Revolution
It seemed within reach. It seemed to be just over the next rise, a mist or fog that
would settle
among the trees and ragged bushes that lined the footpath that ran
between the milkweed and
black raspberry canes and sumac and tall golden
grasses. Because that’s how we
imagined it—
like a mist that settled down over us, no guns, no fighting,
no shouting, just a mist settling down
and softening the edges of things so
that nothing, it would seem, needed to be done. Of course,
we had been smoking weed in a tent erected for
that purpose and of course a local rock band was
churning away on the makeshift
stage and of course there were frisbees flying everywhere and
circles of
shirtless young men flipping a bean-filled sack into the air with their feet or
catching it
on the backs of their necks briefly. And of course the three day concert
had entered its third day
and someone’s cousin was ripping along the trails on
a Yamaha 175 that sounded like a drunken
chainsaw spinning in the dirt. And the revolution was right there in
front of us. The revolution
that
would make work and strife vanish.
The revolution that would free us to sit crosslegged in a
tent and smoke
weed all day in a tent erected for that purpose in a park that was always open
and
waiting. And when we got
hungry a large converted mobile home would pull up and people with
hairnets would
serve us food that the government provided. Something exotic, perhaps mangos
and black beans wrapped in
a tortilla. A
bottle of guava juice. We
would line up and receive our
revolutionary food, then go back to singing about
the joys of the revolution, how everything was
okay now. The song would be called “Okay
Revolution” and it would have a loping reggae beat
and our voices would have
been much improved by the revolution.
There would not be much to
say about the particular character of this
particular revolution, but the song would assert over and
over that the
revolution was, indeed, okay. Some of us would clap along, others would
strum
guitars. All of us
would sing a little in our new improved voices. Mornings, we would stand and
salute the sun, each in our own
way. We would open beers or light
up more joints and smoke.
We would
await the white mobile home style kitchen on wheels, the women in their white
hairnets and cheerful post-revolutionary voices. Afternoons, we would talk about Dylan and
Marley and someone
might venture a thought or two about Nietzsche. Inevitably, someone
would say, “God is dead,” and we would
nod our assent. Then a band would
begin playing a
song we’d heard a million times, a song that expressed the
freedoms we were feeling now that
the revolution had settled over us and made
things mellow. Though the words
might be different
each time, the message was the same: everything’s mellow now
that the revolution’s here. It’s
true
that squabbles would erupt occasionally.
Someone might complain that someone ripped him
off. A dreadlocked man might stand suddenly
and barrel off into the bushes off-kilter and leaned
out ahead of his legs like
a wounded duck. Or a woman might
pull off her shirt suddenly and
cause much chest-thumping
and howling among the otherwise mellow young men. But most of
the time the revolution would deliver on its
promise. So that when it was time
to dig a new
latrine, all of the occupants of the tent would shake themselves
out of their post-revolutionary
stupor and help dig. Or, when the food wagon came, we would be polite and patient
and
courteous in our lines. Marx
had, it seemed most days, been mostly right. We were better
people without property. Instead of twenty private stashes, each
zealously guarded, now there
was a pile of community weed that
everyone dug into whenever the whim struck, and it struck
often after the
revolution. At first we could
think of nothing else to do except smoke weed and
sing “Okay Revolution” all day. Then, one day, one of the young men
discovered a worn
football on the bike path that ran alongside the river. At first it sat beside the tent
untouched.
Then gradually a few of
the men started tossing it playfully around the circle while we sang our
445th
chorus of “Okay Revolution.” Then
a few men tried a scrimmage. Two on two, with one
man throwing and the other catching and the
other two trying to prevent the catch. Soon all of
the men from our tent and other men from other
tents began to join them. They
moved the
games to a field beside the river, away from the tents and the prying
eyes of the women. The
games
became rougher, with men flinging each other in the dirt, then leaping and
slapping each
other in celebration.
Soon they were growling and shouting so loudly that the women couldn’t
focus on their own thin voices singing “Okay Revolution” beside the tent
mouth. Eventually, the
women were
drawn to see what was happening.
They gathered on the ridge above the field and
watched the men, some of
them shirtless, others wearing thin T-shirts drenched with sweat, as
they
slammed into each other and galloped down the field carrying the football
tucked into their
elbows, or squared off to contest a play, shoving each other
and screaming just inches from each
other’s face. The women watched a while, then
returned to the tent to sing and smoke and sleep.
The men returned ravenous, filled with energy. They carried the women off into the
bushes and
lifted their peasant dresses and took them from behind. Some of the women were appalled,
others
secretly thrilled, but they all understood that things had changed. The men no longer sang
“Okay
Revolution.” They stopped smoking
weed. When the food wagon came,
the men fought
to be first in line.
They gobbled their food and wiped their mouths with their sleeves, then
hurried off to practice handing the football to their teammates, tossing and
catching. They
thought of new ways
to hit each other—lower and harder.
They made plans for who would hit
whom, figured out who would throw, who
would catch, how they would trick the other teams by
pretending to do one thing
while doing another. They named
captains, set up positions and
strategies and assignments. And the women, the beautiful women, the
beautiful peaceful
women, gradually, two by two or in small groups, carrying
sacks filled with their clothing and
jewelry, their long skirts billowing,
disappeared from the tent and the park until one day the park
was filled with
men, men standing in the dusk on the field, men scratching plays into the dirt
with
sticks, men hurtling through the near-dark, slamming their bodies into each
other, hitting
and driving and leaping and rolling, shouting and pointing, men
together with other men, happy
and wild and sweat-drenched and lost.
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