Charles Rubin - Leaning on Thin Air: A Novel of Boston, 1969

Original Copyright 2017 Charles Rubin

Published in the United States of America

This NewCentury Publishers Edition
Copyright 2017 Charles Rubin

All Rights Reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced or utilized in any form or by any means, electronically or mechanically, without permission in writing from the publisher.

Any resemblance to persons, living or dead, or to historical events is purely coincidental.

Library of Congress-in-publishing-data

Rubin, Charles
Leaning on Thin Air: A Novel of Boston, 1969/humor
1st Edition

Library of Congress Control Number: 2016908079
ISBN: 978-0-918915-07-8

Cover and text Design: Izumi Motai
Editors: Jennifer Weil and Joe Black
Author photograph: Star Dewar

Printed in the United States of America
1st Edition
12345678910

NewCentury Publishers
PO Box 750265
Petaluma, CA 94975
Tel: 707 769 9808
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www.NewCenturyPublishers.com
Distributed by SCB Distributors/Gardena, CA.

This book is dedicated to my daughter,
Pamela Jean Naugle

Acknowledgements

Remembering that long-ago generation of daring, totally original copywriters and art directors who stormed the bastions of conventional, lets fool the consumers advertising to create fresh, honest, innovative and often hilarious TV and radio spots and print campaigns. As forerunners of what has become known as the Advertising Revolution, their style, wit and inventiveness have often been copied, but never equalled.

-1

Its another Vietnam War protest in a summer of Vietnam War Protests. The crowd, your basic good citizens with a cause, is keeping the noise level down to just short of controlled shouting. Its the usual rant youve heard beforethat we have no right being in Vietnam, that were invaders in a foreign country, that our government and military are nothing but a bunch of criminalsand on and on.

Facing them down and shouting even louder are those who believe its our sacred duty as proud Americans and as caretakers of peace and freedom to protect the world from communism.

Are they kidding? The reason were in Vietnam is because we got into this goddamn mess in the first place and we dont have a clue on how to get out of it. Years of fighting and endless casualties have rendered the USA powerless against the resourceful and unyielding Vietcong Freedom Fighters.

Meanwhile, I couldnt care less about Vietnam. It doesnt impinge on my life one way or the other. I have a war of my own that takes precedence over this one. I just want to get through this damn crowd and over to the other side of the Common. Im already late for my appointment.

But the debate between the two factions has somehow escalated to a fever pitch which, in turn, has developed into a fairly major brawl which, in turn, has erupted into a crazed mob scene accompanied by violent pushing, shouting and screaming.

And then, with all of that going on, theres a sudden lineup of cops making even more of a racket than the protesters. They stand there barking out orders for everyone to disperse.

What happens next tells me I may never get where I want to go. A barrage of rocks comes flying out from the crowd, one of them hitting the skull of a police official. The trickle of blood that instantly appears on his foreheadjust before he sinks on all foursis some kind of signal for severe police measures to be taken.

Jesus, Mary and Joseph, someone near me says, a priest with a peace placard. Implicit in his tone is that there will be more blood spilled. The cops have been provoked and sure enough, they get ready to retaliate.

What follows next is a scene reminiscent of the police clashes in Selma, Alabama, back in 64, and more recently, at the Democratic National Party Convention in Chicago that sent dozens of people to the hospital.

Cops on horseback charge and attack people including a contingent of moms whose sons actually are, at this very moment, fighting and dying in Vietnam. I watch, mesmerized, as they run for cover.

There are agonized screams, the loud, cracking sound of bones being broken, and the splattering of blood and brain tissue. The Police continue their rampage, ordering the protestors to lie face down on the ground with their hands behind their heads. The response is a steady cadence of PIG! PIG! PIG!PIG! PIG! PIG!PIG! PIG! PIG!

One cop on horseback barely misses my cranium with his truncheon and hey, Im not even a protester. Im just a pedestrian trying to get to an appointment.

Within just a few frenzied minutes, Im witness to people being subdued and carried bodily to waiting paddy wagons, their heads creating a bump, bump, bump cadence on the pavement.

One young woman is being dragged along by her ponytail. She appears seemingly acquiescent, as if just going along for the ride. This is passive resistance to the extreme. Even Gandhi would have grabbed the cop by the throat.

I shouldnt laugh, but despite the violence, some of the stuff going on strikes me as funnylike the way the kid with the unflattering likeness of Richard Nixon painted on his torso refuses to stand up. Every time the cops get him on his feet, he allows his upper body to fold down from the waist and his legs to buckle.

Nearby, someone sings an unintelligible, drug-induced, and completely deranged version of We Shall Overcome until he, too, is dragged off by the cops.

The men in blue are now lobbing something at the crowd. Tear gas! someone shouts. Theres absolute panic as people scatter every which way, their mucous membranes burning as if on fire.

If these folks thought they had something called freedom of speech accorded to them as a sacred right, theyre sadly mistaken.

And yet there I go, walking right smack into the middle of the carnage, heedless of the danger. Anyone seeing me strolling so casually through this bloodbath would think I was suicidal or just plain crazy. Actually, I think I must be both those things because, the truth is, I dont rightly care if I am a casualty. In fact, I would welcome it.

But no such luck. I manage to move across this expanse of blood-soaked grass without a scratch while people on either side of me are being whacked senseless in what amounts to a latter-day Boston massacre,

Nasty as all this is, Ive got my own problems to deal with. Who has time for Vietnam?

-2

I never refer to Bertram Perlberg as anything but Bertram, a name he detests and one he has repeatedly asked me not to address him by. Dr. B. Pickering Perlberg is his official name. For a shrink, hes very sensitive.

I had phoned his office right after the incident this morning and was told by his receptionist that he was with another patient. I told her of my intention to jump in front of an MTA trolleynot an empty threat, considering how desperate I was feeling.

Bertrams nonchalant reply, when he did deign to come to the phone, was that since I was going to kill myself, did I want to cancel my appointment?

Typical Bertram sarcasmand his way of dealing with a would-be suicide.

Im late arriving due to the riot. Bertram, instead of being some sort of comfort to me in my now reduced minutes with him, is instead throwing in my face everything that I confided in him on the phone. Hes telling me what a senseless and incredibly stupid thing I had done this morning when meeting with a client. As if I dont already know that.

The scene of the meeting springs to mind. A team of co-workers and I are presenting an advertising campaign to one of our agencys most important clients, a pampered prince of commerce worth millions in billings who doesnt acknowledge my existence as I present. He even takes several phone calls while Im talking.