May 1974My friend Andy Kornfeld, a blonde co-ed from BU, and I were cross-countrying in a drive-away station wagon. Boston-Sterling, Colorado-Thompson Canyon-the Id Lounge in Roosevelt Utah before hitting the Stateline of Nevada around noon. Several small casinos lined the two-lane highway. It was my birthday. Age 22.
“I’m feeling lucky.” I veered off the road. It was time to change drivers and lunch. Carol had to use the ladies’ room. Andy and I wandered into the gaming room. The motif was western. An older woman was dealing blackjack. She wore a cowboy hat. Andy’s luck ran the other way. He quit after two hands. Carol watched from my shoulder. I ran up $220 in an hour. I didn’t earn that in a week at my summer job. I quit ahead, but made Andy stop at every town on the highway. Wells, Elko, Winnemucca, and Lovelock. I was up $1400. A new GTO cost a little under $5000. It would be the perfect birthday gift to me.
Reno was at my mercy.
A half-hour at the blackjack table and I was up to $2100. The dealer was friendly. A leggy waitress asked if I wanted a drink.
“Jack and Coke.”
I don’t remember much after the fifth drink.
I woke the next morning lying on my sleeping bag, for a penthouse suite. The Truckee River was a raging torrent a few feet from my resting place. Bright Sierra sunshine bore into the sockets of my eyes. My head was pounding like a drum crashing down a cliff. I took my time getting up and then stumbled to the banks of the river. I stuck my head in the water. The cold revived me from a near-death state. I pushed back my long hair and stood up straight. It was May 30, 1974. I was one day older than yesterday..
Something had gone wrong last night. My bruised forearms indicated rough play. My hangover felt like the casino goons had beat me for busting the bank. I checked my wallet. It was empty. My winnings had vanished at the blackjack table. More than $1500 and I vaguely recollected rolling craps with my vacation money.
More than $500.
$300 from my parents for graduating 'sin laude' from college and the rest from a weed deal with Andy.
Gone.
My two traveling companions were waiting inside the station wagon. Andy revved the engine. Carole sat in the passenger seat. The blonde coed looked angry. She had a boyfriend waiting in Sacramento. I gathered up the sleeping bag and sat in the back without saying a word. We drove over Emigrant Pass into California. 55 MPH. Andy and Carole spoke to each other, as if I weren't in the car. I didn't have the courage to ask why.
The 20 year-old barely said good-bye at her cousin's place in Sacramento. She knew my girlfriend, Jackie. I moved into the front seat for the last miles to Lodi. The Torino was a drive-away car. The owner was waiting for delivery.
"Was I that bad?" My hangover told the truth.
"You were pretty bad." Andy was my good friend. We lived next to each other in Boston. He recounted the birth of my losing streak. "It started after your 3rd rum and coke."
The rest of the story was not fit for a postcard to my parents.
“Did I lose everything?”
“You gave me $500 and told me not to give it to you.”
“And you did?”
“Never heard anyone beg like that. Not even a junkie.”
“Shit.” 2700 miles from Boston without a dime to my name. “At least we didn’t sell the car.”
“Yes, but you tried." He handed over a thin packet. "$180."
I didn't bother counting it.
“So I didn’t blow it.” This was the opposite line from Billy to Captain America in EASY RIDER.
"Close, but I wasn't giving it back until we were out of Nevada." Andy explained without looking at me.
"No, just acted like a drunk. Begged us for money. I gave you $300 and stashed the rest. You threatened to punch me, if I didn't. Carole gave you $20. I paid her back from that envelope. The security tossed you from the casino around midnight."
"Anything else?"
"The bouncers threw you out the front door."
The last sentence explained the bruises.
"Oh." I had learned that I'm no Cinncinati Kid. "Is that it?"
"Yeah, you were yelling that you wanted the police to arrest the casino owners for stealing your birthday.
"Funny?" It was a question of delivery.
"More pathetic than funny."
I put my head next to the open window. The wind was hot. The temperature in the 90s. I had planned to stay in California for a month. Last night my evil twin had shrunk my budget to $6/day. Today wine was a luxury. Motels off-limits. My sleeping bag would be my home for the next four weeks.
Sacramento to Lodi took a half-hour at 55. We were dropping off the Torino a day ahead of time. The owner inspected his station wagon. Everything about him said Marine. Erect posture. Buzzcut. Ironed chinos.
We were on different side of the Vietnam. Nixon was on the way out. 1974 was not a good year for but the old man was more concerned about his car than the It hadn't crapped out once on the trip from Boston. The year was 1974. Late-May. Several hours past dawn.
