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The revolution begins on June 28th, 1969. Everyone hears about it one way or another; whether it be in the Sunday morning paper or the evening news, spoken by grim-faced, slow-talking old men. “The young men threw bricks, bottles, garbage, pennies…” Guerrilla warfare waged on the System.
Fillmore rolls up the newspaper and tosses it at Sarge, who’s seated halfway across the room. He’s startled at the sudden attack-- he’d been staring off into space for the past eight-or-so minutes-- but quickly skims the article and looks up.
“It’s a revolution.” Fillmore says, excitement mixed with giddy elation mixed with adrenaline coursing through his veins in place of blood.
Sarge is watching him analytically, folding and unfolding one corner of the newspaper. “Nothing’s going to change,” He replies, sounding almost reluctant.
Fillmore doesn’t reply, but feels the malcontent welling in his soul. The bricks thrown at Stonewall are the shots fired at Concord and Lexington. The revolution begins.
In the days following the riot, Fillmore grows restless. Stonewall was monumental, slingshotting humanity into the future at breakneck speed. It’s bigger than himself, bigger than the protests, bigger than Vietnam, dammit. This is worldwide, beyond the boundaries of tensions with the Soviets and the moon landing and the politics of the third world.
Yet, in the midst of massive change… He finds himself stuck at home, spending time in a town that is microscopic in the grand scheme of things. He is a lone revolutionary, stranded in the desert. So, he starts thinking small-scale. There must be something he can do here in town that might support his revolution.
Finally, it dawns on him: I should tell them, he thinks. Openness is the first leap towards becoming himself, and acceptance is the first leap towards becoming humanity.
It’s another week before Fillmore actually does it. He wanted to make his peace with it, instead of lunging headfirst into the future. He’s twenty-one now, and doing something like this would impact the rest of his life (though, this is certainly not to say that he was unwilling to do it--it was more intimidating than anything else).
The morning of, he does what he always does: dresses, smokes, and coincidentally runs into Sarge so that they might walk to Flo’s together. They enter the diner, like every other morning, and Sarge sits down. Fillmore remains standing, anxiety pushing at the lump in his throat.
“I’m a homosexual.” He announces to the diner, turning a few heads. Guido and Luigi seem unsurprised, Lizzie looks confused, and all of the others appear indifferent. “Well, bi- sexual, but--”
“Long as you aren’t disturbing the peace, son.” Sheriff mutters, not looking up from his newspaper (which seems to be the same one Fillmore had been reading a few nights prior).
Everyone nods in quiet agreement. Nobody seems to object to it, so Fillmore sits down. Chatter resumes around the diner, talking about politics and news and whatever else.
“That was damn stupid of you.” Sarge mutters, before burying his face in that same newspaper. The young men threw bricks, bottles, pennies…
“I don’t care.” Fillmore replies. He feels as though he’s floating, high off of the adrenaline rush from it all. “I wanted to tell them.”
Sarge glares at him over the paper. “Well, I’m not going to.” He huffs.
“I never said you had to.”
Fillmore refuses to return his glare, instead busying himself with his coffee. He wouldn’t let Sarge damper it all, no sir. He was too high, too elated to let him come close to ruining it.
His newfound ecstasy doesn’t last long, however. Sarge continues to be angry with him, holding all of it against him as though he could do something about it.
“What if they turned against you?” Sarge says as they’re walking home later that morning. “You’d get evicted, and then what?”
“I didn’t think that far ahead, man.” Fillmore hums uncaringly.
“You never do.” Sarge grunts. “It was irresponsible, you know that?”
“Oh, please, Sarge, you sound like my father.” He groans, “Let it go, man, they were cool with it.”
“And what if they weren’t?!”
“That doesn’t matter , man! It already happened, just leave it be!”
Sarge glares at him for a moment, before huffishy turning and storming into his shop. Fillmore watches the door swing shut behind him, before shrugging and returning to the Taste-In. He would come around eventually… And if he didn’t, that’s his loss.
