14-2 "the caveman cometh"

14-2 "the caveman cometh"

^{On my 5th night with Glen, Johnny Bates and a speed freak poet named Caveman asked to crash on our floor. Glen was happy to give carpet space to my pals. I wasn't keen but she convinced me to be generous. The four of us raved on until 1 am then put out the light and went to sleep.}

Around 3 am I woke up in the pitch black room and snuggled closer to sleeping Glen. Something crept along my leg. It was outside the sheet and I thought it was a spider but after I made a motion to flick it away it came back. Now I knew it was a hand.. Someone was trying to "cop a feel" of my darling.

I was pretty sure they weren’t after my baby smooth tackle. But who could it be? I was sure it was not Bates. He was too cool to try that stuff. It had to be Caveman. The hand crept toward my groin. Caveman must think Glen was on that side of the bed.

At night I made sure my blinds were lowered. I did not want any peeping Tom perverts to enjoy jerking off as they watched my particular room. They could watch other rooms if they liked: but not mine.

Lying in complete darkness made me feel secure .At the age of 7 I’d seen a horror movie about the devil so I suspected the evil one with red eyes and pitchfork may lay in wait to ambush my soul. As a kid who enjoyed Bible stories, I’d swallowed the concept of good –v- evil and considered myself a "goodie", so when I turned off my light (near the door) my 7 year old legs ran to cover the two metres from the switch to the sanctum of my bed before Satan realized the light was out and tried to grab me. I was afraid of the devil then but since discovering Buddhism I’d lost the fear.

The unseen hand slid slowly feeling its way up my leg. Moving sensuously I gave what I thought was a female moan of pleasure. The hand travelled toward my groin. I engaged his fingers, drew them to my lips, kissed them and laid the hand back on my knee.

I reached behind my bed to where I kept a wooden cricket stump. It was there for the slight chance I might ever be burgled.. I’d be ready and folks would think me heroic when I chased them off. So far I’d not had the opportunity to use it.

My other hand held Caveman’s rambling fingers. I swung the stump in the darkness. WHACK! It hit. Caveman gave a cry of pain then stifled it. I lay awake for ten minutes but the explorer never ventured near again

Nestling up to Glen I slept.

Next morning I pretended to be asleep as Caveman got up, gathered his things and left. He seemed to have a sore hand. Next time I met him we said nothing about that night. Caveman lived with his mum in Balmain but occasionally stayed in a hillside cave near Hawkesbury River Bridge. Four years later he died. Richard Coe, who had a pet python, told me Caveman had ‘‘taken too much Methedrine for too long’’. Long haired Billy told me,

"I saw him in hospital just before he karked it man. His stomach had gone up to his heart and his heart had gone down to his stomach." I’m sure the autopsy never said those words but after I heard that, I made sure I never took more than one Meth tablet at a time.

The landlord finally clamoured for rent so I headed for the ‘George plotting,

"Sooner or later some tourist might give me ten bucks so I can buy us drinks. I’ll pretend to get them from the saloon bar and piss off out the side door with the dough. Then I’ll run back and pay the rent so Glen and I can stay in bed for another week." It played out exactly as I planned. God bless the Royal George.

That week passed slowly. Love had me in ecstasy and Glen and I were always in each others arms. On our 10th night someone at the ‘George gave us 6 Methedrine tablets. They caused us to rave enthusiastically for 2 days about a hundred subjects. Glen told me about her life in Melbourne. She mentioned her old boyfriend was the well known Push identity Adrian Rawlins. "He’s into jazz and poetry" she told me. Out of nowhere she added,

"I’m getting tonite’s train back to Melbourne. I love you with my soul Cass but my body needs Adrian. I’m sorry."

That night, as we tearfully said farewell at the station, she gave me some good advice I remembered but did not heed.

"Don’t take Methedrine any more Cass. You’re much nicer without it."

Next day at the ‘George I hid my tears and felt sad. If there was a chance at getting Glen back from Adrian I’d have made the effort to go to Melbourne but I ran into beat poet Sheldon Lea. He described Rawlins in such a groovy light that I felt unable to compete. I cried for 4 days then felt better. Five years later I heard Glen was in some nuthouse but so were many of my friends so I thought it no big deal.

CHP 15-1

''The Hungry Eye" (Liverpool St near Woomera Ave) was the best coffee shop of them all. The clientele was an equal mix of lesbians, criminals, and beatniks .The 3 groups didn't mix much but there was mutual respect and an atmosphere of loving degeneracy. Upstairs was a private room where lesbians could kiss and cuddle .In ’65 it was one of only 4 coffee houses open all night (until 8 am) Out the back was a room with a jukebox where one could dance and a side door led to an alley for smoking pot in.

 

It was there I met the "hippest of the hip" chick I had often dreamed about. The summer night was hot and in the Eye there was hardly room to move .An irreverent young woman with short blonde hair bopped in from nowhere and was frankly asking around the tables,

"Can anyone here help me to score acid?"

I knew nothing about acid or any drug. I was high on the beat lifestyle, but after reading just one Kerouac novel I had sworn I would answer every question by saying "YES!" This was what I understood as "being positive".

The girl kept asking,"who in here can help me score?"

I was enigmatic and was considered "in the know", although in reality I knew very little. Someone (quite wrongly) pointed me out as a gold mine of drug knowledge. She asked me with a smile whether I could find her some LSD and without thinking I replied in the affirmative.

Taking me outside she cracked an ampoule of Amyl Nitrate (the 60s version of "rush"), shoved it under my nose and told me "sniff this!". When the inhalant entered our lungs it caused (almost) uncontrollable spasms of gut centered laughter. I had sworn never to touch drugs, but because it was offered to me by a woman I was attracted to, I justified taking it. Fate had led me to take the substance, not me: so I didn't betray any Zen laws. I'd only taken a sniff "to get the girl".

