is fifty hours from now. That's why we want to be there in the streets so we can show the world there are millions of people in this country who oppose the war."

Allison halfway expected the next question.

"Is San Francisco the only place where people will be standing in the streets?"

Allison delayed her response until her tone would be one of calm restraint.

"No, I'm quite sure there will be a multitude of war protestors in city streets around the country. But, we don't belong in those streets, Bobby. The streets we belong in are in San Francisco. The present administration says our soldiers must return to the field of battle in Iraq. We must return to our own field of battle, too, and our field of battle is in San Francisco."

Bobby thought about this for a time.

"Well, okay then, we gotta do what we gotta do, don't we. You know, I think I'm going to rest for a while. All this talking has got me kinda' tired. I need to get some strength back so I can get out into those streets and raise some hell with you guys."

Bobby then proceeded to lie back down on the pallet of quilts on the floor of the bus. Allison, meanwhile, took inventory of the two men who exhibited not a trace of interest in engaging her in a prolonged discussion as to the wisdom or the propriety of their country's foreign affairs.

"Thanks for the help, guys," said Allison to Ernest and Sam.

"Hey, no problem," answered Sam.

"Glad to help," added Ernest.

Allison looked at both of them pleadingly. The proper words escaped her. What could she say to two slackers such as these two adolescents who were masquerading as adults? Only one term existed that could possibly convey the distain she felt at the moment. "Men!" she scowled.

The rainbow wagon went silent as the three alert passengers arranged their own thoughts relating to the strange events that had already overtaken their adventure as well as future events yet in store. Less than forty-eight hours earlier they were all safely ensconced in their well-ordered lives, light years away from anything as bizarre as what was happening around them now. _What's next?_ had to be one of the questions near the forefront of each of their minds as they sat quietly staring ahead into the darkness, now only occasionally interrupted by oncoming vehicular headlights.

Sam broke the silence. "What town's coming up?" he asked.

Allison consulted the small road atlas she carried with her.

"Considering that the onion-fried burger city was not actually on a side road, but proved to be an adventure on both trips, we will arrive at Tucumcari in the next couple of hours, and that place was definitely on a side road in '69. Ernest, you may not recognize the name but you ought to remember your and Bobby's adventure at the lake with the bird," said Allison.

"Oh, my goodness," said Ernest hurriedly. "I don't want to go back there. I didn't think I was ever going to get out of that mess. We were up to our waist in that muck. At the time I couldn't believe I actually went out there and helped that crazy Okie. I don't know what got into me. That was no lake; it was a mud pit."

Allison laughed. "God, were you two guys muddy. Do you remember that, Sam?"

"Hah!" laughed Sam. "When they got back to the shore I couldn't tell who was who. They were both covered from head to toe with the black muddy sediment from the bottom of that big pond. A police officer had stopped, and I remember how surprised he was when Ernest and Bobby washed off with the hose at the maintenance shed, and he discovered a white guy and a black guy."

"I didn't think it was so funny," said Ernest. "There weren't a lot of us black folk around those parts back then. The way the guy stared at me I expected he was the local Klan leader."

"Yeah, but he turned out to be one of the nicest policemen I've ever met," said Allison. "He really appreciated you two guys rescuing the beautiful hawk that was tangled up in the fishing line. I know I was impressed with what you did."

"I only regret that I was injured and couldn't get out there with you guys," added Sam in a facetious tone. "I would have liked for someone to buy my breakfast, too. Allison and I ate crackers and peanut butter in the bus while you guys snarfed all the ham and eggs you could eat."

"Bobby went out there first. I didn't know what to do," admitted Ernest. "The poor bird flailed around trying to get loose from that tangle of line and I expected it would drown any minute. Bobby grabbed a blanket and waded out through the muck and threw it over the bird to keep it from hurting itself."

"When he fell down into the mud with the bird wrapped in the blanket and couldn't get back up, I had to do something. You two weren't in any condition to help with cuts and bruises all over your bodies."

"You and Bobby were both heroes in my mind," commented Allison. "What's more, until that incident you two weren't very friendly towards each other, but after that you guys got along famously."

"That's true," said Ernest with a big grin. "He did look a touch less _honky_ to me after that. When the police officer got over the surprise of finding a black person under the mud and offered his hand to me in thanks for helping Bobby -- that meant something to me as well. I still had a lot of anger and was still conflicted and confused, but I knew that hating would not help anything. It was a start."

"If Ernest and Bobby hadn't been there," said Allison cutting in, "I'm not sure what the police officer would have done with Sam and me. He stared back and forth between Sam, the bus, and me so many times I expected him to hurt his neck. I know he wanted to search the bus for drugs, and I know he wanted to find out how we got those cuts and bruises. He really must have been a bird lover to let us go on our way. Saving that bird probably saved us a lot of grief."

"Anyway," continued Allison, "we will be going through Tucumcari in the next couple of hours and although I see on the map that the interstate by-passes the downtown now, I would at least like to get off and drive down old Route 66 that goes through the heart of the city. Maybe the restaurant where you guys ate is still there and we can eat together this time? The place where we stopped to use the bathroom sat next to a big tee-pee. I hope it's still there. Plus, if you mud people want to revisit the site of your good deed we can take a few minutes to find that place. It will be dark so I doubt you will be able to see anything."

"I told you, I don't want to see that place again. Bobby might find another reason to jump in, and I don't ever want to get that dirty again," responded Ernest quickly.

Allison looked over at Sam to see what he thought about the matter.

"Hey," he said, "I left all notions of possessing intelligent thoughts as well as a career back in Chicago. Don't mind me. I'm just a vagrant along for the ride. Point the way and I'm there."

"What about food?" asked Allison. "Anything sound good for a late night snack?"

Ernest looked around for his surviving onion-fried burger and finding it safe in the corner of the rear seat made his dining plans known to the others. "All I need is a quick shop with a microwave because I already have my food."

Allison frowned at the smirk on his face and then looked to Sam. "I probably should get something, maybe a sandwich and some juice at least. I haven't eaten anything since this morning."

"You had fruit, that's all! That's not enough to keep a snail moving for long," said Ernest derisively. "You better get some protein in you before too long."

"Do you mean some of that oozing fat dripping with blood kind of protein, _Doctor Death_?" Allison gave Ernest what he referred to as the evil eye as she finished her cutting remark.

Ernest laughed at this. "You know, I've done an in-depth study over the last fifteen years relating to the influence white people are having on black people since the civil rights period of the '60s, and do you want to know what I found out?"

Allison bit. "What did you find out?"

Ernest's eyes brightened. "I discovered that although black people were certainly benefiting from the secession of physical and economic assaults towards the black population by white people, the assaults were, in fact, still occurring. Only now it's more insidious. It's camouflaged in the form of supposedly healthy, nutritional food. In my opinion, it's nothing less than another form of emotional violence. Black people start to eat white people's food believing it's the proper thing for educated, forward thinking people to do, and as a result, they are gradually losing their essence, their true will to live. All that baked, broiled, and steamed meat served with those raw vegetables a hungry goat wouldn't eat are sapping their essence. People can't be expected to live like that; it's inhuman. A man's got to consume some lubricating foods now and then to keep him going, otherwise, there will be repercussions. We'll end up like you white people with real tight sphincters. I haven't written out my thesis yet, but if I get back from this venture alive it's the first thing I'm going to do. More people need to know this stuff, or the entire black race might be doomed. In fact, there may be a conspiracy angle to it!"

_Twice in one day is too much,_ thought Allison. First, Bobby and his story about the coyote and now Ernest's wild thesis about black people suffering at the hands of white people's bland food. It was too much. She looked over towards Sam while thinking, _If you are as crazy as the other two this is going to be a very long trip. Please tell me you're not insane, too._

Sam, obviously enjoying Ernest's funning with Allison, caught sight of her staring in his direction.

"What did I do?" he asked defensively. "I haven't done anything. I'm just driving, minding my own business."

"Do you have a story like the ones Bobby and Ernest told that you're waiting to inflict upon me? Please say no. Tell me, I need to hear it from you. I need to know if you're as nuts as the two fruitcakes we have riding in the back. Am I alone out here?"

You could almost hear the wheels grinding in Sam's brain. He had to be thinking about joining in and having some fun with their den mother. Allison impatiently waited for him to respond. Ernest, having enjoyed the rise he got out of Allison, sat cradling his burger looking as if he hoped that Sam would likewise get in on the fun.

"Hey, you don't have to worry about me," said Sam. "I'm with you. Actually, I've thought all along that you and I communicate on a different plane than other people. No offense intended Ernest, it's just that Allison and I think a little differently, kind of along the same lines that you were talking about with the food."

Ernest's ever widening grin indicated he realized Sam intended to join in their little game.

"I believe what goes around, comes around," continued Sam. "White people are going to pay for the things they did. I think it's happening right now. Take rap music, for instance. You tell me that's not the wrath of God! I don't think for one moment that black people like that music. I think it's a scam to get back at us by making us listen to screaming young people mouthing obscenities while they grab their crotches. All the white kids are trying to act like rappers and looking like idiots while they do it. Their white parents are so guilty about the past that they feel compelled to put up with this racket in their homes. I'll bet if you can get inside a black person's home you will find nothing but The Platters, The Temptations, Della Reese, Lou Rawls, and Nat King Cole albums."

Allison sat speechless as Sam kept talking.

"I know for me, I've had reason to pause and reflect on things over the last several years. I began to research my ancestry. It's obvious that with a name like McCarthy you have to look no further than Ireland. What I learned changed much of my thinking. I found out about the hardships my ancestors endured, especially during the potato famine of 1845-1850. It was truly horrible. I haven't been able to eat potatoes since. I was so bitter that I began to buy bags of potatoes and take them out into the countryside and dumped them so they would rot."

"At the height of my fury, I happened to look down at one of the evil tubers on the ground and I beheld an amazing sight -- a potato that looked exactly like Vincent Van Gogh, the painter. I recognized it immediately as I'm something of an art aficionado in that I own a masterful reproduction of that famous sunflower painting you see everywhere. Anyway, it changed my whole thinking about potatoes. No longer did I find them so offensive, although, I still could not eat one. Right before me I had the head of a famous artist. This potato even had an ear missing, like Van Gogh did, although to be honest, I'm not sure if the correct ear is missing, on the potato that is. Well now, all of a sudden I'm buying bags of potatoes, not to throw away, but to search through for famous heads. Right now my collection includes an exact likeness of Margaret Thatcher, which is so real looking it's scary. I've found a Dom DeLouise, and I think I may have found Abraham Lincoln when he was a young man without the beard and hat, when he wasn't so haggard looking as he was in the photos taken towards the end of the war."

Sam halted to get his breath. In the background, barely detectable, you could make out Ernest's efforts to keep his belly from going off on a new round of tremors. "Not to sound elitist but I have to say, white potatoes produce the best likenesses. I haven't really had much luck with the reds and the russets, and you can forget about the sweet potato because they are useless. I'm in the process of developing a website to promote the nonconsumption of all potatoes, and I have contacted the governor of Idaho proposing that they stop growing potatoes and instead, grow pumpkins. You can't count on a potato. The Irish Potato famine will testify to that. On the other hand, I have never heard of an incident where pumpkins caused such a mess, although, I've had difficulty at times when I tried to find a good pumpkin in the fall. It's almost impossible. How are we supposed to have pumpkin pies if we use the pumpkins to scare little children? What a sick bunch of people."

Sam stopped again for a second to observe a completely befuddled Allison. She wanted to laugh and go along with the joke as a good sport, but in the back of her mind a little voice was asking her, A _re they for real?_ She hadn't seen these guys for a lifetime, so who's to say they weren't certifiably nuts. Hopefully, Sam would say something serious and not leave her hanging.

"Oh, one last thing," added Sam. "If we stop at a restaurant I won't be able to sit with you guys if any of you order potatoes. It's still too painful for me, but it's getting better. I work on it constantly at home by playing with my Mr. Potatohead game in hopes that I will gradually become desensitized and overcome my phobia of coming to depend upon spud consumption only to discover someday that there are none, like there weren't during the Irish famine. However, I may ask the owner if I can take a look in his potato bin."

~~ Chapter Twelve

"Ernest," said Sam, "will you reach up front here and pinch the individual riding shotgun to see if she is still awake. I haven't heard a sound from that direction in some time now. I'm beginning to get concerned."

Without giving a verbal response, you could hear Ernest moving his large frame into a position where he could carry out Sam's request. Before he got to the pinching part of the request though, he received a warning from the passenger in question.

"If you place one finger upon my person I swear I will get out my cell phone and call Rosa Lee right now and give her a minute by minute report of your misbehaving," threatened Allison.

"Sounds like the same Allison to me, Sam," said Ernest as he retreated to his former position.

"Just for the record," said Allison, "neither of you have any credibility with me from now on. Nada! If my head is on fire and I can feel it burning, even if I smell the smoke, I won't believe it if it's one of you who warns me."

"I can certainly understand you doubting Ernest's wild story," countered Sam, "but I hope you're not suggesting that I have not been entirely forthright -"

"You know, somehow I knew the first time I ever laid eyes on you the night Ernest, Bobby and the professor carried your bloody carcass into his house and placed your body on the floor that you probably deserved it. I would imagine that over the years this has happened to you quite often, hasn't it?" Allison waited for Sam's reply.

Sam didn't respond immediately. Allison's remark, although offered in jest, seemed to have struck a sensitive area.

"No, Allison, I'm pleased to be able to say that nothing like that has ever happened to me again. Maybe at times as you said I probably deserved it, but fortunately, it never happened." Sam's voice trailed off as he finished his statement.

Allison regretted making the stupid statement as soon as the last syllable rolled across her lips. She didn't mean a word of it. She simply had not engaged her brain before letting the words loose.

"Sam, I didn't mean that. It was a stupid thing to say. I was trying to be a little too cute, I guess. Will you forgive me?" Allison's plea sounded genuine.

Sam showed no indication to Allison that he thought she actually meant what she said. _Maybe he recalled the frightening sight of her bloody face in '69 when he first looked_ _around to see where the strangers who found him in the vacant lot had brought him after the sheriff's deputies beat him senseless._

"I know that, Allison. When I saw you for the first time that night it broke my heart to think that there were people in the world who were capable of doing harm to such a pretty girl like you. Although, when I think about it, I don't know how I knew you were pretty as you laid there battered and bloody," said Sam.

Not for thirty-four years had Allison been in the company of so many individuals who knew first hand the intimate details of that fateful day in 1969 -- the day the city of Berkeley went crazy.

"Where were you, Sam, when things started happening that day?" asked Allison.

Sam hesitated before responding. "I was at ground zero. I was still loosely involved with the SDS and as soon as we heard what happened that morning we went to Sproul Plaza where the protest started. The students were really pissed off because the university had taken back the park from the people, especially after so many volunteers had worked so hard to turn an unsightly muddy lot into an attractive park that could be used by everyone in the community. About noon some dumb cop cut the wires to the speakers at the rally and all hell broke loose. Five thousand students headed down Telegraph Avenue to the People's Park and surrounded the place. The university had an eight-foot-high chain link fence erected around the entire park early that morning to keep people out, and it was guarded by hundreds of cops in full battle gear carrying loaded shotguns."

"Did you see how the violence got started?" asked Allison. "I've read various accounts of what happened over the years, but most of them don't corroborate one another."

"I remember seeing mostly peaceful activities initially. People were placing flowers in the chain link fence and talking to the cops. I could see that the cops were nervous and who wouldn't be with thousands of angry students surrounding them. You could tell something was going happen, and it did. Over on Telegraph Avenue some protestors opened up a water hydrant that attracted the attention of more protestors as well as cops. Before you knew it, the cops fired tear gas into the crowd. The protestors started throwing rocks, bottles, and anything else they could pick up and hurl at the cops who came to turn off the water. Shortly after that, the shooting started. I couldn't believe it! The cops actually fired their shotguns at the students. Anybody that was not a cop was a target: deliverymen, store employees, sightseers, journalists, and photographers. I even saw a cop fire in the direction of a lady pushing a baby carriage! It was insane. You couldn't wrap your brain around what was happening."

"What happened to you then?" asked Allison.

Sam wrapped his fists tightly around the steering wheel causing his knuckles to turn white. All during the time he talked he stared straight ahead as if his audience was ahead of him instead of right beside him in the bus.

"I moved out of the cops' range when they switched from birdshot to double-ought. They tried to hurt people bad. Hundreds were wounded, and I heard of one guy sitting on a roof watching who was shot and killed. He was just watching, and they killed him! When the tear gas and the double-ought shot dispersed most of the protestors onto side streets, the cops began to roam up and down the blocks firing at targets of opportunities. People who had absolutely nothing to do with the protest arrived at the hospitals full of shotgun pellets."

"After that," continued Sam, "things were pretty much a blur. We broke up into smaller groups and threw rocks and even pieces of rebar at the cops who were being reinforced by the state police. Later they sent in the National Guard. The governor made his career from that move. He had promised if elected governor 'to clean up the mess at Berkeley.' The university didn't want him to do it. From then on it was a running battle for the rest of the day into the night. No matter where you were around the university you could see smoke from fires and hear shotguns going off."

"When did you get caught?"

"I had gone non-stop the entire day along with thousands of other protestors and was exhausted. I knew they enacted a curfew so I began to make my way back to a friend's apartment where I had been staying. He lived a few blocks west of the park. I wasn't armed, and I had no marks on me to show that I had been part of the protest so I felt fairly safe walking that far away from the action. About a block away from the apartment, I cut through a vacant lot to save some time. That's when the deputies grabbed me. I hadn't noticed them standing under a big tree. I wasn't running or anything, so they had no reason to think I had done anything wrong. The next thing I knew I was on the ground being beaten and kicked. They didn't ask my name or where I was going or anything. I never saw their faces and all I heard was obscenities before I blacked out. I came to as people I didn't know were carrying me away. The first time I ever set eyes on any of you guys was at the professor's house. I saw you there, beaten and bloody but alive, and I began to hope that I was going to live. I saw the bloody towels around you, and I knew someone was trying to help us."

Allison reached across and placed her hand on to Sam's rigid right arm tightly affixed to the steering wheel.

"Did you see the whole thing, too, Ernest?" asked Allison as she turned partly towards the rear.

"No, I didn't. I didn't get there until later in the day. I remember how odd it was to see white people shooting at other white people. I told myself, these are, for sure, some crazy SOB's. They must not like anybody. They shoot black people, brown people, and even other white people."

"Then why were you there if not for the protest? You had to know what was happening."

Ernest considered the question for a time before answering. "I was there on business, Black Panther business. I came over from Oakland to find a guy and give him a message."

"During all that was going on you came there to find a person and deliver a message? Excuse me, but that doesn't sound very wise under the circumstances." Allison looked at Ernest quizzically.

"Actually," replied Ernest, "the guys that sent me thought the noise and activity would be a fitting background for the special message I was delivering."

"Just what kind of message would fit in with that noise?" asked Allison.

Ernest once again thought about the question posed to him. "The sound of another gun going off," he answered.

"Another gun going off?" said a confused Allison.

"I was sent there to kill an informer," added Ernest, tiring of the inquisition.

Both Allison and Sam glanced back at Ernest as if they disbelieved their ears.

"You said you didn't kill anyone!" proclaimed Allison.

"I didn't," said Ernest, "I only said I went there to do it."

"What happened? What stopped you?" Ernest had Allison and Sam's complete attention.

"I met a strange man," responded Ernest. "I'm standing in an alley with my gun in this guy's chest and he's crying and pleading for his life, when up walks this goofy white guy with a long ponytail who asks me how it's going. I can't think of anything to say, so I tell him I'm kind of busy at the moment and that he should move along. He ignores me and starts talking to the guy I'm supposed to shoot. That guy is crying so hard he can't even answer. I start to tell this nut that he better move on if he knows what's good for him, but before I get the chance he starts quoting philosophy to me. Right there in the alley while I got a gun pointed at this informer's chest. It was so weird that I will never forget what the guy said. 'I have long held the opinion that the amount of noise that anyone can bear undisturbed stands in inverse proportion to his mental capacity and, therefore, may be regarded as a pretty fair measure of it.'"

"By this time I'm wondering, who should I shoot first, the snitch or the philosophy nut? Before I can make up my mind he starts up again. He says, 'Through what we do, we learn what we are _._ ' He smiles and tells me there are angry deputies at each end of the alley, and I will never get out of there alive if I don't get rid of the gun and turn and walk away with him right then."

"What did you do?" asked both Allison and Sam simultaneously.

Ernest showed a look of surprise. "What do you think I did? I'm alive today, aren't I? I handed him the gun which he tossed into a dumpster as the snitch bolted for another part of the world. I decided I wasn't quite Black Panther material and went home with the nut to hook up with a ride going east as soon as the streets quieted down. The rest is history."

Allison and Sam looked at one another. "Putzkammer!" they said in unison.

"That's right. Professor Helmuth Putzkammer of the Philosophy Department at U.C. Berkeley. I believe we owe the man a huge debt of gratitude. He saved all three of our butts that day."

"He was the most amazing man," said Allison. "I'd met him a few months earlier when I moved to Berkeley from the Haight. A lot of other people did the same thing. The Haight-Ashbury district had degenerated into an infested slum by then. It was not a safe place to be anymore. Almost as soon as I started to move around the Berkeley campus area I met Helmuth. We hit it off and he invited me to park my bus behind his house located in the foothills above the campus. He was a straight up guy. I had a place to park the bus and sleep as well as the use of his extra bathroom and shower located in the rear garage apartment. I expected him to try and hit on me but he never once did. The guy was simply a genuine human being. This seemed even stranger when I learned he was a believer in the teachings of Schopenhauer who was the world's greatest pessimist."

"I've thought often what my life would be like today if I had stayed a member of the Panthers," added Ernest. "I'm certain I would not have become a doctor. I very possibly would not have gotten out of the '60s alive. The government unofficially proclaimed open season on the Panthers everywhere. I don't think I quit because I was afraid of being killed. I think the professor summed it up perfectly when he said, 'Through what we do, we learn what we are.' If I had killed that snitch, I would have become a murderer. I knew standing there with that gun before the professor even came up to me that killing that low life wasn't the answer, nor was killing white people. The professor helped me at a critical time to not take the easy way, the violent way, and to become willing to go home and fight racial injustice one unjust event at a time. He helped me to become willing to work hard to overcome the white man's stereotypical image of black people, one white person at a time."

"I didn't even know the guy," said Sam. "If he hadn't come along, the deputies may have killed me. I was unconscious for a while, so I don't know what happened after they started beating me. I remember coming to when the professor, Ernest, and Bobby carried me into his house. I was warned earlier that the cops were on the lookout for SDS members and, especially, any of the Weatherman sects. If they had time to find out who I was I have no doubt they would have finished me off. The police acted absolutely insane that day. The only other time I ever saw anything like that was at the Democratic National Convention in Chicago in the summer of 1968. Daly's cops went wild there, too. That's one of the reasons I came out west. Things had gotten crazy back east. The Weatherman faction of the SDS promoted violence at every opportunity, and I wanted no part of it. I never really believed that the governor would follow through with his campaign promise. Who would have imagined that here in America cops and soldiers would shoot and gas students with chemicals condemned as inhumane by the Geneva Convention."

Both men looked to Allison to contribute her part to the groups revisiting of the seminal event underlying their extraordinary relationship. She was absorbed in her own thoughts.

"Where were you while this was going on, Allison?" asked Ernest after a long pause. "How did you end up becoming one of the victims?"

Hearing her name spoken awakened her to the discussion that had been going on for some time. What should she say? She could tell them about the blood, about the physical scars that eventually required cosmetic surgery to repair, or the horror of watching the butt of the rifle as it was raised in preparation for smashing it into her face as she lay helpless on the ground. She could tell them that. But she couldn't tell them everything, about what happened after she became unconscious or about what Bobby did to save her life because she didn't witness those events. The person asleep on the floor of the bus they were riding in had never talked about it since that night. They would soon, but not today.

"Believe it or not," said Allison, "I was less than a mile away from the action that morning, and I knew absolutely nothing about it. I had crashed in the bus after staying up the previous night listening to the professor completely destroy some poor student's preconceived notions of life having some ultimate meaning or purpose. When the professor was through with him the guy was looking for a knife to slit his own wrists. The professor had convinced him that real happiness was impossible, that life was about misery, and the only hope was for a person to eliminate all desire along with any will to live. He loved screwing with students' young pseudo-intellectual minds. He is to this day the greatest contradiction I have ever met. Intellectually he was an avowed pessimist while in action he was a tireless promoter of people helping other people."

"Bloody Thursday, May 15, 1969, arrived for me in the afternoon. I woke up to the distant sounds of popping noises. I had no idea what they were at first. I actually thought someone might be shooting off firecrackers. Finally, the professor came running up the driveway from the street in a complete lather. The distress in his demeanor shocked me. He could hardly talk. His first words to me when he regained control of his emotions were, 'They're shooting people! They're shooting people! The crazy bastards are killing students!' He was so overcome that he sat down on the concrete and put his face into his hands and wept. As I started past him to go and see for myself, he grabbed me and told me not to go towards the People's Park because that's where the police were beating people with their clubs."

"I couldn't believe what he was telling me, but in the background I could hear the loud popping sounds. The professor told me they were sounds of shotguns being fired at anyone in sight. He convinced me to stay there until it stopped. He then left to go and meet with other faculty members to see what they could do to get the police to stop shooting."

The next part of Allison's story was much more personal. "I waited all afternoon until after dark for the firing to stop, but it never did. The professor had not returned, and I was afraid he may have gotten hurt or arrested. I couldn't wait around any longer to find out what was going on. I walked towards the park where I expected most of the action to be centered. As I walked, I heard sirens from all directions, and it was obvious the riots had spread out to other areas of the city. The smell of smoke as well as the odor of tear gas grew stronger as I neared the east end of the park off Telegraph Avenue. In the distance I could see fires burning and people running back and forth. Voices of people shouting and yelling grew louder the closer I came. I got close enough to see the police, and I also saw groups of guardsmen with helmets and rifles with fixed bayonets walking around. I went only a little farther before I was abruptly halted by a guardsman who demanded to know where I was going, where I had been, and what I was doing in this area. He didn't look any older than me, and he looked sort of familiar. Later I was told that many of the National Guard troops sent to quell the riots were actually the same students that had been involved in starting the riots that morning. They went home only to find the governor had called their units out, so they put on their uniforms and headed back to the same place, but this time with a rifle and a bayonet to fight the same people they were rioting with that morning."

"What happened next is he let me go and told me to go home and get off the streets as a curfew was in force. I turned around to go back to the professor's house and became aware that I was being followed. At first it didn't bother me. I thought he only wanted to make sure I got off the streets. You know the rest. He waited until I was away from the activity and then attacked me and dragged me into an empty lot. Bobby saved me and brought me to the professor's home. Fortunately, the professor had gotten back and he helped stop the bleeding and bandage my cuts."

Allison hoped neither Ernest nor Sam would ask her any more questions. She was well aware of the gaping holes in her story. Where did Bobby come from? Why didn't he take Allison to a hospital? Was she sexually molested? Why didn't she ever report the incident to the authorities? These questions and others awaited answers, but not yet. Maybe someday, but not yet.

"That was the most disappointing, painful, and unbelievable experience of my entire life so far," said Sam to himself as much as anyone else. "An American community filled with armed soldiers with fixed bayonets and policemen with shotguns shooting down students. They beat them with clubs then threw them into concentration camps where they were beaten again. Barbed wire was strung up and down the streets of Berkeley. Choppers flew low over the university dropping chemicals banned by the Geneva Convention on students herded into fenced off areas supposedly for the purpose of peaceful assembly. Officers of the law took off their badges so they couldn't be identified later by the people they shot with their shotguns or beat with their clubs. All of this because some ambitious neo-fascist governor had grandiose political ambitions that necessitated him sucking up to a man who turned out to be one of the greatest frauds in the history of the country, one Mr. J. Edgar Hoover, Director of the FBI. That sick bastard had been pushing for this to happen in Berkeley for years, until he finally got a guy in office who would do the job for him."

~~ Chapter Thirteen

Bright lights, radiating from the far horizon, brought the conversation to a close and Allison, for one, felt relieved. They had come close enough to the lair of her personal demons for the present. There would come a time in the future when she could tell her whole story. First though, she intended to recount the story to a soon to be surprised prominent citizen of the Berkeley community. That's why it was so important the three people she trusted most in this world came with her. Not to give her the courage to confront this person, but to keep her from killing the bastard.

"It's chow time everybody," said Allison. "Who's ready for some grub?"

Sam looked at his watch. It was already past midnight. "What are we supposed to eat at this hour of the night? Breakfast, dinner, lunch, brunch?"

"Hey, I told you guys that I have my meal waiting for me in this bag. You get what you want, don't worry about me." Ernest held his remaining onion-fried burger in hand as he spoke.

"You have to come in and sit with us," responded Allison. "The last time we didn't have that opportunity, what with you and Bobby becoming such good friends with the nice policeman."

"I'll go with you," came the unexpected reply from Bobby as he raised himself from his pallet. "I ought to get something more solid inside me pretty soon."

"Great!" said Allison relieved to see Bobby coming to life. "Now does anyone remember the name of the restaurant?"

No one spoke up. Then, Bobby, of all people had a recollection. "I kinda remember it being located on the same side of the street out towards the tourist store that had the big tee-pee out front. I'm pretty sure there weren't many other restaurants in that general area so it ought to be easy enough to find."

"Great, let's do it. Sam, the exit should be right up ahead. I'm so happy, I'm going to get to eat inside this time," said Allison excitedly.

When they first exited the interstate the full effect of the changes to the community they visited so briefly years before were obvious.

They expected the new motels and truck stops to appear around busy interstate exits, but they soon discovered a solid wall of bright lights advertising every national chain restaurant, motel, and quick shop known to the traveling world. Thirty-four years earlier only dimly lit motels and an occasional restaurant existed here and there. To try to find something old mixed in with this vast assemblage of modern day lighting fixtures posed a challenge. Allison started to look for her sunglasses as the brightness caused her to squint.

"Oh, my God! What happened? Does anyone see any building anywhere that looks to be more than ten years old? Oh, wait, there's one. I don't remember it, but it looks ancient compared to this other stuff. This can't be the old Route 66, can it?" lamented Allison.

It was the old Route 66 according to the many signs claiming some past association with a previous structure or business that once served the intrepid travelers of a bygone era. It's doubtful that any other event in recent memory did so much to make the bunch of them feel so old than did this sudden shock to their collective memories. To their minds it was merely last month or last year since they came through this desert oasis during their flight for safety.

"You sure this is the right place?" asked Sam.

"This is it," said Allison. "Can you believe this? Somebody stole the town and left a Las Vegas knock off in its place. Do they need all these lights? There are only two or three other cars on the streets. No wonder I saw the lights from a hundred miles back."

"That's progress," said Sam with obvious resignation in his tone. "Somebody go ahead and pick out one of the chain restaurants. At least we will know what we're getting. They prepare the exact foods to the same specifications. I'm open as long as I don't have to eat anything Mongolian."

"No!" Allison yelled. "Keep going. We're not going to give up yet. We're looking for authentic local road kill. I'm with Ernest. This time we need to find some real food prepared from local parts and pieces. We'll have the opportunity to eat chain restaurant food for the rest of our lives once this is over."

They drove on looking for anything that jogged any part of their long dormant memories of their past life experiences. Occasionally an original structure did appear along the route, but for the most part they were dwarfed by the gaudiness of their newer and larger neighbors. They had become relics just like the gaping occupants of the rainbow colored time capsule cruising along amidst the scattered residue of an earlier generation.

"Look there!" said Ernest excitedly. "That's the tee-pee up ahead that you wanted to see. So where's our restaurant?"

"I think that's it," said Bobby pointing to a darkened building located a half-block farther on. "It looks like it's closed. I guess it's hard to compete for business with the bright lights we've passed by so far."

They were at the end of the strip by now and nothing old or original looked to be open for business save for a couple of motels. It was going to be either bright light chain food or no food, excepting, of course, Ernest who clutched his prize closer to his chest for protection.

Not one of the three men seemed prepared to remind Allison of the obvious. Like she always said, _Whoever spoke first, lost_. The guys riding in the bus with her were not going to be mistaken for Einstein's, but they didn't get to this advanced stage of life without learning something about the opposite sex. Right now, most likely all of their male instincts screamed loudly for them to shut up.

"Just turn here and head back to the interstate. I'd rather eat some truck stop swill than that cookie cutter stuff behind us," mumbled Allison.

"So would I," agreed Sam.

"Me, too," said Bobby. "I live on truck stop food."

"I told you I already have my food," said Ernest defiantly, "but I will go in with you and get them to warm up my OFB for me."

As they turned towards the interstate, the bright lights of a distant truck stop beckoned them. Allison scratched one of the side roads off the list. Her profound disappointment showed. _There is still a lot of highway between us and the coast_ , she rationalized. _We'll find something familiar somewhere ahead_.

This truck stop attracted customers other than local farmers looking for a good breakfast and a place to gossip. Hundreds of giant rigs cluttered the acres of asphalt-paved surface carved out of the semi-arid landscape. Compared to the hugeness of the trucks, the VW bus looked like a child's colorful toy creeping among prodigious piles of sheet metal on wheels. In the center of this activity sat an otherwise nondescript building wrapped in enough incandescent and neon signage to make the former keepers of the lighthouse at Alexandria proud. This is where the group would fill both the gas tank and their stomachs.

Safely parked among the few passenger vehicles present, the group exited the bus without further comment and started to make their way inside the restaurant. Bobby, unaware of Allison's gaze, donned his jungle fatigue jacket saying the dry night air gave him a chill. Ernest and Sam, on the other hand, felt no need for additional clothing so they started for the entrance in mufti. They did not proceed far before the heat of Allison's gaze brought both of them to a halt. Sam instantly recognized the problem.

"Are you serious?" he asked. "You want me to wear that heavy leather jacket into that restaurant? What do you want Ernest to wear, his beret and sunglasses? You do, don't you?"

The delay cost them less than a minute. Allison entered first fully arrayed in her '60s attire. Bobby in his Vietnam jacket, followed. Straggling behind, walked Sam, decked out in leather and looking like an eight-year-old child, being led into church in front of his pals wearing a hand-me-down suit and tie. Bringing up the rear the hefty frame of Ernest trudged along wearing the requisite Black Panther accoutrements -- black beret and dark sunglasses. Hardly anyone noticed when he kicked over a bucket outside the entrance used for the disposal of cigarette butts because he couldn't see it.

Fortunately, the sign inside the door next to the checkout counter told them to seat themselves. The part of the restaurant not reserved for truck drivers was limited and mostly empty. One old truck driver missed his mouth altogether as he tried to ingest a dripping hunk of sausage as the odd group passed by his roped off area. The only other customers in the civilian area consisted of two elderly people, who belonged to a monster motor home parked diagonally across six passenger car-only parking spaces, and two young couples.

The old truck driver, having recovered from the shock of witnessing four aging adults in search of a '60s costume party saunter by his table, returned to minding his own business, which apparently involved clogging every artery in his body before daylight. The young folks stared in unison as if they were witnessing the reappearance of a previously extinct species.

Allison and Bobby cared little about who looked at them. Sam, on the other hand, looked as if he sat on a two-pound hemorrhoid. Ernest noticed the stares of the younger people and glowered back at them.

"Okay, Mustafa," said Allison. "You can stop trying to scare those kids. I doubt they ever heard of Huey Newton anyway. Why don't you break out that side of meat you have there in that greasy sack so it can be heated up for you."

She struck a chord because Ernest immediately turned his attention to the bag he still held tightly under his arm. Allison summoned a waitress, and in short order, "Lucy" their home grown and vivacious young order taker read back their order to make sure she had it right.

"Well, let's see now. That's one baked chicken breast with a dry side salad without the onions and water to drink with a lemon slice. Next, we have a small bowl of chicken soup with black coffee. Then we have eggs benedict, light on the paprika and lemon, which I'll be sure to tell the cook will overwhelm the true flavor of the hollandaise sauce. I'll see if we have any glass bottles of European natural spring water. And again, I'm sorry about that stupid remark about our wine steward being at home stomping grapes. I didn't know you were serious about wanting to know if we serve that Chardonnay stuff. If you want I can check with some of the drivers, some of them like to carry a jug of Ripple with them occasionally. You don't? Well, if you change your mind it won't be a problem for me to ask around. Lastly, I'm going to take the leaky contents of this bag over to that microwave and heat it up for two minutes and bring it back with a large vanilla shake. That it? I'll be right back."

"What?" exclaimed Sam after the waitress left the table. "Can I help it if my tastes have become slightly more refined? At least I'm not asking them to warm up a bag of grease."

Before Ernest had time to respond to this slight their waitress returned. "I told the cook about the sauce. He acted real pleased for the advice. We don't have any natural spring bottled water. All we have is the stuff we get out of Albuquerque. Is that okay? Good. One other thing, are you guys hippies? We saw your bus outside, and Thelma, the manager here, said it looks like those hippie buses that used to come through here on old Route 66 back in the '60s. If you came through here back then, you could have met my grandpa. He was a police officer."

All four looked at each other. Could this be a relative of the same policeman that befriended Ernest and Bobby back in 1969?

Allison asked the obvious question. "Was your grandpa a policeman in 1969? He was, was he. Well per chance, did he ever mention anything about meeting up with some very dirty hippies one morning out at the lake who saved a bird?"

You could hear the waitresses screaming all the way out in the parking lot. "Are you the hippies he met that morning? He told that story to every person in town until he died a few years back. Who's Ernest and who's Bobby?"

Both Bobby and Ernest looked meekly at one another prior to raising their hands.

The waitress screamed once more. "Thelma, come here and bring the camera. It's Ernest and Bobby. Hurry!"

By now other diners began to gather at a safe distance to catch sight of the heroes of legend. Many of them had heard the same story over the years and knew it well.

Once more Allison and Sam may as well have been sitting at the North Pole. Bobby and Ernest were again the center of attention. Not one person glanced in their direction no matter that they sat only inches away.

"Can I have both of you guys' autographs?" asked Lucy still giddy from the experience. "Why don't you both go ahead and sign several of these menus, if you will. I know everybody's gonna want to see the real names. Hurry up with that camera, Thelma!"

The whole place became a circus. Every person whoever heard the story came over to the table to shake the hands of the legendary Bobby and Ernest who wallowed in the muck and mire to save a red tail hawk in distress. Many who heard the story for the first time came over, too. Sam and Allison, completely unbothered by the throng, busied themselves with their meals. Only later did Sam admit that his eggs benedict had excessive amounts of lemon and paprika added. He washed down the eggs with a couple of swigs of tap water served in a plastic bottle. He said he regretted not taking Lucy up on her offer to check around and see if any of the drivers had an extra bottle of Ripple.

Allison felt pleased her dear friends were once more receiving their just rewards for the heroic efforts they made those many years ago. Only one thing bothered her, she and Sam had to pay for their barely adequate meals, while of course, the admirers picked up the tab for the two heroes. She could barely restrain herself from shouting, "It's my bus!"

Try as they might it took another thirty minutes to satisfy the throng and get back on the road. Allison drove, rebuffing the offers of the two earlier backseat passengers who had once again gotten the red carpet treatment in a friendly little community that Allison now disliked.

With all the sarcasm she could muster, Allison spoke to a yet grinning Ernest who sat beside her in the front passenger seat. "I'm so sorry they couldn't get hold of someone from the newspaper to come over and record for posterity this very touching event. When we come back through we should call first. Maybe they'll have the blown up photographs framed and hung on the wall along with the signed menus. By the way, I thought you said you felt like an idiot for having gone out there and gotten muddy for that _stupid bird_. How come when you retold the story you said it was a natural instinct, something any animal lover would do."

Ernest wouldn't stop smiling, no matter what his envious friend said out of jealousy.

Waxing philosophical, Sam reflected on the experience from the safety of his rear seat. "I suppose such is life when simple events are shuffled from the more pastoral confines of the side roads and are thrown pell-mell into life's fast lane. Yet, I did learn one thing," continued Sam. "If anyone ever asks me about my dining experience in this fair community, I'm going to tell them to be sure to order the Ripple."

~~ Chapter Fourteen

"We didn't even get to see the mountain," came the plaintive cry from a disappointed passenger in the rear of the bus.

"What mountain?" asked Allison. "We're still quite a distance away from the mountains yet."

"Mt. Tucumcari," persisted Bobby. "I remember it well. It sat off to the south and you could see it for miles in the daylight."

"I remember that now," responded Ernest. "I don't think it was a mountain. I believe it was a mesa."

"Well, maybe you better go back there and tell those folks who bought our breakfast that they should correct their brochure because they have it marked as a mountain. Mt. Tucumcari." Bobby shoved a brochure he had secured from the display rack in the restaurant towards Ernest.

Ernest inspected the brochure with the help of the dim dome light and handed it back to Bobby. "I stand corrected, sir. A mountain it is."

As the others discussed the area geology, Sam prepared himself for a snooze. He said he had not stopped moving since he arose in a dither the previous morning, and he looked as if he could use the rest.

"Allison, how long has it been since you last slept? The reason I'm asking is that I'm going to take a nap now, and I hope to stay alive to wake up in a couple of hours. That might not be possible unless you let someone give you a break. You've probably not closed your eyes in the last twenty-four hours, am I right?" asked Sam.

After a short stop, Ernest occupied the driver's seat with Bobby acting as his co-pilot. Allison flopped unceremoniously onto Bobby's pallet and proceeded to rest. She agreed with everyone's assessment that she needed a nap if for only two or three hours. Ernest had taken several naps in the past hours and said he felt fit to drive. Bobby still needed to get more of his strength back. His opportunity would come before the trip ended. They only needed to stay on the interstate and awake Allison when they arrived in Albuquerque. Surely, they could manage that.

After what could have been a million years or mere seconds, complete disorientation greeted Allison as she began her slow emergence from the deepest level of sleep a human can descend to and still hope to return of their own accord. Consciousness first approached her tentatively bringing only the barest awareness of her physical existence. Long before she could reconnect the brain synapses that controlled the opening and closing of her eyelids or caused the movement of her fingers, she began to sort out the unrecognizable sounds. Remembering her name would have to wait awhile longer as well. First, she would determine where she was and why she was sleeping in her clothes on such a hard surface.

The voices in the background sounded familiar but still she could not attach names. Another sound came from the opposite direction, which told her she was in the middle of whatever was happening. The sound coming from above and behind her turned out to be that of a person snoring. W _ho?_ she wondered. The mumbling from the opposite direction, she finally decided, came from two people talking so softly she barely made out the words, although parts of sentences did register.

"Are you sure?" followed by, "I'm sure," followed by, "You sure, you're sure?" followed by, "I'm sure, I'm sure!"

Briefly the notion occurred to her that she had somehow become involved with the Alice in Wonderland story. Had she unwisely followed the always-late White Rabbit and tumbled down into a hole where she couldn't get back out? Was the mumbling she now heard part of the chatter from the residents of Alice's world of _eternal nonsens_ e _?_

Before long the words did register more clearly and the voices began sounding familiar. _Ernest_ , she thought to herself, _t_ _hat's Ernest's voice_. _And Bobby, the other voice belongs to Bobby._

Most of the numbness that perplexed her movements and her thinking started to dissipate. Awareness replaced confusion. She lay on a pile of blankets in the back of her VW bus on the way to San Francisco with her three old friends. _The noise coming from behind her must be Sam snoring_. _Wonderful_. It was coming back to her. _Why were they sitting still, and where was the sound of passing trucks and cars?_ Using every bit of her strength, she rose off the pile of blankets into a sitting position with her back against the rear bench.

The questions came out naturally. "What's going on? Where are we? Why are we stopped?"

Suddenly, things went quiet in the bus. Allison awaited a reply but none came. She saw nothing but darkness as she looked around to orient herself. There should be lights around somewhere. There are always lights coming from other vehicles or homes or businesses along the interstate. Where they presently sat yielded no signs of light. Something had happened.

"What time is? Where are we?" she repeated.

Ernest looked at his wristwatch's glowing numerals and then turned to face Allison. "It's about 5:30 am. How did you sleep? You were out cold for a few hours. You must have been exhausted."

Bobby, meanwhile, looked out into the blackness that surrounded the vehicle, which Allison realized had come to a stop. Without giving additional information, Ernest rejoined Bobby in looking out into the blackness.

"What's going on? Where are we?" persisted Allison.

"We, ah, we, ah, took a little detour," answered Ernest, "and right at this moment my trusty scout, Mr. Daniel Boone, is telling me we are very close to one of the side road locations we stopped at on our earlier trip. We both felt it would brighten your spirit to see something that had not changed over the years. Bobby says we're real close so we're waiting until we can see to make sure."

"I can hear the river about a quarter mile over that way," said Bobby as he pointed off to his right. "We're close. I know we are."

"One more time, close to where?" Allison's tone was more insistent this time.

"We're close to the river where we went skinny dipping the last time," answered Bobby calmly. "Just wait, when the sun comes up you'll see."

