I. M A R C H    1 9 7 4

1.

Ever mindful of proper etiquette, I smiled wide with the approach of each vehicle, trying my best to look friendly.  And in their turn, the cars rushed by as if I didn't exist, the drivers discreetly averting their gaze. 

Halfway between San Francisco and San Jose, I stood patiently at the freeway on-ramp, arm raised and thumb extended, trying to hitch a ride south.  A hundred feet to my right was Highway 101, a busy ten-lane interstate rumbling with the heavy rush-hour traffic you always seem to get on Friday afternoons.  Surrounding the freeway entrance to my left was a decaying light-industrial district, progress past its prime, working hard at disgorging a steady stream of cars and trucks onto the waiting freeway.

The wind changed direction, and I gagged.  It smelled like something had died in a dumpster in back of the warehouse nearest the on-ramp.  I tried to ignore the smell, and wished I was somewhere else.  Anywhere else.

Two and a half hours since I was dropped off, I thought.  Two and a half hours!

The only thing I could figure was that everyone was so intent on getting home and filled with thoughts of the weekend, they just didn't have time to stop for a hitchhiker.  Which, made perfect sense.  The last ride had been great, so it was only natural that everything has gone to hell, now, I thought.  Yes, everything had gone rather too well up to that point. 

The day before, I'd started hitching from Seattle on my way to Monterey, California.  I'd made it to Redding the previous night in seven rides, then lucked into the ride from Redding to San Mateo earlier in the day.  Yeah, I thought sourly, it's definitely time things screwed up.

Wearily, I put down my thumb and sagged back against the freeway entrance sign.  I studied the graffiti on the sign, and what I found wasn't very encouraging.  'Five hours and no rides ... This place sucks!'  On and on.

I looked at the cardboard sign I'd been holding which simply said, 'south.'  It had to be time to try something new, I thought.  I stooped down, reaching behind the frame of my pack and pulled out a new sign, which read, 'Venezuela.'  I'd tried this sign a couple times before and it usually worked well. 

The first time I used it, I'd been hitching cross-country from Augusta, Maine back to Seattle, and a young straight-looking couple picked me up right away.  It was a real pain, though.

The guy and his wife were all concerned because I wasn't headed in the right direction.  I had to tell them I was taking a slight detour, via the First Annual Rainbow Family gathering at Strawberry Lake, just outside Granby, Colorado.  The lady absolutely gushed.  They wanted to know all the details of my trip southward, and did I speak Spanish and so on.  They seemed so up about the idea of someone hitching to South America, I didn't have the heart to tell them I was really on my way back to Seattle after the Rainbow Family gathering ended.  Instead, I made up a lot of bullshit details of my 'South American Journey,' then played stupid the rest of the ride, afraid they'd trip me up on something I'd said.  The whole thing was a real pain in the ass. 

After that, I decided I'd be up-front whenever I used it again.

I'd been holding the new sign for about five minutes when an old, dented Volkswagen bug with oxidized yellow paint pulled off on the shoulder in front of me.  The driver looked back and gestured at me with his hand. 

I picked up my pack and guitar, and hurried to the car.  I opened the door.

The driver peered out at me.  "Hey, where ya headed?" he shouted over the roar of the traffic.

He was a young, WASP-ish man dressed in a suit and tie.  The knot of the tie was loosened, and the top button of his white shirt was undone.  He was in his early twenties, and on closer inspection, it looked like he hadn't shaved in a couple of days.  The back seat of the bug was piled high with dirty laundry, and sitting precariously on top, was a box of soap.  Dangling from his rearview mirror was a misshapen blue ceramic peace sign, like one I’d made myself, back in shop class.  He continued in a lower voice, “Hey, you ain't really going to Venezuela, are ya?"  

Reminding myself that honesty was the best policy, I shook my head and smiling sheepishly, said, "Naw.  I'm just going to Monterey.  How far you going?"

"Santa Cruz." 

"Huh.  Where's that?" 

"Just north of Monterey.  You oughta get a ride from Santa Cruz to Monterey easy.  Get in."

"Cool."  It sounded perfect.

It was a tight fit, but I stowed my stuff in the back seat on top of the laundry, and then piled in.  He put the car in gear, popped the clutch, and we lurched out onto the ramp and into the heavy traffic.

We'd been driving for a couple of minutes when he turned to me.  "Name's George Hendricks," he said, and offered his hand.  We shook hands hippie style – a regular handshake followed by a second diagonal grip. 

A good sign, I thought, as I smiled at him.  "Mark Roosevelt.  Thanks for picking me up, man."

He shrugged.  "No problem, dude.  Got off work early today.  Going down to Santa Cruz to see my old lady."   

He paused for a moment, scratching his nose as he watched the traffic in front of us, then asked, "So how long you been on the road?"  

"Just two days."

"Where from?"

"Seattle.  Seattle, Washington."

"Huh.  That's pretty good time."  He paused for several seconds while weaving around a slow truck, and then asked, "Hey, they still got gas rationing up there?"  He glanced over at me, and then stared back at the road.

