Current Issue + contents + contributors + thanks News Next Issue Submit Links About Contact     Senior year of high school was finally over and graduation at the top of our respective classes was an accomplished fact. Mother and Dad were so pleased that they offered to take us to France with them in July. It was painful to decline, but we had committed to play in the eighteen-and-unders at the Orange Bowl, which would be the last junior tournament we could compete in. Steve and I had improved our rankings to the three hundreds, and a few good tournaments in July would make us eligible for the trip to Miami in August. Dahlia was instructed to keep us out of trouble while Mother and Dad were away. 'Right, Mrs. Pierce. Just like we always do,' she said cynically. 'I know how difficult they can be, Dahlia. Try your best.' 'Sure. I'll ask the governor to mobilize the national guard to watch them.' Our tournament hopes disappeared in a series of losses that kept us from breaking into the two hundreds. So July ended without a trip to the Orange Bowl and without a trip to France. We spent most of August sailing with Larry. The Germayne twins came back from a month in Italy and joined the crew. We were all entering college in September and our biggest topic of discussion was what we would major in. Larry's choice was the only shocker, high altitude archeology at Harvard. I was interested in political science and Steve was considering English literature. The girls were not sure what they wanted to do, so they decided to start with liberal arts. In late August we heard that Andy won the Orange Bowl tournament. We didn't find out the details until a few days later. Andy went into the tournament seeded second. He was playing well and got to the final, where he faced the number one seed. The winner would be the number one junior in the country. Andy lost the first two sets and was down five-love in the third. At match point, he somehow managed to win the point with a desperation drop shot, but then he fell. His father rushed onto the court to help him, then requested a medical delay. The umpire ordered Mr Klassen off the court, but he refused to leave. The umpire threatened to default Andy if he didn't resume play immediately. Mr Klassen challenged the umpire's authority and demanded to see the referee. It took more than ten minutes to locate the referee, who finally rushed onto the court and tried to resolve the dispute. The referee agreed with the umpire and told them to resume play. Mr Klassen produced the rule book and claimed that Andy had the right to have a doctor examine him. The referee said that didn't apply to the juniors. Mr Klassen demanded to see where it said not for juniors. The referee announced his decision that play should resume. Mr Klassen continued arguing, and the referee told him he could protest his decision to the Lawn Tennis Association and ordered him off the court. Mr Klassen accused him of favoring the other player and shoved him. It took more time to have Mr Klassen removed, but he had succeeded in delaying play long enough for Andy to pull his game together. By the time play resumed, Andy had regained his concentration, but his opponent had gotten cold. Andy came back from five-love and won the third set seven-five. He raced through the fourth set at six-love and was leading four-two in the fifth, when his opponent fell and lay on the ground, clutching his hamstring. The umpire didn't say anything and Mr Klassen ran to him and demanded that he order play to be resumed. The referee intervened and told the boy he had to continue play. He hobbled through the last two games without winning a point. Andy, with the help of his father, became the number one junior in the country. That kind of gutter-scratching and clawing to win a game was a real turn-off to us. We were willing to fight to the death for survival, or for a just cause, but not for tennis. It was one of the main reasons why Steve and I weren't sure how much longer we wanted to play the game competitively. Our reputation as political and social renegades preceded us to the venerable campus that was to be our home for the next four years. After the exhilarating freedom we tasted in San Francisco, college was stifling and irksome. This provoked us to resist the institution in little ways that otherwise might have made it easier to get along. We were already ordained for the tennis team, despite rumors about our involvement in controversies in the juniors with Andy Klassen. Perhaps we felt more secure than other freshmen. We refused to pledge the appropriate jock fraternity and scornfully rejected the invitation to join a prestigious secret society. Even though we had arrived in the family limousine and looked as if we belonged, we were considered outsiders. Since we would have to live on campus, Steve was concerned that I didn't realise the consequences of turning my back on the natural class relationships of my heritage. 