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Burning
Banks and Roasting Marshmallows:
The Education of Daniel Marleau
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Book
Description
This chronicle of
student unrest, set during 1970 on the unlikely palm graced and
sun-kissed Santa Barbara campus of the University of California,
follows young Dan Marleau and friends through personal and political
upheavals that begin on campus with the firing of a popular professor
and spread off campus to the infamous burning of the Bank of American
in Isla Vista. Those who lived through the Vietnam War era will be
swept into a portrayal evoking measures of angst, anger, and bitterness
alongside nostalgia, humor, and resilience. Those who are too young to
have lived through this period will find areas of identification with
characters who face circumstances and challenges that remain relevant
in a time of continued military entanglements, corporate excesses,
political divisions, and global terrorism. Numerous photographs taken
by the author complement the narrative.
Excerpt from
Chapter 16
Canova
and I returned along Ocean Road. He left to check his store while I
went to my
apartment. After tuning the radio to KCSB, I tossed together a
scrambled egg
sandwich. According to reports, a crowd of about seven hundred gathered
at
Perfect Park for the rally. But two blocks away a cruiser had already
been
smashed, overturned, and set afire.
Now about three
to four dozen cops,
clad in riot gear, moved on the crowd to clear the streets and prevent
further
rioting. But instead of dispersing, the crowd charged, advanced on the
cops,
and succeeded in driving them up Embarcadero del Norte. A reporter then
commented
on the scene around the bank.
––We’ve just
heard the Bank of
America has been broken into. Some reports are saying that fires have
been
started inside . . .
I wasn’t expecting an attack on the
bank. I grabbed the camera and bolted for the door with part of the
sandwich in
my hand.
––I’m
going out there. If
they’re breaking into the bank, I need photos.
Matt supplied the voice of reason.
––Don’t do it,
man. You’ll just get
busted.
––Thanks,
see you later.
The
sun had set and it was now more difficult to see. Nearing the top of
the loop,
I heard angry yells and rocks bouncing off the pavement. At the Enco
gas station
on the corner, I approached a group that had just retreated from the
street.
The cops occupied the park. Another group collected to my left. Several
among
those in front of me gathered stones from behind the gas station. I
stopped
beside a few others who stood motionless in the background along the
curb of El
Embarcadero--watching and waiting.
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The cops slowly
advanced toward us as
the group in front of me drew back, throwing rocks and taunting them.
As I
moved with the crowd south along El Embarcadero, the sound of broken
glass rang
piercingly from somewhere down del Mar. A couple of large rocks thudded
and
rolled in the street near where a group of cops in riot gear now stood
at the
southwest end of the park.
Suddenly a separate group of rioters,
surprising everyone—especially the cops, charged from the
direction of the
Magic Lantern Theater. Throwing rocks and projectiles of every
description, whooping,
hollering, and howling like villagers in pursuit of a Frankenstein,
this coiled
mass thrust itself onto one side of the police line, breaking it apart
and
forcing a rapid retreat of its dismembered parts west across the park.
The
instant this group attacked, the group in front of me reversed
direction and
joined the onslaught with matching war cries and rock volleys. I froze,
stupefied by the din they raised—banging sticks on metal
garbage can lids,
screaming like savages, and slinging bottles and rocks in
javelin-throwing form
across the park. Judging from the fury of their movements, they held
nothing
back.
Within seconds the combined attack
of these two groups routed the cops, driving them in full retreat
across the
park toward del Mar. I noticed one cop knocked unconscious by a brick.
Two
others shouldered and dragged him along, straining to keep their
shields toward
in-coming volleys. Sensing weakness, the rioters intensified the
attack.
Several cops had by now received serious blows from the rocks. They
limped on,
retreating as fast as they could down Seville Road.
The rioters didn’t let up. Here and
there two or three stopped to pick up something to throw. Busting apart
large
rocks, tearing up loose chunks of asphalt, chipping off concrete from
curbs—anything they could rip apart and lay their hands on
got thrown at the
cops as they retreated down the street.
