Chapter Text
1969
Fillmore was not bothered by the heat. In fact, he embraced it: he loved the sun, and the way it bounced off of the Arizona desert sand, and the warmth it provided. There was something so beautiful about it all—how could he not love it?
Maybe he was just high off his ass, though. That was the thing about these “gatherings,”—people were always smoking something, always dropping acid or shooting up. But, then again, Mother Earth had provided psychedelics, in the same way that She had provided the sun: who was he to complain?
They’d called it a “Gathering of the Tribes.” It was a knockoff of the Be-In that happened in San Francisco two years ago; though, Janis Joplin and The Grateful Dead were missing from this happening. Not that it mattered, anyway. Hippies were more than capable of making their own music, with bongo drums and harmonicas and guitars meshing together into something just above the standard of Bob Dylan.
It took place under a massive orange rock formation called Willy’s Butte. There was no legal permit involved; in fact, Fillmore figured that the local law enforcement didn’t care, anyways. They’d gotten away with it for two years—who’s to say that this one would be any different?
(If Fillmore could go back in time, he’d probably smack some sense into himself.)
By noon, hundreds of people had gathered in their little desert hideaway. People had started campfires, broke out the shrooms, played their guitars in wild harmony. Fillmore was extremely pleased with this outcome: when these Gatherings had first become annual, he never would have guessed that this many people would turn up.
He whistled to himself as he wandered home, after the first day had come to a close. He planned on turning up again early the next morning, just in time to smoke an early bowl with the Yippies camping on the outskirts of town.
Sheriff was leaning up against the front post outside the Taste-In, arms crossed. He was nearly menacing in the dark: his eyes were nothing more than black ovals, and his mouth was drawn into a thin line.
Fillmore, in all honesty, could not bring himself to care. “What seems to be the problem, officer?”
“Don’t play dumb,” Sheriff said. He stood straight, un-crossing and re-crossing his arms. “You’ve got four-hundred people out under Willy’s Butte without supervision.”
Fillmore replied, “You’ve been counting?”
Sheriff ignored him. “You need a permit for that. Somebody could get hurt—it’s too hot, and there’s too many people.” His expression tightened slightly, “I don’t want there to be a riot.”
“There won’t be a riot,” Fillmore replied. “Nobody cares enough to start a riot.”
“I saw what happened in Chicago last year,” Sheriff snapped, “I don’t want any of that in my town.”
(Everybody had seen what happened in Chicago. It was all over the news. Fillmore found it almost laughable that Sheriff could equate four-hundred people in the desert to a police riot in one of the biggest cities in America).
Fillmore giggled. “Man, you need to trust me on this. Nobody’s going to get hurt.”
“Mm-hm,” Sheriff replied, disbelievingly. “There ought to be some order, around here—we can’t have all these hippies running around unchecked.” He turned to walk away, adding over his shoulder, “Think about that, Fillmore.”
Perhaps Fillmore was meant to take that as a warning, but he didn’t find it to be especially threatening. Nobody was going to get hurt, and nobody was going to start a riot. That’s it. Plain and simple.
He didn’t exactly think about any of it until the next morning. It was bright, sunshine streaming down over the desert, just as hot as it had been yesterday. Girls were tanning, guys strumming guitars and humming Country Joe. Fillmore loved it. All was well.
Until, obviously, the military showed up.
Perhaps Fillmore was supposed to read between the lines of that “law and order” comment. Sheriff probably meant to say, “Oh, yeah, by the way—I called in the military, and they’re shutting your shindig down.” That wasn’t very awesome.
He watched from a distance as the military—who, apparently, was one guy—pushed his way through the crowd. He was older (early-forties, maybe), fairly short, with early-onset graying hair, and aviator sunglasses that slid down to the tip of his thin nose. His dress uniform, decorated with patches and medals, blocked his body into a series of square-like shapes.
The first thing the soldier did was start shouting. “Things are going to change around here, right now,” he said. He gestured around to the campfires and cigarettes and matches, “This is all one big fire hazard. Somebody is going to get hurt, with all of this combustible material around.
Oh. Fillmore understood that. Sheriff sent this guy out here to nitpick.
“You seriously need to chill out, man,” Fillmore said, cutting in. “You know, feel the good vibes.”
There was a ripple of laughter from the crowd around him.
The soldier scoffed. “Take a shower, freak.”
Fillmore did well at hiding his irritation. He smiled, gesturing to his fellow comrades. “No need for all the hostility,” he said, “We just want to do our thing in peace.”
“That’s all fine,” he said dismissively. “But, have you ever stopped to consider how the folks in Radiator Springs feel about your little love-in?” The soldier crossed his arms, though he was hardly intimidating. “It might’ve been fine when there were just a few of you, but the crowds are causing problems.”
Fillmore stared back at him, lackluster. He shrugged, “Okay?”
“I’m afraid I have to put a stop to this,” The soldier finished, “Before someone gets hurt.”
Fillmore rolled his eyes, again uncaring. At that moment, he decided that he seriously did not like this guy. “Listen, Sarge,” he said, the nickname sounding a lot snider than he meant it to be, “I get that you’re just doing your job, but really—”
Somewhere to his left, he heard the clicking of a Zippo lighter. Fillmore hardly had time to turn his head to look before the fire was lit, spreading lines across the desert. He jumped to get out of the way; though, the soldier was hardly as lucky. The blaze caught the sleeve of his pristine military blazer, and he gasped.
