Dramatization of April 17th encounter with Wigwam assailant

Suddenly my heart dropped. I saw him. “Oh my God,” I said, pointing across the quadrangle. “It's the thug!”

Everyone turned and saw what I saw. It was the blond-haired assailant, Dennis the Menace, chatting with a fellow on the steps of the Illini Union. The other guy was not his dark-haired accomplice.

"What should we do?" asked Fenton.

"We have to call the police,” I replied, “and have him arrested."

"I don't think calling the police is such a good idea," said Winston.

"We could ask one of those cops standing on Wright Street," I suggested.

"No," replied Winston, "that is not what I meant. The police are around to protect property. They don't care about injuries to people, especially gay people."

"Once again, your warped communist views get in the way of gay liberation," I said in a way that he knew wasn’t meant to be hostile. "Besides, if the cops won't arrest him, then the cops won't arrest him. What do we have to lose by trying?"

"Perhaps it would be better if we administered a little belated justice on our own," suggested Winston, whose distrust of the police must have trumped his distaste for delayed self-defense.

"The guy's a giant," I exclaimed. "But if all three of you guys are willing, so am I."

Skip and Fenton wanted no part in the assault. “My tax dollars pay for police protection,” said Fenton, not disguising his anger over Winston’s comment.

"Winston,” I said, “you with your broken finger and dislocated knee and me, I'm half his size, we're supposed to take him on ourselves?"

"Maybe we can get some more people together," said Winston who I guessed would rather throw the garbage can through the Wigwam window himself—party discipline be damned—than call the police on his assailant.

"What? And I suppose he'll just wait right there for an hour until we have enough people to beat him up," I scoffed. "The obvious course of action is to call the police. Winston, you're the one who's being ultra-left by suggesting otherwise." Skip and Fenton concurred and Winston was outvoted 3 to 1.

"Fine," Winston said reluctantly. "But how are we going to keep tabs on him until the police arrive?"

"I'll try one of the cops over there," I said, pointing towards Wright Street. The others nodded and with that, I ran over and approached an officer.

"There is a guy over there," I explained to the cop, "who attacked some people on Saturday night at the Wigwam. He broke someone's finger and dislocated their knee. We want him arrested."

"Sorry," said the officer. "I can't leave my post for that; you'll have to call it in."

"Thanks," I said and rushed back to the group.

Panting, I told Winston, "The cop said we have to call it in."

There was a pay phone, by the steps of the Illini Union, out of sight of the assailant. The four of us rushed over to the phone. Finding a dime, I made the call. The Champaign dispatcher insisted the police were tied up with the anti-war demonstration and could not be bothered with such a petty issue. She suggested calling the Urbana police, since the alleged assailant was currently in Urbana.

"Champaign cops are too busy," I said, hanging up the phone. As I spoke, the anti-war march started moving down Green Street towards downtown Champaign and Dennis the Menace, along with his friend, headed up the steps into the Illini Union.

"Looks like our thug is getting away," commented Winston, not sounding altogether displeased.

"Skip," I ordered, forming a plan on the spot. "You follow the blond-haired guy wherever he goes. Fenton, you keep track of Skip's location and get back to Winston and me. We are going to try and get the police to take us seriously."

Fenton and Skip shook their heads eagerly as Fenton said, "Outrageous lesbionic spying," and they took off after their mark. Winston clenched his teeth, lit a filterless Pall Mall and began to pace.

I made several more calls and threatened to take justice into our own hands. That did the trick, Urbana sent a patrolman.

After a few minutes, Fenton ran up to inform us that the guy was now playing billiards in the basement of the Illini Union. I rubbed my hands together in excitement as an Urbana police officer came out of the Illini Union and made eye contact with Winston and me.

"He’s down in the billiard room," I said to the approaching cop.

"What exactly happened?" asked the officer. He was of average height, dirty blond hair and a beefy body. He looked like a cop. I told him the pertinent Wigwam details, but as I looked into his Irish eyes there was something else there. I glanced over to see his name tag, but it was missing and there was a small rip in the shirt where it once was. Perhaps it was ripped off in the previous day’s riots. He did look tired and bored to death with the dispute he was here to resolve, but as we stepped into the Illini Union, neither one of us realized at the time, that we had both crossed the portal—into hell.

I led Torn Shirt down the north steps to the basement of the Illini Union. An agitated Winston tagged along. I barely glanced at the chair that held me in its grip months earlier. At the base of the steps, Skip Fenster looked up and pointed into the billiard room. Standing at a table, holding a pool cue was the blond-haired assailant, watching his friend take a shot. I pointed him out to the cop, who walked over to the game in progress.

"Did you assault these guys in front of the Wigwam on Saturday night?" asked the patrolman, pointing towards Winston and me.

Much to my surprise, Dennis the Menace said "yeah."

"I'm going to place you under arrest," replied Torn Shirt. "I think we all better go to the Champaign police station and straighten this out." Winston, the assailant and I accompanied the officer up the steps and out the front entrance of the Illini Union where an Urbana patrol car sat. The policeman instructed the arrested man to take the front passenger seat and directed Winston and I to sit in the back.

