Good Dogs, Inc.

What's right is right, and what isn't...ISN'T! No Lucy Anns here.

It’s June, 1969, and school’s out for the summer. Three L.A. teenagers are running away on their bicycles, ostensibly to join San Francisco’s wild Summer of Love. Good Dogs, Inc. is Chapter Two of my social satire Carnival.

Good Dogs, Inc.

It was less than three miles to Highway 1--along this stretch known as Pacific Coast Highway, or, locally, as PCH. Soon the boys could see palm fronds dotting the overlooking cliff, and in no time were yahooing and dodging senior citizens out soaking up the day in the long verdant swath of Palisades Park. They stopped and leaned against the cement railing to savor the moment. Far below stretched the highway, and a bit to their left the colorful spine of Santa Monica Municipal Pier, straddling on barnacled pillars one lovely slice of the sweet Pacific. That vast blue prairie would be their westerly panorama for most of the journey.

“Hot damn!” Mike shouted. “Hello ocean, goodbye hometown blues!”

“Forever,” Kevin breathed.

Eddie looked up sharply, one thin eyebrow arched inquisitively.

“For the summer anyway,” Mike said. He spat over the railing, trying, unreasonably, to hit the matchbox cars crawling along the highway. After a few minutes he turned to Kevin, who’d been inappropriately down over the past couple of miles. “So what’s eating you, toadpuss?”

“Huh?” Kevin grunted. In his mind the raven-haired girl’s undulating udders ballooned inches from his burning orbs. But even in his imagination he lacked the courage to meet her eyes. Much as he’d looked forward to this journey, he was half-prepared to slink back to Perky’s.

“I said what’s bugging you, deafboy? I thought you were the one who was supposed to be all jazzed about ditching this burg.”

“Nothing’s bugging me, man. I just tripped out for a minute, that’s all. If you’d hit on this stash you’d be spaced-out too.”

“Well then,” Eddie offered, still studying Kevin’s face. “Don’t be such a bogart. Roll one up.”

Mike tossed a book of rolling papers just as Kevin produced his stash, almost causing a spill. They propped their bikes on kickstands.

Kevin looked around warily. Sun worshipers from all walks of life laughed, jogged, gossiped, and panhandled about them. “You sure this is cool, right out in the open?”

Eddie nudged him. “Listen to Mr. Paranoid! We’re free now, Kevin! If any of these people don’t dig our trip, well, they know what they can do with it. They won’t be seeing us again for a long, long time.”

“Right,” Mike said gruffly. He swiped his papers off Kevin’s palm. “So if you’re too chicken, I’ll do it myself.”

“Not chicken!” Kevin snapped, and grabbed the papers right back. He glared at Mike, a boy he hadn’t known long and was just this side of despising. Mike had come along as part of the package in acquiring Eddie’s friendship, and had never warmed to Kevin, who’d done his level best to be at least tolerant. Mike was for sure the darkest presence of the three, the wildest and hottest, always suspicious of nonexistent conspiracies between Kevin and Eddie. His hatred and jealousy had simmered over the past few months, as he’d noticed Eddie confiding more and more in the big clumsy intruder. In fact, Eddie really was interested--almost fanatically so--in the great mushrooming of color and energy firing his generation. While Kevin, who was genuinely intent on learning to be a good little hippie, provided a pliant sounding board for Eddie’s lectures and musings, Mike really didn’t give a damn about the politics of the Movement. What Mike wanted, and what the Movement’s flexible parameters provided, was an excuse to raise hell and have a good time. And now, thanks to Kevin’s discussion-goading intervention, Mike would always be just on the other side of an impenetrable membrane: an interrupter, a bother, a stranger.

“Not…chicken,” Kevin repeated in an undertone, licking a paper’s gummed edge while staring fiercely at Mike. He slowly rolled a large cigarette from the aromatic crushed leaves packed in the sandwich bag, occasionally picking out random stems. To prove his fearlessness he rolled four more, taking his time, then dropped these four into his shirt’s pocket. He boldly fired the joint for all to see. A few passersby smiled or sniffed knowingly, but the boys passed it around thrice without a single offended look cast their way.

“Wow,” Mike said, his eyes a dull red and half-closed. His voice sounded hollow to him, as though his ears were stuffed with cotton. “Wow,” he repeated doubtfully, tripping on the primitivity of the expression.

“This is good pot,” Eddie muttered. He tried again: “This is good pot.” He blinked at Mike and then at Kevin, wondering if his words made sense, hearing the crowd sounds as through headphones. His own voice sounded soft and distant. His round teddy bear eyes were bloodshot and glazed. He looked at Kevin. “This is good pot,” he said. “This is.” He looked back at Mike but Mike was embarrassed, and avoiding his friends’ eyes. Eddie grew absorbed in a study of the dirt under his fingernails. “You got this from Perky?” he asked his hands.

“That’s right,” Kevin said, basking in the impression of being a local Somebody’s chum. The marijuana hadn’t hit him quite as hard as it had hit his friends, thanks to the bracer joint he’d smoked earlier with Perky. “It’s a special blend from Germany and the Far East. I only got it because me and Perky are such tight friends.”

“Wow!” said Eddie.

Mike looked at him hard. “I didn’t know you and Perky were partners.”

“Well…now you know. So’s everybody got their heads tight? Let’s get going.”

And then they were rolling down the road-to-highway on-ramp, digging the feel of warm air on their ears, alive to being alive. They jockeyed for lead position happily, indifferent to dangerously-close northbound traffic.

In a matter of minutes the boys were riding hard and fast alongside Will Rogers Beach. But by the time they were into the curve that would eventually lead them to Malibu, Kevin was experiencing the toll of rigorous exercise. The three were accustomed to wheeling leisurely along the city’s tame avenues, not to going balls-out on the highway. Kevin’s legs were already sore from the job of driving his bulk hard enough to keep up with his lighter friends, and now even keeping up had become a nightmare. His breath was rasping in his ears, his heart racing. He couldn’t afford to appear weak in his friends’ eyes, not after he’d boasted of matchless stamina and resourcefulness, but he was falling farther and farther behind.