It’s another year before anything else happens. Fillmore finds himself on the edge of his metaphorical seat, waiting for some word of his revolution. A man lands on the moon, there’s a festival in New York, and in November, he travels to DC for a peace rally. Biggest in history, they say. It’s May, 1970, when he gets wind of a Liberation movement. Some passing Diggers tell him about how there’s going to be a march outside the Stonewall Inn one year after the original riot.
“You should come with,” Fillmore says, leaning against the register in the Surplus Hut, “It’s not gonna be super big, you know? A good start for you.”
Sarge doesn’t look at him, but picks up his pace in counting a stack of ten-dollar bills. “No.”
“Why not?”
“People will talk.”
Fillmore groans, “Sarge, nobody gives a shit about it anymore! They didn’t care when I did it--”
“The answer is no , Fillmore.”
“I don’t know why you’re still afraid of it, man,” Fillmore grunts, “I mean, how long has it been since you were discharged? Three, four years?”
Sarge stops shuffling the cash for a moment. His jaw tightens, his stare hardens. “Three.”
“Yeah! So you should totally--”
“Fillmore.” Sarge’s voice is flat, tired, “Don’t.”
He realizes that he overstepped when Sarge looks at him, eyes filled with grief. “Sarge, man, I’m--”
“Isn’t it time you should open your shop?” Sarge looks away, back to his ten-dollar bills.
“Wait, hear me out for a--”
“What if there’s customers?”
Fillmore feels his regret sink into his throat, feels an apology tugging at his mouth, but can’t bring himself to do anything. So, he turns and leaves, making sure the door closes as quietly as possible. He leaves for New York the next morning, when Sarge’s silhouette is hovering in the window of his surplus shop.
He finds himself across the country a week later, that old Lovin’ Spoonful tune running through his head; hot town, summer in the city…. It’s only a few-hundred people in front of the Stonewall that morning, but god damn, it’s enough. Fillmore joins the crowd with little hesitation, finding himself standing next to a stout, dark-skinned man wearing one of those trademark berets and a leather jacket, despite the heat. He carries a sign over his shoulder that simply reads, Fight Back!
“I like your picket sign,” Fillmore says, “I shoulda brought one of my own.”
“Thank you.” The panther replies, “Made it just for the occasion.”
They fall into silence, but the rest of the crowd continues to chatter. The march would be starting any minute now, bursting into the streets of New York and (by extension) the rest of the world.
“You here alone?” The panther asks, turning towards him slightly.
"Yep." Fillmore hums. "I asked someone to come but he, uh…" he sighs. "He was too afraid of what people would think of him."
The panther nods pitifully. "Your partner?"
"I guess you could say that."
"Bring 'em to the next one, yeah? Might bring 'em out of his shell a bit."
“No promises, man,” Fillmore laughs halfheartedly, “He isn’t really the type to… get involved.”
The panther hums. “Maybe he just needs a little push.”
“Maybe,” he agrees. “I’m Fillmore, by the way.” He offers his hand, which the panther shook.
“Sam.”
“Groovy,” Fillmore replies, “Where are you from, Sam?”
“Oakland. You?”
“Arizona.”
“Look at us, man,” Sam laughs shortly, “Going ‘cross the country just for this.”
“Wouldn’t miss it for the world.”
The crowd starts to move, hoisting their picket signs in the air and marching away from the Stonewall Inn. A chant picks up, one that Fillmore gladly joins in, as pedestrians on the street join in their liberation. He and Sam stick together through the riot. It’s better to march with someone rather than alone. They collect liberation badges and flyers, handed out by boldly dressed men and women, and continue the cry of revolution as they march through the city’s streets.
There’s a Be-In at Central Park once its all over, during which the rioters find joy in presenting themselves as explicitly queer. Fillmore finds Sam again, sitting under a tree with his picket sign next to him. He had shed his leather jacket due to the summer heat.