Allison took inventory of this unexpected situation. Her brain was working by this time so she established the possible parameters of their current predicament. If her memory still served her, they were about thirty miles northeast of Albuquerque on a side road close to a river looking for the secluded spot where the male idiots in her group went skinny dipping thirty-four years ago at a restricted, yet accessible, place where they were absolutely sure that no one would come around to bother them. However, the state conservation officer showed up to observe the frolicking and made them stand freezing and naked in the ice cold water while he slowly wrote down their personal information. By the time the officer finished, none of them found it necessary to hold their hands over their private parts as they stood there knee deep in the river. Whatever each of them had been blessed with at birth had shrunk to microscopic proportions. Later they had begged her to turn on the VW heater in hopes of their individual badges of manhood returning to earlier form. That was an important occasion for her. It was the first time she forgot completely about the vicious attack. What happened to those guys was funny, and she knew it was funny. She wasn't able to laugh then, but if these guys came all the way back here to give her another shot at it, she would certainly not pass up the opportunity.

"I vote that this time Allison has to go in," said a drowsy voice from behind her.

"Absolutely," added Ernest.

"Right on!" said Bobby.

"Have any of you nerds seen how big and strong my husband is?" asked Allison jokingly. "Didn't you hear the specific instructions he gave to Sam? 'No skinny dipping!' Hey, if I could I would be there with you heathens, but what's a lady to do? I've got my orders, you heard them, but I do have something else," she said as she reached her hand into a bag of miscellaneous items she brought along just in case and pulled out a disposable camera. "If I get lucky and get the right shot, I may never have to work again."

"What are you going to do, make a horror movie?" asked Sam as he sat up rubbing the sleep from his eyes.

"I hadn't thought of it in that light but that might be an excellent idea. I suppose my initial idea had more to do with no one ever having the chance to see the pictures, if you get my drift?" Allison was alert by this time and mimicked the two front seat passengers trying to make out any recognizable forms in the surrounding darkness.

"It's no use," admitted Bobby. "I can't see a thing, but it'll be light in another thirty minutes, then we'll see where we are."

"All of you have apparently forgotten the humiliating experience of the last time you ventured this way," said Allison with a laugh. "That's why I brought the camera so I can show the world how depraved the three of you really are."

"Boy, was it cold," said Bobby. "Boy, was it cold."

"I'm starting to feel the pain again," added Ernest from behind a grimace.

"Come on guys, don't be wimps. We can do this. If we fail here this saboteur among us will tell the world how it's true that men have become merely domesticated wimps, far removed from the time when our brave forbearers tromped the wilderness in search of adventure, and are now more suited to mowing lawns and carrying boxes packed with really dumb stuff back and forth to rented storage facilities, or worse, having to try out new and supposedly healthful, green-colored casserole recipes before they are let loose upon the public." Sam's attempt to rally the troops fell on deaf ears.

"I can remember the morning we first came up this road, if in fact it's the same road," said Allison whose thoughts returned to that eventful day of 1969.

"We're close," said Bobby assuredly. "We're real close."

"What was the guy's name who owned the little farm where we stopped to ask directions?" asked Ernest.

"Hal Paradise and what a character he was," said Allison. "Do you remember he told us he left a high-paying management job and started hitchhiking west from New York in 1965 with only his clothes and a copy of Kerouac's book, _On the Road_. His favorite character in the book was a young writer named Sal Paradise, so he changed his last name to Paradise, too. He said Hal Paradise sounded better than Hal Miltenberger."

"He claimed he got as far as the town of Moriraty, New Mexico, where he first saw the mountains to the northwest for the first time in his life. That, plus a character in the book by the name of Moriarity caused him to believe it was an omen. He headed towards the mountains until he came to a dilapidated old farmhouse sitting on some acreage along a road that was offered for sale, cheap. He used most of his money to purchase it. He fixed up the house and cleared his field and started living off the earth. He had a few sheep and a couple of big old dogs to keep him company with his books and his writing and claimed he never intended to leave the place while he was alive. To this day he remains one of the most impressive human beings I have ever met. He found something that made him happy and he decided that would be enough." added Sam.

"That's the place I'm looking for," said Bobby. "I know it's around here close."

"I hope it is," said Allison. "The old farm house with the hills and the mesquite trees and shrubs in the background made a lovely picture looking down across the valley towards the river where yellow sandstone cliffs fronted by tall cottonwoods invited you to stop and breathe in the natural beauty."

Ernest also had recollections of that morning. "And right when you thought you'd seen everything, you looked up and way in the background with the morning sun highlighting every amazing feature -"

"You saw the mountains," interjected Sam. "I'll have to admit I've never seen them look as beautiful as that morning. Whenever I go to the mountains, I always hold my experience of that morning up as the standard. I have traveled the world over and nothing ever has had the same effect on me. I hope you're right, my friend," he said to Bobby. "I hope you're right."

The group remained silent as each individual reflected back on that special morning of their young lives. _Could they catch lightening in a bottle again_ , Allison wondered.

"Another interesting occurrence comes to mind related to the subject of dandelions which you maintained a particular interest in, I believe, Allison. Am I correct?" Sam waited for Allison's reply.

"Yes, if you're talking about how we came to disagree with you regarding your disparaging comments about the dandelions that flourished in Hal's fields. You went off on those poor plants saying how it always seemed to be the case that something or someone always came in to mess things up. After awhile you said you couldn't see the mountains or the beautiful hills or the valley. All you could see were those ugly dandelions covering the fields," she said.

"The worst part of it came after you said that and then the rest of us started focusing on the dandelions, also. We forgot about the surrounding beauty that had taken our breath away moments earlier and, instead, started looking at millions of little yellow plants covering the field. If not for Bobby, we probably would have left here with a totally different attitude about the place. Do you remember doing that, Bobby? Do you remember the dandelions?" asked Allison.

"Sure, I remember," said Bobby. "I mostly remember being surprised at how ignorant you college boys and girls were when it came to something as common as dandelions."

Ernest spoke up. "He said the dandelion was brought over from Europe by immigrants and cultivated for food. I disclosed later they could be eaten cooked or raw in various forms as in soup or in salads. They have similar characteristics to mustard greens and were regularly eaten with hard boiled eggs. Ground roasted dandelion roots were used as a coffee substitute and if drank before meals stimulates the digestive function. Raw dandelions have a diuretic effect, which is good information for a physician to know. I learned that the dandelion root is sold in Canada as a drug. Finally, dandelions are a very good source for vitamins A and C."

"The characteristic that amazed me when I began to learn about the plant," said Sam, "was that a dandelion can have a three foot tap root. They're survivors often surviving the most aggressive attempts to eradicate them. They are not classified as weeds, but are wild vegetables. They are more nutritious than broccoli or spinach. They are good food for horses, cows, and hogs. Besides the couple of things Ernest said about their medicinal properties, there is also evidence that they cut fats, reduce gas and help with kidney stones, cancer, diabetes, weight reduction, vision, acne, blood pressure, and cholesterol. They can grow practically anywhere in abundance without any help, and all parts of the dandelion are useable: the leaves for greens, the roots for coffee and tea, and the blossoms for jelly and wines."

"I know about that last one," said Bobby. "I used to make dandelion wine and kept it around for city folk company. I always got a kick out of their responses when I told them what it was they were drinking. They usually liked it, and I often gave them a jug and the recipe to take with them. It's about the simplest stimulating beverage I ever concocted. About all you need are some dandelion blossoms, fresh lemon juice, oranges, sugar, yeast, hot water, and a little patience. I don't think I'm going to have any need for the stuff, but I'd sure be more than happy to make up several jugs for you guys."

"Well, not to be completely left out," said Allison, "let me add that I found out the white milky sap of the lowly dandelion stem removes warts, moles, pimples, calluses, and sores and soothes bee stings and blisters. And here is one additional bit of interesting information for your future use at boring parties. To further increase productive efficiency, the plant has given up sex. The seeds can develop without cross-fertilization so a flower can fertilize itself."

"I'll bet millions of lawn owners in this country expend millions of hours and billions of dollars attempting to eradicate one of the most verifiably beneficial plants in existence in this country," said Sam, "simply because it doesn't conform to society's notion of good lawn maintenance. With all of the things wrong with this country and the world, we devote our time and energy to eliminating things that are good for us."

"You nailed it on the head there at the end when you drew the comparison between the dandelions and our protesting generation," Allison said. "You made the simple observation that we, too, were misunderstood like the dandelions. Society didn't like the way we looked because like the dandelions in the middle of those lush, green lawns, we didn't conform. They wanted us to either get the hell out of their yards or at least have the decency to turn green so as not to be noticed. Love it or leave it! They never once recognized we served an important function. We offered a healthier life without destruction and violence much like the nutritional and medicinal qualities in the dandelion, but the disease of violence and destruction is so deeply inculcated into the fabric of their society that they couldn't imagine living in such a world, much less learning to ingest a way of life that didn't contribute to the destruction of a person's physical well-being. The notion that those beautiful golden petals cluttering up the precious toxic waste sites called front lawns could be converted into an elixir that would gladden the spirit, allowing them to dance and sing like the happy children they once were, terrified them. Adulthood meant responsibility, putting away the playthings of one's youth, and taking up the burden of practicality and reality that came with maturity. Adults don't drink wine and dance in the parks. They become religious and politically active and elect people to office who promise to make their lives better someday, even if it requires sending our young men twelve thousand miles away to teach a lesson to a bunch of poor people just trying to get ahead themselves but going about in what we considered the wrong way."

"I have to agree with Allison on that one, Sam," said Ernest. "You really turned it around that day. You started out one hundred and eighty degrees out, and instead of trying to defend an indefensible position you saw the error and made the change. Not only made the change but shared your new insights in such a way that helped expand the knowledge base of the individuals who earlier opposed you. I don't know why you didn't go into politics. If you had, we might not be on the verge of our country getting into another big mess. I know I would vote for you if I ever got the chance. Just don't ask me to make phone calls for you. I hate making phone calls."

"Well, thank you, Ernest, I think. That was a compliment, wasn't it?"

"The best part of Sam's whole idea was the suggestion that our little band be forevermore known as the 'Order of the Dandelions.' I have beautiful photographs of dandelions at home of which a couple are framed and on the wall." Allison smiled at the thought of her home and her photos. "And, my yard's full of dandelions."

"Well," began Sam, rather embarrassed, "I can only say how very touched I am that all of you speak of that occasion with such warmth. It's certainly nice to know that there are people who appreciate -"

"I just thought it was kind of dumb," interrupted Bobby before Sam could get up a full head of steam with his acceptance speech. "Even little kids in the country know about dandelions. What do they teach in those colleges anyway?"

Bobby's blunt criticism put the whole subject in its proper place. No need to go on about it as it was enough to be thankful they saw the light. They recognized their own faults and made the corrections. That's what being an adult is really about -- being able to admit when you're wrong, which is often, and making the necessary changes.

The conversations about dandelions and Hal Paradise's farm easily took up the extra time until the much-anticipated first light. In fact, vague images were already emerging from the last vestiges of the previous night's waning darkness. Bobby told them the river was on the right side of the bus, so if they looked straight up the valley they would be looking in the general direction of the mountain peaks. This meant the rising sun in the east would hit the tops of the mountain peeks at any moment, and Bobby did not want them to miss it. If the peeks appeared, he was right about their location.

"What are we looking for again?" asked Ernest.

"We are looking for the mountains. The sun should be hitting the tops of the peaks any minute," answered Bobby as he looked through the front windshield.

Each person made looking for the mountain peaks their mission as if they sat in the crow's nest high atop an old sailing vessel hoping to be the first to yell, "Land ho!" More and more, the surrounding darkness gave way to the emerging light of day and still no sign of mountain peaks or bright sunlight. Bobby's sharp eyes made out the tall cottonwoods that lined the banks of the river to their right. The outline of hills to the left, where they were expected to be, still gave no evidence of the early day's golden rays. Towards the front where the mountains were expected to arise in their splendor nothing but gray sky offered to greet their hopeful glances. The daylight they hoped for finally arrived, but a heavily overcast sky came with it.

_Not a good omen_ , thought Allison as she hoped against hope that miraculously the gray skies would part and the golden rays of the sun would reveal their beautiful valley in its entire splendor, but no such luck.

"What now?" asked Ernest.

"Well," said Bobby, "I think we're in the right place."

"Then where's the farm house?" asked Allison. "If the river's over there, then the farm house should be right up there. You guys had to cross the road and head for that row of cottonwoods to get to the stream. There's no house in sight."

"You're right," said Bobby, "but there is a sign over there about where I think the road going up to the house used to be."

Everyone strained their eyes to make out the writing on the large colorful sign located some seventy-five yards ahead on the opposite side of the road. PARADISE ESTATES was the name of the development according to the sign. It informed passersby that five-acre sites were available for sale to the discriminating members of the public who would enjoy building a country retreat away from the hustle and bustle of the city. No sign of the old house or its eccentric former inhabitant could be detected. Hal Paradise had said the only way they would get him off his land was to come in and haul out his cold dead carcass, and not a single person sitting there in the bus believed that it had happened any differently. Somewhere in the recesses of Allison's memory words from a song sang by one of her favorite sixties artists came to mind, _They paved paradise and put up a parking lot_. How right they were.

"Well, looks like we're batting zero this morning," said Sam. He directed his attention back towards the river where an official sign off the road now informed potential interlopers that the ground they proposed to trespass upon was now a state protected preserve and trespassers would be prosecuted to the fullest extent of the law.

"No mountains, no Hal Paradise, and no skinny dipping," observed a dejected Allison. "One more side road bites the dust. Let's go to San Francisco. We need to make up some time."

~~ Chapter Fifteen

The overcast skies that thwarted the group's efforts to recapture some of the magic of their youth gave way to an ever-brightening sun as the morning wore on. After a pit stop at another giant truck stop west of Albuquerque, the solemn band of pilgrims became uncharacteristically reticent. Sam regained control of the steering wheel, and as part of his self-appointed duties as pilot, he endeavored to engage his comrades in light conversation. They resisted his efforts, no matter how benign the subjects he offered for their conversational enjoyment.

When Bobby checked the map and mentioned that the town of Casa Blanca, where they gassed up, was one of the original side road towns they came through in '69, Allison told him she wasn't interested. When he told her the town of Bluewater, thirty-eight miles farther was also one of the old side road towns, still she wasn't interested. Bobby finally got the hint and shut up.

"Life goes on, Allison," said Sam hoping to renew her interest in the journey.

Now occupying the front passenger seat again, Allison slowly turned her head away from the side window and responded to Sam's cliché. "Yours won't if you keep pestering me. I had no idea that you were such a fount of triviality. Do you really know the difference between an overcast sky and an obscured sky? If you do, why do you know that? Who told you that ninety percent was the amount of cloud cover that was required before it could officially be called overcast? And -"

Allison halted. She saw the hurt look on Sam's face. She knew he only wanted to help.

"I'm sorry. I'm acting like a child. You guys can't help it because you're not sentimental...Oh damn! Now I'm a sexist idiot. I've got to shut up before I say more stupid stuff. It will be okay. I promise. I love you guys. Just give me a little time to find my brain, and I'll be all right. I had no idea I would be so disappointed, that's all."

Ernest spoke up from the rear of the bus. "I'm disappointed myself. I hadn't really thought much about it until I got there with you folks and started remembering how beautiful it was the first time. Things do change and life does go on. Though I can say to you with complete honesty that not having to jump into that ice cold river again and subject my home boys to that torture is one big relief."

"Man, I'm with you on that one, brother!" said Bobby who also expressed his relief.

"Me too," added Sam. "I was gonna do it, but I sure didn't want to."

"I'm with you on that one, too," chimed in Bobby. "I didn't want to do it either."

"I was praying neither of you guys would do it so I wouldn't have to do it," exclaimed Ernest. "Maybe I'm to blame for the overcast skies. Maybe my prayers were answered. I suppose that makes it my fault."

Allison followed the conversation from one to another. When Ernest finally summed it up she let out a whoop and massaged her brow in disbelief. "I take it back, you guys are Neanderthals. Your brains _are_ in your crotches. You _are_ bereft of sentiment."

Ernest started laughing, then Sam, then Bobby, and finally, Allison. It was going to be all right. Ernest was right, things do change and life does go on.

"How are we on the time schedule?" asked Sam. "Can we still make it in time?"

Allison got out her notes plus the map and did some quick calculations. "We have about eleven hundred miles to go. The deadline is Wednesday night at midnight so that means we have about thirty-nine hours left. We should have sufficient time if we don't dally too much."

"I, for one, promise to do my best not to be a dallier," said Sam. "Actually, there is only one place that I really have an interest in stopping for any length of time between here and the bay area."

"What place would that be?" asked Allison.

"I'm not going to tell you if you can't guess it," Sam answered, "but you should remember it when we get there."

As the mood inside the bus lightened, the group rode on in silence. With each mile the characteristics of the terrain became more desert like. No longer were there farms and barns with grain bins. Nothing existed now but expansive vistas of scrub bushes and cactus plants. This was not a place you would enjoy breaking down on the side of a highway in the heat of a long summer's day. Thankfully, it was only March, and they could keep going absent an air conditioner without too much discomfort.

Allison's mothering instincts returned with her improved attitude. "Bobby, how are you feeling? You look and sound so much better."

Bobby reacted as if he had not expected to become the topic of conversation. "I'm feeling much better, thank you. It usually takes awhile for me to get the booze out of my system. By tomorrow I should be feeling strong enough to help with the driving."

Ernest put on his doctor hat and joined the conversation. "You said it usually took awhile to get the booze out of your system. Does that mean you binge drink?"

Bobby answered in the same spirit the questions were being asked. "I usually go a period between binges, but in the last couple of years the drinking periods have come more often. The way it's going, pretty soon it'll be one continuous drunk."

"Have you tried to stop?" asked Ernest. "Have you gone to your doctor, or have you tried AA?"

"Yes, on both of those," said Bobby.

"Apparently, they didn't help you," said Ernest.

"I wouldn't say that. They both offered ways to help me quit drinking, but there is one thing they can't give you, and that's the desire to stay sober. Nothing works if you don't want to stay sober in the first place. One ol' boy at the AA told me AA is for people who want it, not people who need it."

"You don't want it then?" asked Allison.

"Guess not," said Bobby. "Otherwise, I wouldn't be trying to use that gun you threw away to put a bullet through my brain."

"What now?" asked Ernest.

"Oh, I expect I'll enjoy these few days with you folks and maybe try to do something worthwhile during the time I have left, and when I get back to Oklahoma I'll eventually get around to going out into that shallow pond and finding that gun again."

The unemotional, matter-of-fact way Bobby delivered this information frightened Allison. How could an individual accept their demise with such complacency?

"What if you can find that reason, Bobby?" said Allison. "What if we can someway help you find that reason?"

"Then we ought to be heading to Dallas, Texas, cause that's where you'll find the only reasons that mean anything to me," he said without hesitation.

Allison's long career in social work was about to pay off. She had learned long ago to pay attention to everything her clients said. She discovered that often it was the innocent, unsolicited statements that gave her insights into the real problems.

"What did your wife say to you when she left? 'If the real Bobby ever comes home from Vietnam, tell him his family is waiting for him in Dallas?' Wasn't that it?" asked Allison.

Bobby and Allison looked at one another and neither spoke.

"What did she mean by that, do you think? Why didn't Bobby come home from Vietnam?" asked Allison.

Ernest listened intently, and when he saw how deftly Allison dissected the situation and smacked Bobby in the head with the truth, he glanced towards Sam as if to say, _This lady is good._

"Think about this Bobby, and we'll talk more as we go along. Be advised that I refuse to accept your going back to that pond as the only valid option available." With that Allison turned around to leave Bobby alone with his own thoughts.

Both Sam and Ernest busied themselves with other matters in hopes of not becoming the next one to have to undergo one of Allison's cursory mental evaluations.

Miles passed without conversation. Bobby looked to be deep within his own thoughts following the earlier conversation about his life. Ernest, on the other hand, had pulled out a recently published medical book and acted as if he were intent upon ingesting its contents. Sam, meanwhile, kept his own counsel while directing their vehicle to a safe landing somewhere over the far horizon.

_Things were going pretty well_ , thought Allison. Everyone seemed to have settled in and found a place. The first part of the journey may have been a little hectic but as far as she could see, the rest of the trip would go a lot smoother.

"You know what I'd like to know? I'd like to know what in the hell we're doing here?" asked Sam unexpectedly _._

Allison moaned and put her face into her hands as she contrasted Sam's statement with her now completely bogus assessment of their progress. Weariness showed across her face.

"What is that supposed to mean?" she pleaded.

"It just now came to me," he said. "Since I joined up with this rolling grade school version of the _Merry Pranksters_ , I've been troubled by something, and it just now came to me what it was."

"Pray enlighten us," said Allison.

"Doesn't it seem kind of funny that we haven't devoted fifteen minutes to talking about the reason we are supposedly going back to San Francisco? Doesn't it appear a bit odd that we've talked about each other, our lives, our families, and even swimming naked, but we haven't talked about the coming war? Why is that, do you think?"

Allison's expression said it all. Sam's question made sense. Why hadn't they talked about the reason they supposedly abandoned the comfort and security – excepting Bobby, of course – of their homes and communities and departed on such an uncertain adventure, especially, at this advanced stage of their lives?

Sam waited for someone to respond, but not one of his riders made an attempt to reply. All of them looked to be thinking about what he said if furrowed brows were an accurate indication of personal reflection.

Sam took up the slack. "No offense, Bobby, but we know you weren't thinking about the coming war before you were hijacked from the farm. Ernest, I bet you haven't given this matter a lot of thought either. Some things don't change that much, and if you were really into this anti-war rhetoric, you would be knocking heads by now. Allison, now I believe you are into this pretty deeply. You've no doubt followed its development and you probably have files full of clippings that attest to your perseverance. If the subject comes up, you're into it with both feet, but it's not the only thought on your mind."

Sam waited for someone to argue against his assertions.

Allison spoke first. "What about you Sam? Why are you here?"

"Touché," said Sam smiling. "Excellent question! The only thing that comes to mind is that I'm a certified lunatic. I don't want to sound elitist as I'm sure all of you perform valuable services in your homes and communities, but I got up and walked away from the biggest IPO deal my firm has ever been involved with. It's scheduled to go to the market in less than three weeks, and I'm responsible for ensuring that it does. Hundreds of millions of dollars depend upon me having my ducks in a row before then. My partners are probably meeting right now to force me out of the firm for complete dereliction of duty. For all I know, my career is finished."

"As to the coming war, I've done my research, and I have some fairly solid evidence as to what's going on. To tell you the truth, I'm not convinced that most of the people we will meet up with out here, if we ever get there, really know what's going on. If they did, it wouldn't surprise me if many of them packed the hell up and went back home, real fast."

"What's an IPO?" asked Bobby.

"It stands for Initial Public Offering, Bobby. When a corporation decides it's ready to play with the big boys, they come to firms like mine. We help them go to the public trough for the funds that will allow them to grow and prosper. Maybe you've read something lately about some kids who came up with a new Internet idea and decided to sell it to the astute investing public. They named their company Blurgglecom and offered stock for sale through an IPO and made a billion dollars for themselves. The fact that the company barely makes a profit is of no consequence. Such is the renewed confidence of millions of investors who have conveniently forgotten about the trillions of dollars they lost only a few years back when the same market crashed because of the small but, ultimately, not so incidental fact that most of the companies that people dumped their money into never made a profit. That's what I do."

"Oh," said Bobby, satisfied with the response.

"I will repeat my question. What the hell is going on here? Why are we really here? Why am I here? I hope you guys can come up with better responses than I can, or we're probably screwed."

Allison turned to the two passengers in the back seat to get their response to Sam's impromptu charges. What did they have to say?

"I'm not going first," said Ernest forcefully as Allison's gaze met with his.

"I pass," said Bobby as Allison turned towards him.

It would be up to Allison to answer Sam's question and defend the group's seemingly rash decision to bolt for the coast. She took her time in formulating her response as Sam waited patiently.

Contrary to what the other passengers in the bus were probably thinking, Allison wasn't put off by Sam's outburst. This is what Sam did and it's why he was needed. He helped get at the truth of things. Whatever the outcome of the upcoming discussions, they would be better informed and better prepared to deal with the situations confronting them during the coming days. What she needed to do now was be unemotional and maintain the group's focus.

"Excellent question, Sam," said Allison. "Why are we here?"

"Just hold it right there lady. I didn't just roll out of a Psyche 101 class with a failing grade. I know what you're up to. I might be crazier than hell, but I'm not stupid. Don't try to turn this back around in my direction. Just answer the question, please." Sam showed his determination to prevail.

"You're right. I owe you an honest response to your question. You've risked much to join me on what many, I'm sure, would call a fool's errand. I assure you I have no intentions of treating your support and your sacrifices lightly. Absent the presence of you three people, I probably would have turned back before now, if I had gotten up the nerve to come at all. What I can tell you is that feelings long dormant within me have reawakened of late. Not that I have been a zombie all these years, but now something else has happened. The closest I have been able to come to identifying my feelings is when I reflect back on our brief but life-altering adventure in 1969."

Allison halted to collect her thoughts. The words that followed were going to be vital in determining the ultimate success or failure of their mission.

"Would you be terribly disappointed if I admitted to you that I have questions and reservations similar to yours?" she said to Sam. "You mentioned thinking you must be crazy. When I think about what we are doing in the context of acceptable rational adult behavior, it makes little sense. But yet, I'm here, and you're here. I wonder if we don't share the same nagging feelings of discomfort in the pit of our stomachs. All around your life, and my life, there is evidence of an abundance of all the things this society holds forth as necessary for the good life. Money in excess of what's required to survive, material items in excess of those that are mission essential, a representative form of democracy that is still the envy of most of the world, freedom to worship or not to worship, freedom of movement, freedom of dissent, freedom from discrimination, and so forth. Yet, I know in my aging bones something is wrong, wrong in my life. Something I haven't done that I should have. Wrong in the direction our society is choosing to go -- that I have somehow become a part of. Wrong in the way we have begun to view the rest of the world only as a source for raw materials or worse as potential threats to our existence. Something is wrong, and a small but very persistent voice in the pit of my soul is shouting that I can find the answers to many, if not all of my questions, in the streets of San Francisco along with thousands of other confused and questioning human beings. If you're looking for more justification than that for sabotaging your career, I can't help you. If you're like me, you can no longer abide the status quo. You're here because you need to make changes, and we were taught in the '60s that change starts in the streets. For us, I believe those streets are in San Francisco."

~~ Chapter Sixteen

Unseen by the two front seat combatants, Ernest reached across and poked Bobby in the arm and winked as Allison responded to Sam's blunt question as to why they were on this seemingly insane journey. Anyone could see that Ernest had great confidence in Allison's reasons for doing about anything. Bobby's reciprocating grin suggested that he likewise agreed with his back seat companion's overall assessment of her performance.

Sam, too, by his prolonged silence, showed himself incapable of making a compelling argument against Allison's thoughtful response. Allison, meanwhile, employed the "whoever speaks first loses" tactic as she sat quietly, satisfied that her work was finished for the moment.

"That hurt!" said Sam. "A part of me wants to find some way to disagree with what you said, but I have this feeling in the pit of my stomach that's yelling 'Thank you. That's exactly how I feel! We are going in the wrong direction, and ultimately, it won't work.'"

"What direction is that Sam?" asked Allison, anxious to hear what he had to say. She hoped that Sam could fill in the holes, and she believed there were always holes.

Sam grimaced as he pondered Allison's question. She could tell that he was reluctant to delve too far into this topic.

"This is no time to be keeping secrets, Sam. What did you mean when you said 'it won't work?'"

"Don't make me come up there!" threatened Ernest mockingly from the back. "We're going back to the front lines, so don't let us get there not knowing everything we need to know."

Sam was now the center of attention, and until he somehow satisfied his colleague's curiosities, he would receive no reprieve.

"Okay, I'll tell you what I've learned and let you draw your own conclusions. First, Allison if you will, apprise me of the primary reasons why you think this country is about to go to war, and also, why we should not follow that course of action. Please, it's important."

Allison didn't hesitate before she complied with Sam's request. "I think we are going to Iraq because we want their oil. We are going to send our children to die to protect this country's right to run SUVs up and down the freeways and have two, three, and four car families. I doubt that the lunatic in Iraq has weapons of mass destruction even though the administration claims he has. If he did, why would he use them to get us angry? The man's a criminal. Where's the upside in getting the most powerful country in the world mad at him? That would be suicidal! He may be willing to sacrifice the lives of the people of Iraq for any reason that suits his selfish interest, but I don't buy into his committing suicide, which is what he would be doing if he tried to do something that stupid. I don't buy into this crap that we need to save the people of Iraq from a tyrant. A hundred other tyrants in the world are just as bad only they aren't sitting on vast stores of oil. The ones that have vast stores of oil depend upon this country to provide them with the military weaponry to keep the ruling elite in power. The harboring of Islamist terrorists excuse is bogus, also. The criminal who runs Iraq is about as religious as I am. The last thing he needs, or wants, is a bunch of fundamentalist fanatics running around his little kingdom inciting people he wants to keep under control. Again, the man's a criminal, and it's not in his best interest to harbor terrorists."

"Finally, war time presidents aren't usually voted out of office. Look what has happened to the economy since this guy came into office. It's tanked big time. This is a classic ruse to keep the peons distracted. Get them talking about terrorism, abortion, homosexuality, evolution, or social security. These hot button issues will take people's minds off the real issues of importance like creating jobs, providing health care for families, protecting the environment, and reducing the national debt we're creating for future generations to have to deal with. That about says it, I guess. Is that what you wanted?"

"That's exactly what I wanted," said Sam.

"Works for me," commented Ernest.

"Likewise," offered Bobby.

"And it's exactly what I expected," added Sam.

"What's your point?" asked Allison.

"The point is I agree with everything you said," responded Sam. "If we halt our discussion right at this point, I think we will agree that what our country is proposing to do is pure folly, if not criminal. Before we pass judgment, I suggest we consider some additional facts and information. For instance, of the thousands of people who will show up at these planned protest marches, how many of them will arrive from considerable distances via automobiles, including SUVs, airplanes, buses, RVs, or trains? How many of them will be eating food served in restaurants or sold in markets along the way? How many will stay in motels that are lighted, heated, and air-conditioned? How many will wear clothing, bring along medication, use cell phones to talk with family back home? How many will read a paper or bring a good book or their laptop? How many will bring a camera to take pictures? Every single one of these items or services is dependent on cheap oil. I could go on like this for hours, but I expect you see where I'm going with this."

"Our entire society is hydrocarbon dependent. Everything requires cheap oil or natural gas. This country depends upon copious amounts of oil, every day, every hour, every minute. Without a steady supply of cheap oil, our entire economy will crash and burn not next month or next year, but immediately. Any significant disruption in this flow of oil will be disastrous to our way of life. If somehow a dissident takes out the rulers of Saudi Arabia with some plastic explosives strapped to him, we can expect to be without approximately fifteen percent of our absolutely essential supply of oil. That's just fifteen percent, and it will create a crisis. The Saudis are the cornerstone of OPEC, and without their support, we are in a world of hurt."

Sam took a drink of water from a plastic bottle. "Approximately eighty percent of the known oil reserves are located in the Persian gulf. There is a finite amount of this light crude oil in the world. If it exists, it's been found. People talk about heavy crude and shale deposits being available in huge quantities. So what if they are available? The cost of converting those resources is too expensive to be practical. You hear this bullshit about alternative energy sources, much of it from the government. Well, that's bullshit, too. All the wind power, solar power, geothermal and hydroelectric power, plus the illusory hydrogen power that's spoken so highly of in official circles will not come close to making up for the loss of our primary sources of cheap oil. This economy is built to run on light crude only, and there is only one place where there is enough of it to support a lifestyle that the citizens of this country have come to expect, and furthermore, I believe, will demand. That's the Persian Gulf. If you think for one minute that a Republican administration or a Democratic administration is going to stand up and say to an electorate addicted to a life that demands cheap oil, 'We're sorry, but we don't have access to the oil we need because the rulers where it's produced don't like us because of our religion or, maybe, our government. Now they have other big customers like China, India, the European Union, or Japan who want the oil so one of those countries can replace the U.S. as the preeminent industrialized society in the world, and they simply want to ration their oil so it won't run out so fast.' What do you think the vast majority of the people of this country will say, including most of the fine folks who will be joining us in the streets of San Francisco?"

"They will say, you sons-of-bitches, you better go get me my oil. My family lives forty miles out of town, and we drive separate cars to work, school, shopping, soccer games, and to the doctor. I have a riding lawn mower, a snow blower, a weed trimmer, a jet ski, a powerboat and a motorbike. I want my gasoline right now. Do whatever you have to do, but get it!"

"Practically every respected geologist that has ever worked for the big oil producers has said repeatedly that we either have exceeded or we are about to exceed peak oil production. What that means is that one half of all the oil that has ever been available has been pumped and used already. From that point on, the world will pump fewer barrels of oil each year. Current estimates put the total supply of light crude in the world at approximately one trillion barrels. Sounds like a lot until you find out that the world is presently using up between eighty and ninety billion barrels a year. At the same time, our country is being surpassed, not by one, but by no less than three economic entities that are soon going to have a greater gross domestic product than ours. They are going to require more and more of this finite supply of light crude for their own economic purposes. Their consumption levels are increasing yearly in relation to their manufacturing and the expansion of their consumer economic bases. They are doing everything within their powers to replace the United States as the largest and most important economic power in the world. To do this, they must have access to the same finite supplies of oil we are dependent on. This battle is going on as we speak, and it will continue to go on."

"If the United States would suddenly have to depend upon the oil reserves we own we could count on no more than thirty billion barrels of oil. That's all we have available to pump out of the ground from sites in Alaska, Texas, the Gulf coast, and every other field located on United States soil or in its waters. That's all! Presently our economy requires seven plus billion barrels of oil a year to function. Anything less than that and the hurting starts real fast. That's only four years of oil available in a crunch."

"Right now, sixty percent of the oil we use comes from regions of the world where most of the populations consider us their enemies. Of the four largest providers, two of them may not be around next year: Saudi Arabia, where most of the real terrorists in the world come from who would like nothing more than to overthrow the current regime and cut us off the next day, and Venezuela which has a leftist government that hates the United States and if not for fear of suddenly seeing our destroyers in Caracas' harbor, they would have cut us off long ago. China will buy up everything they have. They don't need us. Of the other two, Canada and Mexico, only Canada is secure. Mexico, due to the bad deal they are getting from the World Trade Organization and the International Monetary Fund that requires Mexico to subscribe to free trade agreements which allows big multi-national corporations to come in and destroy their farming as well as the local economies through unfair trade practices, will be a country populated by starving peasants in another ten years. Millions have lost their jobs or have left the no longer sustainable farming operations already. These peasants will do one of two things: they will start a violent revolution, or they will head north for the U.S. border where we will probably have to position regular Army units to keep them from overrunning our southern states. Either way, it only takes a handful of rebels to disrupt the flow of oil to the United States."

"What do you expect would happen if we lost access to only twenty-five percent of the oil that we need today to keep going? There is a good chance that in certain areas of the country big cities would no longer remain viable. Take Las Vegas and other cities of the desert southwest. They only exist because of the availability of cheap oil that we cannot continue our standard of living without. We live in an economy dependent upon moving people and products over long distances. How will people who live in the suburbs get to work, to school, to medical facilities, to airports, and to half-billion dollar sports arenas? Most of the personal wealth of this country is invested in suburban communities that are totally dependent on cheap oil for their existence. Without cheap oil those communities can't exist, and the people who own the new homes in those new suburban developments will be devastated. The ripple effect would be felt over the entire country immediately. We would experience a depression much worse than the one that occurred in 1929. Society might dissolve into chaos in certain areas and governments may fail altogether, inviting political and religious demagogues to exhort frightened and desperate people to put their trust in them to root out the causes for their despair much like a certain German dictator did in the 1930s. We are not exempt from the lessons of history, but rather they are patiently waiting for future shortsighted generations to forget the lessons of the past so that they may be taught anew."

Once again Sam halted to take a drink of water. Not another person in the bus acted as if they had any intention of saying anything. Allison, for one, hung on to every sentence. She may not have liked what she was hearing, but she still wanted to hear it, good or bad.

"Yes, I believe we're sending our young soldiers into those alien places to die for cheap oil that supports a way of life that is totally dependant upon our access to a resource that is only plentiful in those foreign and hostile places. This is not a decision that can wait five years or ten years. This decision must be made now. Next year may be too late or maybe even six months may be too late. China and India and the European Union can drive to the area if they have to. We, on the other hand, are half a world away, and if we don't create a presence in the area now, we will have to fight our way in later or settle for a much different way of living."

"There is another not so insignificant matter to consider in determining whether we must place our young soldiers in harm's way once more. I will try my best to explain this matter in layman's terms. I am speaking of the present administration's attempts to preserve the United States dollar as the world's official reserve currency. Let me explain. If you have ever wondered what is really keeping our economy afloat, it is the rest of the world's belief in the power of the dollar. Today, other countries use our dollar to transact business across the world. They use the dollar instead of gold. Foreign countries produce products and no matter who they sell them to they receive dollars in exchange. Those dollars are held in their account at the central bank in the United States. Essentially, the rest of the world keeps producing things in exchange for green paper that is backed only by the reputation of the United States as a safe haven for investments. These manufactured dollars are invested in United States Treasury debt obligations to the tune of two billion dollars a day. Much of our way of life has been financed through the creation of these dollars deposited in the central bank. For foreign countries, the most important function of this financial arrangement is its use in helping to buy oil for their own use. If they don't have dollars, they can't buy oil. Since Saudi Arabia and the United States agreed in 1974 that in exchange for arms from us the Saudis would only accept dollars in exchange for their oil, we have maintained dollar hegemony. Henceforth, the dollar became, in essence, the petrodollar."

"Is everyone still with me?" Sam looked around to see if anyone was confused. "Good, then I'll keep going. Things were going pretty smooth with the petrodollar arrangement until the last few years when a couple of things happened. First, the European Union came into existence with every intention of competing with the United States for the benefit of the member countries of Europe. To do that, they had to create a uniform currency called the Euro. As the European Union finds its footing, the Euro is becoming more respected and more popular as an alternative safe haven for countries trading on the world market. They have never been bashful about their intent to one day compete with the United States as the reserve currency of choice."

"Over the years as our deficits and our national debt have increased to such staggering amounts, foreign countries took notice. They are becoming alarmed at this country's unwillingness to curb its excessive spending habits. They have naturally started to wonder if they should be looking at alternatives in selecting a safe place for their money. The Euro is gaining favor as the value of the dollar continues to decline in relation to the value of the Euro, and the European Union is still seeking to have the Euro accepted as the new world reserve currency."

"In 2000, Saddam Hussein began to sell Iraq's oil directly for Euros, and you can imagine how this went down with the present administration. It caused a panic. The United States is addicted to the free money that comes its way by virtue of being the central bank for most of the world's business. Without it, we could not have achieved this high standard of living. By the way, the countries that brokered this deal with Iraq for the European Union were France and Germany. When you listen to them scream at the nerve of the United States for even thinking about attacking Iraq understand that they are not completely disinterested parties. The move by Iraq was a direct threat, but even worse, it set an unacceptable example for the other OPEC members. North Korea and Iran made plans to follow Iraq's lead in converting their dollar reserves for Euros. Immediately, they were labeled the 'Axis of Evil' and centers of terrorism by our government. Iraq had to be stopped. The present administration believes the outcome of this coming war will have an impact on this country's well being towards the end of this century."

"United States domination, which is considered by many in the power elite to be the only way to ensure the American way of life, rests on three things: its overwhelming military superiority, especially on the oceans; its access to the planet's primary sources of remaining fossil fuels; and its control of world economics via the role of the dollar as the world's reserve currency which provides this country with a source of funds we can no longer live without. We are in the painful process of ceding the role as the world's leading manufacturer to China and India as well as other countries, which relegates the United States to the role of the world's banker and policeman. If we lose the job of world banker we are left only with our weapons, which we must certainly then use if we want to retain a place in the world's hierarchy. If my history lessons still serve me, nations and empires that existed only by the force of arms eventually succumbed to the force of arms."

"What I am saying to you is there is no turning back for this country if this way of life is important to us. If this way of life is what we want and expect for our children, we have to have a strong military presence in the Persian Gulf area and beyond, period. We have to reverse Iraq's posture regarding the use of the Euro as opposed to the dollar. If we choose to step back out of the fast lane, it's going to be a big step back, and once you're out of the game you stay out of the game. They're not going to let us back in. Without the oil or the oil money, our military will degrade within a few years to resemble the once mighty Soviet army, which is now only a pathetic shadow of its former self. This is one of those deals where if you can't run with the big dogs, you better stay on the porch. The ramifications of our government's decision will not only affect this generation's way of life significantly but future generations as well. Nothing will ever be the same again! Life as we know it will change dramatically. Now, are the people joining us in the streets of San Francisco aware of the ramifications of our government conceding to the rest of the world's requests? Something tells me they are not."

Allison couldn't speak for the others, but she, for one, needed time to think about what Sam had unloaded on them. She considered herself to be an informed individual and fully expected that there were things going on that the average person knew little or nothing about. But, how could informed people not know things like this? If this was true, how could a government, in good conscience keep this information from the citizens of the country? This concerned her. Meanwhile, she had no idea what her colleagues in the rear were thinking. She expected they were as puzzled as her and were probably waiting for her to take the lead in ferreting out more information from Sam.

"Sam, you have to know what my first question is going to be, don't you?" she asked.

"I do. You are asking yourself, how can people not know this? Why are our leaders not telling us this? Let me give you my theory on this phenomenon. I told you earlier how I thought average people would react if after the fact, the President stood up and admitted that we no longer could expect to have access to the single resource our country depends upon for its existence. They would raise hell and, maybe, try to lynch him. Whoever was left, they would tell them the same fate awaited them if they didn't get busy and get us that damned oil! Assuming that the great majority of Americans have no interest in reducing their standard of living so that other emerging countries could feed upon the fatted calf _,_ we are talking about being proactive and doing something to avert a crisis early on. One way this could be accomplished is by being honest with ourselves and the world. Our President could say something like, 'My fellow citizens, we have a problem. We have allowed our economy to grow obese from consuming most of the world's natural resources over the last fifty years and are now faced with a dilemma. We've used up almost all of our own resources and most of the rest of the world's, also. The raw materials that will permit us to continue at this extravagant pace, which can't go on forever no matter what, are located on the other side of the world and owned by countries that don't like us anyway. Not only that, but now there are several other countries that want to try to live lives of excess just as we do, and they are presently trying to gain control over these essential resources. My advice is to send our military over there and take control before those interlopers get their greedy hands on these resources we have to have to keep living as we are. So what do you say, folks?'"

"As refreshing as it might be, I think we can agree that's not going to happen. That's what conquerors waving SPQR banners did a long time ago, and I don't think the rest of the civilized world will allow that to happen again without a squabble. Maybe it could be accomplished another way. Maybe we could use the huge military apparatus we still have to go around the world quelling uprisings, destroying terrorist organizations, and securing democracy for people who haven't the slightest idea what the word democracy means -- cultures whose social habits are still deeply rooted in tribal laws and traditions established a thousand years ago. These cultures, we believe, should be given the opportunity to assimilate the wisdom of the west in relation to political freedoms, civil rights, religious ecumenicism, and free market capitalism. If these good deeds are done for the greater part in places where there happen to be vast stores of the diminishing natural resources our country needs to survive, well so much the better. We won't steal these resources from the countries we save as the great warrior nations of the past did. No, we will buy these resources at a fair price. So, everyone is happy. We rescue an oil rich country and set them on the course of modernization, and then we pledge to protect and support this fledgling society by buying their natural resources and keeping our military in the area for their protection, of course. Now who can argue against that?"

"The final part of my answer deals with your growing curiosity as to why this information has not been reported in depth on national television, radio, or in the papers? On all levels, these industries are now controlled by large corporations who have a vested interest in making their corporate officers and the major stockholders lots of money. They direct what and how the media, through ten and twenty second sound bites, provides most of the news people get in this country. They are not seeking to be illuminators; they are seeking profits. Studies show that viewers display scant interest for in-depth reporting or the examination of serious economic issues. Most viewers leave their sets at the end of the day believing they know all they need to know about the day's events. It's been said that, 'Anyone who gets most of their news from television is not well-informed.' Meanwhile, the sale of books, magazines, and newspapers has declined."

"The giant corporations who own the media outlets have an interest in protecting our government's image. These corporations only exist with the consent of the government, and they gain the approval of the FCC by not doing anything to place the government in a bad light. By becoming team players, the media giants have persuaded the government to eliminate laws that prevented corporations from gaining control over entire sectors of the television, radio, and print industry. Where before there were many small owners, now there are only a few big corporate owners. It's about making money, not about making you an informed citizen. At times when you do hear or see someone in the media attacking the government you can believe it's mostly a smoke screen. They go to great lengths to perpetuate the myth of a liberal bias in the media so the citizens will feel that their selfish interests are being preserved from government interference. This helps create a sense of security and deters the people of our country from questioning the government's activities. People believe that if the government were actually doing something wrong the liberally biased media would ferret it out and report the miscreant agency or individual's activities. Reporting to the nation on a regular basis that the bottom is about to fall out of our economy due to our no longer having access to copious amounts of light crude or the free money that comes from being the world's banker has been lost to a competitor does not place our government or the large corporations that depend upon their continued good favor in a good light. The information is available, only you're going to have to depend on other sources which require you to put forth more effort in finding it and in validating this information through corroboration from additional sources. How many people do you know who have the time or the interest to do something like that? One final comment, if you accept my hypothesis regarding these important matters without going out and verifying them from multiple sources, you are doing yourselves a disservice. Be like Socrates in these matters and understand that 'doubt and assumed ignorance is essential to the pursuit of knowledge.'"

