Summer of Love, a Time Travel (3 page)

Where
is Nance? She’d signed the postcard, “Penny Lane,” but Susan would know her
scrawl anywhere. Where is her best friend, the only person she knows in San
Francisco? She figured she would step off the 6 Parnassus bus, and there Nance
would be, a Kool dangling from her laughing lip.

Now
she doesn’t know where to start.

She
stands, fighting despair, near tears.

The mountain
man is looking at her from across the field. He grins when he catches her
glance and waves grandly,
come on!
He’s a magnet, a good-luck charm. No
boy she’s ever met comes even close. Is he really waving at her? She looks over
her shoulder, to the right, to the left. Yes, at her!

The
truck is parked at the edge of a broad tree-lined meadow in Golden Gate Park.
Small wooden stages, frail against the backdrop of ancient eucalyptus trees,
are set up here and there on the unkempt grass. Bands are already playing, the
reedy voices and guitar twangs nearly lost in the air. Even the drumbeats are
diminished, but Susan knows their sounds, their songs, and all of their names:
the Grateful Dead, Big Brother and the Holding Company, Quicksilver Messenger
Service.

A
man in a Mickey Mouse cap perched over his wrinkled forehead leaps about,
blowing soap bubbles from an oversized hoop. A boy of perhaps ten, his face
painted with blue stars, straddles a girl of perhaps eight, her face painted
with pink flowers, and pumps his hips against hers. No one pays them the
slightest attention.

Who
is young? Who is old?

Susan’s
stomach somersaults at the scent of hamburgers grilling. She hasn’t eaten a
thing since the Swanson’s TV dinner the maid left after her parents went out
last night.

Then
something odd shifts at the corner of her eye. A hooded cape? Strange sparks? Over
there! In the dappled shade behind the trees. A freezing breeze strikes her
face.

Susan
whirls, ready to flee.

People
are laughing by the barbecue pits. A cook drops a patty of raw meat on the
grass, retrieves it, and throws it back on a rusty grill. A reveler offers a
paper plate to receive his dirtburger.

But
there’s nothing behind the trees. Nothing at all.

*  
*   *

Susan
catches up with the mountain man halfway across the meadow. She stands several
paces away, suddenly struck with shyness.

He’s
speaking with an imperious woman who stands nearly six feet tall. Curly black
hair forms a nimbus around her face. Sparkling dark eyes, high cheekbones, and
full lips are set in smooth skin the color of coffee with extra cream. Her squash
blossom turquoise-and-silver necklace looks groovy with her sweeping dress of
turquoise cotton. Nice. If Susan’s mother has taught her anything, it’s how to
spot Nice.

“I
want my calculating machine,” the woman is saying. She does not speak, she
proclaims. “I want it back
today
.”

“No
can do.” Stan beams at her, but his eyes flash with anger. “Got one more
shipment coming next week. Got to figure the numbers.”

“No!
No more shipments, no
more
! I won’t cover for you, Stan. Not
ever
again.”

“Say
hey, Ruby A. Maverick.” He drops his smile. “We made a deal. Take the calculating
machine, you said. Take it as long as I need it, you said. Well, I need it. And
I’m keeping it. You’ll get it back when you get it back.”

“No
deal,” Ruby says. “The deal is off.”

“One
more shipment. You have my word.”

“Your
word
.”

Susan
shifts the overnight bag to her other hand, embarrassed. Mom and Daddy fight.
Always voices behind closed doors. What do they fight about? She’s not sure. Sometimes
Susan can’t sleep all night after hearing them argue, sensing their muffled
rage.

Stan
turns to two other men standing nearby. The first is another god-man, towering
and razor-thin in patched jeans and a threadbare workshirt. He’s been-around-town
tough, his boyish features dusted with poverty. A fisherman’s cap tilts over
his abundant brown curls and a gold-tone earring gleams in his earlobe.

“Help
me out here, Gorgon,” Stan says. “You’re a man of many words. Talk some sense into
the woman.”

Gorgon
shrugs. “Your calculating machine is just private property, Ruby. Ownership of
private property is the phony crap upon which this society of greed is based.
What’s the big deal?”

