A Small Protest

It was one of those very rare warm nights in Northern California -- one of those nights when you don't even need to wear a jacket. Such nights are rare, indeed, in Sonoma County.
 
I always said that one of my favorite summertime diversions was attending the County Fair to watch all of the tourists who had started out on a warm, sunny, summer day wearing crisp, white tennis shorts freeze to death after the sun went down. Old timers joked that if Samuel Clemmons had spent his ‘coldest winter of a summer’ in Sonoma County instead of San Francisco, he might never have gone on to become Mark Twain.
 
“It’s easy to tell who the tourists are on a summer night,” I would say, “Just look for the shivering, blue people.”
 
But on this night, the air was uncharacteristically balmy as Robert and I made our way down the narrow side street where we'd parked the car to avoid paying the steep parking fee. All of the side streets were full of small groups of people making their way down to the big free concert in the old rodeo arena. (Well, “free” once you paid the four-dollar admission to the fair.)

Like miniature tributary parades, the smaller groups swelled together into one wide procession by the time we arrived at the back gate and bought our tickets.
 
I took stock of the crowd and noted with satisfaction that they were all approximately the same age as we were -- which was logical, I concluded, considering they had all come to hear Peter Frampton former lead guitarist of the Seventies’ super rock band "Frampton’s Camel".
 
It was only a short distance from the back gate to the rodeo arena where Robert and I arrived just as the applause of the appreciative crowd inside was ending, before the distinctive opening strains of Frampton's lead guitar pierced the early evening air.

Unfortunately, we found the rodeo arena’s gates shut tight and uniformed sheriff's deputies standing at parade rest in front of them.
 
As Robert and I watched, person after person tried to enter, only to be emphatically denied by the deputies and turned away. Word came through the crowd that the arena was filled to capacity and that was the reason why no one else was being allowed inside.

“That doesn’t seem right to me. That place seats something like five-thousand people,” I shouted to Robert over the din of the rock music reverberating from the arena floor.

“And, look...” I added, pointing to the exit gate, “A bunch of people are leaving and they're not letting anybody in to take their places!"

Robert leveled a saturnine gaze in the direction I was pointing and nodded, "Pigs," he said flatly.
 
"I just find it really difficult to believe that huge arena is full of people -- especially since I've seen about fifty people come out just since we've been here. Let's walk up the hill and take a look for ourselves," I suggested.
 
"Okay," Robert intoned.

After a brisk hike up the narrow path leading to the top of the hill behind the arena, we found a small group of people sneaking in, one at a time, through a loosened board in the fence.

I peeked through a knothole in one of the other boards; "Look here," I said tugging on Robert’s elbow, "It looks to me like there's plenty of room down there."
 
Robert stooped down and squinted through the hole. I was right. The grandstands weren't even close to being full and there was ample space in front of and to either side of the stage that had been erected in the middle of the arena floor.

“F****rs," he said matter-of-factly.
 
"Maybe they've started letting some people in," I said hopefully, "Let's go back down to the front entrance and see."
 
Wordlessly, Robert turned and led the way back down the hill.

However, once we were re-positioned back at the arena entrance, it quickly became apparent that the deputies’ policy had not changed. As before, a constant stream of would-be audience members approached the gates -- only to be turned away.

"This sucks," Robert monotoned.
 
"You ain't kiddin'," I sighed, "Big time. . ."
 
I slowly revolved a full 360 degrees and made a quick estimation of the size of the crowd. "There are about 250 people out here all wanting to get in," I said to Robert.
 
"Uh-huh."
 
I gave my mate of twelve years an appreciating look smiling as I took in those broad shoulders of his and that beefy chest that I find so attractive. Robert is so unlike me. I guess that's what we find so appealing about each other. Robert barely says five words in a day and I never shut-up for a second but this polarity between us serves as well as any explanation could for our immediate and mutual attraction. . .

