An Explanation

The previous posts represent my attempt to get all my blog material in one place. More to come...

Humor From The Bold Strummer

The Something Harmonica Blues
Aching prose by Nicholas Clarke


Well, I went to the store for a
'butcher's hook' (Which is Cockney rhyming
slang for 'look') and I asked for a gee-tar
half in jest, when the salesman took in one
deep breath, and said . . .

"Kid, we have classic guitars, flamenco
guitars, four, six and ten string guitars,
left handed guitars, acoustic guitars,
electric jumbo and dreadnought guitars.
Bass guitars, pedal guitars, flat top, arch
top, Hawaiian and double necked guitars,
steel . . .

"All right," I said, "I see your point"
(wish I hadn't come into this damn joint.)
"I want to play like Segovia, man," so he
showed me a guitar for four thousand clams.
And as I fell down on my face he said,
"For that we throw in a cardboard case."

"Now look," I said, "that's a lot of bread
I'll be paying the charge until I'm dead."
So he showed me a guitar for just
fourteen; worst guitar you've ever seen . . .

I said to the guy, who was getting mean
"I sort of want something in between."
Then off that salesman went again, hollerin'
on like an ex-press train, "We have Martin
guitars, Yamaha and Guild guitars, Favilla, Greco,
Gibson and Fender guitars. Ramirez, Hernandez,
Velazquez and no-name guitars. We have
American guitars, Canadian guitars, Japanese,
Irish, Mexican and Polish guitars. We have
Austrian guitars, Finnish guitars, and even
a couple from Spain. We have . . .

By now I was gettin' pretty tired and
I thought I'd take a stroll outside,
but the salesman looked right in my face
and said "Of course, you'll want a case.

We have cloth, plastic and polyester
cases. We have chipboard, leather, hardboard
and chrome cases. Triangular, oval, square and
guitar-shaped guitar cases. Red, blue, green
and pink guitar cases.

And of course you'll need a few
accessories, like a guitar strap, polishing
cloth, capo, footstool, flat picks thin,
flat picks fat, string winder, tuning fork,
bottle neck, humidifier, dehumidifier,
metronome, guitar stand, music stand,
pitch pipe, ear plugs, tranquilizers, and
we have a dynamite picture of Andres
Segovia jammin' with Jimi Hendrix. Now
for strings. We have Aug . . .

"But I've never played a note before,"
I said as I eased towards the door, but
the salesman gave me a real mean look
and said, "My boy, you'll need some
books You'll want the Carcassi method,
Tarrega, Christopher Parkening, Julian Bream,
Peter, Paul and Mary, Pete Seeger, Leadbelly,
Chet Atkins, Les Paul. Some scale studies, two
part inventions, finger picking techniques,
how to play the guitar in fourths, fifths,
ninths and thirteenths, and that will be
one thousand eight hundred and forty dollars
and three cents plus tax, no charge for the
shopping bag."

Without any bread, I said "That's
drastic." "That's all right, 'cos we take plastic.
We take Master Charge, Visa, American Express,
Dis . . . "

Next thing I knew I went off my head
and woke up strapped to this hospital bed, which
I thought was a welcome relief until the salesman
shoved between my teeth a harmonica, and said
"We have Hohner . . .

Many Years Ago...

TALES of AMHERST: OCTOBER 25, 1968

Fall in Western Massachusetts can be strange. Sometimes it is cold as hell and sometimes it is Indian Summer warm.

October 1968 was Indian Summer warm. What this meant, at that time, was all good hippies could jounce and bounce in the fresh air of the world.
In the late 60’s there was a guy in San Francisco by the name of Owsley. His avowed purpose in life was the production and distribution of chemically pure LSD.
My good friend Patrick traveled to SF to procure as much of this Acid as humanely (and financially) possible
Owsley was not a greedy man; he was, in his own mind, a prophet. (Ken Kesey had told him as much!) So, Patrick came away with a shitload of goodies.
Patrick was able to score several hundred hits of Owsley acid and returned to Amherst armed and dangerous.
Now, it is important to realize that during this period, drugs, such as LSD, were not marketed for profit. Rather, they were distributed to facilitate the party, the experience..
On October 25, 1968, my good friend Patrick laid three hits on me. In Owsley terms this was approximately 1500 micrograms.
So, what was significant about October 25^th?

