Jim Babwe

Summer 1972

The last few days

of Orange County summer

subtly swapped long hot days

for cooler hint-of-autumn afternoons

and off-to-college see-you-laters

which proved life would not continue

with grade school through junior high

through high school party friends--

mostly scattered to physical distances

not-too-long after commencement

followed by occasional phone calls

which eventually stopped.

During a Huntington Beach afternoon, though,

a skateboard rider interrupted

my indulgent loneliness by calling me by name

prior to our simultaneous glancing north

toward the pier where sudden flaming chaos

skipped a slow beginning.

Burning patrol cars

spewed black smoke,

rising fast as riot squad panic

on both sides of clear plastic face shields.

Outside the regimented helmets

half-naked frightened laughing raw joy

numbed by tequila and loud-as-it-goes

radio rock and roll

tasted dangerous like freedom or anarchy.

We said we would prefer death

to mindless submission,

but that turned out to be

postured bravado.

Young lovers of summer,

we taunted frightened new recruits,

whose tight-jawed bullhorn threats

could never back those angry words

with enough handcuffs for all of us

on the final weekend before expectations

told us we were due to hurl ourselves

into blue collar employment

and all the barely scraping by

or through university library doors

toward now-defunct card catalogs

and what we were sold as a more noble,

worthwhile brand of drudgery.

I know it's partially redundant,

but worth repeating

to tell you then-rookies

I remember

you were just as scared

to chase us as we were

scared to run away.

But I knew one of you--

confused

broken home

draft ready

can't vote

son of bowling alley

beer swilling

nine-to-five

dead end

bully.

You--

not-too-distant-future slave to bank

frozen turkey dinner

closest liquor store commuter

watching television

in your underwear

reclining in your

bargain basement chair

destined to be neighborhood famous

for yelling down the hall

at you children

because you want--

no--demand for them

to turn the music down

before you count to three

and stomp into their room.

I know

you remember me, too.