“Na Na Hey Hey [Kiss Him Goodbye]” - Steam
Growing up, Cliff had been fascinated by the great photographers of World War II. Those men had been in the right place at the right time during America’s greatest war. Robert Capa’s picture taken from on the beach, close up on a brave, terrified soldier as he dodged bullets on D-Day, Carl Mydans’ photo of MacArthur wading ashore in the Philippines or Joe Rosenthal’s Flag Raising at Iwo Jima in 1945. Cliff’s parents had encouraged his interest and had taken him to the library every Saturday so he could check out whatever books were available on the subject.
Cliff decided to hang around the Commons because it touched so many important parts of the campus due to its central location. On the southwest corner was the old, wooden World War II ROTC building, on the west was the Hub and the bookstore, dorms surrounded the north and southeast sides and in the evening Blanket Hill always captured the hearts, minds, souls and, of course, bodies of the students on the east and northeast sides.
Cliff focused his telephoto lens on a couple who was huddled together under a blanket. The man noticed him and waved Cliff over. Reluctantly, Cliff made the fifty foot trek up Blanket Hill, being careful not to step on anyone.
“Hey, sorry . . . I’m Cliff Baker,” Cliff reached out to shake the student’s hand as he sat on the ground, his girlfriend’s head still resting on his shoulder the blanket covering everything but her eyes and the top of her head.
He made no attempt to shake Cliff’s hand. “Was that fun for you? Taking our picture?”
“No sir . . . not fun. It’s just that because I appreciate that tonight has significant historical value . . . and I wanted to document it with photos of the people who are most affected. What number did you get?”
A tearful voice from under the covers spoke up. “September 14. . . number 1.”
“There were about a dozen of us out here by 8:30 and others have been streaming out every few minutes,” the man said, shaking his head. “Is it over yet?”
“I don’t know . . . I didn’t even watch it except to take pictures in the lounges and as guys left the dorms during the first few rounds. I don’t even know my number.” Cliff realized with surprise. “I was thinking of compiling a collection with everyone showing their numbers. Can I get one more picture like that?” Cliff popped the telephoto lens off and changed out to a regular lens.
The blanket moved, and the girl sat up. Her eyes were red and swollen, her make-up ran in black streaks down her pretty face and her hair was tousled. Her boyfriend pulled his legs up and she leaned her chin on his knees. His eyes were hollow and he held up his middle finger to illustrate his draft number as well as his personal feelings about the whole situation. Cliff smiled as he snapped a couple of pictures. He knew he was on to something.
“Thanks man, here’s my card. I’ll have some shots ready next week if you want any . . . no charge, of course. And hey, I’m sorry.”
Cliff walked more carefully as the available real estate was being consumed fast. In just a few steps, he came across another couple sitting without a blanket, which was unusual. Kent rarely had many days without rain so the ground stayed damp most of the year. But the couple didn’t seem to care about the grass or the weather. The girl had her arms around the boy as if to comfort him as he clutched his head with his hands, his ears covered and his eyes downward. Every few seconds Cliff saw his back and sides quivering. The girl looked up at Cliff and shook her head slowly. Cliff held up his left index finger and mouthed the word one photo. She looked at her boyfriend and nodded and also put her index finger in front of her mouth as if to say quietly. Cliff cocked his head and whispered, “Number?” The girl held up four fingers and closed her eyes. Cliff snapped the photo, shook his head in sympathy and carefully and quietly moved on.
At the top of Blanket Hill was the architecture building with its bright lights spilling out of the tall windows that circled the entire building. It was the best view on campus for those needing to be inspired. Tonight it cast the world outside its walls in grotesque shadows. Cliff heard giggling, and he followed the noise to a large group of trees.
He immediately began snapping pictures and walked quickly to catch a group of about thirty students who had climbed into the trees, beers in hand. Cliff rushed to change his film as more students joined them. The girls were all over the men, kissing, hugging and in a couple of cases the men were feeling the girls up.
“Lottery over?” Cliff asked laughing.
“Not yet,” said one girl. “We’re number 200.” She grabbed her boyfriend and kissed and hugged him.”
“Do you have a piece of paper and a marker?”
The girl dug through her book bag and came up with a whole package of notebook paper and a black magic marker.
“Write his number on a page and hold it up,” Cliff instructed.
She complied, and Cliff captured three pictures in quick progression. The girl passed paper and the marker to another guy in the tree who wrote the number “231” on it. Soon Cliff had more than a dozen photos of the celebrators and their safe numbers. He decided it was time to go into town and find some less fortunate ones. The girl was nice enough to donate the rest of her notebook paper and the marker, so, armed with new tools of his trade, Cliff left campus.
Cliff headed along Main Street toward downtown. Frank was doing a remote broadcast at The Venice bar tonight, and Cliff had promised to stop by. It took longer than he had expected because he stopped often to take more photos and add to his lottery collection. What soon became evident was that it was impossible to tell whether someone had a high or a low number simply by their intoxication level. It was a night of great celebration or deep consolation. From a distance, they all looked and smelled the same.