“Hey!” he called out desperately. “Slow down, for Pete’s sake!”

Mike and Eddie, still passionately vying to be leader, didn’t hear or didn’t care. Kevin put down his head and forced himself on.

“Wait up!” he snarled. But they wouldn’t slow, and didn’t stop until they’d reached a gas station at Sunset Boulevard. There they stood, panting, watching a small crowd milling round a roped-off display at the lot’s far end. The object on display was a blood-red Corvette Stingray, gleaming like a burnished ruby in the summer sun. Mike and Eddie, inconsequential specks in the ruby’s halo, were too dazzled to hear Kevin slowly grinding up behind them, head down and eyes closed, grunting, “wait up,” with each searing exhalation. His pace slackened to that of a drunken march, then to a wobbly crawl, and finally he chugged to a halt almost at their heels. He dismounted gingerly and doubled over, beads of sweat the size of polliwogs falling from his nose and chin.

“Now that,” Mike was saying, “is what I want for Christmas, Eddie.” He vigorously rubbed his palms. “Who wouldn’t give his left nut just to be seen in that baby!”

But Eddie seemed distracted. “I guess…” he said absently.

Mike’s eyes narrowed. “What do you mean, you guess? Look at that and tell me what you see.”

“I already looked. It’s a car.”

“A car? A car? A Volkswagen’s a car. You mean all you see’s a Volkswagen?”

Eddie shrugged.

Mike threw out his arms. “What a weenie!” He began walking circles around Eddie, scowling and shaking his head like a man fuming over some obscene and immovable object dumped on his front lawn as a prank. Finally he stopped and just glared, hands on hips, waiting. But Eddie had known Mike far too long to be impressed by his histrionics. So Mike now found himself in the extraordinary position of actually having to appeal to Kevin, a totally out-of-it and altogether-untogether load he considered the lowest form of company imaginable, and the last person in the world he’d want on his side--especially when it came down to agreement on a symbol of virility. “How’s about you, Kevin?” he asked, turning toward the Corvette and spreading his arms to simulate the gesture of a man on a hill overwhelmed by the abundance of his valley. “Can you dig that or not?”

Kevin smiled goofily. “For sure,” he panted, still getting his wind back. “Once you got behind a honey like that everything else’d just fall in place. I’d spend my nights cruising the boulevards with a blonde and a brew. What more could a guy want out of life?”

“Maybe some self-respect,” Eddie mumbled.

“Well, what do you call that?” Mike sputtered, pointing at the ruby. “Something to be ashamed of? Oh! I forgot. It’s just another Volkswagen. Kee-rist Almighty, Eddie! You’re starting to let this Movement stuff screw up your head for real.”

Something made Kevin watch Eddie closely. Mike was being careless now, as the Movement was not a matter Eddie took lightly. It was his guiding star.

Eddie seemed to shiver in the sun. He said not a word, but looked out to sea. For a wild instant Kevin saw his friend as a kind of Moses figure, somehow all the taller for his diminutiveness, something behind his eyes burning with a radiance that easily surpassed the feeble luster of golden calves and ruby Corvettes. There was an absolutely wrenching suspension of communication, of camaraderie, of that indefinable force that can make seemingly incompatible souls fast, and bind its subjects with a sense of brotherhood deeper even than the imposition of blood. The surf boomed like cannon fire, and a pair of gulls fought vociferously over some nondescript Angeleno’s naked garbage.

“…Yeah…” Mike managed. “Well, I’m gonna go check it out anyway. No offense, Eddie.” He glared at Kevin, as though Eddie’s mood shift was solely the fat boy’s fault, and walked his bike over to join the crowd.

“When I said I dug the car,” Kevin said quickly, “I wasn’t saying I worshiped it, Eddie. I mean, when you’re like hip to the Movement, you’re like totally hip, right? I was just saying that, as far as cars go, you gotta admit that’s a nice car.”

Eddie shrugged again.

“I don’t mean you gotta admit it,” Kevin amended awkwardly, “and I didn’t mean you when I said ‘you’. I just meant…well, you know, what’s good is good, and what isn’t…isn’t.”

“And what’s right is right?” Eddie probed. “And what’s wrong is wrong?”

“Sure.”

“So it’s wrong to treat something wrong right, right? And it’s right to treat something wrong wrong?”

Kevin blinked. Something…

All else notwithstanding, little Eddie was a dyed-in-the-wool philosopher. “And don’t you wrong right when wrong isn’t right wrong? Or is there a right wrong and a wrong wrong, a wrong right and a right right?”

Kevin’s jaw dropped.

Eddie emphasized his point by rhythmically stabbing his right forefinger into his left palm. “And if there is, is the right wrong right right wrong, and the wrong wrong right wrong wrong?”

Kevin’s eyes seemed to spin in their sockets. His brain became a simple sensory organ for sniffing out mastodons and competing troglodytes. Slowly his speech-center recovered. “Ugh,” he said. “Big rock in stinkbush.”

“What?”

Kevin refocused. Eddie was now studying him with an odd expression. A sharp pain sprang up somewhere behind Kevin’s eyes, and his fingertips began to tingle weirdly. But the pain and tingle passed almost immediately, left him staring stupidly at his friend. Sweat trickled around his eyes. Gonna be a hot one, he thought, or thought he thought.

“Well?” Eddie demanded. “Can somebody just arbitrarily do whatever he likes, or do his principles guide his actions regardless of gain or loss? Are you gonna hang with what you believe in, or cop out?”

“That’s easy,” Kevin parried. His heart added a flam to its regular beat. He gulped. “I don’t cop out.”

“Then,” Eddie said firmly, “there’s no compromising the Movement. You can’t suck up to the glamour and garbage of this society and still be free. It’s one or the other, Kevin. We’ve got to turn our backs on all the plastic crap before it eats us alive. The Movement isn’t a part-time experience. We’ve got to forget about cars and money and status, permanently, or we’re right back where we started before we know it.”