BIG BROTHER and the HOLDING COMPANY!!!!

Janis Joplin was without a doubt the sexiest and most talented white blues singer. The album had reached number 1 and the airplay as insane!

My friend Mad John was a media major, and as such, he was responsible for all the house sound/PA work.
Mad John was able to get me into the Cage (the University of Massachusetts event arena) prior to the Big Brother concert.
I brought a fifth of Southern Comfort, because I had been told that Janis liked it.
I met Janis and told her how much I enjoyed her music. I offered her the bottle of Southern Comfort.
She took the bottle and swigged like a sailor. When she came up for air she said: "Ooooh, ain’t you just the sweetest thang! Then she slapped her lips on mine, and gave me the kiss of a lifetime. I swear her tongue tickled my kidneys.
I’d like to report that I was able to sexually encounter Janis. However the truth is that after that most incredible kiss, Mr. Owsley’s chemistry kicked in and the rest of the night is a fog.
This much I do know and can still remember:
On October 25, 1968, I was lip locked with Janis Joplin. I wish I could do it again!

An Article I Wrote For Making Music Magazine

Music Offers a New Beginning

by David J. Reid

                David Reid plays a tune for his granddaughter, Victoria. She is now eight years old and playing her own classical guitar.

I began guitar lessons as a teenager in 1964 with a teacher who played guitar, banjo, and lute. He was very much interested in the classics. I was very much interested in The Beatles. He was a controlling jerk. I was an upstart punk. We got along fabulously! Eventually, we settled on folk, specifically the music of Peter, Paul and Mary.

When I began college in 1967, I started playing music with friends and fellow "radicals." This time period saw the birth of "free form" guitar. To me, free form meant that even an amateur could fake it. In 1971, I was drafted and my guitar playing was confined to the occasional riffs on someone else's acoustic. I was discharged in 1976, and my playing continued to be sporadic at best.

As the years went by, my life and my career took off. I became a part of the "digital revolution" of the Silicon Gulch during the 1980s. I was making good money, had two pagers (cell phones were still the size of a shoe box) and was severely bloated with self-importance.

Then in 1992, I spent two days in the hospital for severe chest pain. It was not a cardiac "gotcha;" rather, it was a severe reaction to stress. As I lay in the hospital, I decided -- to this day I am not sure why -- to purchase a guitar and pursue lessons.

For six years I studied the guitar, and I became a fairly acceptable intermediate player, but life jumped into the mix once again. In 1998 I was given the opportunity to attend graduate school for a master's degree in marriage and family therapy. It was just what I was looking for to escape the Silicon Gulch mania. I was awarded a degree in 2000 and moved to Arizona to begin my practice. By 2001 I had become the clinical director of a substance abuse facility dealing primarily with the criminal justice population.

Throughout this period, I occasionally dabbled with my guitar. But I never made any concentrated effort.

In 2002, I was diagnosed with esophageal cancer. The tumor was surgically removed successfully, but I was cooked with radiation that damaged my larynx, especially the small capillaries. By February of 2004 I was unable to work due to chronic laryngeal infections. In September of 2004 my larynx was surgically removed, and I began a very long, painful, and depressing recovery.

My right arm was paralyzed by the "pectoral flap" procedure the surgeon used to rebuild my neck. It took most of 2005 to regain the use of it. When my physical therapist asked what my recovery goal was, I responded without hesitation -- I wanted to play the guitar again. It took several months for me to be able to drape my right arm over the lower bout of my classical guitar for more than ten minutes at a time.

When I finally regained most of my right arm mobility, I discovered that my muscle memory was totally shot, and the muscle memory of my left arm had also been affected. During the time that my right arm was dormant, my left arm took over and became much stronger. My fretting hand was "confused." There I was, totally disabled, unable to work in my field, with both arms screwed up. I spent most of 2006 depressed and even suicidal. I was eventually hospitalized for the safety of others and myself.

With therapy and medication I was able to deal with my depression. But I needed a new life goal. What was I going to do now?