“You got a partner too?” Fillmore asks, innocently enough.
“No, erm… Not exactly.” Sam sighs, and removes his beret. He squints against the sun as he speaks again, “It’s kind of difficult to find anyone, y’know… interested in something meaningful.”
Fillmore nods mournfully.
“Y’know, man, sometimes I think that folks like us aren’t gonna get a future like… like picket fences and all that.” Sam turns his cap over in his hands, “Fat chance any of us are gonna get married one day, or have families.”
“You never know, man,” Fillmore replies, “The future’s always uncertain. You could find someone tomorrow, and spend your whole life with them.” He huffed a laugh, “Marriage is a construct anyways.”
“I guess you’re right,” Sam finally says, having thought about it for a minute or two. Then: “Tell me about your fella back home.”
“Uh… He was a drill sergeant, a couple of years back. He’s kinda conservative-- real traditional, you know? Atomic kind of guy.”
“That’s funny,” Sam says, “You don’t seem like the type to agree with… that sort of thing.”
“Oh, I don’t,” Fillmore says quickly, “I was a Digger for a while out in San Fran.”
“How’d you get him to come around, then?”
“I didn’t. He’s never changed,” Fillmore says. “We usually just agree to disagree, though… It gets kinda complicated, sometimes. You know how political everything is, these days.”
“How so?”
“It’s always off and on again. We fight, then we don’t talk for a couple days, and then we get back together like nothing ever happened.”
“Sorry man, but that sounds like a drag.” Sam laughed a little.
“It’s alright, I… I don’t mind it.” Fillmore sighs, “Besides, it’s not like I’m gonna leave him, right? Fights happen, man.”
The two of them leave the Be-In a few hours later, when the sun has started to descend. Sam discards his picket sign into an alleyway dumpster, before they continue on to the parking garage.
“Why’d you do that?”
“You can never be too careful,” Sam says, shrugging, “I’m not trying to get killed tonight.”
“Understandable.”
“Oh, hey--” Sam reaches into his pocket and pulls out a crumpled chewing gum wrapper. “You got a pen, man?”
Fillmore fishes into his pocket, and (surprisingly) hands one over. Sam scribbles something down, before handing both items back to him.
“There’s my landline number, in case you’re ever in Oakland and you need a place to crash.”
“Thanks, man.” Fillmore says, “You want mine? I’ll help you out if you’re ever stranded out in the desert.”
Sam laughs, “Sure thing, man.”
Fillmore returns to his pocket, and retrieves a receipt from a cafe he had visited in the city. He writes his phone number, then passes it back to Sam. “There you go, man.”
“Maybe we’ll run into each other again,” Sam offers his hand to shake, “At another liberation riot.”
“Maybe, man,” Fillmore replies. It wasn’t exactly likely-- there hadn’t been any rallies like this outside of New York or San Francisco-- but it was a nice thought.
Fillmore heads west towards Chicago, planning to take Route 66 all the way back to Radiator Springs. He’s halfway through Indiana when he realizes he should have called home before he left New York, just to let everyone know he was alright. So, he stops at a gas station, buys a bottle of Coca-Cola and a pack of cigarettes, and finds an empty payphone. He picks it up and puts it to his ear, punching in the long-distance code.
“Long distance,” the Operator says. She sounds older, maybe mid-forties.
“Yes, hello, Operator, I’d like to place a call to, uh…” Fillmore thought for a moment, before continuing, “Arizona: 9-3027.”
“Please deposit seventy-five cents for the first two minutes,”
Fillmore reached into his pocket and fished out three quarters, dropping them down the payphone.
“Please hold.”
The line went dead for a moment, before being picked up again. “Hello, this is Sarge’s Surplus Hut, your one-stop shop for--”
“Hey, Sarge, it’s me,” Fillmore interrupts.
