(Excerpted from The Incomplete, an unpublished novel based on real events.)
Students received academic credit for living communally at The House in the woods of northern Vermont at the end of the Sixties. Schoolwork included marathon discussions ranging from the minutiae of daily life (dishwashing responsibilities, cleaning up after the House dogs) to the great questions of the day (evolution or revolution, Stones or Beatles for dinner music). A former House member named Susan asked to be on the agenda. Susan had joined the People’s Brigade, a revolutionary collective based in Boston, and wanted to know if her comrades could stay for a couple of days on their way to an action in Buffalo.
“This is going to be another Stones vs. Beatles,” I whispered to my girlfriend Debra, whom I was visiting, and sure enough the Artsy folks were opposed (“Militants take over and they don’t listen”) while the Politicos were in favor (“We’re living this cushy life while the war rages and blacks are oppressed”). The Politicos outlasted the Artsys, who considered it a victory that the discussion took less time than deciding against mandatory dishwashing shifts.
Susan told us that she’d fallen in love with a guy in the Brigade named Rick, but the group decided that monogamy was counterrevolutionary. The solution was for each of them to fuck three other people in the Brigade.
“You slept with three strangers because a group told you to?” Debra blurted out.
“Hey, they’re not strangers. We’re a collective. We do lots of stuff together.”
Debra’s roommate Cynthia lit a joint, and Susan reached over and took a drag, held it in for ten seconds with her head tilted back, then eased the smoke through her slightly opened lips. She lifted one leg to rest her head on her knee. I imagined myself as one of the revolutionary monogamy-busters. Susan and Cynthia left to camp out in the Small Room downstairs so they could talk all night. Debra said, “At last we’ll have some time alone. Until the invasion.”
On Friday morning the People’s Brigade pulled up in a van and a Volkswagen: ten of them, all with short hair — including the women — wearing denim and backpacks. One of the students said, “Hey, you guys look like a little army.”
“Damn-fucking-right,” replied one of the guests.
Susan greeted her comrades with hugs, but I couldn’t tell from her body language which one was Rick. They moved into the Big Room, and within minutes posted a sign on the door: “If this door is closed, please do not disturb under any circumstances. If it’s open, join us! Thank you for your cooperation.” An Artsy muttered, “Already they’re taking over.”
The guiding force of the Brigade was Kevin. After lunch he called a Brigade meeting in the Big Room, with the door open. “We’re here for war games, and it’s going to get uncomfortable,” Kevin proclaimed as he paced in front of the group. “But it’s gonna serve you well in Buffalo when this isn’t a game. Do you know that it’s against the law there to call a cop a ‘pig’? Imagine what happens when you try to make bacon out of one.” Several House members slinked out.
“Now I want to know: How many of you in the Brigade are prepared to die if it comes to that? Let me hear you one at a time: ‘I-am-prepared-to-die!’”
One by one, they boomed, “I am prepared to die.”
I didn’t want to go to Vietnam partly because I didn’t want to die.
“Good. We’ve progressed a lot, not like those lame, whiny declarations we heard a few months ago. Now the next step. I’m not saying we’re there yet, but we’ve got to start dealing with it.” He took a deep breath, making eye contact with each of his colleagues as he exhaled. “I...am...prepared...to......kill, if necessary. Let me hear everyone say it: ‘I-am-prepared-to-kill.’”
Nervous looks and indistinct mutters.
“I can see we have a lot of work to do. You trivialize revolution if you don’t confront this. Let’s say it one at a time, even if you don’t mean it. Say it enough times and you will mean it.”
Many of the declarations were barely audible. One woman started strong but tailed off. “I can’t say it, I can’t. My parents are pacifists, my brother got beaten in Mississippi, it’s against everything I was brought up on.”
She trailed off into sobs, which were obliterated by Kevin screaming, “Your pacifist parents didn’t put the world straight.” His voice softened, “All right, we’ve made some progress, that was a good start, another step on the long march. Now let’s talk tactics.” He asked all visitors to leave.
Late that night, after Debra fell asleep, I went into the kitchen for a snack. There for the taking twenty-four hours a day were canisters of potato chips, prodigious jars of peanut butter, chunks of cheese, baskets of fruits and vegetables, and dozens of eggs. I considered a major omelet but opted for a platter of peanut-buttered potato chips. Someone had left the peanut butter out, so it spread smoothly onto the chips.