~~ Chapter Seventeen

"I expect I should turn the driving responsibility over to one of you guys fairly soon," said Sam, breaking the long silence. "The sign says Winslow is up ahead, and we need to make a pit stop anyway. Any volunteers?"

"I'm ready," said Ernest. "I've been napping on and off for the last few hours, and I feel rested."

"I'm feeling better," added Bobby. "I should be ready to help out pretty soon."

Allison didn't respond, but continued her self-imposed silence following Sam's revelations regarding the real reasons the country was headed for war. At first she was incredulous, but as the information was assimilated, she began to see that his reasoning was not that farfetched. _Then should we even be doing this?_ Did she fit into the category of protestors who Sam vowed would turn around and go back home if they knew what they would have to give up if the country dropped out of the fight for fuel? Another question also came to mind. Is it all or nothing? Can't there be an in between position? Why can't everyone share? She needed to ask more questions before she could form an opinion or even ask herself the hard questions. _Why didn't he mention this on the phone the other night?_ she suddenly thought.

"I have a suggestion," said Allison. "Let's get a couple rooms at one of the cleaner looking motels that are sure to be in abundance at the next major exit and take a few hours to rest and clean up? I, for one, feel pretty raunchy."

The guys looked surprised but also relieved at the opportunity to take a break from the traveling. They seconded the idea without delay. Sam said to leave it to him and began to watch for road signs announcing facilities located at the individual exits.

They pulled into one of the better know chain motel-restaurant complexes located near a Winslow exit. Sam exited the vehicle and said he would take care of getting the rooms and for everyone to sit tight for the moment. No one acted surprised at his offer or attempted to persuade him to do otherwise. Sam was a doer, so why not let him do that which made him happy?

Sam secured the rooms while the other members of the party sat quietly with not a single one of them daring to end the drought relative to discussing their trip or the reasons for them coming along in the first place. Sam's comments had placed a pall over everything. They needed to have a serious discussion regarding, 'what the hell they were doing here,' as Sam put it so eloquently, but not until they had showered and rested.

_It's amazing what a hot bath followed by a short but peaceful sleep on a real bed can do to help a person's disposition,_ thought Allison as she exited her thoroughly messed up room to join the others at the restaurant adjacent to the motel. They had all agreed on a 5 p.m. meeting time. This allowed for a half hour in the individual hot tubs in each suite secured and paid for by Sam and a two and a half hour nap. The only casualty was her '60s dress that needed a washer and dryer before becoming wearable again. Foremost in her mind was the need to resolve the dilemma posed by Sam's unflattering assertion that most of the protestors coming to San Francisco would turn around and go home if they knew the real consequences of the demands they were placing on their political leaders.

Entering the restaurant she felt disappointment at seeing she was the last to arrive. She left the room early in hopes of further diminishing the stereotypical image of persistently tardy females. _Hell with'em_ , she decided. W _ho wants to be so chronographically retentive anyway?_

An outsider may well have concluded that these old friends hadn't seen each other in years based on the loudness of their greetings. They looked refreshed and up to some serious socializing. Without having to say it, Allison knew that this meeting could determine which way the bus turned when they headed back to the interstate. Would they continue west or would they abort and turn back towards home?

Sam made the suggestion that they enjoy their meal prior to entering into any discussions about their journey. The group agreed with his idea.

If judged only by the light conversation and laughter during the meal, it would be hard to argue that weighty decisions awaited the group as soon as the last bite of delicious bread pudding was downed. But finally the time came, and Allison as unofficial group leader introduced the subject as diplomatically as she could.

"Gentlemen, I think it's time we talked about some things relating to our adventure which seems upon review to have gotten started a bit prematurely, at my urging, and prior to my having performed sufficient due diligence. With Sam's comments in mind, I propose we search our consciences and ask ourselves where we really are in relation to making the personal sacrifices that may very well be required if Sam's insightful analysis of the situation is anywhere close to being correct."

"We could go around the table and start with Bobby, but knowing what he has already told us about his being out of touch for the most part the last few years, I think we can agree to spare him this bout of soul searching. So why don't we move on to -"

"Hold it a second, Allison," said Bobby before she could finish her sentence. "I'm thinking I have something I need to say after all. A couple of things you've said on the way here got me to thinking. If you guys don't mind, I would like to put my two cents in, for what it's worth."

All of his friends at the table looked surprised at Bobby's unexpected participation, but they welcomed anything he wanted to say.

"I think we know what's going to happen to me sooner or later once I get back to Oklahoma. I really don't want to live feeling that way any longer. I've told you what would make me want to stay alive; it's getting my family back from Dallas. They are not coming back from Dallas if things stay as they are. I've been told that already. If I want my wife to come home I have to go out and find the guy who went away to war and bring him home again. Not the emotional cripple who finally made it home in '69. Allison, you asked me earlier if you could help me to find some reason to want to live. I've been thinking a lot about that offer, and there might be one thing that would help, if I could get up the nerve to do it. California's where I would have to go. That's the reason I stayed out there so long trying to build up my nerve, but I never could, so I came on home with you guys and tried to forget. But it looks like I never did."

"What is it you need to do?" asked Allison.

"I'll wait to see what's going to happen first," said Bobby. "If we decide not to go on, there's no need to talk about it, is there?"

They could tell by Bobby's attitude that he was done talking for the moment. Allison reluctantly looked over to the person sitting to Bobby's left, Sam.

"Okay troublemaker, you're up," she said playfully.

Sam stared at Bobby as if he meant to demand he finish the rest of his story before they moved on to him. "Well, my friends," said Sam, "all that I can tell you, for sure, is that I am struggling big time. I have not uttered similar words to a living person in the last thirty years. However, if I can't admit to you people that I am a tremendously conflicted person, who can I tell it to? I don't know what to do. I'm here because I'm desperate for answers or some meaning. I feel that my entire life has become a meaningless journey to accumulate money and prestige, and if it keeps up this way, I will probably go down to Bobby's to find his gun and, likewise, put myself out of my misery. Knowing what I know, protesting in the streets of San Francisco appears to be a meaningless and counterproductive activity. Yet, Allison's crazy idea hit me like a breath of fresh air. I'm looking for something, too, and though I'm not sure it's in the streets of San Francisco, I know it's not back in Chicago. I'm with Bobby."

Sam turned his head to the left towards Ernest. Allison understood his signal and turned to face Ernest, also.

No one said anything, but Ernest knew he now held center court. "I'll try to make this as short as possible. Do you folks recall why I went to California originally in '68?" he asked.

Allison did. "You went there to kill white people," she answered.

"Do you recall what I was attempting to do when the professor stalked me in the alley that night in Berkeley?" he asked next.

Again Allison answered. "You were planning to kill a white man," she responded one more time.

"That's correct," Ernest answered. "So it should come as no surprise to you that I have been summoned back to the bay area again for the specific purpose of killing a white man."

All three of the listeners' jaws dropped as he finished his short explanation for going back to California. _This man is one big time unsuccessful white man killing machine_ , thought Allison.

Ernest kept the floor whether he wanted it or not. The confused expressions on the faces of the other three people at the table gave an indication of their total lack of understanding. He had a lot more explaining to do.

"I hoped I wouldn't have to tell you about it, but it seems things have changed from when we first started. You were right about me, Sam. I haven't kept up with the world news in the last several years. I came to the conclusion long ago this area was pretty much a waste of time for the average folks. I decided to concentrate my energy on taking care of what I could where I lived, and I believed that eventually if everybody else would try to do the same, the world and national problems would take care of themselves."

"To tell you the truth, I have never wanted to go back. I didn't leave anything back there. I met more mean and crazy people, present company excepted, of course, during that short period of my life than I have met in the last thirty-four years. When Allison called and told me she was coming I had a good idea what she wanted to do, and I wasn't surprised when she confirmed my suspicions when she arrived. During the week prior to her call, I received two phone calls from a colleague of Professor Putzkammer. He said the professor is in the advanced stages of Amyotrophic Lateral Sclerosis. According to the caller, the professor has nothing left but his mind, and he's ready to end his life, only California has no _Right to Die_ law. It's illegal to help someone die either by euthanasia or assisted suicide. He managed to send word that he wanted me to come out and help him end his pain. I said no the first time, but then they contacted me again and pleaded for me to at least come out and see him before I said no. Right after that Allison called, and I took it as a sign I was supposed to go and see the professor and refuse his request face to face. He did, after all, save my life many years ago. I have to keep going, even if I end up hitching rides."

"How old is the professor?" asked Allison. "I don't think I ever knew."

"He's seventy-two," said Ernest. "The guy who called said he was seventy-two."

This shocking news silenced the group as each individual filled their minds with recollections of the strange professor with the long ponytail who risked his own safety to help them so many years ago.

Now it was Allison's turn.

"So," said Allison, "it would seem that I'm the only real protestor on the bus. Is that what I'm hearing?"

No one responded to her statement, but no one looked away either. Allison knew how the game was played -- whoever spoke first lost the high ground in the following discussion, argument, debate, or whatever you wanted to call it. This time her opponents were veterans. They had been to the wars and came back to tell their stories. Their collective stares penetrated right through the hardened exterior shell she had wrapped her mortally wounded spirit in following her return home in '69. Bobby was there; he knew what she was hiding from. Although the other two suspected the worst, they never spoke of it. These guys knew bullshit when they heard it. She had to tell the truth.

"I do care deeply about the dangers that confront our young people," she started out. "I care about their future and happiness, and I will go to the streets in San Francisco if I resolve it will serve their best interest. I will do that gladly at the risk of my personal safety. I do want something else, though. Like you, I have an alternative purpose that is vital to my mental well being. I want to look into the eyes of that son-of-a-bitch that raped and beat me that night in that ditch in Berkeley before Bobby knocked him off me and saved my life. I know who he is and where he is. Overtime I cleared away enough of the horror and the hurt to visualize his face and remember where I had seen him before that night. I want to look him in the eye and tell him how he hurt me to my soul. I want him to pay for what he did."

Everyone had had their say and each had voiced their determination to continue the journey. Allison was barely able to contain her relief as she collected herself and added a postscript, "Though our side roads may now be wide roads, the Dandelions are still heading west."

~~ Chapter Eighteen

"What was it you said back there?" inquired Ernest as he guided the VW bus west along the interstate highway. 'The Dandelions are still heading west?' Sort of has a nice sound to it, doesn't it?"

"I like it, too," replied Bobby from his co-pilot seat."

"Bobby, do you still want to stop by the meteor crater?" asked Sam. "If you do, it's only a few more miles ahead." Bobby had gone on about not stopping to see the big hole the last time they came through.

"I don't think I need to do that," answered Bobby.

"I don't understand. You were so disappointed not to have seen it the last time. What happened?" asked Sam.

Allison listened in on the conversation eager to see if this refusal was an indication of Bobby's regressing into his earlier suicidal state of mind. She remembered the fuss he made about not getting to see the crater.

"I thought about it and it no longer seems to be such a good idea," was the response.

Ernest jumped in. "It won't be a problem this time, Bobby, I assure you. We want you to see the crater."

"Really, it's no big deal any longer," Bobby replied with conviction.

Now Allison showed her concern. "Please, Bobby, we want you to do this."

Bobby frowned. "Did any of you happen to pick up any of the brochures and look at them back at the restaurant checkout counter? If you did you would know that they want to charge people more than the cost of a decent work shirt to get inside the place. I'm not going to pay that kind of money to get in there."

"Hey man, money's no problem," offered Sam to no one's surprise.

Bobby leaned forward looking puzzled as to why his friends did not understand his position. "Look up ahead on the skyline and tell me what you see," he said as he raised his head and looked through the windshield. His friends did as requested and scanned the horizon.

"Now, tell me what you see," said Bobby.

"I don't see anything special," responded Sam, again to no one's surprise.

"I see a beautiful sunset," said Allison with a smile.

"I see a big mountain over there," added Ernest.

"Good," said Bobby. "How much would you guys pay to see that sunset, or how much would you pay to see that mountain over there?"

"Nothing," all three of them said in unison.

"You aren't willing to pay a cent to see a sunset that's coming from almost a hundred million miles away or a mountain that's thirteen thousand feet high, and yet, you seem surprised that I don't want to pay a significant amount of money to see a hole in the ground that's only several hundred feet deep. Seems like you guys ought to be the ones going broke instead of me. Go figure."

Allison spoke first. "Bobby, you have wonderful insight. I've never looked at it from that particular perspective, but you are right. We seem to ascribe value to something in relation to someone else's ability to keep us away from it. The only monetary value it has is because they can keep people from getting to it. All along the route there are signs telling us to stop and see something someone has put behind a fence or covered with a building. It may have been there for a million years but now they've been given the right to erect a barrier, and then they charge you for seeing something nature created. It seems kind of stupid now that I think about it. Wonder why we let them do that? It's one thing to build something with your own money and energy and charge to see it, but simply fencing off one of nature's creations and demanding a fee makes no sense."

Allison appeared transformed. "To think that we go along every day taking for granted the wonders all around us only to jump in a car and head out to see a two-hundred year old tree someone's enclosed behind a fence in a back pasture or some fossilized bones they found down by the creek. There ought to be laws against that kind of activity!"

"Well, actually," said Bobby, "I just thought they charged too much."

Sam started to giggle. Then Ernest started to snicker. Eventually, Allison gave in and began to shake her head from side to side indicating she should have known better _._

"Bobby, thank you," she said. "In the future I'll try not to complicate everything. If I could spend more time around you it would help. Sometimes it is just the fact they want too damn much money! As for you other two goofs, I don't want to hear a word, especially you, Ernest. I saw how nasty you were to that lady who came up and wanted your autograph. How could you be so rude?"

"I am so tired of white people coming up to me and asking if I'm James Earl Jones! You get portly black guys together, smiling and wearing eyeglasses, and they begin to wonder which one is James Earl Jones. As far as I can tell, white people think all black men resemble one of three people: James Earl Jones, Denzel Washington, or Samuel L. Jackson. It wouldn't be so bad if every once in awhile they would mistake me for Denzel."

The entire bus erupted in laughter. The frank discussion back at the restaurant had taken the burden off of the shoulders of the expedition's members. They still had good reasons for going to San Francisco.

Sam used the opportunity to clarify one small matter left unresolved during their recent discussions. "Hey, Bobby, when are you going to get around to telling us about why it's necessary for you to go back to California? The rest of us have laid our cards on the table. That leaves only you as the mystery traveler."

Allison turned to Sam displaying her annoyance at his blunt challenge to Bobby to fess up. She didn't want to push Bobby. Allison felt he was not out of the danger zone yet.

"Bobby, don't listen to -" she started.

"No, Sam's right. I owe you an explanation," interrupted Bobby. "I might as well tell you what happened. I'm pretty certain as to what I need to do, so it wouldn't hurt to get a feel as to what you guys think."

The stage belonged to Bobby until he finished his story.

"I don't know if you guys were aware of it but I served more than one tour in 'Nam. I was halfway through with my second tour when I got hit and was evacuated. I spent several months in a hospital at Oakland Army Base. By the time they put me back together my second tour was almost over, plus I still carried shrapnel they would have to take out later. Anyway, they thanked me for my time and said they would let me know if the fact that my left arm no longer functioned like it was supposed to would earn me any kind of a medical disability. That was in February '69. I was supposed to check in with a VA Hospital in Oklahoma City once I got home. I didn't."

"I wandered around the bay area for a few months and slept wherever I could find a place in the parks, around the Haight area, or with some of the head cases who crashed in old buildings. They had given me several months of pay when I left the hospital, so sometimes I even got a room and cleaned up. Mostly, I wandered around and drank and smoked grass. I couldn't go home because I didn't want sympathy or thanks. They didn't know what it was like over there or why this country was letting its young men be killed by the hundreds each week. All they knew was those commies will be coming here if we don't stop them over there. I actually believed that horseshit during part of my first tour, but by the time I got around to re-upping for a second tour, I pretty much knew the truth. We were in the middle of a civil war, and people who lived in grass huts and ate rice and carried their belongings on their backs weren't going to be deterred by B-52's dropping five hundred pound bombs from 35,000 feet into the middle of their muddy fields. Whoever came up with the plan to bomb them back to the Stone Ages would have known if they went there that most of those people had never left the Stone Age."

Allison had to know, "Why did you go back a second time?"

"I had stayed alive and knew things that could help new guys stay alive. With guys rotating out and guys getting wounded and the officers staying in the field only six months, some of the new guys didn't stand a chance. The non-commissioned officer cadre had been decimated, and many of the draftees they were getting in had bad attitudes from day one. When you put that with an officer who only wanted to get his ticket punched and get the back to the rear and a desk job as soon as possible, it's amazing anyone lived. I wasn't a military genius, but I knew some things that could help keep a grunt alive when the shit started going bad. Another reason was because everyone knew the war was coming to an end. Nixon promised to bring the troops home, and who wanted to see guys get killed in a cause that was finished. The primary objective of every grunt with a brain was to stay alive. That didn't mean they wouldn't fight. It simply meant if it wasn't necessary then don't go out looking for trouble."

"When I got back to the Nam from leave in April of '68 I was almost glad not to be in the states with all the crap going on. Martin Luther's assassination, the President choosing not to run again, riots in the streets, and protestors everywhere was too much."

"My plan worked fairly well until we got a new commanding officer who wanted all the glory he could get before he had to rotate back to the world and spend the next fifteen years behind a desk somewhere waiting for the next war. Headquarters told him there was a large cache of weapons within our area of operations, and that's all the reason this lifer needed to send our armored cavalry unit firing out into the boonies looking for anything we could find. He would, of course, be standing by on station in his command chopper to come in if we, in fact, found anything worthy of having his picture taken."

"I commanded one of the APCs, and we had been in the area a number of times but never down this particular road before. We were nervous right from the start. After only a few klicks, the bush got real heavy and everything slowed down to a crawl. That's when the crap began. RPGs started coming at us from everywhere. We were third in line so we weren't the first targets. The first hit we received didn't penetrate, but it sure made a lot of noise. I swung my fifty-caliber to the right and started firing in the direction the RPGs were coming from. We had no maneuvering room and with the lead tracks knocked out all we could do was stand and fight. After the Sheridans behind us started opening up with canister rounds filled with fleshetts and the other fifties started banging away at the tree lines, I felt maybe we had a chance. But right then, an RPG hit us broadside and took out everybody except me and the driver, PFC Rodrigo Luis Mendoza. Shrapnel tore up my arm pretty bad, and I couldn't use it. The entire rear of the APC was on fire from the hydraulic fluids. I kept trying to pull myself out but every time I got part way out a gook machine gunner would open up on me forcing me back inside. This kept going on with me trying to get out and falling back inside to get burned again. I didn't know what to do. If I stayed inside I would burn to death, and if I went through the hatch I'm dead from the VC machine gunner. Meanwhile, Mendoza had bailed out through the driver's hatch. I could hear him firing his M-16 and yelling for me to get out. I was about ready to pass out and didn't think I could pull myself up through the hatch with one arm so I figured I'm a dead man for sure. All of a sudden, Mendoza is back inside the track and he's picking me up. He pushes me up through the hatch and I fall over the side, away from the line of fire. I waited for Mendoza to hit the ground beside me so we could crawl off before the track exploded, and then I hear the fifty-caliber start firing again. That crazy Mendoza is standing at my position behind the fifty firing at the machine gunner in the tree line. I screamed for him to get the hell out of there before it exploded, but he couldn't hear me above the noise. The last thing I remember is Mendoza falling to the ground beside me. He was hit but he smiled and told me he got the gook first. Soon after that I lost consciousness. I woke up in a field hospital. When I asked about Mendoza no one could tell me anything. Weeks later after I was back in the states in a hospital, I found out Mendoza died lying there beside me. He saved my life."

Allison could see how such a horrific event could scar an individual, but something was missing. Bobby's sorrow at the great sacrifice his fellow soldier made on his behalf on that fateful day so long ago seemed perfectly normal and appropriate to her even if it had gone on for a long time. What else was there left for him to do? There had to be more to the story.

"Later, when they got around to putting together a report of the action, somebody got it backwards about what happened during the fight. They thought it was me that went back into the APC to save Mendoza's life and that it was me who stood in the burning track and fired the fifty until the gook machine gunner was taken out. They gave me a Silver Star Medal for bravery instead of him. I tried to tell them they were wrong, that it was Rodrigo who saved my life. They wouldn't listen. The official report said differently, and I was told to go on with my life, go to college or something. The war was over for me. I had survived, just be grateful for that."

"I tried to get up the courage to go see his family to tell them the truth about their son. Even after I got home I thought about it, but each year it became harder. His family lived in a small town in southern California, out in the desert. I never got the nerve to do it. The kid saved my life, and I owe this to him, and to his family, even if it's only a relative that's left alive. Someone in that family has to be told the truth. I don't know that doing this will change my life, but I'm certain this is the place to start."

"What's the name of the town?" asked Allison as she reached for her map.

The sound of Allison's voice surprised Bobby who sat transfixed after concluding his story. "Uh, it's a town called Rosamond, close to the Mojave Desert. I remember Rodrigo telling me that."

"Here it is!" yelled Allison. "We're going to go right by the place. It's only fifteen miles off our route. I vote for that being our first stop, if it's okay with Bobby?"

Bobby thought about it before answering. "If I'm ever going to do this it's going to be with the help of you guys. I do want to stop there."

~~ Chapter Nineteen

"Did we pass by the crater?" asked Ernest. "What time is it? I must have spaced out. Why aren't you guys talking? You want me to drive this vehicle into that volcano Sam talked about a while ago? Someone needs to help keep me awake."

"It was over an hour ago," responded Sam from the back, "and to do that you would have to climb about five thousand feet straight up to the edge, so I wouldn't worry too much about that. Since we passed by the crater a long time ago, you don't have to worry about that one either. I do have the time. It's just after 8:30 p.m. By my best guess, after looking at Allison's road atlas, I figure our next landfall for gas and a pit stop should be somewhere around Needles, California. That should be in another three and a half hours, unless you think you can get away with driving even slower on this interstate highway."

"I'm pacing myself," responded Ernest in defiance.

"Yeah, well at the rate we're going we may not get there before they send the troops off, but we'll surely be there when they bring them home in a year or two." Sam laughed at his own wit. "I would hate to have to come to you in a medical emergency. I can visualize it now. 'Good afternoon Mr. McCarthy, what seems to be the problem? You say you've taken your new nuclear powered super-duper cordless drill and drilled a three-quarter inch hole completely through your head. Would that be the hole there where you have fingers plugging both sides of your head? Well, how can I help you with this small problem today? By the way, could I have my nurse offer you a tasty pickled pig's foot while we discuss the situation? No? Well then, could I offer you a jug of pure animal fat to take along home for use on those occasions when the wife tries to slip in some of that insidious lean cuisine on you? What? You say you're about to become unconscious. Well, of course you know there are different levels of consciousness and ...hello, hello.'"

Allison laughed out loud, and so did Bobby. Ernest did not.

"You know what?" said Ernest. "If we do end up in the middle of some protest that turns violent, and one of those nice men with the baseball bat sized clubs whacks you up beside the head again, don't bother looking around for me because I'm going to have one of my disposable cameras out taking pictures for my upcoming documentary called, 'The real legacy of the '60s – Why really dumb white men always forget this is exactly the same thing that happened to them the last time.'"

Allison and Bobby were thoroughly enjoying the verbal jousting of the two old friends.

"What are you two guys laughing at?" asked Sam as he caught sight of Allison and Bobby enjoying the side show.

"I'm only partly laughing at you two nuts. Something else occurred to me as you started in on Ernest about his slow driving." said Allison.

"Oh, really? Well, maybe you wouldn't mind sharing this moment of jocularity with the rest of us," said Sam.

"I was thinking about something one of my co-workers said to me sometime back during one of the many periods of economic uncertainty relating to our annual budgeting hearings. She asked me one day if I knew how to make God laugh. I said I didn't have the slightest idea. She said if you want to make God laugh, create a plan. When I think about it, it's so true. We mere mortals spend so much time and effort making these grandiose plans that last about five minutes. It is the rarest of occasions when a plan can be followed to its anticipated or hoped for conclusion. It's really about rolling with the punches and staying light on your feet so you can react to unanticipated occurrences."

"Well, aren't we a beacon of optimism this evening," observed Ernest.

"That's not what I mean," added Allison hurriedly. "I'm just saying that things change from minute to minute at times. Look what's happened on this trip. I had it planned out so clearly in my mind. Right now, its objective barely resembles the clear sense of purpose I had when I left home. Who knows what it will have morphed into by the time we get to wherever the heck we end up. Guess there's no reason to think that the destination won't change also."

"You know, I haven't been to Vegas for a long time. We could stop there and do some protesting. I'm especially keen on protesting blackjack tables. We need some practice anyway. Who's for doing some practice protesting in Vegas?" Sam's good mood didn't surprise Allison since he didn't have to sit there worrying about critical issues and events that awaited the other three upon their arrival in California.

"This vehicle will not be going to Vegas, I assure you," said Allison using a tone of voice that left no room for discussion. "All I'm saying is, I left home thinking about the upcoming war and how angry it made me, and now I'm spending almost all my time thinking about what I'm going to do to that SOB who attacked me. I'm hoping I haven't used the threat of a war to serve my own selfish purpose. What happened to me is in the past while the prospect of dying is very real to thousands of our young people today."

"Why didn't you go to the police that night and tell them what happened?" asked Sam.

Allison looked over at Sam puzzled by his question. "Why didn't you go to the police that same night? If my memory is correct, they beat you within an inch of your life, too."
"It was the police who beat me," responded Sam, likewise showing surprise at the question. "They would have probably taken me out back and finished the job. My name was on the list of SDS radicals they were on the look out for."

"Well, who do you think attacked me? It was one of the cowboy governor's soldiers, that's who! Do you think they would have cared, especially since all day long, uniformed public officials walked up and down the streets shooting at any humans that moved? Plus, Bobby didn't leave the guy smiling and waving goodbye as he carried me away. He told me he thought he may have killed him when he him hit him with the iron bar he found on the street. They would have put us both in jail forever."

"Yeah, you're right. They would have put you both in jail for a long time. Guess that means technically we're a bunch of fugitives," said Sam.

"Hey, I'm not a fugitive. I never hurt anyone," interrupted Ernest.

"Through no fault of your own," replied Allison, disbelief apparent in her tone. "The whole thing's amazing when you think about it. You're out there on the street with a gun, intent upon shooting all the white people in the world and nothing happens to you. Sam and I, both unarmed and of no danger to anyone, are beaten to within an inch of our lives by the people who are supposed to protect the citizens of this country."

Ernest replied, "What can I say? I guess no one wants to beat up James Earl Jones."

"What's your plan when we get there? In what order are we going to approach things?" interrupted Sam.

"What do you mean?" asked Allison.

"I mean who or what goes first? I know we're going to make a stop for Bobby before we reach San Francisco, but then what? Do we go to the streets and start protesting? Do we hook up with some organized groups? When does Ernest go see the professor? When do you confront the scumbag who attacked you? Do we do these things together? Do you want to go alone? That kind of stuff," said Sam as he sat back waiting for answers.

Allison hadn't thought about the logistical part of their venture. Meanwhile, Ernest made a suggestion.

"The professor still lives at the same house in Berkeley, and I'll have the use of the rear garage apartment while I'm in town if I want it. I suggest we stay there. It has two bedrooms, a full kitchen, a living room, plus a tub and a shower. I'm sure the professor will want to see all of you as well. You must remember the place, Allison. You stayed there in your bus for awhile."

Allison shuddered as memories of the place suddenly flooded her consciousness. How would she react to being in those surroundings again and so close to where the attack took place?

"That would be a good idea," she forced herself to say. "Let's do that. That okay with you, Sam? Bobby?"

Both Sam and Bobby readily consented.

"Easy enough," said Allison. "While we're there I hope there is something we can do for the professor other than breaking the law to help him die. I hate the thought of that wonderful man suffering. I am at a complete loss with this. If he lives, he suffers. If someone helps him die, they can go to jail. I've thought about it myself over the years, and I know I don't want to lie around bringing pain and suffering to my loved ones as well as to myself. I realize the fears opponents of assisted suicide are faced with about institutions and families using this as a method to get rid of sick, bedridden patients. I've been around long enough to know that well-intended laws can and will be abused by some people. But, in the end, I believe the right of a person to die in dignity supersedes those fears. Making people suffer the pain and the indignity of becoming a vegetable right before the eyes of their loved ones causes me to line up on the side of those people who support legalizing assisted suicide."

"Well spoken," said Sam.

"I wouldn't want to become a vegetable either," said Bobby.

"It goes against the Hippocratic Oath I swore to uphold," pleaded Ernest. "I don't see how I can do anything to help him under the circumstances, but I guess I understand why his friends would call me."

"If you're not going to do anything why would it help them to talk to you?" asked Sam.

"I don't know how much the professor can do to help out in any attempt to end his life. Is he capable of any movement? I don't know. One thing I'm sure of though, they don't want to mess it up. If they try something without knowing what they are doing, they may only end up putting the professor in a coma where he could live for years while unconscious and hooked up to tubes. I'm sure they won't risk doing something like that. To plan and carry out a humane ending to one's existence depends on getting the right information and the right barbiturates, which is not a simple task. I expect they, at least, will want me to tell them how not to mess things up."

"Is that what you intend to do? Tell them how to do it right?" Again it was Sam asking the question.

Ernest made no indication that he was prepared to answer the question as the other three people in the bus waited eagerly for his reply. Only after lengthy deliberation did he offer a weak response.

"I don't know," he said almost inaudibly. "I really don't know."

Allison sensed they had pushed Ernest far enough on this subject for the moment, so she attempted to change directions. No matter what order they decided on to take care of their business in San Francisco, they needed to concentrate on Bobby first. Even as slowly as Ernest drove, they would arrive in Rodrigo Mendoza's hometown before daylight. Realizing this, an idea occurred to her.

"Bobby, do you know Mr. Mendoza's full name?" asked Allison.

Bobby was again caught off guard. "Yeah, his name was Rodrigo, also. PFC Mendoza talked about him all the time. He ran his own garage and had a big tow truck that Rodrigo loved to drive in the summer when school was out. That's what he planned to do, go back home and work with his dad at the garage. When his dad retired it would be his. He had his life planned out as soon as he got back home."

"I'll try to get a number for him from information with my cell phone. That way, you can call him and let him know you're coming."

"No!" said Bobby hurriedly. "I can't do that. I have to see him face to face. I can't do it any other way."

"Okay... well, how about me at least finding out if there is still a Rodrigo Mendoza there?"

"That'll be all right, I guess," answered Bobby.

"That reminds me," interrupted Sam as Allison began to hunt for her cell phone. "It occurred to me that I may want to make time to visit with a certain individual myself as we get on down the road. I can't say that I have wasted time worrying about the pain this person produced in my life during the brief meeting we had a long time ago or that it is as important as the reasons for making this trip that each of you cited, but I would sure enjoy the opportunity of meeting up with him again if it could be arranged."

Allison did not hear what Sam said in her effort to put a street address with the Mendoza name.

"What are you talking about? Did somebody else take a stick to you before we got run out of California in '69?" asked Ernest.

"Metaphorically speaking, I guess you can say that," replied Sam. "When the deputies beat me in Berkeley it was about the physical pain they inflicted. The next cop that assaulted me didn't lay a hand on me, but still he inflicted pain. I felt humiliated that night."

"The cop in the pickup truck that stopped us outside of Needles is who you mean, isn't it?" asked Bobby. "I remember that; I wanted to kill the bastard, but Allison held me back. He shouldn't have done that to you, Sam."

"Alright....alright, now I remember! When we left the diner in Needles, he followed the bus out of town and made us pull off the highway onto a deserted road. I remember it now," said Ernest.

"Do you remember what he did?" Sam asked.

"What are you guys jabbering about now?" asked Allison as she finished with her calls.

"Sam's talking about the county cop who stopped us outside Needles," Bobby informed her.

"Oh, crud! I hoped you would forget that. I felt so sorry for what he made you do. Bobby was so mad he wanted to jump him. I had to hold him back." Allison said.

"Don't get me wrong, I haven't wasted a lot of time over the years worrying about something a moron who was obviously unfit to be a police officer did to me a long time ago. What he did hardly makes it to the list of things that people have done to me that really pissed me off. All I'm saying is I would like to meet up with that guy again in the light of day. Do any of you remember his name?" Sam waited but no one answered.

"His name is Curtis Johnson, Deputy Sheriff Curtis Johnson. I remember the big black nametag he wore on that foul smelling, sweat-stained white shirt that hadn't seen a laundry in its entire existence. He had a fat white belly that bulged out between the shirt buttons and hung over the holster belt covering everything but that big pistol he kept his hand resting on the entire time he had me stand there naked in front of his pickup's headlights that night. He laughed at me through those nasty tobacco chewing stained teeth and kept calling me boy and telling me I sure didn't look so cool standing there without my _britches_ and my _fancy hippy_ leather coat that lay on the ground in front of me."

"It's what he did next that was so mean and uncalled for," said Allison. "I stood outside the bus holding on to Bobby and Ernest's wrists so tight I expected my fingernails drew blood thinking I should let go and let them both jump on that sick bastard, knowing full well they would put us in jail forever if I did. To this day, I don't know how I managed to retain control and hold on to you guys so tightly."

"It wasn't right what he did," repeated Bobby.

"It truly wasn't," said Ernest in a low deliberate voice. "It truly wasn't."

"He told me to urinate on my leather coat or else he was going to take me to jail and run a background check to see if any _hippy_ _boys_ displaying _numrus_ _cuts_ on their _pussy_ _whooped_ _faces_ was wanted for questioning by any other jurisdictions in the state," Sam recounted with only the slightest hint of bitterness.

"Man, I was so happy to get out of that state," said Allison to no one in particular while staring out into the darkness.

"That wasn't right," repeated Bobby.

"It truly wasn't," repeated Ernest.

"Maybe we'll find the time to stop in to see how things are going with Deputy Johnson," observed Sam.

~~ Chapter Twenty

"Wow! The new interstate route saved us about a hundred miles," announced Bobby as he scanned Allison's road atlas under the faint illumination provided by the dome light. "Plus, we missed having to go through those little dried up, shit-hole desert towns. Another hour and Sam will be able to find out what happened to his old friend, Deputy Johnson."

Sam didn't respond to this unexpected outburst, but Allison did.

"Thank you, Bobby, for your colorful comments regarding our altered itinerary, but I beg to differ with your analysis. Sam, aren't you going to speak up here and repeat your insightful side roads metaphor? You said something to the extent that real life happens on the side roads and not on the superfast, super highways."g

Sam thought about what Allison said. "No, I think Bobby pretty much nailed it. I can't think of anything to add."

"What?" exclaimed Allison rising up to confront him. "Do you not remember anything you say? If you don't, then I have a suggestion for you in relation to your finding some purpose in life. Take a moment and recall only a few of the insightful statements that you have offered to others over the years during their times of uncertainty and then apply them to your own life. If you would, you might be surprised at how quickly so many of your self-created problems disappear."

"You're starting to get that high pitch in your voice again, Allison," said Sam. "You know how much you hate it, so why don't you calm down and we can talk intelligently about your problem?"

"My problem," screeched Allison. "How is it my problem? You wander through life blithely spouting these wonderful and insightful maxims, and then you forget about them. All I'm saying is start listening to what you say sometimes."

A smile formed on Sam's face that Allison recognized all too well. He did that when he felt real smug and sure of himself. It had not been her intention to inflate his already monstrous ego. She merely wanted to make him aware of a very odd inconsistency regarding his heightened sense of self and his apparent lack of self-worth. To most people this would appear as a contradiction, but to Sam, who lived on an elevated intellectual plane, such a thought would never occur to him. She needed to put him in his place and fast.

"Sam, do you know why Washington, D.C. has the most lawyers and New Jersey the most toxic waste sites?" asked Allison using her most charming voice.

"Okay, okay, don't start with the lawyer jokes."

Allison ignored his plea. "It's because New Jersey had first pick."

Both Ernest and Bobby joined in the ensuing laughter.

"Do you know why sharks won't attack lawyers?" asked Ernest as he quickly followed up on the same theme.

Sam saw where this was going so he sat back to wait out the assault.

"No, I don't," answered Allison feigning sincere interest.

"Professional courtesy," answered Ernest prior to his starting to cackle.

"What's the difference between a dead dog in the road and a dead lawyer in the road?" asked Bobby as he got in on the action.

"What?" pleaded Ernest, obviously enjoying the game.

"There are skid marks in front of the dog," said Bobby as Ernest began to howl.

Sam displayed signs of weakening under the sustained assault.

Allison decided to get in one more broadside before she quit. "What can a goose do, a duck can't, and a lawyer should?" asked Allison as all three men pondered the weighty question. "Stick his bill up his ass," screeched Allison as Bobby and Ernest joined her in unrestrained laughter.

Sam's face displayed a pained grimace as this last shot hit him straight on. The dreadnaught S.S. Sam's Pridefulness listed precariously. One more broadside and it went to the bottom. Allison considered Sam's fate as her trusty crew awaited her signal. Sam looked thoroughly beaten. She had done her job well, maybe too well.

"Don't tell me a few lawyer jokes are going to get you down?" asked Allison as Sam's face grew longer by the second. "You know we don't mean anything by the kidding. We know you're a fine lawyer. You're not one of those cretins who hover around the detritus of unfortunate people's lives. Come on, tell me you're not taking this seriously."

"I am so sick of lawyer jokes. I hate lawyer jokes!" answered Sam. "God knows that in many cases the bad reputations are deserved, but you know the legal profession has to recruit from the human race. Most of the lawyers who dishonor the profession came into the profession as liars and crooks. The legal profession just made it easier for them. It's more a case of crooks becoming lawyers, than lawyers becoming crooks."

"Another thing, the relationship is purely symbiotic. It's a case of different entities providing assistance, sustenance, and purpose to one another. Lawyers exist for the greater part because of our shortcomings as human beings. It starts with some individual or group of individuals deciding to not play fair. If humans simply went about their lives caring as much for their fellowman as themselves, there would rarely be a need for lawyers. But they don't. Humans are, for the most part, selfish and self-centered, including most of those so-called religious people I've encountered. I haven't met ten people whom I would consider to be completely honest in my entire life and that includes ministers, doctors, policemen, scout leaders, you name it."

"Nevertheless, we lawyers do deserve much of the anger and the condemnation that comes our direction on a regular basis. We can rationalize all we want, but we are part of the problem when we should be part of the solution. Instead of feeding on the carrion of society's transgressions, we could be using our good offices to do whatever we can to eliminate injustice instead of profiting from it. It's with these thoughts in mind that I am considering abandoning my profession altogether. I don't know what I am going to do, but I can't continue as I am."

"I have a sense that the rest of you see me as just coming along for the ride, and unlike all of you, I don't have some identifiable enemy or a confrontation awaiting my arrival in San Francisco. To tell you the truth, I wish I did. I don't know my enemy. My life is screwed up, and I am lurching at every noise or shadow. Who is my nemesis? Where is he so that I can confront him head on and be done with it one way or another? I, too, want to slay a dragon, even if that dragon is me."

Bobby hung his head, and Allison felt like a complete ass. Ernest, on the other hand, had a different idea.

"Now see what you've gone and done," said Ernest accusingly towards Allison. "Sam, I hope you understand that as a fellow professional I would never under normal circumstances participate in such a sad display of inhospitality as occurred here. I think you know me well enough to trust me when I say to you in all honesty that it's Allison's fault. She's the troublemaker. I'm a peace loving man by nature but when I get around this evil woman something happens to my normally good common sense. I -"

"What?" Allison yelled the word. "Why you old traitor. Rosa Lee warned me that you would probably turn and high tail it at the first confrontation. A fine Black Panther hit man you are. You're even afraid to hurt someone's feelings."

Next, Bobby tried to weasel his way out. "I'm with Ernest. If not for her putting some kind of voodoo on us, I would never have said such a hateful thing. As a matter-of-fact, I love lawyers. I wish we had more of them. Why if I can sober up long enough maybe I'll go to law school myself. That way, if I ever get locked up for drinking again all I have to do is call myself. I'll bet I could save a fortune!"

"My mother was right," said Allison calmly. "There is a hell. I have died and gone there to spend the rest of eternity with you blathering lunatics. I can see it clearly now. I have done something terrible in my life to deserve this, and I'm being punished."

"Damn, have I missed you people," said Sam to everyone's surprise. "Let's not be too hard on the distaff side of our merry group. All three of us members of the truly weaker sex need her to keep us on course. She is our integrity barometer brought forth to help us deterge our denigrated souls. A diplomat she will never be, and that's to our good fortune. Now that I have you feeling so sorry for me, I have only one request."

Allison smelled a rat and frowned as she awaited more information.

"My only request, before I sink any further into this foul ocean of self-pity I have surrounded myself with, is to be allowed the pleasure of reacquainting myself one last time with the community that my very good friend Deputy Johnson, hopefully, still calls home." Even in the dim light of the poorly lighted bus, Allison could detect an underlying sinister tone to Sam's pathetically mournful request.

"We're not more than twenty minutes away," offered Bobby, relief apparent in the tone of his voice.

Allison's instincts urged her to attempt to ferret out Sam's devious plan before he got them in trouble, but her recent faux pas dampened her enthusiasm as the group's truth minister. She decided to let the three children with her reveal their juvenile intentions.

"That's the Colorado River we're crossing right now, gang," said Bobby who still held on to the atlas. "We are officially back in California, ten minutes away from Sam's buddy's last known address. What do you want to do first, Sam?"

Without hesitation, Sam responded. "All I need is to get hold of a local phone book wherever we stop for gas. If my old pal is still around, he will be listed, I'm sure."

Not more than ten minutes later Sam exited the service station where they had stopped to refuel. The look on his face told Allison, who made a point to observe Sam's every move, that something was amiss.

"Not in the book," said Sam, his disappointment evident.

"What now?" asked Ernest as he finished topping off the tank.

"What's the good news?" asked Bobby upon returning from his bathroom break carrying a can of tomato juice and a dripping chilidog.

"Sam says he's not in the book," answered Ernest.

"Oh man, I hope that fat piece of shit hasn't gone and died on us already," said Bobby, displaying his disappointment.

Allison winced at Bobby's comments and marveled at his choice of snacks. _So much for worrying about his weak stomach any longer,_ she thought. By tomorrow she expected he would be out foraging for freshly killed meat. _That's okay_ , _just so he stays away from the booze_.

Sam's expression brightened with Bobby's comment. "Let's go ask someone what happened to him," he said as he made a move to gain control of the driver's seat. "Let me drive for awhile," he said over his shoulder as he opened the door and got in behind the wheel.

No one argued with him as they waited for Ernest to return from paying for the gas and purchasing a package of donuts, which Allison saw him stick under his shirt as he stood at the counter. This town belonged to Sam, it owed him one, and excepting the outright murder of another human being, he was free to be the chief architect of any plan to exact revenge.

Without telling anyone his destination, Sam guided their vehicle on to the community's main street towards the center of town. Sam obviously had something in mind, so everyone waited for him to reveal his hand. Their wait was short-lived.

"There it is," said Sam as he pointed to a well-lighted structure a half block ahead. "The Needles Police Department, just the folks I want to talk to. They are always open for business, twenty-four/seven."

Sam pulled the bus to a smooth stop in front of the main entrance to the building and turned off the engine.

"This shouldn't take long," said Sam as he promptly exited the bus and headed for the entrance. The street was quiet and empty as Sam disappeared inside the building. The rest of the Dandelions sat nervously awaiting the outcome of this unexpected occurrence.

"Did anyone look to see if he packed a weapon?" asked Bobby, breaking the silence. "I didn't think he acted that upset. Did you guys think he was upset? He said it wasn't high on his list of things -"

"He doesn't have a gun, Bobby, I'm sure of that," interrupted Allison. "Sam would never resort to that type of behavior. He would get his revenge in another way, one that required using his substantial intellect."

"Good," said Ernest. "Rosa Lee would have my big butt if I get back to Memphis one of these days with a whole bunch of policemen chasing me in the door."

"I hear you, brother," responded Bobby, "especially when we could stop and get us a deer rifle with a scope so we could pop his fat ass from a mile away and be gone."

"Would you two hoodlums be quiet! No one is going to shoot anybody, so let's sit tight until Sam comes back and lets us know what's going on." Allison hadn't intended to interfere but things seemed to be getting out of hand so she had to say something. Sam soon returned through the same doors he entered earlier with a smile on his face. Obviously, he had gotten some good news.

As Sam reclaimed the seat behind the steering wheel, the comments came in bunches.

