Thrasymachus Was Right

Chapter 15 of Carnival

Carnival

Chapter 15

Thrasymachus Was Right

How does it feel to have taken that first, momentous step; to have crossed that seemingly uncrossable chasm separating cocksure manhood from timid boyhood…from a boyhood spilling over with hopeless longing, with so many botched opportunities, with naivete; with pointedly-replayed scenes of transparent poses, with utterly forgettable episodes of slinking down the avenue of that week’s goddess praying she’ll appear--yes, and belaboring the bygone, guilty only of innocence; elaborating on smoke and self-deception, knowing yet refusing to believe; fantasizing, wondering how the act will feel, yes, and whether you’ll faint or go all to pieces with the unbearable, impossible ecstasy of it as you imagine it will be…how does it feel to have experienced carnal knowledge and become, through the feverish gymnastics of your beloved, as different from your inexperienced little buddies as night is from day? And how does it feel to know you’ve come into the closest possible contact with a warm, giving female--one of those hypnotic little creatures equipped with a variety of slopes, curves, peaks and orifices…oh yes…strangely fascinating turf your tortured psyche has relentlessly demanded you poke, squeeze, lick, and fondle with every appendage at your frantic body’s command until you moped, until you grated, until you nearly howled with the frustration of it all?

What’s it like to have been, at long last, laid?

Kevin, attempting to address this all-important question, was being eaten alive, for he was anything but elated. Multiple orgasms, indeed. He was sure Janet had been barely aroused; certainly not beside herself with panting, snarling passion. One fuckup after another. Mike had been right.

He was curled on his side, feeling sticky and sore, letting the hot morning sun wash over his chest and face. Beside him was only the impression of her body.

Kevin had surfaced from another of those heavy slumbers, having recurrently dreamt he was chasing her sheer rippling figure through some vast crowded building. She had not been avoiding him in the dream, yet had somehow managed to elude him, to lead him on. She had drifted like mist; through a ghostly, droning mob, to the building’s gigantic entranceway. There she’d become tiny in the yawning night. And the portal had expanded, ever outward, at last dissolving in endless space.

Kevin donned his eyeglasses to study the length of his reclining body, flexing comfortably buried muscles.

He rolled off the bed and almost collapsed. For some reason his left hip hurt like crazy. It felt like he’d been hit with a sledge hammer. He massaged the hip, and, after determining the house was otherwise unoccupied, took a long and scalding shower, scrubbing until it hurt. Kevin shampooed his hair thoroughly, dried himself, and stood before the hallway’s full-length mirror wearing only the towel around his waist, amazed at the number of bruises on his legs and shoulders.

What he saw lacked not only magnetism…his image lacked (except for the great incorrigible mane, now inching up into a shapeless wad as each drop transferred its weight to his shoulders) any personality.

But as he watched himself dress, he saw the ho-hum reflection transformed, bit by bit, into something dynamic and complex.

The crusty boots were, in his eyes, symbolic of his generation’s flight from the plastic and neon garden. The frayed and faded Levis represented an enlightened, wash-and-wear hardiness; the work wear of a people dedicated to building a new world. The DO YOUR OWN THING belt buckle, he felt, justified his appearance and ideology to all the ulcerous, uptight straights he encountered, without his saying a word. And Lance’s peace medallion was even cooler than a crucifix…like, who’s against peace? The mangled leather vest, with its Zig-Zag logo and remaining strung beads, showed he was stone carefree; a carouser, a card, a guy at home underground. The floppy felt hat, besides concealing that malicious shearing of Danny Boy’s, lent him, in his opinion, an added dimension of transience--made him a restless and faceless sometime hobo; Guthriesque frequenter of boxcars and campfires, known and loved nationwide, a laconic but likable treasure trove brimming with tales of strange encounters, yet made distant by tender memories of horizon-searching lovers.

Metamorphosis complete, he stood erect.

Now the picture had composition. In Kevin’s eyes the mirror reflected a young man of deep insight and conviction--a wandering soul of conceivably profound intellect, yet certainly of simple means; a hip, happening, tripped-out specimen the Movement could take pride in.

The eyeglasses, though, would have to go. They looked so geeky. He removed the damned contraption, and his mirror image became a watery apparition. The solution was, of course, clip-on Polaroid lenses. But he’d never been able to tolerate looking through the things; they made the world appear closed, and the wearer introverted. Kevin wanted to look aloof-cool, not aloof-cold.

He decided to check out the house for ideas. In the kitchen, while going through the wide cabinet drawers below the Formica sink counter, he discovered a paper bag containing small glass beads in a variety of shapes and colors. Eleven of these teardrop-shaped beads had tiny clips screwed onto their narrower ends, presumably for fastening the ornaments to lampshade bases and such. These he arranged, while squinting at the table, to dangle from the arms of his glasses.

Kevin returned to the mirror. The result was a cross between tacky exuberance and a sort of psychedelic aboriginal silliness. He was satisfied. The reflection was of a multifaceted, serious boy who did not take his seriousness at all seriously.

Where was she?

