And Yesterday Is Gone (6 page)

The old ewe scrambled to her feet. Her parting gift was a deluge of warm piss that trickled through the hay and soaked me to the skin. A random, fleeting thought: Yes, I still love you.

I waited for Carlos to get out. When I heard the door close, I started to dig out frantically. As my head cleared the hay, I looked out a crack in the side and saw he'd parked next to a big semi, the motor still running. Watching him walk toward the phone booth, my view was suddenly blocked by a car that parked on the opposite side.

Hurriedly, I plowed through the confused sheep. I heard the door to the phone booth close and I vaulted over the side and fell to my knees. I had been so cramped for at least four-and-a-half hours that I couldn't feel my feet. I crawled on my hands and knees to the big semi and hid behind one of the huge wheels. I barely noticed the odor of the exhaust; it was no competition for the stench of me. Wet, filthy, hay all over me—how in hell was I going to catch a ride out of this place? I knew Carlos' conversation would be quick. My mind was racing—where to turn? Then I heard the door of the car opening and a woman's peevish voice, “Hurry up. I'm going to piss myself. I've waited for the last hundred miles.”

“Well, slide over…,” a man answered. “There it is—go for it. Don't be so damned bitchy. I'm gonna get a cup of coffee. I'll pick one up for you, too, if you're dry.” He laughed. The door slammed as they walked away.

Creeping around the pickup, I opened their back door only to find the back filled to the ceiling with everything imaginable—suitcases, a violin case shoved between two huge plastic bags bulging with laundry, folding chairs, a crumpled camp cot stuffed tightly against a half-folded tent and, riding high above it all, a Coleman stove.

I struggled to the floor and pulled down everything I could reach to cover me. I thought, I've survived beneath twelve sheep and half a ton of hay—this should be easy.

When the couple returned, all that was evident was a little hay that had managed to detach from my wet clothing and fallen to the asphalt. I involuntarily held my breath and squeezed my eyes shut—if I couldn't see them, they couldn't see me.

“Great grief—something stinks to high heaven,” he exclaimed as he opened the car door.

“It's those animals in that awful old truck,” she answered. “Let's go—where's my coffee?”

“Here—don't spill it all over,” he answered and closed the door.

Hearing the pickup start and the final “baa” of that old ewe fade into the distance, I knew I was safe. Tears rolled uncontrollably down my grimy cheeks.

I lay there limp as a rag doll holding my breath, willing it not to explode. My long legs were pulled up; one arm seemed permanently locked in place to protect my face; my other arm was numb.

Every time the driver put on the brakes or hit a bump, the debris above settled a little lower. Unbearably cramped, I prayed they would soon reach their destination—I didn't care where it was.

The couple bickered constantly.

She whined, “I am so tired of them antiwar Vietnam protesters—them damn freedom marchers. Why don't they stay home?”

“You sure as hell ain't very patriotic. Almost half a million American men in that godforsaken jungle and rice paddies, over a hundred thousand killed or wounded—doesn't any of that mean anything to you?”

“That's on the other side of the world. You four-effers ought to be glad instead of wavin' the flag. I'm livin' today—right now. I love that ‘turn on, tune in, drop out' sayin'. Hell, I been trippin' out and tunin' in for years. I was a hippie before there were hippies. How can anybody not love Janis Joplin or the Grateful Dead?”

He laughed. “Personally, I like Spade Cooley or Bob Wills and the Texas Playboys.” Then added, “Uh-oh, we're awful low on gas.”

She didn't seem to hear him, but my heart sure missed a beat. “Please, God, please,” I groaned.

“My sis says livin' in a commune in a big mansion in the Haight- Ashbury is the only way to go. Free concerts, free dope, free love—all right there in Golden Gate Park. That's for me. A big love-in next week, at least thirty thousand people expected. I can't wait.

“Oh my gawd, look at that gas gauge.” Her voice hit a high C. “Damn you. Don't you dare let us run out of gas.”

“We wouldn't be worrying about gas or money if you hadn't insisted on a motel every night. You might miss that big love-in if we hitchhiked. We'll get there when we get there.”