Sarge sighs, and says, “I’m not going to pay your bail fee again, if that’s why you’re calling--”
“It’s not, man,” Fillmore replies, “I’m on my way home, that’s all.”
“Oh.” Sarge is quiet for a moment, before, “Where are you now?”
“Somewhere in Indiana, I think,” Fillmore says, “I’m going to take 66 all the way home, so I’ll probably be back next week sometime.”
“Alright, well… I’ll see you then, I guess.”
The line went silent for a moment. Their conversation was slow, tired, and subliminally hostile.
“Hey, Sarge?” Fillmore finally says, “I’m, uh… I’m sorry about--”
“Yeah, uh… that’s okay.” Sarge replies, “I know it meant a lot to you,and you were excited about it--”
“No, uh… I shouldn’t have brought it up. Sorry.” Fillmore suddenly remembers his conversation with Sam ( “Bring ‘em to the next one, yeah?”) , and adds, “I still think you should come with, sometime.”
“Fillmore, I can’t. You know--”
“Yeah, I know,”
Another silence, this time permeated by the Operator’s voice chiming in: “You have thirty seconds remaining.”
“Hey, Sarge, I have to go, man.”
“Alright,” Sarge said, “Drive safely.”
“I will,” Fillmore replies, “But, hey-- wanna know something?”
“What?”
Fillmore looks around, and cups the mouthpiece with his hand. “I miss you,” he whispers.
Sarge chuckles. “You’re lucky I’m alone. I miss you too.”
Fillmore returns the laugh, and finishes, “See you in a few days, man.”
“Goodbye, Fillmore.”
He replaces the receiver and leans against the aluminum divider, smiling. He stays there for a minute, thinking about the conversation, before heading back out to his bus. There’s a long and winding road ahead of him, and he’d like to get a move on.
Fillmore crosses the border into Arizona five days later, a hitchhiker named Lavender asleep in his passenger seat. Fillmore drops her in a small town outside Flagstaff, and finds himself in Radiator Springs not three hours later. By then, the moon had risen high into the sky, and the neon lights around town had been switched on.
By some stroke of luck, Sarge is just walking outside and lighting up a cigarette as Fillmore pulls into the Taste-In. He offers a wave, which Fillmore returns, before going to lean on the fence that divides their properties.
“Welcome back,” Sarge says as Fillmore gets out of the bus. “How was the riot?”
“Great, actually.”
Sarge chuckles as he brings the cigarette to his mouth.
“What’s so funny?” Fillmore asks.
“Nothing,” Sarge replies, shaking his head, “I might drop by later tonight, if you’re free.”
Fillmore feels a smile tugging at the corners of his mouth. That was awfully bold of him. “I’m always free.
“Really?” Sarge says, “Good.”
He does, indeed, drop by later that night; Fillmore is busy unpacking his belongings when he hears the beaded curtains pull apart. He’s handsome as ever, watching him with the ghost of a smile on his face.
“What’s got you so happy?” Fillmore asks, shooting him a sideways glance.
“Nothing,” Sarge replies. He shifts, one foot to another. “I’m happy you’re home.”
The following years crawl by at a rabbit's pace. The war ends, and everyone seems to forget . They take off their beads, their flowers, their freedom, and move forward in life; getting married in traditional weddings, getting traditional jobs with traditional salaries. Yuppie replaces Yippie, arcades replace activism. Abbie Hoffman is dead, Jerry Rubin is a millionaire, and Fillmore's youth is over.
He hates it, but he starts to think he’s too old for all of that, anyways. He’s thirty-eight years old, now. There’s other things to be doing, like watching the six o’clock news with some guy who isn’t Walter Cronkite (whatever happened to him?). There, he sees the New Youth. They have liberation flags, similar to his own, and they’re asking, no, begging the government to save them. A disease breaks its way through the population, killing so many that experts lose count.