"I hope that bastard's dead and buried!" offered Bobby, forgoing any pretensions of concern for their prey.

"I hope he's alive," said Ernest. "I want him to know we remember what he did that night and that he's got to pay."

"I just don't want to see any violence happen, that's all," pleaded Allison. "We're better than that. We're better than the likes of him. If we participate in a violent act, we are no better than him, after all."

Sam had yet to say anything as his co-conspirators eagerly awaited any information he had to offer. He showed no sign of apprising them of what he learned inside the station, if anything. Allison waited as long as she could to voice her thoughts.

"Tell us what you found out! Why are you making us suffer? Do I have to go back in there and find out for myself what happened to that man?"

Sam laughed. "If you do go in there, you'll be surprised at what you find. There are two officers in there who are still probably rolling around on the floor laughing. When I asked them for information regarding our friend, they, of course, wanted to know who I was and why I wanted to know. I made up a story about how he had befriended us those many years ago, and we only wanted to pay our respects to him as we passed this way. When they realized I wasn't any kin they told me I must be one crazy son of a bitch because every other person whoever had the great misfortune to meet the guy hated him right off. He was the most detested man in the community and that included his fellow officers. They said no one that wasn't drunk or high on dope could have ever found anything nice to say about the guy. I told them we must have caught the guy on an off day or something, and they agreed with me that that must have been the case. He usually treated hippies and drifters pretty roughly when he caught them coming through town, especially way back then."

"Well, where is the old bastard?" persisted Bobby. "Are we gonna get to pay him back for what he did or not?"

"You got your wish, Bobby," answered Sam. "He's dead and buried for over eight years now. The officers said we passed by the graveyard when we got off the interstate and came into town. Looks like we're too late."

"Well, I hope he died a miserable death then," said Bobby, disappointment evident in his voice.

Once again Sam had a private laugh before the others prodded him to go on with the story.

"According to the officers who had a devil of a time getting the whole story out, he did himself in on his very last day on the job. Seems the sheriff was worried Deputy Johnson might claim prejudicial treatment if he didn't get a retirement dinner like everyone else did. All the officers were forced to meet after work on his last day on the job at a local establishment where the custom was to buy the retiring officer all the beer and Rocky Mountain oysters he could eat and drink."

Sam had to halt his tale one more time to control his snickering before he could continue the story.

"While the sheriff tried as best he could to come up with something good to say about the sick bastard, the honored guest stole the last super-sized mountain oyster off the sheriff's plate and tried to swallow it in one bite. While the sheriff blathered away, Deputy Johnson in his inebriated state choked to death without a single fellow officer making mention of this fact to the speaker. When the sheriff turned to introduce the guest of honor, Deputy Johnson's eyes bugged out, and he landed face first into his side order of brown gravy."

All three males in the VW bus erupted into unrestrained laughter. Allison sat stone faced wondering what the world was coming to when supposedly civilized, educated men could so obviously enjoy such a pathetic story of human depravity. The fact that her fellow passengers caught their breath and calmed down only to start back up in unison with the hooting and shouting caused her additional anguish at the pitiful state of humanity.

Eventually, the weary celebrants settled down and regained their senses, and not a minute too soon as far as Allison was concerned.

Sam looked back to where Allison sat stoically. "I can see that you do not consider this to be one of our finer moments, am I correct?" asked Sam. "Well, let us at least make an attempt to reaffirm your faith in the ultimate goodness of your fellowman by offering to make amends for our actions by making a token gesture of our willingness as fellow human beings to let bygones be bygones. I am sure my two male companions will join me in offering this sign of our condolences over the loss of a fellow traveler, no matter our personal differences in the past. Am I correct men? Will you come with me to pay our last respects to our departed brother?"

"We will," replied Ernest and Bobby in unison.

"Excellent. Then let's stop at that market we passed by on the way here and pick up some flowers to attest to our sincerity." Sam turned the bus around and headed back along the route they traveled into town.

With flowers on board, Sam brought the bus to a halt at the entrance to the graveyard where the officers reported that Deputy Johnson was interred. Asking Allison to wait at the bus in case someone came along and inquired into the purpose of their late night visit, the three males in the group headed out into the cemetery carrying nothing but a pot of flowers and a flashlight Allison kept in the glove box of the bus. Allison waited as instructed, although admittedly a bit nervous at being left alone in the middle of the night at a graveyard, and marveled at the noble gesture her companions were intent upon making to their old nemesis. _Had she judged humanity too severely and too quickly?_ If these guys could forgive what this man did to Sam, anything might be possible.

The group soon returned empty handed except for the light and got back into the bus. Solemnly, they exited the graveyard parking lot with Sam again behind the wheel and returned to the interstate to recommence their journey to San Francisco. Allison had good vibes about what had happened. This was a good sign.

She felt a motherly urge to compliment her rowdy companions on their recent commendable behavior. What she had foreseen as a potential trip-ending situation had, instead, turned out to be something very positive for them all.

"Sam," she began tentatively, "as much as I worried about your inflated sense of self only a short while ago, I must tell you I feel nothing but admiration and pride for the way you conducted yourself back there. I judged too quickly when I should not have judged in the first place. Will you forgive me?"

Allison waited for Sam's response but none was forthcoming. _Perhaps he is still somewhat peeved at my earlier undressing._

"I'm apologizing, Sam. I hope you will accept it so we can move forward," said Allison using her most supplicating tone of voice.

Still, she received no response from Sam, and what's more, she became aware of a peculiar moaning noise coming from Ernest's direction in the front passenger seat. She decided to ignore Ernest for the moment and press the issue with Sam.

"Sam, is something wrong? Why won't you answer me?"

The moaning from Ernest's direction could no longer be ignored.

"Ernest, what in the world is the matter with you? Are you ill? Somebody please talk to me. You all are starting to worry me."

This time Ernest's moaning became an outright laughing attack similar to the incident when they laughed over the news of Deputy Johnson choking on the mountain oyster.

"Okay, that's it. I want to know what's going on here. Sam? Ernest? Bobby? Someone better tell me something fast, and I mean it!"

As she finished her threat, Sam started to laugh as hard as Ernest. _Something terrible has happened_. Sam couldn't possibly answer her as hard as he laughed and that went for Ernest as well. That only left Bobby who oddly enough wasn't laughing. She turned her attention towards Bobby and caught sight of a guy resembling a deer having been caught in an approaching vehicle's headlights.

"Tell me Bobby, what have you done? You can't lie to me, so don't even try. What did these two miscreants make you do back there in the cemetery?"

Bobby didn't hesitate.

"I swear, we were only going to put the flowers on the man's grave, and that's what we did. But then something else happened, and I remembered what you said."

"What are you talking about? What did I say?"

"You said Sam would get his revenge by using his 'substantial intellect,' so when he pulled it out and started pissing on the guy's grave, I figured it would be okay for me to pull out my _substantial intellect_ and do the same thing. Then before you know it, all three of us stood there with our _substantial intellects_ hanging out pissing all over the place. I think you were right because I never felt smarter in my whole life."

Instinctively, the desecrators placed the palms of their hands tightly over their ears in anticipation of Allison screaming bloody hell, and it was a good thing they did because she came very close to busting the windows out of the bus. Allison wasn't a religious person but that didn't mean she didn't believe in a God and from there it was no great stretch to come to the conclusion that if God existed, then _pissing_ on graves would not be considered acceptable behavior under any circumstances. _Men are so stupid_ , she concluded after vocally expressing her complete disgust towards their uncivilized actions. _Life would be so much simpler for everyone if men could learn to keep those things inside their pants._

~~ Chapter Twenty-One

Not by a long shot did Allison forget about her companions' childish behavior in Needles, but she realized they did need to change their focus in preparation for the upcoming stop in Rosamond, California. This stop constituted a critical confrontation for Bobby, and they needed to do everything they could to help him get ready. Barstow had been their exit point from the interstate highway system, and for the next two hours, they traveled a two lane state highway until they arrived at the city where Bobby's fate awaited him.

"Hey, Bobby," said Allison, "I forgot to tell you in all the excitement that I did locate the address for a Mr. Rodrigo Mendoza in Rosamond. I checked a city map back at the Barstow pit stop and found the location. It looks to be close to the downtown area. By my best guess, we will be there by about 5 a.m., or in another two hours. Is there anything we can go over with you to get you prepared for the meeting? Anything at all?"

Allison had taken over the driving chore from Sam at the most recent stop. She awaited Bobby's response, but nothing happened.

"Bobby, did you hear what I -"

Bobby cut her off abruptly. "I don't want to talk about it."

Allison got the message. She decided to let Bobby make the first move when she drove the bus up to the front of the house. Until then, she would not mention the subject again.

"Is today Tuesday or Wednesday?" asked Sam.

"It's officially Wednesday, March 19, 2003. We have less than twenty-one hours until the deadline, the way I figure it," responded Allison.

"Actually," responded Sam, "we probably have less than that if you go by what the President said during his nationally televised speech Monday night. I read in a paper, back at Winslow, that he gave Saddam forty-eight hours to get out of the country, or else. That would make the deadline at 8 p.m. tonight east coast time, not midnight, by my rough calculations."

"What? Why didn't you say something earlier? How much time does that leave us? Let's see, it's after 3 a.m. here which makes it after 6 a.m. on the east coast, so that would give us about fourteen hours to get to San Francisco if we want to be there before the war starts. Damn! We need to hurry."

"Actually, we're doing okay. It's only about three hundred fifty miles from Rosamond to San Francisco. I picked up one more tidbit which will probably make your day even more enjoyable relating to the information the White House put out Tuesday, which further clarifies the President's threat to invade Iraq. They are now saying our troops are going into the country one way or another to make sure we take control of those weapons of mass destruction that no one, except the administration, is sure even exist. With that in mind, I don't know that we have to be in that big of a hurry any more. The war is inevitable, regardless." As Sam finished speaking, he acted as if he halfway expected to see Allison start slinging invectives in the directions of the heavens, but amazingly, nothing happened.

"No, we need to be there if we can," responded Allison in a surprisingly reserved manner. "It's important to have people standing in the streets protesting this invasion. We need to be a part of this process – the government needs to bring the citizens in on the decision making. Even if Sam is right about most of the people being unwilling to live with the consequences of losing access to the oil, we need to be held responsible for our behavior as a country. If the people support the war, they need to demand the right to say when. I don't believe we can hide behind a bunch of unapologetic corporate shills and claim we never knew what was going on. If it's to be our destiny to plunder the earth to ensure that our country can support a lifestyle that is way beyond the ability of the rest of the world to subsidize, then let's at least stand up as a country and admit it."

Sam and Ernest looked to one another following Allison's assessment of the matter and nodded. Perhaps Allison wasn't the only one who wanted the leaders of the country to deal with its citizens in a more forthright manner. If they were going to be imperialists then let them own up to it and be done with it. While we're at it, we might also determine that it serves no purpose to pretend that we are the world's standard bearer for enlightened Christian behavior. The message loses something when the messengers, or their emissaries, are busy slinging five hundred pound bombs into civilian population centers.

"Allison, I have an idea about how we can get to our destination on time if you want to hear it," said Sam.

"I'm listening, go ahead," answered Allison.

"We would have to divert away from the route that we traveled south on in '69, and instead, go on over and pick up Interstate 5 which will take us north quicker. Knowing how you feel about retracing those metaphorically pregnant strips of asphalt we now refer to nostalgically as side roads, I'm almost afraid to suggest it."

"How much time can we save?" asked Allison.

"Oh, maybe an hour or two."

"We should do it then," she said without hesitation. "We'll go the old route the next time."

"What time is it now?" asked Bobby, jumping in.

"It's almost 4 a.m.," answered Allison.

"You think we might be able to stop and get some coffee and maybe a bite to eat before we go to see the Mendozas?" asked Bobby. "I don't think I want to be waking those people up before daylight, plus I usually do better if I have something solid in my stomach. That is, of course, unless I have something liquid in my stomach instead, but seeing how that's kind of what this is about, me not finding it necessary to put liquid confidence in my stomach, food will most likely be the better choice. Don't you think?"

"Food usually works best for me on these occasions," said Ernest in seriousness.

"Absolutely, the food," joined in Sam in all seriousness.

"I'm for the food, too," added Allison. "We could all probably use some sustenance about now. Just hold tight and I'll find a place."

Allison pulled into yet another 24/7 truck stop parking lot on the outskirts of the community where PFC Rodrigo Mendoza said farewell forever to his family and friends in 1968. As she brought the vehicle to a stop she suddenly realized that up until now it had all been rehearsal, but soon, real life altering events loomed before them. From here on, no more trial runs. It counted, and it affected people's lives, some for the better and some, possibly, for the worse.

During their walk to the restaurant Bobby looked to Allison as if he were being led to the electric chair to pay for his past indiscretions with his life. She had a crazy notion that Bobby wanted someone to offer him some assurance. The task before him this morning appeared to be every bit as disconcerting to him as the Vietnam firefights he participated in. It occurred to Allison right then that more caffeine for Bobby would not help matters. She wondered if maybe Ernest had a mild sedative she could slip to Bobby via a glass of milk or in something similarly innocuous.

Once inside, they opted to sit at a table instead of a booth for a change, anything to break up the monotony of eating the same kind of food, in the same kind of restaurants. As she sat down, Allison lost track of where they were. Were they in Oklahoma? New Mexico? No they were in California at another greasy truck stop restaurant where she always ended up being grateful for the order of dry toast and some type of fruit that had not been soaked in grease prior to being offered for consumption. Her companions, of course, thought they were at the Ritz. _Men craved greasy food more than sports or sex,_ Allison decided, after watching her companions consistently wipe up any residue or oily liquids remaining on their plates with anything that appeared marginally edible, while moaning with delight.

Allison decided Ernest was the absolute worst. He consumed so much grease that she came to the conclusion he must have a plug somewhere to let that coagulated goo out of his system occasionally -his blood didn't flow through his veins, it slid. No wonder he moved around so easily as a large person; he floated on grease.

Allison did get Ernest aside long enough to ask if he had any ideas on how to calm Bobby down before they went to visit the Mendozas. He said he had something helpful in his bag in the form of an herbal tea. He agreed that Bobby did not need the caffeine.

By this time, the members of the group cared less what local patrons or truck drivers thought of four middle-aged individuals arriving in a multicolored vehicle straight out of the '60s. Whatever sense of social proprieties they brought with them earlier lay vanquished on the side of the road in the name of field expediency. At this level of existence things begin to sort themselves out into basically two categories: mission essential and who gives a crap. Presently, more and more items found their way into the latter category.

The first item ordered from the typical, way too friendly for this early in the morning waitress was hot water for the tea Ernest retrieved from his bag for Bobby. Bobby agreed to drink the tea, joining Allison in a light breakfast prior to making his visit to the Mendozas' home. Ernest and Sam carried on in the best tradition of their knuckle dragging ancestors and ordered huge platters of the greasiest items on the menu.

Allison watched as Bobby calmed down by degrees. The chamomile tea Ernest provided did the job, and then too, maybe Bobby had come to terms with his mission on his own accord. Everyone enjoyed their respective meals and looked to be in no rush to leave the temporary safety of the roadhouse table piled high with dirty dishes and cups.

Looking through the plate glass front window, Allison observed the sun coming up over a ridgeline to the east announcing the arrival of another sunny day. Although Bobby would be the first in the group to come up to bat, she realized that the reasons they traveled all this distance in such a hurry awaited each of them in the coming hours. No one acted as if they were in a hurry to leave the safety and the comfort of their present surroundings. What harm resulted in lingering awhile longer in the company of good friends?

~~ Chapter Twenty-Two

"Turn left at the light," said Allison as she recognized the name of the cross street from the map she had looked at earlier that morning. "Then get into the right lane and take a right at the second intersection. The house should be somewhere on that block unless I read the map wrong."

Ernest had moved back into the driver's seat for the short trip to the Mendoza home, and he followed her directions to the letter.

"Eight-forty-eight is the house number and it looks as if it's going to be on the left side," continued Allison as she scanned the numbers on the fronts of the older single-family homes populating the neighborhood. "Eight-twenty-four, eight-thirty-six, eight-forty, eight-forty-eight. There it is, pullover."

Ernest did as instructed. Once the bus came to a halt directly opposite the house listed as the residence of Rodrigo Mendoza, every passenger stared intently at the neat, well maintained, one story white bungalow. Probably built sometime in the '40s, it looked to be in perfect condition. The large covered front porch located in the center of the structure provided room for a swing and accompanying wicker chairs. The windows on each side of the porch were flanked by bright green shutters matching the color of the front door. A chain link fence on the side of the house drew the viewer's attention to the landscaped back yard. Whoever lived there took pride in their home's appearance. Possibly, the type of people who raised a son to take pride in all he did, including serving his country's armed forces during a time of war.

Allison remembered her earlier thoughts regarding Bobby speaking up first when they arrived at the Mendoza home, so she waited patiently for him to set things in motion. Bobby needed to take charge. This had to be his show. She and the others merely followed his instructions until the city limits of this community showed up in the rear view mirror.

"You're going in with me, Allison," said Bobby in a tone of voice that left little room for discussion.

"Wha...what?" stammered Allison, taken completely by surprise. "What do you expect me to do in there?"

Bobby turned to Allison sitting in the back and made but a single statement. "You are the last person in the world I would expect to have to explain my reasoning to."

Bobby's words had a sobering effect on Allison. She understood the meaning behind his statement. It was, _I need your help. Don't ask questions. Just get up and come with me._

"You're right, I'm sorry. I'll be right behind you all the way."

Bobby opened the side door and exited the bus as did Allison. For a brief moment they looked at each other as if seeking confirmation to the correctness of their mission. Bobby smiled, took Allison's hand, and walked towards the neatly trimmed sidewalk leading to the front door.

They stood side by side on the front porch with Bobby still clasping Allison's hand in his. The warmth his hand exuded told Allison he had control over his faculties. Nervous people have cold clammy hands. Bobby smiled one last time towards his partner then reached forward and pressed the doorbell. This time Allison tightened her grip in anticipation of what awaited them, but Bobby remained calm. No longer was the source of his fear distant and unknown. Often the anticipation caused more discomfort than the actual confrontation. The anticipation of going into battle was often worse than being in the battle. With one, you think about the possible negative outcomes, while with the actual event you are so busy doing what you have to do to stay alive and accomplish your mission that you don't have time to be afraid. That's how Bobby acted right then.

A woman's voice called out from inside the house as the two of them heard footsteps coming towards the front door. The front door opened to display a smallish woman of Hispanic descent standing before them. Her face appeared both old and young at the same time. Old if you only took into account the silver and black strands of hair pulled tightly into a bun along with skin that showed unmistakable signs of aging, perhaps due to excess exposure to the direct rays of the sun so common in this high desert climate. But if, instead, you fixated on the bright inquisitive eyes that welcomed you and took your full measure, you got an entirely different picture. Allison wondered if this pleasant looking woman who appeared to be in her seventies might not be PFC Mendoza's mother.

"Hola. May I help you?" the elderly woman asked politely.

Bobby smiled and stood up straight. "Good day to you, ma'am. My name is Bobby Owens. Would this be the home of the parents of PFC Rodrigo Mendoza?"

The lady in the doorway placed her hand on her chest as if to see if her heart still beat. "You are my Rodrigo's Sergeant Bobby?" She crossed herself as she awaited Bobby's reply.

Bobby nodded his head in the affirmative.

Once more the lady in the doorway made the sign of the cross, plus this time she bowed her head and mumbled a prayer. She yelled for Mr. Mendoza to hurry to the door. "Our Rodrigo's Sergeant Bobby is here to see us as we were told he would be someday."

Looking past the excited woman standing in the open doorway, Allison made out an individual hurrying from the back of the house in their direction. Only he didn't stop at the door to exchange pleasantries, but instead went through it and embraced Bobby as a long lost relative. Mrs. Mendoza witnessed her husband's disregard for formality and did likewise, clinging to Bobby as if he were her long departed son finally come home from the war. Not another word was exchanged as the three stood together holding on to each other for dear life, crying freely, like the children they once were.

Allison stood to the side witnessing this heart-warming event wondering if she should quietly leave these folks alone to talk. Bobby surely didn't need her imagined help any longer. It seemed safe to assume that he had gotten his foot in the door. She might only be in the way. As she started moving in the direction of the porch steps, she heard Bobby's voice. "Mr. and Mrs. Mendoza, I would like to introduce you to my special friend, Allison. Allison, Mr. and Mrs. Mendoza." Each came to her and embraced her as one of their own and thanked her profusely for coming to see them.

The Mendozas ushered both of them into the living room into comfortable, well-padded chairs. Mrs. Mendoza made no attempt to stop crying as she offered them refreshments. Allison reckoned she had been waiting for over thirty years for this cry, and she couldn't blame her for holding on to it. Mr. Mendoza did try to compose himself so he could engage Bobby in the conversation about his son he had undoubtedly been waiting to have for so long. It took a couple of abortive attempts to begin the conversation before he succeeded.

"We had faith that you would come to us someday when you were ready to tell us about our son. We received an official report from the government many years ago, but we always knew that some day you would come and tell us the whole story. We only pray that these years have not been unkind to you, that you have found some peace in your life." Mr. Mendoza stopped talking to look at Bobby.

"I can see by your expression that this may not have been the case. Our son told us you were a caring man and that you took the loss of any of your men very hard. He told us it was well known that you stayed in that violent place because you cared too much for your fellow soldiers to leave them there without your help. I only hope that your heart has not stayed there, far from your home and your loved ones, all these years. If it has, perhaps we can work together to bring it home. Tell me your story about my son."

Allison saw why Bobby wanted her to stay with him after the introductions. As if they were aware of each other's thoughts, they both reached for the other's hand at the same time. Holding on tightly, Bobby began the story.

"I had a bad feeling about the mission from the start. Everyone knew they were getting ready to announce the end of the war pretty soon. What was the use of killing or getting killed when everybody knew we were going to end up leaving the place within the next year? Just our luck, we had a Pentagon desk jockey who somehow got assigned as our battalion commander and figured he needed some ribbons and medals for his personal file before the fighting stopped."

"There were always rumors of enemy movement and weapons caches in our AO, and the good commanders simply took the information and filed it away for some other day or, hopefully, some other war. The good commanders didn't want to see their men get hurt chasing Charley or even NVA regulars that were reported to be infiltrating into our AO, especially, if we were going to turn around and hand it over to the RVNs anyway. All that talk of Vietnamization was mostly a bunch of bull. Everybody knew the RVNs couldn't do this by themselves. Most of their commanders were crooks, and their men weren't going to give up their lives to see some generals get rich. We knew that when we left, the whole mess wouldn't last more than a couple of years."

Without having been asked, Mrs. Mendoza brought two big glasses of ice water for Bobby and Allison. Bobby took a long drink before he resumed telling his story.

"As I said, I had a bad feeling from the start about the mission, so I told my crew to be sharp and if we got into something heavy to keep their heads down and don't try to be heroes. I told them our main job was to come back alive, period."

Bobby hesitated, and Allison knew why. This is where the official version differed from Bobby's. He was preparing to tell them the truth about how their son died. A couple of times Bobby opened his mouth to begin the story but nothing came out.

Mr. Mendoza spoke then as if he recognized this was the part of the story that had held Bobby captive for all these years.

"Please continue, Sergeant Bobby. You have traveled far, and you have waited many years to tell us what happened to our son."

Bobby told them everything -- about being ambushed, about their track vehicle being hit, about him being trapped inside and afraid he was going to burn to death. Then he told them about the brave young man who saved his life. It was Rodrigo who had come back inside the burning track and pulled him to safety only to return to the track to continue firing the machine gun until he had destroyed the enemy position and how finally, after what seemed an eternity, Rodrigo had fallen by his side mortally wounded.

During the final part of Bobby's story, Mr. and Mrs. Mendoza came together in an embrace as they heard the true story as to how their son conducted himself so heroically on that fateful day so long ago in a faraway place. They didn't know it, but Bobby had more to tell them.

As Bobby commenced speaking once more, the Mendozas watched him reach inside his shirt and take a gold chain necklace from around his neck. Bobby held the necklace before him revealing a single Silver Star Medal hanging from it.

"I only found out about Rodrigo's death sometime later while I was in the hospital recovering from the wounds I received in the ambush. It was a very personal loss for me; I grieved over his death. Your son gave up his life to save mine that day. He didn't have to come back into that burning vehicle. He could have stayed outside and lived and no one would have thought worse of him for it. That's why I want you to accept this Silver Star Medal that they wrongly awarded to me thinking it was me and not your son who went back into the burning track to save a fellow soldier's life. I tried to make them understand that they were wrong, and it was your son who was the hero that day, but they wouldn't listen to me. This medal belongs to your son, not to me. I've worn this around my neck every day for thirty-four years in his memory knowing one day I would come here and tell you about your son's heroism. I'm sorry I didn't have the courage to come sooner."

When Bobby finished his story, Mr. Mendoza arose from his seat, walked over to Bobby, and took him by the arm, motioning for him to come with him into the adjacent room. Bobby did so willingly with Allison following, and as soon as they passed through the doorway, Bobby caught his breath at the sight before him. An entire wall devoted to their son's life appeared, and right in the center of it was a section devoted to his military service. There were numerous medals presented to the family posthumously and photos of Rodrigo in his dress uniform prior to leaving for Vietnam. There were letters from generals, politicians, and the government of the United States expressing their deepest sorrow over the loss of their brave son. Displayed prominently along with the other items was something that caught Bobby's attention, a blown up photo of Rodrigo and a young Bobby posing together wearing their flak jackets and their camouflaged helmets standing alongside a track vehicle. As Allison and Mrs. Mendoza followed behind, Bobby and Rodrigo's proud father stood before the wall looking at the photo of the two young soldiers together.

"With your permission, I will display yours and Rodrigo's Silver Star Medal by hanging it from this day forward on the picture of you together," said Mr. Mendoza with great pride as he turned around to reveal the newest addition to the shrine to Mrs. Mendoza. She, too, beamed with the special pride only a mother can feel.

"There is but one additional wall I hope Rodrigo's mother and I will visit before we die to honor my son and all those other brave soldiers who died along with our son in Vietnam. That wall is in our nation's great capital, Washington, D.C. God willing, we will do that soon, especially now that you have fulfilled our son's promise that someday you would come to see us if he was killed in Vietnam. Our son was a good judge of people. He told us you were an honorable man. He said you were the finest soldier he ever knew, and it was an honor for you to have selected him to drive the armored personnel carrier. You have lightened our burden, Sergeant Owens."

There was no way for the Mendozas to know it, realized Allison, but they had saved a Vietnam veteran's life by their act of kindness. As Allison stood there appreciating this moment, she had no doubt that Bobby would go forward full of renewed purpose to do something good with his life. When this journey ended, Bobby would not be returning to Oklahoma, he would be heading to Dallas, Texas.

"Mr. and Mrs. Mendoza," said Bobby as soon as he could talk, "I, too, plan on making my first trip to our nation's capital to visit the wall for the first time. It would be an honor if you would allow me to make arrangements for us all to make a pilgrimage to that great monument. May I impose upon your company one more time?"

They excitedly agreed to accept Bobby's generous offer, and Allison expected that this particular stop was about to come to a happy conclusion. She erred. Not only did Mr. and Mrs. Mendoza await Bobby's visit for all these years, there was the small matter of at least a hundred nearby relatives who also awaited this day, and with but a single phone call, Mrs. Mendoza let them all know Sergeant Bobby had arrived.

Relatives arrived in droves. Allison bowed to the inevitable and brought Sam and Ernest inside to enjoy the festivities and the tons of food that amazingly materialized from out of nowhere. Nine hours remained to get to San Francisco, but if they didn't make it, maybe those visionaries presently in charge of the country would simply have to start their war without them. Make no mistake, though, they would eventually get to San Francisco, and their voices would be heard.

~~ Chapter Twenty-Three

"Just for my personal curiosity, how many of those chalupas did you eat, Ernest?" asked Allison as he guided the VW bus back over the road they came into town on earlier.

"How do you know that I ate any?" responded Ernest indignantly.

"Because you stood right in front of the food table causing everyone to have to move around you if they wanted to get at what you were treating as your private larder. You can tell me the truth because I'm not about to tell Rosa Lee how terribly you have eaten. The poor lady would have a heart attack if she found out."

Ernest thought about what she said before answering. "The chicken or the beef?"

"Both," she replied.

"Well, let's see now, I expect maybe a half-dozen. I messed up and left the last one on the plate too long and a little old lady with a cane slipped in behind me and beat me to it. You really can't trust old people. I'm learning that more and more. What do you think, Sam? Do you agree that you can't trust old people?"

"Hold on there, Senor Burrito Bandito. We're not finished with my question yet," interjected Allison before Sam could respond. "I have one last thing to say on the entire subject, forever. You are a physician! You know about cholesterol, about the dangers of eating too much fat, about heart problems, about death!"

Everyone waited for Allison to finish. When it became apparent she had finished, Sam answered Ernest's earlier question.

"I'll have to agree with you on that one big guy. Why only last week I sat in a coffee shop and when I got up to get a refill some sneaky old codger swooped in and filched my paper. When I told him I wasn't finished with it, he said I shouldn't have abandoned it because now it belonged to him. I -"

"Ahhhhhhhhhh!" screamed Allison as she grabbed her head as if it were going to explode.

All this time Bobby sat silently in the back seat. His friends knew how cathartic the meeting had been for him. Allison felt more confident about Bobby's attitude. As far as she was concerned, if nothing else on the trip served any useful purpose, Bobby's successful visit with the Mendozas made the whole trip worth it.

Giving up on Ernest, Allison turned towards Bobby. "Bobby, I have a hunch you might be planning a trip to Dallas fairly soon. Am I right?"

His response was less upbeat than she expected. "I expect I might be doing that very thing, if everything works out in San Francisco."

"I don't understand," said Allison. "What does San Francisco have to do with your going to Dallas? You've slain your dragon."

Bobby took his time before replying. "I told my crew that our primary objective that last day and all the previous days in 'Nam was to stay alive so we could go home. I did everything I could to make that happen, but I failed. Today I am part of another mission that holds the possibility of my crew also coming under fire. While there is breath left in my body, I will do all that I can to see that this crew does go home. Only then, will I go to Dallas."

Allison did not doubt Bobby's sincerity.

"What the heck are those things?" asked Ernest as he craned his neck checking out the elevated skyline in front of the bus. For the past several miles their route had taken them upwards towards a pass that permitted entrance into the expansive California San Joaquin Valley, which ran for hundreds of miles from north to south. Much of the produce sold in the supermarkets throughout the country came from this area.

"Those must be the Tehachapi wind turbines. There are thousands of them," answered Sam. "I've done some research on this and if we're smart, we'll be seeing more of this in the near future. This is energy as clean as you can get it. You're actually looking at a power plant here. These wind turbines produce millions of watts of clean, non-polluting electricity. As fossil fuels become scarce, you'll be seeing more of this. The capitalization cost of creating energy centers such as this are still greater in the short term than the cost of generating the environmentally destructive stuff we are hooked on now, but as I said, things are changing. You are looking at the future, if we are lucky enough to get there."

They ascended the pass and headed down the other side. Everyone gazed out at the surrounding hills covered with the giant energy producing wind machines. Sights such as this gave Allison hope that all was not lost for future generations. In some places, intelligent people were doing things that made sense for the long term as well as the short term.

"Remember to stay on Highway 58 through Bakersfield. Then cross over Highway 99 and go until we hit Interstate 5, which will take us north," said Sam, reminding Ernest of their altered route.

Hundreds of miles of flat terrain lay ahead of them before they reached their ultimate objective, the San Francisco bay area. Although Allison felt a sense of urgency, she saw no wisdom in driving like maniacs to arrive an hour before or even an hour after the President's now meaningless deadline. There was going to be a war, that part had been settled. Young people were going to die, again. Once again those fortunate families who didn't have loved ones in the war would graciously thank the grieving families for their loved ones' sacrifices for the welfare of the country. Allison believed it was more a case of providing welfare for the rich and powerful corporations that managed to successfully install their handpicked representatives, and in many instances, former employees into positions of leadership throughout the current administration. This was not the only administration that brought in corporate insiders with impunity. This had gone on for as long as Allison could remember, even back to that tragic '60s administration that tried to identify itself with the _Arthurian_ legend. Many of the public officials directing the war effort then were also former employees of the big corporations that stood to make a profit from the war.

One thing that impressed Allison, though, was the amount of noise people of the cloth made in opposition to this ill-conceived military adventure, this so-called preemptive war, supposedly so essential to our survival. No less a person than the Pope had spoken out against it, and joining with him were members of the Jewish religion and leaders within the Islamic faith as well as leaders of many theological institutions. Most of the leaders of the Protestant churches, including the Methodist church, the same church the President professed to be a member of, spoke out at length against a preemptive war.

So far, the only religious groups that had found reason to support the idea of a preemptive attack were fundamentalist denominations generally located in the rural areas that relied upon a narrow interpretation of scripture. They ended their unpersuasive arguments by reminding the heathen that, "Jesus did not bring peace, but a sword." Through the centuries, misfortune has been created by fear-based religions that choose a literal interpretation of scriptures, then codified, translated, and retranslated for dubious purposes numerous times through the centuries.

Allison wearied of thinking about the shortsightedness and, in some instances, the downright stupidity exhibited by the various groups pushing so hard to put another young generation at risk. She forced herself to think of other things.

The magnitude of the agricultural enterprise surrounding them on all sides soon monopolized her attention to the same degree as the wind turbines did only an hour before. California was a geographical wonderland. Chances are that whatever you found yourself looking at was the highest, the lowest, the driest, the hottest, the most desolate, the most scenic, the most seasonally pleasant, or the most seismological unstable place in the entire contiguous forty-eight states. With millions of acres of land devoted to growing so much food, one might naturally determine that no living human in this country should have to go without. Mile after mile of irrigated cropland spread out on both sides of the highway as far as the eye could see. _Why then does one out of every ten persons in this country go hungry, especially when over sixty percent of the adult population is considered obese?_

After a time Allison's thoughts wandered to other areas. The passengers in the bus had grown quiet. This occurrence seemed odd to Allison, especially since they were in the home stretch. In a few hours, they would be at the front. In Allison's mind, they were going into battle. Their enemies, though often visible only in the form of uniformed brutality, included those groups who sponsored government obstruction and deceit at the highest level, the ones who misused and endangered military personnel for personal gain as well as religious institutions that prevented terminally ill human beings from dying with dignity. Allison took no comfort in the knowledge that in every instance these offending institutions or individuals were put in place to supposedly protect, and help, the very citizens they abused.

The more Allison thought about the difficulty and the danger ahead, the greater her fear grew. Her courage and her determination had gone unopposed two thousand miles away, back in Missouri, but now the reality of what she had started closed in on her. She almost died the last time and so did Sam. Maybe their luck would run out. A nauseating feeling gained a foothold in the pit of her stomach and refused to let go. Did she care enough to risk her life again? What about her family? What would they do if she was beaten like the last time? Did she have a right to risk the lives of her three friends? _What have I done?_ A thought began to creep up her spine towards her brain that they should stop right there and go no further. _This whole thing is crazy!_

Allison closed her eyes and tried to meditate in hopes of regaining control over the fear that had so suddenly taken over her mind and spread throughout the rest of her body. She became aware of her hands shaking. She was coming apart. What could she do? She had to do something before she dissolved into a quivering mass in front of her friends.

As she conceded her inability to do anything to avoid a public crisis of faith in their mission, she felt a strong calloused hand enclose hers. The feeling of relief she experienced could be compared to that of a drowning person being thrown a life rope. The comforting hand belonged to Bobby. He instinctively sensed her discomfort and once more was there to help.

"I've seen that look many times little sister. Don't try to hide it. Let it come out so you can deal with it head on before we get into the fight," said Bobby.

"What do you mean?" asked Allison as soon as she regained control of her breathing.

"I've seen that look hundreds of times before guys go into battle. They're terrified of everything. Are they going to die? Will they let their buddies down? Will they turn out to be cowards? What will become of their loved ones if something happens to them? This happens all the time."

As Bobby talked, Allison felt as if he told her story.

"Did you ever ask these questions?" she asked.

"Sure I did, and more than once."

"What were the answers? How did you get over the fear?"

"I never did get over the fear. It's not reasonable to expect that a person won't be afraid when their life can be over in a split second because of what they are going to do, or where they are going to go. No, you don't want to be unafraid. That would render you useless and possibly dangerous to your own people. You find the courage to go forward, not for some grand and noble cause, but often because your friends and fellow soldiers need you or because you are a part of a long family tradition of doing your duty when your country calls. Leave the grand and noble causes for the orators, the politicians, and the generals. When we get to San Francisco, I will go forward because of my love for you three people. If you go forward, I go forward. Believe in the people you are fighting with or you shouldn't be there fighting in the first place. Make these decisions before you go and then draw upon their courage. If you have a God, ask your God for the courage. Don't try to do this alone."

Allison noticed that Sam had turned around and was listening to Bobby.

"How about you Sam, are you afraid? You almost went down for the full count the last time yourself," asked Allison.

Sam hesitated prior to answering her. "Yes, I am afraid. In fact, I'm almost terrified. The source of my fear may be different from yours, Allison, although I don't expect it makes any difference in the end."

"I don't understand," said Allison.

"The source of your fear is external; you're afraid of them _._ The source of my fear is internal; I'm afraid of me. You're fearful of being killed or maimed by a bunch of government thugs. I'm fearful of what I might do to myself if I cannot reignite some passion to do something of value for this world as I once did. I cannot go on the way I am. I have to find some purpose or as I said before, I'll put an end to this nightmare someday. Your fear proposes to save your life by preventing you from going into danger while my fear wants to save my life by placing me in a position where, hopefully, I can once more find that purpose. Still though, the mission is self-preservation in both instances. You may want to ask yourself the same question that I do. Can you not do this and live with yourself? I can't."

Allison looked at the back of Ernest's head as he sat behind the steering wheel unsure if he had taken in any of this recent discussion.

"Ernest, did you happen to overhear any of what we just now discussed?" she asked him.

"I heard every word."

"Do you feel any fear? I know you have a big decision ahead of you regarding the professor."

"I hate to be the party pooper, but I'm not feeling any fear at all. As for the professor, I'm not going to do anything to help him end his life. All I said was, out of respect for what he did for me years ago, I would come out to talk with him, and that's all I'm going to do. As far as protesting, I didn't protest back in the '60s so I don't see why I would want to start now. I do plan to be close by in case anything happens to you nuts, and I will have my medical bag with me just in case."

Ernest's response didn't surprise Allison. He had formed a plan years ago, and it had worked well for him throughout the intervening years. Do your best to take care of what you can. Don't try to figure it out or be a big picture guy. Take care of your family, neighborhood, and city and expect that there are other responsible people doing the same in the communities down the road. _He must have read "Candide" and decided that Voltaire's edict to 'tend your own garden' made sense,_ thought Allison.

"Bobby, you have once more come to my rescue, and, again, I thank you. You are a blessing in my life. Sam, I also want to thank you, and you, too, Ernest as your confidence in what you're doing gives me hope. I still feel half sick to my stomach with the fear of any one of us getting hurt, but I need to keep going. I can't go back either until I have confronted the issues that brought me here. When I first realized that I would be coming back, I thought if necessary I could come alone and do what I needed to do. I no longer believe that. Thank you all for coming with me."

Allison did then what most individuals do when they are preparing to go forward into uncertainty and danger, she thought about her family. She thought about how much she loved and missed them, how she wanted so badly to see them again, and how relieved she felt in knowing that she never missed an opportunity to let them know she loved them. She would call and tell them again to be sure they knew. Just in case.

~~ Chapter Twenty-Four

For the first time since they so unceremoniously loaded him into the bus back in Oklahoma, Bobby sat behind the wheel steadily guiding their trusty peace wagon towards the California coast. The seemingly interminable expanse of the vast central California valley was behind them and none too soon. With each rotation of the vehicle's tires, Allison's excitement intensified. Off in the distance loomed the hills that separated the bus from their first view of the bay. A steady stream of vehicles coming from the densely populated coastal area noisily announced the end of another workday. They were going to make it before the President's meaningless 5 p.m. deadline after all. Somehow, though, knowing a war would start regardless of the date and the hour specified earlier by the determined leader of the free world, from the comfort and the security of a bunker in Washington, D.C., lessened the relief that otherwise might be expected.

"Do you guys mind if I listen to public radio?" asked Allison as she reached for the radio control knob. "I hope they transmit on AM because that's all this thing will pick up."

None of her fellow passengers responded to her inquiry, so Allison accepted their silence as an okay. The static that identified the less used frequency spectrum sounded alien. Allison could not recall the last time she tried to tune in an AM station. Try as she might, all she found was Spanish language programming, country music, farming reports, and the ubiquitous _we can save your soul if you will send us a few dollars please_ stations.

"Guess I should have gotten around to upgrading the radio during the last thirty-four years, shouldn't I?" said Allison after giving up on her attempt to find a reliable source of information relating to her country's developing military adventure. For a long time she lamented the fact that if you didn't talk conservative smack, it didn't get on the air. Most of the smack talking sports commentators ranted from positions of experience. They had at least played the games they offered their loud opinions on. Regarding politics and military intervention, however, the airwaves were filled with outraged, pompous, blathering, arm chair warriors most of whom had never even been boy scouts much less members of the armed forces. They screamed at the cowards who refused to stand up and support sending our troops out to make the world safe from terrorism, and while out there, install governments sympathetic to our elected representative's ideas of corporate globalization and free market capitalism. Hopefully, those governments would turn out to be democratic, but in a pinch, about any kind that readily agreed to support our country's foreign policies and economic needs would suffice.

In the past Allison had contested the parroted comments of the millions of mindless listeners of such unmitigated horse crap and cautioned that our concerns might be better placed if we instead asked our leaders questions regarding the loss of millions of good paying jobs to foreign manufacturers owned by multi-national corporations. Or why millions of Americans did without adequate medical care or had to work three or four jobs to make ends meet. Often she was told that the real problems with this country had nothing to do with economics but instead were caused by a break down in moral values such as homosexuality, abortion clinics, and schools teaching evolution to our children. Some days the crap got so deep Allison felt she needed a tractor with a front-end loader. A simple shovel may have worked in the past, but not anymore.

"Are we going to the professor's house first?" asked Allison having given up on the idea of finding objective commentary concerning the country's newest crisis. She turned to face Ernest slumping half asleep in the back seat alongside Sam, who likewise had succumbed to the long drive north through the valley of plenty.

"Yes, go to the professor's first. We can make our other arrangements there. What time is it? Did we make it?" Ernest spoke hastily as he sat up rubbing the sleep from his eyes.

"It's 4:15 p.m., and yes, we have made it as soon as we get through those hills in the distance. No word on the status of the start of the war. The way I see it on the map we should stay on this same highway. I think I can get us to the university, but then I'm going to need some help finding the professor's home. I do recall that we have to go towards the hills once we're in Berkeley," said Allison looking at the map in her lap.

"Here," said Ernest as he reached into his hip pocket and brought forth some folded papers. "I printed this out before we left. It's a Berkeley city map showing the exact route to the house. It's amazing the information they have available on those little home computers."

Allison retrieved the folded papers and upon inspection agreed that the professor's house would not be difficult to locate with the help of the map. "Bobby, stay on Highway 580 until I tell you when, okay?"

Bobby nodded his head in understanding.

"I'm glad we're getting there before the sun sets," added Allison offhandedly. "I used to love to walk up into the hills so I could get a good look at the beautiful sunsets. I imagine that everything else has changed in the last thirty-four years, but I'm hoping they've not been able to ruin the sunsets."

"How about you Bobby, what's your favorite memory of the bay area?" Allison asked.

Bobby, per his usual custom, pondered the question. "I enjoyed the cool nights. I remember thinking while I was in Vietnam that I would never gripe about the cold again if I ever got home or anywhere else where you didn't sweat like a horse all the time. I wore my fatigue jacket and it felt great, especially, at night. I guess that's about all I remember. I drank too much to be doing a lot of thinking, but it didn't take much brain power to be aware of, and appreciate, the cool temperatures."

"Ernest, what's your favorite memory?" Allison obviously didn't want to be alone with her own thoughts presently, and the easiest way to accomplish this was by keeping a conversation going.

Unlike Bobby, Ernest answered right off. "Leaving! Leaving is what gave me the greatest enjoyment. I did no sight seeing, visited no relatives or friends, nor enjoyed any of the world-class restaurants I've since heard about. When it started to get dark we went inside forgoing the beauty of the sunsets, lest a friendly law enforcement officer got nervous at spotting black men in black berets and black leather coats afoot in the community after dark and ended up taking a free shot at one of us. Considering the reason I'm coming back to the area, I seriously doubt I will take any wonderful memories away with me this time either, except being a part of the present company, of course."

"Well, thank you so much for sharing those special moments with us, Ernest, and now, Mr. McCarthy, would it be too much to hope that your personal recollections of the bay area are not quite so, shall we say, distorted as Dr. Grinch's?" Allison's inquires found Sam in a similar condition to Ernest who only moments before had been sound asleep.

