Free Second Chance by Chet Williamson

revolutionary about selling band instruments? I thought you were gonna be such a great musician—"
    "Oh, Alan, don't be so bitchy," Eddie said. "You either, Frank. We all sold out. Me, I wanted to be the next E. Power Biggs. But I let crass money stand in the way of my artistic vision." He looked coolly at Sharla . "And what about the former president of the Huey Newton Fan Club here, who got her teaching degree to prepare little black children for the revolution? Teaching in the whitest suburb in Cleveland."
    "I taught inner city, Eddie," Sharla said. "Four years. So don't lay any guilt trip on me." Her hand trembled as she took a quick, angry drag on her cigarette.
    "Sorry," Eddie said dryly. " Sharla's hereby registered as having paid her dues. She shall be presented with a gold-plated afro pick in appreciation." He looked around the room. "Anyone else want to justify their lives? How about you, Judy?" Eddie said, turning to the woman next to him. "You used to make statements with your art. So what are you saying now?"
    "Plenty, Eddie. Folk art's just as valid an expression as that agitprop crap I used to do."
    "Yes, but you don't even do the folk art, do you? Am I wrong, or haven't you become a capitalist gallery owner, feeding off the sweat of the workers?"
    "How do you feed off sweat?" Curly said.
    "Aw, this is horseshit," Alan said, standing up and pacing in the small space available. "What's this ideals crap anyway? Doesn't anybody stop to think that ideals are something that can't be met? Shit, that's why we call them ideals . But the world ain't ideal. It's hard and tough and it kicks your ass, and the more you think you're going to change it, the harder you get kicked. And the faster you learn you can't change it, the better off you are." He threw himself back down on the couch so that his legs flew up and the people on either side of him bounced.
    "Alan's got a point," Frank said. "We were damn naïve about the way the world worked. We didn't realize all the compromises we'd have to—"
    "Oh, shit ."
    They all turned and looked at Diane, sitting lotus position in the corner. "Can we just can all this crap? I can hear this on reruns of thirtysomething , you know? I came to have fun , guys. Hell, almost all of us would rather do something else. I live my life teaching kids how to bang on rhythm sticks for crissake . But for one night I just want to pretend I'm a dumb little hippie again, is that so much to ask?"
    The room was silent, except for Judy Collin's sweet voice. Finally Frank spoke. "I'm sorry. You're right. We came to have fun, not to argue."
    Eddie dropped his cigarette butt into a beer can and shook it. "I'm sorriest. I started it." He took a deep breath. "I suppose because my own life didn't turn out the way I wanted, I like to think that neither did anyone else's. I'm sorry, Alan. Sorry, Sharla . Judy . . .”
    It was the first time Woody ever saw tears in Eddie Phelps's eyes, and the sight shook him. But the discomfort was replaced by affection as Judy gave Eddie a hug from one side, Sharla from the other. Eddie hugged them back.
    "Yeah," said Curly, "it's really like being back there, if we let it be. Let's forget now, forget the hassles, the things we don't like." His voice was soothing, hypnotic, and Woody recalled Curly's acting ability. "I mean, listen to the music, look at this place, at each other, smell it, feel it. It hasn't been like this in over twenty years."
    And it was true. The accusations that had filled the air were now replaced by a peace that Woody could feel from the relaxed set of his jaw down to his sandaled toes.
    "Peace, love, freedom," Curly intoned, and the others smiled in spite of self-knowledge and knowledge of the world, and sat for a long time listening, sensing.
    “Just one thing missing," said Curly, a sly grin sliding onto his face. "We need to get stoned."
    It was a tribute to Curly's crooning influence and the magic of the night that the protests were feebly