Fillmore’s angry, scared-- so, he packs up his picket signs and his old, badge-covered vest and gets everything ready to once again travel to New York, where the action is.
And it’s not that he decided not to, he just… Doesn’t go. He’s too old, anyways. Don’t trust anyone over thirty. Don’t trust anyone over thirty. Don’t trust anyone over thirty.
He calls Sam on a chilly night in ‘87, just to check in. It rings a few times, before the line is picked up. “Davis residence, Sam speaking.”
“Hey, Sam! I dunno if you remember, but we met at that liberation riot a few years back?”
“ Oh, shit, yeah!” Sam sounded excited, “Forgive me, uh… I forgot your name.”
“Fillmore.”
“Right! God, man, it’s been so long.” Sam laughs, “How are you?”
“Just fine, thanks.” Fillmore says, “How are you?”
“We’re fine here, all healthy.” Sam’s tone drops a little, “You know about the epidemic?”
“Yeah, uh… That’s why I was calling, actually.”
“We both got tested, everything's all good. I appreciate you checking in.” Sam seems to smile. “What about you? Everything good out there?”
“Yeah, uh… No crisis yet.” He sighs, “It’s still worrying, though.”
“I know, man,” Sam says, “It’s… it’s rough.”
“Yeah, uh… yeah.” Fillmore agrees. “Uh, anyways-- What’s new, man?”
They chat for a long while, having moved on from the uncomfortable topic of the epidemic. It seemed that Sam had gotten his picket fence after all: had been with his “new” partner for over ten years, now. They had gotten a house under a false surname, complete with two dogs and a cat.
“What about you?” Sam finally asks, “Are you still with your fella?”
“Oh, you know….” Fillmore says jokingly. He sees Sarge across the room, and smiles at him, “Same old, same old. He’s around.”
“Don’t talk about your partner like that, man.”
“Why not? He gets grumpier every day, man. Must be gettin’ old or something.” Sarge glares at him from across the room, and Fillmore laughs.
“Forty-two isn’t old, Fillmore,” Sarge says, from across the room.
“Glad to know you’re both doing well,” Sam says. He sounds like he’s smiling.
“Yeah, you too, man.” Fillmore says.
“Are you planning on going to any of the riots?” Sam asks.
“I, uh… Haven’t thought about it, to be honest.”
“I might. Maybe I’ll see you there, man.”
“Maybe, uh… That would be cool.”
They chat a little while longer, before finally ending the call after an hour or so. Fillmore hangs up his end, and sits there staring for a minute.
Talking to Sam gave him a little peace of mind about the whole situation. It was scary, but not unmanageable. They would get through it, all of them.
His hope seemed false, however. People were dying… and he was unable to do anything about it. Once more, he was no longer a bright-eyed teenager. Don’t trust anyone over thirty. He turns forty in a few weeks, surrounded by friends. Old. He’s old now. Too old for the long hair and beard and tye-dyed clothing… that was all over now, anyways. He had become an oddity.
Depression is a thick gray cloud that hangs over his head. Too old to do anything, and too young to die. He can do nothing but sit and wait… though, he doesn't know exactly what he's waiting for. Sarge’s energy is the same-- He’s stuck, floating through time like a lost ship at sea. They drift apart, turning into something more like bickering old men rather than friends or half-lovers.
After the fact, he would suppose he was waiting for Lightning McQueen, who fixed the long-broken town in August of 2006. With the new road and the second chance, Fillmore moves forward. Stops waiting around for something to happen, and starts bringing meaning back into his life. Later that year, he’s asked to be in the Pit Crew as the fuel expert. In 2007, he unofficially re-opened his shop after weeks of diligent brewing and taste-testing. A new batch of flavors for a new generation.
It was the following July when Sarge asked him to dinner. Wheel Well, eight o’clock sharp. “Dress nice, it’s a date.” The first date they’d ever had, in forty-something years of knowing one another. Fillmore would be lying if he said he wasn’t nervous. He spends ages getting ready for that date-- he trims his beard, pulls back his hair, even finds some old cologne that doesn't smell right anymore.
