View source for Dramatization of late night April 8th at the Wigwam

The festive mood continued. After seven minutes elapsed, we marched down Green Street, chanting "gay rights now."  Most of the students on the street just stared, but more than a few gave us the right-on fist. This was Champaign-Urbana’s first gay rights demonstration. It was probably the first ever gay rights demonstration south of Chicago, west of Philly, and east of LA.


A blond student coming out of the movie theater across the street reminded me of Brian, but that didn’t dampen my spirit—it emboldened me. Surrounded by all those joyous warriors, everything felt right. My thoughts went through their usual mantra on how this would soon be over and I would return to Brian. But that love would slip away, for I was on a fast moving train heading somewhere else. 
 

When we arrived at the Wigwam, our happy group of wannabe troublemakers walked proudly through the door with me in the lead, the yellow ‘Gay’ hardhat our battle colors. We found enough tables on the upper level for everyone, even though the place was fairly crowded for a weekday. I sat at a table for four, with Roger, Steve, and Fenton. My roommate Reggie Flanders and his boyfriend, John Hooper, pulled up chairs behind Fenton. The sight of the big burly Hooper, who looked like Alex Karras, was reassuring.


Skip Fenster and an assortment of 'heads' laughed together at another table. As expected James Fisher was not with Skip. He was far too gentle to be involved in this. But I wanted to ask him about that night, a week or so ago, at the Crystal Room where I saw his skeleton—as though he had no skin or clothing.
 

Gloria McMaster sat at a table with lawyer Harold, Doc Willow and his Doonsbury friend and others from the anti-war movement. Laura and Erin sat with a group of women. Erin had beads of sweat dotting her hair gel. It’s not surprising she was nervous considering her last encounter with DeWitt. John Hooper wasn’t the only muscle. There was a whole table of brawny gay men who came ready for a fight. This was one war we were going to win and I felt like a general wearing my plastic yellow helmet. There were even a few gay men, townies, who had nothing to do with the University.  They wanted to be part of the miracle.
 

Then the waiters came, and took our drink orders. It seemed like they were fawning over us. DeWitt Hatfield was not among them. Never had any of us been treated with such courtesy and respect at a drinking establishment.
 

"This is awful," I complained, "There is no harassment at all."


"Honey," said Roger. "In case you missed this kindergarten lesson, let me repeat it." He gestured left. "No harassment—good thing." He gestured right. "Harassment—bad thing." Everyone laughed, except Fenton.


Fenton sneered at Roger and then pronounced, "Well, I know that evil, dildonic DeWitt Hatfield will be more than happy to resume his attacks once all of us are gone."


"Has anybody ever told you," joked Roger to Fenton, "that you sound exactly like Snagglepus? Exit stage left!" A few people laughed, but quickly stopped when Fenton jumped up out of his chair, and banged his hand on the table. 


"Dave,” he shouted angrily, “I don't know why you hang out with that guy. But I for one am not going to sit here and listen to his slander." He marched over and joined the crowded table of lesbians.


"What's his problem?" asked Roger, to no one in particular.


"I better join Fenton and calm him down," said Steve, as he got up. "He can get a little high strung."


Reggie coughed. "A big baby," he said, giggling with John Hooper, touching each other’s legs and kissing.
 

"All the better," commented John. "Now there are real seats for the rest of us." He pushed away the chairs of Fenton and Steve, as he and Reggie got better spots around the table. "By the way," he continued, "Why isn't Stanfield here? I can't imagine a demonstration, involving drinking beer no less, that Winston Stanfield would miss."


"His political party won't let him attend a demonstration that plans to turn violent," I replied.


"I wouldn't call it violent, just an old fashioned bar fight," joked John. "What could be more American?"


"Winston plans on raising bail and getting out press releases when we’re arrested," I said. "Although, by the looks of things, that's not going to happen."


"Again," said Roger, "a good thing. I mean, look at the whole drag queen affair. You went to the city council; they were petrified of what you might do, so they repeal the law and you don't have to do a thing but show up. Same here. We show up; they're petrified of what we might do, so they leave us alone."


"One of these days, somebody's going to call our bluff," I said.