“Man, you’re on fire,” one of the hippies said. “Groovy.”
“Groovy?” The soldier echoed, incredulous. “I am on fire!”
Quite frankly, Fillmore was extremely tempted to watch the whole thing play out. The soldier would get what was coming to him, and life would go on.
He relented, grabbing a nearby canteen; the cap flew off, and he emptied the contents onto the soldier’s blazer.
There was an overextended moment where the only sound was the wind over the canyon. The soldier glanced at his now-soaked arm, and back to Fillmore.
He appeared to stand straighter, composing himself. “Uh… Thank you,” he said. He added, quieter, “I owe you one.”
Around them, the crowd had begun to scatter. Apparently, they were not keen on finding out what came next, after a government employee had quite literally caught fire. Those who remained had stayed seated, smoking indifferently and talking idly among themselves.
“Um… Sorry about that,” Fillmore said. He laughed almost sheepishly. “Won’t happen again.”
“You know, this is exactly what I was talking about,” the soldier snapped, “Somebody getting hurt.”
The apology had been disregarded. Irritated, Fillmore scoffed. “Well, since you apparently owe me one,” he said snidely, “How about you fuck off, and we forget about all of this?”
“I ought to be arresting you people, right now!” The soldier exclaimed, “This whole love-in nonsense is getting shut down.”
The soldier tried to brush past him, but Fillmore (suddenly confident) stood in front of him. “Try me,” he said.
(Again: if Fillmore could go back in time, he’d smack some sense into himself).
The soldier looked back up at him. “You don’t want to do that.”
“Why not?” Fillmore challenged.
The soldier scoffed. He brushed past Fillmore, walking quickly.
In a split second, he grabbed the soldier’s arm. “Hey, wait—”
The soldier whirled around, pinning Fillmore’s arm behind his back. He muttered something that sounded completely routine (“Anything you say can and will be used against you in the court of law...”) as the handcuffs clicked shut around his wrist.
“What the fuck!” Fillmore cried. “I saved your life, man. That’s low!”
That’s how, for the first time in his entire twenty-one years of living, Fillmore found himself arrested. Though, for the record, it was probably the weirdest experience of his life: rather than being in a police cruiser, he’d been loaded into the back of an aged military jeep. The radio quietly played some pop music station, and the windows were rolled down.
“You know, you’d be way more attractive if you weren’t such a fucking boot-licker,” Fillmore said, watching him turn the key in the ignition.
“Quiet.”
“What the hell are you arresting me for, anyways?” Fillmore asked, “I didn’t do anything!”
“Obstruction of justice,” The soldier replied quickly.
The jeep pulled out onto the road, speeding through the desert back toward town. It would be three minutes, tops, until Fillmore’s stark-clean permanent record would reflect exactly one unjust arrest.
“Listen, Sarge—”
“Stop calling me that.”
“Well, you’re a sergeant, aren’t you?” Fillmore replied, snidely, “Look, you’ve got one, two, three stripes on your shoulder. That’s a sergeant mark, isn’t it?”
“Pipe down, hippie.”
Fillmore leaned forward in the backseat, so then his head was inches away from Sarge’s shoulder. He could smell his overpowering cologne: it was extremely masculine, and would probably give him a headache if he was around it for too long.
“You still owe me one,” Fillmore murmured. “Shut down the gathering, for all I care. We’ve already made our statement.” He watched the sweat on Sarge’s temple, breathed his cologne once more. “Uncuff me.”
A muscle in Sarge’s jaw tightened. He slammed on the breaks, tires screeching on the pavement. Fillmore nearly flung forward, but caught himself against the dull leather of the seat in front of him. He flew back against his own seat as the car came to a full stop; Sarge left the keys in the ignition as he pushed himself out of the driver’s seat.
“Who the fuck taught you how to drive—?”
The words were barely out of Fillmore’s mouth before the back door was being wrenched open, sunlight streaming into the dark backseat.
“Out,” Sarge barked.
Fillmore did as he was asked. The instant his feet hit the ground, Sarge grabbed his shoulders and spun him around. The dark metal exterior of the jeep had been baking in the desert for hours; it burned as Fillmore was pushed up against it, face-first.
He laughed. “Man, at least buy me dinner first.”
“Shut up.”
Fillmore’s wrists stung as the handcuffs were removed. He turned around, rubbing them.
“We are even,” Sarge hissed, jabbing one finger in Fillmore’s direction as he made for the driver’s side door. “Understood?”
“Sure,” Fillmore said, indifferent. “Whatever, man.”
Sarge did not look twice as he turned heel, dropping himself back into the driver’s seat and slamming the door behind him.
Fillmore spoke, “At least give me a ride back to town—”
The jeep’s engine roared as it sped away, leaving him coughing in the dust.
“Asshole,” Fillmore muttered.
He turned, intent on hiking back to Willy’s Butte. With enough luck, he’d get the majority of people to leave before Sheriff turned up. He’d stick around for the fallout, and move along with his life.
Vaguely, Fillmore thought of strong cologne, of being cuffed and thrown carelessly in the back of a government vehicle. For a moment, he wished he had the balls to punch the motherfucker in the face.
He turned around in time to see the jeep disappear over the horizon. Fillmore flicked it the bird, and then put the whole situation behind him. He was better than holding grudges, anyways.