Through the Guitar Foundation of American I found Charles Hullihan, a local guitar instructor. As it turned out, he also taught (and was the director of) the guitar program at Glendale Community College. Given the abundance of time I now found myself with, I decided to go back to school for music. I began in January, and though I certainly will never achieve concert capability, but I am confident that I will have fun in this new chapter of my life.

It seems that despite my trials and tribulations over the years, life has led me to a good place -- I now have the opportunity to go back to school and pursue music for the sheer joy of the experience. Wish me luck!

The End of Days

The End of Days

Oh, the sweet silence of the night.

The smell of the dew

 on the lawn.

The whisper of wind

through the maples.

Remind me.

Remind me.

There was a time,

when I felt strong.

There was a time,

when I did not doubt victory.

But now,

I begin to understand...

Life is Life,

And there it is.

My Turn

My tour of duty in the United States Army occurred during the final five years of the Vietnam War. While I was fortunate enough not to have had to serve directly in this conflict, the experiences I had continue to haunt me. I have come to understand that the true cost of this war has yet to be fully realized and that the toll in human suffering will perhaps never be fully understood.

Prior to 1971, I was active in the anti-war movement. I started participating in rallies and demonstrations when I entered college in 1967. During the "Black Spring" of 1970, when Nixon announced the invasion of Cambodia and four students were shot by National Guardsmen at Kent State University, I was a leader in the Student Strike that closed the University of Massachusetts.
In the spring of 1971, however, I received notification from the Selective Service to report for my Pre-Induction Physical. Despite my best efforts, I passed the physical and rather than spend two years in the Army as an Infantryman, or an eternity in Canada, I enlisted for three years to secure a guaranteed position as a Medic.
The spring and summer of 1971 produced other events that proved to be fateful for the American public's perception of the war. In March, Lt. William Calley was convicted of premeditated murder for his role in the Mylai Massacre. In June, The New York Times began publishing The Pentagon Papers a series of confidential and secret reports leaked to the press by Daniel Ellsberg, which provided proof that top level government officials were lying about American involvement in the war. Despite the fact that Nixon had, by this time, reduced American troop strength from over 500,000 to 140,000, protests to end the war continued unabated. By the time I reported to Fort Dix, New Jersey for Basic Training in December, I was convinced that I was placing my life in the hands of a government that could not be trusted. I was twenty-two years old.

From the time I entered Basic Training until I left eight weeks later, all outside communication was carefully controlled Newspapers, magazines, radios, and television were all off limits; our civilian clothes had been shipped home. However, the war was not forgotten. We were trained in mock Vietnamese villages, and bombarded with training films detailing the official version of the mission in Southeast Asia. Special emphasis was placed on what to do when confronted by an NCO or Officer who was issuing an illegal order. The training film used as an example a situation very similar to the Mylai incident. This is not to say that we were told to disobey a superior who ordered us to execute an entire village. On the contrary, we were to advise our superior that we believed his order was illegal, and hope that he changed his mind. We were also reminded, by the Drill Instructors and in no uncertain terms, that the penalty for disobeying a superior's direct order on the battlefield was death. We were not allowed to scream the traditional "Kill" cheer at bayonet practice. The Department of Defense was becoming very image conscious.

As Basic Training drew to a close, our instructors began to loosen up a bit on the harsh and rigid discipline and began to talk of their own experiences in The 'Nam. The underlying theme of these conversations was always the unreliability of the South Vietnamese forces, and that the war was being directed by incompetents who could get you killed. We were constantly reminded to place our reliance on our immediate buddies, which, we were assured, could greatly increase our chances of survival. We graduated from Basic in February of 1972. From Fort Dix, we were to be scattered to various Advanced Individual Training Centers across the United States. Of the approximately three hundred trainees in my company, two-thirds were to go on to Infantry School, the first stop on the road to Vietnam. The remaining third, myself included, were to go on to other specialty schools. I was grateful that I had enlisted and had qualified for Medic School. The majority of those heading for Infantry Training were draftees, and we all felt that they were doomed. We had little faith in our government's ability to protect us. There were very few "gung-ho" types who wanted to go to war. We were all painfully aware of the civilian attitude towards the war; some of us even agreed with that attitude. Over the course of the next few years, I was to be constantly reminded of that attitude, as I tried to understand what was happening around me.

