"I've come to bury Caesar, not to praise him."


Ballots to Ashes



The big night had finally arrived after weeks of toil with
the research committee staff and its "bright young men"
who became known to posterity as McCarthy's children,
who pored over copious New York Times coverage with
unflagging determination to precisely glean
every word that would help our man, "Clean Gene."

We were the "bright young men" at Berkeley campaign
headquarters, so named after the "bright young men"
employed by the other McCarthy, "Tail-gunner Joe."
We were dedicated to the cause of character epitomized
by our plain speaking candidate who dared "carry the flag
against an incumbent president," toe to toe.

Election day was painted a static, battleship gray as I stood
offering campaign literature in my lawful position -- one
hundred yards from a polling station, doing all the good
of a hotel doorman greeting the constant parade of black
faces who invariably refused the literature in rock steady
support for their champion, Robert F. Kennedy.

Now as the sun was falling upon the California primary
I arrived in dutiful unhurried fashion to McCarthy
Headquarters to be among my own -- the true harbingers
of hope and a new age ruled by unabashed reason, carrying
on in stubborn optimism believing we would prevail
over the opportunistic usurper of our campaign trail.

They brought "horse piss" and some brought wine,
old hands showed up with a clean shaven shine,
the foil still covered the cheddar cheese and ham,
economy sacks of potato chips gleamed sublime,
Community Relations showed up early dressed to kill
for another last hurrah dousing the taste of a bitter pill.

The large T.V. was blaring the news, reception was
excellent this night announcing heavy voter turnout
which meant predictions could be reversed -- thinking
people would be populating the polls, weighing the
merits of the candidates equitably for the laurel crown,
they'd consider who stood up when the chips were down.

Community Relations ensconced himself like Pontius Pilate
with a neatly loaded paper plate and gave me a broad wink
which said "we have plans for you," (when we get the White
House). I winked back gratuitously and saw the rub
that was the bane of the eternal volunteer becoming the
"throw back" weathering the next pointed snub.

The foil was off the cheddar and ham, the bowl was full
of potato chips and the bright young men not yet twenty-one
helped themselves to a can of beer making a trip to the cheese
to mingle with the old hands smoking with sophisticated ease,
standing their ground, holding forth, politicos in full bloom,
contemporary king makers in their smoke filled room.

"The polls are closed," the old hand announced. "We're gonna
win!" went up the well worn cry. A hearty cheer filled McCarthy
Headquarters betraying wistfulness and desire to dictate fate
during a rare chance of having something to celebrate
as Shattuck Avenue lived its creeping momentum outside
the glass doors where cynicism held sway far and wide.

Not being a smoker as such I craved a cigarette
on special occasions needing to be memorialized
with tobacco, it was when I had absolutely no regret
indulging in vacuous conversation in a unique venue
with special people beyond the pale of joke,
so I approached Community Relations to bum a smoke.

"Spare a smoke for a hard working campaigner?"
the tone was conspiratorial, we were "on the QT."
Nodding, he shook out a Winston for a fellow cadre.
This was our sacred moment having played our hand,
we had a right to the kinship of fraternity
holding the line we drew in the sand."

I lingered watching the pulsating election night,
took a big drag and felt dizzy taking ecstatic flight
as that smoke felt like a soft ice cube sliding down
my throat, I was soaring to lofty heights now
a part of a brave new world and said with a sigh,
"I think we'll win," looking Community in the eye.

"Are we watching Walter? " The old hand shouted.
"Walter! Walter!" came the unanimous refrain.
We were Walter Cronkite people. We were Eugene
McCarthy people drinking beer feeling no pain
I felt warm all over knowing I had paid my dues
and victory was us all together, win or lose.

I was in the last months of high school, on the go,
styling myself as a politically savvy pro
in stark disagreement with my natty government teacher
who supported Kennedy in spite of his fair weather
politics and equivocation, saying in the same breath,
Kennedy was the answer to America's waltz with death.

"I have to go with Kennedy," the teacher said, "he's just
got the personality this country needs so much at this time,
after the assassination of Martin Luther King and JFK,
he's the portrait of vibrant life. He's just a new day,"
the teacher said with radiance. Yes, but someone else
stood up to oppose the phenomenon known as LBJ.

The news flash theme music was throbbing urgently,
two percent of precincts reporting with deliberate speed.
We hungrily discovered McCarthy had a narrow lead
and a cheer went up as Old Hand munched a chip,
"Early returns from Chico," he uttered his tender quip,
lifted his cup half filled with wine and took a sip.

