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      Black and Gold:

      The End of the Sixties

      by

      Mike Trial

      Copyright 2012 Mike Trial,

      All rights reserved.

      Published in eBook format by AKA-Publishing

      Converted by http://www.eBookIt.com

      ISBN-13: 978-1-9366-8825-8

      No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any electronic or mechanical means including information storage and retrieval systems, without permission in writing from the author. The only exception is by a reviewer, who may quote short excerpts in a review.

      Chapter 1

      The high-backed wooden booths in the Heidelberg had filled early. Sorority girls in tee shirts emblazoned with greek letters mixed and mingled with fraternity guys. Mark stood at the bar, his hand on a glass of draft Hamm’s beer. It was the last Saturday night before classes began for the fall semester 1968.

      “DGs, Pi Phis, Tri Delts,” someone said into his ear. It was Jeff Cooper smiling his wide, uncertain smile. He was dressed in a preppy uniform—blue blazer, rep tie, yellow shirt, gray slacks, and polished loafers.

      “Working the orientation desk?” Mark said. He fumbled change out of his pocket. “We need music.”

      “Play something good for a change,” Jeff called after him. “If I hear you play ‘Wild Thing’ one more time I’m going to pull the plug on that jukebox.”

      After Mark returned and “Wild Thing” was playing, he and Jeff raised their glasses. “To senior year.” They toasted.

      “Did you get moved into the trailer?” Mark, Jeff and Bill Whitten would be sharing a three-bedroom trailer this year.

      “Yeah. Met Bill,” Jeff said. “Seems like a nice guy. He was already studying.”

      “He is a nice guy. Studious type, unlike me. He’ll finish up his degree in three and a half years.”

      Jeff raised his glass again and grinned. “Versus your four and a half years, right?”

      “Good things should not be rushed.”

      Dave sauntered over. “Going skydiving tomorrow?”

      “Yeah,” Mark said. “You?” Dave nodded. He poured his glass full and stared at it. Jeff essayed, “No lecture tonight? Usually by now you’d be on about politics as expounded by the beautiful Carol.”

      “I’m fed up.”

      Mark swept the crowd with his hand. “Nonsense. Best time of the year and best year of our…”

      “Fed up with Carol. I don’t know why I’ve spent so much time chasing her.”

      “Because she’s beautiful, Dave,” Jeff said, incredulous. Dave had been pursing Carol since last spring, even to the point of taking a sublease on an apartment in the same apartment building where she lived. Mark assumed the Triumph TR3 he’d traded his old Chevy for a few months ago was part of the chase.

      “I’m looking for something deeper.”

      “Carol’s the smartest person on campus, profs included,” Jeff continued. “I read her stuff in the Columbia Free Press sometimes. She’s brilliant. And beautiful. And you’re going to give her up?”

      “I never had her, certainly not in the carnal sense.” Dave wandered off into the crowd.

      Jeff shook his head. “The brooding existentialist Zen philosopher. Have I forgotten any of the other philosophies he’s into this week?”

      Over four years of college, Dave’s major had migrated from business through economics, into political science and now philosophy. Mark suspected Dave’s interest in jazz, the beat generation’s poetry, and Zen was a bit of a pose—a statement of depth in the face of Mark and Jeff’s engineering majors.

      Jeff began chatting up a couple of doe-eyed freshman girls with clear eyes, creamy skin, slim bodies, and nervous laughs, whose very innocence exuded sensuality.

      A girl materialized beside Mark. She was good-looking in a small town kind of way—short brown hair, a slim body in tight jeans and a plain white tee shirt, entirely different from the sorority look-alikes. She edged over beside Jeff and tried to get the bartender’s attention.

      Jeff turned his attention to this new target. “Hi there.” She ignored him. The freshmen girls drifted off.

      “What’s your major?” Jeff persisted. She looked around at him. “Mind your own business.”

      Jeff turned to Mark. “I’m going to the Stephens mixer tonight. Why don’t you come along, unless Jennifer’s got you on a short leash.” Jeff grinned a knowing grin that Mark was beginning to resent.

      “I’ll meet you there,” Mark countered. He didn’t really want to go, but he was getting tired of Jeff’s insinuations. Mark’s friend Grant served the pizza Mark had ordered and scurried off. Mark reached over the bar, filled a glass with beer, and set it in front of the girl beside Jeff.

      She smiled at him—pretty, not beautiful, but wonderful big brown eyes.

      Jeff slid the pizza tray an inch toward her. “Have some pizza.” She ignored him.

      Jeff turned to Mark. “Neither you or Dave know how good you’ve got it, going steady with good-looking women.” Mark was secretly pleased.

      “Don’t envy me too much,” Mark said, pointing across the crowd to a girl in a tight pink Tri Delt tee shirt surrounded by a knot of drooling guys. “That’s what we all want, right?”

      “High maintenance,” Jeff said. “Like that Dodge 426 Hemi you and Tim Bryant were always lusting after in high school.”

      Grant came over. “You want to do some relative work tomorrow?” Since he’d started skydiving two years before, Mark had found he had a natural talent for relative work, moving laterally through the air while free falling to link up with another skydiver falling at the same rate. “Yeah. Let’s do.”

      “Well, I’m going to get going,” Jeff told Mark. “See you at the mixer.”

      Once Jeff was out of earshot, the girl started in on the pizza. “I’m starving,” she said, talking with her mouth full. “My name’s Debbie.”

      “I’m Mark.”

      “What’s relative work?” Debbie asked.

      “Skydiving,” Mark said. “I’m teaching Grant here the finer points of the sport.”

      Grant snorted. “You’re teaching me? See you tomorrow at ten.” Somebody put The Turtles on the jukebox. “The MU skydiving club. It’s fun,” Mark told her.

      She eyed him up and down. “Fun? I thought it was sort of macho. Death-defying.”

      Mark laughed so long and loud that several of the nearer sorority girls eyed him critically. “Sport jumping is about speed and freedom; falling free through the air. It’s about life, not death.”

      She nodded approvingly. “Good, I’m glad you’re not the gung-ho military type—I’ve met too many of those types already.” She finished her pizza.

      Mark slid some change her way. “Play us some tunes.”

      She made her way through the crowd to the jukebox and chose “Time Has Come Today.”

      * * *

      Mark looked out the open door of the Cessna at Columbia spread out five thousand feet below him. In the distance was a toy-like Jesse Hall dome on the MU campus, south of Highway 70 slicing the town in two, the shady suburbs, the farmland beyond stretching to the flat horizon. The skydivers sat cross-legged on the bare aluminum floor, swaddled in the meditative roar of the engine and the air rushing by.

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