I was to report to Fort Sam Houston in San Antonio, Texas for Medic Training. I arrived there around the 18th of February 1972, after thirty-six hours of military transportation. I was a Private (E-1), the lowest rank on the military command structure. The climatic change from freezing winter New Jersey to almost balmy San Antonio was a shock to my system. Within a week, I was rushed to Brooke Army Medical Center, the hospital located at Fort Sam Houston, with a fever of 104. The diagnosis was lumbar pneumonia, and I was admitted to Ward 43N/S for treatment and observation.
After several days of antibiotic treatment, I felt well enough to walk around. Brooke Army Medical Center, at that time, was as big and as prestigious as its East Coast cousin. Walter Reed Army Medical Center. On my first outing from the ward, (and several occasions after that) I found myself lost in the labyrinth of hallways that made up my wing of the hospital. Instead of the mess hall, I found myself in the Orthopedic Ward and saw my first glimpse of the tragedy of this war. Young men, some my age, some younger, were missing arms and legs. Some confined to wheelchairs, some to crutches. Some pushing poles holding I.V. bottles with tubes that led to an arm, if they were lucky, their groin or neck if they were not. Some laughing and joking with buddies. Some were staring at something far distant. All were wandering within the confines of the hallway in which I found myself. These battered and mutilated men were the "baby killers" I had been protesting in college. Now I felt one with them, comrades-in-arms, and I was ashamed of my protests. I could not meet their gaze; I was an outsider, uninitiated in their collective horror. I asked a nurse for directions to the mess hall and left as quickly as I could. I never went back there again.

I was discharged from the hospital and returned to my training unit on the 1st of March. I was able to convince my First Sergeant that I was capable of catching up with the rest of my classmates, thus avoiding the necessity of waiting for the next class to begin some ten weeks hence.

The training program at Fort Sam Houston was completely different from Basic Training. We attended legitimate classes and took tests, and for the most part were treated as students and not soldiers. Field exercises soon broke any illusion that we were apart from the Army's mainstream war effort. These consisted primarily of treating wounded under simulated battlefield conditions. We were, after all, in training to become 91-Alphas, combat medics, the front line practitioners of the Army Medical Corps. It was during the last week of this training when I was to encounter my second glimpse of the cost of war.

On March 30th the North Vietnamese began their Spring Offensive. Nixon responded by increasing bombing raids near Hanoi and Haiphong Harbor. By June, the provincial capital of Quangtri had fallen. The increase in enemy activity led to an increase in the stateside evacuation of wounded. It was Army policy to evacuate seriously wounded to a stateside hospital close to their home if at all possible. But the majority of patients arriving at Brooke Army Medical Center that Spring and Summer weren't being sent there to be closer to home and family. They were coming for treatment at the Burn Unit, already world famous for its pioneering work in the treatment of catastrophic burns and their related infections. New techniques in skin grafting and treatment of immunological rejection had been developed there, and we, the student Medics, were given the grand tour.

The Chief Nurse of the Burn Unit gave us a lecture on the techniques necessary to maintain absolute sterility at the burn patient's bedside. We then practiced these techniques in an empty glass-walled patient chamber. The chamber itself had a sealed anteroom where the medical staff could don sterile gowns, masks, shoe covers and gloves. The patient's room was air conditioned through special filters to maintain a constant temperature without danger of outside pollution. After the practice session we were walked past actual patient chambers.

The patients in these chambers had minimal covering to protect their modesty; the glass walls provided a fish bowl effect; there was no privacy at all. There were men, women, and children, most of whom were South Vietnamese. The burns ranged from under 10% to over 80% of their bodies. The blackened flesh, fused fingers and toes, and totally ravaged facial features were sickening. I was not alone in my feelings of nausea and dizziness. We were shown the debridement rooms. These were fully tiled rooms that had a large stainless steel tank in the center. The tank was large enough to accommodate a very large man in the prone position. The idea was to lower the patient into a sterile solution and, after allowing him to soak for several minutes, begin to peel away the dead and rotting skin from the burn areas. We were assured that all patients coming into these rooms to undergo this treatment were heavily sedated with morphine. Even so, we were able to hear screams of agony from just down the hall. The patients we had seen in the chambers were brought here daily. In ten very short weeks I had seen the consequences of the war for soldier and civilian alike. I could not imagine what being there would be like. My friends and I were frightened.

