Fiction

Blown Away

Gary Beck

The explosion blew out the basement and first two floors of the Greenwich Village brownstone that a wealthy behind the scenes supporter let us use. It had looked as innocent as the other middle class residences on the street, until the blast and flames proclaimed the difference.

Someone must have accidentally set off the explosion in the lab. We couldn't account for everybody, but two to four people may have gone up in smoke. Several others were out on errands. Five of us were on the top floor, stunned and deafened, unable at the moment to do more than look at each other in dazed confusion. Smoke seeped in through the floor and doors. Dust and bits of I don't know what filled the air. Curtains and some of the furniture smoldered or burned. We could barely see or breathe. It was hard to think clearly in this sudden chaos, but Ted took charge as usual.

"Jamar, put out the flames. Use a blanket or one of the drapes if you need it. Simon, watch the street and tell me when the cops show up. I'll check the stairs."

Urgent sirens in the distance reminded us that the police would be here soon. They would find enough weapons, drugs and anti-war literature to lock us up for a long time, maybe forever, if innocent bystanders were killed. Ted came back looking demonic. His face was covered with grime and soot. His eyes and teeth flashed with excitement at the prospect of action, the only time that Ted was ever really happy. He was like that years ago in my freshman year at Yale when we sat next to each other in a sparsely attended Chinese language class. He was intense about everything. Since we were the only students in the class who were interested in political activism we became friends. He gradually drew a web of intrigue around me, involving me in events that always ended in disaster, although this was the first time that I admitted it to myself. The explosion in our bomb factory was one more of Ted's plans that had gone astray.

My eyes were tearing, my ears were ringing, my nose was clogged, my throat was burning, but my mind was beginning to function again. I listened to Ted organize our escape plan across the roof.

"We'll go in pairs. Simon and Jamar, Randy and Joanie. I'll go alone. We'll meet at the all night coffee shop on West Fourth Street."

Simon and Jamar hopped out the back window onto the fire escape and they were gone in a flash. I started out the window and realized that Joanie wasn't behind me. I turned back and saw her still lying on the floor, pointing at her leg. Ted was crouched over her and I went back to help. He started yelling furiously at me. "Get out." I pointed to my ear and pretended that I couldn't hear what he was saying and helped Joanie get up. Ted mouthed: "We have to leave her." I ignored him and led Joanie to the window. Ted pulled out a pistol and waved it in my face. I let go of Joanie. He yelled:

"She obviously can't make it over the roof and we can't leave her behind to talk to the police. I'm going to shoot her."

My hearing instantly returned. Ted was always eager for violence. This was the kind of opportunity that he might have dreamed about. It was a fantasy come true, where he could execute a fallen comrade to prevent her from falling into the hands of the Gestapo.

The click of the cocking pistol sounded louder than the explosion. There was no time to discuss anything. Ted was already aiming the pistol, while Joanie lay there frozen with terror. I moved very carefully. Ted was excited enough to also shoot me. I said soothingly:

"We should follow your original plan. I'll take Joanie. If she can't keep up with me, I'll break her neck and toss her from the roof."

Ted always had reservations about us, because Joanie and I had advocated attacking property, rather than people. Perhaps he thought that at last I was willing to do my duty for the cause. Even Ted could enjoy turnabout once in a while. Just then a face peered in the window. It was a fireman in a cherry picker, searching for anyone trapped upstairs. He yelled: "Is everyone all right in there?" Ted fired a shot at him. The fireman quickly ducked out of sight. Joanie finally realized the seriousness of her situation and lurched to the window. Ted's gleaming grin split his soot-blackened face as he urged us up the fire escape.

We reached the roof. Flames were pouring out of the building. We stood for a moment, unable to see the clear blue sky of a brilliant spring day, now obscured by thick, gray smoke. We listened to the arrival of the emergency services, fire, police, ambulance. Ted waved his hand farewell, bounded off like a puma and was gone. I led Joanie to a roof a few buildings away. We walked down the stairs and headed to the Avenue of the Americas. The burning building drew everyone's attention and no one noticed us. Joanie kept looking nervously at me, thinking about what I had said to Ted.

We had been close friends in the movement from the beginning. We always sat together. We slept together, though we never had sex. We just comforted each other through the stress of life in the underground anti-war movement. Ted used to get furious when Joanie said that the police and politicians weren't the real enemy. She insisted they were merely employees of a system that was only concerned with making more and more profit. It drove him wild when I agreed with her. But that didn't matter anymore. Between the smoke and the tension I must have looked as dangerous as Ted, because when we reached the Avenue of the Americas, Joanie jumped into a taxi. Before I could get in she sped off I know not where. Another loved one who briefly touched my heart, swept away from me to unknown shores.

I had no intention of rejoining the group after the incident with Ted. I could imagine him accusing me of betrayal as soon as I walked into the coffee shop and shooting me on the spot. I couldn't go anywhere that I was known, because the police might easily locate me and arrest me. Then my family would find out and they already disapproved of my activism. It's not that I was ashamed of my actions, but I loved my family. I didn't want them to know how involved I was in political violence. I stopped in a neighborhood bar, cleaned myself as much as possible in the men's room and decided to find a hideout. I walked uptown, constantly turning around to see if I was being followed. I felt that everyone was looking at me, recognizing that I was a criminal on the run. I turned west on 23rd Street and on an impulse went into the Chelsea Hotel. It wasn't what I expected. Instead of a funky dive, it was sort of arty and Bohemian. There were all kinds of paintings covering the lobby walls. I registered under a false name and paid in cash because I didn't have any luggage. I went to my room and lay down on the bed in exhaustion.

