Salt City Blues

And then the People’s Coffeehouse began to quiet down some as the elections returns started trickling in. At first the returns were inconsequential and McGovern was even leading in some small town in Maine, and everybody let out a cheer of “Right on” when the news was announced. And then the onslaught started. The real returns started coming in, and north, south, east, and west it was the same news. A landslide reelection victory for Richard Nixon and a record defeat for poor hapless George McGovern, the liberal progressive anti-war youth candidate.

And state after state reported in, each one with a big victory for Nixon, the People’s Coffeehouse fell silent. Even Tom, who knew it would happen, could hardly believe how Nixon was winning every state with a huge margin, including, of course, the commonwealth of Pennsylvania.

Finally, by mid-evening, just after George McGovern conceded to Nixon on national TV, many of the young women in the coffeehouse had dissolved into tears, Susan among them. Her head was buried in the crook of Tom’s shoulder as her salty tears dampened his plaid shirt. As Tom continued holding Susan while the final returns sealed the coffin on George McGovern’s presidential aspirations, he found himself coming to a strange and terrible conclusion that was not so much depressing as it was a clarifying truth. The hippie era, the youth era, the leftwing political era of non-conformity and protest was about to be over, and at this moment Tom Freeman knew it deep in his heart.

The American people had not just voted against George McGovern and establishment liberalism but had instead voted against every student protest on every college campus in America. They had voted against long hair, beards, miniskirts, marijuana, LSD, rock and roll, and their underage teenage daughters losing their virginities to rock stars and drug dealers.

The 1972 election had turned into a referendum on the entire counterculture and the youth of America had lost. And now, Tom knew, with both sadness and yet truth sweeping over him as he felt Susan’s bitter tears beginning to subside, there would never be a people’s revolution. It was all over. Not next year or the year after, not ever. The reactionaries were going to rule forever. The whole hippie era was drawing to a close.  No more peace, love, flowers in their hair, and barefoot on the streets.  No more rock concerts with a cloud of marijuana obscuring visibility. No more sex with strangers whose names you forgot by the next morning.

It was the end of an era, Tom knew, and the beginning of a new one.  And where would Tom Freeman fit in with this new era? He doubted that he would.

The election was over, the TV had been turned off, and most of the crowd was heading out the door, some heading home and others to the Wakefield Tavern to celebrate the defeat by getting drunk. Tom pulled Susan to her feet, kissed the tears off her reddened face, and the two of them headed toward the door. It was getting late and they had to be heading home. Tomorrow was a new day.