The Great Speckled Bird Vol3#8pg.4

 Showdown on 11th

 People are putting the paper to bed Tuesday night when that old familiar call comes: “Pigs are busting people on 11th Street.” So our crack riot-trained team of reporters and photogs converge on the scene, to find: a big red fire truck, brandishing its fire hoses at a still (slightly) smoldering can of garbage; a Journal/Constitution, paper-box (Right On!) blocking the Peachtree entrance onto 11th; a small scattering of freaks (“Community People” we call them) hustling and bustling about in customary gaiety, exclaiming on the near riot; and the familiar voice of Harky (The Rev. Klinefelter)’first far away, then nearing and finally turning the corner of Peachtree onto llth.

The entire scene converges to a spot about a third of the way down the street, and the rap continues, Harky’s words about what you do when you get busted and who you should call and write all this down on the back of your hands so you won’t lose it but nobody has a pen, words punctuated by an occasional pop bottle thrown at random into the street, and Harky talks paranoid about “outsiders” throwing things to provoke the cops, maybe even paid outsiders, to give them the chance to bust heads (but they weren’t).

So, all things being normal, I begin asking individuals what happened prior to this happy time, and quickly piece together the basics: three plainclothesmen slipped into 127 11th Street and busted two people, presumably for grass though no one knew for sure. Curious folk gathered across the street to see what was going on, and the bluecoats started coming, hassling people to move on, to clear the streets before they got busted. No one seemed to know what started the arrests, but suddenly people were being grabbed and hustled into a waiting paddy wagon—thirteen in all, held on $100-200 bond for Stopping the Flow of Pedestrian Traffic, one of those bullshit charges trotted out once in a while to Take Care of Contingencies.

But meanwhile I am eyeballing about a dozen pigs snorting up on their three-wheelers (Whoopee!) and four black paddy wagons congregating with an equal number of cars kittycorner across Peachtree and everybody getting out and stretching their legs and flexing their arms and hitching up pants and things like that. So I walk down to where Harky is holding forth about how important it is to get badge numbers, because we can’t indict the Whole Force, we gotta get the bad eggs in the basket and I interrupt and say that this dark spot ain’t no good for a riot, how about folks going up on Peachtree, give the Cadillacs and curious Oldsmobiles a chance at a piece of the action in case there was to be some.

But the action is apparently over for the night, and instead we are treated to a display of the latest hippie-cooling-off tactics: congregate in a massive show of force, station a paddy wagon at every corner, then start patrolling the area in groups of five—two white cops in motorcycle helmets brandishing nightsticks and three black Task Force cops in soft headgear, just playing it cool, responding with a smile at any taunts. Five down this way, five down that way, five over there and the rest of you guys wait here.

Soon it is again Christmas calm on Peaehtree, and the Task Force captain is walking down the street, doling out popcorn from a blue box, and a narc in a blue suit and yellow tie is arguing with kids that, no he ain’t never been to Haight Street ’cause he don’t like California and no, he ain’t about to go to the East Village ’cause there’s too much snow in New York, and I am being offered purchase of various and sundry chemicals much like any other Tuesday night. Folks at the Community Center are receiving calls from the jail, taking down names and charges, arranging with lawyers and Detective Pate comes in and tries to buy some stamps and a girl bleeding from the mouth and crying stumbles through the door and say’s “Cass and Marty beat me up” and J. tells Pate about a friend of his who was busted for 100 pounds of grass and his buddies had to quick unload the other 200 pounds to get him out of jail.

All in all I analyze it as virtually a dry run for the summer. Better get it together, my friends.

-t.c.