It was bad enough that I’d driven through burning Everglades that were caused by the urban sprawl of Southern Florida into the formerly WET lands, now I was expected to stand by and allow myself and my fellow Floridians to be rained down upon by nuclear fallout from space.
The paper reported that Cape Canaveral (still the correct name in 1989) had received phone calls from an activist group that threatened to mass hundreds of protestors at their gates the day the Discovery was to be launched. In addition, the group assured NASA that hundreds, if not thousands of its members and supporters planned on infiltrating government property and placing themselves at the launch pad in order to prevent liftoff.
The group’s name was “The Florida Coalition for Peace and Justice.” In my liberal-leaning 22-year old mind, they had a very cool name and a very ballsy position. I was immediately intrigued. There was no Justice in endangering hundreds of thousands of lives just to reach the outer limits of space in search of more resources for a greedy civilization to consume.
My outrage at this threat to humanity and the environment was raging strong in my chest. I knew that I had to make the four-hour drive from Fort Lauderdale to Orlando and join up with this “Florida Coalition for Peace and Justice” and participate in their act of protest through civil disobedience.
I met my girlfriend Sherry at a gas station in Hollywood to inform her of my mission and see if she would join me (Her parents – in retrospect, correctly – viewed me as a transient and possibly dangerous influence on their daughter and forbade her to see me. So we were forced to meet in obscure places, like gas stations). I confronted Sherry with the wild-eyed idealism that I so self-righteously wore. I expressed my commitment and sense of injustice. I showed Sherry the newspaper article as well as the editorials. I expounded on the news and added my own leftist point-of-view. This was Very Important. This was Our Duty to Humanity. I think she was put-off by my overly serious presentation, and a little concerned about my mental facilities. She couldn’t join me on my overnight mission, primarily because of the consequences she’d face by simply being with me, but also because, well, okay, I think I scared the shit out of her that time.
I went home, threw some fresh undies, socks and toiletries in a duffle bag, and sped North in my Nissan Sentra to join the Rebel Forces in their battle against the Evil Empire. The drive up the 95 was uneventful. I listened to Neil Young’s “Harvest” (his song “Ohio” being the epoch of the fight against civil injustice) and smoked several nervous and frustrated cigarettes.
Finally, at around 11:00, I saw the first signs for Cape Canaveral and decided to drive around the perimeter fences looking for the hundreds of protestors that “The Florida Coalition for Peace and Justice” had alleged. I figured that such a large protest would surely be visibly obvious – even at this late hour. I drove the fence from South to North. Nobody. I hung a right and drove the fence from West to East. Nothing. I followed the road back and traced the perimeter fence at the Southern point of the cape to the sea. Not a single protester in sight. And the shuttle was due to launch in two days!
Discouraged and beginning to feel a little stupid for willfully diving into an unknown situation, I stopped at a convenience store, picked up a six-pack, and checked into the Cape Canaveral “Motel 6” for the night. I was exhausted from the driving and passed out after only 2 or 3 beers.
I woke up and decided to call my Grandparents in Orlando to let them know that I was in the vicinity. My Grandma and Grandpa Koenig were very, very conservative farm people from the great Midwest. They were a little dismayed at the news that I was in town for a protest and possibly civil disobedience against the US Government. However, we hadn’t seen each other in about 5 years, and they invited me to come over that evening to go out for dinner…”But not if it interferes with your protest plans with your little friends, dear,” Grandma thoughtfully added.
I called Orlando information, and somehow got the address for “The Florida Coalition of Peace and Justice.” If this was such a covert operation, why was their number so readily available? This question further stirred my doubts in regard to their credibility as a legitimate left-wing organization, but did not deter me from my individual mission. Also, maybe too conveniently, the activists were located in a quaint mid-century neighborhood in downtown Orlando, a mere fifteen minutes from my grandparents’ house (not, to my disappointment, holed up in a shack somewhere in the middle of the Everglades writing their manifesto and stockpiling for The Revolution).
