SoMa Literary Review

1968

By Mike Ingles

I could drink 3.2 beer and I could fight in a war, but I couldn’t vote. There were many choices when it came to the beer, there was Budweiser and Pabst and Schlitz and Blatz and on and on. But the vote for the Presidency of the United States was limited to selecting from two old white men, Richard Millhouse Nixon and Hubert H. Humphrey. The nation went for the wrong old white guy. I got drunk. I got drunk because I was 18 years old and I could buy 3.2 beer at the Castle Bar just off the SFSU campus. I got drunk because I was disappointed in our country for picking a fraud like Richard M. Nixon for the presidency. But had HHH won, in this epic battle between old white guys, I would have still gotten drunk, if only to celebrate the wisdom of the American people. I got drunk because I was 18 and it seemed like the right thing to do. I had just survived the longest summer. It was 40 years ago, it was 1968.

My best friend and roommate, Danny Howard, took me home. He laid me down on my bed with my face upturned so that I could see the white ceiling. “When the world starts spinning,” he said, “just concentrate on that crack in the ceiling. It will help you to keep your bearing.” He was right about that, when I got up to recycle all that 3.2 beer, I found the bathroom with no trouble whatsoever.

And the Lord’s anger was kindled against Israel , and he made them wander in the wilderness forty years, until all the generation, that had done evil in the sight of the LORD, was consumed.

And so 40 years has passed since that tragic and wonderful and heartbreaking and joyous summer when I was young and the daises covered the empty fields and the world was *“puddle wonderful.” (ee cummings) And I am bewildered that my close friend, time, has chosen to run on ahead of me. Time now shares the sweetness of youth with another generation and has asked me, very kindly of course, to step aside. To take a long moment and consider the lilies of the field, to look back at a most wonderful time filled with horrible minutes and glorious seconds and be satisfied because, after all, it will do no good to complain. And so I offer this synopsis of a most memorable time to those of you old enough to remember, without malice, a year like none other in our history. And for those of you not old enough to remember this time in the past, know that history is the consummate teacher and that your forefathers bear the terrible cuts and agonizing bruises of falling short, not quite being up to the task, a generation of high ideals but lacking in necessary character to make the changes required of a more perfect union.

In 1968 at a church in Memphis Tennessee Dr. Martin Luther King lamented that he would not be around when the fruit of his labor was ripened. Dr. King offered these words,” Because I've been to the mountaintop. And I don't mind. Like anybody, I would like to live a long life. Longevity has its place. But I'm not concerned about that now. I just want to do God's will. And He's allowed me to go up to the mountain. And I've looked over. And I've seen the Promised Land. I may not get there with you. But I want you to know tonight, that we, as a people, will get to the Promised Land.” The next day Dr. King would die at the hands of just another assassin. And during that ominous summer I went to school, and I was 18, and I could drink 3.2 beer.

And The King of Soul, James Brown, would have two mega hits that summer, “Say it Loud- I’m Black and I’m Proud” and “I Got the Feeling.” The Tet Offensive began in Viet Nam in February, 142 American Marines would die in a town called Hue , and another 857 would be wounded. We don’t know how many civilians were killed or maimed; those statistics were kept from us for national security reasons. President Johnson called the Tet Offensive “A complete failure.” The following month Mr. Johnson would decide not to run again for the presidency. Otis Reading would posthumously give us, “The Dock of the Bay.”

In early spring while the daisies were trying their best to pop up from the red earth, 504 unarmed old men, women and children of The People’s Republic of South Vietnam would die in a town called My Lai . Warrant Officer, Hugh Thompson, of Atlanta would stand between his fellow soldiers and the remaining civilians in that flowerless town. Later that spring The Beatles would give us “Lady Madonna,” with all those children at her breasts, and Simon & Garfunkel released, “Mrs. Robinson” because –‘heaven holds a place for those who pray’, hay hay hay. While Aretha Franklin told us to-“Think!” ‘about what you are trying to do to me’, hay hay hay.