Kevin found pen and paper in the kitchen. He sat at the table and stared out the window shaking his head, the beads tinkling against the plastic arms of his spectacles. After a minute he began to write:

jooli 5 1967

jime wuts goen awn prtnr howz ur hed

im ritn this ltr frum csid up pas mawntura csid iz uh vaere hv town man totle 2gthr an kumpletle trnd awn

we wr in big sr ystrda but we didn sta thu nit bcuz thu h8 iz supozd 2 b waer its rele hapunen

i gs bi now ur wundren hoo i men wn i rit we

chk this owt

i mt this litl fawx namd janut down thu kost thu da b4 ystrda

we hit it awf lik pnut butr an jam man an i bawld hr las nit in this pad im riten frum

wutd i tl u man

didn i sa id b bawpen uh bunch uv chix up her

i havn mt ne groopz yt but i thenk il drag ulawng this hune i skrood 4 uh yl

wl it loox lik im gunu hav 2 sin awf now jime thu orgz ubowt 2 strt an iv gawt mi i awn this blawn flowr chiul with jigantik boobz

im sndn u sum pawt bak 2 kep u kumpune

sta hi

kevn

He found his pot right where Jamie’d left it, on the coffee table, by the carpet stain; near the couch now so mocking in its emptiness.

Very little remained. Just a pinch.

Kevin idly rolled three joints for Jimmy, found an envelope and stamp in the kitchen, and dropped the letter, with the doobies flattened between the folds, into the envelope. He was left with enough for a single joint, which he determined to save for a moment when its heartening effect could best serve him. He walked to the front door and drew it open.

It was going to be another scorcher; another clear, cloudless day, perfect for swimming and riding. Gulls circled like flies beyond the facing houses.

He gazed for a long time at their locked bikes.

With the smell of the sea and the cries of the gulls, he felt cast adrift.

Kevin remembered the letter in his hand, and was about to seek a mailbox when he heard an automobile make a racing change down the block and come tearing in the direction of the house. He inched the door until it was nearly shut, leaving a crack to peer out.

A primer-gray 1957 Chevy screeched to a halt directly in front of the house. At least seven teenagers were crammed inside. Over the car’s blaring radio Kevin could hear feminine shrieks and masculine cheers. A crushed beer can was flung out the passenger-side rear window. The door flew open, and a bleached-blond teenage boy wormed out laughing. This boy crouched with his fingertips gripping the edge of the car’s roof, staring inside and cheering. Half a minute later Janet emerged giggling, gracefully sidestepping the boy’s grubbing paws. Kevin tightened his grip on the doorknob. The blond boy, laughing lustily, resumed his spot on the back seat. Janet, as gaily pretty as a Sixteen cover girl, lifted and kicked shut the door. She bent at the waist and leaned on the door with her elbows, her pert rump seemingly thrust out for lone ogre-voyeur Kevin. Her rear revolved lusciously as she bent a knee back and forth to the music’s rhythm. Now Janet leaned in laughing, grabbing at the boys in the back, who responded by trying to pull her in. She danced out of reach. The driver honked the horn and Janet waved. The car screeched off in first gear, smoke jetting from the rear tires. The girl watched until the car had whipped round the corner. She turned and skipped up the walk.

Kevin ducked back into the kitchen, where he busied himself lacing his boots. She froze when she saw him, the smile capsizing, as if he were a stranger caught rifling the bureaus. Gradually the smile returned. A little crooked, only half-lighting her face.

“So! You decided to wake up! I never in my life saw a heavier sleeper. And what a fuss you made!”

“Fuss?”

“Fuss. Disturbance. You know. You whined all night. Every once in a while I’d wake up and you’d be kicking and throwing your arms all around. Then you’d just sort of mumble and start whining again. What a racket!”

“Sorry. Guess I was dreaming.”

“Well, at least you didn’t snore up a storm like the night before last. What’s that hanging on your glasses?”

Kevin reddened. “Oh, I borrowed these, hope you don’t mind. It’s…it’s what the Indians do, see. It’s hip to do it because the Indians are hip, and the Indians do it. It’s like a way of showing you’re down on the Establishment, and don’t dig the trip of ruining nature and f*****g with the Indians, who are super cool and just want to groove on nature. It’s very hip.”

“Weird. Well, are you all ready to go?”

“Go?”

“Yes, go. Leave the premises. Get on our bikes. Ride up to the park.”

She blew out a sigh. “I saw some old friends while you were still in La-la Land. Randy says that Marcie called Ernie’s house and told Mikey they were already up there, at the planetarium. They’d better stay put! I can’t wait to get my hands on them. And Marcie told Tod when he was over at Ernie’s house with Petey-pie that the place is swarming. It’s just like you told me. A real festival of brothers and sisters.”

“How about that.”

“So let’s go! And did you eat breakfast?” Not really looking for a reply, the girl jumped on eggs, links, and browns.

Kevin was muted by the endless barrage of her chatter. While he watched her work he wondered if she’d been out satisfying the urges he’d left unanswered. She might have seduced any one of those guys in the car. Hell, she could have taken care of all of them, repeatedly and in concert, if what he’d heard of the feminine gender’s sexual insatiability was true. Whatever, she never brought up last night. Kevin thanked his God, sotto voce. If just thinking about…it…was painful, discussion would surely be torture.

And while he ate she wrote Jamie, thanking him for both of them. Before Kevin knew it he was unlocking their bikes.

It was less than ninety miles to the park now.

If he kept at Janet’s pace they’d surely be there by tomorrow afternoon. And if she found her friends in the park there wasn’t a chance in Hell he’d be allowed to tag along. No way. They’d whisper in a secret language only girls understand, conspiring. He would be a burden, a downer, a gleep; an embarrassing load to be ditched at the first opportunity. It was crucial Janet never find her friends. With any luck the park would be so crowded she’d give up entirely. Kevin swallowed. Maybe, given that scenario, she’d feel his company was better than nothing, and stick with him until the concert was over. Then what? No telling.

Perhaps Fate would work something out; there was still time. Time…Eddie had told him there was no such thing. But then Eddie had never been in love.

Janet yanked him back into reality: she gasped and rode off frantically, waving her arms so hard she almost lost control of her bicycle. “Linc!” she cried. “Oh Lincoln, Lincoln, Lincoln!”