I shook my head.  "Nope, it ended a couple weeks ago.”

“Same here.  Nice, huh?”

“Got that straight.  No more long lines at the pumps, no more odd-even days, thank God."

"For real.  What kinda prices you guys got up there?"

"Bad.  It's still pretty high, over fifty cents a gallon for regular."

"Ugly!  Yeah, it's about the same here.  The prices suck, but you can get what you want when you want.  Goddamn jerk-off Arabs.  Fifty-five cents a gallon for gas!  That's bullshit!"  He paused for a moment, looking me over, then asked,  "Hey?  You smoke dope?"

"Sure."  I smiled broadly.  Now I knew this would be a good ride.

He pulled out a small brass pipe, and while driving with his elbows, filled it from a baggie.  He lit it and took a hit, then as he passed it to me, said, "Good stuff." 

He let out the hit, continuing, "Got it off a friend of mine on the Ave in Berkeley."

We passed the bowl back and forth as he dodged in and out of the heavy traffic. 

"So what do you do?" he asked, blowing another plume of smoke against the chipped windshield.

I took the pipe and shrugged.  "Nothing really.  Got out of the army a couple months ago.  Goin’ down to Monterey to visit a friend."  I re-lit the pipe and took a large hit.  It tasted like the regs – regular old Mexican weed – we'd been smoking back in Seattle.  Not too bad, I thought.

Eyebrows arched, he asked, "You go to 'Nam?"  He glanced at me out of the corner of his eyes.

I let out my own hit, savoring the taste, then answered, "Nope.  National Guard.  Just finished my six months of active duty."  I passed the pipe back to him.

Eyes narrowed, he stared at me for a moment, and then said sarcastically, "Say what?  Don't tell me you're one a them freaks that don't wanna kill commies for Christ?"  

I thought he had the trace of a smile on his lips.  I shrugged and shook my head.  "I dunno.  Maybe next week." 

He laughed and broke out in a big smile.  "Right!  Yeah, me too.  Hey, my brother went north to Canada in '67, and he's still up there.  I woulda gone, but I got a high number in the lottery.  I was never drafted."  

I could feel the stone coming on, and I relaxed.  Shaking my head, I lay back in my seat and stared at him.  "Christ man, you're lucky.  My number?  I got fuckin' eighty-two." 

Grinning, he handed back the pipe, and said, "Three-twenty!"

"Oh, man!  You are one lucky SOB."  I took a large hit and paused, then let it out and went on, "I knew I was screwed when I got eighty-two.  The letter from Nixon came a few months after I turned eighteen." 

Now quite stoned, I paused for a moment, turning the unpleasant memory over in my mind, then looked back at him.  "It was '71, ya know, like while the war was still going bigtime.  I had this college deferment for a year or so, but then they stopped giving 'em out, so it was either enlist in the Guard, or get drafted and be sent to 'Nam as an O-One Bravo – a grunt."

"Man, I could not handle that," he said, shaking his head gravely.

"No shit.  Me either.  So, I took the easy way.  After I lost the deferment, I managed to stall-off going through basic for like another year.  But if I hadn't done it the way I did, I woulda got sent to 'Nam for sure."  I re-lit the pipe and took another hit.

Frowning, he stared at me.  "Man, that's pure shit." 

I smiled wryly, blowing a cloud of marijuana smoke against the windshield.  "Naw, that's what makes America great."

 

A little over an hour later, I found myself at a freeway on-ramp in Santa Cruz.  I'd been there about an hour and a half or so when a lady driving an old Buick wagon stopped and picked me up.  It turned out she was a Jesus Freak, and I spent the next hour learning all about how I could save my soul.  What a price for a lousy ride!

It was early evening when she finally let me off on the side of the freeway just short of the Seaside exit.  I hefted my pack and guitar and walked quickly down the off-ramp. 

Running along the right side of the freeway were some big, big sand dunes.  Down at the end of the exit ramp and set back off in the middle of the dunes, was a large, rambling Holiday Inn.  Close behind the hotel was Monterey Bay.

The vast, crescent-shaped bay was breathtakingly beautiful, its choppy blue waters rippling with reflections of the fading sunlight.  Ringed on the far side by steep, tree covered hills that seemed to rise almost directly up out of the water, the bay curved around to the right, the foreland gradually becoming lower and flatter till it faded into the ocean at the point.  Dividing land from sea was a thin line of white beach that ran as far as you could see, till where the bay swept around towards the point.  A little to the right of the point were what looked like mountains coming out of the water near the horizon, a long, long ways off in the hazy distance. 

Down around the curve of the bay a couple of miles from the hotel, a long pier jutted far out into the water.  In back of it was a large marina.  Farther on was another long pier with a gray-hulled Coast Guard ship.  Spread out in back of the piers lay a hodgepodge of buildings I assumed was downtown Monterey.

Across the other side of the freeway, the town of Seaside was laid out, red and white roofs climbing up some low hills. 

