August 24, 1968
by Amy
I'm being followed by a kid. He's 15-years old, has blonde hair and carries Mad Magazine around with him. I'm surprised that he doesn't have a sling shot in his back pocket. I met him in Grant Park by the band shell. We were lining speakers up for the morning rallies, though technically we shouldn't have rallies. Sure enough this kid appears out of nowhere and starts hitting on me. He says that he loves my red hair and am I anyone's girl?
Are you kidding me? Am I anyone's girl? He's a freaking kid. I admit, I was slightly entertained by his gumption. I mean, here we are, surrounded by police (who mutter threats every time we pass too close) and this 15 year old wants me to be his girlfriend. He's not even old enough to be drafted.
But here's the kicker. His father is Chicago PD and he just tells me this like it's no big thing. Coleman asks him who his father is, and Kid says "Officer None of Your Business." But sure enough, his Dad is going to kick all of our asses.
Meanwhile, I'm wondering if this is my tail. If this Kid has been assigned to me to be "my keeper" during the convention. If so, how humiliating. I don't even rate a real cop.
Glasses laughs when I bitch about this. He tries to tell me that Kid is just a love-sick mutt, but I have a hard time thinking that this kid picked me out of a crowd.
Coleman decided that Kid would make an intriguing interview. Glasses doesn't think it's a good idea. After all, he's a kid. But Coleman insists.
*** Kid doesn't think that Coleman is a real newsman since he has no equipment like the others. Coleman assured him that he was a radical journalist, meaning that his body was his equipment. Kid thought about it for a moment before being skirted off by a radio reporter, who wanted a teenager's perspective on all this hullabaloo. His perspective was fairly standard. He couldn't wait for the police to come and beat us all up. Then he looked over at me to see if I heard. I pretended I didn't.
I don't need distractions this week. I wish Kid would get lost.