As one of the top ten graduates of my class, I was offered the opportunity to stay at Fort Sam Houston for further classes. I was, because of my college major in psychology, sent to the 91Foxtrot, or Neuropsychiatric Specialist School. Those whose training ended with 91Alpha were sent to permanent duty stations. Of my class, 25% were stationed stateside, 50% were stationed in Germany, and the remaining 25% were sent to the Philippines for jungle acclimatization and a plane ride to Vietnam.

The Neuropsychiatric School seemed even more remote from the Army than Medic School. There was no reference to combat conditions, no field exercises. The class work reminded me of college courses. We even had to complete a two-week on-the-job evaluation at local psychiatric institutions. We did not have to deal with any active duty Army patients. At this time I was allowed to live off post and commute to classes. The Army was becoming just like any other job. The only reminder we had of the war was the breaking of the Watergate scandal in June: When I graduated from the school in the early fall of 1972 I was assigned to Valley Forge General Hospital in Phoenixville, Pennsylvania.

Valley Forge General Hospital (now the site of a Bible College) was considered to be easy duty. The hospital itself was an Army base, usually the last stop for active duty personnel before being discharged to a V.A. hospital close to their home. All the personnel associated with it were in some medical specialty, the two biggest departments being the Orthopedic and Psychiatric sections. Everyone at the hospital reported to the Hospital Commander, who was always a Medical Doctor, and, during my tour of duty, also a surgeon. There was a nine-hole golf course, a bowling alley, Enlisted, NCO, and Officers Clubs, and a large screen movie theater. I was assigned to one of the five psychiatric wards. The majority of the patients were diagnosed as schizophrenic, usually paranoid. (Many would today be diagnosed with PTSD.) Almost all were returning from duty in Vietnam. My duties were simple enough: monitor and report on the patients' behavior, participate in group therapy sessions, escort the patients to and from appointments, assist in administering electro-convulsive therapy, and, once a month pull extended duty which consisted either of twenty-four hours of Charge of Quarters (answering the company phone) or ambulance call. Once a month an Awards Parade was held. The hospital staff would stand at attention in full dress uniform while the Purple Hearts, Distinguished Service Medals, and Bronze and Silver Stars were passed out to men who were recovering from grievous injury. In the fall of 1972 the majority of the patients were from Vietnam; the combined census over all the departments was well over three hundred.

Of all my duties, the most difficult were the group therapy sessions and ambulance call. During group, patients who had at best a fragile grasp on reality would try to explain what had happened to them in Vietnam. Sometimes they would scream in terror as they remembered some incident; other times they would weep uncontrollably. Many of the patients were given massive doses of Thorazine to slow them down; others became violent and had to be physically restrained. The war became part of a psychotic's delusions to me.

Ambulance call usually required spending the night sitting in the Emergency Room Lounge until a chopper call came and we would climb into the waiting ambulances and drive two blocks to the hospital heliport. On one such run, one of the stretcher bound patients we off-loaded was a quadruple traumatic amputee. He had severe facial wounds, one of which had stained a dressing with fresh blood. As we drove to the Receiving Room he refused to engage in any conversation. He kept his mouth clenched shut and his face turned from me. As I helped load him onto a gurney he looked at me and, with tears in his eyes, bitterly complained that now he couldn't even kill himself. I reported his comment to the nurse on duty who recorded it on his admission chart. When I reported to for duty on the psychiatric ward the next afternoon, I was stunned to learn that this patient had somehow managed to turn himself over and smother himself in his pillow shortly after he was placed on his ward. It was now near the end of January 1973; the Paris Cease Fire Agreement had been signed and Secretary of Defense Laird had announced the end of the Draft.
By the end of March, the last of the combat troops were withdrawn from Vietnam. Everyone breathed a collective sigh of relief. Now the threat of having to participate in the insanity was over.
One month later, in April, we were informed that we would receive at least eight of the newly released Prisoners of War. When the POWs arrived the orders were explicit. We were not to speak to any of the press who had surrounded the hospital compound. Those who were selected to work on the isolation ward with the POWs were to take a secrecy oath. Those who were not working directly with the POWs were to avoid conversation with them and about them. I only saw one of these men. He looked to be about fifty-five, but he could have been younger. His face was very drawn, with dark rings around his eyes. As he passed me in the hallway, he kept his eyes on the floor, his face was passive, no emotion whatsoever. His war and our war had drawn to a close. There were rumors. One concerned the Colonel who was convinced that his fellow POWs had committed treason. The only substantiation that I ever got was from a fellow NP technician who complained bitterly about the Colonel who was "crazier than batshit!"

