Empty Pockets Read Online Free Page B

listening to the dialogues, he formed no opinions. But after a time he began to see the aura of romance about the revolutionaries: the boldest speakers had the best-looking girls. And, as he listened, he formed the conclusion that, without exception, the better speakers were completely certain their viewpoints were right, were morally correct, that contrary to what they were asking for—justice—they condemned all men not on their side as traitors to mankind.
    Steven was unhappy with what he saw. He left the meeting quietly, holding his complaints for an encounter with John.
    They met the next day.
    John, quickly scanning Steven’s face, had not the slightest hope of his conversion. They had coffee together and talked of academic affairs, both avoiding any discussion of the movement. Finally, though, John could stand it no longer.
    â€œSo,” he asked, “what happened at the meeting?”
    â€œWell,” Steven said, “what I saw was a bunch of guys romantically in love with themselves, and, far from being involved in dreams that would make them better human beings, I only saw the same old shit: cats looking to be admired by their peer group.”
    â€œI thought that would happen,” John said.
    â€œBut,” Steven continued, “what struck my imagination was that while the radicals were responding to new ideas in old human ways, it was obvious that the ideas they were trying to express were true and good; ideas that would hasten the end of a competitive society, notions of racial superiority, sound the death knell of the idea of heroes, leaders, supermen; ideas that would change the world for the good and joy of all, if enough people understood them.
    â€œIn short, by participating I was converted and freed.”
    â€œWow,” John said, smiling. He was suddenly the happiest of men. The revolution was working. Rushing Steven up from his seat, he took him across the street to the Id Bookstore and bought him a copy of Mao’s thoughts.
    When other revolutionaries heard of Steven’s conversion they quickly became friends, solid friends. And right now, at almost any time of the day, you can go up on the Avenue to the U District and see Steven standing in the street, a red Mao button in his lapel, waiting for the revolution to come.

Street
    H e was peddling speed and coke, a very flashy dealer in tapestry bell-bottoms, yellow ruffled shirt, leather coat, leather headband, long hair flowing down to his shoulders. We walked together for a minute going up past City Lights Bookstore.
    â€œNaw, that’s bullshit, man, ’cause I’ve been hassled with again. If they come they’d better come in pairs ’cause one isn’t going to do it and if he shoots he’d better kill me ’cause I’ll shoot the fucker if he misses and if he kills me then I’m free ’cause when you’re dead you’re free.”
    Then: “I want to be free and we can’t be free as long as one of those pigs is alive.”
    Then: “No narc would come up here, man, ’cause if they did they’d be killed with fucking butcher knives.”
    Another cat with long hair and narrow stovepipe bells was standing at the corner waiting for the light. He overheard us.
    â€œWith machine guns, man,” this guy said, “every fuckin’ one of them.”

Sather Gate
    S he was a non-student, a runaway from smalltown lowclass Oklahoma, she said, come to Berkeley she didn’t know why, her boyfriend was into an off-the-wall movie trip, like we were into this thing where the camera is your brother so you’re free to do anything, do any thing, every thing you can think of, a sex thing, everybody was up on acid, and I began thinking, Shit, man, we’re into this thing where all learning is considered good, like that brought us the hydrogen bomb, you know.
    Later, leaving her apartment, That’s the real problem, she said, it’s too damn bad