'Listen Pappy, you're the last person in the world who should encourage me to take my position as a member of the privileged class. You know how I feel about the inequities of our society. I've watched you develop a strong sense of social justice and I admire your growing interest in the struggle against oppression, but you have other priorities. You have to finish your education and pick a career, so you can support yourself when your father kicks you out of the house.' 'He wouldn't do that,' I said, with certainty. 'When he realises that you're developing radical beliefs that will involve you in conflict with the system and maybe even violence, how do you think he'll react?' 'He won't like some of my choices, but he'll talk to me and try to understand my feelings.' 'That's right. He will, until you introduce the problem of violence.' 'He's no stranger to violence. He fought in two wars.' 'He was a Marine. He fought for his country and the system he believes in, which has been very good to him and his family. He didn't fight his own government.' 'He didn't have to. They kept him too busy fighting in Asia. What about the poor who are victimised by profit-makers and the neglected children of poverty? Who's going to help them?' 'That's a separate issue, you wild socialist. I'm talking about your father, who loves you and expects you to make a place in his world. He'll hear about your rejecting his club. How will you explain that?' 'I really want to please him. You know that. But I've got to build my own identity. I can't do things for his sake and that includes not joining his club. You can understand that. We've been like brothers, without ever competing for the affection of our father. You respect and love him as much as I do.' 'Of course. He won my respect for his fairness and sense of decency, but this is different. It's one thing to discover the injustices of the world and another to declare war on the system that you think is responsible.' 'Do you want me to sit back and ignore the abuses that I see?' 'I want you to get a little more education and experience before you charge off to tilt with windmills.' 'Are you saying that I'm foolishly wasting my time on a hopeless cause?' 'You're a passionate romantic, Randy, and you don't recognize the corruption and savagery of the world. Wait until you see more of the scope of poverty, then you'll get a better understanding of how vast the problem is.' 'I've seen poverty in San Francisco and here in New Haven.' 'I'm talking about experiencing it first-hand, so you know in your guts how it affects people.' 'You mean I should learn to live with injustice?' I asked impatiently. Steve was conciliatory. 'Aren't you feeling a little too combative right now for a reasonable discussion?' 'I don't want to fight with you, Steve. I want to know if you'll stand by me.' 'I'm your friend and brother. Nothing will change how I feel about you. But if you decide to do something that I think is wrong, I won't do it with you.' 'Would you rat me out?' 'No. But I'd try to stop you if you were doing something criminal.' 'I'm talking about righting social injustices, not becoming a bank robber.' Steve said with mock regret: 'Too bad. There wouldn't be much of a reward for turning in a mixed-up socialist.' 'Very funny. Why do you find it so difficult to accept my beliefs about the ills of poverty?' 'I don't object to your beliefs. Remember, I come from the wrong side of the tracks. I grew up in poverty. I just want you to learn more before you set out on an ill-planned crusade.' 'I experienced poverty first hand when I stayed with you in Hell's Cavern.' Steve gently corrected me. 'Kitchen. Hell's Kitchen.' 'Sorry. I didn't mean to insult your ancestral roots.' 'You didn't experience poverty, you just vacationed in a slum. There's a big difference between a temporary visit, when you can return to comfort and luxury whenever you want, and being trapped in the consuming jaws of desperate need, with no hope of escape.' 'You got out of there,' I responded logically. 'I was lucky. You and your father helped me. Most poor people aren't that lucky.' I asked what had been on my mind for years: 'Did you ever resent us for being well-off?' Steve didn't even take time to consider the question. 'No. From the first day we met, you and your father have been the two finest men that I know.' A warm feeling went through me. 'Thanks, Steve. It's nice to know that you feel that way.' 'But before I knew you, I hated your guts after I found out that Mom had arranged for me to be your charity case. When Mom brought me to Grand Central Station, I wouldn't sit with the rest of the pauper kids. I tried to figure out how to escape on the train ride to shamesville. When Ham Delson met us at the station my worst fears came true.' I nodded. 'He was a real jerk.' 