The door to my dorm room opened. I saw people running through the corridor. A friend from next door, Pete, peeked in. "Hey, man, come on, somethin's goin' on across the street." I was still barely awake. My eyes squinted toward the light coming through the crack in the doorway, staring at the shadow of Pete's head. I glanced toward the dresser. Three-thirty. I had a class at eight. I needed the shut-eye. But I couldn't resist.

Pete left without asking whether or not I was coming. I sat up on the bed, grabbed my jeans from a pile of clothes on the floor, and pulled them on.

A new decade had begun a few months before. The seventies were here. It was going to be a strange and wild decade. I knew it. It had already been a strange month. Buildings bombed, the lottery, sex with anyone wherever, whenever. The war, it was on everybody's mind, or at least it seemed to be. I knew, for some, that the protests were an opportunity to take a stand against authority, or an excuse to party. After all, it was the Government, big brother, who got us involved in this horrid bloodshed in the first place. Talk about being misguided. So, why should we listen? Why do what other's wanted us to do, when our own executive branch couldn't be trusted?

Here I was, right in the middle of it all, and yet as far from it as I could be, with good friends who truly believed, were willing to fight for that belief, and others who just wanted to get high. I was somewhere in the middle and yet I'd always felt like I was on the outside, looking in.

I heard more scuffling in the hallway. "Johnny, come on, man, hurry. They surrounded some police cars, man." Okay, now I was interested. I tugged on my jeans, nearly tripped as I pulled. I grabbed a wrinkled white T-shirt, and stumbled out of the room. No time for shoes.

I tip-toed across the street toward the parking lot, as if walking over hot coals. The night was clear. I remember looking to the sky and seeing the multitude of stars that can be seen only when it's crystal clear and you're away from the city lights.

As I walked the path around the dorm, getting closer to the lot, I could hear the roar and see a glare, a bright light, above and behind the dorm. I stopped in my tracks as I turned the corner, hundreds of people, mostly students. I must have been the last to get there. Three police cars in the center of the crowd. One was ablaze.

Students closest were the angriest. I was among the wallflowers. Standing and watching, but not participating, never participating, always on the periphery.

It started near the cars, a chant, Tommy, Tommy, Tommy. It grew louder and louder, more and more of the crowd participating. Tommy, Tommy.

The angry ones began to push at the sides of the cars to the beat of the chant. Tommy, Tommy.

The two cars that hadn't been set on fire were being rocked. Within minutes, one of the cars was tipped on its side There were screams from the crowd, as those closest pushed back from the rolling metal. Tommy, Tommy. The metal screeched on the pavement as the car rolled onto it's top.

Baseball bats were passed to a few near the toppled cruiser. They began to smash at the windows. Soon the second car was on its back. Tommy, Tommy.

I looked around for familiar faces. Pete stood a few rows up. I yelled his name. He turned and stumbled toward me. "What the hell's going on?" I asked.

We stood shoulder to shoulder, both amazed by the rebellious scene, still staring at the flames and splattering of glass. He leaned his head toward me. "Remember that older guy, Tommy Jones... or, at least that what he called himself?"

Tommy Jones... I did remember him. I played cards with him one night. " Well, apparently he was sellin, man. He had some contacts and a whole bunch a people were buying from him."

I gave Pete a look of, so what? That wasn't uncommon for the time. "The guy was a nark, man. He was a nark! I heard he showed up here tonight with a bunch of other cops. He was FBI, man. FBI! They went in to arrest guys he was sellin' to!" Pete turned his head back toward the billowing smoke. "I don't believe it, man. The FBI! They set em up!"

I was trying to put two and two together. Always on the outside looking in, never bought, never dealt. Never smoked for that matter. Well, maybe on the rare occasion. But if anyone ever asked where I could get some stuff, I would have had no clue.

I glanced toward Pete's feet. He was leaning on his good foot. The other still bandaged, gauze sticking through the open sandal. "How's the foot?" I asked.

"It's still sore, but I don't care. I'm not goin'. That's all I give a shit about."