In numb disbelief I staggered after
them, glued to the scene like a witness to a train wreck. Following the
riot as
it coursed further down Seville, I saw where the crowd had broken out
windows
in two realty offices on the south side of the street. Further down I
paused to
attempt a photo of a few rioters passing under a streetlamp. My hands
shook as
adrenalin jacked my nerve endings. Over the blood thundering in my ears
I heard
another sound, an odd, out of place sound coming from my left. It was
music.
Barely audible, I couldn’t make out what it was. Then the
volume grew louder,
much louder, until it was unmistakable. The Rolling Stones’
“Street Fightin’
Man” blasted from an open window filling the night air up and
down the street.
Some of the rioters cheered. The cops kept running until they were out
of view,
chased by rioters who turned the corner after them and disappeared in
pursuit.
Everyone
was out of range now. I put
down the camera, hands still shaking, feeling fastened to the middle of
the
street, listening to sounds from beyond the corner. Finally I stood and
slowly walked
in the direction the rioters had gone. But at the intersection I turned
away
from the rioting and went along Camino Pescadero toward the ocean. I
wanted to walk. A current swarmed all around. In the air. In the
rioters. In the
cops. I felt it moving inside me.
After wandering the back blocks of
Isla Vista for awhile I came out at the top of the loop area again and
approached
the bank. A hundred or more people were gathered in front. Smoke rose
from
between pillars supporting the overhanging roof. Recessed lamps along
the
overhang emitted dim cones of light through the smoke leaving the
entrance in a
hazy, diffused glow. Remembering the camera, I snapped a picture,
taking in most
of the crowd and the bank.
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Moving
closer, I came to the edge of a bonfire fueled by an assortment of
chairs,
table tops, cartons, paneling, papers, and other paraphernalia taken
from
inside the bank and now mostly charred beyond recognition. Continuing
left, I
knelt down and worked the light meter. Tri X Pan was fast film but with
no
flash the shutter would be too slow for good definition. The light from
the
fire would help. I set the shutter at 1/15th and pressed off a shot. I
reset the speed to 1/30th and aimed the camera a little
more to the left across the flames and pressed off another. Moving
slightly closer, I took two more shots while steadying the
camera on my knee. As I stood up to get a better look, someone spoke
from the
left.
––What’s with
the camera, man?
Taking pictures ain’t cool.
––There’s not
enough light to
get faces.
––All the same, point that
somewhere else.
Having
attracted unwanted attention,
I headed toward the back of the building. On the way, I passed several
small vertical windows. Through one rectangle flames could be seen
leaping toward the
ceiling. I stopped, pressed off a shot, and continued around back. As I turned the corner, two
people
standing at
the entrance slipped inside the bank. At the opening, pieces of glass
from the
broken doors lay strewn across the lobby floor. I peered inside for a
few
seconds. There was barely enough light to see to the far side of the
room. Then,
on impulse, I stepped through the hole in the door and plunged into the
smoke-filled interior.
The
two who came in before me scanned the damage from the middle of the
lobby. When
I appeared, they moved toward the door, glanced around, and
left—perhaps
because they noticed my camera. Now alone in the room, my eyes adjusted
to the
light and smoke, which wasn’t yet thick enough where I stood
to make breathing
difficult. But I was too transfixed to breathe—gripped by an
upheaval on the inside
that matched what I saw in the room.
Directly
in front of me, two large overturned lobby tables sprawled across the
floor—one
on its side, the other with legs straight up. Toward the far side of
the room
an L-shaped desk with a broken leg listed like a sinking ship in a sea
of white
papers strewn from ransacked files. Steel cabinets and drawers
protruded like
buoys through the surface of paper. A single ceiling lamp in the far
corner
dimly lit the lobby wreckage.
