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Liberty Bell
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Libby Lawrence poured a cup of coffee and was struck with the similarities between her choice of drink and the men in her life since separating from her husband, Johnny Chambers, a.k.a Johnny Quick. Some would say both were an acquired taste, a little bitter at first, but strong, and seemed to pass through her system rather quickly. She opened the Chronicle and smiled. San Francisco was her kind of town, even if it witnessed many changes since her days as Liberty Belle. The thought brought another grin to her face. Did she really call herself that? Old Paul Revere suggested it those many years ago, back when she fought crooks with raw athleticism and her smarts. Before the powers, the mystery men, and the All Star Squadron. It all began that day in 1941- December 7, when America first entered the hell known as World War II. It was a strange way to remember the day when you first met your husband. He was a great guy then, a little conceited at times, but still dashing - everything a woman could ask for. Hell, he had reason to be a little vain. Libby still got weak in the knees thinking about the handsome, young Johnny Chambers whisking her past White House security while pretending to be the Flash to get them both in to see President Roosevelt. She knew she belonged in his arms that first time he held her. He haunted her dreams for weeks afterwards. In her late-night fantasies, he kissed her neck with the prowess of a rouge and the tenderness and passion of a Hollywood leading man. He always found the sensitive spot between her ears and the nape of her neck on the first try. He was tender, patient, and surprisingly slow for a hero with the alias "Johnny Quick". Unfortunately, after they were married, Libby came to know the real Johnny Chambers, a selfish lover who more often than not left her to pleasure herself long after he was asleep. Then there was that Mexican girl, Elena. Libby trusted her to take care of the house while she was away covering news stories. She took care of things alright - especially Johnny! Just after the shots were fired that November day in 1963, Libby called home. Her housekeeper's giggling, broken English as she answered the phone still haunted Libby's nightmares. Then she heard Johnny's voice. "Hang up the phone, mi bonita." His bonita. His pretty. While a nation mourned the passing of a beloved President, Libby grieved her failing marriage. A semi-pleasant noise jolted Libby's mind from its wanderings. She slept with the window open the night before, as she often did when the weather allowed. From the streets below, she heard the warbling refrain of a familiar song accompanied by what sounded like a slightly out-of-tune acoustic guitar. "This land is your land. This is land is my land......" Libby pulled her robe together out of habit, walked to the window and peered down to the street below. A long-haired troubadour assured those who cared to listen that, he too, was a patriot. The spectacular view from Nob Hill stole her attention away from the Dylan wannabe. She loved "the Golden City". She had first come here in the 1950's, to do a story on the Beats, and visited often. She even met Kerouac and Ferlinghetti, which caused her even more troubles with McCarthy. Hell, she didn't believe half the pseudo-intellectual nonsense they espoused so brilliantly, but they deserved the right to their own opinion. McCarthy tried to rob the country of that right, and voices like the Beats were a welcome change to her tired ears. A few years after the All-Star Squadron disbanded, the Justice Society itself finally decided that maybe there was a better way to fight the 'new crime' than bright, colorful costumes and names. Occasionally, Libby would see a random clipping in a newspaper about one of her many mysterymen friends, but for the most part they lived fresh, new lives away from the witch hunts of the early 1950's. Lives that didn't include gaudy costumes and masks. "This land was made for you and me....." Libby closed the window on the nasally baritone that interrupted her thoughts of a simpler time. She got dressed, choosing a pair of black capri pants and a white top. A pair of black leather loafers and white socks completed her ensemble. It was comfortable and practical and she hoped wasn't too Laura Petrie for the crowd she sought. She placed a comb in each side of her still-blonde hair and made her way out of the bed and breakfast and into the street below. She came to San Francisco to research Flower Power for Time magazine and two words echoed through her mind as she navigated the hilly streets of the City by the Bay - Haight-Ashbury! Libby walked the winding San Francisco streets alone, enjoying the sensory overload while reminding herself why she was there. She encountered several hippies along the way. Most seemed to be decent kids, renegades from institutions of higher learning scattered around the city. Most knew a kid in Vietnam. Libby was thankful for the "Good War" God blessed her generation with. It was a moral war, with clearly defined good and evil. Vietnam she wasn't too sure about. She tried to imagine the All Stars calming the riots when Martin Luther King Jr. was assassinated a few months prior or dragging away protesters at Berkeley. Could she honestly have led such powerhouses as Alan and Carter into battle against college students protesting a war they wanted no part of? The world was a much different place in just twenty-five years. She could not have upheld any law that made it acceptable for one group of people to ride in the back of public transportation. Then again, she was as guilty as anyone else in overlooking the Japanese concentration camps all those years ago. Poor Maya. Perhaps she was the only true 'hero' in the whole damned All Star Squadron. Libby soon