A quietly cursing Kevin followed her to an old flatbed truck stalled off the road. Spouting steam showed above its raised hood. The bed was full of junk--fenders, cardboard, broken-down appliances--everything coated with a thick film of grease. The bed’s wood siding leaned dangerously to the right, as though one more shock would send it clattering down the road.

The head of an ancient black man appeared from behind the raised hood. His leathery face broke into a dazzling smile.

“Why, miss Janet--bless mah soul!” He held out his arms as Janet dropped her bike and flung herself against his chest, embracing the stout, crooked old man with squeals of delight. Kevin pulled up unnoticed.

“Oh, Linc, what’s it been--three years? And you’re still the same. You haven’t changed a bit.”

Linc looked down. “Tree yeahs? Musta been.” He looked back up, and the sun caught the gold of his front caps. “An’ tha’s mighty flattrin’ of ya, sweetheart, tellin’ an old fella like m’self Ah hasn’t changed. But lookit you! A fine growed woman awready, my, my.” And then: “Whups!” The truck’s radiator was erupting jets of rusty water. “Same ol’ truck, an’ she ain’t changed none neither.” He slapped his knee. “’Member when we was mobin’ ya ma’s fuhniture dat day, honey? An’ dis ol’ gal blew right at the innersection of Grace an’ Stanley during Chrissmas rush hour?” He held his side as he chuckled. “We backed up traffic so bad it look like a parkin’ lot, an’ nobody knew what t’ do.”

Janet was laughing too. “And then when the tow truck came and lifted up your truck’s front end all mom’s stuff went flying off the back. Boy, was she mad! And they had to back everybody out and close off the street until they could clean up the mess.”

Linc looked sober. “Was mighty gracious of your ma not to hold it agin me, though. A mighty fine woman, Missus Campbell.”

He heaved his shoulders. “Well, guess I best get busy an’ get the ol’ aich-two-oh outta the back. Though Lord knows she’ll jus’ go agin.” He patted the truck’s fender and winked at Janet. “Dat’s a woman fer ya, honey. Treat her jus’ right, or look out!” He began a hobble to the back of the truck for the ten gallon water container he always kept handy. Janet stopped him short.

“Wait, Linc! Let Kevin do it. Don’t strain yourself.”

“Kebin?” Linc, turning slowly, noticed the boy for the first time. “Well, bless me, son! Ah didn’ see ya dere. Guess Ah’m slowin’ down fuh real.”

He stuck out his hand. Kevin dismounted and shook it, surprised by the strength in the dry old paw.

“Kevin!” Janet snapped. “Help Linc with the water can!”

He couldn’t help giving her a hard, offended stare. She sounded like a harried housewife berating a naughty child. “Don’t…worry about it,” he said slowly. “What kinda guy d’you think I am, anyway?”

He climbed onto the bed and found the water container, danced it to the rear, and with Linc’s help lowered it to the ground. Then, to show Janet, he refused Linc’s aid and carried it balanced against his hip to the front of the truck. Linc flapped after him, his face worried.

“Nebah carry it like dat, son! Ya gots t’ roll it on the bottom, like dis.” He demonstrated, then creaked back to his normal stoop, face shining with sweat. “Elsewise,” he puffed, “ya gonna end up a bent ol’ man like me.”

Kevin scoffed good-naturedly and hefted the can to rest on the frame above the caved-in grille. Old Linc seemed about to lecture him further, but since the can was already in place he just loped around the side, hauled himself into the cab and played with the ignition until the hot engine kicked over. Kevin poured slowly, slowly, wrestling with the container. When water began bubbling out the radiator’s mouth he set the container down, much lighter now, and stood by proudly as Linc forced on the bent radiator cap. Linc lovingly eased shut the hood. He stood grinning and mopping his brow while Kevin carried the container to the rear and heaved it onto the bed. Kevin came back all full of himself.

“Ah’m obliged, son. An’ t’ you too, Miss Janet.” He took Kevin’s hand in his right and Janet’s in his left. “But now Ah gots t’ be mobin’ on b’fo’ she blows agin. Ah’m so glad t’ see you agin, missy, an’ right pleased t’ meet you, Kebin.”

“How far--” Janet burst out, “how far are you going, Linc? Can you give us a ride, oh pleeeease, Linc, we’re in such a hurry.”

“Why sure, honey, if you’re goin’ dat way. Ah gots t’ go clear t’ A’bany, ’counta Mista Bruce so kindly offered me two ’frigahraters he don’ need no more. If dat’ll help ya any, of course you can come.”

Janet threw her arms around him. “Oh Linc, that’s perfect! We’re going to Golden Gate for a big festival. You could let us off downtown.”

She gripped both Kevin’s hands in hers. “What a break! We can be up there in a couple of hours.” She embraced him and squeezed, kissed him full on the lips. Tickled and surprised, he climbed into the truck’s cab beside her after making room for their bicycles in the bed.

It wasn’t until they were bouncing up the highway that he began to sweat. The hours were rapidly being shaved off his respite, and, unless the old truck failed to make it, this could very well be the end of the line. Kevin impulsively grabbed Janet’s hand. Thinking he was sharing her excitement, she squeezed his sweaty hand and placed it on her lap.

As they bumped along, Janet whispered in Kevin’s ear: “So what do you think of Linc? Isn’t he just the sweetest?”

Kevin pondered. When he whispered back, it was with complete sincerity. “Well, you gotta admit, Janet, that he is, no offense, kind of a stereotype. I mean, to be like totally honest. But he sure does have good manners.”

Linc turned his head, and for a moment his eyes bore into Kevin’s. “Ah gots good ears, too.”