“That’s
just it, Leo,” Ruby snaps. “He’s using my calculating machine to
deal
.”

The
second man is positively frail in a loose purple shirt and grass-stained jeans
two sizes too large for him. Grime cakes his bare feet. His aquiline nose and
cheekbones jut from a complexion as pale as Dracula’s. A brass door knocker
strung on a leather thong hangs over his sunken chest.

“That’s
your reality, Ruby,” the stickman says in that flat affect. Professor Zoom’s
eyes are all pupil; Susan can’t even tell their color. “
Dealing
is in
your mind. Dealing
is
your mind. Deal your
mind
, Ruby.”

“Go
back to Harvard, Harold,” Ruby says. “You’re a full-of-shit philosopher.”

“Don’t
call me names,” Professor Zoom says. “Besides, I’m not full of shit. I’m full
of Owsley white lightning.”

It’s
a sight to see. Amid the laughing, leaping people, Ruby’s anger burns. That
feels wrong to Susan. Yet these men are intent on defusing her. That feels
wrong, too. It’s confusing.

Suddenly
they all notice her, hovering at the edge of their circle.

“Foxy
lady!” Stan greets her as if she’s a long-lost friend. He stoops and plants a bold
kiss on her mouth. Not the sloppy stuff Bernie MacKenna or Allen Weisberg have tried
in the darkness of the Cedar Center Theater. A real kiss, insistent and expert.
She is petrified and elated.

She
wants. . . .she’s not sure what she wants. She forgets herself for the long moments
he takes to kiss her. Forgets her messy hair, her unwashed face. She’s a foxy
lady. Mindless, such a smart girl. And numb, except for a spot somewhere north
of her thighs. If she had to give it name just now, she might call it her
heart.

He
scoops her under his arm and sweeps her into the circle, depositing her in
their midst. “Meet our newest flower child.”

Ruby
glares at her. “Uh-huh. What’s your name, flower child?”

“St-Starbright.”

“Starbright.
Let me see, Starbright. You just blew into town from some burb outside Chicago.
Right, am I right?”

“C-Cleveland.”

“Daddy’s
a vice president. Or, say, a doctor.”

“Dentist,”
Susan whispers.

“Ruby’s
psychic,” Professor Zoom says. Just the facts, ma’am.

“Speak
up, Starbright. A
dentist
. A real sadist, right? Beats up everybody’s
mind at home. Everybody uptight
all
the time.”

Susan
studies the squash blossom necklace. They
are
uptight all the time. She
can’t stand it anymore.

“Eat
good.” Ruby circles her. “Maybe a little too good. Got your own li’l bedroom
painted purple. Beatles’ posters thumb-tacked to the walls.”

Susan
stares. Her bedroom is painted lavender, actually, and her mother yelled at her
about the thumbtacks ruining the paint job.

“And
you’ve come all the way to the Haight-Ashbury to find your soul ‘cause sure ain’t
no soul in Cleveland.”

“I’ve
come to find Penny Lane,” she declares.

“Penny.
. . .oh,
now
I see. Another darling daughter from the soulless ‘burbs.
Name’s really Joanie or Nancy. And
she’s
run away to the Haight-Ashbury
to find her soul.”

Tears
pool in her eyes, and Susan blinks them back.

“Go
home, Starbright,” Ruby commands. “Sally or Suzy or whoever you are. Go home to
your purple bedroom and three square meals a day. I’d love to sell you a string
of beads for triple what they’re worth. Damn right, I would, Leo.” She glares
at Gorgon and rubs her thumb across her fingers. “But you and your kind were
old news
last
summer. You hear me, kid? It’s 1967. You are
old
news.
”

“But
it’s all new to me!”

“You’re
too late. There’s no place for you in the Haight-Ashbury. Cleveland needs you
more.
Go home.
”

“No!”
How dare this woman bully her! Susan’s tears dry up. Her stutter steadies. “I’m
never going home.”

“Beautiful.”
Ruby throws up her hands in exasperation. “Another teenybopper for Stan the
Man. That’s just beautiful.” She turns and strides away. “Have a ball,” she
calls over her shoulder.

“Bummer,
Ruby,” Professor Zoom yells after her.