“But,” Kevin objected, feeling better now, “we can’t throw out the baby with the birth water, can we? I mean, certain things are just too important to give up on.”

“You said it, Kevin: ‘just too important’. Nobody’s ever satisfied with the basics, because having anything only whets the appetite. Soon as they get it they lose interest. It’s the wanting that’s in control. Only now they want better, and they want more. It starts to snowball, and you end up with a world of greedy adult children.”

“But what about money, Eddie? You can’t do anything without money, and if you’ve got the money it doesn’t make any sense to not spend it, does it? And if you’re gonna spend it, you’re gonna spend it on what you like, right? And unless you like junk you’re gonna need lots of money; so you’re either gonna have to love money or love being poor.”

Eddie sighed. “You mean you still don’t see why it’s wrong to take the real world seriously? You can’t see what’s wrong with having a cushy career and a bank account? Or why it’s such a bummer to be all turned-on by a bunch of shiny stuff everybody else is drooling over, or the reason it’s a hangup to have wants in the first place? And doesn’t it bug you knowing what you’ll have to sacrifice for the sake of all that prestige you’re trying to accumulate? You’re gonna buy self-respect? Can’t you see that dignity, even though it doesn’t have a price tag on it, is worth more than all the materialistic bullshit in the world put together?”

Kevin struggled to come up with a succinct response, sensitive enough to Eddie’s commitment to know the boy’s challenge was in earnest, but uncomfortable with the way it seemed to be blinding him to everything else in life. “Wrong?” he muttered. He looked at the car--futuristic, sexy, powerful, poised…the thing was reflecting the sun so dynamically it appeared ready to burst into flames. There wasn’t a human being alive who could fail to appreciate it, and, since Eddie was human, Kevin felt he wasn’t getting the whole picture here; that he’d missed something simple but vital in Eddie’s argument. Either that or the grass…but, ever since that damp November night of their first meeting, the friendship had proved a most uneasy alliance when conversation got into the deep end. Eddie could turn the simplest issue inside-out.

“Wrong?” Kevin sputtered. Abstractions had always eluded him, and he had a sneaking suspicion that any query regarding that which was intangible--such as whether something was wrong or right--had to be a trick question, a verbal ambush designed to confuse the listener by making him think. This whole jive thing about values was just some phony Government head trip contrived to keep people bored and in line, and the fact that Eddie had been seduced so thoroughly sometimes made Kevin wonder what kind of stuff his friend was made of. So for a moment he found himself entertaining a vindictive-but-constructive urge to tell Eddie to grow up, or to put him in his place by coolly countering with the one macho response any red-blooded, All-American Guy would make; namely, a half-attentive look of utter disdain, followed by a pointed turning of the head to proclaim complete dissociation. Because the All-American Guy simply does not require intelligence. What he utilizes is far more valuable in the real world than something as ineffectual as a mind. It’s a license to bluff; unspoken, unchallenged--but understood, by every gonad in every garage from puberty on, to be the prime postulate of the streetwise: what’s wrong is what I don’t like, and what’s right is what turns me on. And if I can’t spend it, drive it, flaunt it, or f**k it, then hey, what good is it? Men killed for the sake of principles like that. But knowledge existed, Kevin was sure, just to make ordinary people feel really dumb about all the things they didn’t know; in exactly the way churches existed solely to make people feel guilty about…everything. Yet Kevin genuinely liked Eddie, even though Eddie had a dangerous habit of asking useless questions, and of caring about things that didn’t matter to anybody who did matter. Intelligence was obviously the boy’s Achilles’ heel; a prissy quality which probably came from being short and indifferent to football, or from wasting his time at school burying his nose in books instead of checking out the babes. He was hopelessly out of touch. And now Kevin found that having to defend the self-evident could be a real test of friendship.

“Wrong?” he repeated. “Eddie, what’s wrong with wanting to own good things? What’s wrong with wanting to be somebody? I mean, I know it’s uncool to be greedy and selfish and all that, and to make money into some kind of god or something, but how can it be bad to want lots of money and all the neat stuff you can get with it, and then honestly do your thing to earn it? What’s so great about having nothing?”

“Because it’s not your thing you’re doing. It’s their thing. Don’t you get it?”

“No, Eddie. Like, I really, honestly, totally, truly, absolutely-positively-super-seriously don’t. If I’m earning it, why’s it their thing?”

Eddie puffed out his cheeks and stared at the gas pumps. He squinted and grimaced, rolled his eyes heavenward. Finally he exhaled.

“Look, let me explain it with an analogy. You know what I mean by analogy?”

Now Kevin was beginning to get pissed. “Eddie, who the heck’s gonna be allergic to money?”

“No, Kevin, not an allergy. Analogy. A way to explain a certain quality using an example where it’s obvious.”

“You mean like a story or picture where you use different stuff to show what you’re trying to get across?”