Kevin swallowed. “I didn’t mean that. Not the way it sounded.”

“Shuh you did. Dat’s exzackly what you meant.” He shifted his gaze back to the road and shrugged side-to-side. “Mebbe Ah am a stareyatype, son,” he said after a moment, “but ya gots t’ unnerstan’ dat Ah was bohn a’way back in 1901, an’ dey wasn’ all dat many oppatunities fo’ a young black man growin’ up. T’be honest, dey wasn’ no oppatunities.” Linc rolled with the road.

“Someday, Kebin, an it may not be all dat long, dis country will be so messed up by restrictions on what a man say or think dat dere won’t be no difference between you an me--an mebbe dat’ll even include missy Janet here. Ah’m jus glad Ah won’ be around when the whole hammer come down. Socialism; he a bad master, fuh sure. The Man say he don’t want stareyatypes, but dat’s exzackly what he want! He want us to conform, to play nice. Master want us all to fall in line--but you take the teeth outta the dog and the dog don’t know he a dog no more.

“And you kids nowaday: can’ tell you apart. You want free everything. Free love, free food, free drug, free money. Well, dat’s whatcha gonna get.”

Linc frowned at his passengers’ shared smile. “Ain’t nothin’ funny ‘bout socialism, you two. Ah don’ think Mistah Mahx had dis in mind; aftah all it wasn’ no minority movement back den.

“Why, someday a innocent author may be jus aimin’ for accuracy, for atmosphere, and the more honest he get with his characters an their dialog, the more he gonna be condemned. Liberals don’ want no truth.

“Still, can’ blame you chilluns. You gots t’ grow up first. But young liberals b’lieve in a Utopia, an so dey wanna destroy everthing real.” He heaved a sigh. “But how ’bout you, Kebin? Speakin’ of stareyatypes, you jus’ gots t’ take a good long look at y’self sometime.”

He laughed, reached over and tugged the brim of Kevin’s floppy hat down over the boy’s eyes. “My, my,” he said. “Now ain’t we a pair.”

Some time later, passing through Watsonville, Linc observed: “Mus’ be a plenny big fes’ibal. Ah nebah seen so many younguns hikin’ dis highway b’fo’.” The truck’s bed was already loaded with over a dozen hitchhikers old Linc had taken pity on, and forty miles per hour was now top speed. Linc hummed in his deep throaty voice, a kind of jazzy gospel; part sustained growling, part formless melody. The humming was tremulous from the old truck’s vibrations, as earthy and hopeful as the endless highway.

In Santa Cruz a man completely ignorant of the concert would have known something big was happening farther north, as it looked like ninety percent of all traffic was headed that way, and hitchhikers lined the road, alone and in groups. Linc picked up five more, slowing the truck an equal number of miles per hour.

And so it came to pass that, at one o’clock on the fifth of July, old Linc dropped everybody off at the Harrison Street off-ramp, just across from the Hall of Justice in downtown San Francisco. Before he drove on to the San Francisco-Oakland Bay Bridge he motioned Kevin to the cab. Linc leaned out wearing an anxious expression.

“Dat’s a might fine young lady dere, Kebin, a mighty fine young lady.”

Kevin swallowed. “I know it, sir.”

“You keep a real good eye on her, hear?”

“Yes sir.”

He motioned Kevin closer. “Ah didn’ say nothin’ t’ miss Janet b’fo’,” he whispered, “’cause Ah didn’ wanna be puttin’ the scare into her. But Missus Campbell--dat’s miss Janet’s mama--she call me up on the telephone t’day, at the crack o’ dawn, an’ she was powerful worried, Kebin, Ah means t’ say. An’ she tol’ me she was settin’ the poe-lice out aftah her.” He gripped Kevin’s shoulder passionately. “Now, Kebin, Ah don’t wanna see missy Janet put in the jail, no how. She too sweet a chil’, an’ no good would come of it. She wanna have a little fun so she run away from home t’ see dis big ol’ fes’ibal. Dey’s nothin’ unusual ’bout dat. All chillun do it once in a while. But poor Missus Campbell is fit t’ bust on account of it. So Ah says t’ m’self when we was dribin’ up here, Ah says, ‘Linc, ya know it’s wrong t’ be buttin’ into othah folks’ business, but ya gots to’ help out Missus Campbell who’s such a fine woman, an’ ya can’t be takin’ miss Janet’s fun from her, so jus’ what you gonna do? An’ what Ah figgers is dis: Ah’ll let miss Janet have her fun, an’ Ah’ll call Missus Campbell from a pay phone an’ tell her miss Janet’s safe wit’ me at mah house. Missus Campbell an’ me’s always had us a unnerstandin’, Kebin. She trust me, an’ if Ah tell her missy Janet’s safe she won’ need t’ know no more. When Ah comes back down from Richmon’ in a coupla days Ah’ll pick miss Janet up at the bus station obah on Sebent’ Street. She know where it is. Now, Kebin, Ah gots t’ count on you t’ take care of her an’ make sure she be at dat bus station! Ah’ll be dere day aftah t’morrah at six in a aftahnoon, an’ Ah’ll wait all night if Ah has to.”

“But Linc,” Kevin whinnied, “how can I do that? I can’t force her to stay with me, and I just know when she finds her friends they’re all gonna ditch me.”

Linc thought and thought, the pleats of his forehead bunched like a monument to worry. “Dey’s bad girls miss Janet’s runnin’ wit’, Kebin. Bring her nothin’ but trouble.” He slapped his hand against the seat. “But Ah nebah lie t’ miss Janet, an’ Ah can’ be startin’ now. You jus’ tell her the truth, Kebin, like what Ah tol’ ya. She a sensible girl, an’ she know Ah wouldn’ be tellin’ her t’ do nothin’ what wasn’ in her own bes’ innerest. You tell her Linc say he want her t’ stay wit’ you, an’ t’ meet me at the bus station when Ah tol’ ya.”