'Sure. But he was a socially secure jerk, dispensing alms to the needy and making sure they appreciated it. I prayed that I could be invisible and could go back home and avoid the humiliation that was coming.' 'Why didn't you?' 'Mom would have been real hurt, because she went through all that effort to give me opportunities that we couldn't afford. I was stuck.' 'But it turned out for the best.' 'Yes. But what if I was assigned to the Klassens?' 'They didn't take any of the special guests.' 'You know what I mean. There are a lot of families as bad as the Klassens.' 'You made your point. We'll continue this discussion another time. I've got to go soon, or I'll be late for my first Chinese class.' Steve shook his head in irritation. 'That's the kind of hare-brained stunt I've been talking about.' 'What?' 'When you registered for the course you stirred up a storm when you told them why you wanted to study Chinese.' 'If they didn't want to know, they shouldn't have asked.' 'Instead of telling them that you wanted to read Chairman Mao's Red Book in the original, you could have said you wanted to study the classics. After all, you're in the bastion of capitalism. You didn't have to proclaim yourself a commie agitator.' 'I'm not a commie. I'm a radical socialist.' 'I know that, but I don't think they noticed the distinction.' I shrugged. 'That's their problem.' 'We'll see. They've been here a long time. We've only been here a few days. We don't have to make waves right away.' 'Why not? At least they know where I'm coming from.' 'I'd rather be behind ivy walls than an iron curtain.' 'You don't have to choose walls today. See you at tennis practice.' 'Do good socialists play tennis, comrade?' I answered Steve with a pillow to the face and went to class. I had selected Chinese on an impulse. That was one of the nice things I was discovering about college; the consequences of your actions weren't too severe, so you could try new things. I was a few minutes late to class and the professor, Ellen Yee, gave me a long suffering look that hinted of thousands of years of enduring barbarian incursions. I was just one more infliction. 'You are Mr Pierce?' she asked formally. I bowed my head. 'Hai.' 'We do not speak Japanese in my class,' she said coldly. I didn't mean to offend her. 'Sorry. I thought that was Chinese.' 'Well, it's not. You may call me Yee-Tai-Tai, teacher Yee. Now take a seat please.' I was slightly embarrassed. 'Thank you.' The class was too small to even work up a titter at my goof. I sat down in the second row and looked around. There were only seven students in the class. The fellow sitting next to me leaned over, gave me a toothy grin, stuck out his hand and said his name was Ted Baranski. I anticipated his macho grip and we squeezed each other's hands for a while, until he let go. He was obviously surprised at my strength. He grinned sardonically at me and asked my name. 'I'm Randy Pierce.' 'Welcome to the long march, comrade. Why are you here?' 'I want to read the classic poets in the original.' 'What about the suffering masses?' 'They have suffered a long time without me.' Ted turned back to his book, unable to make an instant assessment of me, but obviously curious. I had to smile at my stubborn, contrary nature, thinking of my earlier conversation with Steve about Chairman Mao. The other members of the class seemed indifferent to our greeting and didn't make much of an impression on me. Yee Tai-Tai described the method of study we would use. It had been developed by the U.S. Army, with the help of Yale scholars. First we would learn to speak, then we'd learn to read and write. She gave us the titles of the books we would need and dismissed the class. Ted walked out with me. He was a few years older than me, big and muscular, with a stride like a predator. He had short blond hair, a sloping forehead, pale blue eyes that glittered aggressively, high cheekbones, slightly coarse Slavic features, tattooed arms and a stocky body. He seemed taller than he really was and conveyed an aura of danger. He asked with a friendly smile: 'Do you want to get a cup of coffee?' 'I can't right now. I have tennis practice.' 'I bet you hunt and ski and do other rich boy sports,' he said bitterly. 'Of course. But I only hunt endangered species that I can show off to my plutocrat friends.' 'That is not in the best interests of the people.' 'Do we have to tell them everything?' I asked in a confiding whisper. He regarded me coldly. 'You have a sense of humor. Unfortunately I don't.' 'I won't hold it against you. My roommate and I will be grabbing a burger at the cafeteria, after practice. Why don't you join us about seven pm and we'll get acquainted.' 'Are you sure your rich friends would want to meet me?' 'I don't see why not, as long as you don't embarrass me by stirring your soup with your finger.' 