Once the jitters stopped I began to consider my options. There weren't many. I couldn't go home because that might lead to unpleasant family confrontations. I certainly wasn't going to contact the movement and risk them informing Ted of my whereabouts. I didn't know which friends I could rely on anymore, except for Steve and he hadn't spoken to me for almost five months. It started from a basic disagreement that began a long time ago. After arguing all night long about my working in the bomb factory he told me not to speak to him until I came to my senses. He was so disgusted with me that he told me to get out of his apartment. I was shocked.

"You mean you're throwing me out?"

"That's right."

"What about our friendship? I'd never turn against you."

"I'll always be your friend, but I can't approve of your making bombs and blowing up people."

"We're targeting property. No one will get hurt."

"If Ted is involved, people will get hurt," Steve said with certainty.

"It's been planned very carefully for maximum publicity with minimum damage."

"Can you name one plan of Ted's that didn't go wrong?" Steve asked accusingly.

"This time it's different," I said righteously.

"That's what you said the last time."

"It was just bad luck that the watchman worked overtime."

"Ted always has bad luck. You're getting in over your head and you'll kill yourself or others."

"I won't."

Steve was getting impatient. "Will you wake up. What's the difference between bombing North Vietnam and bombing a recruiting office?"

"There's a big difference. One is illegal aggression. The other is social protest."

Steve shook his head in despair. "It's the same thing. It's meaningless destruction, especially for the people who get killed."

"I told you nobody'll get hurt."

"There's no way you can guarantee that."

"We're taking every precaution."

"That's a lot of crap, Randy. Ted loves violence. He'll make sure that somebody gets hurt. I don't believe that you're doing this. You should know better than to trust Ted."

I wanted Steve to understand. "How else can we make the government listen to us?"

"You've got brains, figure out a better way. This kind of violence is wrong. If it was anybody else but you, I'd turn them in."

"I'm sorry you feel that way."

"How do you expect me to feel? You're going to kill innocent people. I don't know whether you're brainwashed or crazy. You better think this through again."

"I know what I'm doing," I said stubbornly.

Steve was just as stubborn. "You don't!"

"I'm doing what I believe in."

"You're too mixed up to make that kind of decision."

"I didn't say that to you when you went to Vietnam."

"I volunteered to serve my country. I knew what I was doing!"

"So do I!"

"This is a waste of time," Steve said in disgust. "You better go. If I hear that anyone gets killed, I'll turn all of you in."

I couldn't believe what he said. "You'd do that to me?"

"Well, maybe not you. But I'll report Ted and the other loonies. Now get out. Don't talk to me again until you stop making bombs."

This was the only time in all the years we had been friends that he stayed angry with me. There was no one else I could turn to, so I swallowed my pride and made the call.

When Steve answered the phone I blurted out: "I'm in trouble." He responded the way he always did. "How can I help?" I heaved a sigh of relief.

"Thanks for not staying mad at me."

"Forget it. What happened?"

"There was an accident and the police might be looking for me."

"Tell me about it."

"I'll tell you later."

"Where are you?"

"I'm registered at the Chelsea Hotel under a false name."

"Are you hurt? Do you need a doctor?"

"No. I was just shaken up a bit. I'll be all right if I rest for a while."

"Does anyone know where you are?"

"No."

"Do you need money?"

"No."

"Were any innocent people hurt?" Steve asked suspiciously.

"No. Just some of my comrades."

"Spend the night at the hotel, get some sleep and come to my place in the morning. If you need anything before then, call me."

I started to explain the details, but he cut me off.

"Anyone could be listening on a hotel phone. You can tell me everything tomorrow."

I felt better already, knowing that Steve would stand by me. I fell asleep on the bed fully dressed. In the morning, bright sunlight splashed through the window dragging me out of a turbulent dream. Menacing men had chased me down a deserted street, trapping me in a dark alley. They were about to stab me when I woke up.

I left the hotel without anyone noticing me and started across town to the east side. Steve lived on the 6th floor of a walk-up tenement building near Tompkins Square Park. When he first moved into the tiny apartment, we joked about the irony of his moving diagonally across town from one slum to another. But he finally had his own place to bring the endless stream of girls that he picked up wherever he went, with as much privacy as the thin walls allowed.

I walked east on 23rd Street and stopped to check if anyone was following me. I doubled back and went into the public library. I was beginning to feel like a real fugitive. When I was sure that no one was interested in me, I went out and kept walking downtown until I got to East 9th Street. I paused in front of a bicycle shop and looked in the reflection of the window. I saw no one on the street who looked like a cop and I entered the building as inconspicuously as possible. I was puffing a little when I reached the 6th floor. I knocked softly on the door. When it opened and I saw Steve I felt safe for the first time since the explosion. I stood there for a moment, looking at my closest friend, remembering the first time we met, so many years ago. I couldn't understand why I had let politics tear us apart, but I decided that it was definitely time to give up radical activities.