After a quick breakfast at Denny’s, I drove to the protest headquarters. They were in a small, white, single-story, unmarked building with a nice lawn, flowers and a white picket fence. I wasn’t quite sure that I had the right address. I got out of my car, walked up the driveway to the door, and was greeted by a Buddhist monk, bald and resplendent in orange and saffron robes. I greeted him with my typical, friendly “Hey, how’s it going?” He simply smiled, nodded and led me inside with a silent wave of his hand.
Inside, there were 5 disheveled thirty-five year old Grateful Dead burnouts gathered around a six-foot folding table. It was littered with newspapers, notebooks and overflowing ashtrays full of stale-smelling butts. There were Che Guevera and 60’s protest posters on the wall. There was (I kid you not) a 10-foot paper maché statue of George Bush Sr. in caricature style with a Pinnochio-like nose that stuck out 4 feet and even had a little paper-maché bird standing on the end of it.
The 5 immediately ceased their conversation and looked up from the table suspiciously at me. “Who are you?” a bearded man in a faded and stained t-shirt asked me.
In retrospect, I probably looked like an FBI plant to them – especially since they were probably high on their recently elevated status in the media. I was wearing torn jeans, sandals, an old grey tee and a bandana around my head “do-rag” style. It was true. I did look like I was trying too hard to look like a member of their tribe. But not because I was a Narc who wanted to infiltrate their ranks and drag them off to jail. I was just trying to look like a hippy, which I thought was way cool at the time and definitely a better look than the typical Ft. Lauderdale mullet.
I explained to them that I was interested in their cause and had come all the way down from Fort Lauderdale to join up with them. They mumbled something to each other, and all but two disappeared into the next room to discuss my possible identity and intentions.
Now I was beginning to feel VERY stupid. I had driven all night to join, what turned out to be, 5 disenfranchised ex-hippies who certainly didn’t have thousands or even hundreds of members and supporters ready to mass at Discovery’s launch pad. I looked back at the door and strongly considered cruising without saying goodbye. The Buddhist monk had taken a seat by the exit, and was writing something in a spiral pattern on some sort of an animal skin drum. He simply looked up at me and smiled, not saying a word.
Suddenly, the bearded man returned from the room, exploding onto the scene and exclaiming, “HA, HA, HA, HA…GOD DAMN! I just talked to the Orlando Sun. They actually BELIEVE that we’re going to have three thousand protestors at their gates tomorrow when the shuttle launches! Today’s headlines, baby…we’re making the news and shaking them up!”
“Wait a minute, you mean you AREN’T going to have three thousand protestors at the gate tomorrow?” I asked in slack-jawed dismay.
“No, man, no way. There’s fucking five of us here – six if you consider the silent Buddha over there.” He points at the monk, now finished with his drum artwork and smiling at us in a very blissful way. “Shit, I don’t even know if I’m goin’ myself. This shit’s not worth getting’ arrested over. By the way, WHO the fuck are you again?”
I introduce myself again, but this time without nearly as much enthusiasm. “The Florida Coalition for Peace and Justice” is now a total sham in my eyes. Sure, they may be holding up the inevitable shuttle launch with their media scare tactics, but no one here really gives a shit enough to mobilize an actual protest – or even show up themselves. To me, they are just as bad as the government, feeding the media empty threats and unfulfilled promises to sway popular opinion and occurrence.
They continued to consider me with suspicion and a growing sense of paranoia. I begin to feel very uncomfortable and sense that they want me to Get The Fuck Out. I shrug and tell them “Well, I guess you don’t really need me, huh? Guess I’ll take off. Hey, can I get one of those t-shirts?” They have a great tee. It’s white with a simple black line drawing of the grim reaper and the space shuttle Discovery, a tail of deadly nuclear debris spilling from its payload down to Earth in the vicinity of Florida. It reads “No Plutonium in Space.” An Earth Mother with greasy, long brown hair and a pink mumu tells me the shirt’s eight dollars. I fish out a ten from my wallet and ask for change. “We don’t have change,” she informs me.
“Keep it.” I say, “For the cause.”