"Let's see, not considering the delightful face-pounding incident which I'm assuming we are omitting for purposes of conversational decorum, I would have to say it was the great weed and the really cool California chicks that caused my heart to flutter. Man, I was so toked out from smoking dope and exhausted from humping the cute coeds that dug my eastern accent and admired my militant anti-government viewpoint that I hardly found the time to do any real anti-establishment consensus building while I was here. If it hadn't been for the University Regents getting nuts over People's Park and J. Edgar's local surrogate sending in the cavalry, I probably would still be hobbling around the campus trying to hit on the naive lasses."

Allison, too stupefied to speak, turned in the direction from which the last amazing statement came. Before she could think of a suitable response, Sam defended himself, of sorts.

"I know! I know! I'm an idiot. I'll admit it. But, at least, I don't smoke, and I haven't dated a woman under forty in the last five years. It's so exhausting, and I can't stand the music they listen to. Plus, they come up with sexual stuff I have never even imagined humans would think of trying to do. My chiropractor got a new Mercedes out of the last relationship I was in. From now on, they have to be using a walker or a cane before I'll even talk to them."

Allison was still too dumbfounded to say anything. She did make out Ernest's muffled giggling and Bobby's pathetic snorting which was his peculiar way of laughing. She decided to give up. She had absolutely nothing more to say to this gathering of the missing links society.

"What?" said Sam in his own defense. "She asked a question, and I simply told the truth. Is it suddenly a bad thing for a lawyer to tell the truth? I told you, I'm trying to become a new person here. You want me to start out lying? If you ask me, I should be the one sitting in judgment here."

Things went on like this for a time: Sam pontificating on the need for personal veracity. Ernest and Bobby laughing in their peculiar ways. Allison staring out the front window, shaking her head from side to side. _That's what I get for attempting to engage this group in a little polite conversation,_ thought Allison as she watched the hills separating their vehicle from an unobstructed view of the bay come closer and closer. But, at least, it had distracted her for a time.

They completed their passage through the Castro Valley and emerged to the sight of San Francisco Bay off in the distance. Allison hoped that a view of the skyline of San Francisco proper lay under a late afternoon mist. The miles of open water between the VW bus and the city would not be crossed this day. The road they were on took them north to Berkeley along the base of the hills and miles away from the bay that separated San Francisco from the mainland cities. _I guess that means I won't get to see my sunset today,_ realized a dejected Allison.

"Are we still on the right road?" asked Bobby as their direction of travel turned away from the bay.

"Yes," answered Allison reviewing the map she held in her hand. "Up ahead about five or six miles we should get off on Highway 13, which should take us into Berkeley. Once there, we can stop and get our bearings."

Allison scanned the roadsides. She really had not been familiar with the communities in the bay area other than San Francisco and Berkeley, so she held out little hope of seeing anything she might remember from thirty-four years earlier. For the most part, the buildings looked much the same as anywhere else. She did recognize the names of the usual franchise outlets one expects to see every place you go in the country and the names of the big merchandisers that had plopped their mega-marts on every large plot of land available in developed areas across the land. So far, absent the misty bay off in the distance, she could be in almost any city in the country.

Their arrival was less dramatic than Allison had envisioned, and although she did not have a clear picture as to exactly what she expected to see, it wasn't this. She saw people going about their business as usual with lines of weary commuters trying to get out of the metro areas to their personal safe havens far out in the suburbs. Probably most of them needed to make stops at the grocery, the cleaners, or the daycare center to pick up a couple of grouchy, demanding toddlers angry at having been warehoused for the last nine hours. As far as Allison could tell, this sight represented nothing more than another typical end to one more day of living the so-called American dream in any large city in the country.

She observed no banners waving in opposition to war, no cars honking horns in protest, nor any traffic tie-ups caused by disgruntled citizens attempting to draw attention to crimes in the making by the government. This wasn't San Francisco, nor was it Berkeley. If it involved protesting the actions of our government, it usually started in Berkeley. _Be patient_ , she told herself, _you're not there yet_.

"Well, what do you guys think?" asked Allison. "Does it look different or the same?"

"I don't know. I was drunk most of the time," answered Bobby.

"I was high most of the time," said Sam.

"I didn't go outside unless they made me," commented Ernest. "I was afraid of getting shot."

Once more Allison closed her eyes and asked herself why she thought it necessary to surround herself with this prime example of male ennui.

"I do recall the Golden Gate Bridge," commented Sam attempting to placate Allison's feeling of aloneness. "If you can get me there, I'm sure I will be able to get myself oriented."

"Are you sure you're not referring to the Bay Bridge instead of the Golden Gate?" asked Allison weakly, suspecting Sam might be confused. "Unless you had business over in Marin County, I don't know why you would have crossed over the Golden Gate. If you went between San Francisco and Berkeley, you more than likely used the Bay Bridge."

"Really?" interrupted Bobby. "You mean I've never been across the Golden Gate Bridge either? I told everybody back home I crossed it several times. I've got to do that this time because this is embarrassing. I've been lying to all those people."

"I'm with you on that one brother. We'll do it together," said Sam in response.

Allison turned towards Ernest silently pleading for something from his direction to give her hope.

"Don't look at me!" declared Ernest, "I thought the thing was located in Hollywood or some place like that. Besides, I never went over to San Francisco the first time I came here. There wasn't anybody they wanted me to shoot over there."

Allison began to laugh. Quietly at first, but soon everyone in the bus knew what she was doing and became alarmed. Possibly, they thought she finally lost her mind under the weight of having to contend with three marginally moronic and completely irreverent males for the better part of two thousand miles.

"I'm thinking maybe things aren't as important, or as worrisome as I'm making them out to be," Allison said calmly. "Otherwise, the creator of the universe would not have sent me out to save the world accompanied by the _Three Stooges_!"

"Is this the turn?" asked Bobby, interrupting any further thoughts on Allison's part or possibly even a rejoinder from Sam or Ernest.

"Yes, thank you for staying alert, Bobby. I lost my concentration for a moment. Keep going for a few miles and look for Telegraph Avenue. I hope you guys remember that name," said Allison.

"I remember it," said Bobby. "That's the street where the deputies did most of the shooting. Man, that was wild. I thought I was back in the Nam during Tet. It's a lucky thing for them and me that I wasn't packing my M-16 because a bunch of those guys would have gone down hard."

"I remember it, also," added Sam. "Wow, I haven't thought of that name in a hundred years. Are you sure it's safe? Maybe we should send out scouts first."

Ernest didn't join in on the conversation. He probably would tell whoever asked that the streets in Berkeley looked the same to him back then, which meant they were filled with white people. So people were getting shot! Come on over to Oakland after dark and watch the fireworks as the cops went out on nightly safaris hunting for Black Panthers.

As they got closer, they all looked around for anything familiar. Mile after mile it went like this. Until suddenly, off in the distance stood the three hundred foot tall campanile, the centerpiece of the UC Berkeley hillside campus. If there was one thing you would remember about the place, this was it. Standing gleaming white against the ubiquitous brown and green California hills, it took Allison's breath away. The pleasant hours she sat beneath it or lay on the soft grass staring up at its towering majesty brought pleasant memories to mind. The simple recollection of something good that happened to her at this place gave her a sense of relief. Instinctively, she realized this was not a bad place, but rather a beautiful place where angry proles came one day long ago to plunder and pillage.

The bus occupants, now somewhat oriented, continued their inspection of the community that played such an important part in how their lives turned out. Berkeley acted as a crucible, molding them during those critical and formative years as their incipient ideas and notions were melded into a cohesive philosophy of living.

"Well, this is it," said Bobby almost as an afterthought.

For a time they had traveled on a four-lane thoroughfare in the general direction of the campus. The closer they came to their objective the more the commercial outlets directed their activities towards the university's denizens. There were trendy restaurants, bookstores, an upscale shopping mall, and even modern day street people. To Allison, these individuals appeared as imposters and interlopers. This act had to be getting old by now. To her way of thinking, young people like herself came here in the '60s to carry a message that was reflected in the way they dressed and shunned establishment's rules of existence. To her and her fellow hippies, society was going in the wrong direction with its imperialist military policies and its emphasis on conspicuous consumption _._ Their lifestyle was a form of protest. W _hat were these unkempt young people really doing here? Did they also carry a message?_

The place looked better now than it did back then. Life looked as if it had been good to the proprietors that occupied every available storefront. The people on the streets, except the street people, looked prosperous and happy with no concerns for a coming war visible. _Were the students and the citizens of the community_ _so completely out of touch with things going on in the world now?_ Then Allison's attention was drawn to certain building features she did not recollect seeing during the days she roamed these same avenues. You could easily overlook them if you had no prior knowledge of how violent life could become, so very fast, right at this spot. These business people hadn't forgotten, otherwise the trendy storefronts would not be outfitted with steel roll-down shutters. Maybe the streets did give off the appearance of serenity and prosperity, but the people who owned these businesses knew from experience how fast things could change.

Without warning, Bobby made a right turn in the direction of the hills as the other occupants in the bus, including Allison, looked quizzically in his direction. Bobby answered their unspoken questions. "Well, there it is. The People's Park," he said as if pointing out something of little or no consequence. "That's where it started."

"Pullover," said Allison instinctively.

Bobby did as requested and when the bus came to a halt, not a single person said anything. Allison did not know what she expected, but an image of this peaceful little plot of greenery situated amidst the trappings of civilization would not have been anywhere near the top of any list constructed in her mind. The last time she saw this place a hastily erected eight foot high chain link fence guarded by hundreds of armed deputies surrounded it. Her mind found it impossible to reconcile the two dissimilar images. _How could something so peaceful looking been a part of so much violence_?

The great emotional and intellectual differences that separate twenty-year-old minds from fifty-plus year old minds became clear to Allison as never before. This would be something to bear in mind as she made her way back to the streets in the coming days.

"This is good," observed Allison unemotionally. "We can come back and take a closer look later. If you guys have seen enough we can go on. Okay? Bobby, keep going straight ahead towards the hills; I'll tell you where to turn."

Several sharp turns later, the VW bus slowly wound its way up along one of the residential streets carved into the face of the hills that provided the backdrop to the city of Berkeley. As they continued upwards, the accompanying view of the bay and the city of San Francisco off in the distance improved.

"This is definitely looking familiar," commented Allison. "We're getting close. Look, there it is!"

Allison pointed excitedly towards a one-story beige stucco bungalow with a red clay tile roof sitting off to the left side of the street. The front of the house faced the bay, but as Allison recalled, the best view could be seen from the second floor balcony of the garage apartment located beyond the courtyard in the rear. Directing Bobby to turn into the driveway that ran beside the main house, she recognized the enclosed area behind the house where she parked her VW bus years before. By the time the bus came to a complete stop, her heart had almost pounded a hole in her chest.

Before Bobby turned off the engine, he turned to Allison. "You sure this is it?"

Not bothering to turn in his direction, Allison responded, "I'm sure."

Without further ado, Bobby turned off the VW bus ignition and looked at his watch. "Not bad timing. We have seven minutes to spare."

Allison acted like she did not hear Bobby's comment as she opened the door to step outside. The cool, marine air, so typical to the area, greeted her unexpectedly as she emerged from the shelter of the bus, causing her to shudder momentarily. The other passengers stayed seated leaving Allison alone for a moment to ponder her return to the place that monopolized her attention during a part of every single day for the last thirty-four years.

"Ernest," she said rather unexpectedly, "you probably should announce our presence to the professor and make sure it's okay for us to stay."

"Right, I'll do that," were the only words Allison heard as Ernest exited the bus and headed towards the main house.

_What was it Bobby said about the fear?_ Allison asked herself as she stood awaiting Ernest's return. _You never get rid of the fear. You find a way to control it and go forward. Well then, let's do some controlling_.

~~ Chapter Twenty-Five

Lost in reverie, Allison failed to notice Ernest's return from the main house. The sound of his voice coming from behind surprised her.

"We're set. The place is open, and we can stay as long as we want. The professor's assistant told me to let him know if we needed anything. I didn't get to see the professor. They told me that late tomorrow morning would be the best time. Until then, I'm up for whatever you guys want to do, although, there didn't seem to be much going on in the town as far as I could see."

"Let's get ourselves situated first, and then we can get some idea of a plan," suggested Allison to everyone's nodding approval.

The steepness of the steps leading up to the second floor apartment above the garage caused Ernest to halt at the bottom as if preparing himself for an assault. Fortunately, he traveled light as they all did so a single trip sufficed.

As Allison entered the spacious living room, she went straight for the curtains covering the sliding glass doors that allowed access to the balcony where she had enjoyed a great view of the city across the bay on clear days. She didn't live in the apartment when she stayed here in '69. She could have, but she did make use of the lavatory facilities. That's when she took time to sit on the balcony in the cool mornings or evenings and marvel at the view. Today, however, heavy clouds obscured the horizon.

"There are two bedrooms with a queen size bed in each and a fairly comfortable looking couch out here. Allison, of course, will get one of the bedrooms so that leaves two of us in the other bedroom and one out here. You guys name your poison. I'm not picky," said Sam, waiting for Bobby and Ernest's decisions.

"As you guys are aware," said Bobby, "I'm used to sleeping on about anything. It won't bother me to sleep on the couch, unless one of you guys wants it."

Sam turned to Ernest and smiled, "Looks like it's you and me, Mustafa. Which side do you want?"

Ernest looked at Sam out of the corner of his eye as he considered the arrangement. "After listening to that weird story about you and the old ladies with the canes, I'm not so sure I trust you in the same room, much less the same bed when I'm sleeping. But, if I have to, you better remember I took a couple of judo classes a few years back, and I'm a real light sleeper."

"Sounds like the best offer I've had in some time. If it's okay, I'll hit the shower first. I'm starting to make myself ill with my own body odor."

No one disagreed, so Sam headed off to the shower with his carry-on case in hand. As Allison prepared to retire to the smaller of the two bedrooms, Bobby sat down on the large comfortable looking couch which was to be his bed and turned on the television to CNN. The President's deadline had arrived without fanfare. Possibly, the war already started.

"Anything happening?" asked Allison as she returned to the living room a few minutes later wearing baggy sweat pants, a sweatshirt, and pulling a brush through her hair that now hung down below her shoulders. Not waiting for an answer, she plopped down on the couch beside Bobby and joined him in staring apprehensively at the screen.

"Nothing yet, but it's only been thirty-five minutes," answered Bobby.

"I'll bet a nickel to a dollar it won't be long," answered Allison. "The people running the country seem intent upon getting a fight going. They don't strike me as patient people."

"Well as I said earlier, I haven't exactly kept up to speed on these kinds of things for awhile, so you'll have to bear with me."

"It won't take much to get up to speed, Bobby. Before the night's over you will probably know as much as the rest of us. Hey, I have an idea. Why don't we see if the others are up to ordering a couple of pizzas from the place I spotted right before we turned off of Telegraph? That way we can kick back, watch for information on the tube, make our plans, and then all of us can get a full night's rest before we hit the streets tomorrow. Will that work for you if the others go for it?"

"Sure," answered her loyal friend, "whatever you say."

After a conversation through the men's closed bedroom door, Allison took her cell phone out and called the nearby home delivery pizza store to order two large pizzas and several liters of soda pop. The young person on the phone told her to expect delivery in thirty minutes.

Nothing new came up on CNN. From the looks of the reporters, foreign correspondents, ex-military analysts, and various other experts on Mid-eastern affairs, they were either expecting or hoping for the worst. There was no doubt in Allison's mind that unless something big happened tonight these people were going to be disappointed. Unless the war started, how could they expect to get the all important on-air face time? Careers were made during times such as these. The way these people sounded, somebody needed to pull the trigger.

As Allison pondered this interesting notion, off in the distance a familiar sound, not heard by her for over thirty-four years, rang out. _How could I have not remembered the wonderful sound of the bells in the campanile tolling daily at 6 p.m.?_ If her memory served her correctly, the bells sounded off for a full ten minutes. _How nice_ , she thought, _another pleasant memory long buried under the weight of a single horrible day now resurrected_.

She walked over to the glass doors to look out towards the tower and happened to observe a white van pull up behind the VW bus. Painted on the side of the van was the name of the pizza place she called for delivery service. "Stellini's Organic Pizza & Pasta _._ " She had not known her choice of provider specialized in wholesome organic foods, but she figured the men wouldn't die from eating healthier food for a change, especially, when the person taking the order assured her they used beef and chicken toppings for the pizzas.

"Food's here!" Allison yelled to the others who were finishing up tending to matters of personal hygiene.

"I'm coming," shouted Ernest to no one's surprise.

The waning daylight, aided by the overcast skies, had all but disappeared by this time. Allison barely made out what looked to be a woman, (only because the figure had a pony tail) getting out of the van with great difficulty. After retrieving a cane from the van, the woman attempted to pull the bag containing the two large pizzas out of the van so she could bring them up the stairs to the second floor apartment. Allison had gone to great trouble in giving directions on how and where to deliver the goods, and it soon became obvious the impaired person using the cane was experiencing trouble _. I'll get my purse and_ _go help her,_ thought Allison as she turned away heading for her room. She had a hard time finding anything under the piles of clothing that had materialized from out of nowhere. She found her wallet and returned to the living room in time to watch Sam open the apartment door in response to a knock from the delivery person with the cane who had somehow managed to climb the stairs, albeit without the pizzas.

"Oh, hello," said Sam to a tired-looking delivery lady standing before him leaning heavily on her cane.

"Hello," answered the weary middle-aged woman. "I'm here to deliver your pizzas, but I'm afraid I can't get them up the stairs. Would it be too much to impose on someone to come downstairs to my van to get them?"

As Allison approached the door, she noticed blood seeping through the woman's tan colored pants. She looked to be in some discomfort standing there leaning heavily on her cane.

"You're bleeding! What happened to your leg?" asked Allison as she took control of the situation. "Sam, go get the pizzas. Lady, you need to sit down before you fall down."

Allison moved to get a dining table chair as Sam exited the apartment to retrieve the pizzas. The delivery lady, embarrassed over the incident, tried to assure Allison and now Ernest that she was okay.

"It's nothing really. I got my knee banged up yesterday in a bike wreck, and I haven't had time to get to the doctor. I'm going to do that first thing in the morning. I'm really sorry to inconvenience you. If I could collect the forty-two dollars and fifty cents, I'll get out of here and leave you people alone."

Sam returned with the two pizzas, huffing and puffing, just as Ernest, having overheard the delivery lady, moved into action.

"My name is Doctor Ernest Calhoun, and I think you should let me take a look at that leg. Sit there while I get my bag."

Allison pushed the chair forward while Sam, after placing the pizzas on the table, assisted the woman into the chair. As he did this Allison couldn't help but notice the keen interest Sam displayed towards the delivery lady by his looks and actions. The woman acted reluctant, but the level of discomfort she looked to be experiencing by this time pushed aside any feelings of being an imposition.

"Only, if you are sure you don't mind," responded the lady. "I've been fighting with this thing all day. By the way, my name is Lia Stellini, and I'm the owner of the business as well as part-time delivery person. My regular delivery person wanted to get off early so he could meet his friends at the candlelight vigil to protest the war. I planned to close up early anyway, in case the students decide to go nuts as they are inclined to do around here from time to time. So, I pulled down the shutters, loaded the two pizzas in the van, and headed here with every intention of making a fast delivery and getting back home to finally take a look at this knee. I saw a Missouri plate on the VW bus outside. Is that where you folks are from?"

"I am," answered Allison, "I picked these ruffians up on the way here."

"Okay, these trousers appear fairly loose so let's see if we can roll this left leg up beyond the knee." Kneeling before the woman, Ernest deftly accomplished the job in a minimum amount of time. The sight that awaited him did not make him optimistic judging by the dour look on his face. The knee was red and swollen and the skin was missing over the entire left side of the kneecap. The woman had applied an antiseptic ointment and a bandage earlier, but both had ceased to provide any protection having been rubbed off during the past hours by her walking and bending.

"I don't see any sign of infection yet, but you are going to have to get this knee x-rayed tomorrow morning at the latest. I fully expect you may have suffered a fractured kneecap and will have to stay off this leg for a time. I will redress this knee and apply some anti-biotic ointment I carry with me, but you have to see to this tomorrow. Do I make myself clear? Otherwise, you run the risk of creating even greater problems for yourself. As a small business owner, I would expect that would be hard for you to deal with."

"You're right about that, Doctor Calhoun. Right now my small business couldn't handle my being away for any length of time. Something like this is the last thing I need."

"Do you have any family that can help you out?" Sam asked from off to the side. Allison saw the deviousness behind the otherwise innocent inquiry. _Was there something here that piqued his curiosity_? Somehow she never pictured Sam being interested in pizza delivery ladies, even if they did own the store. Allison took another good look at the woman. She saw a female in her mid to late forties of pure Italian extraction, possibly second or third generation. She stood about five foot three, her weight proportional, and her hair dark brown with a hint of grey. Her smile grabbed you right off; it was one of those smiles that involved every muscle in the face. She looked very tired. Yet, beneath the tiredness and the physical hurt there existed an unmistakable optimism. This lady enjoyed what she did; she practically reeked of occupational contentment. Allison looked back towards Sam and noticed a glint in his eyes. _He is interested!_

Lia didn't bother to look up to see who asked the question. "No such luck. My twenty-four-year-old daughter is working on her masters degree in Marine Biology at San Diego State, and my folks, over in North Beach, are too old to get out much any more. So it's all up to me, I'm afraid."

Allison knew what information Sam really wanted to know about. Did she have a husband? She didn't have rings on, but anymore that didn't mean that much.

"Maybe you can talk your husband into giving you a hand if they put you in the hospital?" stated Allison in a way that inferred she was joking.

For the first time, Lia looked up to face the person speaking to her. "If only that were possible, he died from a sudden stroke almost seven years ago this July."

"Oh, I'm so sorry," Allison said in a tone of voice that left no doubt she regretted asking the question and bringing up such painful memories.

Allison made a mental note to break one of Sam's fingers or something else for getting her to feel sorry enough to ask such a personal question of a total stranger.

"Although I think it's time I leave you nice people to enjoy your pizzas, another thought came to mind," said Lia. The van out there is a straight shift, and I don't think I can bring myself to try to use that clutch again the way this knee is swelling up. I really don't know what to do. I seem to be a pest all of a sudden. I'm the pizza delivery person from hell."

It did not surprise Allison that Sam's quick mind came up with a possible solution.

"No problem," offered Sam with assurance. "How about this for an idea? You sit here with some ice on your knee to reduce the swelling -- she should use ice shouldn't she, Ernest? While you're doing that we can enjoy these delicious smelling pizzas, and then one of us can drive you home in the van with someone following behind in the bus. Will that work?"

"I think that would be very kind of all of you, and it probably wouldn't hurt for me to take the opportunity to talk with adults for a change. All day long I deal with a bunch of wonderful young people who are all under twenty-two. I have probably lost my conversational skills by now." For the first time, Lia looked at ease.

"All right then. You know Ernest. This is Allison, our unofficial group leader, and this is Bobby, and I'm Sam."

In no time they were situated around the dining table with Lia having been provided with a stool, pillow, and an ice bag for her ailing knee. The large pizzas smelled wonderful, and they looked inviting. Even Ernest was on his best behavior with their guest present, but Allison could tell he was within seconds of throwing manners aside and grabbing a big piece of pizza.

Allison made a suggestion. "Lia, could you tell us a little about organic food, and especially, about these delicious looking pizzas that are playing havoc with my olfactory receptors?"

"I'd love to. Everyone go ahead and get a slice of the pizza in the box you have open there and while you are eating, I'll give you my little spiel about organic food and the organic food industry. This particular pizza is one of my favorites. It's called the Lia Special and has a thick crust basted in extra virgin olive oil, covered with mozzarella cheese, Romano, and smoked gouda, topped with free roaming white chicken meat, mushrooms, kalamata olives and red onion. It's one of our best sellers."

"All of our breads and pizzas are baked in our special wood-fired stone baking ovens. The basic design for this type oven originated during the time of ancient Greece. We bake our products for three to seven minutes, which helps to lock in the flavor and moisture, plus, it helps to retain the color of the toppings. The cost of installing this special baking oven almost broke me right from the start, but I really had no choice if I wanted to do it right."

The Dandelions nodded their heads in approval after sampling the pizza.

"I will also tell you that all of the food products we use are one hundred percent organic. All grains, cheeses, oils, vegetables, and especially the tomatoes, as all of our sauces are homemade, are organic. Our beef comes from grass fed cattle raised on ranches and not kept in feedlots and fed who knows what. The same goes for all of our poultry, too. Grass feeding has been proven to offer important advantages in reducing the growth of E. coli bacteria, plus, it increases the overall nutritional value of the product."

Lia held everyone's attention as she eagerly went about the business of bringing the four of them up to speed regarding the organic food industry. Even Ernest minded his manners in waiting for the others to finish the first piece before he secured himself a second delicious slice. Allison wasn't so sure about Sam who had a far off look in his eye. As ridiculous as it seemed, she began to think that he might be smitten with this attractive widow with the bad knee.

"There are so many reasons to support the emerging organic food industry. First, true organic products adhere to stringent standards in that they are produced without using poisons such as insecticides, herbicides, and fungicides. These poisons are believed to be carcinogenic and hormone-disruptive, and may contribute to birth defects, cancer, brain damage as well as reproductive damage in humans. The reasons these poisons are used is because they are economically expedient and supply high yields of crops while reducing the costs primarily to the large multi-national corporations who control most of the food production not only in this country but increasingly around the world. Organic farming, on the other hand, is more labor-intensive and usually takes place on a smaller scale than the corporate-factory farms. These mega-factory-corporate-farms depend upon taxpayer funded subsidies from our government so that the prices can be kept artificially low and not reflect the actual cost of bringing food to the market, thereby, reducing competition. Their costs are effectively socialized while their profits are increased and privatized. Organic farmers do not receive these subsidies, and therefore, the organic farmers' usually higher shelf price actually reflects the true cost of production."

"Organic farmers not only produce healthy foods without the use of poisons, but they also protect the land, support biodiversity, and respect the balance of nature rather than trying to control it with chemicals. Organic farming replenishes and maintains soil fertility by recycling its nutrients regularly. The long-term cost of large corporate farming, in terms of harming our soil, water, and the consumer's health, is potentially catastrophic. We will eventually pay for these costs with taxpayer dollars, and more importantly, with our health and well-being. Organic farming eliminates these costs as well as the dangers to our health while at the same time producing safer and more flavorful foods. Over the long term, organic farming may very well be the only alternative to the extinction of the human race through the ongoing destruction of our soil and our health by large destructive corporate farming operations."

"Unfortunately, we are fighting an uphill battle. Presently, it is estimated that no less than forty percent of the world's agricultural land is seriously degraded, jeopardizing the lives of millions of humans. Here in this country, the large corporations are holding most of the cards and winning most of the battles in Congress. Money speaks louder than a bunch of small farmers who want to keep their land free from environmental contamination for future generations and who ask very little from their government other than the opportunity to compete on a level playing field. By all indications, the battle is being lost not only here in this country, but around the world. We need the help of dedicated capable individuals who will work to carry this simple truthful message across the country to the schools, to the apathetic consumers, to the seats of government, to the courts, and to the few remaining farmers and ranchers out there fighting for their lives in the face of unfair competition in the form of large subsidized corporate farming operations."

The diners waited to see if Lia had more to say on the subject. When it became apparent she did not, for the moment at least, Sam spoke up.

"Lia, this is a fascinating subject. I personally am in the process of reengaging my time and energies in areas that have long-term interest to our country. I would like to learn more about this very interesting subject. Possibly, my friend Bobby would also have some interest in finding out more about the organic food industry himself. He's one of those ranchers back in Oklahoma who's having a hard time competing with the global farm corporations. Perhaps when your leg is better we can pick your brain on this subject?"

"Anytime, I'm always at the restaurant. Actually, I live right above it."

"I want to thank you also, Lia," said Allison. "You are a breath of fresh air. It is refreshing to hear ideas from knowledgeable persons such as yourself. That's part of the reason we came back here after so many years away. I hope you will allow us to visit your place of business so we can enjoy more of your delicious food, and, also, so you can tell us more about this labor of love you have obviously dedicated your life to."

"I would love for you all to come to my restaurant," responded Lia enthusiastically.

"Wonderful," replied Allison with equal enthusiasm. "Now let's get you home so you can rest that knee. Sam, can you drive Lia in her van while I follow behind to bring you back? Good. Let me get the forty-two fifty we owe you for those pizzas before we leave."

Soon, Allison followed behind as Sam drove back over the streets that took them down the hill retracing the route they traveled earlier that afternoon. This time when they got to the retail area adjacent to the university, Sam drove through the light to the first alley on the other side of the intersection and took a left heading up the alley until slowing down before a large rear garage door that started to open automatically as the van came closer. Seconds after the door finished opening, the van with Sam at the wheel disappeared inside. Allison pulled the VW bus in front of the opened door and waited for Sam to emerge. Minutes passed before Sam returned through the darkened garage door that immediately began to close.

As soon as the passenger door closed behind him, Sam expressed his elation.

"Can you believe that? Can you believe that? I'm telling you it's a sign if I ever saw one."

"What are you jabbering away about, and what sign are you talking about? I haven't seen any signs. I only saw a poor lady with a gimp leg getting hit on by a dirty old man. That's what I saw." Allison awaited Sam's response.

Sam took a deep breath and exhaled in exasperation in response to his associate's reaction. "Allison, Allison, Allison. You never listen to me do you? I distinctly recall telling all of you recently about my strict criteria relating to choosing suitable female companionship. Apparently, you chose not to listen."

"What are you talking about? You haven't said any such thing."

"Want to bet?"

"Sure, I'll bet, you reptile! That poor lady was practically crippled, and I felt sorry for you and asked about her husband. I felt so absolutely horrible when she told us he died. It was your fault, I want you to know. I'll take your bet. Prove it!"

"Do you remember asking me earlier today what my favorite memory of California was, and do you remember I told you it was the cute young coeds? I went on to tell you that I've had no relationships with any women under forty in the last five years. What did I said after that?"

"You said, you very sick person, from now on they either had to be using a walker or ..."

"That's right, go on and finish it."

"... or they had to be using a cane. You are a piece of work, my friend. Casanova step aside, the _Sam Man_ is here! What about crutches though? Will you still go after them if they are on crutches? It makes sense as they sure can't get away from you, can they?"

Sam no longer listened to his detractor. His thinking had obviously elevated to a higher plane.

"A sign! It has to be a sign!"

~~ Chapter Twenty-Six

The good spirited jousting between Allison and Sam continued all the way back to the professor's house. As far as Allison could determine, Sam radiated with his newfound interest in Lia. She decided to curb her skepticism and her motherly instincts and be more supportive of her friend's new sense of optimism. Walking up the steps to the apartment, she realized she hadn't thought about any of the things that concerned her earlier. Maybe she worried too much; maybe things weren't so bad after all.

This new optimism lasted until the door to the apartment swung open revealing both Ernest and Bobby standing up and gesturing towards the television.

"The fool went and did it! They're blowing the hell out of the place, again," stated Ernest as he shook his head from side to side.

"Yes sir, the shit's in the rotor blades now, boys, and soon it's going to be stinking up the whole place," said Bobby to no one in particular.

Allison's heart fell through her chest all the way down to her ankles. Earlier she'd felt so optimistic, and now, the world sucked again. She stood with her friends and stared in awe at the television images of giant explosions in the city of Baghdad. Allison observed every person in the room talked simultaneously, yet she made no effort to understand what they said. She was having an out of body experience. She saw an image of herself depressed and unmoving on the couch while her companions stood talking excitedly to themselves. She wondered why she didn't tell her friends to sit down and shut up so they could hear the talking heads on the tube tell them this was a mistake, that these weren't actual images of U.S. planes bombing a city filled with millions of civilians but were images of the first Gulf War. In the end she didn't, and the talking heads on the screen didn't. It was real after all and happening right before her disbelieving eyes.

The next distinct event occurred when the President came on television at 7:15 p.m. and started speaking. "My fellow citizens, at this hour, American and coalition forces are in the early stages of military operations to disarm Iraq, to free its people, and to defend the world from grave danger."

Allison's mind locked on to the last words in the paragraph. _What?_ _What weapons of mass destruction have been found that we have to defend the rest of the world from? A world, by the way, that mostly detests our very existence and sends its citizens into the streets in jubilation each time some kind of catastrophe befalls our country or our soldiers and citizens. Why is it up to our young military sons and daughters to win those people their freedom? Why don't they rise up and fight and die for their own freedom? Do the citizens of Vietnam appreciate our young men who died for their right to be free? How about Korea? Do they regularly celebrate the sacrifice of the thousands of young Americans who died for their freedom? No! They don't, and these people won't either._

"To all the men and women of the United States Armed Forces now in the Middle East, the peace of a troubled world and the hopes of an oppressed people now depend on you."

_What a crock!_ Allison could only catch bits and pieces as her mind kept getting hung up on particular statements. _A bunch of incompetent politicians who up to this point displayed much more interest in the well-being of the huge multi-national corporations than they have the citizens of our country and have the gall to place the responsibility for paying for their own political ascendancy as well as ineptitude in foreign affairs onto the shoulders of the brave men and women who joined the military to protect their country, not serve the misguided and selfish interest of the current administration._

"We have no ambition in Iraq, except to remove a great threat and restore control of that country to its own people."

No ambitions! What a bunch of crap! It's the oil, stupid! We're going to send our children to this miserable place to suffer and die for many years to come to protect the rights of a bunch of fat-assed people to drive around twenty-four hours a day in gas guzzling vehicles to malls or to the gym for aerobics or to travel two hundred miles roundtrip to work in the city from a two acre suburban spread that requires a smog belching tractor to mow the grass twice weekly. That's our real ambition. As far as restoring control of the country to the people, unless you consider tribal monarchies and military coups as representative forms of government, those people won't have any idea as to what we would be restoring to them. They have absolutely no comprehension of the responsibilities a democratic form of government entails.

"We will meet that threat now, so that we do not have to meet it later with armies of firefighters and police and doctors on the streets of our cities."

Allison, especially, resented this pathetically weak tactic, although it must be having some success as they continue to employ it _. There is not any credible evidence that Saddam Hussein has ever backed or supported terrorists. The man is a mass murderer of his own people and a criminal. He is a businessman. He's in it for the power and the money. Why would anyone think this guy would want to invite the totally disruptive influences of a bunch of religious fanatics into_ _his country to cause trouble either there or abroad? How would that serve his criminal purpose? Common sense says it doesn't, and there is no evidence that it happened._

"...we will accept no outcome but victory."

This was the last straw for Allison. _These are big words for a man who will never have to back them up personally. For a man who many believe deserted his post during a time of war. While other men and women his age were fighting and dying in the mud thousands of miles from home, this guy lived the good life, nowhere to be found. For a person of this low character to send the nation's finest young citizens off to fight and die in a war that is contrived is inconceivable. What has this nation done to itself and the world?_

The leader of the free world disappeared as quickly from the screen as he appeared. Unlike earlier when everyone in the room jabbered away as the talking heads returned, this time it was quiet. They saw the images of bombs exploding over the city of Baghdad, and now the guy in charge of our country confirmed that the war was on. The group's mission to keep this country from going to war now had a new purpose. From now on, their job was to stop the bleeding -- stop the bleeding of our young men and women as well as the thousands of Iraqi civilians who were at that moment on the receiving end of the bombs being dropped.

_I wonder if that guy leading the charge from the safety of the White House is saying his prayers_ _and asking for God's direction_ , wondered Allison. _What kind of a so-called Christian drops bombs on civilians in the middle of the night? What kind of a Christian lies to his fellow citizens and then uses the good offices of his country for the purpose of engaging its military forces in the wholesale slaughter of human life for the personal benefit of his corporate benefactors or to ensure that millions of pampered and abusive consumers of the world's increasingly scarce oil reserves are assured of having an ample supply to keep their SUVs on the streets and jets in the sky taking them away to weekend vacations in Vegas or Cancun? What kind of a Christian sacrifices the lives of our brave young men and women, without hesitation, upon the altar of corporate greed and conspicuous personal consumption?_

Allison determined long ago that there are different kinds of Christians. There are the ones who believe they are not here to judge; they are here to help. Their help did not stop at another person's color or religion or politics. They believe there is a God and it was God's job to do the judging, if any was ever done. This kind of Christian's job was merely to carry water, to help whoever needed help without question, and to look out for the welfare of his fellowman. These people brought joy and hope wherever they traveled and, in Allison's opinion, were in short supply.

Then there are the kinds of so-called Christians that believe their primary responsibility deal with pointing out character flaws in others. They spend their time finding archaic and often dubious sources of justification for their small-minded hatefulness. These are not happy people, and they certainly do not bring joy to the lives of others, much less strangers in need. They act as if their entire lives are built around the ideas of judging and hating. On the contrary, these people cause the prospects of other people to grow brighter, exponentially, upon their departure from the planet.

Allison thought that too often religion and government merely institutionalized the individual's responsibilities that go along with being alive and part of humanity. Many people recognized no need to seek out their fellowman to offer help, believing that having contributed to the church offering plate or paying their taxes exempted them from future responsibilities. These are the same people you hear lamenting the fact that dirty homeless people are wandering around the streets while they drive their new automobiles to the mall or to a professional sports contest where obscenely rewarded athletes will be bouncing, hitting, or kicking a ball in games originally thought up to entertain children. They want to know who is going to do something about these unsightly homeless people. What's happening to the money the hardworking taxpayers and church contributors gave so graciously? They feel they deserve better than having to put up with looking at this stuff.

"How about checking one of the local channels to see what's happening around here?" asked Allison, shaking it off.

Bobby ran the remote control through its paces until he came to a San Francisco station. Without question, they were close to the action. The station aired a tape of the speech plus commentary, of course, but they also reported news relating to the attitudes and activities of people in the bay area. Not a single individual confronted on the streets had anything positive to say about the start of the bombing and most of the interviewees were outright hostile towards the idea. Allison suspected that there were war supporters in the area, but still it felt good to see so many citizens step up and express their disproval.

There were also reports of hundreds of protestors running around the city's financial district for most of the day disrupting activities. Despite the rain, they marched from downtown to the heart of the Mission District chanting slogans opposed to a pre-emptive attack by the United States. The protesters, with their drums, banners and whistles, made as much noise as possible while police lines blocked off intersections. Police motorcycles followed behind as helicopters flew overhead. As this was going on, shop owners and patrons watched cautiously hoping not to get caught in a sudden upsurge of violence always possible on these occasions.

In Berkeley, the reaction reportedly was limited to about thirty students blocking off one of the major avenues coming into the university. While they did manage to block traffic at times, in the end, it would have to be considered a fairly pathetic effort considering this was Berkeley, the place that both a former governor of California and J. Edgar Hoover condemned for its protesting and swore to make an example of years earlier. The evening ended without a single confrontation with the police and with the protestors joining hands at a candlelight vigil. Possibly tomorrow more typical activity might be expected as tonight the "Berkeley Stop the War Coalition" met to make plans, which reportedly included occupying an administrative building at the university.

"Looks like we won't have to go far tomorrow to get a lesson in the art of civil dissent, does it?" asked Sam. "We can walk to the place from here, can't we?"

Allison, deep in thought, only belatedly became aware that Sam looked to her for a response.

"That's right. All we have to do is walk back down that hill, take a right for a couple more blocks, and we'll be right in the middle of it. I'm impressed by how calm the protestors were around the entire bay area today. I hope everyone follows their example and keeps the protest peaceful. The university is on record as being opposed to any war, so I don't see what can be accomplished by crapping in your own nest. I'm beginning to think that maybe the most important thing we can do for the protests while we are here is try to keep them peaceful. What do you guys think?" Allison waited for some response.

Sam held up the two finger peace sign, and Bobby nodded in agreement. Ernest merely reiterated his earlier position. "I don't protest. Besides, I have an important matter to look into tomorrow. I'll stick to watching the tube and getting updates from you guys. Keep in mind your heads are not as malleable as they were when you were younger, so try to keep them from coming into contact with heavy sticks if any young bucks get a little wild tomorrow, okay?"

Both Allison and Sam winced at the suggestion, plus Allison recoiled at the thought of her old friend, the professor, dying not far away. She wanted to see him, to thank him once more for helping to save her life in '69, but she dreaded the thought of seeing him this way. She preferred the ageless image she kept all these years of the tireless social warrior with the pony tail who wandered around the community promoting goodwill and smoking a little pot with the students once in awhile.

"I wonder if Lia will be at the protest tomorrow?" asked Sam bringing Allison back to the present.

Allison could not believe the audacity of the man. "Sam, the lady is practically crippled at the moment. I wouldn't get my hopes up on that one."

Sam took this information in stride, but Allison could tell he was not about to give up on the idea of meeting Lia again.

"The only thing I want to know about right now is where are the ground troops?" commented Bobby to no one in particular. "At some point, they are going to have to get boots on the ground and that's when this whole thing is going to get a lot more personal to me. You mind turning it back to CNN. They'll have that information first, I expect."

As Allison did as Bobby asked, she, too, began to think about the young American soldiers that either were already in danger or were about to be put there. She absolutely hated the thought of American military personnel getting injured and killed in this unnecessary war. This brought up another very good question, one she needed to bring up for discussion with Bobby. It was one thing to protest against sending our troops into combat, but it was another thing, all together, to stand in the street and protest against an ongoing war, which is in essence a protest against our soldiers being in the war. How would a former soldier like Bobby, who knew how important it was for people at home to appreciate a soldier's great sacrifice, react in such a situation?

"Bobby, have you ever protested a war while American servicemen were in the field fighting?" asked Allison who could see by Bobby's response that he had not. "What's your thinking about this? Is this something you can do? Is it something you think we should be doing?"

This time Bobby didn't take a lot of time to answer. "As the image flashes across my mind, the idea makes me sick. I know what it felt like when I was back in the Nam, and I would read about the protesting going on back home. I felt angry, and I felt abandoned. To answer your questions, 'Is this something I can do?' or 'Is it something we should be doing?' I'm gonna have to sort this whole thing out in my mind."

Allison knew enough to allow him all the time he needed. She directed her attention back to the screen and its nonstop in-depth coverage of the early stage of the country's newest war. Allison noticed that the talking heads seemed much more relieved since their particular areas of military or political expertise were going to be showcased to the millions of frightened Americans. _Frightened by what? Losing the war? This made no sense, nor did losing a loved one serving in the military. The possibility of a citizen of this country having a family member serving in a combat area is something like seven in ten thousand. There is not a strong likelihood of that happening. Why then were most of the citizens of this country apprehensive at the prospect of destroying a tyrant, along with most of his country, ten thousand miles away?_

Allison readily identified the reasons why war protestors like her would be anxious. To start with, killing in general is considered by most civilized people to be a bad thing. As the poster child for all that is supposedly fair and good and right in the world, destroying the lives of thousands of human beings for the purpose of securing natural resources for the future benefit of our country is, also, a bad thing. Lastly, things change, and in the case of our country's long term prospects, things looked worse all the time. Practically everything we needed in the way of raw materials to allow our economy to function was located in remote places around the world, far distant from our shores. Our heavy handedness in our insistence upon what forms of government other countries establish, and how much of their natural resources they made available for our insatiable consumer appetite was wearing very thin. The one single thing the U.S.A. was doing better than any other country around the world right now was pissing people off. Simply put, Allison and many other citizens preferred that our country stop killing people or making the ones they don't kill angry.

_What about the war supporters? Why do people who feel that this is a just war feel afraid? There seems no chance of losing, and odds are they don't have a_ _relative in the military. They don't even know anyone who has a relative in the military. Why would people give a rip about foreigners getting angry if they believe our country holds the sacred position as benefactor and protector of the free world and deserves to have access to the essential raw materials required to allow our economy to function at this exaggerated level? Why are these people afraid?_

_A very interesting question,_ Allison surmised as she pondered the potential possibilities that occurred to her. Somehow though, she couldn't get comfortable with the notion that the answer involved a whole lot of complicated psychology. Maybe it was something simpler. Try as they might to convince themselves that our country is justified in taking more than our share, or taking something by force that we feel we need or deserve, in the end maybe they are afraid because they know at the bottom of their soul it isn't the right thing to do.

"You know," said Bobby, finally getting back to Allison on the original question, "I heard many times that hindsight is one hundred percent, and I believe that applies in my case. I've had over thirty years to think about how so many people stood in the streets opposing the war I fought in. Looking at it from that point, I hated those people. I felt they betrayed the soldiers our country had sent to war. Out of all my thinking about this over the years when I was sober enough to think, it came down to one issue. Would American lives have been saved if protestors had not gone into the streets? After a lot of soul searching, I now have no doubt that the Vietcong and the NRA were ready to fight to the very last man, woman, and child. We were foreign invaders interfering in their affairs. If we had not been so arrogant, we would have paid attention to the fact that the people of Vietnam had fought for the last two thousand years to drive invaders from their land. Even with all of our technology, we never had a chance to defeat their history. They would have fought forever and suffered any amount of hardship."

"If the government had admitted their mistake and brought us home earlier, I believe my crew would be alive today. So, I will be with you in the streets tomorrow. This time our government must be made to listen. The lives of thousands of young men and women are at stake."