Pete had two of his toes removed by an underground surgeon in Rochester. No toe, no go, was his motto.

He decided to change the subject. "I can't believe it, man. Hey, Johnny, they ain't gonna let this guy outa here."

"Where's Tommy? Where is the guy?" I asked.

"He's up in the dorm, man. The students up there got him trapped. He and the cops, they ain't letting him out."

While I listened to Pete, I glanced around the crowd. Standing in the back. Behind me and to the left, stood a young guy, long brown hair, straight, extending over his shoulders, unshaven. He wasn't part of the crowd. He was ten feet or so behind, an observer, in a sense like me.

On the surface, he didn't look much different than the rest of the crowd. But what caught my attention were the crutches and army jacket. I had seen the guy before, but couldn't place him.

I stepped back to get a better look. I don't know why, curiosity maybe. His eyes met mine and I quickly turned away. Didn't want to seem like I was staring. But I noticed one more thing. He was leaning heavily to the right on the crutches, because one of his legs was missing. The stump ended above the left knee.

He wasn't a student. The College was small enough. I would have seen him around campus. Maybe he was a townie. I had a sudden feeling of wonder, but also remorse. Could he be a vet? The war, in a sense, had instigated the protest. His missing limb could very well have been a war related injury. The feeling of remorse changed to embarrassment. I was hovering, on the fence, as I always did. Noncommittal. Couldn't even approach the guy. I struggled with what it meant to be patriotic, but as always, at a superficial level. I didn't really know what it took to take a stand. And even if I did, I probably wouldn't have the guts to do it.

Of course, this guy could have been drafted. Maybe he had no choice. Maybe he didn't take a stand. But maybe he did... and that was the quandary. My life had taken some interesting turns, relieving me from having to be bold and make controversial decisions. Months before, I had debated joining the ROTC. I needed the money for tuition and had one of those sudden swells of patriotism, a need to be involved, to contribute. But as luck would have it, shortly after giving it serious thought, the ROTC building was bombed, and just like that, in a puff of smoke, no more officer training on Campus and I was off the hook.

In this fleeting moment I wondered if the vet on crutches was really a vet. Was he just a kid from town who had had a car accident? Maybe, he was a townie who couldn't go to college, couldn't afford it or didn't have the grades or didn't want to go to college. He could have been drafted and now he was watching this arrogant crowd of college deferments, protesting because they had been caught using and selling. Protesting a war that they really couldn't understand, a war that he had tasted, a war that had changed his life.

I looked to the sky. The bright stars were now covered by smoke. I heard scuffling behind me, security guards, three or four of them, pushing through the crowd to get to the epicenter.

I hadn't thought of the possibility until it happened. I heard a faint wail of sirens in the background. Guards yelling, get back, get back, and then the explosion. The gas tank must have ignited. Black smoke, screams, people strewn everywhere, right before our eyes. I stood in shock.

"Somebody call for help," I heard a woman scream.

I glanced back, looking for the soldier, but he was gone. The sirens got louder. Three cruisers rounded the corner, tires screeching. I backed into the road, as did many of the others. The cars rolled into the crowd as the waves of frightened protesters gave way. Three troopers jumped out, pulled guns from their holsters and held them high, yelling to the crowd to get back and let them through.

I was still an observer, watching, wondering. One of the cops veered toward the dorm. The other two stopped and tried to help the dozen or so laying on the pavement next to scrap of car.

There was a tap on my shoulder. It was Pete. "Hey man, one of the cops is goin up to the dorm to get Tommy." Tommy and the other officers must have been trapped in the dorm, held hostage by an angry mob.

A few minutes later, more sirens. This time two ambulances from the local fire department turned off Main and sped toward the lot. Security guards and troopers pushed students to get out of the way. The truck pulled forward.

As Students on stretchers were hauled into the open beds, I heard yelling from the dorm. Walking down the walk, to the jeers of angry students, was Tommy, a 25 year old, long-haired kid who had infiltrated the campus. I recognized him from that night playing cards, but I was sure he wouldn't know me.