The minute Fillmore sees him, he can tell that Sarge is nervous as well. He shifts, foot to foot, and he’s wearing an old button-down shirt that likely hadn’t seen the light of day since the 70s. Like something Fillmore had once seen in a dream.
The date goes exceedingly well. They talk for hours, like they hadn’t spoken in years. In a way, Fillmore supposes they hadn’t. Not like this, anyhow. It takes another few dates until they’re something of an item again. Their relationship-- or, what was left of it-- had been tarnished for forty-something years; it was bound to take a while to repair.
But, when it did… God, it turned out to be the best decision Fillmore had ever made. He felt like a teenager again, in the summer of 1967. Instead of his hopeless infatuation, however… this was something more. Fillmore would marry him if he could.
Life continues on, more normal than not. He and Sarge are more open about their relationship, although it seemed nothing much had changed. Besides, Fillmore reasoned, people probably had it all figured out already. Just like Sheriff and Ramone, forty-something years ago.
It’s March of 2015 when Fillmore hears about the supreme court battle. Obergefell v Hodges… or, more simply, the battle for marriage equality. Something about it reignites the revolutionary fire in his stomach, making him yearn for his younger days of protests.
Fillmore tosses a printed online article from CNN onto Sarge’s desk the next day. “Guess what,” he says.
“The sky is falling,” Sarge says, rolling his eyes and reading the page. His eyes widen a little bit, before turning back to him. “Fillmore…”
“Come to the capital with me.” Fillmore says. “You never come with me, and this is like a fuckin’ landmark ruling, man--”
“Fillmore, you know how I feel about--”
“Yes, I know!” Fillmore cries, “But it affects you just as much as it affects me, and I don’t understand why you’re still afraid of it after all these years--”
“You don’t understand--” Sarge sighs exasperatedly, interrupting himself. “Listen, I could lose everything--”
“Oh, of course you’re still stuck on that.” Fillmore groans, “Let it go, man! They didn’t kick me out of town for being gay, why would they kick you out?”
“It’s different. ” Sarge insists, “Everyone probably expected you to be like that, anyways… If I were to out myself like that--”
“They probably know about you too, by that reasoning.” Fillmore huffs. “I know you like to think that you’re uptight about it, but you were hardly inconspicuous back in the day.”
“Fillmore--”
“No, come on, you know I’m right.” Fillmore insists, “You used to blush every time I so much as looked at you. They know how you are.”
Sarge glares at him. “I did not.”
“Yes, you did.” Fillmore giggles, “I-- I mean, you’re old, now. You might as well do it while you can.”
“You’re old, too.” Sarge grumbles. “And I’m not going to do it. That’s final.”
“Well, you can still come to the ruling with me.”
“Why?” Sarge asks, “It’s a waste of time, nothing’s going to change anyways--”
“It will change.” Fillmore interrupts harshly. “You have to get out of that mindset, man, it’s not good for you to think nothing will ever--”
“Oh, so you know what’s good for me?”
“In this situation, yes!”
“Fillmore, I want you to listen to me-- actually listen,” Sarge says, the low, angry tone to his voice challenging Fillmore to provoke him further. “Things like this don’t change. You and I have been around long enough to know that. There will always be rulings and court cases and whatnot, but nothing will really change.”
“Things have been changing for fifty years!” Fillmore exclaims, “You’re just too blindsided by your own self-hatred to actually see it!” Sarge seems taken aback, almost offended. Even so, Fillmore continues: “You have spent the better part of your life hiding from yourself , man.”
Fillmore turns to leave, tossing one last remark over his shoulder: “It’s time to stop running away from who you are. Stand up, and embrace it.”
