By Elia Katz
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Extra resources for Armed Love
Meanwhile, before my eyes (whose perception is dull and helpless) had oozed into the area two cops and they accompanied Iris and me into the elevator. At the ground floor they handcuffed me and read me a warrant and my rights off a card, and I was in custody. They knew right where to look for the knife. I felt like an idiot that while I was being held there they were working up a warrant and I didn't know and I was falling for such bullshit and not making attempts to throw the knife out a window or something…flush it, swallow it, insert it here or there.
That is it, boldly stated. After a few hours of introductory talk, during which we all got to know one another by discussing recent political information and the daily news, I felt as I have among a few other groups of radicals, the total absence of despair of people who feel themselves to be in an unambiguous state of war. They showed us pictures of themselves in government pamphlets. The pamphlets were massive green paperbacks about the New Left, and our friends had been photographed leaning out the windows of occupied buildings, carrying banners at the heads of marches, throwing tear gas back at the police, always with their faces showing the greatest concentration, exuberance, joy, always with their faces circled and numbered in white ink with methodical enumeration and listing below each picture and in the index of the volume.
The two arresting officers said they were offended when Iris called them pigs. I apologized. We discussed police brutality, which they swore they had never seen practiced and which they believed to be a product of television sensationalism. They didn't believe I was beaten up at the Chicago Convention, except they would allow that an officer might have defended himself when I attacked him. I was too sick and sad to examine the smaller clues of faces to see if they actually believed the things they were saying, but those are the things they were saying.