"And then we will give them hell," returned John who poured himself another beer and filled up everybody's glass. The drinking went on for an hour and slowly people began to filter out.


"Well, it looks like we showed them," Skip Fenster said to me as he and the rest of the stoners waved goodbye and headed down the stairs. 


"Call me if there is any trouble," said Harold McClintock to Gloria McMaster as he followed Skip's motley crew out.


A few moments later it was Roger's turn. "Well, I still have a lot of studying to do," he said, excusing himself.


"Sorry to kill the party," said Reggie, "but I got to spend some time with the books myself."


"And I got to spend some time with Reggie while he's spending time with the books," said John, wisecracking.


"You watch it now boy," scolded Reggie. They both laughed and left. 


With Roger gone, Fenton and Steve rejoined me at the table. "I'm glad that dreadful Roger Hamilton is gone," said Fenton.


"Oh, come on Fenton," I said. "He's just having a little fun. He didn't mean any harm."


"He meant plenty of harm to me," replied Fenton. "You just think everybody's nice, but there are wicked people out there."


"We should celebrate," said Steve, changing the subject; "No harassment, no DeWitt Hatfield." I filled every empty beer glass. We toasted and drank. 


"Do you think they might have fired him?" asked Steve.


"Fire him? He's the manager,” I said. “Only the Wigwam owner Tom Brewster can fire him."


"Maybe he did," said Steve, with a twinkle of hope in his eye. 


"I know he'll be back as soon as there are one or two of us alone," said Fenton.


"I'm inclined to agree with Fenton,” I said. “Something here just doesn't seem right."


Gloria McMaster came over and sat down with the three of us. "What do you think?" she asked. "Should we go home and declare it a victory?"


"We were just talking about that," I said. "What do the others think?" I looked around at the other tables, but there was not a friendly face in sight.


"Everyone else has left," said Gloria.


"Well, I guess we have no choice but to go home and declare it a victory. A final toast?"


"Sure," said Gloria. I was pleased that our mutual respect had increased considerably since the dark days of last autumn.


I lifted my beer. "To unity," I said, nodding at Gloria, "gay liberation and our victory at the Wigwam."


"Here, here," shouted Steve and Fenton as the four of us touched glasses and drank.


At that very moment, DeWitt Hatfield, with two big jocks in tow, appeared at the base of the steps leading upstairs. Steve faced the stairway and I saw our entire predicament in his expression. Everyone turned. There was DeWitt Hatfield climbing the stairs. He didn’t look like a Keystone cop now. More like here was an angry group of Hatfields and we were the real McCoys. I glanced around, searching in vain for an ally, nobody—just the four of us against the towering DeWitt and two huge jocks. He walked up to the table, with his muscle on each side and glared at my bright yellow hardhat. He looked at Fenton, then Steve and snarled. The two beside him looked angry and ready to fight. DeWitt hovered for some time, just eyeing those of us at the table. The beat of my heart echoed throughout; fight or flight raced through my blood. Then DeWitt, with his two minions in tow, turned around and went downstairs to the front bar.


"So much for victory," I said breaking the silence.


"I have to leave," Steve announced seriously, appearing very worried. "If they attack me, I could become a paraplegic."


"You better go," agreed Fenton. We all nodded. Steve put on his coat and headed down the stairs.
 

I sipped my beer. The others did the same. We were too worried about what might happen next to do anything else. So we sat silently for a minute or two and thought of what to do next. "I think, Steve has the right idea," interrupted Gloria. "Everyone has left and any of us could be seriously injured."


"I know it's crazy," I said, "but I have to stay. If they kill me, you just have to promise to close this place down and send DeWitt Hatfield to prison." I laughed and took two Valium.


"I'll stay too," said Fenton. "I'm not going to let that asshole get away with it a second time."


"I'll contact Harold," said Gloria. With that, she headed down the stairs.


It’s just you and me I said to Fenton, raising my glass in a toast.


He did the same, but we were interrupted by an announcement over the loudspeaker: "Paging Fenton Puck to the telephone."


"Who would call me here?" asked a puzzled Fenton.


"Maybe its Steve," I replied.