“That’s close enough. In this analogy I’ll use dogs, okay? Okay. So here we’ve all these dogs in this house, and the dogs’ master comes up like he does every day, with a big box of Liver Snaps in his hand. And he says to the first dog, ‘Speak!’ The first dog goes ‘yap! yap! yap!’ and his master gives him a Liver Snap. The master says to the next dog, ‘Play dead!’ Down goes the second dog like he’s been shot. Then he jumps back up to get his goodie. The master moves down the line of dogs, going, ‘Fetch! Heel! Roll over!’ and each dog obeys and gets a Liver Snap. Finally he comes to the last dog and he says, ‘Shake hands!’ But this dog just looks at him as if to say, ‘Go shake your own f*****g hand’. The master freaks out. ‘Bad dog!’ he says. ‘Bad, bad, ba-a-a-ad dog! No Liver Snaps for you until you behave!’ And he walks away shaking his head and wondering just what the heck’s wrong with that dog anyway, and trying to figure out some kind of punishment that’ll straighten him out. Now, all the other dogs are tripping on this dog who won’t behave, and laughing at him. They think he’s too stupid to perform simple tricks. Anyways, they’re all fat and happy, and have more important things to think about, like when the next Liver Snap’s coming. So time goes by and the good dogs get better at their tricks, and they hang around snoozing on their cozy circumstances, knowing how choice it can be for a good dog, and how the meaning of life is just a Liver Snap away. But the bad dog refuses to perform, and he gets scrawny and isolated. Eventually he dies, with only his dignity for company, and the house breathes a sigh of relief. More time passes. The good dogs have puppies, and the puppies grow up learning the same tricks by imitating their parents, who are now slow and clumsy and can’t compete with the young dogs. But the master doesn’t care about the old dogs anymore. The old dogs are bad dogs because they don’t perform with the enthusiasm of the young ones, and anyway Liver Snaps don’t grow on trees. The old dogs begin to feel the pinch. So what do they do? They tell the young dogs a story about this wise old dog who wasn’t greedy, but instead had the self-respect to not jump up and down making a fool out of himself on account of a lousy Liver Snap, for Christ’s sake. The young dogs are made to feel guilty, so out of a kind of peer pressure they try to not make a big thing out of performing, but secretly they dream of pigging out on Liver Snaps, and wish the old dogs would just hurry up and die.” Eddie paused, all the frustration gone from his expression now, his winsome features made even more so by that rare gratification that can only come from giving the priceless gift of insight. “So now do you see what I mean about dignity, and about not taking the real world seriously?”

Kevin, chewing his lip sadly, tried to not sound condescending. “I…guess so, Eddie. You’re trying to tell me I should feel sorry for skinny dogs, shake hands instead of being a real prick, and never listen to my parents if I don’t wanna die on an empty stomach.”

Eddie’s jaw fell.

Kevin had to look down, feeling he’d overextended himself by encapsulating in one breath what Eddie found moving enough to spin into some weird speech about dreaming dogs. And, goddamn it, that was precisely why smart people always ended up looking like such fools, and why they had to be ditched in public if you didn’t want your reputation ruined: they always alienated themselves by talking about things that would bring down the happiest party in no time flat. Like rapping about if we were justified in going to war, one of Eddie’s favorite sermons. Now, it’s no big secret that war can be a real bummer, and the kind of trip any happening cat doesn’t want to get into if he doesn’t have to. But…when somebody’s f*****g with your country and all that, it’s like what’s the use of talking? The guy you’re up against is rowdy because his country’s rowdy, and if he doesn’t dig apple pie nobody’s saying he has to open his big mouth in the first place. If you love peace, if you care about your fellow man, then you gotta be ready to kick his a*s to prove it. Everybody knows that, whether they want to make speeches about it or not. Sitting on your thumb discussing your differences is like John Wayne playing Confucius to Genghis Khan. A couple of pithy maxims and slash: no more John Wayne. Or like babes: what the hell good are books and speeches when you’re dealing with a hefty pair of knockers in a fuzzy pink sweater? The very thought caused Kevin’s palms to perspire, and he wondered if Eddie, finding himself alone with a hot and long-legged bunny, would respond with a sermon about sex being wrong. All real men know intelligence is a turn-off to chicks, and like a total insult to what it means to be a Guy in the first place. And that’s why the smart kids in school hang out in the library instead of joining the crowd: it’s a way to avoid getting your a*s kicked for being intelligent. But Kevin liked Eddie, and respected him despite his flaws. In the end, Kevin realized, you simply can not argue with intelligent people! You can only feel sorry for them. Furthermore, Kevin was painfully dependent on a reciprocal relationship with Eddie, the only friend he’d ever had. So, in the name of friendship, he now compromised himself, blushed credibly, and said,

“Am I warm?”

Eddie stared straight ahead without replying. After a minute he said, “You’re cooking, Kevin. But maybe I shouldn’t have been so elaborate. Too many images. Look, what I was trying to say is…a good pet isn’t a good dog. A good pet is a dog who’s sold out. And when I say wrong I don’t mean unprofitable or stupid. A ‘winner’ is a man who’s sold out. And the Mephistopheles in this picture is appetite. Anyone whose motivation in life is profit, or pleasure, or any kind of gratification not stemming from the heart, will do or say anything to get what he or she wants. It’s their instinct. They’ve totally fucked up the whole world since Day One, and they’re the enemy. Because they want they take. That’s all the justification they need. It’s not, you’ll notice, in their nature to contribute. But at least they’re not hard to spot. In fact, they’re impossible to miss, because they want you to notice them. They wear their appetites like badges. So listen, Kevin. Any time you see some showoff wearing expensive clothes, or driving a sharp car, or displaying any signs of prosperity, that guy’s telling you what his priorities are, and if he says anything like he cares about the Movement, or about people or positive values, well, you know he’s just handing you a line of bullshit. He wants to impress you about how wealthy and successful he is, and in the same way he wants to convince you he’s basically a really deep person. See? Since he wants you to believe him, there’s nothing wrong with lying to you, and to him you’ll be wrong if you tell him he’s a liar, because that’s not what he wants! So you’ve got to mean it when you believe in something, and use your life to help make this world a better place for everybody who lives on it. Otherwise you’d might as well walk around wearing a sign that reads: ME NO KNOW. ME DUMB F*****G HIPPIE. And you don’t want to be a public creep, do you? Of course you don’t. You see, Kevin, human beings are hung up on being mammals. That means they instinctively join the crowd and imitate everybody else. And that’s why almost all the people in this story are caricatures. They don’t, for the most part, have the balls to develop independent identities, because it pays to be a clone among clones. What really blows me away is that it works! I mean, it’s okay for monkeys to see and do. They’re just monkeys. But what about this marvelous advance, this human brain we’re all so proud of? Nobody uses it. Instead our heroes are…what? Athletes? Why? Are we trying to outjump kangaroos, outrun horses, outswing chimpanzees…run and catch the ball, little human! Attaboy! Good human! And let’s not forget…actors. Yeah! Let’s all worship some dink for pretending to be somebody he isn’t: somebody with character. And just look how big he is up there on the screen! Boy, am I impressed! And on and on--Homo sapiens: Man of Wisdom. Ha! Try taking wisdom to the bank!”

