Margo and I have made a date to meet a local band "White Trash" to hear them play at a local club near campus and ask if they will play at our rally.I arrive early, followed in about fifteen minutes by Margo. Sliding in beside me in the booth, she leans and whispers, "Let's go outside for a few minutes."
Interested, I rise and follow her. She stops to take my hand, leading me around back. In the darkened alley, she produces a sterling silver cigarette case. "This was my dad's," she says. Inside are several carefully rolled joints. Producing my old faithful Zippo, I fire one up and we smoke rapidly in silence. When the glowing ember is about to burn my lips, she extinguishes it, places it carefully inside the silver case, and lights another. The taste is unusual, the pot stickier and sweeter than any I have tasted. "What kind of pot is this?" I query.
"Doatch Rope," she giggles.
"Dutch what?"
"No. Doatch Rope." Now she is really laughing. "You see, I save up all my roaches, open them and re-roll all the pot into more joints. Roach dope. With each generation, it gets stronger and stronger. By about the third generation it makes you talk funny, thus, doatch rope."
For some reason this is enormously funny. We finish the second joint. She carefully collects the roach in her silver case. We reenter the club, holding hands and giggling.
White Trash proves to be a very good band. Mostly they do songs of their own devising, with intricate blues riffs and gritty lyrics. During the break, Mark introduces us to the other members of the band. A mirror with lines of white powder and a tightly rolled hundred dollar bill circles the table. Margo snorts a line into each nostril then slides the mirror to me. I pause. Glance around the table. "Uh, I hate to be a geek here, but could I ask what this is?"
"Nose candy! Coke!" Margo whispers in my ear. "Do some, you'll love it!"
I lean and place the bill in my nostril, suck hard. All four lines on the mirror shoot up my nose at once, stinging, making my eyes water. Rather than being angry that I have inadvertently bogarted twice my share, everyone is amused that my inexperience has paid off. Don, the band member to my right, makes two more lines, snorts them, unrolls the hundred and licks it clean, then causes everything to disappear. Don, it appears, is the organizer, lyricist, and manager of White Trash. Also, if I am correct, he is the source of the coke.
Mark says, "It's true that I am the one who signed the sheet after I heard you speak at the auditorium, but we are all interested. I told the other guys here what you had to say and what you guys are trying to do. Everyone agrees that we want to be involved. Right guys?"
There are murmurs of general assent around the table. "So," Don says, "what can we do to help?"
I am floating, very relaxed in a soft cocoon of down, yet so alert, so alive. I feel a strong sense of power, of invincibility.
"How about if you play at the protest rally? For free," I add. "A band could really bring the people in."
"Boy, you don't fuck around," Don says. "Don't be afraid to jump right in and ask for what you want."
"Well, shit," I say, empowered and emboldened by the combination of drugs. "Ya can't end war and all that crap if you're gonna be shy about it. Right?"
"We normally make five to eight hundred dollars a gig," Don says.
I interrupt. "There's already enough assholes making a profit on this war. No way am I gonna start lettin' people make a profit off bein' against the war. Besides, we ain't got no money. The reason Margo and I are here is to find out what your level of commitment is. That's what we're lookin' for, people who are committed to using their talents to aid the movement. Not using the movement to aid their careers."
Don tried to interrupt, but I went on. "Besides, there's gonna be hundreds, maybe even thousands of people at this thing. Your name will be known all over campus, all over town. And, mark my words. Before this is over there's gonna be millions of people all over the country involved against the war. Pretty soon it's gonna be the 'in' thing to do. It's a good start on lots of free publicity for your band. It's good for you. It's good for us. And it's good for the country, the world."
By the time we leave the club, we have elicited a tentative promise from the group that they will play at the demonstration. In return, we will redo our pamphlets, adding the group's name to the thousands of leaflets we are now distributing daily.
Since I haven't checked with USP before making this agreement, and the band had not yet discussed it among themselves, Don is to call me in a few days to make the final decision.
Back on the street, Margo and I stand a moment, not wanting to leave each other. "Uh. It's still pretty early.
Wanna go somewhere else," Margo says.
"Sure, I'll buy you a cup of coffee." Walking over to Java Joe's, a nearby coffeehouse, she seeks out my hand and grips it tightly. Her hand in mine is tiny, so small and thin I am afraid to return the pressure. To me she seems utterly comfortable and composed, but her hand in mine is damp.
"You were great," she says. "Did you ever think of selling used cars?"
"It's just that I care so much! If I cared about used cars I could probably sell hundreds of them!"
"You're so serious. It was supposed to be a joke."
"I'm sorry, it's just that . . ."
"Please, don't apologize. I love your seriousness. It's why I try to get to work with you every chance I get. Er, that is, it's one of the reasons."