Bobby got up from the couch, picked up his fatigue jacket, and headed for the door to go outside. Allison watched him make his way across the room. She never felt prouder or more beholden to an individual in her life. With Bobby, there was no flash or style to impress you, there was only his doing. He didn't say much and, probably, he didn't do much, but when he did something or said something, it mattered. And if you were the least bit intelligent, you paid attention.

Following Bobby's exit from the room, Allison reflected on her own periods of doubt over the years regarding this subject. It was not easy for a person who loved their country to stand up and deny support to her neighbors, friends, and fellow citizens when those individuals were put in uniform, handed a gun, and sent abroad to affect this country's misguided foreign policies. How many times had she heard, "When our troops are defending our country, it is not the time for protest," or "Oppose the war if you must, but support the troops." Allison toiled with the dilemmas created by such propositions. In the first instance, the operative phrase was "when the troops are defending our country." Who in their right mind would not support the individuals who go forth to preserve the existence of our country and its citizens? Something is wrong when this defense clause is abused by extending it to encompass pre-emptive wars such as Iraq where no actual danger has been proven to exist. Something was wrong when it was used in Vietnam to justifying the deaths of fifty-eight thousand Americans and millions of Vietnamese when the so-called "Domino Theory" predicted that if we did not fight them over there, then one day we would be fighting them here.

Allison was familiar with the more devious reasoning put forth by supporters of illegal and unjust wars in urging protestors to "Oppose the war if you must, but support the troops." At first glance, it appears a seemingly attractive solution to the fair-minded protestor's dilemma. When given more scrutiny however, problems develop. Asking protestors who oppose an unjust war to support the troops fighting the war is in effect asking protestors to drop their opposition to the war. While one certainly does not want harm to come to our country's soldiers, one cannot exhort our military to carry out the unjust policies of an administration that has expropriated the resources of our country for the ultimate benefit of a select few in the government and corporate elite. This will undoubtedly be seen as a betrayal by many and almost certainly by members of the military who are fighting, but it is essential that the protestors do not falter because history has shown that thousands of military lives can be saved by holding steadfast to the truth. The best way to support our troops is to bring them home as quickly as possible and to realize that the costs already incurred in lives and money are not reversible by the insistence of our misguided leaders in investing more lives and money in an unjust and unnecessary war. The answer is to bring the surviving troops home and do everything we can as individuals and as a civilized society to prevent future administrations from using our military personnel as cannon fodder for the purpose of prosecuting their own illegal and socially destructive agendas.

From across the room Allison heard Sam's voice. "I have a feeling in my gut this is going to be a long and dirty war."
Allison wanted to jump up and dispute his remark as she hated the sound of those words and their horrible implications. Instead, she unconsciously began humming a favorite CCR song she often listened to back in '69:

I see the bad moon rising

I see trouble on the way

I see earthquakes and lightnin'

I see bad times today.

~~ Chapter Twenty-Seven

Passing through the living room early the next morning on her way to the kitchen, Allison was surprised to see that Bobby had already vacated the area. She knew he wasn't in the bathroom since she had just left there. Diverting her course to the balcony, she pushed aside the curtains and opened the glass door stepping out into the cool, mist shrouded, bay area morning. She shivered as she stood there scanning the area for signs of Bobby. _I wonder where he's gone this early_. The VW bus hadn't moved from where she last parked it after taking Lia home.

Turning back into the room, she walked over to the door of the bedroom shared by Sam and Ernest. From the sounds of heavy snoring, she easily concluded they were still sacked out. _He'll turn up when he gets ready. He's a grown man and can find his way around._

Allison turned back to her original mission of making a pot of coffee. Having checked the previous night, she knew exactly where the coffee maker and supplies were. As the pot started perking, she returned to her room to dress for the upcoming day's activities. Two things were on the agenda. First, there was the matter of gathering up enough nerve to go and visit with the professor, if he would even see her that is. Second, she intended to be at the university when the protestors started to gather for whatever actions they may have decided on last night at their meeting. Allison wanted to voice her opposition to the war, but she also wanted to do everything possible to discourage any forms of violence. Too often during her career as a professional in the field of social work, she witnessed the tragedy of family members trying to rectify their problems through reciprocal violence. There were no winners in these internecine battles and, at best, only badly scarred survivors.

Arriving back at the coffee pot fully dressed for the occasion in her oldest, most threadbare pair of jeans and her favorite sweatshirt that had written across the front _War Sucks,_ Allison poured a steaming cup of brew, wrapped a blanket around herself, and headed for a seat out on the balcony. She planned to get herself mentally prepared for the day by first meditating and then having a long talk with her husband. Once more the cool moist air greeted her entrance onto the balcony. Below her, the mist shrouded city by the bay refused to reveal its presence.

When Allison finished her morning mediations, Bobby still had not returned, and the other two loafers remained sacked out like a couple of logs. According to the information collected, nothing would happen at the university until closer to noon. She hated to just sit, and she didn't want to disturb the two sleeping beauties with the noise of depressing television reporters telling how many miles farther into Iraq U.S. troops were by this point. The images of bombs exploding over the city had permanently etched themselves into her brain, so that she felt sure additional footage of similar occurrences served no purpose, except to make her more depressed. What could she do for the next couple of hours?

Allison started going over the limited opportunities available, and in each instance, every idea needed to be saved until later or until more people were available. She asked herself if there wasn't something she could do. A thought occurred to her, and instantly she hurried through the apartment door and descended the stairs two at a time. When she hit the bottom step she headed down the driveway toward the street and turned in the direction that took her down the hill to the residential areas bordering the campus.

Not once during the hurried trip over the maze of streets that led from the professor's home did she stop to get oriented. Latent memories had come alive, guiding her every step along the way. She knew this route by heart having traveled it hundreds of times before. She traveled this same route that fateful night in 1969 not knowing what events awaited her that would change every aspect of her existence. Block after block passed under foot as she headed directly towards the People's Park _,_ her intended destination that night in '69. The attack occurred along that route. A need to find the site had so suddenly overwhelmed her reasoning back at the professor's that she jogged along purposely looking for the spot where her life changed so dramatically. She had been sure she knew exactly where the spot was, but now as she went back over it nothing registered in her mind. All she really knew when she thought about it was there were multiple vacant lots along the route, and the rape, she thought, was committed on one of the lots close to the park. She now stood at the east end of the park, and not a single one of the vacant lots caught her attention.

_I must have passed it_. _Or, it's no longer a vacant lot._ Common sense dictated the latter. Lots weren't going to stay vacant in hot real estate markets like California for thirty years. How would she ever know where it happened? Allison turned to look back along the several block long route. Still, nothing stood out as the crime scene. Slowly, she started retracing the route, resigned to the likelihood of her inability to identify the place even when she got close to it. The necessity of revisiting the site had not occurred to her earlier, but of a sudden, it became important. She had traveled all the way back to this community in large part to exorcise hurtful memories from her consciousness. She wanted to stand before her assaulter and lay the burden of the crime in his hands after carrying it for all these years. Not until a short while ago did she realize the site of the rape was a part of the deal. Now what would she do?

"I thought you would be showing up here," said a familiar voice from behind her. Allison turned to find Bobby strolling up to her from the direction of the park.

"What do you mean?" asked Allison, both surprised and happy to see him.

"I knew you would get around to coming down to this area to find the place where the attack occurred," said Bobby, stopping right beside her.

Allison lowered her head in disappointment. "Well, you knew more than me, because I didn't until a short while ago. It's of no matter now because I can't find it anyway. All the empty lots have been built on. So I guess that's one thing I won't be able to do while I'm here."

"Is it really important for you to find the site? I mean, really important?" asked Bobby.

Allison thought about his question. "I hadn't expected it to be important, but it is. I feel a sense of disappointment that I won't be able to make peace with that small plot of earth."

"Come with me," is all Bobby said as he took her hand and started walking back down the street towards the hills in the distance.

Allison's legs felt as if they had hundred pound weights strapped to them. She instinctively knew Bobby was taking her to the site of the rape. She should have known that he would remember the spot, regardless of what use it served now. Bobby pulled her along at a brisk pace and with each step her breath grew more labored. She felt afraid and thought of screaming for him to stop before it was too late. Before she could decide, he came to an abrupt halt. Allison closed her eyes, lest she see the sight before she prepared herself.

"Do you still want to do this?" asked Bobby.

"Yes. Yes, I need to do this," answered Allison as she labored with her breathing.

"Then open your eyes. This is the place." Bobby's tone sounded apprehensive.

Allison practiced deep breathing exercises until she felt ready to confront her past. One last deep breath and she opened her eyes and turned to see what structure now occupied this most unholy of sites. Her gasp said it all. In front of her stood an attractive two-story building looking older than Allison would have imagined. A small engraved plaque by the front door read, Institute for International Peace. Allison stood speechless.

Bobby said not a word. Rather, he gently, but forcefully took Allison by the shoulders and turned her one hundred eighty degrees to face the other side of the street. Allison's scream could be heard from a distance. Bobby held on tighter as the scene registered in Allison's mind. She had always pictured the attack occurring on the side of the street she always walked on when she came to the park. In a flash, she recalled fighting to get away and then running across the street screaming before her attacker had caught her and dragged her into the tree-covered lot directly across from her. Allison's strength waned, but Bobby's strong arms held her tight as they crossed the street to the still vacant lot. The closer they came the tighter Allison gripped Bobby's arm. Finally, they stood on the far side of the street only inches from the lot's front boundary.

"We're going to the spot where it happened, Allison, so hold on tight if you have to. It's almost over, only a few more steps." Bobby gently guided Allison on to the unsacred soil that had received her blood and tears thirty-four years earlier. Not more than twenty paces on to the site he halted. "This is the place, Allison; I'm sure of it."

Allison sat down on the ground and Bobby joined her there. In front of them, a two-foot-deep depression in the earth fifteen feet across cut the lot in half. It had not been a roadside ditch after all as Allison imagined over the years. Nothing more was said as Bobby's best friend sat beside him quietly weeping for an irreplaceable innocence stolen so long ago. With the butt of a rifle, her attacker smashed the skull of a young woman until her tears and her blood mingled together and spilled upon the ground where it soaked into the soil and lay undisturbed all these years. Nothing would ever bring back what was destroyed; Allison understood that all along. She searched only for that part of her spirit that fell onto the ground that night encapsulated in each painful drop of blood and tears. Reaching down, Allison scooped the loose dirt into the palm of her hand. Looking around at the now peaceful surroundings, Allison lifted up her hand filled with the soil and spoke to the site as if it were a living thing. "I'm taking this with me. It belongs to me."

She turned to her friend. "I'm ready to go now, Bobby. I'm finished here."

The slow walk back to the professor's allowed Allison to see the neighborhood in a different light. Once more she could enjoy this beautiful community as she did in her earlier visit. She had forgotten about that during the intervening years, but now she remembered, and she was glad she did. There was only one additional task in her quest to exorcise the demons from her life. If things went as planned, she would have the opportunity to complete that tomorrow. This morning's unexpected experience gave her extra courage to do what needed to be done. Sometimes good things happen that way.

Television noise and human activity greeted Allison and Bobby's arrival to the apartment. Ernest busily prepared himself to go down and visit with the professor. Supposedly, his decision not to help the professor end his life had already been made, but you couldn't tell it by his constant nervous movement around the apartment. No one inquired as to where they went or what they had been doing. Sam watched CNN with the intensity of a kid viewing cartoons on a Saturday morning. Allison checked the time. The clock read 9:45 a.m. The date on the electronic calendar read Thursday, March 20, 2003.

Bobby took advantage of the lack of activity in and about the bathroom and promptly gathered his personal gear and headed for the shower. Allison poured herself another cup of coffee and sat down beside Sam on the couch. His attention was fixated on the screen. Long columns of tanks and trucks stretching into the dusty horizon dominated the screen. Allison learned that one of the most devastatingly lethal and modern military forces ever put on to the field of battle rolled northward into the interior of Iraq obliterating every enemy force foolish enough to try to block its progress. American flags fluttered in the wind as the vehicles rolled by the CNN cameraman's position in unending succession.

No matter that Allison opposed this war the sight of those brave soldiers going into battle carrying the American flag gave her a feeling of pride. These were her fellow Americans, and once again, they answered the call of their nation's leadership and were prepared to give their all. It was not Allison's intent to diminish or disparage this dedication and commitment of the men and women in the military, but it _was_ her intent to prevent these brave soldiers from being used for purposes other than the legitimate defense of our country. These young men and women on the television screen in front of her, charging into combat across a desert landscape thousands of miles from their homes represented the very best our nation had to offer, and in Allison's opinion, our nation could ill afford to allow nefarious prevaricators representing an oligarchic cabal to waste this precious resource.

Turning away from the screen with a lump in her throat, Allison sought out Ernest to find out about his plans. When did he plan to see the professor? Would he ask if she and the others could also get to see him? Did Ernest still intend to refuse to help bring the professor's suffering to an end? She didn't want to pry, but this was something of a group effort. They came back together for a reason, which revolved around one idea -- helping one another. In her mind, Ernest being a doctor didn't exempt him from needing the group's help.

"What time are you going down to see the professor?" Allison's question knocked Ernest off his stride as he paced back and forth in the kitchen area, separated from the living room only by a long breakfast bar.

"What? Oh, I'm going down at exactly 10," said Ernest turning back to his pacing.

"Will you remember to ask if the rest of us can see him? I honestly don't relish the idea of seeing him this way, but I owe it to the man. He helped save my life." She had to wait until Ernest halted his pacing to get a response.

"What? Oh, sure, I'll remember."

"Are you okay?" asked Allison, deciding to risk his professional wrath.

Ernest abruptly halted his pacing and turned to Allison, taking in a deep breath and exhaling before answering. "No, I don't believe I am, but I will be as soon as I get in to see him. Right now, I'm a guy standing around waiting to say no to a friend asking him for help. Once I'm in there, I can become a doctor again. Doctors know how to deal with these situations, Ernest doesn't."

Allison knew words could not help right now so she showed her support the only way she knew how. She walked over and wrapped her arms as far around his broad girth as she could and squeezed hard. As she stepped back she caught a hint of a grateful smile forming on Ernest's face as he turned and exited the apartment heading for his meeting with the professor.

Bobby returned from tending to his personal hygiene needs to find Allison and Sam staring at CNN. Allison wondered about his reaction to seeing a US Army armored column heading into combat much like he had done so many times himself. These were powerful images as Allison well knew from the reaction they evoked within her own person. What responses they might bring out from Bobby she did not hazard to guess. As the three of them watched, the first reports of combat casualties came across the screen. Four marines had been killed in another part of Iraq. By all accounts, opposition was beginning to stiffen. The real fighting would be ahead as the mechanized units of the Republican Guard, along with other fanatical units loyal to the ruler of Iraq, were expected to block the way to Baghdad, the ultimate objective of the invading forces.

_How many more will be lost_ , Allison asked herself, _before this country's leaders come to their senses, before they admit their mistakes and bring our troops home._

"I've seen enough if you guys have," said Bobby.

"Me, too" added Sam as he picked up the remote and changed to a local channel.

Allison felt a sense of restlessness stirring within her. She needed to do something. Nothing would change unless the people of this country made enough noise to get the attention of their elected representatives. The way to do that was to get the images of thousands and, hopefully, millions of people protesting our participation in this unlawful pre-emptive invasion of another nation on screens around the entire country.

Local reports of destruction and violence by both protestors and the police in the streets of downtown San Francisco that morning brought Allison back to the present. She did not want to hear this kind of information. Earlier that morning, roaming bands of protestors using any form of debris available started blocking the off-ramps into the city's financial district. Motorists trying to get to work were prevented from doing so. Arguments broke out between the protestors and the motorists. Other groups of protestors took over intersections downtown further irritating workers driving to their jobs in the city. Many of the workers were asking why this was happening as they too opposed the war.

The protestors had successfully shut down the federal building by mid-morning. Hundreds of policemen were called in and paid overtime at a time when the city already faced a severe financial crisis that entailed cutting essential services and laying off workers. City officials were angered and confused as to why the protestors were doing this here where the majority of the citizens and public officials openly opposed the war. The report ended by informing the viewers that hundreds of protestors had been arrested.

Allison realized it was time to go down to the university and get involved in a positive way. This morning's disruptive activities across the bay were, in her opinion, not going to help things in the long run. Violence, more often than not, only played into the hands of the people or groups being protested.

"This is starting to depress me. I need to get out of here and start doing something productive. Are you guys coming with me?" Allison got up from the couch and waited for Sam and Bobby to respond.

Bobby held up his hand to speak. Allison looked towards him in anticipation of his response.

"Yo! I'm in," he said.

Sam hesitated for a moment. "I'm with you, but I'm wondering, since you don't think Lia will be able to join us at the protest, maybe we could plan to have lunch later at her restaurant? Why are you staring at me like that? Is there something wrong with having lunch? I said I'm coming with you. All I'm asking is, where are we going to have lunch?"

~~ Chapter Twenty-Eight

Leaving their primary mode of transportation parked safely behind the professor's house, the three middle-aged reconstituted political activists trudged the hilly path of participatory democracy that lead to the plaza in front of the university's main administration building, historically recognized as ground zero for student dissent at Berkeley. Throughout the sixties and on to the present day, students aired their gripes upon this hallowed ground. As the three neared the plaza, an air of anticipation enveloped Allison. They saw groups of students carrying signs proclaiming their opposition to the war in Iraq. _Stop the War, No More Blood for Oil,_ and _Students for Peace_ were but a few of the hastily constructed protest signs carried by many of the gathering demonstrators. Exhilaration best described Allison's response to this public outpouring to the gross abuses of power by the leaders of the country. Only one small thing dampened her enthusiasm, a line of policemen blocking the entrance to the administration building targeted for occupation by the protestors.

"We may have our work cut out for us," remarked Allison.

"What work would that be, by the way?" inquired Sam as he too looked around at the swelling crowd consisting mostly of students.

"We need to do everything we can to keep this protest from turning violent, that's what."

Sam looked out over the nearly one thousand protestors gathered in the plaza. "Okay, I have a plan. I'll take this side. Allison, you take the left side, and Bobby, you go over there to the right. When this crowd gets riled up and starts to look as if they're ready to tear-ass around the area wreaking havoc upon the community, we'll stick out our arms and say, 'Stop, you shouldn't do this.' They'll be so grateful that we stopped them from doing something that might get them into trouble with the police or university officials they will probably want to buy us lunch. When that happens, be sure to mention we're partial to a certain organic pizza and pasta place. What do you think, Bobby? Sound like a workable plan to you?"

"Thank you, Einstein, for another of your brilliant ideas," responded Allison, trying not to laugh. "I suggest we table that plan for the moment and consider simply talking to anyone who starts frothing at the mouth. If we can calm a few of them down before they start going nuts, maybe it will help. That's all."

Sam and Bobby looked at each other and then back to Allison. "We can do that," they said in unison.

By noon, the rally picked up steam. Speakers ascended to a microphone on the steps of the administration building shouting their opposition to the war. As the school administrators along with the campus police stood by, protestors, at the exhortations of their leaders, raised the decibel level of the anti-war chants. 'No Blood for Oil,' they chanted repeatedly. Along with the anti-war chants, other demands were also made by the protestors. Among them was a demand to make the University of Baghdad a sister university, and a guarantee that the university would not increase student fees.

"Some of these people sound more like junior war profiteers than protestors," commented Sam to his companions. "Someone should remind them of the need to stay on message. Don't these kids know any vulgarities? I've heard worse language from girl scouts selling cookies door to door. Plus, all of them look as if they've bathed recently. These people aren't protestors; they're a bunch of politically challenged adolescents auditioning for parts in an upcoming docu-drama about the sixties campus revolution."

Allison ignored Sam's comments and turned her attention to a group of young republicans attempting to distribute yellow ribbons to the protestors. A bad idea by the looks of the less than warm reception they were receiving. Allison admired their dedication, and she regretted that the protestors, when they didn't accept the ribbons offered, showed their anger by grabbing the ribbons and throwing them to the ground to be stomped on. The distributors of the ribbons could not understand why a person would not take a ribbon to support the troops even if they did oppose the war. _Such an inclination for compartmentalization was commonplace on both sides of the political spectrum_ , Allison thought as she went over to assist a young man in his efforts to retrieve the ribbons taken from him and thrown to the ground. Surprise covered the young man's face when he saw Allison and her anti-war sweatshirt down on the ground with him helping gather up the ribbons. _This poor guy's mind is probably really messed up now_. When they both rose to their feet the young man smiled at Allison before turning to move away. Before he could get away, she felt compelled to say something.

"Young man," said Allison, "The message to care for the troops you're promoting with those ribbons is a wonderful message, and I think very few people here oppose it, but there is also another message conveyed by those ribbons to the individuals who sent our soldiers to war -- that what they have done is okay. That's the message we oppose."

The young man said nothing as they both stood together. Then with a nod of the head, he bid Allison good day and went on his way.

Turning back around, Allison saw that Bobby and Sam watched with mild amusement as the well-worn rhetoric emanating from the steps of the administration building persisted. Allison hoped it stayed that way. But no sooner said than undone, right then, without her having witnessed any commands coming from the protest leaders, they turned and led the protestors into the building. No officials tried to stop the surging wave of students. Allison did hear individuals toward the front of the crowd reminding the protestors going into the building as well as the majority of the protestors who were to stay outside that this was a peaceful protest. _So far, so good_ , thought Allison, _so far, so good_.

Allison and her two sidekicks could not have gotten into the building if they wanted to -- which they didn't. She was content to stay outside and voice her support for the student occupiers along with the hundreds of protestors who were now relegated to a supporting role in the recasting of this oft-performed collegiate, coming-of-age happening. One young girl standing close to Allison started displaying signs of becoming overexcited. She repeated the words, "Now I'm really a student activist! Now I'm really a student activist!" Casually, so as not to be noticed, Allison edged closer to the excitable young lady. With each series of anti-war chants the young girl's anger intensified. Allison looked to see if she carried anything that could be used as a weapon, but saw nothing. This young woman was a prime candidate for intervention.

"Wow, this is great isn't it," said Allison as loud as she could to the frothing young woman.

"Huh?" was the shocked response from the girl. "What?" Her spell temporarily broken, she turned her stern countenance towards Allison.

"Right on man, give peace a chance, power to the people, how many times must a cannon ball fly?" Allison answered, using up all of the '60s catch phrases that she could remember.

The young girl starred at Allison as if she were a raving lunatic. "What are you talking about lady? Is that some kind of geriatric speak? What do you want, I'm busy!"

Allison displayed her warmest smile to the rude young woman as she went about the hurried task of talking herself out of grabbing the girl by the ear, sitting her down, and telling her to cool off. Hoping to avert a crisis, Allison started to throw another round of '60s catch phrases at the recalcitrant potential troublemaker. When the young woman spotted the wording on Allison's sweatshirt, her whole demeanor changed.

"Damn lady, that gear you have on is pure money!" the girl said to Allison. Allison, unable to comprehend the meaning of her words, looked to Sam for help.

Sam whispered over Allison's shoulder, "She likes your sweatshirt."

"Oh, thanks. I got this when I was here in '69 doing this same thing," she said to the girl.

"Wow, that's so _phat_! You were here in '69? That's before my folks even. Lady, this is so cool _._ I can't wait to tell my sperm donors I met a legend who was here ten years before they were and is still here doin' the radical."

Allison listened once more for Sam's translation being whispered into her ear. "She's impressed," is all he said.

"Ah, thank you, but are you enjoying the protest? Have you done this before? You seemed as if you were upset."

"Hey, no problem, I'm just chillin'. This is my third time this year. Most of the time I'm just another propeller head, but this lets me vent and have some interaction with the radical Arnolds. Plus, like the rag says, War Sucks! See ya."

The girl promptly walked away, and as she did, the pleasant smile again became an angry snarl, shouting obscenities towards the heavens.

As Allison turned to confront her two friends, she found them both enjoying a good laugh. Allison made a mental note not to do anything like that again. The conversation with the young protestor had aged her by years. She had no idea what the girl said, except for the part about her being older than her parents. That part did register.

For the next couple of hours, the three of them walked around the plaza watching the mostly younger protestors enjoying themselves. Other than shouting and yelling, the group outside the occupied building showed no indication of violence. Things got a little hairy when the campus police informed the protestors inside the building that unless they promptly vacated the premises they would be arrested. Many protestors decided they had displayed enough resistance to authority for one day and got up off the floor and exited the property. The ones who defied the edict, later reported to be one hundred seventeen protestors, were taken out of the building one by one. Most walked out escorted by the police, but several had to be carried outside where they were cited for trespassing and released. All during this process the university officials in attendance requested the students act in a non-violent manner, which they did.

The whole event couldn't have gone much better to Allison's way of thinking as the crowd slowly began to drift away. No one as far as she could see got hurt and nothing had been set on fire. So far, the day had been a success. What else was on their agenda? Turning to her faithful comrades to get their ideas, she got no further than Sam's goofy smile. Instantly, she remembered his request to have lunch at Lia's place. Not bothering to mention the subject, she asked Bobby. "Are you up for some more organic fare, Bobby? I am if you are. We do need to take a pizza back for Ernest."

Bobby offered no resistance, and the three of them began the several block trek to Lia's restaurant. Sam set the pace early on, but he soon realized his companions were not as excited about the plan as he was and slowed down to a more reasonable gait.

"What's your opinion to this point about the methods of protesting around here?" Sam asked Allison as they walked along.

Allison answered promptly, "I'm very pleased at the way it's being handled here at the university on the part of the protestors and the public officials. This is what I had hoped for. Are you guys going to join me this evening at the Civic Center Park where the mayor and some city council members plan to meet to publicly oppose the war? But back to the protest, the only part I'm worried about is what's going on across the bay in the downtown area. I keep hearing reports from different sources that both the protestors and the police are becoming more aggressive in their tactics. I hope things settle down before the big march this Saturday. I plan to be right in the middle of that one."

"If you guys are there, I'll be there with you," said Bobby.

"How about you, Sam? What's your plan?" asked Allison.

Sam walked along at an easy pace as he considered the question. "I'm honestly getting pessimistic about the whole thing -- the protestors, the public officials, us. Just about everybody, I guess."

Allison's ears perked up. Sam provided his thoughts and insights in spurts, and this might be one of those times. He often seemed as if he was disconnected and self-centered, but Allison knew he assessed things as he went along.

"Go on," Allison said in response.

"I've already told you what I think about these fair weather warriors who are leaving their comfortable homes and setting aside their lives of relative ease to come here for a short time to stand in the street and condemn the actions of our government without stopping to realize that to a great extent it's each of their lifestyles that encourages our government to act the way it is. This country cannot function as it does without our government securing and protecting the natural resources we have to have. We must have military forces placed strategically around the world or other countries will take these scarce resources for their own use. Are we ready to change our lives radically enough to eliminate our dependence on these resources and to take back control and responsibility for our lives? If we're not, I believe we're wasting our time here. I think we should sit down and discuss this before we go across the bay and get in the middle of that mess for nothing."

"I also see the possibility of future historians comparing our generation in the same light that they've shone so disparagingly upon those poor dumb southern crackers who so gallantly and stupidly fought and died in the Civil War to preserve an elitist, aristocratic way of life in the old south that held them in complete and utter contempt."

"To a great extent much the same thing is going on right now. Only this time the southern aristocrats have been replaced by an oligarchy made up of lying, greedy politicians, and rich corporate swindlers. The politicians are primarily shills for the corporations to make sure that laws are created or eliminated depending upon if they help or interfere with the systematic plundering and pillaging of our twenty-first century's economic landscape. The nation's leaders secure their positions by completely ignoring economic issues or realities and appealing to a large group of voters and their most closely guarded prejudices relating to God, religion, homosexuality, abortion rights, or any other subject that can be listed in the morality category. And you know what? They fall for it! Millions of supposedly intelligent people completely ignore relevant issues relating to poverty, hunger, disease, human rights, nuclear proliferation, unfair taxation, the national debt, budget deficits, government waste, corporate malfeasance, environmental contamination, destruction of the family farms, the systematic elimination of the entire middle class, and many, many other issues. Instead, like a bunch of lemmings they fall in line and publicly concern themselves with matters more appropriately left to each individual's conscience. The oligarchs through their shills, the politicians, audaciously inform these idiots that it's not the economy, adequate health care, or jobs that matter. It's our lack of morality that our country should concern itself with. It's not because of the oil. It's because of the weapons of mass destruction Iraq might have that we send our young people to be killed thousands of miles from home. It's not because we use our military to go around the world scaring the hell out of people, that the world doesn't like us. It's because they're envious of our success."

They neared their destination and Sam hesitated prior to offering his closing comments. "You know? A hundred years from now the descendents of the survivors of this Orwellian tragedy may very well be saying, 'Those fools! They had it all. They had life by the ass, and they screwed it up. Generations of hardworking men and women toiled and fought to provide a place for their children to have the opportunity to live free in a country where they could enjoy the fruits of their labor and pass their bounty on to their children. By the time the twenty-first century came around, the descendents of these pioneers had grown accustomed to their leisure and the lack of want _._ They forgot the hard lessons of their forebears, and they lost their ability to be self-sufficient. They, instead, ceded these responsibilities to the politicians and the corporations. While these fools busied themselves with matters concerning the way other people confronted the existence of God or a person's sexual orientation or women's right to choose, the oligarchs brought the journey of their ancestors full circle and made these unworthy descendents wards of the corporate state, free only to argue religion and the finer points of morality for the remainder of their now meaningless and increasingly impoverished lives.'"

"Hey, we're here. Let's eat!"

~~ Chapter Twenty-Nine

Sam didn't enter the restaurant right off. Instead, he stepped back from the structure to get an unobstructed view of the two-story brick building. An engraved plaque set in the brick façade near the top of the building proclaimed it was built in 1936. The second floor windows were flanked on each side by dark green louvered shutters, while the first floor consisted mostly of glass shaded by a canvas awning. Except for the neon signs in the front window, the building probably looked very much as it did in 1936.

"I like old buildings," responded Sam to the quizzical stares of his two companions waiting for him at the entrance to the restaurant. "Boy, am I hungry. How about you guys? It's my treat so let's order several different items off the menu, okay?"

The mixed aroma of breads, sauces, and spices greeted their nostrils as they passed through the front door. Allison watched Sam as he smiled and lifted his chin to allow his olfactory senses to have unobstructed access to the full range of scents. The restaurant looked to be mostly empty, which could be expected as they arrived halfway between lunch and dinner. Still, there was no lack of activity in the building. Voices called out from the kitchen, pots and pans banged, and young employees hurried to and fro performing their respective chores. In the background, almost inaudible due to the incessant activity, Allison heard piped in Italian music.

The three of them waited by the cash register stand located close to the entrance hoping someone would take notice of their presence. By the way Sam checked out each area of the restaurant, Allison knew he wanted to verify Lia's presence.

"Sit wherever you want; someone will be right with you." The employee didn't stop as she went by carrying several boxes of supplies to another part of the building. Allison recognized the disappointment on Sam's face as they made their way to a table located next to a side wall halfway between the front and the back of the dining area. Upon getting seated they took notice of the decorations and photographs adorning the walls. Contrary to what one might expect, there were no pictures of canals or gondolas. The theme conveyed by these photographs extolled the virtues of turn of the century Italian farmers harvesting and gathering their crops in the rolling hills of the mother country. Whatever machinery they employed made use of energy provided by men and horses exclusively. The smiling participants projected a sense of contentment with their physically hard but simple lives. Farmers in the photos used no smog-belching gasoline motors, employed no chemicals, and did not worry about a middleman cheating them out of their hard-earned profit. Any thinking person caught up in the hectic pace of modern day life, given the opportunity to contrast the different eras, had to wonder if that simpler kind of life might not be preferable.

"We're still serving off the lunch menu until five o'clock. Can I get you something to drink before you order?" The same young lady who flew by them earlier stood at the table smiling and passing out menus.

Revealing their pent up thirst, all three ordered large beverages with lots of ice. As the waitress started to turn away, Sam, as Allison expected, inquired as to Lia's whereabouts. Told that she was presently in the rear office having hobbled in on crutches right before lunchtime, Sam asked that she be informed that the weird people she delivered pizzas to last evening were here to enjoy more of her delicious cuisine. The waitress assured them their message would be passed along and departed to prepare their drinks.

"Well, are you satisfied?" inquired Allison jokingly.

"I'm getting there, I expect," answered Sam.

"I'm so happy for you, but might not this be a good time to discuss your extremely interesting observations shared on the walk over here?"

"We'll see shortly. So keep -"

"Hey, you guys did come by like you promised," said Lia smiling as she approached the table with the aid of a pair of crutches. She did not look comfortable with her new walking aids, but on she came, intent on greeting her new friends. "I'm so thrilled you came. I hoped that you would. Is someone missing?"

Allison expected Sam to answer, but he didn't, so she spoke up. "I'm afraid Ernest had to involve himself in some important personal matters, but while we are on the subject, we need one of your Lia Specials to take with us so he won't be mad at us for not waiting for him."

"Great! Have you had time to look at the menu? It's not your normal Italian restaurant fare, so don't be afraid to ask questions."

Sam kept quiet to Allison's surprise, so she decided to take control of the situation as was her normal way of doing things anyway.

"Actually, we were hoping you might be able to join us and give us more of your interesting insights, but it looks as if you're busy around here." Allison motioned with her head towards the activity going on in the back of the restaurant.

The next thing that happened brought a smile to Sam's face. Lia pushed aside the extra chair and sat down with a thud leaning her crutches against the wall.

"Tell you the truth I would love to join you guys. My leg is killing me, and I'm not even supposed to be here. If I could afford to listen to my doctor, I wouldn't be here. I've got really good kids working for me, and they're trying to pick up the slack since I can't get around very fast. Our next rush won't start until five o'clock, and I have some time to take a break. So, what sounds good to you?"

For the first time Sam spoke up. "I have a suggestion. Why don't you pick out a few items you think a bunch of mid-westerners might like and order them for us? Keep in mind that we've been out protesting all day, so we're pretty hungry."

"Great! I'd love to. Leave it up to me. This is going to be fun."

Before anyone could say differently, Lia got up from the table, grabbed her crutches, and headed for the kitchen. Five minutes later she hobbled back and reported everything had been arranged. During the interim, the waitress brought the drinks along with warm bread sticks and a delicious dipping sauce.

"Tell me how it feels for you to be back in the trenches protesting again? Has anything changed in the years since you last did this?" Lia asked these questions as she once again put aside her crutches and sat down at the table.

Sam looked to Allison to let her know he intended to defer to her on this question, so Allison took on the responsibility.

"Speaking for myself I can say that I feel exhilarated and humbled at the same time. I love to see young people involved with the affairs of their government at an early age, but at the same time I have never been so aware of my age in my entire life. Without help, I don't understand what these young people are saying most of the time. It's almost as if they speak another language." Allison gave a feigned look of exasperation.

"Don't let that get to you," responded Lia. "I have the same problem with the young people that come to work here and even with my own daughter until she graduated from college and began to pursue a graduate degree. The youth aren't so difficult to understand if you listen to them for a while as I've been able to do. Around here they pretty much talk anyway they want among themselves, but they know better than to use anything other than correct English when conversing with the customers. Sometimes they make me laugh when I overhear some of their off-the-wall stuff. It's completely imbecilic for the most part, in my opinion, but some of it is somewhat ingenious, too."

"Maybe there's hope for me," said Allison, looking relieved. "As far as my compadres _,_ Bobby hasn't spoken on the subject yet, and Sam has finished using his vast legal background to inform us that unless we are willing to become more committed individually to our mission, we are pretty much wasting our time. That's why we love Sam, he keeps us from feeling too good about the world."

Lia looked over towards Sam. "Is that what you are Sam, a lawyer? Lawyers usually frighten me."

"I was a lawyer at one time I admit, but not any longer," answered Sam with a straight face.

"When did you stop?" came the follow up question from Lia.

"Ah, well this morning, actually," responded Sam with the same straight face. "To tell the truth, I've never liked lawyers. I feel so much better now that I've seen the light and have rid myself of that burden."

Lia scrunched her brow and looked around to the other female at the table to verify Sam's response.

"I've had to put up with this since we picked him up on the side of the road in Oklahoma," said Allison. "If you believe this story, you ought to hear about his run in with the potatoes. When you're talking with Sam all you have to remember is, he is either stringing you along with some wild tale or else he is expounding on some philosophical, political, or social concept that will cause you to ask yourself why this man isn't running the world, he's so smart. But, he is one of the three best friends I have. Now my good friend Bobby, on the other hand, is like the young lady said earlier today, 'pure money' when he says something. He's straight forward, easy to understand, and you can take it straight to the bank."

Lia seemed prepared to confront Sam about his penchant for telling tall tales, but the arrival of several platters of food simultaneously halted all discussion not related to the ingestion of food. First came the marinated olives and the bruschetta accompanied by one of Lia's favorite house wines, which Bobby politely excused himself from trying. Then large portions of grilled salmon along with the house special recipe for Tagliatelle al Pollo arrived. Afterwards, they were rewarded with desert consisting of a mango sorbet and lemon pudding with ice cream.

Allison felt certain as she sat there with her two friends drinking cappuccinos that she could now die and leave the world a fulfilled person. She couldn't recall the last time she had enjoyed such a wonderful meal. Her little group moaned with delight throughout the feast. Bobby grinned in spite of the pain of having eaten way too much, and Sam frightened her by sitting there with his eyes closed uttering noises that she suspected held some relationship to an enjoyable sexual experience.

"What words can I use to convey to you how wonderful this meal is," said Allison to Lia who smiled as she intuitively knew how much they had enjoyed the meal.

Sam woke from his trance and offered his thoughts. "You are saying to us that every morsel of this absolutely amazing meal came from purely organic farming operations?"

Lia smiled and replied, "Including the wines."

"This may very well be the best food I have ever eaten in my entire life," added Sam. "With this much taste and quality in your food, you must have an absolute gold mine here. I can't imagine any person who has ever eaten here not coming back every day."

"Thank you all so much. It's so gratifying to hear you say such nice things. It's times like this that makes it worthwhile. I only wish you all could stay here in Berkeley and come back on a regular basis."

Allison sensed from Lia's tone that possibly this restaurant that produced such an amazing dining experience might not be the gold mine Sam referred to earlier.

"What?" asked Sam who obviously did not share Allison's sense of decorum relating to such topics. "Do you mean to tell me the people in this town aren't knocking your doors down everyday to enjoy this wonderful food?"

"I'm sorry if I gave you that idea. I guess I meant to say it's certainly not an easy job, and I do love practically every minute of it, but it is so gratifying to meet people like you who appreciate a small business operator and all the work that goes into making a business like this work. That's all I meant to say. So thank you again for your compliments, and they are definitely appreciated."

Sam had his analytical face on now, so Allison and Bobby knew to listen.

"You know, I've thought a lot about what you said last night about the organic food industry, and it has caused me to begin to think more about the need for people like me to become more knowledgeable and, possibly, become involved in the industry. Does your business participate in the industry on other levels, such as growing the product, refining the product, or marketing and distributing the products to businesses and households?" Sam's heightened interest was obvious.

"I wish," lamented Lia, "that I had the time, energy, and the funds to get more involved in the areas you mentioned. But honestly, I'm so busy on a daily basis keeping the doors open that I have difficulty thinking about other possibilities. Right now, my biggest concern is negotiating a new lease for this building. Before I came it was a run down mess, but now that I'm starting to do well, the owner's talking about doubling my rent which will just about put me back to square one on the ladder of profitability. I've learned that for the small businessperson it's always something. It goes with the territory."

Allison could picture Sam's brain assimilating every morsel of information Lia offered to him and added it to his vast databank of business and legal acumen as he calculated different business models in his mind.

"Last night," said Sam, "my good friend, Bobby, and I talked for a long while about the many interesting aspects of the organic food industry that you mentioned and the many difficulties that small farmers and ranchers experience. Based upon Bobby's concurrence with your dour assessment of the industry's future in face of the ongoing assault from the multi-national corporations, I think this is something I would be interested in taking a look at. Bobby, who I mentioned last night, is a long time farmer and rancher and knows of what you speak."

"If there is anything I can do to help you to learn more, don't hesitate to ask. I think it is wonderful that you're investigating our industry. I only wish more people would do the same. It's small groups working together that will make changes in the world." Lia said, not trying to hide her excitement at Sam's revelation.

"I was hoping you would say that. Before I bother you for information without you knowing anything about my background, I will let you that I am a legitimate businessman as well as an attorney. I propose that you log on the Internet when you have a minute and check out my soon-to-be former law firm's web site. My photo and résumé will give you more insight into my career. Then, if you are still interested, perhaps you will let me review whatever written material you have collected on your industry and later allow me to observe your day to day operations?"

Lia's prompt response came as a surprise. "Why wait? I'll give you piles of information before you leave today. As for learning about what goes on around here, I'll put you to work tomorrow if you really want to learn about this. I can always use more help. One of these days I'll get around to checking out your web site, but I have a good feeling about all of you. It's not everyone who gets up and disrupts their lives to come here and stand in the street to protest the unacceptable activities of our government. Think about it while I find a box for the books and articles I want you to read."

Without waiting for a response, Lia hobbled away from the table leaving the three stuffed but contented diners alone.

"What's on the schedule for tomorrow? Would it be possible for me to miss a day of marching to take Lia up on her offer?" Sam asked in a pleading tone.

Allison wasted no time before turning towards Bobby and directing her response to him. "Bobby and I have some business of our own to take care of tomorrow, so I don't see any problem with you spending the day here checking out ahhhhh...the organic food industry. What do you say, Bobby?"

"Absolutely," responded Bobby in his usual succinct fashion.

"Are you two sure you don't want me to go along with you tomorrow if you are going where I think you are?" inquired Sam.

"We're sure, Sam. Thank you anyway. Bobby and I can handle this one. Tomorrow will be a good day for us to take care of personal matters. Saturday is the day of the big march over in the city, which I hope we can all attend together."

Lia's return halted their conversation.

"Sam, the box is too heavy for me to handle with these crutches, so if you could help me, I would appreciate it. Guys, it looks as if I'm going to have to get back to work as something has come up as usual. Thanks again for coming in and being my guest today; I will be angry if you don't come by before you leave town."

As Allison and Bobby began to get out of their chairs to leave, Sam followed Lia towards the rear of the restaurant to get the box of information she prepared for him along with the pizza they ordered earlier for Ernest.

"Bobby," Allison said to her friend as they helped each other towards the exit door, "I don't ever want to get around this much good food again. The food here is so good it's dangerous. When we stop to say goodbye, hit me with something if I try to order anything. I've gained five pounds already."

~~ Chapter Thirty

The cool early morning dampness mixed with her own perspiration caused Allison to pull the light windbreaker tighter around her torso. One block ahead, the red tiled roof of the professor's house stood out as a beacon guiding her to safe harbor. The long stroll through the hilly neighborhoods located near the campus invigorated her and helped arrange her thoughts. She never ceased being amazed at how effective the simple act of doing something that pumped more blood, ergo more oxygen to the brain, facilitated the fundamental act of thinking. This embodied the totality of what she learned from her study of philosophy, particularly of Aristotle. The guy taught philosophy while walking around with his students because he observed that active people often think more clearly. _Clearly then_ , she deduced, _the leaders of this country must spend their time sitting on_ _their behinds because thinking people don't do the crazy things our government does._

_Ah, but I digress_ , she scolded herself and began to review the previous day's activities. Ernest hadn't arrived back at the apartment until evening. Drained from his encounter, he barely touched the pizza they brought home for him before he went to bed. He planned to be with the professor again today and said the professor intended for him to deliver a letter to her.

Sam and Bobby had accompanied her to the previous evening's candlelight vigil, and once more, she came away pleased with the way the event turned out. Hundreds of students attended with anti-war signs, and although many blocked the streets for a time, most motorists were either unfazed or showed their support for the protestors by honking and waving. The appearance of the mayor along with members of the city council in support of the protestors also impressed her. The realization that not all governmental leaders walked around in lock step with the other rear echelon warmongers lightened Allison's spirit for a fleeting moment. Even the Berkeley police commented on the peaceful nature of the evening's activities.

Too bad the same couldn't be said for the demonstrations occurring across the bay. All day long reports came in about violence on both sides continuing to escalate. Some protestors were found carrying weapons, and the police became even more abusive in their response. By the end of the day police sweeps resulted in the arrest of more than fourteen hundred people, many of them innocent bystanders and elderly people. There was much mayhem already, and the big march didn't go off until Saturday. _What might_ _the situation be like by then_? Allison shuddered at the thought of what waited for them across the bay tomorrow.

Forcing herself to quit thinking about tomorrow, she recalled that Sam and Bobby spent a large part of the evening discussing the organic farming industry and what part they might participate in if it turned out to be something they both wanted. Allison overheard Sam telling Bobby that this is exactly the sort of activity people ought to involve themselves with if the country ever expected to have a chance to be less dependent on foreign resources, starting with oil. Also, it provided healthier food for the consumers, and the environment didn't have to suffer. Together, it added up to three important reasons to look seriously at this opportunity. Sam's small fortune could provide the capital to get them started if Bobby believed the idea held merit. Plus, Sam had the ability to raise almost unlimited amounts of funds for similar valid investment opportunities in the foreseeable future, even if he never went back to work for his old firm.