I walked a couple of blocks into town, found a phone booth and called the number Gail had given me.  Seven rings, no answer.  Considering I hadn't told her I was coming and that it was a Friday night, I wasn't real surprised she was gone. 

Outwardly unperturbed, I bought a quart of Coors with the last of my money and walked back towards the beach to find a place to sleep. 

 

 

2.

I waited until about ten the next morning to call again.  That was still pretty early, but what the hell, Gail was the reason I had come to California.  I needed to see her.

I'd first met Gail Loughlin three years earlier right after I graduated from high school.  She'd been in Seattle vacationing with relatives when we bumped into each other at a party I was at in Des Moines.  Literally – I accidentally knocked her down flat on her face.  I was so embarrassed. 

Apologizing profusely, I helped her up.  She was a petite woman, about five foot two and slim, dressed in faded blue jeans with a red, tight-fitting halter-top that showed off her rather considerable assets.  She smelled faintly of roses. 

As we first gazed into each other's eyes, I felt like I'd been hit by a freight train.  I'd never felt so attracted to a woman before, and I could tell in a flash that the feelings were mutual.  It was like an electrical charge jumped between us paralyzing me, and I couldn't take my eyes off of her. 

She was beautiful.  Really and truly.  She looked like an Italian actress whose name I can't recall – a patrician face with high cheekbones, a delicate bone structure and a very engaging smile with white, straight teeth.  Her face was framed by short straight, ash blonde hair that fell to just below her jaw line, and curled in at the bottoms.  But her best features were her eyes. 

She had the most exquisite almond shaped, gray eyes.  They actually were gray – almost a pastel – at least in most lights, and I knew in an instant I could never grow tired of looking into them. 

We hit it off right from the first.  The lady she had come to the party with had gone off with some guy, and Gail didn't know anyone else there.  After talking for a few minutes, she offered to help me collect money for a new keg.  We ended up spending that night together, and nearly every other day and night that summer. 

She was unlike anyone I'd ever known.  Where most relationships build slowly, ours was open and trusting from the start, almost as if we'd been old friends forever.  I'd never experienced that sort of  'chemistry' with a woman before.  Everything about her felt so right.  Her one exception to openness was that she wouldn't tell me much about her family, at least at first.

It took a couple weeks before she confided in me.  As it turned out, the big secret was that her father worked as a Deputy District Attorney in San Francisco, and, her family had big bucks – old money – and both facts were sources of great discomfort to her.  She didn't want to be associated with the bourgeoisie, which she mostly despised and detested.  And, she was afraid that having a father who was a 'tool of the establishment' would scare me off – which she said, was why she'd hesitated in telling me about him. 

None of this fazed me of course.  Maybe it even flattered me a bit that she'd been worried about what I'd think.  Either way, I was well and truly infatuated, and in any event, she wasn't at all like any of the other rich girls I'd ever known. 

My previous experiences with rich women had been limited to a few I'd known in high school.  They turned me off completely.  You'd see them tooling around in their latest Thunderbird or Corvette that daddy had bought them new each year every year since they'd gotten their license.  On their arms would be the star quarterback of the football team or maybe some guy who was in college.  They spent more money on clothes for the prom than I'd spend in a whole year and they never seemed to wear the same outfit twice.  Conversations with these ladies were usually limited to important discussions about social functions, the finer points of etiquette or more frequently, backstabbing gossip about their so-called friends.  Not my cup of tea at all. 

I was a hippie and proud of it.  While we were out in the baseball dugout smoking dope between classes, my hippie friends and I would often ridicule these rich bitches for their shallow, materialistic existence.  Not that any of us were against money necessarily, just the people normally associated with it. 

Gail on the other hand, was quite the contrast.  She wasn't snooty or aloof like the rich girls I'd known, and she didn't indulge in any of their trivialities.  And she was smart.  She had a deep intellect, with a quick, questioning mind. 

We'd spend hours smoking dope and talking revolution, arguing politics and about how to stop the war in Viet Nam, or, just talking.  We talked endlessly about everything under the sun, and she was the first girl I'd ever been able to do this with.

Her favorite topic was Viet Nam.  She was fascinated by the sheer hypocrisy of it all.  She was knowledgeable and well versed in the rhetoric of the anti-war movement – much more so than me – and she spoke with an unveiled passion about the many atrocities committed in the defense of Truth, Justice and the American Way. 

Twice that summer, Gail dragged me to anti-war demonstrations up at the University of Washington.  It was a helluva lot of fun – chanting, singing songs and screaming insults at the cops, feeling important, like what we were doing would make a difference and change the world.

At the second demonstration, the songs and chants ended abruptly when the police tried to disperse the unruly crowd of hippies.  A solid wall of police charged our lines, and the protest march disintegrated in short order.  We ended up getting tear-gassed and nearly hauled off to jail with some of my friends, one of whom was severely beaten by the police. 