found a small coffee shop nestled between a newsstand and a burned out vacant lot. She found a seat near the back and squeezed behind a small, square table draped with a white tablecloth. The tablecloth was covered with doodles by previous patrons. Most of the drawings were light on talent and heavy on chemical influence. Peace signs, marijuana leaves, and the words 'love', 'groovy' and 'LBJ sucks' took the majority of the room. One person, calling himself Reeferboy Rick, was quite good however. Two pictures caught Libby's eye. The first was a peace sign leaned against a brick wall with its shadow melting away in the sun. The other was of a white rabbit lying on a stretcher carried by two soldiers. Each of the rabbits eyes were represented with a small 'x'. While she believed the doodles leaned too heavily on symbolism, the kids were right. Vietnam was not a noble war. Then again, was any war noble? She thought back to earlier in the day when she mused over her generation's war being the "Good War". Was it? She heard Terry Sloane, also known as Mr. Terrific, speak of the bombing in Dresden. He talked of women and children blown to bits for the crime of being German. Of grandparents cradling their dying grandchildren's burnt bodies in their arms. The U.S. government swept it under the rug, claiming the need to eliminate German munition factories outweighed the risk of residual damage. Jay Garrick still refused to talk about the horrors he witnessed there. Dresden. Japanese Interment Camps. Hiroshima. Nagasaki. The underwhelming opportunities for minorities during the war. Yeah, their war was the noble one. Of course, television brought war to light in a way few civilians ever witnessed. Even during World War II, there were only a handful of mystery men who knew the true face of war. The Spear of Destiny saw to that. Could the "boob tube" as some called it serve as a modern day equivalent to the spear reported to have pierced the side of Christ? It immobilized a generation and turned them from Vietnam just like Hitler kept the mysterymen away from the Axis theaters with that damned magical spear. McArthur was right. War was hell. Hell on everyone except men like LBJ. Libby traced his initials on the tablecloth. It was rumored he was secretly backing Nixon. A Republican? She didn't always see eye to eye with Bobby Kennedy either, but at least he saw the need to end the war. Nixon didn't have a chance. Bobby Kennedy was America's hope, and as a true Democrat, Libby would do everything in her power to see that he was elected. A young couple approaced her table. Without asking, they pulled out two of the remaining chairs at Libby's table and sat. "Hi. I'm Libby Lawrence." The young man smiled. He was attractive, or would have been if it weren't for the long, dirty blond hair that sprouted from his head like an unruly bush. His beard was even more unkempt. If Libby's generation was guilty of excessive vanity in their grooming practices, it was more than balanced by this new generation's lack of the same. The young man's teeth were cloudy white. Only a faint dark hue kept them from being perfect. His breath, however, smelled more like the smog clouds that covered Los Angeles. "My old lady digs you," the young man answered. Libby smiled awkwardly. "Oh, that's good. I like her too." "No. I mean she really digs you, if you know what I mean. Want to go back to our pad?" The young man stroked Libby's hand. Libby couldn't believe her ears. Have sex with not one, but two, strangers? She heard the younger generation was free of inhibitions, but she had never experienced their lack of restraint herself. And another woman? The thought made Libby sick to her stomach. "I..er...mean that I don't dislike your lady friend. I prefer men. I mean... only men. Not that I wanted to...." Libby felt foolish. What if the young man meant something else? Desperately seeking an out, she turned to the girl seated next to the young man. "Do you have a name?" The girl didn't answer. Her gaze was miles away as she swayed to Jimi Hendrix' 'Foxey Lady'. The young man leaned closer to Libby. "I'm Steve. This is Angie. She won't hear you for awhile. We could leave her here, if you'd like to just do our own thing. " "What?" "You and me, baby. I could get us a couple of six packs and we could head back to my van. I have some good reefer too, grown on my grandpa's farm in Maine." "Your grandfather grows marijuana?" Libby asked increduously. The kid, she would have believed, but the grandfather? Steve laughed. "My grandpa? No, baby, I do. By the way, anyone ever tell you that you look fine for an old woman?" "I'm forty-seven," Libby said cooly. "And you don't look a day over thirty." Libby blushed. Steve's direct approach was offensive, but exciting in a way. Still, had he approached her like this twenty years ago, she would have knocked his teeth out. Libby looked past his forwardness. "I'm doing a story for Time magazine and I was wondering if I could get an interview...." Steve jumped up and grabbed Angie by the hand. "What? Aw, hell no! We're not animals for display in your Establishment zoo! I should have known an old lady like you wasn't down with our scene. Go back to Washington, or wherever you came from, and tell your friend Dick Nixon..." "Hold on there, buddy! Dick Nixon is no friend of mine!" Libby replied and shot up from her seat. Steve had finally gotten to her. Steve sneered. "Yeah? Then why ain't you in Los Angeles covering the Primary?" "Because my story is here in San Francisco. I may not understand you and your lady friend here, and yes, your offer offended me, but don't fault me for trying! I see you kids marching and gathered in public places telling anyone who will listen that no one cares. Here I am! Talk! Or are you too damn afraid your own hypocrisy will smack you between the eyes?" Angie stirred at the yelling. She peered at Libby through her