“Okay, Linc,” Kevin said, his heart singing. “Gotcha.”

“Ah’m sure countin’ on ya, Kebin,” said Linc, his face still scrunched by concern, “as one stareyatype to anothah.” He waved, and steered the old truck down the road.

Kevin almost skipped up to Janet, just now emerging from the ladies’ room at the corner Chevron station. For two days he was her appointed guardian, and after that who could say? He’d already made up his mind to accompany her back to her Morro Bay home, and there sleep in the bushes outside her window like a watchdog, protecting her from the advances of foppish young suitors with mod haircuts. He still had money, so he still had hopes of inspiring her affection in one way or another. When that was gone he could get a job, maybe, and pursue her from close to home. If she were to go on a date with some smirking dandy, well then, it would just be a matter of following the guy and, when the moment was right, yanking him into an alley and beating the holy crap out of him. A few instances like that and the offender would get the message. Vicious and dirty and against principle, but that couldn’t be helped and to hell with the Movement and anybody or anything that got in his way. After seeing her beaus with shattered smiles and their Sears and Roebuck specials torn to ribbons, Janet would pay kinder attention to the faithful young man who simply would not go away. She’d see the light. Eventually. If it took a spotlight.

“Got some bad news for you, Janet,” he said as they rode down Harrison Street. “Linc told me your mom’s got the pigs looking for you. They don’t know you’re up here yet, but I think your mom’s got the idea, ’cause she called Linc this morning before we ran into him. Linc wants me to look after you for a couple of days. That’ll give him time to cool your mom. Then he says he wants us to come back with him to Morro Bay.”

“It,” Janet said bitterly, “figures. Sometimes I think she can read my mind. It’s just like that nag to get the cops to do the dirty work for her.” Her mood changed abruptly. “Oh, Kevin, I’m sorry I didn’t tell you I was running away. I hope you don’t think I was trying to keep secrets from you. It’s just that I thought you might go off and leave me if you knew.”

Kevin goggled her. “Listen, Janet, I don’t know how to put this, but you…never have to worry about me leaving you. Ever. Janet--I’ve been trying to say this since I first met you, but I can’t get my mouth to work right. What I mean is, what I mean is, I mean…I mean I think you’re a really far-out chick. I don’t know how else to put it.”

She stared hard, and by common impulse they stopped. They traded looks for a long moment, panting. Janet blushed prettily. “Do you really mean that, what you said about you think I’m a far-out chick?” Her eyes were downcast, the lids softest pink below the suntan.

Kevin tightened the grip on his handbrakes, and when he spoke it was with the heartfelt naivete of those bright two syllables soldering matrimony. “I do,” he spewed. “I mean, I did. Mean what I said, I mean. What I said I meant. The first time. Yes.”

“That’s just because you happened to meet me on the road. You’d say that to anyone.” When she fished for compliments she had an endearing, albeit melodramatic, habit of turning her head to one side. Now she looked as far behind as her neck would allow.

“Oh no!” Kevin said quickly, eyes wide in pleading sincerity. “I’d think you were far-out whether I happened to meet you first or not. Really. Honestly.”

“You’re just being sweet.”

“No, believe me, I mean it! I think you’re just the nicest and the coolest and…the foxiest chick I ever met. I don’t mean that dirty-like, when I say foxy, I mean more like pretty…and wholesome--like a real sister of the revolution. You know.”

“You’re just saying that.”

Kevin paused for breath, seeking the right word, the apt phrase. “No, really, you should read the mail I write home. It’s so flattering, you’d…you’d think I was in love.”

She looked up, her stare unbearably direct. Kevin swallowed, realizing he’d put his foot in it again. Why were those three little words so very difficult to say? And was it just all the pot he’d smoked, or had he suddenly become intuitively aware, in the congealing hush of her cross-hairs stare, of an ages-old prim bitchiness that had plagued man throughout his occupancy of this planet? But suddenly he saw himself genuflecting at the base of her pedestal, puckering to receive that slender extended foot for the latest in a series of meek offerings. Kevin gnashed air, trying to find the correct digressive response to the prompting of her eyes, though the only assuaging answer hung in the air between them like a spider from its web.

Well? Her eyes demanded. Aren’t you?

A jeep stopping at the light saved him from having to reply. He was spared because an extremely powerful radio on the front seat made an audible reply nearly impossible. A moving popular song by Scott McKenzie now advised millions of restless teenagers over the AM airwaves:

If you’re going to San Francisco,

Be sure to wear some flowers in your hair.

If you come to San Francisco

Summertime will be a love-in there.

Kevin and Janet turned with spontaneous feelings of awe and tenderness and fellowship; authentic flower children now, pilgrims in the holiest of holy cities. And the question didn’t have to be answered. Of course he was in love with her.

If you’re going to San Francisco,

You’re going to meet some gentle people there.

In the streets of San Francisco,

Gentle people with flowers in their hair.

In this jeep in the streets of San Francisco were three men barely out of their teens. The young men were obviously Army fodder, for each had hair cut so short he had to be fresh from boot camp. The driver had orchids taped to his scalp, and the guy in the back seat was balancing a plastic laundry basket filled to the brim with freshly picked wildflowers. They all waved, and Kevin and Janet waved back. The driver honked the jeep’s horn maniacally while making the peace sign with his free hand. The ex-warrior in the back seat laughed and began strewing flowers in all directions. The light changed and the jeep roared off in a shower of petals and stems.