Truly appalled by what happened, Gail and I quickly concocted a story, and she called her dad and got him to wire her some money – which she immediately gave to me, so I could bail my friends out of jail.  Later, at the triumphant return-from-jail party that followed, Gail reveled in telling me how happy she was that she'd been able to use some of her family's money for such a worthy purpose.

To be fair, I'd felt much less strongly about the war before meeting Gail – I'd mainly been against the whole thing because I didn't want to get drafted and have my ass shot off – but Gail made a lot of sense and was quite a persuasive speaker, so it wasn't long before I came around to her viewpoint.  She made it possible for me to see how important it was to actively oppose the war on philosophical and moral grounds, not just for my own selfish, personal reasons.

Plus, I was heavily in lust and seriously wondering if maybe I was in love with her, and that may have influenced my thinking just a tad.  Maybe more than a tad.  She had that effect on me.

In areas where I was weak, she was strong – in areas where she was weak, I was strong.  Together, we were more than we ever could hope to be separately.  We were a team. 

So when in late August, reality came crashing back down and she had to return to California, it hurt us both very much.

She carried on for hours the night before she left, raging about the unfairness of the situation.  But there was no way we could change things.  Her father had been adamant.  She had to return to California so she could start college.  He wouldn't even talk about her putting it off for a semester or two, or about the possibility of her transferring up to a school in Seattle.  If she stayed in Washington, he would cut off her money, period. 

It was a ghastly grim reality that descended.  I didn't have any money.  She didn't have any money.  Neither of us was willing to wait tables at McDonald's to carry on the revolution.  So, she went.

Gloomy and depressed with her departure, I sat alone in my room for several days after she left and wrote two songs, much to the annoyance of my parents.  But music was my passion, my release, my reason for existence – it was really the only tool I had that could help me work through the potent emotions I was feeling.  As such, I really didn’t care if I drove my parents crazy in the process. 

A couple weekends and three keggers later, I was starting to feel human again, although I still missed her terribly.  Then all of a sudden it was September and school started and I was too busy to feel bad. 

While I continued playing bass guitar in my band, the one job I was certain was my true calling – I also took classes at South Seattle Community College – to keep my draft deferment intact.  At the same time, Gail started attending Stanford University. 

In the end, college didn't work out for either of us.  For me because of the army – my deferment eventually ended – and for her because of boredom and disgust.

Ever since she was three years old, she'd been programmed to follow in her father's footsteps as a lawyer.  Virtually everything she had done since childhood had been in preparation to become a lawyer.  And she hated it.  It was totally against what she believed in and wanted for herself, and in any event, it bored her shitless.

At the start of her third year of school, she finally rebelled and dropped out.  While in Monterey for the Jazz Festival, she ended up deciding to stay and had gotten a bartending job there.  Her father cut off all her money and effectively disowned her.

All through this period, we managed to keep in contact.  Since our summer together, we'd written each other on a fairly regular basis, and occasionally, had called each other on the phone.  We talked to each other about our successes, our failures, our problems and our romances.  We became buddies.

The last time Gail and I talked was about a month and a half ago, a couple weeks after I'd gotten out of the army.  She was just getting over the break-up of what had turned out to be a very unpleasant relationship with a guy named Jules, who dealt dope for a living.  Speed and coke, mostly.  Gail said he was a heavy ego tripper, as well as a very paranoid person. 

We'd talked a few times about the guy and I never understood what Gail had seen in him – he didn't exactly sound like her sort of person.  In response, she said he had soul.

I told her I'd really like to see her and she agreed it was mutual.  The phone call ended with her saying I should come down sometime soon for a visit, but with nothing definite being set.

Since that last conversation, things had gone downhill for me. 

I'd spent the time since I'd gotten out of the army staying with friends, dealing bags of weed to augment my unemployment – something I'd done to supplement my meager income in the past – while I desperately looked for someone to form a band with.  It hadn't gone well.

My initial successes as a dealer turned to severe disappointment and disillusion as I got burned on a pound, then a week later got ripped off for six lids – six one-ounce bags of weed.  My efforts to find a band hadn't paid off either – all the people I knew that were good were already playing in bands, and no one needed a new bass player.  Then to top it off, my most recent girlfriend had dropped me shortly after I'd gone off to basic training, and now wouldn't even talk to me at all.

The worse things got, the more I thought about the summer I spent with Gail, and her invitation to come visit.  Although I was worried about our chances of ever recapturing what we once had, I was so depressed with how things were going that I was willing to take the chance.

 

The phone was on its fifth ring when Gail finally answered. 

"Hullo?"  She said, sounding half-asleep.  I heard her yawn over the phone.

Nervous, I took a deep breath and responded casually, "Hey, lady.  How ya doing?"

The line was silent for a moment, then she exclaimed, "Mark?  Is that you?"  Her voice sounded tinny over the phone.

"In the flesh," I answered, staring nervously at the door of the phone booth.

"For real?  Where are you?  Are you here?" She sounded excited.

