Dramatization of April 15th picket of the Wigwam
It was a cool Saturday night when we returned to the Wigwam. There had been light rain earlier in the day and a slight mist was in the air. About the same number of picketers as Thursday night showed up, although a few of the faces had changed. One of the new demonstrators, Bobby Henderson, marched, holding his picket sign in one hand, belt-less, and holding up his pants with the other.
Like Thursday, Tom Brewster was at the front window, but he was all alone. The place was fairly empty; for a Saturday night it was extremely empty. Next door, the bar at the House of Chin was packed.
As potential patrons approached the Wigwam door, several demonstrators would rush up, hand them a flier, tell the story in one or two sentences and then extol the virtues of the drinks at the House of Chin, Murphy's Pub or even Kams for the occasional jock. Most of the time, our pleas were successful, but there were a few who yelled “fucking faggots” and went in.
I marched up beside Fenton. "Thanks to the Daily Illini,” I said, “this is more successful than I imagined. Tom Brewster will lose a fortune with his bar almost deserted on a Saturday night."
"I hope we close him down," growled Fenton. "That dildonic hillbilly DeWitt Hatfield has it coming."
The mist gave way to a drizzle and gradually the drizzle became heavier. One by one our picketers left to don their gay apparel for Saturday night at the Crystal Room. While the drizzle fell in Champaign-Urbana, half a world away, unbeknownst to us demonstrators, something far heavier fell over the harbors of Hanoi and Haiphong. As the B-52s unloaded their cache of bombs on the sea ports of those previously untouched cities, part of a campaign Nixon named Operation Linebacker, a shaggy blond-haired student and his brown-haired double, pushed their way past our dwindling picket and entered the Wigwam. Ironic, because as I would find out later, the muscle-bound towhead was a linebacker for the University of Illinois football team and he was about to launch his own offensive operation.
The nine remaining picketers, holding rain-drenched signs whose ink had started to run, continued the solemn vigil, forming a large, well-spaced circle.
A few minutes later, the two jocks burst from the Wigwam to begin their attack. One was a dark-haired guy, whose features I’ve long ago forgotten. He picked the easiest target and lunged toward Bobby Henderson. With one hand occupied in holding up his pants and the other holding a picket sign, Bobby went down like a house of cards. Immediately Winston Stanfield jumped on the attacker, but the blond guy picked Winston up and threw him onto the pavement.
Although I rushed to Winston’s aid, events played out in slow motion. First, I locked eyes with his assailant. The memory of this guy’s every feature remains with me even now. Maybe because I’m partial to blonds but nonetheless, his appearance was quite distinctive—hair that came down in a shag, an over-sized Dennis the Menace, capable of oversized mischief. He had an oval face that was squared off at the bottom. At over six feet, and bulky in the right spots, he could be cast as the all-American football player; a part, it turned out, he played in real life.
Dennis the Menace judged me, then Winston and chose to jump on Winston’s back before he could rise from the street and began to pummel him. Winston managed to turn over, fought back and soon the two of them were locked in each other's arms, rolling on the wet pavement. I ran into the street and jumped on Dennis’ back and lifted the picket sign with both hands, focusing on the sharply carved 'V', thrust it down but stopped just short of piercing his skin.
Frozen, I held the v-shaped end of the picket sign resting on his back for what seemed an eternity. Good and evil, the Wisdom of Solomon, and the accumulation of primitive man’s fears all competed for my attention as I knelt there powerless to use the spear.
Dennis threw one more punch at Winston, then slipped out from between us, made eye-contact with his accomplice and they both fled. Winston Stanfield and Bobby Henderson were still lying in the street. Rain fell on their wet and dirty clothes as the rest of us rushed to their aid. Bobby Henderson was the first to rise. A small amount of blood dripped off his forehead, but otherwise, he was none the worse for wear. Winston was not so lucky. He rose halfway and then fell back down, grabbing his knee. I placed my arm around Winston's back, helping him up.