Bobby Kennedy would be murdered, of course.

Iron Butterfly had their only mega hit, “In-A-Gadda-Da-Vida. I have it downloaded and listen to it when I have had enough booze. I pretend to play the electric guitar as the drums pound through my headphones. The high notes I reach are simply astonishing. There was rioting in London and Paris and Washington D.C. throughout that spring and summer. There was rioting in Prague and in Chicago and even in my hometown of Antioch , Ohio . The Democratic National Convention was torn apart by demonstrations by the Chicago Seven, and by Mayor Dailey’s Gestapo Police. Hubert Humphrey gets the Dem’s nomination. Richard M. Nixon had the Republican nomination wrapped up. “Hey Jude” ends the longest summer with these lyrics, “And anytime you feel the pain, hey Jude, refrain, Dont carry the world upon your shoulders, nah nah nah nah...” There is fear and fire in Detroit and Watts and Mobile and Atlanta . Everyone is scared. My father bought a gun. Did I tell you I could drink 3.2 beer?

And that was really all that happened that summer of 1968. When you put it on paper, it really doesn’t look like so much. We had riots and marches and massacres and music and murders and war, seems like we always have war. And I could legally drink a beer.

40 years later, my doorbell rang. It could have been the booze or maybe I was a little dazed by all the threads of research I had been digging up about the year 1968, but when I answered the door a young woman, who looked very much like our Scotts-lawn grass technician, was standing there. She said that she was the Universe, and she wanted to know what I had learned after 40 years of living off of the generosity of mother Earth and offering nothing in return other than pixilated opinions and my share of Greenhouse Gases.

Me: What do you mean learned?

Universe: I mean what have you and your generation given back to the Earth or to posterity these past 40 years? Your father’s generation got rid of those damned Nazi’s and gave the world television and nuclear power. And the previous generation gave the world electricity - lighting, radio, toasters. What is the single greatest improvement or amount of knowledge that your generation has given to humanity?

Me: Well, 40 years ago we set out to rid the planet of poverty, and of bigotry, of war and violence.

Universe: Yes, those were some great ideals. So how did you do with that?

Me: Well, not very well I’m afraid. America is fighting two wars right now, and all the black faces are voting for the black candidate and all the white faces are voting for the white candidate, and there are more poor people today than ever before. Still, I mean we tried, but we got so damned busy, there were trips that had to be made and there were mortgages that had to be paid and there were children to coddle and all that kind of stuff. And the politicians told us that it was every man for himself, or herself, and so some people did ok and other people didn’t do so well, but the ones who really did terrific were the politicians and the wealthy people. Our generation built a lot of sailboats.

Universe: Yes I see, and so what is your generation’s gift to humanity?

Me: Well, I mean we really loved people and wished only the best for them. We marched and we sang songs, I saw Bob Dylan and Joan Baez once!

Universe: So you and your cronies really don’t have much to offer, do you? I mean I think you will concede that your generation’s achievements pale in comparisons to most other generations. Here is my business card. Call the 800 number if you come up with anything that you would like for me to consider. Goodbye Brother Boomer, sleep well.

Me: Yea, goodbye. And please don’t step on the daisies, we old hippies love daises, they are just beginning to bloom!

I closed the door behind the Universe, and I felt a little nauseous. I decided to go into our bedroom and lie down. My wife heard me and took an electric blanket from the hall closet. She covered me and set the dial to 4. I lay there quite awhile staring at the white ceiling of our bedroom. There was a small crack right in the middle of the ceiling and I could sense it growing. My wife has been after me to paint the room for some time, but I have been putting it off because after I have finished it, there will be nothing left to look forward to doing. I stared thinking about 1968 again, about all that confusion and all that violence back then, and then I did what old people do, I fell asleep.

I dreamed that I was on the phone with a long distance operator and she was connecting me to San Francisco . I was trying to get the phone number of Kemble Scott or Scott Kemble or any one of his aliases. He is the editor of “Soma Literary Review,” and he was the one who suggested the article about 40 years after 1968.

