It is 1965, and the Watts Riots have just ended when newlyweds Max and Jan King enter medical school. As Max and Jan converge with other students in the Los Angeles County medical complex, neither has any idea that their foray into the world of medicine is about to test their inner strength, perseverance, and activist views in more ways than they ever could have imagined. While civil unrest hangs over the country like a dark cloud, Max and Jan immerse themselves in their freshman year surrounded by cadavers, demanding professors, and chemistry labs. But the challenges of school soon threaten their happiness as a couple, unearthing a trove of doubt for Max, who is tempted to cheat not only in his marriage, but also on his exams. As Max grapples with an overwhelming fear of failure and the prospect of years of mind-numbing toil, he secretly wonders if the pursuit of prestige, affluence, and social status is really worth it after all. In this medical drama, Jan and Max are each drawn to help the world overcome the vast challenges of the 1960s. Now only time will tell if Max will ever be able to shed his ambivalence over his choice to become a doctor and embrace his chosen life. The Class of 1969 A Medical Novel By Henry Rex Greene iUniverse, Inc. Copyright © 2012 Henry Rex Greene All right reserved. ISBN: 978-1-4759-3104-4 Chapter One Watts Riots Max King sat at his "pick-up point," a bar in Norwalk, watching television and nursing a Schlitz beer. Scenes of violence filled the screen. In eerie black and white, the LAPD, sheriffs, and highway patrol sparred with rioters in South Central Los Angeles. He was waiting for his crew boss, Roger Brown, after his night's work selling encyclopedias—his summer job before he and his wife, Jan, started medical school in the fall. When Brown arrived, Max said, "Something's going down in the ghetto." Outside, he tossed his briefcase into the trunk of Brown's car, a black '65 Chevy, and handed him a fresh order. "Nice shot," Brown said, studying the contract and pocketing the front money. "Let's go see what's happening." Max slid into the backseat. "Art, did you catch the boob tube?" Art Burton, Max's best buddy, sat next to him. He was prelaw at Stanford. They'd both signed on the previous summer in Pasadena but now worked from the district headquarters downtown. After work they would grab a beer and eat carnitas tacos at an outdoor taco stand. They'd share a ride home, polishing each other's sales techniques or bullshitting about politics. Max was a few days short of twenty-one; Burton, two weeks older. In their suits and close-cropped haircuts, they never got carded, usually taken for police officers. Frank Royal rode shotgun. "The niggers are stealin' all the booze and shit they can carry." He had an Oklahoma drawl and was the only permanent member of the crew besides Brown. "This isn't about upgrading your hi-fi system," Max said. "It's a civil war." "Where are we going?" Calvin Murray, the rookie in Brown's handpicked crew, asked from the far side of the backseat. He had arrived a month ago from Georgia Tech and lived with his girlfriend, a TWA stewardess, in Playa Del Rey. "Harbor Freeway—Watts," Brown said. "I base my opinions on firsthand observation." He was a college dropout, Max's age, who had quit when his wife got pregnant during his freshman year at Purdue. He had followed the Midwest district manager, L. T. Hornsby, to LA two years earlier and was running the Pasadena sales office when Max and Art hired on in '64. He had lost his office but hoped for a new one based on the production of his crew, currently the best in the district. "I question the propriety of visiting a riot zone," Burton said. "You question the pro-fuckin'-priety?" Royal said with a snort. "Don't go usin' that college shit on us simple folks." His speech was slurred from the trio of Seven and Sevens he had consumed after work. "I got nothing to go home to. Loretta's visiting her boyfriend. Let's go watch the jungle bunnies." "Christ, do you have to talk like a fucking racist?" Max said. "I am a fuckin' racist and proud of it," he sneered. "Looks like I'm right, too." They pulled off the freeway at Slauson Avenue and headed west, looking like a load of plain-clothes policemen in a black sedan. At Vermont, a pair of inverted cars smoldered in the intersection. At the far corner, a ransacked liquor store burned, illuminating a glittering patina of broken glass that covered the street and sidewalk like scattered diamonds. A police barricade blocked further westward movement. A black-clad LAPD officer waved them over. He looked Japanese and had the white shoulder patch of traffic control. He was hesitant, perhaps uncertain whether they were reinforcements or curiosity seekers. "May I ask your business down here?" "We're headed for LA International Airport," Brown said. "Gotta catch a flight." The officer exploded. "Are you for real? They're shoot