"Looks like you didn't hit nothing." The old man took the keys from Andy. His house was a single-level ranch. Lawn a little long. Two orange trees in the front yard. Everyone else in the neighborhood had cut down theirs.
"We kept the car between two lines." Andy had obeyed the National Maximum Speed Limit every mile that he was behind the wheel. He played in a funk band. All their songs were governed by tempo. 90 beats per minute.
"We didn't hit nothing living or dead." Uphill I pushed the Torino to 100. State troopers only set speed traps downhill.
"Sometimes I wish I had got the 390." The old man scratched his buzzcut. He looked ex-military. His accent was Oklahoma. Men from that part of the country understood driving fast.
"The 302 was plenty fast enough." One night in Wyoming when Andy and our hippie coed, Carol, were asleep, I pressed the pedal to the medal. The Torino's Windsor V8 top-ended at 125. I liked Iggy and the Stooges. 130 BPM.
The old man drove us to the bus station. Andy bought a ticket to San Diego. $10. I got one to San Francisco. $3.
"Here's a tip." The old man gave us each $20. He might have been an ex-Marine, but he was also an American. We were too. It was a new world.
I thanked him a little more than Andy. $160 was a lot more than $140. I had really fucked up at the Blackjack table. Up two grand. An offer of a free drink from a mini-skirted blonde waitress. Five hours later. Busted.
"I'll see you in San Diego." I boarded the bus. Andy waved from the platform.
I knew no one in San Francisco.
1974 was seven years after the Summer of Love. Junkies outnumbered hippies. Crash pads were shooting dens. More men than women. They looked at me, as if I were prey. It was barely noon and I walked through Golden Gate Park to the edge of the Pacific Ocean. The sea was a forbidding expanse of large waves. The wind off the water chilled the air. The West ended here. The only directions left on this continent were north, east, or south.
I stood on the shoulder of the Great Highway and stuck out my thumb. The first ride was heading to Daly City. The salesman was driving a 1973 Impala. The Chevrolet sedan was bigger than my apartment in Bug Village. He was in his 30s.
"I hate Nixon."
He had probably voted for Nixon in 1972.
Same as everyone else.
The salesman dropped me on Rte. 1. Daly City was behind me. The Beatles had played a concert at the Cow Palace ten years ago. Ken Kesey had plotted to dose a GOP convention with LSD the same year. LBJ was elected president. The War in Vietnam got big.
I kept trucking south. It was a little past 2pm. I hadn't spent a dollar. My next ride was with a speed freak in a copper Pinto. Jerry drove the compact car like the Methedrine in his veins had leaked into the V-4. It was no GTO. The gap-toothed addict drove to Half Moon Bay without ever touching the brake. I shut my eyes twice. He pulled off the Pacific Coast Highway at the local airport.
"I have to fly to Mexico. You wanna come?" His eyes were wired to the 78 version of Jefferson Airplane's SOMEONE TO LOVE at 78 RPM.
"Thanks but I sticking to the ground." I got out of the car, wondering how fast he flew in the sky.
Half Moon Bay was cliffs battered by an angry ocean. A storm was brewing to the west. The scent of heavy rain drenched the stiff wind. Tonight would not be a night to be caught in the open. A Porsche 914 stopped on the shoulder. Yellow. The driver was a longhair. A little gay. The radio was playing TRIED SO HARD by Hung. No one in Boston had this on vinyl. We smoked a joint. Oaxaca green. No seeds.
"It's a radio station from Santa Cruz. Where you crashing tonight?"
"I was going to sleep in the redwoods."
"Not a good night for that." Dark clouds were closing the evening sky. "You can stay with me. The couch, the floor, wherever you want."
Lance rented a house in Santa Cruz. The property ran along the river. Redwoods rose to the heaven. The wind barely moved the giant trunks. Lance lit candles and we drank a big bottle of wine. His record collection numbered in the hundreds. Eight of his friends came over for dinner. Rice, vegetables, and wine. Five men. Three women. Jason had Qualludes. A girl with long hair had cocaine. Star looked like a skinny Faye Dunaway. Her voice belonged to Bette Davis. I couldn't keep my eyes off her. Her sheer shirt revealed nearly non-existent breasts.
Drugs, drink, and then the storm struck at midnight. We ran in the cold rain.
Naked.
We stayed naked inside. Lance put on IT'S A BEAUTIFUL DAY. His penis was erect. A guy named Steve took it in his mouth. Star knelt between my legs. A surfer with wind-blown hair parted her thighs. The other dinner guests were in positions dictated by the Kamasutra. The orgy lasted for hours. Star was not my only partner. I had her twice.