Relaxing a bit at the familiar sound of her voice, I laughed and said, "Yeah, actually, as a matter of fact I am.  I'm here in Seaside at a Humble station on Del Monte Boulevard.  Cross street is Palm."  I paused for a moment, then went on in a lower voice, "I hitched down to see you.  Did I wake ya?"

Her voice was warm.  "Yeah, but it doesn't matter.  This is great!  Look, I'll get dressed and come get you.  I should be there in about twenty minutes.  Humble station on Del Monte at Palm Street?" 

"Right."  I looked at my watch.

"Twenty minutes!"

"Okay.  Bye." 

We hung up and I started counting the minutes.  It seemed like they were the longest twenty minutes I had ever spent. 

I was quite uneasy about seeing her again.  I'd dreamt of the moment for three years – dreamt of getting back together with her – but now that the moment was here, I was jittery.  What if she had changed so much that there wasn't any chemistry between us?  Or, God forbid, what if she had gotten a new boyfriend?  My thoughts went round and round.

Finally, right on schedule, I saw her.  She was driving an old green, Plymouth Valiant. 

She pulled the car up next to me where I sat by the phone booth, and opened the door.  A radiant smile on her face, she got out and stood staring at me, with one hand resting on the open door.

Feeling light-headed, I got up quickly and walked over to the car, and we stood almost touching, looking at each other.

"Hey, man.  How ya doing?"  I said in a low voice, and smiled back at her.

Still beaming, she stared up at me and touched my cheek with her fingers. 

"My God, it's good to see you," she said, slowly shaking her head.  Her voice was a low and husky contralto, something I’d always found extremely sexy.  Still shaking her head slowly, she drew her fingers lightly over my cheek and went on, "I am so glad to see you finally decided to come down.  C'mere." 

Raising herself up on tiptoes, she moved into my arms and we embraced in a long, urgent kiss, her arms over my shoulders. 

I wallowed in my memories and drank in her presence, and all of my nervousness and self-doubts vanished at once.  She returned passion with passion, and I almost grew dizzy from lack of oxygen while we kissed.

After about a hundred heartbeats, seeming reluctant, she broke off the kiss and lowered herself down, then placed her head on my chest and we hugged tightly for about another minute, swaying left and right. 

She tasted of coffee.  She felt good.  She smelled of Chanel Number 5.  I had to keep telling myself she was real.

Still holding her hands, I stepped back a bit and studied her.

She had let her luxurious ash blonde hair grow to well below her shoulders.  It was parted in the middle, with bangs that partially obscured her almond shaped, gray eyes.  She was wearing open-toed sandals and some kind of long, low-cut hippie dress that showed off her sumptuous breasts.  Her skin had a nice fresh sheen, lightly tanned. 

And she was still smiling with her whole face.  She pulled me back to her and we kissed again, slowly. 

Eventually becoming aware that the gas station attendant was staring at us, I drew back a bit.

A few vague anxious thoughts strayed into the forefront of my mind, but her touch chased them away.  Smiling, I gazed into her gray eyes. 

"You look awful damn luscious, ya know," I said, shaking my head slowly.

"Thank you, sir."  She said, and kissed me lightly on the neck.

"Thought I oughta come down and check out this Monterey scene you been telling me about." 

She nodded.  "And it’s about time you did, too.  You're gonna love it here, Mark, you will."  She looked at my gear, then inclined her head towards her car and went on, "C'mon, let's put your stuff into Mahitabel, and we'll go." 

She let go of me and bent to pick up my guitar.  I grabbed my pack, and we stuffed them through the open window into the car's back seat.

 

The drapes were pulled and it was quite dark inside her apartment, but through the gloom, I could make out the highlights.  To the left of the door was the kitchen with the usual appliances, and a Formica table with a couple chairs.  To the right was the living room. 

Up against the far wall was a ratty-looking, floral-patterned couch.  A bamboo coffee table with a glass top sat in front of it, a fan of magazines spread in the center.  Left of the couch along the back wall was an old Magnavox console TV, then on the near wall, a beat-up overstuffed easy chair with an ottoman.  Under the window at my right, was a small, cheap stereo on an end table, with a bunch of records to its left, the albums leaned-up back against the wall.  The three-foot high speakers were arranged at either side of the couch. 

Everything looked like Salvation Army rejects.  A nice, comfortable place. 

And most importantly, no sign anyone else was living with her.

I put my gear down on the floor, and then she took my hand and led me over to the couch.  She sat down on my left, legs in lotus position facing me, with my hand in hers. 

Studying me intently, she sighed and then asked, "Well, so how's everyone in Seattle?"  She stared into my eyes, a slight smile on her face.

Looking away, I shrugged and ran my finger over her knuckles.  "About the same as always."

"How about Bruce and Lorretta?" 

They were the couple we had spent most of our time with the summer she was up.  She'd gotten to be good friends with them.

I looked into her gray eyes and nodded.  "They're doing great.  I saw Lorretta just before I left.  She said to say hi.  Bruce is working at a radio station now.  He's an engineer, making pretty good bucks.  Lorretta's still in school and working."