Janet delightedly clapped her hands as she skipped into the street. She came back pelting Kevin with flowers.

“Hold still!” she commanded, and reached into her purse. She fished out a saucer-sized badge proclaiming I LOVE RINGO in black on shocking pink, and used this to fasten a fan of wildflowers to his hat, overriding his frantic objections with equally passionate acclaim.

“No, really,” he said desperately, catching his reflection in the glass of a parked car, “I mean, really, I can’t; it’s silly like this. You don’t want to ride with a guy who looks like a fool, do you?”

“I just told you,” she said sharply, “you don’t look silly. You look divine. Now hush up and quit complaining. After all you’ve said about the Revolution, about letting your freak flag fly, now you want to look all stiff and sober.”

“No, it’s not like that,” Kevin corrected her gently. “There’s no one more into the Movement than I am. It’s just that this badge, well, it’s not me.”

“Why not?” she leapt. “Don’t you love Ringo? I thought you said you thought the Beatles were practically the greatest thing to ever happen to the whole world.”

“I did. I mean I do. The Beatles almost singlehandedly shaped the Movement, and I think they’re the heaviest group of all time. But it’s like I don’t love them. I mean, they’re guys, and I’m a guy. It’s just not right.”

“And why not? You yourself said that society has perverted the word love to having sex meanings only. Now you seem ashamed of the word.”

Kevin dropped his hands and spread his arms. “How can I make you understand…guys have to be careful nowadays with the impression they make. If you’re even friendly with another guy, like if you just put your arm around his shoulders for a second, people will think you’re a f*g.”

“Oh, that’s just silly. That’s all in your mind.”

“Sorry,” Kevin said firmly. “I wouldn’t wear this thing in public for the world.”

Janet folded her slender brown arms across her chest and looked at him coolly, from beneath half-closed eyelids. “You wouldn’t do it for me?” she asked quietly.

He didn’t like the sound of that; it was much too like a threat. His mouth fell open in mute rebuttal, and a furious finger came up preparatory to a firm wagging in front of Janet’s unflinching face. But he was sensitive enough to fear she might actually just push off and pedal away without him if her childish demand was not met, and the now-you-listen-here gesture wimped out to one of ear-reaming pensive consideration. He removed the finger and absently displayed it as in lecture, its tip shiny with wax.

“Tell you what,” he said compromisingly, sensing one of her tantrums just itching to break surface, “I’ll wear it a while for your sake--but first person makes fun of it or gives me even one strange look…off it comes and back in your purse it goes. Is it a deal?”

“It’s a deal!” Janet piped, her face all rosy pretty smile. She stuck out her tiny hand.

Kevin shook hands, a smirk on his face. She thought she had it all over on him, but he could play her game. The first person to see him would laugh uproariously; he’d have made his point and reestablished masculinity as the authoritative force in a relationship. But as he looked around it hit him…he’d really arrived: some of the denizens were so freaky-looking he felt his appearance was tame by comparison. There were men with radically bushy beards and hair reaching clear to their waists, their bodies painted and clad in bizarre and colorful garments; a young man naked save a dirty rag wound up like a diaper, sitting lotus-wise at the corner of 12th and Folsom and mumbling a garbled pseudo-Hindustani; a filthy-but-happy group of new arrivals, all hair and rags and backpacks and beads, the only female member dragging along two naked screaming children; and of course the inevitable train of shaven, pale, punished-looking Hare Krishna chanters, rattling their tambourines and jabbering to high heaven or wherever, trailing their diaphanous, flesh-colored gowns behind them. As for the conservative populace, sick to tears of the sideshow siege; they were too conditioned to this vivid new wave to pay much attention to Kevin and his I LOVE RINGO badge. They saw nothing remarkable about his getup, and if pressed would probably have said they had taken it for granted that he did love Ringo, passionately and unwaveringly, and that that was his business and more power to him. And so Janet came out on top, and Kevin grumblingly admitted his error in prematurely judging these obviously hip inhabitants. In time he grew proud of the badge and searched for other goodies to enhance his appearance. The leather fringing of his vest soon had a punctured bottle cap or nickel washer suspended from every strand; he wore additional flowers on his boots, the stems secured under the laces.

