Almost Like Being in Love by Steve Kluger Page B

fitting that our Harvey Milk tribute was taking place in front of a church—an irony that wasn’t lost on the Archdiocese of Boston either. So in response to their hate mail, we gave them a free ad in our program.

    The corps of forty-five hundred cheering Harvard kids sardined into the cozy confines of the Yard represented nearly twice the turnout we’d expected (the prospect of free rock and roll inspires temporary idealism in many)—and by the time Buffalo Springfield had brought down the house with “For What It’s Worth,” word had spread to Kenmore Square, where two thousand future alumni from B.U. were jamming the “T” and heading for Cambridge as well. While Grid Tarbell and His Dunster Funsters were blasting John Mayall’s “Room to Move” into flinders, we were joined by another eight hundred from MIT. And the Boston College contingent showed up at the tail-end of my Dylan set—just in time to see me curl my lip into a sneer, twitch my ass, and direct “I Want You” to a well-muscled Travolta lookalike in the front row. (Subtlety, as ever, has rarely been a compulsory part of my act.)

    And that’s when it happened.

    I was in the middle of my third bow—the glare of the arc lights silhouetting thousands of my screaming public against the stately old ruins called Harvard—when some hothead from the Student Freedom League chose that moment to take the stage and announce that we needed a human symbol to show that we weren’t going to tolerate the violence any more. The only question was who. Then an obviously horny Travolta shouted it out from down front.

    “Dylan! Strip Dylan!”

    “Yeah! What about Dylan! This whole thing was his idea anyway.” If I hadn’t been preoccupied with a popped E string, I might have had time to react before it was too late. Sure, sure, Dylan. Jesus, it’s getting cold. If I could—DYLAN? ! Horrified, I looked up wildly just in time to see Grid and the Funsters pounce gleefully on top of me—and the next thing I knew, my clothes had been yanked off, I’d been doused with ersatz blood
    'disguised as Hunt’s ketchup(, and some schmuck from Accounting 108
    had chained me to a pillar in front of Widener Library as the living emblem that we’d had our fill of blind justice. Naturally, I was outraged—the least they could have done was ask first. But I also recognized an easy audience when I saw one, so I added a touch of my own.

    “Fuck you, Dan White!” I shrieked, to no one in particular. They went nuts. 'What the hell. I hadn’t canonized Joan Baez and Woody Guthrie for nothing.) The effect was electrifying. Nine thousand people holding lit candles for Harvey Milk crowded around us while Graham Nash sang
    “Teach Your Children” to my tattered body. If I hadn’t been freezing to death, my hair would have been standing straight on end.

    However, by that time word had also reached Jamaica Plain, where five hundred rednecks had piled into their vehicles, carrying bottles and sticks and anything else they could throw. And it only took them nineteen minutes to reach the Square.

    The first Molotov cocktail exploded just as we were chanting “Carry On” with David Crosby and Stephen Stills. Thinking it was probably a practical joke, nobody paid much attention until the fire began spreading across the Yard. Then a brick hit someone in the chest and the real panic started. Stills and Nash grabbed their mikes and begged the crowd to stay calm, but by then it was way too late—kids were bleeding, rocks were flying, and Harvard Yard had turned into Okinawa, Part II.
    Meanwhile, I was still chained to a fucking pillar in my blue-and-white striped Jockeys and I couldn’t break free. If it hadn’t been for an uncharacteristically ruffled Charleen muscling her way past two truck drivers and a stevedore, I might still be hanging there.

    “Good Lord, what have you gotten yourself into now?” she demanded impatiently, attacking the chains. With my body