'We'll have bigger issues to deal with than etiquette. See you later.' A good example of my growing independence occurred before practice, during our orientation conference with the tennis coach, Bill Carlson. He had been a top eastern player for years. In fact, he once played a qualifying round at Forest Hills. Of course he lost. Players from the northeast could never compete with players from California or Florida, who were able to play all year round. As a coach, he had been fairly successful in ivy league competition and he was a secure fixture in the athletic department. Bill welcomed us with an old-buddy attitude that instantly alienated us. He droned on about tradition, upholding the honor of the school and the importance of beating Harvard. When Steve asked: 'What about playing well?' Bill replied: 'Playing well is winning.' He had no interest in what we wanted from tennis. But if we didn't join the team we wouldn't be able to play very much, so we decided to go along with the program. Bill predicted that we'd be starters in the spring, but he was shocked when we didn't kiss his ring in gratitude. I said bluntly: 'That sounds good, but what about the fall?' Bill didn't appreciate our lack of reverence for the system. On the way out Steve asked me if I had a plan to socialize the courts, so we could play without joining the team. I politely invited him to place his racket in a position that would be uncomfortable. We went to the cafeteria where I introduced Steve to Ted. Their hackles went up like belligerent dogs and their handshake almost turned into a wrestling match. I managed to separate them without a battle. Ted was a political science major, so we had something in common, though his brand of politics was more radical than mine. But he came from a very different planet than Steve. He told us that he had been in the army for two years, where he learned demolition. He said when he got out of the service he went to the Philippines and made explosives for the communist Huk rebels, who were resisting the American-dominated government. He was rapidly capturing my attention. 'I've always been interested in explosives,' I said wistfully. Steve was annoyed. 'I don't believe you. This guy is talking about killing people.' 'Take it easy, Steve. Ted's only saying that violence is one of many ways to force a government response.' 'The innocent should be targets of terrorism, because that's the best way to make a corrupt government change policy,' Ted said harshly. Steve wasn't buying the party line. 'That's bullshit! What about the democratic process?' 'You may believe in that myth, but it doesn't help the starving peasants in Asia.' 'What will help them, indiscriminate killing?' 'If that's what it takes.' 'The Huks are killing Americans.' ' The struggle for world peace doesn't recognise national boundaries.' 'According to you?' 'Not just me. Any intelligent person concerned with the oppression of the people recognizes that there's a price to pay for freedom.' 'You don't seem to care who pays it.' 'Does that threaten you?' Ted asked challengingly. Steve wouldn't back down. 'It might.' By this time Steve and Ted were in each other's faces. I didn't see who pushed who first, but they both shoved each other, harder and harder. Next they started punching each other and they were really going at it. I needed help from some of our acquaintances to separate them. Then they sat there glowering at each other, while I tried to make peace between them. They begrudgingly agreed to shake hands, but it was still a contest, rather than a reconciliation. Ted suggested that Steve might not be interested in the movement the way we were. Before Steve could react he said he'd see me in class and left. 'Randy, that guy is wacko.' 'Why, because he didn't agree with you?' 'No. There's something wrong with him.' 'What?' 'I don't know. He talks too easily about killing people. It's like he's missing some basic human feelings.' I knew what Steve meant, but Ted fascinated me. 'Well, I want to get to know him better.' 'I saw your eyes light up when he mentioned demolition. I think you found a soul mate.' I tried to be cool. 'He's an interesting guy.' Steve scoffed. 'So was Jack the Ripper. Keep him away from me.' 'I'll see what I can do. Just try to get along with him if you bump into each other.' 'That's up to him.' We developed a basic routine of classes, study and tennis practice. When we had some leisure time we played chess. A month went by without our getting used to school. It was particularly frustrating because we had looked forward to being on our own in an adult environment. Yale had a pervasive atmosphere of smugness and petty snobbery that we found intolerable. Steve had picked up a townie girl named Della Barone. She was a dark haired, sexy, flashy beauty, but a little tawdry. She had her own apartment and he spent most of his evenings with her. I spent a lot of time with Ted. He insisted that he wasn't a communist and claimed to be a dedicated fighter for the victims of economic imperialism. He claimed that it was coincidental that all of the people's rebellions that he supported were led by communists. 