I was jostled from my thoughts by a ripple of comment going through the crowd in advance of the approach of a small group of black-leather clad, massively-proportioned bikers. The tallest member of the group walked over to speak to one of the deputies at the front gate.
 
Within seconds the biker turned and crossed back to where his buddies were standing in a tight semi-circle – covering the distance quickly in a couple of giant strides.
 
The group of them slowly migrated into the crowd, finally coming to a stop just a few feet away from where Robert and I stood. The one that had spoken to the deputy was animated -- waving his arms and shouting above the amplified music to his fellows and to the crowd in general, it seemed:
 
"Hey, man! You know there's got to be room in there for more people! We came a long way to see Frampton! It ain't fair! Why do the pigs always gotta be pigs like that, man?" he yelled.
 
Then he turned and caught sight of Robert -- the only person nearby who was tall enough to look him eye-to-eye -- and stepped over to him, still shouting.
 
"Hey, Man! Did you see that?" he yelled, pointing toward the deputies with his face a bare foot away from Robert's face, "Man, that's just pure- "
 
"B**LSH**!" Robert erupted, taking the biker aback for a moment.
 
"B**LSH**!" Robert yelled again. "B**LSH**! B**LSH**! B**LSH**!" he chanted slowly in a loud voice.
 
I took up the chant: "B**LSH**! B**LSH**! B**LSH**!" I screamed as I turned to face the rest of the crowd -- jumping up and down like a cheerleader -- "B**LSH**! B**LSH**! B**LSH**!"
 
The chant grew louder as a couple of hundred voices from the crowd that was being forced to wait outside spontaneously joined in the refrain.
 
"B**LSH**! B**LSH**! B**LSH**!" we yelled defiantly as we began to drift slowly in the direction of the gates . . . and the deputies.
 
Alerted by the sheer volume of all the voices raised in the continuing chant and trying to determine the source of the commotion, curiosity got the better of several audience members in the grandstands and they leaned over the back wall – looking down at the crowd outside the gates.
 
"B**LSH**! B**LSH**! B**LSH**!" the crowd continued as we pressed ever closer to the increasingly nervous-looking deputies who were still holding their posts in front of the gates.
 
My gaze was drawn to the only female deputy who was glancing furtively at the others, from side-to-side, as if to say: “It's getting pretty dicey out here, fellas. How long are we going to be able to hold out?”

Led by the Bikers, Robert and I, the chanting crowd surged slowly toward the deputies -- until there was barely three feet separating us.
 
As more audience members rushed to the back wall of the grandstands and leaned over to check out the loudly brewing protest, the volume of the chanting crowd began to overpower even the electrified rock music coming from inside the arena: B**LSH**! B**LSH**! B**LSH**!"
 
I watched the look of apprehension on the face of the female deputy turn into one of resolve that seemed to say, “I don't know about the rest of you, but I'm letting these crazies in before a riot breaks out.”

Then the deputy turned her back on the crowd and pushed open the gate she had been standing in front of up until that moment and, appearing to decide that it was probably wise to join her in a change of heart, the other three deputies slid open the gates they had been guarding, as well.

This caused a cheer to erupt from the crowd. Robert and the bikers "high-fived" while I jumped up and down for joy around them.
 
Amidst exclamations of "Far out!" and "Right on!", Robert, I and the bikers were virtually carried through the gates by the surge of the crowd entering the arena. Once inside, dozens of people stopped to pat Robert on the back or shake his hand as they passed.
 
"That was awesome, Man!" gushed one bearded young man as he pumped Robert's hand with enthusiasm, "We would never have gotten in if it wasn't for you..."
 
Once we had situated themselves in a spot from which to watch the performance -- with Robert's arm around me -- I gazed up at my "man of few words" with a look of pure admiration.

"That was amazing, Baby," I whispered in Robert's ear as I kissed his cheek, "You are my hero." I was pleased when I caught a glimpse of one of his very rare smiles. . .