She smiled.  "A radio station?  That'd suit him.  And your mom and dad and your brother?"

"Cool.  No change there."  Continuing, I asked, "You talk to your dad yet?"

A frown crossed her face then she said, "No.  We're still not talking."  She paused, then in a lighter tone, asked, "So how about the army?  Did they make a man out of you?"  Her words were heavy with friendly sarcasm.

I straightened up.  "Fucking A.  I'm a real killer now.  No shit.  I liked it so much, I think I'm gonna be a mercenary when I grow up."  I nodded slowly. 

She grinned.  "Yeah, right!  I thought you were gonna be a fireman," she said sarcastically.

"Nope, I've changed that,” I said, playing along.

Looking at me she paused, then serious once more, asked, "Have you changed?  Really?"

I stared for a moment, and then laughed.  "No.  What, I look like a soldier?  Gimme a break.  I could never get behind that shit.  You know that.  You really think I could change like that?"

She smiled.  "No, I guess not – but I had to ask.  I mean I have known people who were changed by the army."  She stared for a moment, then laughed and continued, "Naw, I don’t suppose there'd be no way they could touch you." 

She continued to stare at me for a moment, and then giggling, she roughly shoved me over on my back, so I ended up lying lengthwise on the couch.  Still giggling, she laid her slim frame gently down on top of me, and we lay there with our noses almost touching, looking into each other's eyes. 

She kissed my cheek.  Almost in a whisper, she said, "God, it's way too long since I've seen you.  I've missed you so much!"  She paused for a breath then went on, "I'm glad you came down.  Really and truly."  She kissed me lightly on the lips.   

Smiling, and awash in a rosy glow as I held her lithe body against mine, I gazed up at her, and then kissed her chin. 

"I had to," I said softly.  "It was such a gawdawful drag in Seattle.  Everything was all fucked up.  I mean you wouldn't even believe how fucked up it was."  I shrugged and after letting out a big breath, I went on, "Anyway, you know I've wanted to come and see you for a helluva long time.  I guess it felt like this was just the right time."

She nodded.  "It is."  She paused for a moment, while shifting her weight to the left, and then, staring down at my chin, asked, "So how was the army?  I mean, I know what you told me on the phone about the parties and all, but what was it really like?"  She looked back into my eyes.

Returning her stare, I shrugged again.  "Oh, I dunno.  Good and bad I guess.”  I hesitated for a moment, and then went on, “I mean like when I got out, I was in better physical shape than I ever have been in my life.  I'm down to like one fifty-five, now, and that's good, for sure.”

I was silent for a moment, staring into her beautiful gray eyes, and then went on, “But on the other side, right after I got out of basic, you wouldn't a known me.  Shit, I really was this killer asshole – real gung ho, a real cocky sonofabitch."

"You?"

"Sad but true.  Yeah, I got pretty nuts there for a while, but it just didn't last very long, thank God.  Only took me a couple weeks and I was back smoking dope, drinking, doing acid again and thinking seditious thoughts.  I mean shit – I couldn't kill people – I'm not a fuckin' soldier.  I just can't get behind that sorta trip."

"Amen"

I laughed and went on, "Christ, ya know one of my drill sergeants had me pegged, though.  Told me I was the sort that got other people killed in combat, 'cause I was always questioning orders and shit.  I answered saying he might be right, but that we weren't gonna find out 'cause I was in the Guard and wasn't going to some steamy fucking jungle in Southeast Asia.  He just looked at me like I was dirt."

"Ignorant asshole."

"Uh huh.  Exactly.  God, what a bunch of shit.  It's so mindless.  I mean we're supposed to be saving the world from the commies?  Gimme a break!" 

Frowning, I continued, "Naw, it was damn good I got out when I did.  If I hadn't, I'd a ended up in the stockade.  The army and me are definitely not cut out for each other."

"And thank God for that!"  She said smiling, and then tilted her head and we began to kiss again. 

After a few moments, she raised her head to look at me, and said, "I really am glad.  I mean if you and the army were made out for each other, I couldn't a handled it.  But no ... no, I just can't see you as a soldier.  I can't see you submitting to authority.  Aside from the moral and philosophical considerations, you're too much the hippie, into getting stoned and having a good time, doing your own trip."

"You still pissed that I went into the Guard rather than split to Canada?" I asked timidly.  It had been a bone of contention between us for some time.  She'd argued that I should have stood on my principles and gone north to Canada or off to jail.

She frowned, then after a few moments, finally said, "No.  Intellectually, I think you were wrong to compromise yourself, but rationally, I know you wouldn't be here now if you had gone north."  She hesitated for a moment, then smiled and went on, "And to me, it's that you're here now that's most important.  So maybe I've compromised my principles, but that’s the breaks.”

I kissed her nose, and then whispered, “Good.”

She shrugged, and continued, “It doesn't really matter anyway, the war's over."

We kissed, and I luxuriated in the feel of her as she lay on top of me, my hands re-learning the beautiful curves and lines of her form. 