And this was only the threshold; a few more miles and they’d be at the park Itself. If only Eddie could be here, Kevin thought remorsefully, instead of rotting away in some dungeon for a crime he had never even committed. It may have been merely an outlet for his own guilt, but suddenly Kevin inflated with rage. What crime? For possessing the leaves of a sweet, liberating plant in the name of the Revolution? For lovingly offering his energy in the tutoring of his fellow man? For minding his own business and trying to live in peace? For this gentle little Eddie was being dragged to the gallows by some sadistic, porcine degenerate in a funny dark costume, whose occupation was lawful assault and whose orders were being excreted by grim and savvy black-suited politicians who kept their lust for money and power hidden behind a mask of law and order? Whose law? What order? Officers of the Peace: what hypocrisy! Eddie had been kidnapped, Kevin suddenly realized. Forcibly removed by order of those deranged politicians, who, Kevin supposed, had probably kept poor little Eddie under surveillance for years, wiretapping his home and shadowing him to school and back. With a gasp of horror Kevin understood: Eddie had been bagged by those two brutal robots and driven somewhere to be grilled and eliminated. In all probability the sensitive, kind, harmless boy was already long dead; incinerated or cut up for medical research, or whatever the Government did with its victims once they had been milked of all possible information to use against other Innocents. And Kevin’s confiscated grass? Used the same way; planted on some preoccupied flower child the Government suspected was guilty of being loving and generous. Snuffed by the machine. So Eddie had explained it that cold soggy night last November, when he and Kevin had fled to the garage to escape the bellowing tantrums of Big Joe, who, in one more mindless, towering rage, had just threatened to mangle Kevin’s mother, and had instead literally torn the door off the refrigerator on finding his Eastside supply dwindled to a single twelve-ounce can. Like rats the boys had scurried outside, and, finding it too wet to walk anywhere, had climbed into the garage’s little wooden loft. Big Joe had made a tremendous impression on Eddie, who blamed the Government without compromise for Joe’s erratic behavior. It was The System itself, Eddie had claimed, which eventually brought on those manifold violent reactions he described as “terminal sociocultural aggression,” a condition shared to some extent by everyone over thirty. In excited whispers Eddie had expounded on his theories, which, he said, were actually ingrained truths revealed under an LSD trance. It seemed ages ago, when man was at the halfway stage separating quadruped and full-fledged biped, beings from some other galaxy had decided, for some reason Eddie said had not been related in his trance, to experiment with the genes of these dull-witted Earth creatures, using their advanced technology to inspire in the species a tendency toward unreasonable avarice. Though of long range, this influence was impermanent and, according to Eddie, mankind was just now shaking free of it. Hence the new generation was actually the first generation not dominated by this extraterrestrial power, the first generation capable of free will. It was obvious, Eddie had explained. The change was everywhere. Kevin, who had recently seen a movie that was coincidentally nearly parallel with Eddie’s theory, had been excited by this portentous train of thought. Only the day before he had been a self-pitying, unpopular, futureless nobody, and all of a sudden he was a dignified member of an advanced culture lifting its shaggy head to claim its birthright to a planet gone mad with industrialism and war lust. And then Eddie, becoming more animated, had described certain communities where this evolution into the Age of Aquarius was taking place at an accelerated rate. The names of these communities had had faintly familiar and exotic flavors: Greenwich Village, Haight-Ashbury, Big Sur. In particular Eddie had raved about Haight-Ashbury, a district of a few square miles next to a great big gorgeous park named Golden Gate after the famous waterway connecting ocean and bays. In Haight-Ashbury, Eddie had contended, people sprinkled hallucinogens on their morning cornflakes as liberally as sugar, and as a result everybody was in a state of euphoria around the clock. Public nudity, Eddie had maintained, had the sanction of City Hall, which was decorated with Persian tapestries and gave away magic mushrooms at the Department of Peace. Marijuana, pre-rolled and packaged, was sold in vending machines, profits providing new strobe lights for the community’s street lamps. Haight-Ashbury, Eddie had explained, was world headquarters for the revolt against the power pox, the deadly malady of the dollar. And the Flower Children weren’t content to let the old age die out naturally, for by then the world might be too corrupt and contaminated to survive. So now it was touch and go, and all those revolutionaries actually present in the Sacred City during the fall of the old social order would go down in history as heroes, and become Grand Gurus on the cabinet of the Great Guru, who, Eddie had pointed out, was presently a tossup between George Harrison, Donovan Leitch, and Dr. Timothy Leary. And the method of revolt, Eddie had concluded, was child’s play: a simple formula of passive resistance, indefatigable intoxication, willful poverty, indiscriminate loving, and rock and roll idolization. That had all sounded pretty good to Kevin, and he had been filled with envy of all those lucky souls who were so fortunate to be on that hallowed ground while history was in the making, and wasn’t it a drag that he and Eddie had to be in the thick of one of the more industrialized areas in the world while the great carcinoma of greed closed about them, with Haight-Ashbury only four hundred miles away? Eddie had looked up from studying his tightly clasped hands and said, “Three hundred eighty-six and a third miles,” and then grown pensive. After a moment of silence he had looked back up and said with pent excitement, “And it’s all beautiful coast all the way. I’ve got a bike.” Then he was silent again, having read nothing but a formless enthusiasm in Kevin’s face. Finally he’d said, “Do you?” “Do I what?” “Have a bike.” “No.” Eddie had grown increasingly restless, and pretty soon he’d fished a fat marijuana cigarette from his pocket and quizzically raised an eyebrow. Uncertain of the procedure, Kevin had imitated Eddie’s intense expression, and finally Eddie had said, “Do you?” “Do I what?” “Smoke pot.” “When?” “Ever.” “No.” “Want to try it?” “Right now?” “Sure.” “Wow!” So Eddie had fired up the joint, taken a deep hit, and passed it to his new pal. Again imitating Eddie, Kevin had sucked hard on the joint, and, though the urge to cough the smoke back out had been powerful, he had held it in long as possible to impress little Eddie. After two more deep hits he had become aware of a number of novel and quite agreeable sensations, such as a physical lightness, a pleasant congestion within the skull, and an increased sensitivity to sound and color. There were also quite a few not-so-agreeable sensations. A sort of ululating claustrophobia, an almost panicky urge to be alone, an almost panicky terror of being alone, a stuffiness of the nasal passages, and an acute sense of embarrassment. Eddie had apparently been going through this same blunted trauma, for, although there were all kinds of things to talk about, the boy’s tongue and brain had simply refused to cooperate. Both he and Kevin had been wary of speaking first, and perhaps saying something that would be misconstrued and need taxing explanation, or, worse, something that would be taken as offensive. The problem was the duration of this silence. The longer either waited to speak, the more difficult and less valid the breaking of the silence would be. And so the silence had extended and the animal electricity had arced between them until they had simultaneously turned their heads to face the rectangular panels of the loft’s doors, as if each thin piece of wood were a picture window revealing some activity without of interest to both boys. And suddenly the doors had been whipped outward with insane force to reveal gargantuan Joe in all his senseless, wanton wrath, his beet-red face contorted by a hideous snarl. Yet there had been no look of surprise on that face. There’d been only a perverse triumph, and this suggested he’d been standing there, clad only in his foul jockey shorts and sweat-soaked T-shirt, for a good while, listening and waiting for the proper moment to pounce. And pounce he had. He ripped Kevin out of the loft by the hair and hurled him across the garage. He silenced screaming little Eddie with a glassy stare, then turned and stalked his son, stamping furiously until the great heart staggered in its struggle, stalled and sent Big Joe crashing on his back. And Kevin’s mother had come barreling in like the demon in a cheap horror film, hurled herself on Joe and then on Kevin, until the neighbors had pulled her off. It had taken eight strong firemen to lift, haul, drag and heave elephantine Joe to the ambulance, and then they’d discovered that trying to fit Big Joe into the ambulance was like trying to cram a baby grand piano into a station wagon. While they were sweating over the problem, Joe, who by all rights should have been stone dead, somehow had pulled out of it long enough to embrace two firemen with the reserve of his fury, crushing the pelvis of one and dislocating both arms of the other. Then, swearing profusely, he had slipped back into unconsciousness. The two injured firemen had been taken to hospital in one ambulance, Kevin’s hysterical mother in the other, and neighbors, cops, firemen, and Y.M.C.A. members had pooled for a group effort, finally heaving mammoth Joe onto the bed of a neighbor’s pickup truck, thereby transporting him to Santa Monica General. Kevin had watched all this activity in hiding, cowering with little Eddie behind the avocado’s great trunk. And after all the official vehicles had departed Eddie had run to the loft to get the joint butt, fearing the FBI would respond to all the excitement by sending a special squad to the garage, ferreting out the roach, and somehow getting his fingerprints off it. Then, Eddie was sure, there would be no rest. The Government would track him to the darkest corner of the planet. When Eddie returned he found Kevin sprawled in the dirt, face pale and tongue bleeding badly. Kevin wouldn’t respond to Eddie’s shaking him by the shoulders, nor to the few gentle slaps Eddie administered. Kevin’s eyes had been rolled up and his mouth working strangely, making drowning sounds. Spooked, Eddie had used the garden hose to soak Kevin down. Kevin had choked, flailed his arms about, and come to his senses retching on his knees. The fit, a mystery to both boys, had been attributed to the stress Kevin had undergone. Kevin had spent that night at Eddie’s, and the very next day Joe was back and as full of fury as ever, though his skin had taken on a waxy look and his hair grown grayer overnight. But there was a change from then on. Kevin had been allowed to look the way he wanted to look, and Joe had even, perhaps out of some long-suppressed sense of guilt, decided the wretched little family should celebrate Christmas that year and offered to buy Kevin a present of whatever the boy might want. Kevin had passionately specified he wanted to find a ten-speed under, or next to, the tree (Joe had gone on a rampage that Christmas morning, assassinated the neighbor’s Great Dane and made matchsticks of the Christmas tree, but that’s another story), and Joe had complied with one of the finest ten-speeds Peugeot puts on the market. Kevin and Eddie had become riding buddies, which meant that Mike, Eddie’s old riding buddy, had to accept Kevin or lose Eddie’s friendship, and the three, under Eddie’s tutelage, made plans for what Eddie called “The Ultimate Run.”

