Dramatization of At Home In City Hall
When the paper truck came early the next morning, I was still awake, enjoying the speed-induced euphoria that made the moments of solitude rush by.
I had come to Urbana with thirty dollars, but had no idea how long it would last.
I went down to the news box at the street level, catching the driver before he left. "I'm the guy who’s sitting in at city hall,” I said. “I don't have much money. Can I take a paper to read about myself?"
“What do I care?” the driver said, handing me a paper. I thanked him and ran back to the foyer’s warmth.
The story was prominently featured on page three: “Demonstrator Awaits Justice on City Streets.” There it was, for the first time in print: “Faggots cannot make any charges against a real man without defaming his character”. "The continual postponement of the grand jury," was also mentioned. It was like a dream come true to finally see the cover-up printed in the newspapers. When I ran for mayor, no matter how often I spoke of the incident, it was never reported.
I read and re-read the article several times. Manny Singer was not nearly as supportive in print as he was in person.
…In 1973, Rosen received a letter from Urbana Mayor Manny Singer stating that the police officer responsible was no longer with the force, and that he felt there was no reason for further investigation.
…Singer also said he had spoken to former Police Chief Charles Leary about the attitudes "of our police officers with respect to homosexuals and he assures me that it is policy that all persons…are to be treated equally and fairly."
However, Rosen said he is not satisfied with Singer's investigation, and after seeking professional psychological help, he believes there is "only one therapy for my illness--justice."
Singer said Tuesday afternoon that it has been 32 months since he first wrote Rosen about the incident, and he never heard anything about it since. "When someone lets something like this ride for 32 months, as far as I'm concerned, it's a closed matter," Singer said.
It was a reminder of the many mistakes I made in bringing this matter to justice. It took 32 months before I was willing to lay it all on the line. "Well, now it's an open matter." I said defiantly, staring out the glass at the cold day growing brighter.
As the city workers arrived for work Wednesday, I greeted each of them with a "good morning." Some of them smiled back and returned the greeting while others hurried along as though they were walking over a bed of coals.
City Clerk Wayne Picardy stopped and I said “Hello.” Wayne, looking dapper, with his white hair and red bow tie, just gazed at me for a moment, shook his head, winced, and proceeded through the inner doors. I remembered how bizarre Wayne acted on the day I had filed my petitions for the mayoral race. At the time, I speculated he might have had six months to live, but several years had passed. I remembered the odd philosophical advice he gave me at the time. Something about life being ironic, the ways of the world strange, and each of us being here for such a short time.
Mayor Singer arrived smiling. "Well, I see you survived the night."
"It wasn't bad. Thanks for letting me stay in the foyer."
"Did you see?” Manny said cautiously, “Your story was in all the papers. I think you were successful in making your point."
I gestured to the newspapers stacked beside my burger bag. "It's a start," I agreed. "But who were the cops? What about the second cop? Is he off the force? Why did the States' Attorney cover the whole thing up?” I hesitated. “Who’s going to pay for the damage done to me and to my belief in the justice system in this country?" I added, sheepishly. Demanding money in my press release was starting to embarrass me. In as much as the gay rights bill had been passed, it seemed so mercenary.
The mayor smiled. "I didn't realize you had any faith in this country’s justice system."
"Once upon a time,” I said, morosely, “before this happened."
Mayor Singer laughed, as he continued into the building. "Such melodrama you bring us."
The morning was uneventful, save for the occasional curiosity seekers who had read the story in the papers or saw it the night before on television. Some of them looked at the steps and didn’t see me. Others figured out I had moved into the foyer. Nobody said a word. They just looked and went on with their business.
Likewise, the afternoon came and went without incident. It was around dinner time that a man and a woman, perhaps a few years older than me, dressed in bell-bottoms, Birkenstock sandals, and tie-dyed shirts, came calling.
"I'm Bruce." "I'm Susan, nice to meet you," they each said. Bruce pumped my hand. "We read about you in the paper. Very impressive," he added.
"Thank-you very much. It's good to have support. There hasn’t been much of that."
I had been awake for forty hours. The speed had mostly worn off and I felt uncomfortable speaking.
"We're from the Earthworks Collective," said Susan.
"Oh yeah, the blueberry cheesecake, loved it," I replied.
Susan was confused. "Blueberry cheesecake?"
"Back when I was a student, you guys had a restaurant. The best blueberry cheesecake I ever tasted." She nodded.
"We had to close that down a few years ago," Bruce said. "We felt that working with the food co-op was more beneficial."
"Well, I have my trusty bag of burgers," I joked, going over to the corner and lifting up the bag.
Susan grimaced. "We'll bring you some real food," she said.
