Linden in Lincoln: Protests
end in jail, reacquaintance
By Mark Nemeth
Staff Ref)oner
“Chevec, it’s 8,’’ Chevec Wein
berg’s mom said.
Chevec lived with university
home economics professor Joyce
Marx, his mom. It was 8:01 a.m.
Today he would protest the pro
posed university budget cuts on
campus.
"Chevec, it’s 8,” his mom said.
It was 8:05 a.m.
Chevec was 28 years old, seven
years into school and one year
away from a master’s degree in
classics.
The door next to Chevec’s closet
door opened. Through that door
came Chevec’s mom.
“Chevec, it’s 8,” his mom said.
It was 8:11 a.m.
“OK, thanksmom,’’Chevec said.
Chevec got out of bed, show
ered, dressed, got onto his bike
and rode toward the university with
University Fountain on his mind.
Roykill Plaza they called it, in
memory of Roy Stalin, the student
who got stuck on top of the foun
tain lor M hours before he died,
while university administrators held
meetings concerning the issue of
turning the fountain off.
Nearing the fountain, Chevec
remembered his dream: students
jumping from University Union, the
empowering sounds of protest,
Naomi Cpllerberg’s tongue in his
ear. A sense overwhelmed him of
what he thought politics should
be.
“This isn’t a fantasy,” he whis
pered to himself.
'I"he sun was out. Students passed
Chevec, and Chevec passed stu
dents, letting the moments of con
versations he heard shape his mood
and identity as a student spokes
person.
“Chevec! Over here!” yelled Julia
Cruse, fellow protester. Over there
went Chevec, igniting a protest party
that would last untillate afternoon,
with Chevec and eight others in jail
for interfering with state Sen. Jesse
Kinergy’s announcement of his can
didacy for president. Two hours
later, Kinergy apologetically ar
* ranged for their release.
Back at University Fountain,
these nine students found the
^ union as full as when they
IH had left it. Damn Straight, a
ft* college country western band,
Jf was singing about wheels and
W spokes.
^ Jill Coptic entered Hoykill Plaza
five minutes after leaving her Modem
and Postmodern Literature class,
within which she was taught one
person’s interpretation of a group
of ideas concerning the histories
and predecessors of 20th-century
literature. Leaving this class pro
duced a heightened version of the
same frustrated alienation that leav
ing most Lincoln University classes
produced.
A tall man in mostly brown, with
brown glasses, a beard and blond
hair handed Jill a red piece of
paper.
“They put me in jail,” he said.
“Protest the proposed department
cuts.”
Jill looked at the paper. Nice
graphics, she thought. She looked
upatChevecWeinbergandsmiled.
His face was straining, and his eyes
were squinting.
“You’re Jill Coptic,” he said.
“You’re Chevec Weinberg,” Jill
said.
“Right. Have we met?” Chevec
asked.
uncoin, she said and smiled.
“Yah.” Chevec laughed. "I have
a class with Linden Lemon."
“I haven’t seen him for a while,”
Jill said. “Do you ever feel like
you’ve been banging your head up
against a wall?”
“I always feel like that. Should
we get some coffee?” Chevec asked.
Jill smiled, and they walked west
to the industrial section of the city
and into die Market of liav. J
“At night, not being able to go
on and banging my head against
the wall, trying to find a way, not
from self-confidence but because
of being sentenced to search,” Jill
said.
“You don’t sleep well?” Chevec
asked.
"It’s Georges Bataillc. Have you
ever read anything by him?" Jill
asked.
“I saw Barton Fink last night,”
Chevec said. “That sentence re
minded me of it. There’s been more
than one tortured artist throughout
history.”
Though mentally exhilarated
from the physical exhaustion of the
day, Chevec was a little nervous.
“What is there but to describe
the beautiful and horrifying mo
ments? To crap and vomit your
person and to go beyond that,” Jill
said.
“Changing things," Chevec said,
unsure of the spaces between his
personality and nis politics, and yet
sure Jill Coptic saw them like pri
mary colored Building Blocks.
“Right," Jill said.
Inside the Rue de la Grind, Chevec
saw Sylvia and Jill saw Linden.
Together they drank coffee.
Blues
Continued from Page 8
I found a seat by a middle-aged
couple. We shared stories and
bought each other drinks. I came
out ahead, as they both had been
students once and had great jobs
now.
He was a second-generation
American who spoke native Eng
lish and Spanish. He taught Span
ish and loved teaching.
A sultry brunette at the table
mentioned a desire to ride in a
truck. Where had she come from? I
don’t think she was there when I
sat down.
The teacher replied, “1 rode in a
truck once. I was at a bar with a girl
I barely knew, and this guy I barely
knew offered us a ride in his truck.
The next thing 1 remember, we
were stuck, crossways in a ditch
with cops all around. I remember
they asked him if he had a license,
and he handed them one. They
arrested him for not having a truck
license. I bailed him out with the
cash advance on my credit card
and he paid me back with a check.”
“It bounced, right?” I asked.
“No, the check was good. But
we took him back to my apartment
to dry out, and the girl locked
herself in my spare room. It was a
strange night.”
His current girlfriend, who was
once married to an attorney, rec
ommended that I go to Europe and
hang out, rather than go to law
school.
“You’re such a nice guy. You
would be brainwashed there."
This, the first conversation, was
the only one to survive the two-day
vodka filtration intact. I remember
dancing with a beautiful woman,
too young to be there by her own
admission.
I remember talking with a hooker
sometime the second night. I said
something like, “Huh?" She repeated A
herself, and I replied, “Oh, fine, I’m
a student. You?”
I know we talked lor quite a
while before I realized that she was
trying to $ell me something. I said I
wasn’t in the mood. She said she
wasn’t either. I supposed that ex
plained why she’d been talking to
me for nearly an hour.
We danced a few times, talked
some more, and she even bought
me a drink, saying, “I make good
money.” Later, she left the bar. I
stayed till close and walked back to
my room in the rain, comfortably
numb.
I said Jesus done left Chicago,
now I'm stuck here on my own.
My baby done left me, like I al
ways knew she would.
Deep inside I know she loves me,
but you know, I ain’t no good.
I went downtown to hear the
boys play, and lost all my sense oj
time.
I done spent all my money, and,
drunk up all my wine.
I saw no point in sunlight, and
was nearly left behind
Longsinc is a senior international
affairs and economics major and a Daily
Nebraskan columnist.
Sandy Creek
FRIDAY, OCT. 11
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