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Show Acting Alone Page 122 bulletin board to be taken.) And Sam was crying almost unabashedly now for himself in that old 1970 Nixon rally photo: self-conscious and shy and spurious-LSD-fried to the point of psychosis; lonely, zitty, skinny, universally mocked, he'd only painted that sign and attended that rally so he could be popular. He'd almost gotten his face bashed in by a huge, crazed Vietnam vet, a fan of Pat and Dick. A tiny secret service man with a wig and a flag pin on his lapel had appeared from nowhere and come between them. And the CIA or the FBI or the Mob or the secret Mormon Militia, or a combination or permutation of any or all of these, had taken this picture and saved it until now. Look at that young sap. Ichabod Crane. Look into his lost eyes. He's scanning the tops of the heads of the hippies all around him, looking for a friend. Sure, Sam cried. Shanny almost softened at that; but a firmer grip around her shoulder by Spikey brought her back around. And so we have this tableau vivant in the Wamsutter living room: Sam on the couch, sax raised halfway to his lips; and he's looking expectantly up into the eyes of Spikey; Mae Bell, and - yes, Shanny - who are standing in a semicircle in front of him, each holding a solemnly selected portion of the dossier. Shanny-. now totally under her cousin's mysterious influence, tries so hard to look stern and moralistic. She pouts out her little pink underlip. All Sam wants to do is to take a little sip of it. Negativeness. Always this negativeness these days from Washington. Why couldn't the anonymous compilers of this dossier have mentioned something |