dilated pupils and pumped her fist into the air. "You tell him sister!" Steve looked down at his girlfriend. "Why don't you shut the hell up? No one was talking to you anyway." Libby tried hard to contain herself. The jerk had no right speaking to his girlfriend like that! A solid left hand to those dingy whites looked better every minute. She knew it would be a mistake though. It would only label her more "Establishment", whatever that really meant anyway. "Maybe someone should talk to her! Look at her! If you love her so much, then let me introduce her to a friend of mine. He's had experience with addictive drugs in his past...." "Love her?" Steve laughed. "Where did you get an idea like that? Oh yeah! That's how your generation did it, wasn't it? You found one person and loved them forever, forsaking all others and that garbage. Well that's not my scene! I've gotta do my own thing!" Libby felt her nose wrinkle like it did when she smelled trash. "Yeah, I bet you do! You're probably real good at doing your 'own thing'! Aren't you Steve?" Steve shook his head and waved her off. "I'm outta here! You care so damn much, you help her! I don't need her head problems anyway!" Steve slammed the door hard as he exited the coffee shop. The rugged woman behind the counter looked on and shook her head, as she sipped her Green Tea. Libby turned to Angie. "Are you alright?" "I'm gonna be sick!" Angie bolted toward a clearly-marked bathroom in the corner of the café. Libby followed. She found Angie on the bathroom floor, kneeling at a dirty toilet. She felt sorry for the girl. "Honey, is it the drugs?" Angie turned her flushed, red face to meet Libby's gaze. "The drugs? No, they're all I have. It's... the baby." The baby ? The poor girl was pregnant? "Steve... is he the father?" "I...think so," Angie replied. "That's why it hurts when he leaves like this. But he'll be back when he runs low on money. Or drugs." Angie supported Steve? Libby couldn't believe her ears. "Where do you get the money?" The shame in Angie's eyes was the only answer Libby needed. "Is it wrong to want the man I love to love me back, and be a good father to his baby?" Libby wasn't ready for that one. She assumed the hippies didn't care for family, or marriage. She bent down to the broken young woman, and stroked her long brown hair. Angie was a pretty girl. Her long hair cascaded past her shoulders and onto her back, straight like a Los Angeles freeway . She was thin, a result of either the current Twiggy fashions or the heroin. Or both. She appeared to be of mixed Hispanic and Caucasian heritage. "How old are you Angie?" "Sixteen." Libby was flabbergasted. "Do your parents know where you are? Or that you're pregnant?" Angie's shoulders lurched forward, as she heaved into the toilet once more. After spitting, she turned back to Libby. Her lip quivered as she spoke. "No... It would kill them. My dad's a minister in Georgia. I would be too much of an embarrassment." Angie's words degenerated into uncontrollable sobs. She didn't wait for an offer of refuge. She threw herself into Libby's arms and sobbed on her shoulder. "Your dad's a minister?" Libby asked. Angie nodded. Her cries changed to whimpers as she gathered herself. "Then you've heard the story of the Prodigal Son? It's about a father whose son leaves home, and makes a mess of his life. He wanted to go home, but was afraid. In despair, he set out for home, hoping to be taken in as a servant, but when his father saw him in the distance he ran to him. I bet your father..." "Are you a religious lady?" Angie asked. Libby smiled and wiped Angie's mouth with a piece of toilet paper. "Survey of World Religions was required in college." Libby had certainly seen enough to make her believe in God. She tried not to think about the subject. Whenever she did, the image of the Spectre came to mind. He claimed to be the agent of God's wrath and vengeance. Maybe he was, maybe not, but he scared the living hell out of her. Ted Knight told her of a time during the war when the Spectre was ready to wipe mankind from the face of the Earth. Surely, if there was a God, there was more to Him than wrath and vengeance. "No! No!" cried someone from the interior of the coffee shop. Libby jumped up and lifted the rusty latch-pin that held the bathroom door shut and bolted into the café. The woman behind the counter stared at a small black and white television set. On the screen, a frenzied mob surrounded the fallen body of Bobby Kennedy. "What the..." Libby asked. The woman didn't answer. Her eyes were glued to the varying shades of black and white pixels on the tiny television. "They shot him! Just like they did his brother and Dr. King!" Libby was stunned. Why would anyone shoot Bobby Kennedy? He was the Great Hope, the Great Equalizer. "Is he dead?" Libby asked. The words sounded so cold. So hollow. Did it matter? "They" would stop at no end. "They" didn't want change. Had "they" killed the dream as well? "They haven't said yet," the woman answered. "Do you have a phone?" Libby asked. "Yeah, it's behind the bar. Local?" the woman asked. Libby shook her head. She reached into her purse and retrieved a five dollar bill, which reminded her of another great man who dared to dream. He was killed too. She laid the five spot on the counter and walked around to the phone. She had to call Johnny. Kennedy had been shot....in Dallas....no, Los Angeles. The President...no, the Dreamer.....No! Libby crumpled to the counter as painful memories flooded her being. She couldn't call Johnny. Who would he be with this time? She slammed her fist into the bar. "Damn you, Johnny! Just like last time!" A soft hand stroked Libby's shoulder. It was Angie. "What will we do now?" Libby took the girl's hand in her own and squeezed. "We go on living, sister, or the dream of freedom dies. Care for a cup of coffee?"
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