Me: Kemble?

Kemble: Yes, who is this please?

Me: Kemble, it’s me, Mike from Ohio , 1968, it’s me, remember me?

Kemble: Yes Mike, what is it? I’m entertaining a voluptuous, dark, snakefish person and I have my hands full.

Me: Sure Kemble, no problem. But listen, the Universe was just at my house and she wanted to know what my generation has learned in the past 40 years.

Kemble: Who you?

Me: No not me, all of us, my generation. She wants to know what we have done for mother Earth and mankind.

Kemble: Well you haven’t done anything to them. You guys are going to leave Earth just like you found them – at war, angry and full of toxic gases.

Me: The Universe gave me an 800 number and told me to call her if I could think of anything important that we Boomers have done with our time spent here.

Kemble: You really should report it to the phone company. They have rules about soliciting with 800 numbers, they will give an 800 number out to just anybody who has a sawbuck nowadays.

Me: Well thanks for the suggestion Kemble. I’ll let you get back to your guest.

Kemble: Anytime Mike, glad I could help. Oh and Mike…

Me: Yes.

Kemble: That line you used back there about voluptuous, dark, snakefish person. Remember only one adjective per noun. You may want to re-work it.

Me: Thanks Kemble goodbye.

Kemble: Ciao.

I wake up and the line in the ceiling is pleading with me to at least get a little putty and repair the crack. I turn over and fall back into a deep sleep. I dream that I am lying on my back on top of some scaffolding, with a pencil in my hand. I am pressed close to the ceiling of my bedroom, and I am writing down (or up) on the white ceiling, all of the wonderful things that our generation has invented or made improvements upon. There is toothpaste and saccharin and cable television. The ceiling is nearly covered with my scribble and just as I climb down from the scaffolding and grab the phone to call the Universe and tell her how great we all have been. In walks Kemble Scott or Scott Kemble. He is wearing an all white painters outfit and a white cap. He has a can of white paint and a large paintbrush and he stars painting over the list on my ceiling.

Me: Hey! What are you doing Kemble, that’s the list for the Universe! That’s all the wonderful things my generation has done with our time spent here on Mother Earth!

Kemble: Sorry fellow, but those scribbles are not very important now, are they? Besides your wife ordered the bedroom painted. You should have taken care of the world before time started speeding away. Soon there won’t be anyone around to finish it.

Me: I’m going to get another drink.

Kemble: That would be the human thing to do.

I wake up and look at my ceiling. The crack is still there waiting on me. Somehow I am relived. I promise never to touch that timeless crack.

And so this is the sum total, the complete book of knowledge and all that I know about the year 1968. This is the end, the conclusion of the article that I have written about 1968. It is an abject failure. It is full of clumsy metaphors and too many adverbs and adjectives and Point of View changes and none of it makes any sense. But then, neither did 1968. My wife read the piece and this is what she said, “You know that bedroom could be painted.” I suppose so. In two years we will celebrate our 40th wedding anniversary. I will not write about that.

So hear it is Kemble or Scott or Kemble Scott or Scott Kemble. Here is your article of about 2000 words on 40 years after 1968, it grew to be over 2500 words but you are a fine writer and editor so you will think of something. I trust the numbers will all add up. I was there. I am a living testament to the time. I know how mean and loving and hateful and warm the American people can be when in and out of national crises, but I’m not a good enough writer to describe it all. Let’s just say that there remains a crack in our ceiling not unlike the one found on the Liberty Bell. I have looked back and time has turned me into an old pillar of salt.

I can rest now. Peace.

Also by Mike Ingles on SoMa Literary Review:
Letters from the OKKR, Colorado, In June; Thank You, Max; Penguins & San Francisco Woman

Mike Ingles’ stories have appeared in several magazines including the Southern Cross Review and Slow Trains. The anthology, Laughing and Learning, featuring his story, "Dog Days" is published by Grace Abraham Publishing.