Bobby said he owned productive land, although heavily in debt, that had produced high-yielding grain crops on a regular basis, which could be converted to organic production along with plenty of acreage for grazing cattle. He also knew of more land available for a fair price. For him, it would be a relief not to be at the mercy of farm markets controlled by the mega-corporations that ultimately established the prices for most everything the small farmer bought or sold. He said as far as he was concerned, if Sam thought the idea held merit, he was in.

After their talk, Sam took over the kitchen table and spent most of the night going over the piles of documentation provided by Lia. From the stacks of written notes on the table the next morning, Allison expected he'd read everything. In no way did this surprise her.

Sam planned to spend the day at the restaurant learning about the food industry from the end user perspective, so Allison hoped he had taken time to rest. The way those young workers ran around the restaurant almost nonstop, he would need to conserve his energy. Allison felt excited for Sam. The thought of someone so smart and energetic getting involved in an industry so important to the future survival of the country encouraged her. She also highly approved of Lia. If she had to pick out a person for Sam, this would be the lady. There was certainly no guarantee that anything would ever get started between them, but Allison could hope.

The only item left on her list for the four to talk about was Sam's suggestion they decide if they were personally willing to do whatever was necessary for the country to change. She agreed, especially since the reports of the violence over in the city started coming in. It didn't make sense to go over there and risk their lives again if they weren't committed to backing the solutions to the country's basic problems. Allison agreed that practically every person in the country contributed to the creation of the reasons our troops were presently on their way into combat thousands of miles from home. We foolishly elected self-serving leaders who pandered to our baser instincts, while we insisted on driving gas guzzling vehicles that keep us at the mercy of every country in the world holding oil reserves. Changes needed to start with each individual and family. Unfortunately, the discussion had to wait until that evening when everyone got back together.

Allison thought to herself, _Sam will be working at the restaurant, Ernest will be meeting with the professor, and Bobby –_

Allison stopped dead still in the middle of the residential street. The realization of what she planned to do that day hit her squarely between the eyes. Every day for thirty-four years she had thought about this day, and now it was here. Today, she, with Bobby's help, would confront the man who raped and beat her in this city almost thirty-four years earlier.

The polite honk of a car horn brought her back to the present, and she hurriedly moved to the side of the road to allow the car to go by.

"Wow, get it together here. If this is the way you're going to act just thinking about it, what will you be like when you confront the guy?"

The morning went by quickly as everyone, except Bobby, prepared for the day's activities. Bobby had publicly assigned himself a simple task: Do whatever was necessary to protect the rear ends of the other three, especially Allison's. He calmly waited as the others bumped into one another during their individual preparations. Eventually, things settled down as first Sam, acting like a school boy on the first day of attending a new school, headed out with his bag of books. Ernest looked worried and weary as he mumbled his goodbyes and headed down the stairs for another round of discussions with the professor and his loyal caregivers. That left Allison and Bobby, and a cell phone for calling a certain local individual who worked in the real estate business.

Allison knew the name of the person who raped and beat her. For years after she arrived home, images of the assault flashed into her mind. Little bits and pieces of the attack appeared from out of nowhere. As she tried to get past the event and direct her activities towards rebuilding her life, her subconscious mind brought the pieces together. Finally, one day, she remembered a face and part of a name.

She recalled that she had met the guy one night months before the attack while having a beer at a local hangout popular with the students at the university. She knew this guy wasn't a student, not full-time at least. He had tried hard to hit on her but even during that period of her social life when her standards for acceptable male companions were fairly liberal, if existent at all, she didn't like this guy. Eventually, she gave some lame excuse and got out of the place. After that, on the infrequent occasion when she saw him again, she couldn't help but notice he paid a lot of attention to her.

His first name was Lance. The little voice she had no control over in her unforgiving sub-consciousness told her this one day from out of nowhere. The recollection came so suddenly that she let out a surprised yelp right in the middle of a boring class on how to fill out new forms required by the government agencies that provided part of their funding. Next came the recollection of the conceited smile that had turned her off so quickly the first night. He bragged about being a surfer at some local beach Allison never heard of before or since. Sporting bleach blonde hair, the guy looked too pale to fulfill the image of the classic California surfer. It was little wonder she didn't put the image of the smirking, conceited surfer and the snarling, profanity-spewing image of her crazed attacker together at first. It made sense after she thought about it. That's how a young guy, not in college, stayed out of the regular army; he joined the National Guard. He went to a couple of meetings each month and the rest of the time he was free to surf and hustle coeds at the bars or anything else. The next important part of the puzzle was his last name, which she couldn't remember, even though, she recalled that it fit perfectly with the image he projected.

She could still remember the date and place when the last name finally came to her. Once more, her attention was directed to something completely unrelated. It happened during the late fall of 1979. She, her husband, and their two children were in a pumpkin patch on the back part of their acreage picking out the choicest pumpkins for Halloween and the pumpkin pies she made for the holiday season. They did this every year since their kids were big enough to walk, and everyone always looked forward to the occasion.

Allison had purposely stood away from her family to capture photographs of the children with their father scampering around to be the first to find the perfect pumpkin. Allison laughed at their antics. That is until her husband playfully recited a nursery rhyme to their daughter who sat crying because she couldn't run as fast as her brother to find the best pumpkin. The event will be forever seared into her memory. The rhyme went: _Peter, Peter, pumpkin eater, had a wife and couldn't keep her. He put her in a pumpkin shell, and there he kept her very well._

She swooned and fell to her knees in a faint as the last name of her attacker unexpectedly came to her. The name was Eater. Lance Eater. That was the rapist's full name. As plain as the gray late fall day right before her eyes, the name came to her. Her family rushed to her side to see what ailed her. It took a moment before Allison could collect herself and assure the frightened faces surrounding her she was okay. She explained she laughed so hard watching them frolic that she got dizzy. She said she was fine and not to worry.

The very next day she went to the local library and looked in the phone book for the entire San Francisco bay area, and sure enough, the name showed up. He still lived in Berkeley, and every year after that, she went to the library to check the new phone book to see if the name was still listed. Every year it showed up and in the middle '80s something else appeared with the listing -- real estate agent. This went on until the year Lance Eater opened his own agency. Every year since then, the ad in the back of the book grew bigger and bigger. He obviously did well in his chosen profession.

The advent of the Internet added a new dimension to Allison's annual investigation into the whereabouts of her despised adversary. The first time she pulled up his web site she almost fainted. Pictured in front of her was a balding, pudgy Lance Eater displaying the same sickening smile that turned her off so many years earlier. Pictured with him was his family, consisting of a wife and two daughters. Without him in the photo, the other people looked normal in every way. All three of the ladies were attractive, and apparently, very proud of their successful father and husband. Allison regretted his good fortune, mostly because it made it harder to despise the man as much as she did, knowing he had two daughters who probably thought he was the greatest person in the world.

Through the years, Allison refused to allow her hatred of this man to completely dominate her existence. Once each year, after verifying that he still lived in the same place, she dedicated a full day to imagining all sorts of mayhem and violence pouring into his life. At the end of an entire day of silently hating and cursing the man's existence, she put the matter aside as best she could, and except for occasional brief recollections of the horror, she officially forgot about it for another year or until she found the nerve to go back to California someday to confront him in person. That someday had arrived.

The appointment was made. Bobby dialed the number and promptly handed Allison the phone to do with as she chose. She could either set up an appointment or hang up and forget about it. She made an appointment with his secretary for 1 p.m. Allison dressed in khaki pants and blue pinpoint oxford dress shirt with a brown cashmere sweater tied around her shoulders. Her hair pulled back from her face revealed the slightest trace of scars only partially removed by cosmetic surgery. An unsuspecting person would not imagine that the attractive lady concerned herself with the possibility of doing physical violence upon Mr. Lance Eater, a long established and respected member of the Berkeley business community. But, she did.

During their short trip to the thirty-four year late meeting, Allison practiced her deep-breathing exercises to calm herself. Bobby was unperturbed as if he were going out to check on his cattle grazing in the south eighty. Allison fully realized as she rode along in the bus with Bobby driving, she could not do what she intended to do today without his help. Not with her husband, not anybody else, only Bobby. This man she had not visited or talked with except on a few occasions over the last thirty-four years would help her gather the courage to finish this overly long chapter in the book of her life. Bobby had told her of his mission to ensure that this small band of warriors, unlike the crew he fought with in Vietnam, did make it back. She harbored no doubts he would die trying, if necessary.

To maintain their image Bobby wisely decided to park the multi-colored bus a half-block away from the building housing the Eater Real Estate Company. _Not exactly Class A commercial lease space, but not bad either,_ observed Allison as she scanned the surrounding area. Out of the bus and strolling along the sidewalk, Allison noticed for the first time that Bobby had borrowed pants and an attractive knit shirt from Sam. He looked every bit the part of the dutiful husband following along behind his wife, not anything like the drunk they found passed out behind a barn in Oklahoma. Right then, for the first time, she knew they could do this. She felt different emotions rushing about in her consciousness, but not fear. No matter what happened here it would not be the result of her being afraid.

The smile on the face of the attractive, sweet young receptionist who greeted them as they walked into the offices of the Eater Real Estate Company, would, under normal circumstances, be disarming. The young lady gave Allison reason to feel as if this few seconds of conversation between them would be the highlight of her day. Allison only hoped the girl never had the personal misfortune to learn the truth about her employer. The receptionist requested they have a seat, and Mr. Eater (hearing someone else say the name reminded her of how it affected her the first time she heard it) would be with them as soon as he finished with an important call. Allison calmly thanked the receptionist and took a seat along side Bobby who had developed a pathetically unconvincing smile. Inwardly, Allison laughed at her friend's well-intended attempt to carry out this ruse as the happy couple, come west to seek a retirement home in the land of eternal youth and unabashed optimism.

"By the way, I'm your wife and my name is Allison Owens. If you don't mind, I'll do most of the talking. Agents usually expect to talk more with the wives anyway. That okay with you?" Allison conveyed a look of confidence as she awaited a reply from Bobby.

"No problem. If you want me to say something, turn and give me the stare, and I'll jump in." Bobby, too, appeared at ease as long as he didn't try to smile. Some people were not built to smile, and Bobby fell into that category.

"Mr. Eater can see you now." The appearance of the receptionist so suddenly took Allison by surprise. Recovering, Allison smiled and rose from the chair to follow her towards the far office or more appropriately, into the arena of overdue retribution, while Bobby, the reluctant husband, dutifully tagged along behind.

_Cheap, gaudy, and totally consistent with the image I had of the man_ , thought Allison by the time she progressed no more than six feet into the heavily carpeted, cheaply paneled, rental center quality furniture saturated office. The entire wall behind the huge pecan wood veneer desk dominated the office and bristled with citations and certificates ascertaining the worthy recipient's expertise and professionalism in the field of filling out forms and hauling people around to houses until they found a new home that would move them up a notch in society's economic pecking order. Off to the side, on a wall above a credenza piled with magazines, real estate books, and manila folders, hung the distinguished trappings of an individual who successfully and wisely joined one of the local National Guard units that did not deploy to Vietnam. Most notable were framed items such as: an Honorable Discharge, an Expert Marksman Certificate, and photos of Private Eater along with several of his part-time soldier pals frolicking with their old World War II rifles while at summer camp. In no way was Allison surprised by this weak attempt to prove his faux patriotism to potential customers.

"Mr. and Mrs. Owens. Please come in and sit down. I'm Lance Eater. How may I be of help to you folks today?" The warm slimy grip of the man's hand brought a feeling of nausea to Allison's stomach. She bravely smiled and endured the moment.

_The man has no idea who I am,_ thought Allison. _It's possible he doesn't even remember the attack. Suck it up; it's time to go to work._

"Thank you so much for meeting with us on such short notice. I can see by your many certificates on the wall that you are the person we need to be talking to."

"Make no mistake about it; you have come to the right place. If you are interested in real estate or want to know something about this side of the bay, I'm your man. Lived here my whole life, and I don't expect to ever live anywhere else. May I call you Allison? I prefer not to stand on formality."

"Of course, and this is my husband, Bobby."

"Excellent. Now Allison and Bobby, how can I help you today?

Although thirty-four years older, he had the same pushy personality she recalled from years ago. Allison could read his thoughts. _Enough of strolling down memory lane_. _Get on with why you came here_.

"My husband and I are interested in finding out about communities as we travel around looking for a place to retire, and we are most interested in learning about Berkeley. Can you help us with this so we can make a final decision from the cities on our list?"

"Absolutely, what do you want to know?"

The man's abruptness revealed his real interest -- closing the deal. The guy most likely looked at life simply. Each day he knew he needed to talk with so many potential buyers or sellers before he signed a deal. Life to him meant numbers. Get face to face with X number of sheep and the averages say you will get to sheer one of them. Don't waste a lot of time on useless details. If the deal's not there, move on. Right now, Mr. Lance Eater had them on the clock, and Allison intended to be the one to close the deal.

"First, tell us about your community. What's life like here for grown ups? Is it all about the university? What about safety issues? Is it safe to be out on the streets at night?"

You could see the wheels turning in his head as he made up his mind if this was worth the time or should he blow them off and get on to the next candidate. Allison and Bobby didn't come across as destitute, but they certainly weren't high dollar from the way they looked and talked.

"All I can tell you is, I am married and we have two daughters that we raised here and have never had any reason to be concerned about their safety. As for quality of life issues for older people, there is more to do around here than the average person can get done in a lifetime. Whatever you like or want to do is within an hour's drive. Have you ever tried surfing? I've surfed my entire life. Maybe that's something you could try. As I said, the possibilities around here are endless."

Allison could tell by his tone he was about at his limit for idle conversation. She had to make a move.

"Wonderful," she said with as much phony enthusiasm as she could produce, "but back to that safety issue for a minute. Are you saying there is never any violence of any sort in the community, nothing to worry about?"

His eyes narrowed indicating he didn't like her insistence upon pursuing this line of questioning. "Oh, well, you know, there are little things that come up from time to time, but nothing more than any other large community wouldn't have to put up with."

"Like what, for instance?"

"You know, domestic problems, an occasional car theft, or a drunk driver, that kind of stuff."

"What about riots? Are there ever any riots around here?"

His eyes narrowed a little more. "You know kids," he laughed. "They can get a little wild at times, and I'll have to admit that's happened around here a couple of times years ago. Kids these days aren't into that kind of stuff. They do that over across the bay where the nut cases go."

"Seems like I remember reading about a riot around here that happened way back in '69. Didn't that one get violent? Didn't they have to bring in the National Guard? I see by your discharge you were in the National Guard. Were you involved in that?"

By this time, his eyes were barely slits, and his fingers drummed constantly on his desk.

"You know folks, I'm sorry, but I forgot I have another appointment. If you don't mind maybe we can get back together after you've looked over the community and -"

"You mentioned you had two daughters. Were they ever accosted by any of the young men in the community? Hopefully, you never had to go to the hospital and find them there beaten and bloody after having been raped. Did anything like that ever happen? I hope not. It's a terrible thing for a young woman to have to go through, being raped and beaten almost to death. Wouldn't you think Mr. Eater?"

The next words out of her rapist's mouth were less than polite. "I want you people out of my office right now, or I'll call the police!"

Allison paid no attention to his threat.

"My real name is Allison Carter and the only reason you're not a murderer is because of this man sitting next to me. He's the one who stopped you from killing me the night you raped me. Do you ever think about that? You were actually going to take another human being's life because you had a hard on, and I happened along at the wrong time. I still can't figure out what kind of low life scumbag would think so little of human life as to commit such a senseless, brutal act. I'm hoping maybe you can explain that to me."

Having had his bluff called on his threat to call the police, he still displayed defiance. "Lady, you're crazy, but regardless, you have no proof or a witness. There were thousands of guardsmen in the city at that time."

"Who said anything about a person in uniform raping me? How did you know that? But even if what you say is true, I have this." Reaching down to pick up the canvas bag she carried as a purse, Allison reached inside and pulled out a faded and bloodied tee shirt and tossed it on the desk. "I was wearing this tee shirt when you attacked me on the night of May 15, 1969. I've had it tested and found there is one other person's blood on the shirt. One of the few things I do remember is digging my nails into the neck of the person who raped me. Considering the amount of blood and flesh found under my nails, I left marks on someone's throat. Probably, the same marks you have on the left side of your throat. You should have gotten a cosmetic surgeon to fix that for you like I did. See here, you can barely tell where you smashed the side of my head with the butt of your rifle."

His eyes told the whole story. He felt no remorse, only the need to escape.

"Lady -"

"The name is Allison! The name of the person you beat and raped is Allison!"

"You can't prove this. What good is the blood without DNA, and do you think whoever did what you said, would be stupid enough to give it to you?"

For the first time Allison looked over to Bobby who took his queue and calmly sat up in the chair and reached forward and picked up two filter cigarettes butts out of the partly filled ashtray on the overly large, cheaply built desk. Smiling politely, he placed them in his shirt pocket.

"Actually, you don't need blood," said Allison calmly. "All you need is hair follicles, skin, or even dried saliva found on old cigarette butts."

Their prey began to squirm, but he had no intention of giving up easily. "Interesting, but perhaps you should have familiarized yourself with the statutes of limitations of this state before you wasted your time coming here. You can't prosecute a person for something that happened that long ago."

The pathetic jerk's excuses and defenses were laughable to Allison. Only she couldn't laugh. What she wanted to do was find a gun and come back and shoot the lying bastard. He displayed not one ounce of remorse over his past actions.

"You are stupid, aren't you?" said Allison. "You have no concept of human decency. You're probably disappointed that you didn't kill me that night because a dead body couldn't show up thirty-four years later and destroy your miserable life. That's what I'm going to do. I'm going to destroy everything you've worked for all these years. You stupid prick, there is no time limit on filing charges relating to violent rape in the state of California."

The accused obviously cared less about Allison's remarks or her personal opinion regarding his IQ, or his character, because his next response still dealt with extricating himself from this horrible dream come back to visit him.

"What do you want, money?"

His tone of voice now revealed a sense of desperation. Allison recognized this and decided to enjoy the sick spectacle.

"Well," he said. "What do you want? You must want something or you wouldn't have come to me first. So what is it?"

Allison and Bobby watched him squirm.

"Damn it! Tell me what you want. I've got my whole life invested in this place. I can't recover from something like this. I'll be ruined. What about my family? What will happen to them if this gets out? Their lives will be ruined too. Damn it, tell me what you want?"

The sound of panic and desperation in the man's voice made Allison feel good. It wasn't much, but, at least, the bastard was scared. Maybe with a little more effort she could get more emotion out of the shameless cretin. Slowly as she looked the man straight in the eyes, she extracted her cell phone from her pocket and prepared to dial a number from a piece of paper she also brought from her pocket.

"Wait, please wait. What are you doing? Who are you calling?"

"I'm going to call the police. That's why I brought the number with me. I don't want anything from you except watching you marched out of a courtroom on your way to jail. Yes, your family will be destroyed, and you need remember who caused it... You! They are going to suffer along with you. Think about that as you sit in a cell."

Maybe he wasn't sorry about how Allison hurt and suffered, but he definitely felt sorrow about what this would do to his own life and to his family. He could not cry for a fellow human being, but he could cry for his own selfish interests. Allison understood as she watched the guy sob like a child that this is all she was going to get from him. Maybe somewhere deep within she had hoped against hope that someday her attacker would show genuine remorse for the hurt inflicted upon her, but that was obviously beyond this sub-human's capability. To hope for remorse was but a waste of time, and she had precious little time left to devote to this thirty-four year old nightmare. She decided she would take what she could get.

Rising from her chair, she walked to the side credenza and picked up a framed picture of his two daughters taken during their late teens.

"I want you to look at me while I talk to you, and if you look away for even a second, I will stop talking and call the police. Good, just like that. Now tell me, you sick bastard, how would you feel if someone did to your daughters what you did to me? How do you think they would feel? Think about one of these innocent girls lying helpless on the ground, beaten unconscious and bloody, and then think about some mindless idiot standing over her with a rifle intending to beat her brains out. Do you have a picture of that in your mind? If you don't, think back to that night when I laid there helpless with my head beat in. Imagine your daughter having to live with that memory while she fought every day not to take a bottle of pills to end the thoughts of that horror forever. Some days she would have the whole bottle of pills in the palm of her hand and start screaming because she was so terrified. Terrified of living another day with the memory of the attack. Terrified of the hurt and pain she would cause her loved ones if she took the pills. If she lived, there would be pain. If she died, there would be pain. Never having hurt another person in her entire life and yet, her whole life is about pain, nothing but pain, a pain that lasts for years and years and years."

Allison returned the photo to the desk. The sobbing individual across from her hardly resembled the confident, brash individual who met them at the door only a quarter-hour earlier. Tears flowed freely as he sat helpless before his judge, jury, and executioner. Allison knew the tears had nothing to do with any remorse over the pain inflicted on her. His every thought dealt with the personal losses of his reputation, business career, friends, family, and ultimately, his freedom. She knew, without a doubt, she had the object of her hatred for all those years right where she wanted him -- crawling at her feet. She held the power to destroy his entire life, to take everything he owned, and even put him in jail. This thought made her feel good. _He's helpless and afraid,_ realized Allison, _like I was helpless and afraid the night he attacked me_.

Allison held all the cards and the next move was up to her as she watched a grown man sob. Whatever her decision, she had no intention of moving from her present spot while the long awaited spectacle took place in front of her. She would be patient as the pathetic individual across from her crawled and begged. She sat back in her chair to watch more of the meltdown. The sobbing figure awaited Allison's official pronouncement of his punishment. Allison's knife-like stare cut his life apart, piece-by-piece.

"What are you going to do?" The helplessness in each pleading word verified what Allison already knew, the man feared for his existence. He felt the terror.

Allison watched the spectacle. He owed her this and more.

"Please, tell me what you are going to do to me. Please!" As the last syllable passed over his lips, his sobbing intensified.

Allison had all her options at the forefront of her mind as she sat there deciding the man's fate. Would she ruin him? Would she put him in jail? What should she do to him? She imagined this scene before, but now something was missing. She no longer felt the hatred. It was gone. After thirty-four years, she no longer felt hate for the man. The figure before her didn't deserve her hate. He was a pathetic, unrepentant, and self-absorbed fraud incapable of dealing with others as human beings. They were merely targets of opportunity.

She also knew his family would suffer more than him. They probably understood what being a functioning human was all about and, likewise, would condemn such a violent and brutal act. Why make them victims of his crime? She made her decision.

Rising to her feet she placed her hands on the top of the desk and leaned towards her soul's former antagonist. "I've devoted thirty-four years of my life to hating you and thinking about what I would do to you someday. If I put you in prison and allow your family to become victims for your lack of the basic concepts of decent behavior other humans possess, I will continue to think about you. If I take time to enjoy the fact that you are sitting in a jail cell, it will detract from the quality of my life because I will be thinking about you. You still have no remorse over the hurt and pain you put into my life, and you never will. You are less than a human being. You are the afterbirth of creation, and you don't deserve to be thought about. I refuse to waste another moment of my life thinking about you. Your evil has sucked the marrow from my life for too long. I'm ready to go, Bobby. We're done here."

Outside the building, side by side, walking back to the rainbow wagon, the two old friends held hands. Allison couldn't help but notice the air smelled fresher, her step felt lighter, and the warm spring sun shone brighter.

~~ Chapter Thirty-One

Allison awakened from the longest, most peaceful nap she had enjoyed in her adult life to the sounds of voices coming from the next room. It took her a moment to orient her thinking. After she recognized her surroundings, the next thought that came to mind brought a smile to her face. The oppressive weight of hating and resenting the pathetic, unrepentant man who almost destroyed her life had vanished. It was a wonderful feeling of freedom she experienced now that she no longer hated. Hate sucked energy out of a person, and Allison had worked doubly hard over the last thirty-four years to compensate for the time and energy she lost hating her rapist, a sad, stupid, poor excuse of a human being. _No more._

She couldn't believe the time, almost 8:30 p.m. She and Bobby had spent the greater part of the afternoon, following the confrontation, enjoying the sites of the city. They strolled along the shopping districts looking for places they might recognize from earlier times. They drove to the bay and enjoyed coffee while watching sail boats glide effortlessly along the waterfront. They put the rainbow wagon through its paces climbing the steep hills above the city searching for lookout points offering scenic vistas of the bay. She topped off the afternoon with a long cell phone call to her husband during which she cried more than she talked. In the end though, she told him how much she loved him and that her long nightmare had ended, no more a presence to steal precious moments from their life. One more day of protesting in the city, and then she would head for home.

Exiting her room, Sam's frenetic movements came into her line of sight first. He prattled away to a befuddled Bobby as he went about the kitchen and living room depositing his personal items. On the dining table, more of Lia's delicious Italian food awaited her inspection. She could make out the pizza box easily, but the other container held a surprise. She overheard him telling Bobby how much he enjoyed the day's experience and how interacting with people again on a more personal and basic level invigorated him. His most glowing compliments, of course, were for Lia. Unless Allison read the signs wrong, this budding relationship was gaining momentum. After a time, Bobby noticed her presence and gave her a pleading look that begged her to take this master of jabberwocky away so he could eat a piece of the delicious Lia Special pizza sitting on the table right in front of him.

"Well hello there, Mr. Happy. How did your day go?" asked Allison as she walked into the room.

Sam halted in mid-sentence and turned his attention towards her. "Hey Allison, come on in and have some pizza. Boy, do I have something to tell -"

"I heard everything you said, Sam, and I am so happy you've found something that is reengaging your wonderful mind. I'm confident you and the rest the world will be much better off for it, especially if you and Bobby decide to get involved in the production side of the industry. So, when's the wedding?"

The comment surprised Sam, but after a moment, his whole face turned into a smile. "You don't miss much, do you? Don't you hate not having surprises in your life? But to answer your question, I'm going slowly with this deal. No pushing things along, but rather I prefer they take their own course, if you know what I mean."

Allison started to say something cute about how obvious his actions were but thought better of it. This wasn't the time for cute, this was the time to rejoice in her friend's happiness. She smiled instead.

Sam slapped his head as if he had forgotten something. "Hell, why am I rattling on here and not asking you how your day went. That's what's important. So tell me, did you do as I hoped and go over there and knock the jerk on his butt, cut his testicles off with dull scissors, and then stomp on them as he squealed like the pig he is?"

Allison's smile became a scowl as she listened to Sam describe the imagined mauling of her old nemesis. Before she could give him a factual account of the confrontation, Bobby jumped excitedly to his feet and gave his version of the story.

"Man, you should have been there, Sam. She had the guy so scared he was crying all over the place. I swear, I think the guy messed his pants. I mean, she had his balls in her fist, and every time she squeezed, he'd let out another yelp, and she still wouldn't let up. I thought I was watching a television show where the cop has figured out all the angles and smacks the bad guy upside the head when he tries to lie or bluff his way out of the mess he's in. This guy begged her over and over, and she kept giving him that Allison look. You don't ever want to see this one coming at you, Sam. I swear it scared me so bad that I almost got up and ran out of the room. Finally, after she described in detail how she planned to take everything he had, she got up and told the sniveling weasel he was so unimportant he wasn't worth the trouble of her going to the little bit of work it would take to destroy his pathetic life. We walked out of there leaving him wallowing in his own filth, bawling like a five year old. Man, it was great!"

Sam turned to Allison displaying a look of approval.

"That's not exactly my recollection of the meeting but suffice to say, it felt good to see the man begging for scraps. The best part is, it's over, really over. The guy no longer means anything to me. When I arrive back home, I expect to have forgotten even his name. So please, after I, or rather Bobby, goes over it one last time for Ernest's benefit, let's not speak of that sub-species ever again."

Sam crossed over to his friend and gave her a hug. "You got it. Only please don't ever give me that look Bobby's talking about, okay?"

The three of them enjoyed fellowship, great pizza, and talked of their past without the usual '60s baggage clogging up the good memories of their too brief period in the sun. Very few things are quite as good or bad as they seem, including their youthful experiences. Often it is only a matter of changing the emotional lens through which one chooses to view past experiences. If depression and resentment are the prevalent feelings, then the recollection of an earlier event will be somewhat altered towards the negative. Conversely, if optimism and goodwill are prominent in a person's thought processes, then a more optimistic lens will be chosen for viewing. They chose to reminisce through the clearer lens of gratitude. It felt good to feel good.

"Oh, and don't anyone try to get away from the table without trying Lia's Italian chocolate cake. She made me promise to report back on what you think of it. Each of us is responsible for one quarter of this baby," said Sam.

After the first bite of an ample slice of dark moist chocolate cake the process became simple. Get as much cake on the fork as possible, put it in your mouth and close your eyes as you sit back and moan with delight. Repeat the above steps until the piece of cake is gone.

No sooner was the last morsel of individual slices ingested than the apartment door opened and Ernest walked into the living room and collapsed on the couch with a thud. He looked haggard, like he just got off a forty-eight hour shift in the emergency room. Given the sensitive and professional nature of his presence in Berkeley, no one attempted to impose upon his privacy. The three people at the dining table waited patiently for their friend to begin talking.

"Well, I'm still not going to do it. They tried hard to bring me around to their way of thinking, and I have to admit I almost gave in after seeing his condition, but I still believe my job is to save lives." Ernest looked towards his three friends for the first time since he came into the apartment. "I don't ever want to go through anything like this again. It's much too difficult on an old man like me."

His friends waited to see if he had anything left to say on the subject. Allison certainly wasn't happy to see him in this depressed state, but at least he talked about it. If he needed more time, they were perfectly willing to wait. But in the meantime, she would get him to eat something.

"Ernest, it looks like you're in luck. Lia sent your favorite pizza home with Sam, the pizza deliveryman. Can I put a piece on a plate for you? As you can see we've almost eaten the whole thing. You better hurry."

Ernest looked at Allison. "Maybe later, I'm not hungry right now."

This bothered Allison. _Ernest does not turn down good food._

"Well then, I'll put the remaining pieces along with this piece of chocolate cake in the fridge for you, okay?"

"Thanks, maybe I'll eat a piece later." Ernest's slumping posture was totally out of character. This matter with the professor weighed heavily upon his shoulders. "Oh, before I forget, the professor wanted me to give you this." Ernest reached into his shirt pocket and pulled out a sheet of rolled up writing paper tied with a blue ribbon. Before he could get up from the couch and take it to Allison, she rushed to where he sat and retrieved the eagerly awaited missive. She turned and went directly into her room without closing the door behind her. As she seated herself on the bed and prepared to untie the ribbon and read the letter, she heard Bobby launch into his rendition of their earlier meeting with the former rapist turned solid citizen. _That should keep them busy for a while_ , she thought as she loosened the ribbon securing the letter.

It required all of her imagination to make out the barely legible words. _My dear sweet Allison_ , it began. The rest of the letter had been written in someone else's steadier hand. _How wonderful and thoughtful for you to come back to see your old friend. I have thought of you often through the years. The image of those sparkling blue eyes residing so confidently amidst the fairest features ever parceled out to a mortal seraph, yet hastens the pace of my tired old heart. Your presence and friendship brought such joy to my life for the brief moments you blessed our community. And now that you have returned, I feel twice blessed._

_Much has changed in our lives since last we visited. Unfortunately, not all has been for the good. Therefore, I must beg your kind indulgence and ask you not to insist upon seeing me in my present deteriorating condition. Alas, as we, through good fortune, ascend into the furthest latitudes of our life's journey we must learn to contend with our physical mortality. Mine is presently upon me, but that is not my point. I weary of the destruction of castles I have built in the air. As I lie here during my waning hours, it is the dreams and remembrances of long ago sunny days and pretty girls' faces that bring me joy. Please, leave me the memory of our sweet spring when you so kindly befriended a fellow traveler in his full stride, not the residue left behind by a malicious disease intent upon doing its worst. Remember me as you met me, and when I'm gone take that vision along with you from time to time as you walk amidst your own castles built upon high. I wish you the sweet joy of eternal springtime._ Scribbled below in his own weakening hand was the author's name, _Helmuth._

Returning to the living room with a look of sorrow, her friends halted their discussion and turned their full attention to Allison.

"He's not going to be able to see us after all," she said in a quivering voice returning to the living room. "Thank you, Ernest, for not telling me how bad it is. The professor wants us to remember him in an earlier time, and that's what I intend to do. I'm sorry you have to carry this burden alone, Ernest. I had no idea it would be like this."

"Don't worry about it. It goes with the job. Don't think you aren't helping me, because you are, all of you."

"Well then, where do we go from here?" asked Allison wanting to get her mind off the letter for the time being. She would give the letter her full attention but not until she was home, away from the storm building up strength across the bay.

"Unless there is something someone has not brought up, I believe for the most part the personal reasons we came back here have either been resolved completely or they are being dealt with to an acceptable degree. Am I correct?" inquired Sam.

The other three agreed.

"Okay, then. That leaves one additional event on our list for us to participate in, and that's the organized demonstration against the war scheduled for tomorrow across the bay. Are we ready to talk about this? I, for one, think we should. I haven't heard today's reports, but all week long it's become more violent."

Ernest spoke up first. "I think I'm going to have some of that pizza now, but before I do, I will once more reiterate that I don't protest. If you guys decide to go, I will go and standby in case any of you get hurt again. You three will have to make this decision. Excuse me, while I get that pizza."

Surprisingly, Bobby spoke up next. "I've already made my speech. If you guys are going, I'm going. I'm opposed to using our troops for purely political as opposed to defensive purposes, and I'm prepared to wear my Vietnam colors into the street to say that publicly. That's pretty much all I have to say, other than I think Sam has some good ideas as to what we have to do as a country to fix things."

Sam and Allison looked to each other to see who went next. Sam nodded for her to go first.

"I've never experienced a day in my life when I have been confronted with so many critically important issues. Today, I finally got up the nerve to confront the man who almost ended my life the first time I came here. The unfathomable relief I experienced from resolving that thirty-four year old hatred is indescribable. Then I receive a letter from a dying friend that I will carry with me next to my heart forever. Now, I am faced with a decision that frightens me to no end. As I have watched the reports from across the bay, my concern grows. I'm becoming more and more afraid of what might happen to me, to us, if we go over there. I have a wonderful family waiting for me back home, and I want to go home this second. I miss them terribly. As I look around at the three of you, I see the same things. We came here with personal issues that are now resolved to the extent that we can go forward with our lives. All of us succeeded with the personal challenges that faced us when we started out, so why not go home and leave well enough alone? We've already fought our war and marched in protest. Let this generation handle it this time, if they even want to." Allison halted for a moment before continuing.

"I believe what Sam said is true. If all we do is go there and risk our lives marching, it will be for nothing because the underlying reasons for our country being in this mess in the first place will continue to exist and cause similar military interventions to happen over and over again. If we don't plan to promote changes in our way of life, we can march and get beaten up forever, and it won't make any difference. It requires a grass roots effort, and it has to start with individuals, with us. As frightening as the whole thing is, I'm prepared to dedicate my life to making it happen. Our founders made their policy decisions based not only upon the effect their decisions had upon their generation, but equally as important, upon future unborn generations. I would do well to keep that in mind during the coming days. If that's the case, then I have to be there in the streets tomorrow to talk to people and tell them violence is not the way, and that the best way to effect change is to change ourselves first. I will be afraid tomorrow when I go into the streets, but knowing you guys are with me, I will find the courage to do what is right. That's about it for me, I guess. Sorry, I got carried away there."

It was Sam's turn. "I can't say it any more eloquently than you guys did just now. I'm in! For the first time in years, I'm excited again about what I'm doing. I see purpose in my life, and I want to thank each of you for helping me to find my way back. We have our work cut out for us. The corporate establishment and their government stooges aren't going to roll over and give up. They will fight us all the way, starting with tomorrow's march. We represent a threat to the status quo. They will come after us with everything they have: money, power, lies, and threats of physical danger, imprisonment, and more. We have to stay committed. Ernest, don't be fooled for there are no innocent bystanders in the vicinity of a political protest. When frightened, pissed-off cops start swinging their sticks, they aren't caring about whose head gets hit. So, one more time, who is getting in the bus tomorrow for a little ride across the bay?" Sam paused and looked around.

"I see four hands counting mine. Great! Let it be duly noted for the record that all the Dandelions will be present and accounted for. I, for one, intend to watch the news to see what went on today and then hit the sack to be rested for the big day."

No one else had anything to add. They knew what they were getting in to. Allison looked around at her old friends thinking about what might happen tomorrow, which brought a favorite English poet's verse to mind.

Gather ye rosebuds while ye may,

Old Time is still a-flying:

And this same flower that smiles to-day,

To-morrow will be dying.

For a brief moment she felt overcome by the growing fear and recalled a day during her adolescence when she foolishly swam further out into a lake than ever before. A feeling of panic had come upon her when she realized how afraid and tired she was and how far she had to go to get back. At the moment, returning home safely to her family seemed just as far away.

~~ Chapter Thirty-Two

The Dandelions slept in the next morning. No one seemed interested in getting the day going. Only a single event required their collective attention this day, but no leader stepped forward to get the show on the road, that is until Allison, tired of waiting for any noise to announce the stirrings of her partners, rousted herself from her bed. To her surprise upon emerging from her room, she discovered Bobby sitting on the couch recording his thoughts into a small notebook. _Hope it's not his last will and testament_.

"Got time to go with me to get some rolls for breakfast?" Bobby looked up to see Allison's smiling face coming in his direction.

"Sure," he answered as he closed his notebook placing it in his fatigue jacket pocket.

"I saw a bakery downtown that looked interesting. Would that work for you, or do you need something more substantial?" Allison sat on the couch pulling on her sandals as she waited for Bobby's response.

"Sounds fine to me. I've not exactly gone wanting for grub on this trip. A few more of Lia's meals, and I'll have another problem to deal with."

"Good, I'm ready. Why don't you drive so I can make a list while we're on the way?" Allison tossed him the keys as she headed for the door.

When they returned a half hour later, the other two members of the group were up and moving around. Both looked less than excited about the coming day's prospects. Sam had planned to reheat a cold piece of pizza before Allison showed him the carton filled with delicious pastries and rolls. The booty of Allison's morning venture was soon spread out upon the table to be enjoyed with hot coffee and light conversation. Although they had plenty of time to prepare for the trip to the city, Allison wanted to make sure they discussed everything that offered the slightest cause for concern.

"Has everyone had enough to eat so we can talk over some things before the morning gets away from us?" Allison looked to each individual to receive a nod of approval. "Good. First off I need to let you know I want to start for home tomorrow. Actually, I want to start home this morning but that wouldn't be the grown up thing to do. What I've accomplished so far by coming here is only half of the reason I decided to make the trip. Today, I need to complete the other part of my mission, and then I can go home with a clearer conscience, aware that the real work has only begun. Any comments?"

Bobby spoke up first as Sam and Ernest considered the new information.

"Fine with me. When you guys go, I go. I have to tell you, although I don't look forward to that long drive back across that desert, it's been worth every bit of the hurt it put on my rear end. Come to think of it, I'll probably get off in Oklahoma City and catch that plane to Dallas. I got up early this morning and went out and made a call. A special person there said she's waited a long time for the real Bobby to come and bring her home. Thanks to you guys, I can finally do that."

The table erupted in applause and congratulations for Bobby's good news. Allison almost knocked Bobby's chair over as she hurried around the table to give him a long hug. This was wonderful news. Allison needed some good news this morning to partially allay her fears of the coming day.

Sitting down in her chair again, a thought occurred to her. "Bobby, why don't you fly directly to Dallas from here, I'm sure we will be out of danger once we leave the bay area. You could be in Dallas two days earlier if you did."

Bobby thought about her proposition before he answered. "Nope, I can wait. If the rainbow wagon can make the trip, I can too."

She knew better than to try to change his mind once he'd made his decision. So without further ado, Allison turned to the other two men. "Anyone else?" she asked.

Ernest spoke up next. "I don't relish the thought of my big behind hurting that much again either, but it looks like I'm set to go. I'll be ready."

That left Sam to add his two cents worth to her plan. "Well, guys I've thought about little else the last several days, and to tell the truth, I don't want to leave. I feel alive here. There are things to get involved in here that are important to the whole country. There's nothing for me back there. There never was. I'm not going to jump ship though, we came out here together in the bus and that's how we'll go back, together."

_Wow_! thought Allison. _All I asked was were they ready to go home_. She, too, wanted to get home as soon as possible, but she had to drive the VW bus. Suddenly, another idea came to her. It made much more sense, plus she suddenly felt it was the right thing to do.

"Since you ingrates are so not looking forward to riding across country with me again in the bus, I have an idea. It makes perfectly good sense to me, so I hope you will agree. Sam, the bus stays here with you. Lia mentioned several times how much she loved it, and really, it deserves more than being stuck for another thirty years in an old barn. It's a peace wagon, and it deserves to stay in the struggle with you. It belongs here, just like you belong here. Will you accept it with my love, thanks, and admiration for what you've already done and what you are going to do?"

Sam looked surprised. He obviously realized how much the bus meant to Allison. "Are you sure? You've had it forever. What if I paid you something for it?"

"Sam, if we talk about what it's worth in money to me, even you don't have that much. It's a gift to you from us. You now will be responsible for part of our legacy, and we know you will treat it accordingly. So on to the next subject -- alternate transportation. I suggest we make flight reservations for tomorrow -- me to St. Louis, Bobby to Dallas, and Ernest to Memphis. Unless there's something else, I suggest we make those reservations now. That will leave plenty of time to get ready for this afternoon. I look forward to this day being over."

It didn't take long to arrange flights for the next day to their respective destinations. Sam insisted on everyone going first class and letting him pay for everything. He was adamant when they tried to refuse his generosity, saying he was going to use his accumulated wealth for the benefit of his friends and the community in the future, starting with them. Besides, trying to put Ernest into a coach seat for a long flight would amount to torture, Sam said, and Ernest agreed. So, if one went first class, all had to go first class.

Allison had one last thing to do before they tempted fate across the bay and that entailed calling her family one more time to tell them how much she loved them. Her fears increased exponentially upon viewing the reports of increased civil unrest on the news last night. Friday violence ruled the day in San Francisco with small groups of protestors and the police increasing their efforts towards harassing one another. Throughout the day, groups of belligerent protestors had disrupted traffic and played havoc with the lives of employees and business people who depended on having access to the area. The police reacted more aggressively by employing sweeps that rounded up people indiscriminately. Along with the small numbers of violent protestors, they arrested non-violent protestors who were exercising their constitutional rights to walk on the sidewalks and voice their complaints. Plus, innocent tourists and people who came into the area on personal business were rounded up in the sweeps and arrested. People were thrown to the ground, beaten, handcuffed, and hauled off in police vans without any attempt to determine why they were in the area. Merchants pleaded on television for the protestors to go elsewhere as their livelihoods were suffering due to their customers being kept away or rounded up in the sweeps if they did make it into the besieged areas. Local politicians condemned the cost the demonstrations placed on the already diminishing public coffers. It looked as if things were building up for an explosion during the coming days.

Allison wanted very much for that not to happen. Violence detracted from their message. Each destructive act cost the peace movement credibility.

This city was on record as being against the war, and it served no purpose to foul your own nest. Preventing violence demanded her presence at the march as much as the need to voice her opposition against the war. She knew how individuals who were prepared for violence could be induced into participating in wanton acts of destruction against property and humans. Both she and Sam had the scars to prove it.

Each made their peace with the unknowable in some manner. Calls had been made to love ones. Non-essential items were left behind, like Sam's Rolex, extra cash, and Allison's rings, except her wedding band. Not intending to get involved, Ernest decided to omit his black beret but keep the dark glasses. He said after what he experienced during the last two days while talking with the professor, the only attitude he wanted to convey was one of humility. Likewise, Bobby seemed content to go as is, meaning he sported his jeans and a jungle fatigue jacket he once wore in combat. Allison donned her favorite long hippie dress and jean jacket, plus her favorite love beads for perhaps the last time. Sam said he would take his leather coat along and if it wasn't too warm, he would wear it. They were ready to go.

As the new owner of their main mode of transportation, Sam sat proudly behind the wheel. Bobby, acting as lookout and scout, sat shotgun while Allison and Ernest gladly located their persons in the rear. Allison took special notice of the sunshine that warmed her face as she walked the short distance to the bus. The day before them held promise if the weather could be counted on as a harbinger of things to come. Just to be sure, she crossed her fingers, then she crossed her arms over her chest, and finally, she crossed her legs. She was in no mood to debate the proven ineffectiveness of such ancient superstitions. She had no doubt there were evil forces afoot in the area, and although they were nowhere close to being supernatural, she was willing to employ any tool at her disposal to ward off any nefarious influences.

The passengers in the vehicle rode along quietly as Sam drove through the sparse Saturday morning traffic towards the main route carrying them across the bay. To an outside observer, the twisting and turning of heads by the vehicle's occupants gave an indication of a group of sightseers out for an early day tour. To an extent, they were right.

"Damn, I must have been stoned out of my head when I was here the first time. I can see the Golden Gate Bridge on the horizon. If we get time, I still want to go across it before we leave. How about you, Sam?" Bobby stared intently towards the imposing sight off in the distance as they approached the Bay Bridge, their gateway to downtown San Francisco.