In the morning I woke in bed. Lance was next to me. His hand was fondling my penis. He was pretending to be asleep. I pretended the same. This was 1974. Seven years after the Summer of Love. Our side had stopped the War in Vietnam. Sexual freedom was our reward. I told Lance about losing my money in Reno. He laughed at my accusing the casino of stealing my birthday.
"You're more than welcome to stay."
Gore Vidal had said, "Once is experimentation. Twice is perversion."
I was straight and kissed Lance goodbye on the PCH. Jack Kerouac might have kissed Dean Moriatry here too. Lance gave me $20 and two joints.
"For good luck."
Supposedly Sonny Barger of the Hells' Angels said that you weren't queer as long as money was involved in the sex. No biker had ever defended this quote. I waved good-bye to Lance, as the 914 u-turned on the road. The storm was far east. The sea was copying each wave to perfection. I stuck out my thumb. A VW bug stopped. The driver was going south. The Pacific Coast Highway turned magical with the passing of each town.
Watsonville, Moss Landing, Castroville, Monterrey.
The Monterrey Pop Festival. John Steinbeck's CANNERY ROW. Clint Eastwood in PLAY MISTY FOR ME.
Lunch on a wharf. Red snapper and a glass of wine. $6.99 from Lance's $20. I bought a sandwich and a bottle of Snapple with the change. I was set for the night. It was only 1pm. Andy was probably at his friend's place in Encinitas. I hoped that he was having a good time. I walked back out to the PCH. The first car stopped with a screech of brakes.
A Chrysler Imperial. The driver was a banker. 50s. He wore a wedding band. Every fifteen seconds he glanced over to my crotch.
Carmel, Point Lobos, Notley's Landing.
He was headed inland.
"You want to see my house. My wife is cooking dinner. Good wine and she likes company."
California was on fire.
Something had to be in the water.
I almost accepted his offer, but he looked too much like my father and I feared his wife was a dead ringer for my mother.
"Tough going from here to Big Sur. Not many cars. I could drive you to San Simeon tomorrow."
"If you see me tomorrow, I'll be grateful for that ride."
The banker was not kidding about the traffic on the PCH. I walked along the shoulder, sticking out my thumb without success. Hippie vans rolled past me one after the other. The drivers' eyes were filled with paranoia. Hitchhikers had the reputation of ax-murderers. Drivers were suspected of even worse. I refused several rides. The standoff continued for miles.
The Spanish had sailed along this daunting coast without landing. Big Sur remained isolated until the opening of the PCH. A local gave me a short ride to Los Burros Road. His family had lived here for two generations. He looked a little like Merle Haggard.
"Back in the 20s only two families had electricity. Ours wasn't one of them. This road wouldn't have been built if it wasn't for the convicts. Chain gangs. My mother told me about hearing them thumping the road. Took them 25 years."
"They did a good job." The highway was a two-lane masterpiece hugging the cliffs.
I walked past Gorda Springs and stopped inside a canyon of redwoods. This was the boundary of Big Sur. A dirt road led into the forest of tall trees. I lit up a joint. Acapulco gold. A small stream zigzagged through the groves.
Henry Miller had a museum in Big Sur. Hunter S. Thompson had worked at the Hot Springs. Jack Kerouac wrote BIG SUR at Lawrence Ferlinghetti's cabin. This was the refuge for the Age of Aquarius. If I sat underneath a redwood long enough, I might find nirvana and I was thinking about camping in the wilderness for the rest of my life, when a Ford pick-up pulled around the corner.
A red F-150.
Two women in the front.
Young.
My age.
The pick-up stopped twenty feet in front of me. Two hippies scrambled from the back. They ran into the woods, as if they were wanted by the police. I hadn't seen a Highway patrol car the entire day. The pick-up inched up to me. The passenger window rolled down and a young girl asked, "You have any weed?"
"This joint and another in my bag." The driver was a little bigger than the passenger. I glanced behind the truck. Their passengers had vanished into the forest.
"We're going to crash in the redwoods for the night. You want to join us?" The younger girl had Spanish blood. Her hair was a confusion of curls. Her smile was an open invitation.
"I have a bottle of wine. Cheap but cheerful."
"There's a store in Big Sur. We'll get some food and a big jug of red. Jump in the back."
We hit the Big Sur Outpost for provisions. The bigger woman ignored me. I offered $10 at the counter.
"We don't need your money."
"Cool." The way things were going I could stay in California for years without spending my cash.