“But Eddie,” Kevin interjected, “if what you say’s true, then what are we but a bunch of monkeys for joining the Movement? We’re just a different brand of clone.”

“Uh-uh, Kevin. You’re being over-literal. We’re not taking the Movement to the bank. A guy can be a head and still be an individual, still have merit. You can use your mind to be a follower, if what you’re following is worthy of being followed. That requires judgment with a proper bias, which is a requisite of wisdom. Anyway,” Eddie closed, watching a pair of apparent twins coasting exhausted to one of the gas islands on their bicycles, “I’ve got lotsa faith in you, Kevin. I’m pretty good at gauging people, and I can tell you’ve got what it takes to be a totally together flower child.”

Kevin grinned and pulled out his baggie of grass, held it up in display. “I sure do,” he extemporized. It was a throwaway gesture, meant to disguise his discomfort. Kevin knew, in his balls, that he was unworthy of Eddie’s confidence, unworthy of the world’s analysis, unworthy of his own strut and swagger. He rolled a cigarette carefully, watching the cyclists collapse at the gas island. Mike eyeballed the newcomers thoroughly while slowly walking his bike toward his friends, feigning nonchalance all the way.

Kevin couldn’t remember ever having seen two people so done in. By wordless consent he and Eddie sidled over, kidding around until the three boys met at the gas island. It was now evident the cyclists weren’t twins after all; that immediate impression was due to their similarly gaunt frames and identical apparel: white T-shirts and shorts with black trim, red and blue-striped Adidas athletic shoes and matching socks, a foot-wide band of gauze wrapped round the left knee of each, and a nylon-and-plastic crown of webbed headgear. The only noticeable difference: one man had the number 19 stenciled on the back of his headgear, while the other sported the number 137.

Now Kevin bent down to see if he could help 19 up, as the man appeared delirious. He was muttering something while pawing at Kevin’s shin. “Lucy Ann?” he gasped, “Lucy Ann?”

Kevin stared at his friends, shrugged uncertainly, and looked back down. “Sorry,” he said. “No Lucy Anns here. I’m Kevin, this is Eddie, and that’s Mike. What’s your name?”

“No…no,” 19 croaked, wagging his head in frustration. “Izyloo…” he gagged. “Alounana. Loozian…izyanna…is…is…is this Louisiana?”

“Oh, heck no,” Eddie piped. “You guys are way off. This is still Los Angeles.”

This announcement caused 137 to heave himself to his hands and knees. “God damn it, man! I told you it wasn’t the Gulf of Mexico.”

19 shuddered, coughing and wheezing. He angrily grabbed the water hose’s neck and soaked himself head to foot before hosing down his companion.

“Say!” Mike burst out. “I’ll bet you guys are marathoners. Am I right?”

“Were…” 19 muttered. “Right now we’re a couple of half-dead jackasses.” He struggled to his feet and, incredibly, commenced a set of deep knee bends. 137 watched for a few seconds, then reluctantly began a set of pushups.

“From where to where?” Kevin asked, becoming exhausted just watching the two men exercise.

“Seattle to New Orleans,” 19 puffed. “Only we lost our lead car somewhere back in Arizona.” He ratcheted his aching neck until he was facing his partner. “Only four hundred freaking miles ago!” He dropped his head with a snarl. “It’s okay, though,” he managed after a minute. “We can make it up if we ride double-time.”

“You mean you,” 137 gasped, “can make it up.”

This didn’t faze 19 a bit. “Discipline,” he panted. “The mind’s will over the body’s denial.”

“Did…did you guys go through San Francisco?” Eddie asked, throwing a fascinated glance at Kevin.

“Yeah. What a mistake. Nothing but hills.”

“But what about the people?” Kevin pressed. “I mean, how’s the Revolution coming along up there? Like, is everybody grooving?”

This stopped both exercisers. 137 glared at Kevin and Eddie. 19 appeared about to spit on them. Mike, standing behind his companions, shrugged disdainfully to indicate his own lack of involvement while copying 19’s sneering expression.

“You mean all that love and peace bullcrap?” 19 demanded. “I thought you guys looked like hippies.” Mike eyed his partners with contempt from behind their backs while 19 and 137 resumed their exercising.

“Go on up there with your own kind,” 137 panted, “and wallow in their crap if you want. That place is the commode of the country. Bunch of f*****s!” Mike, sneering behind the boys, mouthed the word yeah while looking from one to the other in private triumph.

The three moved a few feet away. “Did you hear that?” Eddie said blinking. “That guy talks about the City like it’s a pit.”

“Makes me want to puke,” Kevin responded. “He talks just like my dad. Sometimes I get the feeling these pricks don’t even know there’s a revolution going on.”

“F**k ’em,” Mike said, with a sly toss of his head. “Those jocks don’t know what they’re missing. They’re a disgrace to bikes.”

“I’m hip,” Kevin said firmly. He fired up the joint he’d been holding, took a hit and passed it to Eddie. “To the Revolution!” He likened 19’s stripped, well-machined twenty-speed racer to his own colorful, Mickey Mouse’d bike. Simply no comparison. Kevin tenderly ran his hand over the top multicolored bar of his bicycle’s frame. “F**k ’em,” he echoed under his breath.

The two cyclists had completed their aerobics and were straddling their machines, preparing to push off. A stoned Kevin sauntered up to 19 and said, motioning toward the displayed Corvette, “By the way, what do you think of that?”

19 shrugged, said, “It’s a car,” and rode away with his partner struggling alongside.

Kevin rejoined his friends, shaking his head. He accepted the joint from Eddie and took the deepest draw he could.