"Are you OK?" I asked, although I was the one shaking.
"My knee seems to be dislocated," Winston complained, as he hobbled back to the sidewalk. "I think my finger is broken too." He held up his index finger, clearly misshapen and already starting to swell.
"I had the picket sign, right over his back," I shouted, "Right over his fucking back.” Winston was too busy nursing his knee to pay attention. "I fucking froze,” I cried out to the rain. “Why didn't I stab that scum?" Can not killing a man be a mortal sin? I had no idea at the time that such a question would haunt me for years to come.
Seth Heller walked over with Bobby Henderson who holding up his pants again was not far behind. "Stanfield, are you injured?" he asked, as though he was a sergeant assessing his troops.
"Broken finger, dislocated knee," barked Winston.
Fenton Puck ran from the house of Chin. "The police are on the way."
"What shall we do now?" Roger asked me. But I was out of commission, crippled by my cowardice, and deferred to Winston who had earned the right to call the next shot when he lay on the Sixth Street asphalt.
Roger posed the same question to Winston.
"We will keep picketing," he shouted, even laughing. Grabbing his sign from the gutter, Winston lifted it up, wet and for the most part unreadable and limped around an imaginary picket line. And the rest of us joined in behind him.
I walked the picket oblivious to the rain and the other members of our rag-tag band of demonstrators. All I saw was the V shaped picket sign above Dennis the Menace’s rain-soaked flannel shirt and cursed my cowardice.
Fifteen minutes passed as we trudged silently in a small circle. A squad car pulled up, an officer got out and walked toward us slowly. "So what happened here?" he asked in a matter-of-fact way.
"Tom Brewster the owner of that den of iniquity sent out thugs to attack us," shouted Fenton Puck. He appeared anxious to have his version be the first one heard.
"They broke his finger and dislocated his knee," I said, pointing to the limping Winston.
The officer, backed under an awning to stay dry, listened patiently, taking statements and descriptions. Tom Brewster left his window seat and joined us on the sidewalk. Fenton was quick to point a finger. "He's the one who hired the thugs!"
"That’s ridiculous," countered Brewster. "I have no idea who those people were. Probably sent by these homosexuals to set me up."
"Liar," screamed Fenton.
Tom Brewster glanced over at the limping Winston. Their eyes met and I could see each of them mourning the passing of the other. They would never again be friends.
"We saw you talking to them through the window," I shot back, although I paid little attention at the time.
"These people are out to destroy my business," yelled Tom, waving his hand at the lot of us. "They got the student government and the student newspaper against me. How can I survive? Now they're accusing me of sending out thugs."
Fenton quickly responded. "Not only did you have us attacked here on the street, but over the last few weeks your manager DeWitt Hatfield has been viciously attacking gay people in the bar."
The policeman glanced away and shuffled his feet. He took down descriptions of Dennis the Menace and friend. "If they come back, let me know. You," he said, turning to Winston, "should get some medical attention." Then he returned to his squad car, had a laugh with his warm and dry partner, and drove away.
Our disheveled group continued to march, under a relentless rain, while Winston's limp grew more and more pronounced. Tom Brewster returned inside, stood at the window, scowled and watched us.
About twenty minutes after the police left, Fenton spotted the two jocks coming at us from across the street. "It's them!" he cried out. This time our response was different. As if we had rehearsed the maneuver, all nine of us formed a tight-packed row. "A chorus line," Roger would later joke. In step, marching to battle, we moved into the street towards Dennis the Menace and his pal.
There wasn’t a chance in hell I would freeze again, and neither would the others.
This time it was the jocks that froze in their tracks. Our phalanx stopped briefly, then resumed. The blond-haired linebacker and his dark-haired friend took off running. We cheered as the two bullies ran in fear. "Score one for the queens," yelled Roger.
Our picketing continued until just after eleven. Then we marched victoriously, with a limping Winston in the lead, to Murphy's Pub for some well-deserved warmth, dryness and beer.