"Actually, Bobby, I was kidding Allison when I said what I did. I'll admit that I stayed stoned way too much back then, but I did know the difference between the two bridges. Sorry, but you're alone on this one."

Bobby grimaced as Sam gave him the bad news.

"Don't worry about it, Bobby. At least you knew the difference between dried horse crap mixed with weeds and real grass that time when Sam wanted to buy some weed at that truck stop in Arizona. If not for you, he would have smoked a whole bale of horse droppings before he figured it out." Allison couldn't help but smile at the recollection of that poignant occasion of male bonding.

Bobby turned in his seat to signal his thanks for her evening out the score. Sam frowned, "Man, that is so unfair! I had a head injury. I wasn't exactly firing on all cylinders."

Laughter rang out from inside the bus as it made its way across the long bridge connecting the cities of Oakland and Berkeley with the mother ship city, San Francisco. In the distance loomed the distinctive skyline of the city's financial district, forming the backdrop for the watercraft activity taking place out in the bay. Power boats, sail boats, big ships, little ships all traveled about leaving only temporary evidence of their passing, in many respects mimicking the ultimately futile efforts of mankind to mark its own passage upon this earth.

"Sam, do you know where we're going?" asked Allison.

Sam pointed to a sign ahead on the side of the road announcing the exit to the Civic Center. "Ask and you shall be shown the way. I suggest we park away from the area so we can get out more easily when we're ready to go. Okay with everyone if we walk a couple extra blocks?"

Allison couldn't help but notice the increase in traffic going into the city. Sam's idea made sense as the last thing she wanted was to be caught in a mess of exiting traffic when the day ended. "Sounds great to me," she answered.

Ernest and Bobby also went along with the plan, so Sam was given the responsibility to find a temporary safe harbor for their ride. Seeing a line of traffic starting to back up at the first exit, Sam went past it to the next one. His luck held as fewer vehicles queued up to get off there. The next necessity was to locate a parking spot that would ensure a quick exit when it came time to leave. Sam said he wanted nothing to do with the lots where attendants packed them in so tight you were forced to wait for other drivers to move before you could get your car out. The first sign they saw as soon as Sam exited the interstate announced the Civic Center was only blocks away from their present location. The next thing they noticed was a guy holding up a sign on the side of the street advertising choice parking in an enclosed warehouse building for the friendly sum of forty dollars. Sam whipped in so fast that the vehicle following along behind slammed on the breaks to keep from rear-ending the bus. Naturally, there ensued the usual amount of horn blowing and single digit finger waving as the offended driver passed by. The attendant assured them that the building would be open until the last car departed and that no other vehicle would block their exit no matter what time they chose to leave. After parking, they stood outside on the sidewalk deciding which direction offered the quickest route to the demonstration site.

A half block away, hundreds of people, many holding signs, walked merrily along. Figuring that following the herd represented the safest bet, they fell in with the streaming crowd.

"You guys help me remember that its 6th Street we need to come back on," said Sam to the group as the pace picked up.

Allison scoped out her fellow demonstrators as they walked in the direction of ground zero. She realized that the mix of people strolling along laughing and talking did not fit with her image of violent demonstrators. By percentage, less than twenty-five percent were of college age or younger. The great majority were families with young children or adults closer to her age. To Allison, this was both reassuring and disappointing at the same time. It was reassuring in the sense that these people were not going to be precipitating acts of senseless violence and disappointing because the generation which stood to lose the most, apparently, had more important things to do than stand up for their future. The reason for this anomaly was simple for Allison to figure out. There was no draft. _Wait until they start dragging the kids off the campuses and putting them into uniforms like they did during the Vietnam fiasco_ , _then there will be lots of activity from that group. If the people running this war are smart they will do everything they can to refill the ranks when the body bags start arriving home without resorting to the draft. They're not that smart or devious, though,_ she told herself as she finished the depressing thought.

After walking for several blocks, the stream of demonstrators they had joined turned onto a major thoroughfare and merged with a larger flow of peace activists heading for a mass of humanity off in the distance.

Bobby must have sensed they were too late to get up front by following the herd any longer, so he motioned for his friends to follow a splinter group that turned off on a street that intersected their present route at a forty-five degree angle. Two short blocks ahead, they could make out an already swollen mass of humanity talking loudly while waving flags and posters. The noise level increased with each step. From out of nowhere, a jovial man appeared and handed Allison a poster before heading off through the new arrivals to continue passing out signs. She read the words printed boldly across the top and bottom of the poster. "No War on Iraq – No War on the World." _My sentiments exactly,_ she thought as she proudly held the poster aloft.

Allison's concerns lessened by degrees as the group inched its way closer to the plaza where hordes of protestors had staked out positions. The people around her showed no inclination of having an interest in violence. They acted as if they only wanted to make their voices heard through peaceful opposition to the unnecessary violence going on in Iraq. She breathed deeply for the first time and allowed the built up tension to escape her body. There was no need for worry; things were going to be all right. She would be going home alive after all.

Absent the fear, Allison took stock of her surroundings. The pleasant sunny day had already registered in the plus column, but what else was there to see? Hundreds of peaceful protestors impressed her with their festive dress, their singing and laughing, and their constant chattering. Many people, dressed in short-sleeved shirts, reveled in the warm spring sunshine. New leaves, fluttering from the limbs of trees growing up through plots of soil located between the hard surfaced streets and the storefronts, gave notice of a pleasant breeze offering comfort to the fortunate individuals standing on the outer fringes of the ever expanding crowd. Parents faced the speaker stand and lifted their children to their shoulders so they could see first hand the activities going on during the historic event. There were thousands of signs everywhere you looked. _Burn Your SUV, Moms for Peace, No Blood for Oil_ , and _Not in our Name,_ were only a few of the statements offered to the public.

Looking in other directions, Allison noticed the many green-vested organizers of the demonstration who moved among the huge crowd extolling the virtues of peaceful protesting. A glance upwards revealed police observers on roofs as well as in choppers overhead standing ready in case violence occurred. She looked for, but couldn't see, evidence of the presence of any of the major news organizations. This didn't surprise her, though. Coverage of throngs of average Americans protesting the actions of a government, to which the news outlet's multi-national corporate owners were beholden, shouldn't be expected. There would be a mention or a blurb somewhere no doubt, but not extensive coverage.

A sight that did bother Allison was the large disgusting bruises a passing young girl displayed on her bare arms and legs. A cardboard sign hanging around her neck notified everyone that these offensive scars were the result of a police beating she received for exercising her constitutional right of free speech and assembly. The thought of the pretty young woman being beaten, especially, by those who had swore an oath to protect her, caused the bile in Allison's stomach to rise up into her throat. She started sweating profusely and her pulse quickened. She felt lightheaded. Fortunately, Bobby saw what was going on, came to her side, and held firmly to her arm until the moment passed. By the time she regained her composure, the young girl had passed on by. Not, though, before letting people know that violence was close at hand, waiting for an excuse to inflict more pain upon the thousands of ingrates who had the effrontery to stand up and say it was wrong for their country to kill civilians in far off countries.

Everything went about as well as Allison could hope for, and she recovered from the sight of the young girl's bruised and beaten body. Her little group walked around the area and interacted with the other marchers. Not once did Allison see or hear anyone do or say anything to incite violent activity. In fact, the whole occasion was more in line with a music concert but without the loud bands. Unfortunately, she couldn't hear any of the speakers who came to the microphone and caused the people closest to the front to cheer wildly from time to time. Following the speakers, a slow peaceful march on the area's side streets ending up back at the plaza took up the remainder of the afternoon.

As the sun that warmed their bodies throughout the day started to make its way towards the western sky, the festive crowd began to disburse. Allison stood for a moment reveling in the thought of having been a part of so much positive energy. Events such as this gave her hope for her children's future.

She also realized that her good friends and guardians were not about to say it was time to go. They waited for her to decide and would stay there all night if she wanted to.

"I'm ready if you guys are," was all she needed to say. Sam quickly determined the direction they needed to go to get out of the plaza and onto the same route that brought them there earlier. With Sam in the lead, followed by Allison, then Bobby, with Ernest bringing up the rear, they started back to the bus. Sam wasted no time, and the others had to hurry to keep up with his pace.

They came out of the plaza, exiting onto the main thoroughfare traversed earlier while following the crowds on the way to the protest. Allison had a basic idea of where they were heading by this time. Sam had told them to remember 6th Street as the way to get back to the warehouse and their bus. They soon crossed over 9th Street, leaving only three more blocks until they turned.

Along the crowded sidewalks, a group of young people up ahead on the other side of the street sang and danced to music as they went along. _This is the way protest marches should end,_ Allison thought while watching the revelers. The people walking along with them seemed to agree. They pointed and laughed at the antics of the happy marchers on the opposite sidewalk. _And I worried so much about today._ She smiled at the thought of her cautious nature.

_One more block to go,_ she observed as the group crossed over 8th Street. Soon they would be in the home stretch. Everything had gone so well, there was no reason to expect anything different to happen at this late hour.

At the same moment her thought was finished, Allison heard screams and shouting as a group of policemen rushed the music makers. The music ceased abruptly, replaced by shouts and more screams as the policemen encircled the dancers swinging their nightsticks. Innocent protestors fell to the pavement cowering from the onslaught of unprovoked violence.

The people on Allison's side of the street stood in shock at the sudden and unexpected show of brute force. Not a single individual had done anything to justify this response from the police. They merely sang and danced as they legally walked along the sidewalk. No official had confronted the group telling them to stop singing, to stop walking, disperse, or anything else. They simply corralled and attacked peaceful citizens exercising their constitutional rights to free speech and assembly. The officials beating the revelers had sworn to protect those very rights. This was nothing less than a crime and a violation of the Constitution of the United States of America.

The shock quickly wore off and the witnesses to this illegal activity came to their senses and started to scream at the police to stop beating the innocent people. The police paid no heed. Allison watched in horror as five helmeted policemen flailed away at a single helpless individual on the ground. Policemen beat innocent protestors into submission and dragged them away with cords around their necks to waiting police vans. The protestations of the onlookers grew louder. Individuals began to look for things to throw at the unrestrained police officers. Bottles began to bounce off the police vehicles as some of the officers took notice and shielded themselves from the aerial barrage. Still, there was no let up in the unwarranted attack. Angry witnesses arriving on the scene set fire to trash cans and threw them in the direction of the attack. Parents who had brought children to the demonstration shielded them from the violent spectacle. Old people cowered in fear of being targeted by the rampaging officers.

As the unbelievable events happening before her escalated to higher levels of human depravity, Allison froze, unable to comprehend the horrible sight. Every imaginable horror she fought to exorcise from her mind for so long had rematerialized. Nausea and dizziness caused her to reach out for Bobby's strong arm to keep from falling. Sam and Ernest, likewise, closed in around their friend to offer support and protection. Still, the screaming, the shouting, beating, dragging, and bottle throwing didn't stop. Bobby's combat instincts kicked in. With their present position looking precarious and indefensible, he started moving the small group away from the mayhem towards the street corner where they could turn to go to their escape vehicle. Allison, transfixed by the insane events happening only yards away, allowed herself to be led towards safety.

Only steps short of breaking free from the nightmare, Allison spotted a group of bicycle riders converging on the scene. Even in her distressed state of mind, she realized this was not the time, nor the place to be riding a bicycle. Someone had to tell them to get the hell away. They would be sitting ducks. It was then that she caught sight of the young woman she had seen earlier that day walking around with the sign around her neck. The young woman rode along blithely with the group unaware danger existed. The closer she came, the more visible were her vulgar bruises, even with the light of day fading. Allison's outrage returned once more. _What sort of inhuman creature could do that to such a lovely young girl?_

As Allison observed the mayhem, the other three concentrated on getting far away from the area as quickly as possible. They almost made it. The police, having beaten and arrested most of the original group of innocent citizens, now turned their attention towards the newly arrived bicyclists. The bicyclists never had a chance. The officers swarmed over them like locusts, knocking riders to the ground to beat them with their nightsticks. Allison jerked away from Bobby and started in the direction of the girl with the bruises to warn her to run away. Before she could shout a warning, a charging policeman knocked the girl from her bike. She fell to the hard street surface with a sickening thud. Allison screamed, but the attack had already begun. The officer kicked the bike out of the way to get a clearer shot at his helpless victim lying dazed on the street. He raised his nightstick as he grabbed the girl by the arm, pulling her away from the ground and hitting her across the shoulders with his club. Allison screamed as she charged the girl's attacker. Nothing mattered anymore to Allison except protecting the helpless victim from a madman in a uniform.

In the time it took to close the distance, memories of the sheer horror that enveloped her own fading consciousness the night she was attacked flashed before her eyes. This would not happen again as long as she had life in her body. The attacker raised his nightstick, once again assured of a clear shot at his victim. Allison, running as fast as she could, screamed like a crazed banshee and threw a body block into the side of the officer as his club started its descent. It was a perfect blind side hit. The officer's nightstick went flying. Allison's desperate act took him out of the play. The officer moaned and lay there with the wind knocked out of him. Allison crawled to the helpless girl who was lying on the street crying hysterically. Throwing her own body on top of the terrified girl, Allison assured her she would not let anyone hurt her again.

Allison's desperate act had caught Bobby off guard. He came to his senses in time to react as another officer stood over the two women swinging his nightstick giving the back of Allison's head and shoulders a hard, but glancing, blow. He never got another swing. Bobby's forearm smashed into the side of the officer's helmeted head and sent him reeling to the ground several feet away. Bobby followed Allison's lead and hurriedly laid his body on top of the two women. This small piece of real estate was starting to get crowded. Three innocent protestors huddled in a defensive pile, while two of San Francisco's finest lay to one side temporarily incapacitated.

The violence surrounding the attack on the three people in the pile might have ended, but more officers noticed the plight of their comrades and rushed to the pile. This time no less than two beefy officers arrived flailing away at Bobby's head and backside with their nightsticks. Things looked bad, especially for Bobby, as the attackers started to find their rhythm. Like two woodchoppers taking alternating swings at a big log, they zeroed in on the back of Bobby's shoulders and neck. The flailing officers forgot to cover their rear and left open a clear shot for a third member of the Dandelions to take them both out with another devastating body block. Sam was faster than Bobby and built up enough speed so that his thin physique had sufficient force to put two more misguided representatives of the law on the sidelines.

Unlike Bobby, Sam did not try to make the pile of victims larger, but instead tried to get them to their feet to run. Most everyone's attention now was directed to this particular spot in the street. Four officers had the wind knocked out of them, and four civilians, three beaten and bruised, huddled in wait for the next assault on their lives.

Four more officers ran to the pile and encircled the four flaunters of their authority. Allison protected the girl with her own body as Sam and Bobby fought off their attackers by using their feet to kick outwards in self-defense. The surrounding crowd watching the event screamed and yelled their support for the innocent victims in the street who were fighting for their lives. Their opposition had no effect on the anger of the officials swinging the nightsticks like mad men. As hard and as fast as they were swinging, only a fool would think they wanted merely to subdue these lawless contrarians who refused to concede their constitutional rights to law enforcement officials acting entirely outside the law.

The sheer savagery of the attack perpetrated by the wild-eyed officers standing over the unyielding foursome began to take its toll. A glancing blow to the side of Sam's head took out one whole side of the defensive perimeter. Bobby fought on with his feet and his arms, but it was only a matter of time until he also would be rendered helpless. Three of the Dandelions were almost down for the count, leaving only one to salvage their beaten carcasses and carry the remains home to the grieving love ones. Ernest though, wasn't quite ready to concede the demise of his friends.

Once again, four of San Francisco's finest forgot to cover their asses. Engrossed in flailing away at the struggling pile of humans on the ground in front of them, they didn't notice a two hundred ninety pound, pissed-off, ex-Black Panther turned physician heading their way. Ernest should have been a professional football player. His flying block sent all four officers flying up in the air like bowling pins. He cleared out eight hundred pounds of human flesh and bone with a single hit. Compared to the hit Ernest delivered, the body blocks Sam and Bobby inflicted were like love taps. Now eight officers were down in the street with the wind knocked out of them wondering if anyone got the license number of the truck that hit them.

Ernest rolled to his feet quickly and hurried to his companions to see how badly they were hurt. He displayed complete disregard towards the backup force of officers preparing to head his way. He only concerned himself with the safety of his friends. He checked Sam and found a large knot and some blood on his head but was relieved that he had apparently received only a glancing blow. Bobby had welts on his shins and a knot on the back of his head, which he said amounted to nothing. Allison, likewise, had a welt across the back of her neck and a sore head but otherwise, looked okay. The young girl, although shaken and bruised by the unexpected attack, suffered no life threatening injuries.

Despite the screams of the surrounding crowd to halt the police violence against innocent people, a new larger force of officers started in the direction of the group. Everyone expected the worst. Who would save them if the people who are supposed to do the protecting were the ones breaking the law? They had put up the good fight and had given it their all, but it looked as if they were done for.

Allison still had a job to do. As long as she was conscious, she intended to protect the young woman. She brought her three friends to their feet and formed a tight circle around the frightened girl. Holding hands, the four of them formed a defensive perimeter around their ward. Here the Dandelions would make their stand.

The crowd noise suddenly grew to a crescendo as bright lights from a roving local TV live news team illuminated the scene. They charged to the front with lights ablaze and cameras rolling. This unexpected activity stopped the newly formed attacking force in their tracks. That's all that was needed for the hundreds of protestors and bystanders who had observed the brave efforts of four old hippies to save an innocent young woman. The crowd charged to the front to form a formidable line of defense between the officers seeking revenge and the bruised and bloodied, but not beaten, Dandelions. Guiding hands then hustled the small group out of the crowd towards safety. Behind them, the noise of the new defenders guarding their escape grew louder. More television crews converged on the scene. The police would have their hands full with this unwelcomed activity long enough to let the group turn the corner with their rescuers and make a run towards a waiting van idling with its rear doors open.

Still in shock, neither Allison nor her limping companions asked questions as they were being led away from the site of the brawl. Allison held tightly to the girl's hand the whole time they ran. Arriving at the van, Allison waited to be the last one to enter. A young man in charge of the rescue attempt came up to Allison.

"Please ma'am, we don't have any time. You have to get in. We'll take care of Rachael now. Bless you for doing what you did back there. The message of your generation still lives on in many of us. We won't forget what we saw you do here tonight, and we will tell everyone we meet of your courage." He addressed the girl, "Rachael, we have to hurry if we want to get them away safely." Then he turned and entered into the passenger side of the waiting van.

Allison turned to the girl whose hand she still held in hers. "It's nice to meet you Rachael, my name is Allison. Are you all right?"

The girl came forward and put her arms around Allison's neck and hugged her as if she were holding on for her life. Stepping back and wiping tears from her eyes with the back of her hand, she said in a quivering voice, "Thank you for what you did. I can only hope that someday I will be the kind of person who will do the same thing if the time ever arises. I won't ever forget you." Turning away, she joined others in a second vehicle waiting in front of the van. Allison entered the waiting van with her friends and took a seat. The truck immediately moved away leaving the scene of the nightmare behind.

Ernest filled the role of a physician once more. He busied himself tending to the cuts and bruises of his friends while he asked typical doctor questions about blurred vision, dizziness, on and on.

Bobby spoke first. "I ain't never seen nothing like that before! Did you guys see that? Ernest took out the whole damn bunch of 'em with one hit. Boom! I looked up and saw bodies flyin' everywhere. Damn, I ain't never seen nothin' like that!"

Ernest paid his chuckling friends no mind as he went about his work.

Allison looked at each of her bruised but steadfast companions. She agreed that Bobby said it best, "Damn, I ain't never seen nothin' like that!"

~~ Chapter Thirty-Three

"How am I ever going to hide this?" Allison frowned as she looked at the reflection of her bruised back and shoulder in the mirror the next morning. The thought occurred to her that she wouldn't, nor should she. Scott needed to know what happened. She would never keep anything from him again, no matter what.

_What a story I'm going to have to tell my poor husband_ , she thought as she prepared for the coming day. After she finished telling him of her experiences, she expected never to be allowed to leave home alone again. She had thought the story wild enough before yesterday, but when she added the melee they got caught up in last evening the whole thing came off as surreal. _Maybe it is surreal_ , _but it's also over. It's finished._

When they made it back to the professor's rear apartment last night in the rescue van with Sam leading the way in the bus, they celebrated a joyous moment. How they escaped that mess with their lives and their freedom amounted to nothing less than a miracle. Once again, the young man driving the van expressed thanks and admiration for the heroic effort to save his friend. What the Dandelion _s_ had done represented the stuff of legends, he said before driving away into the night to prepare for the next day's demonstrations.

The first thing the four did once they were safely inside the apartment was come together in an extemporaneous group hug. No one said anything for the longest time. No words adequately described the relief they felt at having survived being thrown into the arena again. Bobby succinctly summed things up once more with his now classic statement, "Damn, I ain't never seen nothin' like that!" The group dissolved into unrestrained laughter before releasing their hold on one another. Standing apart they got a good look at the damage inflicted by the nightsticks. A trickle of blood ran down Sam's neck from the abrasion on the side of his head. Allison's hair looked as if she had been in a tornado and although you couldn't see the welts on the back of her head and shoulder, her elbows were scraped and bleeding. One of the sleeves of Bobby's fatigue jacket was torn, revealing another bloody elbow. The viewers could only imagine what his shins and knees looked like. Only Ernest looked anywhere close to normal.

This time Sam came up with the appropriate words for the situation. "You know, we are going to have to stop meeting like this!"

Once more laughter followed. Ernest prepared a pot of hot soothing herbal tea and persuaded them to sit down and allow the prolonged adrenalin rush to subside. Next, he forced them to spend time under a hot shower. After that, they hit the sack with Allison leading the way. She slept straight through until 6 a.m. the next morning.

Allison awoke with thoughts of calling home. She had thought about it last night, but Ernest suggested she wait until she calmed down a bit. She knew he was right; she would have scared her husband to death with her crying after coming so close to being beaten to death by a public official. She decided to wait until they headed to the airport. Having made this decision, she went quietly to the kitchen to make coffee.

With a fresh cup of hot coffee, she sat on the balcony enjoying the cool morning air while looking out over the bay. The 'Best Grandma' sweatshirt she wore warded off the chill accompanying the cool mist. She leaned back in her chair to close her eyes and reflect on the things that had happened to her since she left home a week ago today. The bump on her head reminded her of the brawl. Reaching up to massage her sore neck, Allison thought of the young girl. To have been able to prevent a public beating of an innocent girl and receive such a compliment as she did made her sore neck and the bump on her head worth it. How long she sat there half-thinking and half-dozing before Bobby returned from an early morning outing carrying two plastic bags full of goodies, she wasn't sure.

Bobby didn't have Allison's talent for moving around the apartment quietly. You could hear him stomping up the steps a mile away and the front door slam from a block away before his initial morning greeting to Allison echoed throughout the apartment. Allison encouraged him to be more discreet, but it didn't work. Bobby wasn't one to pay attention to subtle signs and whispering pleas, so within minutes the newly awakened twosome of Ernest and Sam came clomping out of the bedroom rubbing their eyes.

"Hey fellas," I walked down to the twenty-four hour market and picked up a few things for breakfast. I got the good stuff: donuts, some juice, and even a couple of apples for Allison. Come on over and dig in."

Ernest went to splash some water on his face while Sam came straight to the table full of goodies. Allison poured him a cup of coffee and set it on the table.

"How's your head?" asked Allison. "Mine's pretty much back to normal."

Sam felt the side of his head before he answered. Ernest had put a bandage on the place where the skin was broken. "No complaints. I think I'm going to make it another day. The only thing I'm worried about is the bill Ernest is going to send me. I'm sure I'm going to have to get a loan to pay for it."

"I heard that," said a voice from behind Allison as Ernest returned to the room. "Looks like you're going to be in luck as I still don't know how the billing system in my son's office works. It looks like you bunch of dead beats are going to get off light."

As Ernest sat down at the table, Allison automatically shoved the bag of donuts his way. Ernest thought for a moment before he pushed the bag away and reached for one of the apples Bobby purchased with Allison in mind. Allison smiled in amazement at this unexpected event.

"Have you talked to Rosa Lee? I swear I haven't said a word," blurted Allison, fearful of being blamed for his wife finding out how badly he had eaten.

Ernest laughed. "That's not it. I've been thinking that if I want to be around to enjoy these future outings we're planning as a group, I should start practicing what I preach. Starting today, I'm going to try hard to eat more sensibly and not sit around watching sports on the tube so much. When we get together this fall at Bobby's, I hope you will see a new man. Be forewarned that you will not be able to depend upon my heft to get you out of the next street fight."

His three friends applauded, excited about the prospect of having their friend around longer and offered their congratulations and support for his new undertaking.

"Now to a more important topic: How are all of you feeling this morning? Is anything worse, any dizziness?" Ernest looked inquiringly at each of his friends as they responded in the negative. "Well, excellent then, and that will be another fifty bucks on each of your bills."

The injured parties groaned at the announcement, and Sam said he was going to turn it over to his lawyer.

The laughter died down and gave Allison, always the organizer, an opportunity to bring up a couple of items she felt they needed to discuss. The first dealt with traveling schedules.

"Okay gang, I think we need to organize our plan to head to the airport so we can spend as much time visiting as possible before it's time to go. My flight out of Oakland International takes off at 1:45 p.m., Bobby's takes off at 11:30 a.m. from the same place, and Ernest's leaves out of Oakland at 2:30 p.m. Since Bobby needs to be at the airport by 10:30 a.m. I suggest we leave here by 10 a.m. Anyone have another idea or suggestion?"

Bobby nodded his head in agreement as did Sam. Only Ernest failed to give an indication of his thoughts.

"What about you, Ernest? Do you want to go over earlier or later?" she asked.

Ernest looked up revealing a troubled man.

"I stayed awake most of the night thinking about the main reason I came out here with you wonderful people," he said quietly. "From the moment I set foot in the bus in Memphis I had made up my mind. I told myself I was in the healing business, period. For a variety of basically selfish reasons I took no part in discussing or participating in the _Right to Die_ controversy. I realize my decision was based upon not having had to ever deal with the slow agonizing death of a loved one. That has now changed. A dear friend has asked me as a friend to help him in this moment of his great despair. I will not tell you what my intentions are, but I will tell you that I will not be flying home today after all. I'll be staying awhile longer."

There was no celebration or applause as before when Ernest announced his new food plan. No one jumped up, slapped him on the back, or said well done. Instead, they offered understanding smiles and looks of admiration. Once more, Allison looked from friend to friend appreciating her good fortune. She felt truly blessed to have these three good people in her life.

"Okay," said Allison, "that takes care of the travel issue, so on to the last item on my list. What the hell do we do now? Apart from our personal triumphs, what have we accomplished? What do we need to do now as individuals and as a group? I am quite certain that violence only brings on more violence as we saw last night. I'm not sorry for what we did, but I am sorry we had to do it. Each act of violence, I am convinced, detracts from our message of peace. If they are able to draw us down to their level by inciting us to violence, then we have lost. Somehow we have to stay above that and use our role models to draw wisdom from those such as Martin Luther King and Gandhi." Allison wasn't done and her friends knew it.

"I guess what confuses me most is how seemingly intelligent people, and I include myself at times, are able to compartmentalize the issues into separate, disconnected sectors. How do peace marchers reconcile doing acts of destruction while promoting non-violence and peace? How are officers of the law able to convince themselves its part of their job to throw citizens they are sworn to protect to the street and beat them until they are unconscious? How can a predominantly Christian nation support the bombing of cities full of innocent women and children under any circumstance? How can the officers of giant corporations and their stockholders who have families, jobs, hopes, and dreams permit the systematic destruction and impoverishment of the entire middle class of wage earners in this country by allowing corporate officers to receive obscene and unjustified salaries while ensuring the few fortunate stockholders that double digit returns for their retirement portfolios are right around the corner? How is it that the local politicians, merchants, inn keepers, and workers in downtown San Francisco and elsewhere are far more concerned with their own little piece of the pie than the welfare of the soldiers who are going off to die for a lie? How is it that the average American knows more about professional sports, what's playing at the movies or on television, what celebrity is in rehab, how much a new SUV costs, what the neighbor lady or man is really doing on those nights when they are supposed to be working late, and who has been listed as filing for bankruptcy in the local newspaper than they know about how much money their government is borrowing from foreign countries to pay for bogus pre-emptive wars that are going to eventually have to be paid back by our children? Why is the great chasm separating the rich and everybody else in this country and the world growing larger every year? Why does a country that produces more than enough food to feed itself and most of the world and has so many obese people allow so many members of its population to go hungry? Why does hard science have to repeatedly fight to keep from sinking into a veritable ocean of debunked superstitions? Those are a few of the questions I have, and if you guys can give me some help before we go our separate ways, I would appreciate it."

Allison wondered who would respond to her request for help. Ernest and Bobby wasted no time turning their stares towards Sam. Sam would, as usual, be the man to take up the challenge for them.

Taking a deep breath, Sam began, "I'm not sure I can remember everything you said, Allison, and I'm not intending to make light of your concerns. I will tell you that, in my opinion, most of your questions dissolve into a single reality. The reality is, best I can tell, that every concern you alluded to is but a symptom of a potentially terminal illness caused by our society having become accustomed to excess in our lives. Over the last fifty years, the citizens of this country have grown accustomed to more of everything. Our standard of living is the highest in the world. We consume thirty percent of the world's resources and produce twenty-five percent of the world's pollution while we represent less than three percent of the world's population. Although we constantly bitch about it, our taxes are but a fraction of what other developed countries collect from their citizens. We provide for our way of life by borrowing money from our children and foreigners every day. We spend more money on military preparations than most of the other countries in the world together. The values that brought this nation into existence are for the greater part a memory. We are quickly becoming an obese, self-centered, ungrateful, well-armed nation addicted to copious amounts of cheap fossil fuels while we are becoming increasingly prone to listening to demagogues telling us that the world is our oyster or that others are to blame for everything going wrong. We are in the process of becoming a nation without any purpose other than entertaining ourselves, consuming as much of the world's resources as fast as we can and showing those upstarts who might get in our way where they belong in the pecking order. The rest of the world is beginning to grow weary of our excessive lifestyle and our holier than thou act."

Sam took a sip of his coffee. "I believe we need to change our entire way of life if we expect to survive as a nation. We must learn to become a participant in the world community and expect only our fair share. Otherwise, the world will gradually pass us by, leaving us isolated and alone and without our former manufacturing facilities and our superior technological base that the large corporations have moved off shore to achieve greater profits for their dwindling numbers of individual shareholders. Our politics must move back towards the center, away from extremist viewpoints. Contrary to what one of our former presidents said, "Extremism is a vice."

"We will have to do this from the bottom up. The solution does not start at the top with our so-called leaders; it starts at the grass roots level with individuals. One person at a time is how we will have to do it. We need to become role models and let our deeds speak for us. It will be a tedious process, and we don't have an excess of time. I plan to change the way I live from this day forward, and I hope that I can become an example to others and stand ready to help others make the transition when they are ready. Finally, Allison is right when she says we cannot be drawn into their desperate acts of violence; if we do, we will lose. That may very well be the most difficult part of the transition. I, for one, am ready to start."

Allison's smile told them she had heard what she needed to hear. She, too, was ready to make dramatic changes when she got home.

Bobby went next. "I get the gist of what needs to be done, and I'm in. I feel good that I'll have you guys as role models. Apart from the organic farming idea Sam and I are going to pursue, I plan to devote time to putting out the word on supporting our troops in other ways than watching them die for the wrong causes. I want people to know we don't have to stand by quietly, too afraid to say anything about our troops being used for purposes other than the defense of our country. We have our work cut out for us."

As soon as Bobby indicated he was finished, Ernest jumped in. "Like Bobby said, I'm in. One thing that I am going to do is to reconnect to those individuals who have been lured to the dark side or to the extremist view points. I believe they are reachable, and I am going to seek them out. I won't be surprised if many of the people who supported the present administration did so out of feeling left out. We need to make sure everyone who shares our basic values has an opportunity to be heard. We have to stop being intellectuals, hanging out in ivory towers expecting the average working man and woman to appreciate us for our smarts. People don't like to be ignored. I believe at the end of the day, we represent more of the qualities they deem important than do the hucksters who lured them away with empty rhetoric and promises."

They had their marching orders. Maybe _The Dandelion Manifesto_ existed only in their collective minds, but they would go forward from today teaching others by their good works, not by handing out pamphlets and preaching.

With the remaining time, they turned their conversations to other matters. They talked about the trip, how things had changed, and how unfortunately, some things had not. They spoke of their families and their communities, of happy days from the past, and brighter days to come. Each individual spoke openly, unafraid of inadvertently revealing too much. They were among real friends and safe, not that common an occurrence in today's society.

When the hour of departure finally arrived, none were ready to say goodbye. Once again, each of their lives had benefited immeasurably by their coming together. Now the time had come for them to part once more to go their separate ways. A lifetime had separated them, but that would not be the case in the future. Each realized now how important the other members of the Dandelions were to their individual lives. They vowed to stay in touch regularly, and no one doubted they would. Within a few more years their lives would be coming around the far turn, heading for the homestretch. They looked forward to having their unique friendship to help one another make that journey.

Unlike the first time they parted, no crowds of travelers rushed past them to catch trains. Only the cool morning air rising off the bay down below and a residential neighborhood resting quietly, not yet willing to take part in another day, bid them farewell. Allison swore she would not cry this time, but she did. The guys sucked it up as best they could but their voices betrayed them as there are other ways to cry. Ernest embraced everyone heartily, including Sam who was only taking Allison and Bobby to the airport, before turning away abruptly and going inside to tell the professor he would be staying. Allison and Bobby watched as their friend walked away, sad that they were parting but sadder yet over the difficult task that awaited him.

The ride down the hill through Berkeley was a pleasant ride this time, unlike the nervousness they experienced during their escape from the city in '69. Back then, the accompanying attitude was one of anger, fear, and defeat. Not this time. This time, Allison experienced a sense of peace. She was not running for her life filled with anger and despair. Once more the community became a place offering young impressionable people alternative viewpoints and camaraderie, a place from which different lifestyles and philosophies could be observed and, ultimately, chosen from. The place she first came to in 1968.

"Don't park when we get there. You can take us to the door and let us out. I don't want to cry any more than I have to, and I'm sure you have some business with a certain pizza lady to get started. I don't want us to keep you from that. If you mess that up by the way, you will have to answer to me." Allison tried hard to maintain a firm voice, but her listeners could tell she was right on the verge of losing it.

"You got it, and I promise to keep you up-to-date regularly. I'll start using that e-mail address you gave me as soon as I get set up. While we're on that, talk to Bobby about getting one of those things set up, too, so we can keep in touch more easily."

Their future plans and meeting dates had been established for the near future so there wasn't any need to promise to call or write or visit. That was a given. When Sam drove his newly acquired rainbow bus up to the airport terminal curbside, attracting the attention of numerous gawking individuals, he hurriedly exited and came around to open both doors for his passengers. Allison could see that his stoic act would collapse shortly, so she intended to make fast work of their parting.

Standing beside the idling bus with Bobby and their bags, she embraced a stern-faced Sam in a long bear hug. Stepping away, determined to fight back most of her tears, she said to him, "You know how much I love you and that I will come and hunt you down. By the way, I love your really cool bus." Then she turned, picked up her bags, and walked towards the terminal door. Only after she was well away did she turn to observe the end of Bobby and Sam's manly handshake. The rigid set of Sam's jaw told her they were letting him get away with about five seconds to spare before he caved in and did a whole lot of unmanly stuff. One last smile, then a step through the automatic doors, and she and Bobby stood alone once again, like they had so many years ago.

"Let's get you checked in first. I've still got plenty of time," said Allison with a voice that hinted at more emotion than she wanted to show.

Afterwards they sat together along one of the long concourses watching passengers coming and going in equal numbers. Allison couldn't help but contrast this scene with the picture she had in her mind of a future society that didn't find it necessary for people to live their lives at mach speed. She knew she wanted no part of this on a regular basis for herself or her family. A number of passengers sporting yellow ribbons on pieces of luggage and briefcases caught their attention. Allison wondered if they understood what message they were really conveying by their actions. Possibly, they did know that it was about the oil because one thing for sure, millions of airline passengers would not be able to globetrot so easily without the availability of cheap oil. Maybe being able to jet to Aruba for the weekend or popping down to Atlanta to see the kids or flying across country to transact business that defied the utilization of the most advanced system of communications ever imagined in order to get face to face with a client, justified our children going to war.

Allison forced herself to return to the moment at hand. Her most loyal friend in the world sat beside her bound for Dallas to get his life back. She needed to give him back a small portion of the support he had provided to her in her times of need.

"Are your nerves holding up okay? This has to be a very special day for you, Bobby."

Bobby thought for a moment as usual before answering. "You know, I think I'm doing all right. I expect the excitement will build the closer I get, but that's okay. It's going to be a good excitement."

Allison liked what she heard. It was hard to match up the image of the smiling confident man sitting beside her with the image of the drunk laying behind the barn. A sobering thought occurred to her then – the only reason she was alive and prepared to go home to a loving family was because this man saved her life twice. Simply saying farewell and shedding some tears seemed so inadequate. She needed to find some way to convey her deep sense of gratitude for a family that never would have existed but for his actions.

"Bobby, I want to -" she started.

"Now hold on there little sister before you even get started because what you think you need to say is not necessary. You don't owe me anything. In fact, it's the other way around. I owe you as far as I'm concerned."

_How did he do that?_ wondered Allison. "Bobby, have you lost your mind? You saved my life twice. How could I not owe you?" Allison's confused look backed up her statement.

Bobby took in a deep breath and let it out. "Do you remember when we met?"

Allison remembered the meeting. It was on the day the crowd gathered to build the park. She, along with Bobby and hundreds of other volunteers, removed the old asphalt and debris from the site during that spring of '69.

"Sure, I do. We stood in that line side by side for hours. I was concerned for you. Your facial scars were still fresh and the sadness in your eyes tore my heart out."

"Do you know why I ended up at the park that day?"

"I had imagined, like we all did, to have some fun cleaning up the park."

Bobby hesitated before he responded. "I ended up there because of you. I had no interest in the park. It was merely some real estate I needed to cross on my way to get some dope – a lot of dope. When I got it, I was going to put it all into my body immediately so I could die. I was on my way to kill myself, Allison, not to haul rocks around a park. I had given up, and I wanted out. The pain of living with my thoughts was unbearable."

Bobby hesitated. "I was halfway through the crowd getting more pissed off as I went. Then above the noise and clatter I heard a laugh, a girl's laugh. The most beautiful laugh I ever heard in my life. The kind of laugh you expect to hear from a child, free and happy sounds that tell you the person laughing doesn't even know that meanness and evil exist. It stopped me right there, and I had to see this girl who laughed as if life had a purpose. I turned around, and there you stood. You, Allison! Then another amazing thing happened. You looked up and saw me looking at you, and you smiled. You motioned for me to come over and join in, and for some amazing reason, I did. I stood close to you, watching and listening as you laughed and enjoyed every minute of the day. You saved my life, Allison. Your laughter and your simple act of friendship saved my life. The reason I was there that night to help you was because you saved my life that day in the park. You can never owe me anything, Allison. You only received back what you gave."

~~ Chapter Thirty-Four

_Somehow this seems fitting_ , Allison thought to herself as she dabbed the occasional tears from her eyes. Hundreds of harried travelers scrambled to and fro in front of where she sat, but she still felt very much alone. She hardly realized their presence as her thoughts kept going back over the amazing events of the past week.

After Bobby's plane departed for Dallas, she sought out the privacy of a women's lavatory so she could shed her tears in private. She emerged more in control and knowing her tears were only an expression of the tremendous relief generated by the previous week's life changing, affirming experiences. She wasn't unhappy -- to the contrary, she practically overflowed with confidence and purpose regarding her future. She did not harbor any delusions about being able to save the world. She merely better understood her place in it and what she needed to do personally to become a model for change. Further strengthening her resolve was the concurrent commitment of her three best friends to work with her every step of the way.

Having finally dumped thirty-four years of debilitating emotional baggage into the hands of the person most deserving of it, also gave her reason for quiet celebration. Her earlier boast about her intention of wiping the recollection of a certain name from her memory had not been made lightly. _All in due time_ , she told herself. A lifetime's work awaited her.

Another hour and fifteen minutes remained until her flight took off. With her thoughts organized and only an occasional tear still falling upon her cheeks, she turned her attention to her surroundings. She became aware of the multitude of travelers moving about her. Young people, old people, finely attired people, families with kids, and people in foreign dress came and went along the concourse.

Across from where she sat, passengers disembarked from one of the long tunnel-like ramps that extended from the waiting area to the door of each aircraft. The new arrivals emerging from the tunnel fit right in with the hordes of travelers already inside the terminal comprising a nondescript sea of humans ebbing and flowing with each arrival and departure. No one of particular interest came out of the ramp doorway until the plane was almost empty. A group of individuals displaying all the signs of protestors looking to shore up the ranks of the demonstrators now in the streets of downtown San Francisco formed into a group while planning their next move. Sporting hats, sweatshirts, and small banners attesting to their opposition to the war, the group milled about for a time and then headed off under the direction of a guide arriving in time to gather the herd and lead them presumably towards transportation that would take them to the field of battle.

Allison's spirits rose as she witnessed this influx of new blood. There was reason for hope. People would come from all over when they realized the insanity of this war. She reflected on her own experience back in '69 as a young woman with no real understanding of the world, arriving alone in a big and sometimes hostile city. A hundred times her fear almost made her turn around and go back home. _Where did I ever find the courage?_ she wondered as she recalled the experience thirty-five years later. _How different my life would have been if I had not stayed._

Coinciding with Allison's reflections on her own arrival in the bay area, she caught sight of a lone straggler exiting from the ramp doorway. She recognized the uncanny resemblance between an apprehensive, young, blond haired woman standing alone in the waiting area across the way and her own vivid memories of an equally young and frightened Allison emerging from her VW bus on to the streets of Haight-Ashbury following her long trip to the coast.

The object of Allison's attention was in no hurry to go anywhere and neither did she look around in expectation of another person meeting her. Allison knew in her gut this frightened person was alone and far from home. After the young lady placed one of the two bags she carried on a seat in front of her, Allison watched intently as the girl searched for and found another handkerchief. After re-zipping the bag, she promptly wiped her eyes and blew her nose. Ready to move along, the young lady picked up her bags and walked towards the constant flow of traffic moving both ways on the concourse. Looking first in one direction and then the other and obviously not knowing which way to go, she sat down in the closest row of chairs, placed her bags in the seat beside her, and started to cry.

Allison observed the scene before her until she instinctively made her move. Something inside told her the young woman was at a critical point in a journey and within the next few minutes would make a decision that would dramatically affect the rest of her life. Carrying her bags with her, she approached the despondent traveler and deposited them onto one of the empty seats as she sat herself down two seats away from the crying young woman.

"Don't tell me," said Allison as the startled listener looked up, "you're having second thoughts, and you're starting to ask why you let things get this far? Somewhere back east is a wonderful young man who loves you and can't understand why you had to leave home and travel far away to a place where you will be all alone? Am I right?"

The young girl's eyes got as wide as silver dollars. "How did you know that?" she answered, disbelief underscoring her words.

"Hi, my name's Allison, and would you believe a lifetime ago I found myself in the same situation, right here in the San Francisco Bay area?"

Allison employed one of the most successful tools ever discovered for getting another human to put down their defenses, at least partway, and enter into dialog with another human being -- identification. People are inclined to respond to those who speak to the heart of another's pain from their own experiences. Allison knew how this person felt like few other people in the world could because she had been there, not because she had read about it in a book. Now it was time to let the other person make a move.

The girl reached forward and took Allison's hand seemingly without thinking. "I'm Annie. You left home, too, so you could go out and find some answers to questions you couldn't even ask back home?"

Allison smiled knowingly while giving Annie's hand a final shake before releasing it. "I estimate I came that close to turning back at least a hundred times." Allison held up her thumb and forefinger separated by less than a quarter of an inch distance.

"You did! What did you do to keep from turning back? Things must have turned out all right for you. You remind me of my grandmother, and you're so pretty. Please tell me, I'm so scared and lonely; I want to get back on the next plane."

Allison looked at her watch and then back at Annie. "I have some time until my flight, and there's a coffee shop over there." Allison rose from her seat with her bags and offered a hand to the young woman who accepted it.

"Would you like to hear a story?" asked Allison as they walked along together.

"What's it about?" asked Annie.

Allison thought for a second. "It's about overcoming fear. It's about meeting new friends who will live in your heart always. It's about adventures and discovering a purposeful life on the _side roads_ , and... most importantly, it's about _dandelions._ "

~~~

This book is dedicated to the individuals who bring me the most joy: my wife Debra, my son Travis, his wife LeAnn, and their beautiful daughters Maelle and Miriam

Discover other titles by W.H.Harrod at Smashwords.com:

### All Things Return

### Streams of Yesterday

W.H. Harrod was born and raised in Kentucky. He served in the Army in Vietnam in 1969/70 and received a BBA degree from Washburn University on the GI Bill. He currently resides in Oregon with his wife, Debra, and their two cats.

Contact with me online: whharrod@gmail.com