'Help for the people is more important than ideology,' he claimed. Ted came from a working class family in Bridgeport. He left home when he was sixteen, determined not to get trapped in the same factory that consumed his father. He went to sea and sailed to Asian ports, where he saw poverty and despair that he felt only revolution could change. He knew he needed education, so he joined the army to qualify for the G.I. bill. He decided to go to Yale to study his future class enemies. He found them soft, indecisive and overly absorbed in physical comforts. His favorite subject was the French Indo-China war that was lost by a weak-willed, comfort loving western power, to a relentless, dedicated people who refused to be defeated. Growing American support for the Republic of Vietnam, another country cut in half by the cold war, made this topic urgent. That made sense to us. I discussed Ted's theories with Steve, who disagreed with his conclusions. Dad had talked to us about the French Indo-China war. He believed that Dien Bien Phu was one of the decisive battles of history. He told us the French lost the war because their army fought a committed people, not just an enemy army. Without a meaningful policy to reach primitive peasants, the French were an occupying force that could no longer govern. It was ironic that no matter how similar their views, Steve and Ted could never agree. I wouldn't let Ted criticise Steve and I tried without success to get Steve to tolerate Ted. Ted increasingly took me into his confidence and kept hinting about a secret project that he was working on. Steve got into an argument with Della's neighbors about whether or not he respected her. It was really the old conflict between town and gown. He stopped seeing her when she took their side, and spent most of his time brooding and writing poetry. One afternoon after Chinese class, Ted asked me to take a walk with him. 'Randy. I'm getting to know you and I believe you're on the road to correct thinking.' 'I've got a lot to learn, but I'm beginning to see a role for me in the class struggle.' 'I'm glad to hear that. I've been putting together a project that might interest you.' 'Tell me about it.' 'First you've got to swear that whether or not you join us, you won't discuss this with anyone.' 'Sure. I swear.' Ted looked hard at me. 'If you violate your oath it would be considered a betrayal of the movement and there could be unpleasant consequences.' 'There's no need to threaten me.' 'All right. A group that I'm involved with are supporters of the people's revolution in Cuba. They asked me to organise a project to smuggle arms and ammunition to Fidel Castro. I designed a plan to get a sailboat in Miami, load the guns after dark, sail to Cuba and deliver the weapons to a place just outside Havana. Two of the men who were going with us can't make it. They were the only experienced sailors besides me and I've never been on a sailboat.' I pretended to be casual. 'I grew up on a sailboat.' 'There are some risks involved,' Ted said warningly. 'If Batista's police arrest us we could be tortured, or shot.' Nothing could keep me out. 'Count me in.' Ted smiled. 'I knew you had promise.' 'When do we go?' I asked eagerly. 'We were supposed to leave October fifteenth, but we may be delayed until I find another man.' 'Steve's an experienced sailor,' I said carefully. Ted shook his head, no. 'He doesn't believe in the movement.' 'Maybe not the way we do, but he's coming around.' 'He's much too individualistic.' 'He's young and headstrong, but he loves action and he can keep his mouth shut.' 'He's too confrontational.' I laughed. 'Look who's talking.' 'Let me think about it.' When I left Ted I was bubbling with excitement. Gun running to Cuba. Shades of Hemingway. People paid enormous sums to sail on a cruise ship, or go on safari. I would have paid thousands for this trip. Somehow or other I had to convince Ted to take Steve, otherwise I knew he would never forgive me if I went and he didn't. From the moment I walked into our room Steve knew something was going on. He asked, then interrogated, then demanded to know, but I refused to answer him. I only said enigmatically: 'I'll let you know as soon as I can.' Steve kept prodding. 'Is it anything bad?' 'No.' 'Then why can't you tell me?' 'I promised to keep it secret.' 'Just give me an idea, a hint.' 'I can't.' 'It has something to do with Ted, doesn't it?' 'I can't tell you anything.' He said in a hurt tone. 'I thought we were best friends, brothers...' 'We are.' 'And you can't trust me to keep a secret?' 'I trust you with my life. This is someone else's secret.' 