Down the block, toward the Conrad Hilton hotel, where most of the delegates are staying, there are carts with mules pulling them. I thought I’d seen everything there was to see this week, but I never thought I’d see mules walking through the streets of Chicago. Diane is standing up straight now, looking recovered from the gas, and I’m about to point out the mules when I see Floyd and Tom. They’re far down the block, close to the hotel. They’ve taken off their handkerchiefs. I take off my bandanna and shove it in my pocket.
There are a few hundred people between us, but we can catch up if we walk fast. The cops are moving out of the street and forming into rows on the side streets, so it’s easier to make our way forward now. Diane is walking fast already, moving ahead of me through the crowd.
I raise my voice so she can hear me. “There’s Floyd and Tom! Come on, let’s catch up with them!”
Diane looks back over her shoulder at me. It’s hard to tell from her face what she’s thinking. She turns back, weaving her way through a group of hippies with peace signs painted on their faces, and shouts, “I don’t think I can.”
“What?” I don’t think I heard her right.
She slows down enough to let me keep up with her, but this time she doesn’t look at me.
“Jill.” Diane shakes her head. “I like you, okay? You’re funny and you’re smart and you helped me get through the gas just now and you’re one cool chick, but I don’t think I can keep doing this. Not after what you said before. I get that it’s complicated for you, but for me, it just hurts too much. When we leave here, you’re going to have to find a new best friend.”
“Oh, come on.” I try to grab Diane’s arm, but she pulls out of my grasp, darting through the hippies too fast for me to follow. “Diane! Wait!”
It’s no use. Her light-brown braid is already vanishing behind a group of cops. It feels like I’m losing something I’ll never be able to find again.
I start moving south toward the hotel, but I’m not eager to meet up with the others anymore. Is Diane going to tell them? No, she wouldn’t do that. But what will the rest of the summer be like if we aren’t even friends anymore? What about next year, and the year after that?
I’m still staring off at the spot where Diane disappeared when something sails over my head. Another rock. I turn to see who threw it so I can tell him to give it a rest, but the man behind me is standing with his arms folded. The sharp look on his face is enough to make me shut my mouth. This man doesn’t look like a protester. He’s wearing a sport shirt and slacks, and he’s at least ten years older than most of the men here.
I wonder if he’s a plainclothes officer. Tom said there were some mixed in with the crowd. But a police officer wouldn’t have thrown a rock, would he?
Chants are rising around us. The murmurs and laughter in the crowd are fading. The cops Diane passed have moved out of the street and into a lineup. There are more cops here than there were before. It looks like there are more of them than there are of us.
“PEACE NOW!” a group near me starts shouting. They’re holding up their fingers in the peace sign. “PEACE NOW! PEACE NOW!”
“PIGS ARE WHORES!” the man in the sport shirt shouts.
It’s completely dark by now. Even with the streetlights it’s difficult to see. I push through the crowd toward the hotel, but everyone is jostling, and it’s harder to move than it was before.
“PIGS ARE WHORES! PIGS ARE WHORES!” More men have joined in the shout. I glance over at the cops. They’re staring out into the crowd underneath their blue riot helmets and clear plastic visors. Their hands are locked on their clubs.
This doesn’t feel right.
I’m only half a block from the hotel now. I try to move faster, but the crowd is making it impossible. The chants are changing again.
“DUMP THE HUMP!” one group shouts. Across from them, another group is trying to drown them out with “HELL, NO, WE WON’T GO! HELL, NO, WE WON’T GO!”
In front of me, a long line of protesters is standing with elbows linked. I duck under a pair of arms, holding up the peace sign as I go so they’ll know I’m one of them and not a plainclothes cop. Not that there are any black woman cops in Chicago.
I’m almost at the hotel when I catch a glimpse of Tom and Floyd fifty feet ahead. I look around for Diane, but she’s not with them. Floyd is arguing with a man wearing a vest. The man is holding something over his head. A bottle, maybe.
“Floyd!” I shout. Floyd looks around for me. When his back is turned, the man in the vest throws the bottle. It shatters on the pavement in front of the row of cops. Oh, God.
Floyd shouts at the man in the vest. The cops aren’t looking at where the bottle fell, though. They’re looking at something to their right, like someone’s giving them a signal.
“SIT DOWN!” the protest marshals yell into their bullhorns. The other chants die out. “SIT DOWN! SIT DOWN!”
No one knows what to do. The people nearest the cops start to sit down on the pavement. I do too. So do Floyd and Tom. Some men stay standing, though, like the man in the vest. The man in the sport shirt stays up too. He’s looking right at the cops, and he doesn’t look afraid at all. He’s got to be one of them. The man in the vest isn’t, though. He’s trembling, his eyes wide.