“One night in that damn tent was one night too many. How in hell did you think a Coleman stove would keep us from freezing in March—and how was I so stupid to believe you? You great outdoorsman, you! I nearly froze my ass off keepin' that Coleman heater warm and cookin' over a campfire. I ain't no pioneer,” she bitched.

“I've got you all the way from Maryland, haven't I? Almost a week listening to you. Damn, it will be so good to deliver you to your sister.”

Suddenly she shrieked, “Turn. Turn. You're in the wrong lane—the San Francisco exit is over there.”

The tires screeched and the car swerved violently. With a bang, the Coleman stove hit the back of the front seat and the tent settled around me like a shroud. I begged for breath.

Judging from the sound of the grinding brakes and wildly honking horns, we must have crossed at least four lanes of traffic. Even buried as I was, I could hear the cursing drivers as they maneuvered around us.

Am I going to survive Carlos only to die in this shit-filled backseat with these maniacs?
I thought.

Then his trembling voice found its way out. “You damn near got us killed. Roll us a joint.”

“You're shakin' so bad you probably won't be able to hold it,” she answered.

“Try me.”

The secondhand smoke drifted back and even relaxed me. But the quiet didn't last long.

I could feel her bounce up and down on the seat. I guessed she'd seen the skyline and was almost hysterical.

“The sun shining through the mist,” she said, “makes the city look as though it just dropped out of the sky and floated down.”

He must have been impressed, too. “You're right—for once. This is a beautiful city. I've never seen such houses—and so big, built right on the hilltops, too. Never dreamed I'd ever see the famous Golden Gate Bridge. Maryland is a world away.”

“Thank God,” she answered. “Where is that map? We want eleven- hundred Haight Street. My sis said it's about four blocks from Ashbury.”

“Will you look at those mansions? Those hippies are living high on the hog if they've got a commune in this neighborhood. Look…”

“Pay attention to your driving,” she snapped. “You almost killed us once.”

“Yeah? Who screamed ‘turn'?” He then interrupted himself to say, “This is Ashbury Street.” A few minutes later: “Haight Street—what number again?”

“Stop, stop. That's it—there on the left. Look, there's people dancin' on the porch…”

The car screeched to a stop. She leaned over and the horn sounded—seven short bursts.

I recognized that old sound: “Shave and a haircut, two bits.”

“Are you crazy?” he demanded. “Maybe this isn't even the right address.”

The car door slammed and I could hear her heels hitting the sidewalk. His door opened and the instant it closed, I was digging out. Finally I was on my feet—the first time I'd stood erect since Juan had pushed me into the pickup. I leaned back against the open door, feeling the sensation slowly flow back in my body. It stung so bad, my knees trembled.

I saw him start up the walk toward the people on the porch, and I staggered away from the door.

Some people were dancing, some singing; obviously, it was a party. I could see, and plainly hear, two hysterical women hugging and talking, then doing it all over again.

I got my legs under me and started up the walk behind the driver. Thinking that if everything is free and everybody loves everybody, maybe I can get a bath and a free meal.

Nearing the bottom steps, the music slacked off and the conversation quieted. I felt like a bug on a pin. I knew what I must look like with those ratty jeans I'd worn most of nine months, one filthy old shirt pulled over another one even worse, socks with my bare heels showing and shitty boots. The only decent thing I had was the jacket my Ma had given me, with the inside lining packed with five Baggies of pure Mary Jane, and the thirty-eight dollars I had lifted off my stepfather still hiding in a seam. My hair was long and stringy—the dirt had taken the curl right out of it. For that I was thankful. And how I smelled—sheep piss, manure of many days' accumulation, months of only cold showers with no soap. And wrapping around it all, the cold, clammy sweat of fear that clung to me like skin.

I stopped when the driver turned and said, “Where in hell did you come from? I could smell you before I saw you.”

“From the backseat of your car,” I answered, “and it sure as hell doesn't smell much better.”

“Damn you, I'll have to pay someone to tow it away. When and how did you get in there? I ought to take a swing at you,” he said.

“Better not, I'm in kind of a touchy mood,” I answered.