The remainder of 1973 was marked by Vice President Agnew's resignation and increasingly damaging news for Nixon and the Watergate Scandal. With the cutbacks in military spending, Valley Forge General Hospital was to be closed. I was reassigned to Fort Dix. January of 1974 marked the beginning of the end for the South Vietnamese. The North Vietnamese were pushing farther south almost daily. By the end of 1974, Nixon had resigned and Gerald Ford had become President, and I again found myself finishing a tour at Fort Dix, New Jersey.
I was to stay at Fort Dix for one year only. In March of 1975 I was reassigned to the 33rd Field Hospital in Wurzburg, Germany. On April 29th the last Americans were evacuated from Saigon. One day later South Vietnamese General Duong Van Minh surrendered to the North Vietnamese.
The Vietnam War had officially ended. One year later I would leave the Army.

Five years in the Army, five years of the most unpopular war in the history of the United States. I had begun my involvement as a student protesting the immorality of war. I had finished as a tired man sickened by the shear horror of the waste. Vietnam had many firsts. It was the first war that was halted primarily because of public pressure. It was the first war to be fully televised on the evening news. No home with a television set could avoid the war. The American public became sick of hearing about the battles in the jungles and in the streets of their hometowns. It was the first conflict from which American soldiers did not return victorious. When the end finally came in April 1975, it was anticlimactic. Our troops had been withdrawn for two years; the war was forgotten, buried deep within the public psyche.

It took seven years from the end of the war to dedicate a memorial to those who had fallen in Vietnam. Seven years to remember that 53,000 had died in a war that no one wanted to remember.
Many of the leading radicals who led the protest movement had by then joined the hated establishment. The anti-war protesters still existed, but they seemed to be a small and lonely voice.
For me, the war has been over for a long time. But I still remember the fear I felt when I thought I might have to go to Vietnam. I remember some of the patients whom I saw in Texas and Pennsylvania. I remember the feeling of betrayal when it became painfully apparent that my government was incapable of either prosecuting the war or ending it, and hid its inability behind a curtain of half-truths, and bold-faced lies. I remember the feeling of relief when the war was over.

For a long time I felt that the American public could never fully understand the lesson of the Vietnam War without having served in the military during that period. Now I feel differently. It has become apparent to me that when properly informed, the American people will not stand for misrepresentations and falsehood. Recent polls have shown that a significant percentage of the American public still remains cynical about the motives of politicians. The small and lonely voice of the protesters and the silent voice of the fallen call to the public conscience: "Never again, never again!" On occasion, the public seems to listen

Tales of Amherst Fall/Winter 1970

Jimmie the Busboy

In the summer of 1970, my friend Patrick Flaherty had helped me get a busboy job at Wiggins Tavern in Northampton, Massachusetts. All it required was a haircut and a strong back. Busboys carried large silver colored metal trays to deliver the patrons food or carry away the dead dishes. The drill was to lift the tray over your shoulder and beat feet. The faster you moved the happier the waitresses. Happy waitresses split their tips with the busboys. On a good night, a busboy could earn $50.00 for five hours work. The best deal was being assigned to a banquet. That could bring in up to $150.00 apiece. The place really was expensive. The hotel staff was unionized and had a shop steward who made up the schedule each week. The shop steward only worked large dinner parties and banquets. It was an unspoken rule that busboys had to slip him a percentage if they worked a banquet. The shop steward had to slip a percentage to the hotel manager.