I didn't know how I felt. Watching from a distance, the angry mob, three students in cuffs, hands latched behind their backs. State cop trailing the group, his hand held high, on the trigger. He actually looked scared. Maybe frightened he would actually have to use the firearm.

They walked slowly, defiantly down the path. The handcuffed students were pushed into the back seat of one of the cruisers. Tommy got in the passenger side. The trooper settled in behind the wheel and backed the car out of the lot. Students yelled and screamed, fuckin' nark... pig. They spit and banged at the windows, but within a few seconds the State vehicle was on the main road, siren crying.

That was the last we'd see of Tommy the Traveler. "He's the one, man." It was Pete, standing behind me.

"He's the one, what?" I asked, eyes still fixed on the trooper's car.

"He's the one who made the bombs."

At first I didn't know what he was talking about. Pete was much more entrenched in campus politics than I was. But within a few seconds I realized he was talking about the bombs used to destroy the ROTC offices.

"How do you know?" I asked.

"I just know, man. That's why everyone was so pissed. It wasn't just the drugs."

I knew they hadn't found the bombers, but it had been widely suspected that students were involved.

"He taught them how to make them. I'm not shittin ya. He even showed em how to throw em."

"Was he there? I mean, there when they bombed the building?"

"No, I heard he wasn't there. But he pushed em, man."

Later we found that Tommy had situated himself on several campuses in Upstate New York. Inciting protests, supplying explosives, dealing drugs, pushing students to the brink of insanity. An FBI agent, I still couldn't believe it.

As Pete continued to whisper, I glanced up to the backyard of one of the homes that bordered the lot. Sitting on the hill was the wood-be veteran. He was squatting like an Indian, elbows on his knees, chin on his fists, staring at the smoke. He appeared to be mesmerized, watching, soaking it all in.

I wanted to go over, talk, find out why he was there, what had happened to him. Was he a veteran, a Vietnam veteran? I had so many questions. But I was afraid, as I always was, of getting involved, of really feeling, committing.

"Hey man, you listening to me?"

I turned toward Pete. "Yeah, you were telling me about Tommy."

He was dying to tell me what he knew. He had heard the inside story from someone who had heard.

I turned back to the hill. Just like that, couldn't have been more than an instant, he was gone. Apparently he had seen enough. And I suppose so had I.

I turned back to Pete, interrupting. "I gotta go back. I have class tomorrow morning.

I strolled, barefoot, hopping, avoiding the stones and the involvement.

***

The next morning I woke to someone shaking my shoulder. My face was to the pillow and I was drooling on the case. It was Pete. "Come on man, we're late for old lady Sheridan. Hurry, she might lock the door."

Shit, I had a class that started in fifteen minutes. I scurried out of bed, slipped on the dirty jeans that were laying next to the bed, slipped into a pair of loafers, grabbed a stick of deodorant from the dresser, rubbed the goo on my arm pits, and, just for show, grabbed a clean T from a drawer, slipped it over my head, grabbed my Eskimo coat off a chair and rushed out the door, just behind Pete.

"Hey, what was up with that soldier last night, the one without the leg?" I yelled to Pete as we hobbled down the hallway.

"He turned as we reached the door at the end. "What soldier?"

"The one on crutches. He was standing right behind us."

We stumbled down the stairs. "I didn't see any soldier." Pete said as he reached the landing on the first floor. He pushed the door to the outside.

A blast of cold air hit my face. "The guy in the fatigues. You had to see him. He was sitting by himself on the lawn behind Sill House for a while. Crutches. The guy was missing a leg, for Christ sake."

We were walking down the sidewalk side by side. Hands tucked in our pockets. "I didn't see anyone. I would have noticed someone without a leg, man." Pete said.

"Are you sure? He was standing behind us and then moved to the hill. He was by himself. You had to see him."

"You must have been dreamin', man. I remember looking up at Sill House, seeing if any of the women were out. It was empty, man."

I slowed down, to give Pete a chance to catch up. We strolled the rest of the way, side by side, in silence, cold and tired. I was wrestling with my consciousness.