LITMIR.BIZ

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He wrote the word “freedom” on the board.

      The class murmured agreement.

      “Think so?” he grinned. “Or in free markets can big sellers manipulate small buyers, control supply, force small competitors out of business by artificially low prices, or take in excess profits by artificially high prices, let quality drop because they are the only supplier?” He wrote the word “coercion” on the board. “That’s not freedom.”

      Mark, usually silent, found himself saying, “Unless small buyers band together to balance the power of the big seller.”

      Wollheim nodded. “Venceremos,” Mark added conversationally. Out of the corner of his eye he noticed Carol nodding approval. There was scattered laughter. Wollheim smiled. “True, you may ‘overcome,’ but it usually depends on whether all the small buyers can stay unified long enough to effect change.”

      Wollheim paused and let the distant voice of a speaker in the park drift in through the window. “Every Friday afternoon I hear this,” he nodded toward the park. “Are they unified enough to effect change?”

      “They could be,” Carol said. “If they formed a coalition with one voice.”

      “True, Miss Bianchi, but that will take a leader to convince them their shared interests are greater than their differences.” Wollheim raised his chin at the park where students lolled on the grass listening to the speakers on the platform. “Disparate opinions are hard to form into a unified agenda. It may surprise you to know that I’ve read the Port Huron Statement and tend to agree with most of it. But I don’t see the SDS leadership really getting behind it.”

      “They will though, there’s power in numbers,” somebody said from the back of the room.

      “They? Who’s they? I think you mean you. But you’re right about there being power in numbers. Mussolini thought so.” Wollheim sketched what looked to Mark like a bundle of sticks with an axe blade sticking out of it. Wollheim grinned, “One person’s opinion, no dissent. The opposite of democracy and of free markets. Free markets, like democracy, are imperfect, inefficient, and can be manipulated, but, like democracy itself, they are the best thing we’ve come up with so far.” He perched on the edge of the ancient wooden table at the front of the room, looking thoughtfully at the clock high on the wall. “Take the rest of the afternoon off, get over to the Heidelberg, or the Hofbrau, or the Ivanhoe, and exercise your freedom of choice in which beer you drink, as long as it’s Hamm’s. Chapter three on Monday.”

      There was an ebullient racket as students snapped notebooks closed and scrambled for the door, oblivious to Wollheim’s irony. Mark hurried after Carol and caught up with her.

      “Hi Carol, got time for a beer? Or a cup of coffee?”

      She shrugged, “Maybe.” They walked across the quad in the clear sunshine and stood on Ninth Street facing the Heidelberg. “But I think, not today. We’ve got to get the Columbia Free Press finished up tonight so it can go to the printer tomorrow.”

      “You’re sure?” Mark said. He nodded at the Heidelberg across the street. “I’ll buy you a beer and you can show me how Marxism is going to save the free world.”

      She smiled her brilliant smile. Mark recognized a couple of local SDS chapter members hurrying down the sidewalk toward them.

      “I liked what you said today in class,” she told Mark. “You should join us, maybe do some volunteer work with the Columbia Free Press.”

      Mark nodded as she was hastened away.

      * * *

      Friday afternoon the crowd was already thick, even though happy hour didn’t start for forty more minutes. Early in the semester, exams still distant, the weather perfect. Mark pushed his way in and found Jeff by himself at their usual table by the window, staring gloomily at two empty beer glasses and humming along with the Grassroots on the jukebox. He glanced up at Mark, “And ‘where were you when I needed you’ to introduce me to that blonde you were just a talking to.”

      “Carol Bianchi,” Mark slid into a chair. “Dave’s former, not girlfriend, but more than a friend.”

      “Well, you should buy the next round,” Jeff said. “I’ve had to sit here holding this table for ten minutes without anything to drink.”

      When Mark had brought the beers back and drank a comfortable quantity he mused, “That class Carol and I are in, Politics and Economics, I’m getting some good points to argue with Dave about. Where is he anyway?”

      “Probably got a hot date. He’s secretive, like you.”

      “Me?” Mark set his beer down.

      “I never see you in here with Jennifer. You seem to like to keep her sort of secret; you don’t bring her to happy hour, for example.”

      “Hey,” Mark bridled. “She and I both deserve a little time off from each other. I deserve some freedom.”

      “Speaking of which, did you hear about Mitchell?”

      “Yeah. Poor sucker.”

      “Brenda is a nice girl,” Jeff protested.

      Mark laughed, “Yeah, I’ve seen you eying her.” He pulled a handful of change out of his pocket and slapped it on the table. “I’ll buy if you’ll fly.” Jeff shouldered his way through the growing crowd. “And I’ve seen you eying Jennifer, too,” Mark said to himself. Jeff returned with four full glasses. “I assume you want me to ask Jennifer to get you a blind date?” Jeff raised his eyebrows and looked around the room, his gaze pausing on a babe in a pink Pi Epsilon Phi tee shirt, surrounded by guys. Mark followed his gaze. “I don’t think Jennifer knows any girls like that.”

      Jeff shook his head. “That’s not what I’m looking for.”

      “That’s what you’re going to find at the Stephens mixers and out at the Black and Gold Saturday nights. They’re all pretentious as hell.”

      Jeff finished a beer and waved the glass in Mark’s face, “I’ll tell you what’s pretentious—Dave moving out of Tiger Village and into that rat-hole on Paquin, pretending to be some sort of Zen disciple, but still driving his little sports car.”

      Mark felt guilty and good, tried not to, but still felt superior to Jeff.

      “Jeff, can I give you some advice?” Mark leaned in confidentially.

      “No,” Jeff said, his eyes on the crowd around them.

      “You might want to try being less eager with your blind dates. Kind of pretend like you can take it or leave it, go out with a girl three or four times before you put the make on her, you know. You shouldn’t seem too eager, makes you look desperate.”

      “You’re the expert?” Jeff said defensively. He hid his mouth behind his glass. “You haven’t dated anybody since you hooked up with Jennifer. I’ve been to a mixer every week and out at the Black and Gold on Saturday nights.”

      “That’s what I was talking about. What’s it got you?”

      Jeff, embarrassed, changed the subject, “Did you see the jazz poll in the October Playboy? Getz wasn’t even on the list, but the Fifth Dimension was. Speaking of jazz, I haven’t seen Keith in a while. I heard he’s playing guitar in some club these days.”

      “The Hofbrau, Wednesday nights, but not for long. He’ll be playing M-16 pretty soon. He got his draft notice,” Mark said.

      “What! When?”

      Mark shrugged, “Jennifer and I heard him play at the Hofbrau last Wednesday. I haven’t seen him since.”

      Jeff and Mark sat in silence.

      After a while Mark pushed his chair back. “I’m out of here.”

      He unchained his Suzuki motorcycle and rode down Ninth Street, the air rushing by like

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