Jimmy the Busboy started work in September of 1970. He was young, only seventeen. However, he hustled tables with the best of us. Jimmy was skinny and sometimes it seemed like the serving trays weighed more than he did. Somehow, he managed. The waitresses loved him. Unlike the other busboys, Jimmy was able to engage the patrons. Jimmy started to work banquets almost immediately. The shop steward wasn’t pleased with Jimmy. Jimmy didn’t slip him his percentage. Jimmy was a friend of the hotel manager. He was protected. The shop steward grumbled that both Jimmy and the hotel manager were “light in the shoes.”

One evening toward the end of September, I was assigned to a banquet at the last minute. The shop steward had had a winning pony and the celebration had gotten the best of him. He couldn’t make it so I was assigned by the hotel manager to fill in. It was forty people with filet mignon. I also had to help in the main dining area. I would be working with two waitresses and Jimmy. I had worked with both of the waitresses before and we got along well. This would be the first time I had worked with Jimmy. I was going to have a payday!

The waitresses and Jimmy were already hard at work setting up the tables. By the time I got there most of the setup was completed. Unlike the main dining room, you got to have breaks when you worked banquets. The waitresses loaded up the trays and the busboys hauled and served. Once the patrons were served, you could sit back and relax while they ate. My favorite hiding spot was behind the dishwashing machine.

After serving the main course, I sat down behind the dishwasher and lit a cigarette. I was just getting settled when Jimmy walked up to me. I started to get up figuring that there was some more work but Jimmy signaled me back down with his hand. Jimmy smiled and said, “I’ve been wanting to tell you something. Well, not you especially, but I have to talk to someone. I’m gay.”

“I’m pretty happy too, I think we’ll make some good money tonight,” I responded.

“No, that’s not what I mean. I am gay, I am homosexual, and I live with the hotel manager.”

This was startling and I must have looked startled because Jimmy smiled patiently and said, “Don’t worry; I know you’re not gay. But I also know that you’re not straight. Your hair and your politics get you into trouble just like me.”

Jimmy then told me about the Stonewall riots. We both laughed as he described how the police had been forced back by the angry mob. Jimmy was a radical, just like me.

Then Jimmy did something that haunts me to this day. He told me about being taunted at school. He told me about life with his alcoholic parents. He told me how he loved his little sister and how one night before her birthday he was in his room sewing a new dress for her favorite doll. A special surprise he was making for her birthday. How his mother came in and seeing what he was doing, called for his father in a drunken rage. How his father came in and removed his thick black leather belt. How his father whipped Jimmy with the belt while his mother screamed “Beat the sin out of him!”

Jimmy’s face was tormented. He had tears in his eyes. I was speechless. Then Jimmy took off his starched white busboy jacket and lifting his shirt, he turned his back to me. I saw the scars. That wasn’t the first time his parents had beaten him. However, it was the last. Jimmy ran away that very night. He was fourteen. Jimmy smiled as he tucked his shirt back in.

“I needed to tell you that.” Jimmy had talked and I had silently listened. I was struggling to find some way to respond when the waitresses found us. It was time to go back to work.

A couple of days after Jimmy had spoken to me; both Patrick Flaherty and I were fired. Well, we weren’t actually fired; our names were still on the work schedule. The shop steward just didn’t schedule us for any work. It might have been our hair, or our politics, or the peace symbols we sometimes wore. The shop steward had had enough of us. We didn’t really mind. The fall semester was in full swing. It was time to play school.

The Student Union building at UMass was the place to meet before and after class. It was a two-story building with huge windows. Even on the darkest winter days, it seemed filled with light. The ground floor was the lobby area. There were always information booths set up and manned by the students. During those days, anyone could set up an information booth. Students for a Democratic Society, the Black Panthers, Young Democrats, Young Republicans, Environmentalists, War Moratorium Activists, all had booths at one time or another. It was always interesting to walk through the lobby on the way to the stairway leading to the basement cafeteria, the Hatchet and Pipe known affectionately as The Hatch.

On November 30th, right after the Thanksgiving break, I entered the lobby and was immediately blinded. It was a very cold November day and my glasses fogged up when they hit the warm Student Union air. As I cleaned my glasses, I could hear a commotion off to my right. With my glasses back on I could see a crowd of around thirty or so students surrounding an information booth. I couldn’t make out what they were saying. However, some of the voices sounded angry. Thinking that perhaps someone like ROTC had foolishly set up a booth I started to make my way towards the crowd. As I got closer I could make out “queer”, “fag’, “pervert” being hissed and shouted.