He goes home, and starts to pack, willingly deciding not to think about the argument. He’d need his vest for the rally, still covered in demonstration buttons he’d collected over the years… And maybe one of his old headbands, too. He’d definitely need to order one of those rainbow flags, that was an absolute necessity…
It isn’t long before Sarge is standing in the doorway, like he always used to. The beads are pushed back around his form, and he stares, almost tiredly, at him.
“I’ll come with.” He says, “But as far as anyone knows, I’m straight. ”
Fillmore fake-saluted, restraining himself from arguing. “Yes, sir.”
Sarge rolled his eyes and walked away, grumbling. Fillmore huffs as he leaves, both out of exasperation for his nonexistent sense of humor, and out of his plan to go to the rally while attempting to live a lie. He had certainly heard what Fillmore said, but it seemed he hadn’t listened.
Over the next few days, they break the Sarge-approved version of their plan: going to DC, attending the ruling, and then coming back home depending on if it’s passed or not. If it’s not, then they stay for another few days of protesting.
“Fillmore wants to be there when it gets passed,” Sarge would say. “ If it gets passed.”
“It will.” Fillmore insists.
McQueen insists on flying them out to DC. “You’ll get there quicker,” He says, pitching the idea to them as though he were a salesman, “And it would be safer than going in either of your cars.”
“The bus hasn’t failed me once in fifty years. It’ll be alright, man.” Fillmore replies, “And it’d be nice to go on a road trip… Like old times, when folks would all crowd into a bus and drop some tabs of--”
“Alright!” Sheriff interrupts, “You’re taking the bus.”
Fillmore laughs, deep and from the stomach. “No acid, Sheriff. Not this time.”
“ This time?” Sheriff argues, eyeing him suspiciously, “I would hope that you wouldn’t have it at any time, Fillmore.”
Two days before they’re supposed to leave, the package finally arrives at his door. Fillmore tears into it with great enthusiasm, and unravels what’s inside. The rainbow flag, in all of it’s three-by-five technicolor glory, gets tied to the back of the bus.
Sarge is certainly unhappy about that. “It’s like you’re trying your damned hardest to get beat up by some intolerant--”
“That’s why I’m bringing you, Mister-Straight-Man.” Fillmore interrupts. “You’ll protect me.”
Sarge hums distastefully. “You’re sure about that?”
“Obviously.”
The drive to D.C. is long and somewhat harsh. The backroads that Fillmore would have taken fifty years ago were either in terrible shape or gone altogether. Sarge suggested using a cellphone GPS-- they both had one, after all-- but Fillmore refused. They were getting there the old-fashioned way, mark his words.
Somehow, they arrive in D.C. in time for the ruling. Finding a parking spot was hell, as hundreds upon thousands of people had the same idea. The masses of people gave him a sense of pride; it was just like the old days, all over again.
When they finally find a parking spot, Fillmore unties the flag from the back of the bus and throws it over his shoulder, earning a distasteful look from Sarge.
“You’re going to get yourself killed.” Sarge says.
“Don’t be such a pessimist. Everyone’s dressed like this.” Fillmore replies, gesturing around at the crowds of rainbow-clad people. “You ought to be, too. You look like you oppose it.”
Fillmore throws the flag around Sarge’s shoulders, and-- to his immense surprise-- he doesn’t flinch away. He starts walking, Sarge quickly falling into step with him. “Do you know where you’re going? I’m sure we can find a map somewhere--”
“No, I know.” Fillmore replies, “Remember when I left for a week in, like, ‘69?”
“No, I don’t.”
“Hm. Well, there was this massive antiwar protest around here… You’ve probably seen pictures, it was a total happening--” Fillmore stopped himself short as his eyes fell upon the massive crowd at the foot of the Supreme Court building. Rainbow flags flew high above the crowd, accompanied by picket signs and fists. The young and old alike stood, almost defiantly, against the stark-white of the structure, yelling at the top of their lungs.