The F-150 off-roaded into the redwoods. The chassis smashed into a gnarled root. The truck stopped short. I was thrown against the cabin. The driver cursed behind the wheel. The truck was stuck on the root. It wasn't going anywhere tonight. The smaller girl got out of the truck.
"My name is Jill. My friend is Ricki." Both of them were in loose denim overalls. Nothing else. No bras. No shoes. I bet that they weren't wearing underwear either. There were no takers this far in the redwoods.
Our campsite was within a circle of redwoods.
"A cathedral." Jill spun like a Sufi mystic. The overalls fell to her belly. Her breasts were capped by puffy nipples. Ricki noticed my staring. "Pretty?"
"More beautiful than pretty." I was describing more the redwoods than her breasts. The king pines in Maine were half their size. Watergate and Vietnam were banned from this grove and all those around us. We set up camp. A fire. Wine. Sleeping bags. Weed. Naked. Jill was the first one to touch my penis. It had been erect for an hour. Ricki joined us to form a daisy chain of three.
Cocaine and Quaalude.
Sex.
If I wasn't fucking one of them, then the two girls were at each other like cats mad for milk. Their tongues were loud on each other's flesh. The second I recovered, they would enlist me back into service. This lasted two days. Jill was cute. Ricki was a Sumo wrestler. My requests for rest were denied without appeal. Strangely I could fuck Jill for hours. I came several seconds after entering Ricki. They didn't give me time to figure out why. I was their rented mule. They worked me to the bone. I was losing weight and recalled the two hippies fleeing the pick-up truck.
Too much sex.
The redwood grove had become a stalag.
I was Charlotte Rampling in THE NIGHT PORTER. Few women were as sexier as her. Ricki was Dirk Bogarde. A true Nazi. ILSA OF THE SS SHE WOLVES. Insatiable. Jill was no angel and I realized that my survival was at risk.
The only electrified fences were attached to my frayed lust.
I escaped from them at dawn of the second day. I imagined dogs barking in the distance. SS on my trail. I hit the PCH out of breath. A car heaved into sight. A Chrysler Imperial. The banker. His wife was in the front seat. Jack was happy to see me. Aline was in her early 30s. Her perfume Chanel No 5. A beautiful woman scared of her 40s.
They were driving to Santa Barbara for the weekend. We had dinner at a Mexican restaurant. Aline drank margaritas. Three more than me. In the motel room Jack photographed us for his private collection.
Aline told me that I was # 53.
Jack told me not to worry about ever seeing the photos.
$50 for my troubles.
A bus to LA. A train to La Jolla. A dime phone call. Andy's friend picked me up at the station. Vince was a dancer. He was studying choreography for film. We went to a disco in San Diego. Marines and queens. Andy was after a fag hag. Inca skated from his grasp. Vince and I danced to ROCK THE BOAT and JUNGLE BOOGIE. We arrived home to Encinitas late. The dawn lingered on the dying fragrance of jasmine. I recounted the story about the two women in Big Sur to Andy and Vince. |They laughed at my flight through the redwoods. I laughed too and fell asleep on the floor. It felt good to sleep on the floor.
The next morning Vince dropped Andy and me at Black's Beach. It was a nudist beach. Au natural. Andy was jealous. Inca had yet to kiss him.
"I should have gone with you."
"It wouldn't have happened if you were with me."
I said nothing about Lance or the banker's wife. My wallet held more than before. Wine was back on my menu.
"I don't know why you ran away."
"Because I got the feeling she was sucking the life out of me and they'd be nothing left, if i stayed another day." There was such a thing as too much sex. Even in 1974.
"How bad could it be?"
At that moment I glanced to the right. A huddle of naked men surrounded a pair of bare-skinned women. The two were in their twenties. One thin. One a little heavy
"Shit."
It was the bull dyke and her girl friend.
Ricki and Jill.
She was checking me out like I was a piece of meat. I cupped my hands over my privates and waddled away to safety. Later that afternoon I told Andy about seeing them. He didn't speak to me for the rest of the day. Inca was into a transvestite. Vince laughed again upon hearing about my encounter.
"You'll regret that at the end of your life. You'll be lying in bed and ask yourself, "Why didn't I have sex with them again." He was more talking about him and me. Everyone in California was into sex. More a plague than a disease.
That night I relieved the tension with a fantasy of Ricki and Jill. Another time about Lance and Star. The last furious release was with the banker's wife. Morning came and I was cured by my own hand.
In three weeks I would be back in Boston.
And in that city there had never been a Summer of Love.
But nothing could stop the seasons of lust.
Not in 1974.
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