That had all taken place over half a year ago.

And now Eddie was dead and Mike was at large and Kevin was looking for an excuse to get the hell out of San Francisco and down to Morro Bay. A lot of growing up had taken place mighty fast, and this particular a*s had already learned to equate the carrot with the stick.

Just so: There’s an unbearable lesson which self-respecting human beings must come to accept in the real world--a lesson which’ll be lost on all those shallow, materialistic, hypocritical anybodies out there; fighting, f*****g, and finagling away in the carnival, with all their silly religions, marriages, careers, and assorted bullshit fronts: the facades they so neatly slip behind to gainsay the very appetites which drive them, crucifix in one hand and genitalia in the other, to transmogrify the natural, healthy outcome of every vital activity…

They are legion.

We must ignore them, for we cannot possibly survive them. They are pumping out impressionable babies, and indoctrinating them into the ways of the herd, even as we, peering aghast, perish. We must ignore them, for they can only diminish us. They make us digress. And burn. Through the onslaught of their slimy, overt worldliness, through their celebration of--nay, through their worship of--mediocrity, they compel us to ream them intellectually, to speak freely, and to, in moments of stolen quiet, question the worth of our noble ideals. And sometimes they can even drive us to write angry, profane-yet-profound prose. They just make us want to go postal, and to desecrate their gaudy altars, and to stand alone on every other swarming street corner--erect, indignant, articulate, intense--and cry to the deaf stampede:

“The Big Camera is whirring, sure enough, and it wants you all to perform for it; just as loudly, just as lewdly, just as publicly as you possibly can. It wants you to strut your stuff. You’re right! You’re right! You are special. You can tap and shuffle and wiggle and pose. You can feign and parry, you can huff and bluff. You can and will do anything to get what you want, then claim you’re doing it for your mate, or your children, or your country, or your deity. The Big Camera has known it all along: you’re stars! So get yours, you soulless, posturing pigpeople. Go preen. The great lesson is this: Life, for the individual who doesn’t possess the ‘brains’ to ‘make it’ as an a*s kisser, is over at conception.

“And yes, the Power of Denial will get you by. But anybody who buys into this game is guilty of collusion, of dumping on his own potential and perpetuating the Pig.

“Proud to be Crowd…O pretentious b******s!

“You are why the world is a sty.

“You have social-esteem. How dare you lay claim to self-esteem. You know you’re all frauds.

“You know.”