From time to time I will be posting articles from the incredibly prolific career of travel author/journalist Felix Runwald. Runwald’s work, unfortunately, has been uncollected, probably due to it’s breadth (it spans from the early twenties to today). To begin, I’ve selected what is considered to be the author’s first work published in 1970. It originally appeared thirty-eight years ago in the April 1970 issue of Esquire. To include an actual joke into this piece, I have made the Ess-quire logo. Please enjoy.

As the flames licked my heels and singed my rakish ponytail that I had grown to “fit in” with my newfound compatriots, the thought crossed my mind that perhaps militancy was not the correct response to war. Running down the 11th St., it was clear to me that this would be the last time I would associate myself with the Weather Underground Organization, partly because I had found that my views had begun to clash with theirs more and more as time marched on, partly because they would soon be on the run from authorities, but mostly because my deadline was quickly approaching and the expense account I was given would soon run dry.

I first encountered the group in June of 1969 in Chicago, where I was covering the spectacular collapse of the Cubs against the Cardinals, and my home-town boys, the New York Mets. Whilst ambling down Wells St., considering the words of the recently deceased Carl Sandburg, a girl in her early twenties approached me, identified me and asked me to sign a copy of my early book Against Racism.

As one who is frequently approached by college-aged girls, I ordinarily would not have found this occurrence at all unusual if not for the odd aura that surrounded this particular college-aged girl. Though I was unable to identify it at the time, I would later understand it to be a combination of strong convictions, a healthy sexuality and a willingness to fight for what she felt was right. I left musty old Carl Sandburg and the horrible Cubs behind and followed this young woman (much later, she would tell me, named Anne (I’m still not sure if she used an “e” at the end or not, though.)) to the convention for the quickly growing Students for a Democratic Society.

Between our lovemaking sessions, Anne and I followed the movements of the SDS past the summer. As I continued to file my reports for the Tribune the SDS became fractured and became known as “The Weathermen,” naming themselves after a lyric written by my dear friend Bob Dylan. This splinter organization quickly established themselves as the leaders of the “New Left” with the intent of spreading their anti-war cause through the use of violent protesting, or as I have elected to refer to it, non-non-violent resistance.

On October 8th in Chicago, just days after the town celebrated their completely undeserved win against the New York Mets, the Weatherman rioted through the Gold Coast neighborhood. (I would of course be editorializing if I suggested that the town deserved what they got after attempting to defeat the clearly superior Mets, but I would also never forgive myself if I didn’t.) Before she left, I asked Anne to stay with me and her equally attractive roommate in her University of Chicago dorm room that I had been living in for the past few months, but she insisted, again showing the fiery conviction that I had foreshadowed earlier in this article. Later that night, as I paid her bail she apologized only for interrupting what she referred to, unsarcastically, as my “important writing,” but not for doing what she still felt was right. I kissed her passionately, and then her roommate, who had accompanied me to the jail.

We move forward a few months and we are back to where our story opened (a tip for young writers looking to me for advice, do this.): 1970. New York City. In the company of the greatest writer of our time (myself). The Weathermen had detonated a bomb in a Greenwich Village apartment. This move, however, proved to be a tactical error as the apartment was their own. Had Anne discussed this plan with me earlier I could have perhaps made her aware of this mistake, but alas, she had not. I ran towards the rubble of the apartment that I had miraculously been thrown from, safely, and picked up the lifeless body of Anne. Her body bloodied and badly bruised, she struggled to speak, and though I asked her to save her strength, she insisted, knowing that she was not long for this world.

I craned my head in closely to hear her and she spoke slowly and clearly, making sure that I understood the full meaning of her words.

“Felix,” she said with a voice like honey that is dying. “You are a national treasure in the fields of…” she paused for suspense, and because she was almost dead. “…writing, but more importantly, love making.”

Though I did not tell her this, because she was dead now, I disagreed with her ranking system: Yes, it is true, I do excel in each of these fields. However, with the love-making, I can only share this gift with, at most, 50,000 or so women across the globe before my time on earth is through. Through my writing, on the other hand, I can make love to each and every single person on this planet, young or old.

With my expertly chosen words.

- Felix Runwald