Breaking for air, I pulled her dress up farther and found out she wasn’t wearing any panties.  Running my fingers lightly over her behind, I asked in a sarcastic tone, "So what happened to the fiery young radical I knew, huh?  Laying aside your polemics in favor of your carnal desires?"  I smiled sweetly.

Grinning, she dug her fingernails into my shoulders.  "Screw you!  My values haven't changed at all!  It's just, I dunno ... I guess everything's a little less urgent than it used to be."

"Tricky Dick's still president...”

She shrugged.  "That's gotta be temporary – he'll be impeached – it's just a matter of time. They indicted Haldeman and Ehrlichman and even Mitchell.  Nixon's gonna go down with them. He's not gonna talk his way out a this Watergate stuff.  'I am not a crook,' he says.  Well, to hell with you, Nixon!  No, it's all over, really.  We won."

"Huh.  Hot shit.  So we can go back to being good hippies and lay around all day smokin' dope, and not feel bad even if we're not out going to demonstrations, preaching revolution and shit like that all the time?"

She smiled.  "Yes."

"Fucking A!  And you figure I'm still a hippie?"

Still smiling, she answered, "Yes," and kissed my cheek.

"Even with this gawdawful haircut they gave me?"  I asked, returning her smile.  My brown hair was still less than an inch long.  I went on, "Yeah, I suppose I'm an undercover hippie now, huh?" 

She grinned.  "Well, you're in good company.  There are a lot of great people in Monterey, freaks and heads, and not all of them have hair down to their butts.  Naw, you'd fit in just fine here." 

She paused, and then in a small voice, said, "You know, uh, you could stay here with me if you want.  I'd love to have you," she added, the words rushing out.  She looked away for a moment, then turning back, went on, "It could be like old times.  Maybe ... maybe we could pick up where we left off?"  She stared intently.

"Where we left off..." Momentarily reliving what had happened, I frowned and said,  "God, I felt like I got ripped off when you had to leave."

She nodded.  "Tell me about it.  Those were some of the best times of my life, that summer with you."

"Mine too."

She silently gazed at me, then smiled and whispered, "You bozo."

I smiled back.  "Hey, we're all bozos on this bus."

She laughed, and then we kissed. 

Locked in our embrace, my hands traveled in a circle, caressing the fullness of her thighs and shapely behind, occasionally straying down in-between her tight cheeks and her legs.  With each circuit, I drew my fingers closer and closer to her pubic area, lightly brushing up against her golden curls.

After a few minutes, my hand stopped most of its motion, and she pushed her hips hard against me as I gently tugged on a lock of the curly hair.  Returning the pressure with my own hips as I held her against me, I began pulling on the lock in a slow, steady cadence.  She kissed my neck and then lay with her chin resting on my shoulder, her hot breath rasping in my ear.

Melting into her, I found my voice and asked softly, "You sure you want me to stay?" 

"Do that and you can stay forever," she said breathlessly.

"You're on."  My tongue slowly skimmed around the outline of her ear, examining each crevice.  She shivered and moved her hips more urgently.  After a moment, I whispered softly, "Bedroom?"

"Fucking A!" she breathed, and started to get up.

 

 

3.

It was about three-thirty in the afternoon when we woke up.  Gail was lying with one leg and arm draped over me.  The sheet was pulled up to about our waists, exposing a lot of comely cleavage and a large pink nipple mashed into my chest.

The bedroom fit Gail.  Artsy silk-screen prints and some posters reminiscent of the Haight-Ashbury scene adorned one wall.  The old bed with the ornate frame and headboard was up against the wall in the center of the room.  A large bookcase filled with books, mostly hardbound, was on the left.  Updike, Steinbeck, Heinlein, and Brunner rubbing elbows with Machiavelli, Bakunin, Marx and Jefferson.  On the right, an old dresser with a chair in front, and on top, a large Mickey Mouse doll propped up in an embarrassing position along with some pictures of her family.  On my nightstand was a clock radio, a slim-line phone and a book by Richard Alpert, Be here Now, open face down.

I picked up the book.  "Trying to improve your mind, huh?"  I asked in a facetious tone.  "I've tried to read this before, but never made it all the way through.  I mean, any book that you have to keep turning round and round to read is just too much of a pain.  The printer must have been tripping when he type-set it." 

I looked her way.  She scratched her side with a long fingernail. 

"Its entertaining," she said defensively.

"You still dropping acid?"

She shrugged.  "Every now and then when I feel like it.  You?"

"Only once in the last year.  We got two weeks off at Christmas.  Me and another guy from my unit went and visited one of my friends up in Maine.  Dick Fox.  You've met him.  Spent the whole two weeks living in this cabin way out in the woods, near where Dick lives.  Dropped a couple of hits each one night, and went running around through the trees being weird.  Lucky we didn't freeze to death, 'cause it was really cold.  I haven't felt the urge since then."  I paused then asked, "Hey, do you have to go to work tonight?"

She frowned, staring at the bed.  "Yeah.  I have to be there at six."  She looked up and asked, "Would you like to come with me?"