“What’d you just say to those jocks?” Mike demanded.

Kevin exhaled. “I told ’em to lighten up on the Movement, and to not take the real world seriously.”

Eddie smiled. “Right on,” he said warmly, no less sincere for his intoxication. “Told you I was a good judge of character.”

“Character,” Mike growled, his jealousy getting the better of him, “hell!” He tore the glowing joint right out of Kevin’s mouth, hit on it repeatedly and flicked the roach away.

There came an answering growl from Kevin, but he hadn’t opened his mouth; he was still holding the smoke. His stomach rumbled again, longer this time.

Eddie pretended he hadn’t noticed Mike’s hostility. “So let’s get going, you guys! If those clowns can make it from Seattle, I know we can get to Frisco!”

“Wait!” Kevin erupted. His stomach was growling and writhing continually, his mouth salivating. “I’ve got the munchies all of a sudden.”

Mike immediately spat out: “You’ve always gotta slow us down!” But marijuana can make the smoker extremely suggestible, and it was plain that THC (the active intoxicant, tetrahydrocannabinol) was playing tricks with Mike’s appetite, too.

Eddie licked his lips and peered at Kevin from the crimson caves of his eyes. “What’re you gonna get?”

Kevin’s stomach roared and gurgled, cursed and beseeched. The imagined taste of strawberry shortcake seeped into his mouth. The tendency of marijuana to exaggerate the symptoms of appetite has an unfortunate twist: the craving--especially in youngsters--is generally for junk food instead of wholesome sustenance. “I don’t know,” he said, chewing his lip, images of tasty snacks jumbling in his mind like the fruit symbols on a slot machine. “Maybe some potato chips and a candy bar or two.”

Now Eddie was repeatedly clenching his fingers. His eyes, though still a dull red, were wide and staring.

“C’mon you guys,” Mike urged halfheartedly, “if we stop to scarf up we’ll never get under way.” He grabbed Eddie’s shoulder. “We can eat later, Eddie. Maybe get a cheeseburger for lunch.”

Eddie winced at the word cheeseburger. His head turned slowly, an inch at a time, like an old door on rusted hinges. He stared unseeing at Mike out of those fixed, haunted eyes, his lax lips joined by strings of saliva. “Cheeseburger,” he muttered.

“Come on!” Kevin said. “There’s just gotta be a hamburger stand or something around here.”

So they began pedaling earnestly up Sunset Boulevard, searching for a fast food-stop. Now Kevin, riding feverishly in the lead, fancied he could hear Eddie’s stomach growling behind him like a suspicious watchdog.

“Nothing!” Mike cried. “Nothing but hotels and motels and motels and hotels!” It was true. The boulevard was increasingly desolate--only small motels and an occasional house tucked between the weltered trees and dry scrub so typical of the great California coastal desert.

Kevin pulled another joint from his shirt pocket as they came to a halt. His fingers fumbled for a match. “What we’ve got to do,” he heard himself rattling, “is get higher. We’ve got to get our heads together and figure something out. If I don’t eat something fast I’ll go crazy.” He lit the cigarette and drew on it deeply, passed it to Mike.

“Maybe we could sneak around behind one of these hotels and motels and rip ’em off,” Mike suggested, smoke seeping from his nostrils. His eyes were almost closed. “Me and Billy used to do that. They’ve got little rooms behind them where they keep eggs and steaks and stuff.”

“Eggs!” Eddie breathed. Kevin and Mike turned to stare at him. “Steaks!” he hissed.

Eddie broke, went tearing up the boulevard like a madman, his friends calling and straining after him.

Mike had handed the joint back before they mounted, and Kevin puffed on it unthinking as he labored, falling farther and farther behind.

“Wait up!” he called, coughing. “Wait up, wait up, wait up!”

Eddie and Mike disappeared round a bend in the road. Kevin dismounted sloppily and fell on his butt with a jarring of his tailbone, tears squeezing between his eyelids. Every few gasps he automatically and unconsciously took another hit off the joint until it burned his fingertips. Cursing his gnawing stomach and inconsiderate friends, he remounted and forced himself sobbing up the grade.

Finally he made out a cluster of buildings a hundred yards distant. At the cluster’s far end was a liquor store with his friends’ bicycles thrown down hurriedly in front. As he rode toward the store he saw Mike and Eddie emerge with their hands and mouths full. He coasted up, braked cleanly, stood his bike on its kickstand with care and with pride. Kevin sauntered around his companions feigning complete disinterest, entered the store with the civility it was due.

Once inside he made a dash for the pastries, grabbed a package containing two chocolate-frosted cupcakes and a package of orange-frosted. His eyes fell on a third, untried flavor: wild cherry! Three packages was going way overboard. But Kevin, through Eddie’s New World tutelage, had learned to be disdainful of prejudicial behavior, and could therefore summon the inner strength to avoid favoritism in matters regarding race, creed, or artificial flavor. As he scooped up the wild cherry-frosted, retaining all three flavors, he peripherally noticed something unbelievable: banana-frosted! With freaking sprinkles, for Christ’s sake! Kevin didn’t hesitate. He snatched it in trade for the wild cherry-frosted and made his way crab-wise down the aisle, seizing a package of cheese puffs, a package of corn chips, and a large bag of cashews, piling all the articles in the crook of his left arm. Another customer stood in his way, but Kevin, wholly preoccupied, shuffled right into him. The man, struck from behind, turned and was about to give vent to his indignation when he saw the saliva at the corners of the boy’s mouth, the blood-gorged eyes, the slack face. He meekly stepped aside. “Pardon me.”