"That would be fantastic. I don't know how to thank-you."
"Keep doing what you're doing," added Bruce. "That's thanks enough."
"Where do you sleep?" queried Susan.
"I haven't really slept yet," I confessed. "I've rested on the concrete floor."
She turned to Bruce. "We need to get him a mattress."
I gave them a skeptical grin. "I don't think they would let me have a mattress in here. If one appeared, I'm sure they would arrest me."
"We're friends with Alderman Joel Sandberg. He's been doing some good shit for the people. Let's see what we can do." Instead of leaving, they both continued on into city hall.
I remembered how Joel Sandberg and Winston had modified the gay rights ordinance twice to please Alderman Kenneth Boyce, and still Boyce voted no. I wondered how it got from that point to passage. I only wish I knew.
About half an hour after they went inside, Susan and Bruce returned. "We got you a mattress," Bruce announced.
"We'll bring it by in a few hours," said Susan, as they left through the outer doors.
I was stunned at the thought of a mattress. This was working out better than I ever expected.
Susan, Bruce and two other members of the collective, all dressed like they were going to Woodstock, drove up at eight that night with a single mattress, a sheet, a blanket and a bag of food. I stared wide-eyed as they lay down the mattress on the side of the foyer opposite the telephone and made the bed.
Susan opened the bag of food beside me and pointed out the contents as she spoke. "We brought apples, pears, oranges and spinach, carrots, and this bag of oatmeal raisin cookies."
"Oatmeal raisin cookies," I repeated, licking my lips.
"Sorry we couldn't bring any of your blueberry cheesecake," she added.
I laughed "What can I say? This is fantastic."
They stood around for a few minutes awkwardly talking about my sit-in, before excusing themselves and walking back to their van.
When I was all alone, I kneeled and spread my arms over the made bed, looked through the bag of food, took out an oatmeal cookie and savored every bite. I left paradise in California and now it was back. I had two more cookies, a carrot and a cold burger, went into the police station where I drank water from the fountain and used the bathroom. Afterwards, I returned to my bed, lifted the covers and soon fell asleep.
The next morning, I awoke early and in time to greet the city workers as they arrived. Eyebrows were raised at the mattress. "I see you've managed to make yourself comfortable," intoned a secretary. Two different female employees told me that they had prayed for me last night. Not wanting to get into an argument, I thanked them.
By nine-thirty, Thursday morning, the reporters arrived. Apparently they had received word of the mattress, because they were all anxious to take shots of me in various poses on the bed. It was reminiscent of John Lennon’s Bed-in for Peace seven years earlier—without Yoko. I imagined Brian Powers lying on the mattress next to me and actually laughed at the absurdity. Even in solitude I was happy to oblige the reporters which brought to mind a quote often repeated by both Michael Southport and Roger Hamilton, “I’m ready for my close-up, Mr. DeMille.”
My morale continued to improve throughout the day as several town residents and students came by with sandwiches, burgers, beverages, and cookies. The most moving was a kid with dark curly hair who had to be no older than high school. In fact, I wondered why he wasn’t in school. “Thank-you for what you’re doing,” he said as he handed me a box of Entenmann’s chocolate chip cookies from the local Eisner food store.
“Thank-you, I love these cookies.” I wanted to say more and find out what his story was, but he ran off, before I had a chance.
In the late afternoon, a man, acting nervous and looking about furtively, brought me a plastic container covered with foil. His lip was sweating. “Tuna casserole,” he muttered before shooting out the door, down the steps and out of sight. That one scared me and I tossed his casserole.
When I ate the cookies that night, I thought of the young kid. I wondered if he was gay. I wondered if he was going through torment in high school. I felt like crying and the crisp chocolate chip wafers became sacred.
Thursday turned into Friday. Most of the employees were now greeting me as if I was a fixture, a doorman welcoming them into the building in the morning and wishing them good-night as they left.
Friday evening the pay phone in the foyer rang. It was Ellen Schrader. She and Samantha and some others were coming down tomorrow, bringing cigarettes, food and money and “a special treat", which I knew was speed. I told her about the mattress, the newspaper articles, and how people were bringing me food. After I hung up, I once again marveled at my makeshift home.
Friday night, I slept well in my little glass cottage.
The next day, the Chicago contingent arrived at noon. With Samantha and Ellen were the lesbian couple handsome Mollie with her black bangs and beautiful Janet with her long red hair. I was impressed that they still felt part of GRAC. They took signs from the trunk and formed a picket on the sidewalk. “Justice for Dave Rosen,” they shouted. Nobody ever demonstrated for me before and it felt both strange and good. I marched with them for a while, but when the press arrived I thought it more appropriate to return to my mattress.
