"Hey, Patrick." Martin stood, waved at Patrick, and wandered toward the kegs. Patrick sat down next to Willow. Joe handed him a sparkler. Willow leaned back on her elbows. The strains of St. James Infirmary and a heavy beat from the drummer mingled with the smell of burning sparklers and the sweeter smell of marijuana.
"It's good to be a citizen," Patrick said. Willow inspected him for signs of irony. None. They talked briefly about the war which they were all against. It seemed far away, a bad dream. "Maybe we should get active," Patrick suggested, "demonstrate or something." Joe leaned forward.
"You want to watch it," he said.
"What do you mean?"
"I had kind of a shock last week," Joe said. "You know Ox?" He looked at the others.
"Sure," Art said.
"He was in school with us; he's a state trooper," Joe explained. "We've had narcs around for a few years now, busting people for the evil weed."
"Shit heads," Art said. "Like we really have a drug problem."
"We spot the narcs," Joe said. "Anyway, I was having a beer with Ox in Buckman's, and he told me to watch my ass. He told me there was a list of radicals at headquarters. Subversives. 'They're watching you; that's all I can say.' " Joe shook his head. "I mean, I'm a veteran, for Christ's sake."
"You're a dropout," Art said.