I’d crunched through half a dozen when I heard a commotion from out back, starting with a faraway muffle and taking shape as it got closer. Two people arguing. A male and a female. None of my business.
A slapping sound and the female shouted, “You son of a bitch, I thought we were finished. What’d you do that for?” Another slap. Susan—it was Susan’s voice. Some schmuck was hitting her. Was it her ex-monogamous lover Rick in a fit of bourgeois rage? I sprang up and opened the back door. I could see two shadowy figures about thirty yards away, squaring off. A fist landed flush on a face, and I sprinted toward them. It was Susan landing the punches. I stopped short and they turned to me, startled.
The guy with her was Kevin, who stepped toward me and said, “Listen, brother, thanks for caring, but it’s all right.”
“He’s right, thanks, it’s fine,” Susan added. Her tremulous voice carried just enough weight to convince me to leave them alone. As I reached the door I turned back to see them arm-in-arm.
Back in the kitchen I picked at the remaining chips, and a few minutes later Susan came in alone. “Oh, I’m glad you’re still here. I was just getting some ice.” Her left cheek and eye were bruised and swollen, and her lip was puffy. I had never seen a woman look like that except after assault scenes in movies. But Susan was smiling. “I feel so great, wow, I could never understand why boys fight, but it really is a high.”
“That must have been some ideological disagreement,” I fished.
“Oh no! You see we’ve been doing this war game stuff and we’ve got this problem. The boys know all about fighting, but we girls think we can’t fight. Today we were taking turns hitting each other, and I had trouble hitting back so Kevin said he’d work with me. He hit me a few times but I still couldn’t hit him back, not really. I was afraid of being hurt but Kevin explained you’ll get hurt either way and you can turn your pain into anger. That’s what oppressed people have to do, turn pain into anger and hit someone even if you’re not mad at that particular person. I made that motherfucker wince.”
Pain for the cause. It reminded me of my first high school basketball game. At a crucial point, I took a vicious charge. I could barely hear the coach say, “That shows some heart.” I was one proud young man.
On Saturday morning, Susan got a call that Rick was in jail. He’d been busted for shoplifting thermal underwear from a sporting goods store, and for resisting arrest. Susan scrambled to raise the $150 bail from students, explaining that Rick was a political prisoner because he needed the supplies for the Buffalo action. But when Kevin found out, he exploded. “Rick is chickenshit!”
“How can you say that?” Susan replied, shocked. “He’s in jail, a hero of the revolution.”
“Bullshit. We can’t afford to get him busted in Buffalo if he’s out on bail here. He’s too chickenshit to go to Buffalo and too chickenshit to tell me he’s too chickenshit to go to Buffalo. So he got himself arrested. Even he’s not stupid enough to shoplift before an action.”
“You take that back,” Susan shouted, as if responding to a playground insult.
“I’m beginning to think that you’re chickenshit, too,” Kevin sneered.
Susan’s eyes inflated as she hauled off and punched Kevin in the jaw. Kevin was about to hit back but instead he relaxed his fist and kneaded his jaw. He smiled. “Who needs chickenshits like Rick, when we’ve got you.” Susan’s features scrambled for position into a recognizable expression, with flashes of grimace, smile, and rage. “Susan, not everyone is cut out for this stuff. Rick is a good guy, and he’ll be effective back on the picket line, supporting people like us.”
They decided to let Rick stay in jail. Perhaps they’d pick him up on the way home.
Early Sunday morning, we were awakened by someone knocking on doors yelling, “The Brigade is leaving with our food! Emergency meeting, hurry!” A dozen sleepy-eyed students were in the Life Room with Kevin, while the other Brigadiers waited outside. “How can you call yourselves the People’s Brigade?” an Artsy yelled.
“It’s the people’s food. We just liberated our share,” Kevin replied calmly.
“What about us, we’re not the people?” the Artsy challenged.
“This place is paid for by your parents, who legally steal. We’re reclaiming what is ours. Don’t worry, your parents will buy you more food.”
“Right on,” said one of the Politicos. “I’m just disappointed that you didn’t respect us enough to ask.”
“Good criticism, brother,” Kevin said.
The students, afraid of being branded counterrevolutionary, reached a consensus to ask the Brigade to return half the food, and to censure them for not asking first. Kevin agreed. As some of the food was being returned, an Artsy said, “Don’t take a needle or a thread from the people.”
Kevin looked at him quizzically. “That’s Mao, you asshole,” the Artsy explained.
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