University of Virginia Library

Robert Gillmore

Coming Together
With Friends

It was a scene from the opening
of "The Group."

"Imagine it," wrote Mary
McCarthy (at least as I remember
it), "They were discovering New
York for the first time."

And so, weaned on Boston and
Washington, was I.

Walking south along the east
edge of Central Park, I was
discovering that perhaps New York
was really worth living in.

Then at eleven-thirty, I went
into the inevitable Renwick-looking
church; and there were the
bridesmaids.

"Which one of you," I tried,
delicately, "Is Caroline?"

It had been three years and I
had got the name a little wrong, but
she forgave me, I think.

And in the nave, there was her
brother, the bridegrooms with more
hair than he ever had, and there was
my other roommate, the best man,
whose hair was almost as long as
Bonnie Prince Charlie's.

Exercising Taste

The procession started. And
then I saw her. She was Italian,
Mark had written, and she was
beautiful. "You will see at last"
Mark had added, "that I have
taste." And I was glad to see, I
thought to myself, that he at last
had an opportunity to exercise it."

Afterward, embraces. I had not
seen them since graduation, and
they were my most private friends
at Williams. And, strange for me,
there was an excitement in seeing
them that was also visual:

At the reception, the band
played danceable music, and I again
looked out over Central Park. A
woman on horseback cantered by,
carriages passes, and a crowd
beyond was playing football. The
sky was gray.

Mark had at last discovered what
a "dreary subject chemistry was.
He would finish the Ph.D. but then
("no kidding Gil") he would be
interested in 'some kind of
politics."

(A delightful surprise: I had
kindled his interest in McCarthy.)

Jim had about given up his
wanderings (and Vachel Lindsay),
had again taken up American
Studies and was flirting with a
Times job.

The common talk was about
John Lindsay, John Garner, Muskie
and "(how to beat Nixon.)"

And, yes, we had to get together
again soon...sometime but soon.

Then down town and over to
the shabbier buildings of Third
Avenue.

Two Day's Beard

And just as I saw the address I
saw him: Neck-length sandy hair,
dungaree pants and jacket, Peter
Fonda glasses and two days' beard.
All I could think of was "Midnight
Cowboy."

His step-sister and her friend
were just leaving. Introductions and
"we used to run the Record." The
girls looked at me incredulously:
dark suit, pure white shirt, rep tie,
freshly-cut hair: "You worked -
together?"

Yes, he assured them, we did.

They left; we found a bar. I had
not heard a word from John since
graduation and was wondering just
how he had changed.

He had not.

Because Life was losing money
he said, the honeymoon with "the
youth thing' was over. John, who
had three by-lines in two years,
now "couldn't talk them into
anything." So he quit.

But now, living off a publishers
advance, he was producing "book
one" - on loosely the "counter
culture."

"Stick, that's great."

Radical Groups

He had spent three months
travelling cross-country, living with
radical groups, mainly listening and
then writing it down later.

He wasn't planning a "polemic"
- there have been enough of those
- "but basically reportage" of
which there has been little.

From me he wanted opinions,
other opinions and titles. We went
at it for hours. (He was the
journalist English-art major picking
the political theorist's mind.) And,
after all, we found we still agreed
on much.

Back at his sub-let office: "I've
got to call David."

"David?"

Yes. David, now in law school
formerly with the Ford Foundation
and even straighter than I am.

"We talk all the time," he said.
And more, they even agree on a lot.

But even it we didn't agree on
much of substance, we had
something larger: the affection, the
respect and the trust which can be
best bred by living closely for four
years in a small college.

Common Thread

And so whatever we thought
about politics and such, the
important thing would be not what
we thought but that we thought it.

This then is our common thread,
which may not produce truth, but
in time of seemingly unbridgeable
conflicts at least allows us to come
together.

And that, I think, is not a small
thing.