"Mmm, how dildonic." Fenton got up and went down the stairs to the telephone by the bar.


I sat by myself at the table, considering how the ghost always appears once the investigating skeptic leaves. The 'Gay' yellow hardhat atop my head flashed 'target'. I took another Valium and imagined Brian Powers locked away in some medieval tower, closed my eyes and opened them to see DeWitt Hatfield and his two jocks coming up the stairs. They made a beeline for me. 


I glared back. To me, they represented all that was evil in this world. They were the bullies who tormented me as a young teen. They were the ones who fired Brian. They were the ones who stood between me and a happy life.


DeWitt stopped at the table, his eyes and mine were locked in a hard stare. Picking up the half empty beer glass, he dumped it on my lap. I jumped up and then, something I never did before, something my father, Bart Rosen, picked on me for not doing to the bullies of my youth, I pulled back, and with all my strength punched DeWitt Hatfield in the nose. The yellow hard hat went flying off and rolled under another table. I would never see that hat again.


I felt like I ruled the world, despite expecting, then and there, to be killed. But the jocks looked confused. They did not attack as I expected. Instead they backed off a step. DeWitt held his nose, a tear coming out of his eye. They started whispering to one another and I took the opportunity to run down the stairs, grab the phone and call the Champaign Police. Fenton Puck and Gloria McMaster were nowhere to be seen.


Waiting for the police, I paced back and forth on the lower level, while DeWitt Hatfield and his jocks remained upstairs, periodically glancing down and debating the wisdom of a second attack. Glares were freely exchanged, but nothing more.


When the police arrived, I rushed over to meet them with DeWitt and the two jocks close behind. "DeWitt Hatfield, the manager of this bar, spilled a glass of beer in my lap because he wants to get rid of all gay people," I said, rushing to get out the words.


"Hold on there," said the cop, “let’s take this slowly.”


"Officer," said DeWitt, "I accidentally bumped into the table, the beer spilled and he became rowdy and hit me."


"That's true," said one of the jocks, both of them shaking their heads in agreement.


"Officer," I said, "It was no accident. He has done this to six different gay people in the past week and a half." I exaggerated the number and hoped DeWitt would be dumb enough to say, "No officer, it was only three." 


"Do you have any witnesses?" asked the cop, looking bored.


"There were plenty of people upstairs who saw the whole thing," I replied.


We all trudged upstairs and went from booth to booth. The patrons were quite drunk and every one of them had a different story, none of them matching DeWitt's or mine. Finally, the officer said, "Look this is a waste of my time. I won't allow charges to be pressed either way." He pointed at me. "You go home." Then he turned to DeWitt. "And you, stop being so clumsy."


I stormed out of the bar. The adrenalin build-up, with nowhere to go, was causing me to shake uncontrollably. Then I saw Fenton and Steve in the lobby of the House of Chin, next door, and rushed in.


"Oh my," said Steve, "you're shaking too."


I noticed Steve was trembling. Fenton had his arm around Steve's shoulder. "What happened to you?" I asked.


"It was terrible," Steve began. "When I was at the front door, DeWitt Hatfield grabbed my arm. He said, 'So it's you again.'"


"That piece of shit," I shouted, gritting my teeth like Winston.


"It's much worse," continued Steve. "He opened the door with his elbow, grabbed my shirt and pants, and then threw me on to the 6th Street sidewalk."


I was horrified and almost shocked beyond belief, I was about to say “You’re joking,” but one good look at him told me he wasn’t. "My God,” I said, “throwing a disabled person. You're two feet shorter than DeWitt and a third his weight." 


"That's not all," added Fenton, disturbed and excited. "Tell Dave what he said."


"He said, 'Listen faggot. If you ever set foot in this bar again, I will kill you.'" I slugged the paneling of the House of Chin lobby. It cracked and I glanced to see if anybody in authority had seen. They hadn't.  
 

Ignoring my violence, Steve continued. "I went to the house of Chin, got the Wigwam's number from directory assistance, and called Fenton. It was awful. I was dropping the coins for the phone all over the lobby. My fingers kept on missing the holes in the dial." He chuckled with a nervous laugh.


"Steve could have been paralyzed," declared Fenton.