With a rising feeling, Fillmore couldn’t help but feel like he’d missed this. The protests, the rallies… Though, this was high, high above anything else he’d come to DC for; higher than LBJ and Ho Chi Minh, higher than the exorcism of the Pentagon. Fillmore was no longer a teenager, protesting for the sake of protesting. He was an adult-- a senior citizen, at that-- fighting for something he’d wanted for his entire life.
They push into the crowd, blending in almost effortlessly. Sarge seems to draw closer to him, pulling the flag tighter around his shoulders as though he were cold. They find themselves near the front, standing near a group of shirtless, rainbow-painted men.
So, they wait. Waiting on what, Fillmore has no idea. An announcement, maybe… Or a speech given by some buttoned-up, gray-suit official who speaks in a grim voice. For an hour, it doesn’t come. They watch festivities, roaming around the crowd, before…
"No shit," Fillmore says under his breath.
"What is it?" Sarge asks, "What--"
Fillmore takes his hand and pushes through the crowd, towards the face he was sure he had seen.
“Sam!” He calls, “Sam Davis!” He clasps a hand on his shoulder.
The man turns, looking visibly confused. “Sorry, have we--” Realization dawns on his face, resulting in a wide grin. “Fillmore?”
“Yeah, dude!” Fillmore grins, “How are you, man?”
“I’m great!” Sam replies, “It’s been too long, old friend.”
“It really has,” Fillmore says, “Man, how have you been?”
“Great, man. Really great.” Sam grins, “This is my husband, Bobby,"” Sam gestures to a tall, gangly man with horn-rimmed glasses and gray-spotted hair.
Fillmore shakes his hand. "Congratulations!"
Bobby offers a kind smile. "Thank you."
"This September is our two-year anniversary." Sam says proudly, "But, uh… we've been together much longer. You know how it is."
"Yeah, uh… I know." Fillmore replies.
He feels Sarge's fingers curl tighter around his own. "Oh!" Fillmore exclaims, gesturing, "This is Sarge, my, um…"
"Partner." Sarge finishes. "I'm his, erm… partner."
Fillmore suddenly feels faint, astonishment welling behind his eyes. He catches Sam's eye, and offers a weak smile.
"I was wondering when I'd get to meet you," Sam says, shaking his hand, a wide grin across his face. He casts a wink at Fillmore, “Glad you finally got him to come around, huh?”
“Yeah,” Fillmore agrees. “I, uh… Yeah.”
“It’s great to see you here, man.” Sam says, grinning, “I never woulda thought I’d run into you again.”
They opt to wait together, catching up as a group. Sam had settled down to be a museum curator after he left the Black Panthers; he later admits that he had expected Fillmore to change more with the times, although it’s “pretty groovy” that he’d stayed that way for so long. They talked for a long while about the sad state of music over the last fifty years. Sam later admitted that he had expected Sarge to be taller and more of a hardass, from how Fillmore had described him fifty years prior.
It’s another hour or so until they know what the ruling is; a resounding cheer rose up above the crowd, consuming the world in a cacophony within moments. The noise was not dissimilar to an atomic bomb, exploding throughout the plaza in a great crescendo of elation. He joins in himself, raising his fist in victory.
Glancing to his side, he sees that Sarge looks stunned out of his mind. He stares blankly at the person in front of him, eyes wide and mouth agape.
“What’s wrong?!” Fillmore calls over the noise, “ We won, man! It’s legal now-- woah , are you crying?”
Sarge blinks at him once, twice. He scrubs a hand over his face, and smiles up at him blearily, victoriously. “No, I’m just… I’m just happy, that’s all.”
Fillmore wraps one arm around his shoulders, pulling him into a side hug. He raises his fist again and cheers with the rest of the crowd, the sentiment of finally coming to rest in the pit of his soul. It’s a moment before he realizes that Sarge’s fist is in the air, and he’s shouting along with the rest of them.
There’s a lot of love out there.