As I wormed my way to the front of the crowd, I was shocked to see Jimmy the Busboy sitting at a card table with a hand-lettered sign “Gay Liberation Front”. Beside Jimmy was a vacant chair. Jimmy had made up little pamphlets describing the Stonewall Incident. He was sitting and smiling patiently as the crowd vilified him. When he saw me, his smile widened and he waved with the fingers of his right hand.

With no real thought to what I was doing, I sat down in the vacant chair. I soon came to my senses and immediately thought “this is not going to go well at all!” Jimmy continued to smile patiently. I started to feel sweat on my back. I saw the familiar face of a young woman who often sat with the hippies and the radicals at the back of the cafeteria, the Back of the Hatch. Her eyes widened when she recognized me and she immediately pushed back through the crowd to escape. In a few minutes (which felt like hours), the crowd started to part. I saw my friends, Dead Kitty, pushing their way towards me. Little Mikey, Floater, Babyface, Pooz, Sidecar, Mad John, and several other Back of the Hatchers made their way to Jimmy’s GLF card table. My friends looked at Jimmy, looked at his Gay Liberation Front sign, looked at me and silently turned towards the crowd. Linking arms, they waded into the crowd, pushing it back, clearing a space. Then, still silent, they turned back to the table and sat down. This had a calming effect on the crowd. Some walked away, but even more joined my friends on the floor.

Jimmy told the group about Stonewall. Jimmy told the group about persecution and injustice. Jimmy told the group ‘I’M OUT of the CLOSET and I’M NOT GOING BACK. The crowd applauded, some even cheered “Right On!” Jimmy the Busboy had delivered a message. Someone from Dead Kitty was sitting with Jimmy all that first day, we took turns. I hadn’t told my friends about Jimmy. I hadn’t told my friends about the story Jimmy had told me back in September. However, they were able to recognize a revolutionary when they saw one. Floater was so impressed with Jimmy’s courage that he gave him one of our patches. Jimmy had a skull and thistle.

The next day, when I entered the Student Union lobby, I saw Jimmy the Busboy at his card table. This time he was not alone. A young woman was sitting with him. Jimmy introduced me, “Amy, this is Spook.” Amy smiled and reaching to shake my hand said “Hi, I’m Amy. I’m out of the closet and I’m not going back” Jimmy’s message had been heard.

Each day I saw new faces at the card table. Some I recognized some I did not. Students, instructors, associate professors, full professors, and even administrators took a turn sitting at the Gay Liberation table. Right up to the Christmas and semester break, Jimmy’s message spread.

When the second semester started, I was in my usual spot sitting in the Back of the Hatch with my Dead Kitty friends as we tried to figure out what classes we should take. Jimmy came up to us shaking with excitement. “We have an office!”

Students and faculty had pressured the Student Union Activities Committee and the Gay Liberation Front was now a recognized student activity. This meant a small budget for mimeographing and office space. We all climbed the two flights of stairs to the office area. Sure enough, wedged into a tiny office shared with the Chess and Astronomy clubs was a small desk with the letters GLF painted in pink. Jimmy frowned and then smiled. “I swore I’d never go back in the closet.”

Little Mikey chuckled and said in his best Irish accent, “Boyo, I wouldn’t be worrying about the closets. Ye be comin’ outta the woodwork now!”

In the late spring, Jimmy came down to the Back of the Hatch to say goodbye. He had a small knapsack and told us of his plans to hitchhike to Boston and stay there for a while. We said our goodbyes and Jimmy headed for the door. Floater called out “What part of Boston you headed to?” “Cambridge” Jimmy answered. “What part of Cambridge?” Floater asked. Jimmy smiled and slipped on his jacket. “Harvard” he replied as he stepped through the door.

Little Mikey looked at us and asked, “Did you see his right shoulder?” We had. He was wearing the skull and thistle. Little Mikey started to laugh. He laughed so hard tears rolled down his cheeks. “Harvard Yard ain’t EVER going to be the same!” We all started laughing. Loud boisterous laughing that caught people’s attention.

When asked what was so funny all we could reply was “Harvard.”