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In a small town with a withering economy, rebellion is choosing college over your job at the X-rated drive-in.

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Colby Bird, Framed Poster, Courtesy the artist and CRG Gallery. In far-off cities, young people were already dressing for punk or disco, but I spent Saturday nights visiting communes. They listened to Bob Dylan and talked about the barter system, how it bypassed capitalist exploitation. One of them wanted to sleep with me, I knew, but I figured I had at least the summer to decide who exactly and if I believed in free love, which seemed philosophically akin to the barter system.

In the morning, I served eggs and bacon; for lunch, burgers, hot beef, fried liver.

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Or stick my finger in his coffee to make it sweet. The other men chortled. No use sitting on that money-maker. But my dad was president of the nascent, five-member Chamber of Commerce; I had a full-time job and went to church. These facts made me off-limits to elderly perverts, I felt. So summer passed, a flash in the pan. One August day, Shelley and Bubbles came for the new special, creamed cod.


Shelley and Bubbles were locally famous for being the only Jewish people anyone knew, ex-carnies too. Years after that day when I served them creamed cod and refreshed their colas, Shelley and Bubbles would also be famous for being murder victims—stabbed to death at the Palace, the killer never found. People speculated it was their son, who grew up to cook meth.

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I assumed every town had prostitutes and strippers. But their son was still in And back then the Palace showed G-rated movies at 7 p. I assumed this was a normal theater schedule.

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G and X movies covered his core markets. Families ran the local businesses: the dime store, the drugstore, a clothing store; two bait and tackle shops; three gas stations; 26 bars; motels consisting of one-room comfy cabins, each with a cot, toilet, and sink. The economy of Spooner, a freight train stopover town and fishing destination, relied on men. I grew up knowing that whores had lived at the Depot Hotel until it burned to the ground when I was in middle school—one whore had fallen asleep while making a grilled cheese sandwich on a steam iron.

Strippers danced on a stage, so passers-by saw naked legs.

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People needed money, I knew. They were part of the food chain—lower down. Flattery, yet another currency. Nobody gets you to do something for nothing. For what? Winter was coming on, I reasoned.

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Deep drifts. Slippery ro. It would be harder to get to the communes to visit the post-hippies.

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I decided instantly I was saving to buy a car to move to a city and be in the proletariat there. I said yes. The Palmote ran horror movies. We wore parkas and mittens as we milled and drank, the beleaguered babysitters and hitchhikers on the movie screen irrelevant.

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Or not yet reinvented. Shelley showed me how to use the pizza oven, the popcorn popper, the till. He left to start the movie reel. Vinny stood so close I smelled his Hai Karate.

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He took a pint of sloe gin out of his pocket, and a condom packet fell on the floor. Years would pass before people would worry about AIDS. Women took the pill. I thought the condom was Alka-Seltzer until I picked it up and handed it back to him.

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What next? Moans, sighs, and gasps. On the screen, a man traveling in a foreign country got separated from his wife and found himself in a tent of happy, naked women, wall-to-wall breasts. He fingered one set of nipples, then another, another. What did I feel? Arousal mixed with shame. Or I like real sex in private, not its simulacrum on a screen. The so-called sexual revolution might have made me able to talk theoretically about various carnal experiments with college-educated commune-dwellers.

But freedom suddenly seemed like economic freedom, the right to say to anyone: No way. Hands off. Shut up. The moaning stopped, and I looked at the movie screen where what I now understand is called a daisy chain had assembled itself. Come get pizza from Pizza Deb.

I drove home. I should have known.

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Months later, having secured a used Pontiac, a Pell grant, a job in a city, I started college where I met people my age. Or on picturesque dairy farms far south of Spooner. It took awhile to compile an up-to-date wardrobe and a new record collection. Who is it, Sonny Bono?

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But I had aspirations. So I wrote and revised, read, studied, served coffee, burgers, fried eggs.

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I also realized that people pay a steep price for free love. The prostitutes and strippers on Main Street, the actors in the X-rated movies, even the people holding cameras or dubbing sound, had aspirations, I realized.

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I never again got onto an elevator and punched buttons without thinking of nipples—underemployed writers bored out of their minds wrote that line, I decided, going up. The Attica prison uprising lasted five days. It took 45 years to get a more or less complete public of what transpired—and only thanks to the efforts of a few heroically stubborn people. When five million people share your name, your Google-ability is miserably low.

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Will this forever change naming? The Heartland Never Lies Jul 13, Oliver Conroy. Dribbling in the Dark by Andrew W. Being John by John Sherman.

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