“She’s
got a point about the calculating machine,” Gorgon says to Stan. He takes off
after Ruby like a wolf chasing prey.

“Methinks
Sir Leo the Gorgon intends to pick up the piece, as it were,” Professor Zoom
says to Stan.

Stan
wraps his arm around Susan’s shoulders, but he’s staring after Ruby, his
expression now a mix of anger and longing. “Yeah. Well. That’s her karma, the bitch.”

“Not
bitch
, my good Stan. Ruby is a
witch.
” Professor Zoom takes a
corncob pipe from his shirt pocket and lights it with a Bic. “Don’t be
attached, my son. Nothing is real. Reality is nothing.”

Stan
laughs. “Professor Zoom is a very wise man,” he says to Susan. To Professor
Zoom, “I’m not attached. I just never saw a Digger anarchist make it with a hip
merchant. Leo Gorgon and Ruby A. Maverick? Maybe they’ll off each other.”

“Life
is but a dream and an awakening,” Professor Zoom says. The smoke curling out of
his pipe smells like burnt chocolate. “I am content if Ruby offs Leo Gorgon. I
am content if Leo offs Ruby A. Maverick. I am content if they off
you.
”

“Or
you?” Stan says.

“Try
some white Lebanese pollen.” Professor Zoom hands the pipe to Stan. “If it’s you,
bequeath to me the calculating machine. I’m still searching for the Final
Expression to my Equation proving that God is a hit of blotter.”

Susan
doesn’t understand a word they’re saying. It all sounds so silly. She shivers
and leans against Stan’s sturdy warmth. He hugs her back, quick and natural.
When did anyone last hug her? Maybe Nance before Susan moved to the new neighborhood
a year ago. Body heat, oh the comfort of arms. She snuggles closer, glancing up
at his face.

He
winks at Professor Zoom as he hands back the pipe.

“Methinks
the sweet pretty pussy is very hungry and very, very thirsty,” Professor Zoom
says. He gazes at Susan with eyes like tunnels boring into his skull. What
happens in there? “Let’s go trip with the Double Barrel Boogie Band.”

Stan
says, “Right on.”

*  
*   *

The
Double Barrel Boogie Band is setting up.

Susan
can hardly believe her eyes. It’s them. It’s really
them!
On the bass
drum, two circles conjoin like a shotgun snout or the symbol of infinity. She
and Nance
love
the Double Barrel. They brought
Let’s Boogie Boogie
to Cheryl Long’s fourteenth birthday party, took off the Beach Boys, and danced
with each other all night.

That’s
Paul sitting down at the keyboards. Mickey on drums, Stevie on bass, Rodg the
Dodg on lead guitar. The Double Barrel Boogie Band! Wow!

Then
something even more amazing happens. Stan the Man hops up onto the stage, just
like that. He slaps hands all around. He confers with Rodg the Dodg, barks
orders at two scruffy boys connecting wires and setting up equipment. He hops
down, strides behind the stage. Three beautiful girls pose there dressed in
velvet and lace, whispering and laughing. They stare at Susan through false
eyelashes so thick they look like caterpillars.

Susan
is shaking so hard, the overnight bag wobbles in her clenched fist. Nance, oh
Nance, where are you when I need you?

The
band’s set begins. Stan returns to her, wraps his arm around her shoulders. A
woman in a see-through blouse calls to him from the crowd. Her breasts bounce
as she waves, but Stan smiles only at Susan, his eyes lingering on her breasts
nestled inside her jacket, sweater, blouse, and bra.

Deafening
chords of “Drop a Double Barrel” assault her eardrums.

Stan
shouts in her ear, “How old are you, Starbright?”

She’s
ready with
that
answer. “I’m eighteen.”

He
laughs. “So am I.”

Professor
Zoom squats at the foot of the stage, ladling juice from a wide-mouthed jug, and
handing out paper cups to passersby. “Orange juice? Free orange juice?”

Stan
brings her a brimming cup.

Susan
takes the cup, annoyed. How stupid does he think she is? He’s not eighteen any
more than she is. More like twenty-eight. She can never guess people’s ages
between young and ancient but, from his weathered, leathered look up close, he
doesn’t seem a whole lot younger than her father.