Someone, some guy, came down from the porch, a guitar slung over his shoulder, and laughed. “C'mon, pilgrim, you sure can use a bath. Where're you from?”

“I just got off a mountain ranch in Calaveras County, and a bath would be a dream come true.”

The crowd parted, then continued the festivities as we walked through a ten-foot doorway into an entry hung with oil paintings of old people—probably the founding fathers.

“Take off those dirty boots,” he said. “These are Persian carpets and my mother is fussy. She and Dad are wintering in the Bahamas this year.”

I stumbled along beside him up the stairs, then down a long hallway separating the bedrooms. As we passed, I could see mattresses, bedrolls, blankets on the floor, as well as ornate furniture pushed up against the walls.

He turned into a bathroom that was bigger than Ma's entire house. I could only stand and stare at the big bars of pretty soap, the marble bathtub that would have accommodated an entire family.

He turned on the water and as the tub filled, I stripped. That didn't take long. He fumbled around in a drawer and found a toothbrush. “I'll be back with some towels and clothes. I'll burn these,” he added, lifting my clothes with two fingers and stuffing them in a basket. Then he tossed me a brush with a long handle. “Enjoy,” he said, closing the door.

I sank deep into that heavenly hot water. Only my nose escaped. Suddenly I realized he'd taken my jacket, too—my Ma's Christmas present. “And my stash—my stash,” I groaned.

I leaped from the tub, the force splashing water over the walls and floor, and rushed after him stark naked, yelling, “Wait, wait—my jacket. I want my jacket.”

There were people in every room, but the crowd pushed to make a path in the hallway for this crazy, naked man screaming for a jacket, on a dead run for a fellow in front of him carrying a basket with a guitar bouncing on his back. Sensing my imminent approach, the guy dropped the jacket; I caught it before it hit the floor.

I heard some other guy laugh and say, “That cowboy sure knows how to make an entrance.”

A girl added, “Yes, he presents himself very well—very well indeed. I intend to look him up when he's clean.”

I rolled up that jacket as tight as I could and wedged it between the commode and the wall. It had been in worse places.

I lay in that tub until my skin was so wrinkled I was embarrassed to look at myself. Although I did notice muscles I hadn't had before—guess digging postholes in the frozen ground hadn't been all bad. Now that I had scrubbed my hair until I had almost exposed my scalp, it was blond and curly again, and I had a healthy growth of stubble on my chin. I thought I had probably taken a couple layers of enamel off my teeth with that toothbrush.

Half asleep in the warm water that at last was draining clear, I was startled awake by the appearance of a girl in the open doorway—I guess they don't knock in San Francisco—carrying towels and some clothes. She tossed them on a chair and said, “C'mon down—we've got a big pot of spaghetti and Digger bread that the Diggers sent over. They bake their bread in coffee cans.”

“Diggers?” I said curiously.

She hesitated in the doorway. “Oh, they're an organization that doesn't believe in buying and selling. They provide free food, clothing, a place to crash for people who need it, and even medical help. A fix, too, if you need it bad enough.”

“Wait a minute and I'll come with you. Turn your back.”

She giggled. “Too late for that. I saw it all in the hallway,” she informed, laughing all the way down the stairs.

The huge smoke-filled room was filled with a moving sea of noisy people, and with wonderful aromas of fresh bread and hot spaghetti.

I filled my paper plate to the ultimate capacity, then piled half a loaf of bread on top of that. Looking for a place to sit, I spied my benefactor against a wall with his guitar and an empty plate in front of him, a roach smoldering in a saucer. He motioned me over.

“Sit, Cowboy. You sure smell a lot better.” He grinned. “You really gave me a scare.”

He played a few chords as I ate ravenously. People milled around and sang along, and traded pills of every color.

“This must be heaven,” I said.

“No, this is San Francisco, man, home of the flower children.” He sang, “If you're going to San Francisco, be sure to wear some flowers in your hair…You're going to meet some gentle people there…

“Turn on, tune in, drop out. Here—have a drag.”

When my plate was clean for the second time, I looked up. Beads, flowers, feathers, long hair and beards seemed to predominate—I seemed to fit right in with my donated tie-dye shirt and bell-bottoms.