Kevin looked over the deli section excitedly, picked out a ham and cheese sandwich and a cold Fat Boy sandwich. From the freezer he plucked a drumstick and an ice cream sandwich, tasting each item in his mind. He would need something to wash all this down, so he snapped up, in a munchies mini-seizure, a quart carton of chocolate-flavored milk. For dessert he grabbed a large box of chocolate chip cookies. At last he realized he was getting carried away, and turned back by an effort of will. On his way to the counter he guiltily reclaimed the forsaken package of wild cherry-frosted cupcakes. He laid it all on the counter and stepped to the candies rack, selected six candy bars for quick energy, and returned to the counter, where he obtained two sticks of beef jerky for the stamina he’d need on the road. And suddenly he was riveted, gawking at a jar of plump dill pickles floating in vinegar, like the bloated arms and legs of creatures in the formaldehyde of science class. That took care of his willpower. Kevin ordered three from the clerk. When the man had rung it all up he gave the boy only a few small coins in exchange for a twenty dollar bill. Kevin swiped his sackful of goodies and immediately stalked out, his tongue orgasming, his hand already digging in the bag.

Mike and Eddie were involved in a belching contest, sitting happily propped against the store’s wall. Eddie turned his head to belch in Kevin’s ear as Kevin sat, ripping the cellophane cover off the ham and cheese sandwich with his teeth. Eddie’s grinning face was a mass of yellowish whipped cream from the nose down.

Kevin very nearly got the entire sandwich in his mouth with one bite, leaving only a corner between fingertips and thumb. He quickly champed the mouthful, his face impossibly contorted. As soon as he could make room he crammed in the neglected corner, then ripped open the milk carton with his right hand while his left tore free the banana-frosted cupcakes. Kevin swallowed with a huge sigh, just as Mike belched in his other ear. Paying no attention, he tilted back his head and poured down a third of the quart carton of chocolate-flavored milk. Kevin set the carton between his knees and sat like a feasting king, a banana-frosted cupcake pinched in his poised left paw, a dill pickle gripped obscenely in his right. After a huge gulp of air, he savagely chomped off half the pickle and darted his head cobra-wise to the waiting cupcake. When these were swallowed he shoved in the other half of the pickle, gnashed it dribbling, and tossed back his head to gulp a second third of the chocolate milk. With another great sigh he set the milk down, popped the other cupcake in his mouth, and feverishly tore open the ice cream sandwich wrapper. He got half in one bite, but the damned thing was cold and hurt his teeth, so he set the uneaten half down and grabbed the drumstick. That was cold and hurt his teeth too, but he devoured it gamely and followed with the other half of the ice cream sandwich, the cashews, and the chocolate chip cookies. Heaving another sigh, he started on the chocolate-frosted cupcakes.

Mike and Eddie had been watching all this with amazement and cheering camaraderie, and now accompanied his efforts with elongated stereo belches and raspberries. Kevin shoved down the chocolate-frosted cupcakes and began on the Fat Boy sandwich. He was slowing a bit now, and sweat was crawling on his cheeks and forehead. Somehow he got the whole sandwich down. Chest heaving, he started on a second pickle. He wasn’t at all hungry anymore, but the marijuana and his companions continued to urge him on. With difficulty he crammed down a candy bar, the orange-frosted cupcakes, and his last dill pickle. He let his head fall back sluggishly, and with cheers and belches in his ears carefully sipped the last of the milk.

“Hoo…ray!” Mike’s voice was a spike in his brain. “Well done, Kevin old chump.”

“Yay!” Eddie cried. “Well, now that everybody’s done, let’s get going.”

“Wait!” Kevin managed. Gimme a break, willya?”

“Aw, why do you always gotta slow us down?”

“Yeah, Kevin, you got what you wanted, so what’re you griping about now?”

Kevin turned his lolling head in Eddie’s direction. “I--I feel kinda sick.”

“Serves you right,” Mike sneered, “piggy.”

Kevin whirled on him. Before he could rebuke the boy he felt his gut react. In a minute he whispered, “Don’t call me ‘piggy’.”

“Okay, fatso. Let’s get going, darn it!”

“Right on!” They picked up their bikes.

“Wait!”

“We waited!”

“Let’s smoke--” Kevin blurped, “let’s smoke a--let’s smoke a joint first.”

“C’mon, porkface!” Mike said hotly, still making it his life’s mission to provoke Kevin. “How long’s your stash gonna last at this rate?”

“Yeah, Kevin. We already smoked three.”

“Let him sit there feeling sorry for himself. He can catch up with us later.”

“No! Wait!” Too late, they were already riding away. Gasping, Kevin forced himself to his feet, grabbed his bag of goodies and followed. Each inhalation was a sob, each exhalation a moan. He had to walk his bike back to Sunset, but it was quite an improvement coasting down the boulevard. Right away he began to feel better, so he wolfed down a couple of candy bars and the wild cherry-frosted cupcakes to make the bag more manageable. His friends were far ahead, but weren’t riding so hard now, occasionally looking back to make sure he was still behind.

Once they were on the highway, Kevin, for some reason feeling almost well again, made steady progress in narrowing the gap. Hating himself, he gobbled down the beef jerky and candy bars he’d planned on saving. The corn chips and cheese puffs quickly followed course, and at long last he was gripping an empty bag. As if cued, thirst descended with a terrible intensity. He shed his heavy plaid Pendleton shirt and left his back naked to the sun.

Try as he would, he always found himself lagging. Mike and Eddie seemed to be equipped with boundless zeal, and were forever calling back, scoffing at his efforts. Kevin didn’t admire them for their energy; he despised them for it, and wished they could for but a moment share his aching weariness. Time and again they would wait for him to catch up, and just when he thought it was time for a blessed break they would ride off in renewed spurts of joyful abandon.

But exhaustion wasn’t Kevin’s only gripe: his stomach was freaking out over the sugary feast. The periods of calm grew less frequent, the discomfort more intense. The pain was very real, and could only be relieved by short, dangerously vehement bursts of posterior wind. On the verge of tears, he threw himself into the herculean task of barely dragging along.