The drive to the police station in Champaign went slowly. Many of the streets were closed off due to the large demonstration that was wending its way downtown. It was fifteen minutes before the patrol car reached the station—ahead of the marchers.

Dennis the Menace was walked into the police station with Winston and me following behind. I was starting to feel sorry for the blond-haired guy as he was forcefully pushed into a chair behind the counter, after which the Urbana cop went to the desk sergeant and started chatting.

"What do you think will happen to him?" I asked Winston.

"I don't know," he replied, carefully considering the question; "Maybe a fine, or at worst, a night in jail."

"It's crazy," I said, "but now I feel kind of sorry for him."

"Was that Saturday night at the Wigwam?" called out the desk sergeant.

"That's correct," I replied, looking remorsefully at the blond-haired boy sitting dejectedly in the chair; Dennis the Menace caught in the act by Mr. Wilson. The Champaign sergeant went to a file cabinet, looked for and located the pertinent file.

"Are you boys faggots?" yelled out the sergeant, after reading the contents of the report. He looked over at Winston and me and glared.

"We're gay," I said, glaring back.

"Oh shit," Winston said softly, as he fumbled for a cigarette.

The Urbana cop brushed out some threads to help conceal the rip in his shirt and then followed the Champaign desk sergeant into a back room. Dennis the Menace no longer looked dejected. In fact, his eyes hardened into a glare when they met mine and I saw the hate.

"Just don't get them riled up," pleaded Winston.

"What can they do to us? We're the victims!"

After a minute, the two cops returned from the back room. The Urbana cop, Mr. Torn Shirt, eyed Winston and me like we were vermin as the Champaign cop smiled at the arrested blond-haired thug. In fact, the Champaign police officer fawned over Winston’s assailant. Dennis the Menace, bright-eyed and bushy-tailed beamed back at the officer.

Officer Torn Shirt sauntered over to Winston and me. "This fine upstanding man," he said, pointing to the now radiant Dennis, "was doing nothing more than serving his country. You people only got what you deserved. If this fine man, a linebacker for the Fighting Illini, had really assaulted you, you would be dead. I know that, because any man of his caliber can kill a queer. Since you're alive, he obviously did not assault you."

It took me a few seconds to even be shocked, so unprocessable was the message. “Are you insane? I don't believe this!”

"Well, believe this," shouted the Urbana patrolman. "I'm placing you both under arrest on two charges. First, defamation of character and second, lying to a police officer. Now the two of you are going to come with me—back to my station." Just like that, he placed both Winston and me in handcuffs, led us out to his patrol car and directed us into the back seat. From the window, before the squad car pulled out, I watched Dennis the Menace leave the police station and head back to campus. He waved goodbye to somebody, probably the desk sergeant, as the door closed slowly behind him.

I sat in shocked silence as we drove back to Urbana. I saw the marchers and heard their shouts through the open window. I felt numb. The enormity of what had just happened refused to register.

---

The Urbana police station, like Champaign’s, was also part of the Urbana Municipal Complex. Unlike that of its sister city, the building was modern, brown brick and glass. As the two of us were brought through the door, I found the cleanliness and newness of the offices to be at odds with the unfolding scene.

Winston and I were directed to chairs in a small office. Another Urbana policeman joined the arresting officer. The new cop remained silent, while Torn Shirt spoke. "You two have committed some serious crimes."

"What?" I said, incredulously.

"Defamation of character. Very serious," repeated the officer. Then raising his voice, he bellowed, "It is a fact that no faggot can bring charges against a real man, without defaming his character." Eighteen words.

"You’re going to be in so much trouble," I shouted back at this man whose life, like mine, forever tied to those eighteen words would never be the same—Irish Eyes, torn shirt. Winston put his hand to his forehead and was sweating noticeably.

"You’re the one in trouble,” he said, looking down and then fingering the hole in his shirt. “With these charges we can place you in prison for a year." But I looked at the other cop, he was nervous and it looked like he wanted Torn Shirt to cool it.

"We don't want to cause any trouble," said Winston, apologetically.

"Well I do," I said, dumbfounded and glaring up at my Urbana patrolman.

"You people," returned this arresting officer, "are the lowest form of life on earth. That upstanding man you tried to have arrested is an athlete at the university, a fine American."

"This has to be a joke," I exclaimed. "Where are the cameras? We've got to be on Candid Camera."

Torn Shirt actually showed his teeth and made a gesture as though he were going to lunge at me. I wanted it; this would surely be redemption. But before he went to throttle me, he turned back to the other cop for approval and got a cold stare in response. Torn Shirt must have been outranked, because he decompressed. "I'm a nice guy,” he said, after composing himself. “I have nothing against the queers as long as they keep to their own people, respect the wishes of decent Americans, don't picket or demonstrate. Don't you realize that anytime you show yourself in public it can be offensive to families with young children?"

Winston kicked me in the leg and repeated, "We don't want to cause any trouble." I cooled it. The situation was finally starting to register.

"What we are going to do," said the officer, "is hold these very serious charges against you in a state of limbo. If you ever try and scandalize that all-American athlete again, or if I catch you flaunting your homosexuality anywhere in this city, those charges will come back and let me tell you, I have the connections to make sure that both of you spend at least a year in prison. And prison isn't too kind to your kind of people."