He was all U.C. Berkeley as he sat as an impassive Sphinx.
"If we can hold two points in the Bay Area," I mused aloud.
"We made an impact," Old Hand said to cut me off.
New numbers came up quickly and pleased the crowd,
we were holding two points and Old Hand tilted his chair
pondering the future as everyone pondered everywhere.

I noticed Trish showed up with her large round butt
in tight jeans, prodigiously flaunting a role of political slut,
a senior at my troubled High School she was a splash
drawing me like a fly to shit with my charm and dash,
she was talking to a sharp volunteer as we counted points.
"Party?" she said smiling. "Yeah, I can roll a few joints."

Something rolled over in my stomach and I stepped
outside into Shattuck Avenue. I was standing for reason
with the reasonable against the icon stroking his hair
with his smile I viewed as reptilian, projecting life
constantly as death was palpable in the turgid air.
We were going to lose. The knowledge cut like a knife.

The new numbers caused a collective groan to sober
the gaiety at headquarters. We were down by two
points just like that and although the race was not over,
faces became long and Community Relations was grim,
a pose he probably learned in the Adlai Stevenson
campaign and I exchanged a meaningful glance with him.

We were settled into our yet hopeful bubble
when news flash music jarred us like a burglar alarm,
we took a deep breath and I rubbed my vague stubble.
Walter gave it to us straight and true,
Senator Robert Kennedy was projected the winner.
A defeated army heard what it already knew.

Bobby was acknowledging cheers modestly like Caesar,
he was smiling, stretching his protuberant lips
like sausages across his luminous face,
a golden Adonis, his eyes blazed at the horde
cheering in rapture of a second coming
of Kennedy returning to Camelot with his magic sword.

After thanking his dog Freckles and quoting FDR
Bobby especially thanked his friends in the black community
then asserted, "obligations to the American people" were by far
most important to honor along with achieving national unity
of diverse folks and advocated "change" with special emphasis,
adopting New Hampshire neatly into "the last analysis."

We were nauseated and mesmerized by the superb verbal hosing,
so impervious to our arduous labor spent exposing
the snake oil peddled by the regally disposed juggernaut.
"Slimy creep!" A volunteer gave vent to a zealous thought.
Old Hand erupted, "Hey! Bobby Kennedy is not a slimy creep!"
The volunteer retreated losing heart for getting in too deep.

Bobby was asking for a few more minutes to conclude
his speech as the last grains of sand were falling
in the hour glass of his life, a bold interlude,
a bright light, a dawn that was his calling.
"On to Chicago," he said giving thumbs up to raucous glee,
expecting victory at the convention he was not to see.

I watched the winners cheering, shaking my head,
they continued chanting moronic slogans and
mercifully CBS switched us to sober comment.
But a huge revelation came in my lament.
I had to get with the winners in this life --
those who clearly knew the stronger side of strife.

There was strong portent with the CBS pundit losing
composure. "Could you repeat that please?" Dead air.
Silence. He faced the camera with a morbid glare.
"We've just received word there was a shooting
at Kennedy headquarters at the Ambassador Hotel.
The worst was known as the tolling of the Iron Bell.

Winners were appearing increasingly pained
as the avalanche of bad news revealed a horror
as if the Titanic was sinking where mirth had reigned,
voices spoke desperation and despair with the deja vu
shouting of the needful words, "get that gun! Get his
thumb! Get his thumb! Break it off if you have to!"

The words branded my memory unto my last days. I knew.
I was tired as an American. The numb scenario was so familiar,
the "popping sounds like fire crackers," the code words for new
gunfire in our strident culture, the shock, the pathos, grief,
Trish in the volunteer's arms seeming all the more sweeter
as Uncle Sam cut a rug dancing with the Grim Reaper.

A subdued hubbub filled the room,
people discussing uncharted territory softened the gloom.
Research Committee disbanded with clammy handshakes.
Trish was leaving with some volunteers to get stoned,
Community Relations sat in stern serenity,
analyzing new political calculus in political eternity.

I left headquarters exchanging "thumbs up"
with Community Relations as well as the new motto
we nodded seriously and whispered, "On to Chicago."
The night was strangely quiet at the midnight hour,
as a moonlit graveyard after rain, captured on a storied page.
All roads led to Chicago in '68 -- on to Chicago and livid rage.





Poetry by Peter J. Kautsky
Read 776 times
Written on 2008-06-28 at 16:51

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