The
main source of light came from the corner beyond the teller windows
where
something burned too brightly to see what it was. Flames reached
halfway to the
ceiling and silhouetted teller windows extending along the lobby to the
far
corner where it became difficult to see through the haze.
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Alone
in the burning room, the strangeness of the scene choked me as much as
the pungent
odor of smoke. I raised the camera, thinking it would record the
unreality of
it all. After quickly pressing off three shots at different angles into
the
room, I was about to take a fourth when two guys emerged through the
broken
door. They walked past me as if I weren’t there. Surveying
the destruction for
a few seconds, one then picked up several booklets from among the
papers beside
a large desk and flung them across the room into the flames. The other
did the same
with a light-weight chair.
As they continued throwing debris
into the fire, I stared at the flames through the camera lens. The
current I
felt earlier that night came over me again. Moving slowly, I bent down
and picked
up a bound booklet. It read: Bank of America Audit Report 1969. The
current got
stronger. I sailed it toward the fire, then picked up another and flung
it. I
grabbed another. But while raising my arm to throw it, an image flashed
in my
mind. I saw myself standing a few feet away, framing me in the
viewfinder as I
was about to throw the book. My arm stopped. As I lowered it, I noticed
the
other two in the room staring at me. Tossing the book aside, I turned
and,
almost running, crossed over the strewn glass and out the doors.
Several people now gathered at the
back entrance. As I passed them I heard a voice. It was the last voice
I wanted
to hear at the moment.
––I’ll
be damned, Marleau! Is that gasoline
I smell?
Canova grinned, obviously pleased to
see me. For a second or two I stared at him with a face that conveyed
God knows
what. Groping for words, I mumbled a response.
––You should get out of
here.
Pushing past him, I crossed the park
in the direction of the beach. Surf pounded in the distance. I walked
toward it
until I felt the sand beneath my feet and salt air on my face. It
cleared my head
of the fumes, smoke, and bedlam that hung in the air over Isla Vista.
Thoughts
whirled: What madness! What was I thinking?
Walking and listening to the surf, I
lost track of time. But when I started back, it must have been well
past
midnight. Returning along El Embarcadero, an unusual light radiated
from the
park area. When I reached the top of the loop, I stopped and stared in
disbelief. Flames engulfed the bank and smoke rolled above the walls
into the
night. The roof and part of one wall had caved in.
When
I’d left earlier I hadn’t
imagined that fires inside would consume the whole building. The
firemen and
cops I had earlier expected to appear at any minute hadn’t
responded. Instead, the
bank now succumbed entirely to flames and Isla Vistans controlled the
streets. The
scene was hard to fathom.
People gathered
around the park area
and along the street in front of the bank to watch. I walked around the
loop
toward the Magic Lantern Theater. Some stood quietly gazing into the
fire.
Others grouped together talking, laughing, and drinking from bottles of
wine or
beer. A few others leapt around the burning wreckage, occasionally
letting out
a yell and throwing something into the fire. I sat down on the sidewalk
by a
brick wall fencing a flower bed next to the theater and watched the
fire. The
pillars in front of the bank still held, but the front wall had caved
inward
when the roof collapsed. The brick walls on each side and in back
framed the
fire. It took the good part of an hour before the fire gutted most of
the
interior.
They had done it. They had really
done it—whoever “they” were. Now all of
us—whether residents of Isla Vista or
students of the University—were sailing together, like it or
not, into
smoke-slickened, uncharted waters.
I stood up, tired and unable to stay
any longer. As I started to walk away, I noticed three guys doing
something
near the front of the building where part of the fire smoldered. I
approached
to within a few yards to one side of them. They held refashioned coat
hangers
over what was left of the fire along the remains of the front wall. On
the end
of the hangers were several marshmallows. The one closest to me raised
his
hanger from the coals and with thumb and forefinger gingerly pulled at
the end
marshmallow. It had gotten a little too blackened and oozed off the
hanger,
slipping from his hand. He caught it before it hit the ground and
raised it
over his head. Then it disappeared into his mouth.
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