What Kevin wanted now was a roughly straight road with some measure of consistency, but the highway snaked nauseatingly. Veer to the left, veer to the right, veer to the left, veer to the right. The caution signs alongside the highway didn’t help any. ROUGH ROAD. FALLING ROCK. SLIDE AREA. And veer to the left, veer to the right…the ordeal through Malibu seemed to take forever. And after Malibu the highway cut inland, with miles and miles of virtually featureless road. He’d lost all track of time and distance. Surely they had covered a hundred miles, in what must have been hours. But there was no appreciable change in the road, and the sun was still high in the breathtaking June sky. He had to struggle back into his shirt when the rays became too painful. At last the highway cut back to the beach.

After a few more miles the coastline became ragged, the pretty beaches swiftly giving way to a world of growing desolation. Not far offshore, great mounds of rock rose amid the gentle wavelets like humpbacked whales, colonies of seaweed drifted listlessly. But the haunting beauty only added to his misery. What he wanted was a soft clean beach peppered with deck chairs and restrooms.

Perhaps half a mile ahead, Mike and Eddie had stopped to patronize a catering truck serving motorists at a popular scenic turnout. They were thirsty. With a paroxysm of intent, Kevin forced himself to speed to a crawl, realizing the break had at last arrived.

When he pulled up his friends were engaged in a lighthearted battle, using the crushed ice from their soft drinks for ammunition. They pelted Kevin as he wobbled up. He cursed feebly and dropped his bike, collapsed on his sunburned back with a shudder. New waves of nausea shook him like a dog. He closed his eyes at a sudden furious stab of intestinal pain, carefully counted to ten, then to a hundred. Gradually the pain diminished.

“Hey, Kevin!” Mike called. “Wake up! Whatcha say we smoke a joint?”

Kevin sat up slowly, swallowed, felt better. He gave the bag of marijuana to Mike.

“Here. You roll one.”

“Whatsamatter? I thought you were the one all gung-ho about getting out and roughing it.”

“Yeah,” Eddie piped, “we barely get under way and first thing you do is lay down and pass out.”

“I wasn’t crashed,” Kevin rejoined sourly, “I was trying to meditate.” And again came the stab of pain, this time really ferocious. His heart skipped a beat, the world went black. When he opened his eyes the pain had vanished quickly as it came, and there was sweat or tears rolling down the sides of his nose. He peeled off his heavy shirt and stuffed it inside his sleeping roll. Mike roared with laughter at Kevin’s pink corpulence, but the stout boy took it with clenched teeth and wincing calm. When he was sleek and tanned he was going to make Mike regret his laughter.

Mike swiftly rolled and lit a joint. Kevin held in each draw long as he could, wanting to get as high as possible. When his thoughts were reeling he commended the remedy, feeling almost like a new man. But his mouth was dry as the moon.

“What’re you guys drinking?”

“So-so Soda,” Eddie said with an impish grin, his eyes red and pinched.

“Sounds good. Think I’ll get one.” He stood up stiffly.

“Don’t eat the truck, tubby,” Mike said. He snickered.

Mike’s snickering made Eddie titter, and this seemed to touch off a fit of giggling between them.

“I don’t think it’s so funny!” Kevin shot back, causing an upsurge of laughter. The storm mounted and mounted until both boys were rolling with uncontrollable mirth.

“F**k you guys!” Kevin spat. “I’m not smoking any more pot with you if you can’t hold it, dig? Only kids get the giggles!” But this only served to redouble their laughter, and Kevin turned away from their roaring, tear-streaked faces with absolute contempt. As he walked to the truck he chuckled, shaking his head. A laugh forced itself up like a belch, but he closed his mouth to contain it. The laugh found its way out his nostrils with a burning explosion.

“What’s the joke? Let me in on it.”

Kevin looked up to see an Italian couple looking down lugubriously from inside the huge catering truck. His grin dissolved. What joke where?

The man sighed. “Can I help you?”

“Let me have a So-so Soda,” Kevin mumbled, certain he was the butt of the couple’s private jest. He drew himself erect. “Just,” he said assertively, “just let me have a So-so Soda. Large.”

“Sorry. Never heard of it. We carry cola, orange, and root beer only.”

Kevin darkened. Okay. If they were going to have fun at his expense, he’d just play along and frustrate their little joke with an air of unflappability.

“All right. A large cola then.”

“Anything to eat?”

A nasty taste welled under his tongue at the mention of food, his stomach lining shimmied. The marijuana muse leaned close to whisper in his ear, and the boy’s eyes went blank. Immediately his salivary glands got to work. His eyes refocused.

“How’s…” he croaked, trying to sound nonchalant, “how’s the chow here, anyway?”

The man shrugged. “So-so.” He yawned, revealing a mouthful of silver-capped ivory posts. “There’s a menu to your left.”

Kevin ran his eyes down the list with escalating unrest. He stepped back under the morosely yawning man and his grease-spattered wife.

“Let me just get a steak sandwich on rye, with plenty of kraut, onions, dill, and mustard. And an order of chili fries.” His stomach stabbed warningly, but he hushed it with promises of slow ingestion. He threw a glance back at the menu.

“And a hot frosted blueberry turnover with cheese, a frozen chocolate banana, and a couple of those sugarberry fruit ‘n’ nut custard-filled twists. Make that three. And a caramel apple, please, and a double marshmallow malt.”

When he’d paid he rejoined his friends with a nagging conscience and pounding heart. Kevin angrily squelched his guilt. This trip was turning out to be a real chore and a drag, and, damn it, he’d might as well dredge what creature comforts he could from it.

Closing his mind to it all, he sat down and began to stuff his face.

Don’t miss my collection of poems

Out Of The Whirl

available on Amazon at:

Out Of The Whirl: Sanders, Ron: 9798671245547: Amazon.com: Books

My stories collection Wild Stuff is also available on Amazon, at:

Wild Stuff: The Collected Tales Of Ron Sanders - Kindle edition by Sanders, Ron. Literature & Fiction Kindle eBooks @ Amazon.com.

TALK TO ME at: [email protected]

Author's Note

This segment is about a time that will never be reprised. Hope you can get the vibe. More chapters to come.