'So it is Ted. I knew it.' Steve was hurt that I didn't confide in him and for the next two days he was formally polite. Then Ted called and told me Steve could go with us and he'd come by tomorrow evening to tell us the plan. Steve pretended disinterest, but he was listening to every word. When I hung up the phone he knew that something was decided, but he tried to remain aloof. I went back to my book and looked at it without seeing a word. I could feel Steve watching me, but he turned away if I looked at him. His impatience was growing and finally he broke. 'Well?' I played dumb. 'Well what?' 'Are you going to tell me?' 'Tell you what?' 'Don't play games with me. You learned something.' 'That's right.' 'And?' 'How would you like to smuggle guns to Cuba?' His grin almost split his face. 'Does a bear shit in the woods?' 'Does that mean yes?' 'You're serious.' 'Yes.' 'You're not kidding me?' 'No.' 'Except for fighting a duel with rapiers, my favorite fantasy is gun running. Who gets them?' 'Fidel Castro.' 'When? How? Where? Tell me. Tell me.' 'Some of Ted's group...' 'I knew it was Ted,' Steve said triumphantly. Steve exasperated me. 'If you keep interrupting I won't tell you!' 'Junior, my lips are sealed.' 'They came up with a plan to smuggle guns and ammunition to Castro. They have a sailboat and the two experienced sailors they recruited aren't available.' 'Why not?' 'I don't know.' 'Go on.' 'Ted asked me to go and I said yes. I told him that you were an experienced sailor and you could be trusted.' 'What did he say?' 'He thinks you're a stooge of the Wall Street imperialists.' 'Me? What about you?' 'I'm a convert.' 'You don't think I'd let you go without me, do you?' 'He said you can go.' Steve took a different track. 'What if he had said no? Would you have gone without me?' 'What difference does it make?' 'It's important.' 'I just knew I could persuade him to take you.' 'All right. What's next?' 'Ted'll be here tomorrow night to tell us the plan.' 'Do we get guns?' he asked excitedly. Sometimes I wondered about Steve. 'I don't know.' 'Junior, it's about time you became an adventurer.' Ted came by the next night. Steve went out of his way to be agreeable and listened without interrupting, an unusual occurrence, as Ted explained the details. 'This is the plan. There's a thirty-six foot sailboat waiting at a marina in Miami. On the evening of October 15th, we'll load the guns just after dark, sail to Cuba, land the cargo before dawn, then sail back to Miami.' Steve immediately saw a problem. 'There's a complication.' I was surprised. 'What, Steve? Did you change your mind?' 'Absolutely not. I wouldn't miss this for the world. But Cuba's ninety miles from Miami. I don't think a sailboat can make that distance in eight or nine hours.' 'The owner told us she would do twelve knots,' Ted said. 'But under what conditions? We won't know the weather until we get to Miami. Was the weight of the cargo figured in the speed?' 'Your friend has some good questions, Randy.' 'That's why we need him.' I looked at Steve. 'Do you have any answers?' 'I'd have to see a chart of the area to be sure, but what if we sail after dark to a deserted island close to Cuba? We can anchor there during the day and sail the rest of the way the next night.' Ted nodded approvingly. 'If we can revise the schedule that might work. Any other ideas?' 'How do we get to Miami and back?' Ted was indifferent. 'Figure out a way so noone notices you.' 'What if we drive a car for one of those auto delivery services?' 'That sounds good. We have a few days to review the details. Remember, whatever happens, we have to be in Miami on October 15th. I'll see you tomorrow.' I felt a glow of anticipation. 'So long, Ted... Well, what do you think of him now, Steve?' 'He's still an asshole,' Steve said bluntly, 'but if he takes me to Cuba I'll get along with him.' 'What do you mean?' 'His plan is ridiculous. It's not even a plan. It's like one of those dumb cowboy movies. Thar they are, boys. Let's go get 'em.' 'Are you suggesting that his group can benefit from our skills?' I asked smugly. 'Sure. If they'll listen.' 'He listened to you tonight.' 'Maybe, but there's something about him that I just don't trust. He's a loose cannon.' 'You've been pretty wild at times.' 'Not like that. He likes to hurt people. He's dangerous.' 'Then we'll both watch him.' 'We better, or we could get hurt.' Our preparations were efficient. We arranged with a car delivery service to drive a car to Vero Beach, Florida and bring one back a week later. We informed the school that we would be out for a week on urgent personal business. We let our families know that we were going on a school-related trip and that we'd call them when we got back. Once those details were settled, we concentrated on improving the plan. We offered a number of suggestions to Ted and he accepted most of them. It became more and more difficult to contain our growing excitement. The only reason we managed to control ourselves and not blurt out what we were planning to the entire campus, was that we knew we were really going to Cuba. Do you have a comment about this piece? email your thoughts to Harbinger. Top Next article