Ideas like this allowed me to justify any dodgy action that entered my field of vision.

Her name was Lesley. She told me she had been sent by her parents to see a psychiatrist who as part of the therapy and to get her to communicate freely with him, injected her intravenously with a glass ampoule of liquid meth-amphetamine (Methedrine),

She raved on,

" It was the purest central nervous stimulant known to medical science. I dug the Meth. so much I raced down to the university library and studied the symptoms one needed to show for prescribers to use it on me again. I made damn sure when next I talked with the psych. I gave the answers and showed behaviours that’d lead him to give me more. He thinks he's a genius who's rooted out my problems and my parents are insanely stoked by my psychiatric progression."

The Methedrine rid Lesley of inhibitions, opened her defences and strengthened her ability to communicate. With this newfound freedom, and to fully experience chemical changes and psychedelics, she was undertaking an intense exploration of the drug subculture. That was how we met.

Lesley and I scoured the 'Cross seeking acid. In and out of half a dozen coffee shops and hotel bars, she asked and tried to sniff out someone who could sell her some. We never found anyone that night, but by the time she gave up looking, we were arm in arm.

She left me at 5 am to get a taxi home. Exhilarated, I went back to my Hargraves St. pad and lay awake chuckling with satisfaction, thinking,

"Wow, I've got me a honey of a cool chick."

A few nights later, Lesley picked me (and another bloke called Boujoire) up from the Hungry Eye and took us by cab to a sparsely furnished house in Woolloomooloo.

Squatting Buddha-like on bare board floor

she rolled fat joints one two four .

I'd had a couple of puffs of pot before

at parties but wasn't impressed by it's effect .

The odour it gave out reminded me of human s**t. I thought,

"That must be why they call it 's**t'."

Then the weed took effect and stretched my mind. Until that night, I'd never thought (or had the means) to have a perceptive look at my Self. The grass fumes Lesley persuaded me to inhale took me to a state of intense introspection I'd never imagined before. In the back of my head I could hear Lesley raving on about a multitude of extremely important subjects. The word pot-heads use to describe the incessant speech was "rabbiting." That night Lesley broke the rabbiting world record.

The next morning I could not recall all of her oration, but I sure knew it had been enlightening.

What I (in my pot induced sensitivity) heard coming out of her lips was a Zen-mistress style description of my fears, faults, hypocrisies and limitations. I saw the worst of myself and, as the night wore on and more pot was smoked, Lesley became the symbol of a jury consisting of all the old push. It gradually dawned on me that this was my initiation ceremony

The whole of the Sydney "scene" had gathered there in a deserted Woolloomooloo terrace house, to judge me. Behind the wall in the next room they'd consider if I should be admitted in or be expelled forever from the Great and Holy Disorder of Royal George Push. I strained my extra-sensitive hearing and thought I could hear them discussing my shortcomings. Acting as my own defense lawyer, I yelled through the wall,

"You are correct in many ways. However, some of the charges against me should not have been laid. They're not quite right. You have misunderstood slightly.

My motivations are good. My heart is pure .I am cool and worthy to be one of your group..

Far out am I .aNd

I can

tALK like

e.e Cummings. The

weird-cat

poet!

I give reverence unto the lyrics and drink the whine of Bob Dylan (both rock and folk) and DESERVE to be accepted, as I accept you. I now rest my case. "

I relaxed and prepared my Self for their next cross-examination. An hour passed.

No further courtroom procedure happened. However, I knew they must still be there waiting for me to show why I was worthy. It was up to me.

Resuming my self-defense, I gave oration,

"Judge me then if you must. If I am not quite like you then it's just my Zen-love and sense of humour that you have not yet had time to dig. . I will explain my scene ..."

I began justifying myself to the invisible jury in the next room for another 2 hours of subjective time. When I'd finished my list of reasons for admittance to ‘‘the Push underground ", I sat waiting for them to consider their verdict.

Cute Lesley had gone looking for a late night cheese cake shop, but in my mind, she was next door with the beatified "push". I hoped she'd put in a good word for me. I worried,

"Maybe she doesn't really care about me. It was just her job to lure me here to my trial."

I waited another 2 hours. Then it sadly sunk in my application had been rejected. I was shattered. My heart ached at the injustice of it. Had I not journeyed from Adelaide on the Jack Kerouac road - had I not trod in the steps of crazy Zen saints of yore? Was I not a bodhisattva roaming the metaphysical Himalayas, a true humble monk seeking enlightenment?

The sun peeked over the huddled Woolloomooloo rooftops. I was buggered if I'd await the bloody Push's tiny condescending group-mind any longer. At least Johnny Bates and Dutch Andy should have pleaded my street credentials; they at least knew me inside out! Walking toward the next room I prepared to tell them to get stuffed. --- if they didn't accept me then I could live without them .

Expecting to see a room full of denizens of the 'George, I slowly got up the courage to enter the inner sanctum. There was no one there! The jury-room was empty.

(Yes, I know I was hallucinating: but it was still a mind cleaning experience)

Enlightenment tiptoed softly in . I understood what had happened. The Push Intelligencia had found me to be of good character and exceedingly hip. In order to teach me the Lesson of Enduring Patience, they'd made me wait a long time, lost in self-evaluation. How wise they were. How consecrated I was to now be an insider of such a fellowship.

As I came forth from the empty house the sun ascended in the sky to greet me with fondness. I felt newly born, changed, at one with everyone except squares. I knew it was important I find Lesley. From a nearby house I heard a Beatles song lyric was telling me,

"Got to get her into my life."

 

 -------------end of chpt-----------

 

 

 

 

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