Feeling awkward, I answered, "I dunno.  I don't have any bucks.  I spent the last of my unemployment check getting down here."  I stared at the rise of her legs under the sheet.

She smiled.  "Not to worry.  I'm the bartender."

I looked back at her.  "You won't get in trouble?"

She shook her head.  "No.  Either way it doesn't matter, I have plenty of money." 

She picked up a nail file off her nightstand, laid back and began filing her nails. 

I rubbed my eyes and said,  "I thought your dad cut you off."

"He did." 

She put the file down, rolled off the bed, went to the closet and put on an old pink bathrobe. 

I turned on my side to watch her.  "So bartenders are rolling in dough down here?"

She leaned her head forward and with her hands, pulled her thick hair back, out of the collar of her bathrobe, then shook her head to settle her hair. 

She shrugged, her eyes darting about the room.  "Not exactly.  You see I have another job, too."  She looked back at me, asking, "You want some coffee?" 

I nodded, and she walked off.  I got up and followed her into the kitchen, and sat at the table.  She filled a pan from the sink, and then placed it on a burner on the stove. 

Shaking my head, I laughed then said, "I didn't know you were so industrious.  Two jobs?  What's the second job?" 

Really, I figured it would be like her to have another job.  She had been an honors student in high school and college.  Always an over-achiever, working two jobs would be in character.

She turned the gas flame up, then sat down in the chair beside me at the table, eyes narrowed, a half frown on her face, staring at me.  

She continued to look at me without speaking for about thirty seconds, then asked, "You knew Jules was a dealer, right?"

I nodded.  "Yeah.  So?" 

"Well when I left him, I took some of his customers with me.  Some of his sources too."

My jaw dropped and after a moment, I asked, "You're dealing?" 

She smiled coyly.  "Yup.  Maybe five or ten pounds of weed a week.  A jar of speed, here and there.  Some acid.  Some coke.  Not exactly a threat to the Mafia, but I’m making pretty good bucks." 

"Huh.  Oh well.  Dealing huh?  That's far out."  I hesitated, and then went on in a lower voice, "But I gotta say I'm surprised." 

Her dad, John Loughlin, the big-time San Francisco lawyer who worked as a Deputy District Attorney, prosecuted among others, dope dealers.  From what Gail said, he'd actually made a reputation as being death on pushers.  She'd said her father and mother were most likely aware she had tried drugs, but had no real idea as to the extent she had gone.  She said they mostly pretended not to notice anything – they turned a blind eye at anything that might have led them to conclude their daughter was a doped-out hippie. 

So while Gail had always done drugs and had apparently reconciled this, one way or another, with her family, I hadn't thought she was into taking big risks – the type of risk where she might end up embarrassing her family, publicly.  And this kind of thing could be very embarrassing.  Because where her dad might be able to get a bust for using covered up, something big like a bust on possession for sale he couldn't.  That would mean a lot of trouble – for him and for Gail. 

She frowned.  "I never thought you'd be so under-whelmed."

I shrugged and said defensively, "I dunno, I guess I just never figured you would deal, I mean what with your dad and all.  Using is one thing, but dealing is another."

She frowned.  "I really don't have much choice.  Bartending isn't exactly big money.  This bar I'm at now is better than the last one, but still you can't live on it."  She paused, and then said in a strident tone, "I've got two years of college, and I've got to support myself.  What'm I gonna do?  Be a secretary or something?  No way!"  She brushed some blonde hair out of her eyes and went on in a softer voice, "Anyway, I don't want any a that.  I don't want to work within the establishment.  You know that.  That's why I quit school.  And I don't talk to my dad now, at all."

"Yeah, but you still love him and wouldn't embarrass him for anything.  You've told me that before."

"I've figured the angles.  I'm not going to embarrass anyone."

"Huh.  Well, I suppose it is the only way you could support yourself in the manner that you're accustomed," I said sarcastically.  Then in a chiding tone, I continued, "C'mon, I thought we were all s'posed to renounce our money and material possessions?  Be good hippies."

She frowned.  "Go on, joke about it.  Okay, so my parents are rich.  So what?  I've always had problems with the giving up your money and possessions part of the hippie trip.  No, I don't necessarily want to live like my parents, but I don't want to live in a tent with forty other people either.  I just want to be comfortable.  And money helps.  Not a whole lot of money.  Just enough.  And I want to get it without killing myself."

Frowning, she leaned back in her chair and looked down at the table.  "I’ve gotta eat something.  You want some toast and jelly?" she asked, and then reached across the table switching on a small clock radio sitting next to the window.  The Rolling Stones playing Under My Thumb came on. 

"Sure, I'll have some toast." 

She got up and put the bread in the toaster, then reached over to the stove turning off the burner and poured the coffee water into two cups.  She added some instant coffee to each and stirred.

"Cream or sugar?" she asked.

"Black is fine."

She handed me one of the cups then stood by the stove, one hand on the counter, the other playing with the belt of her robe which hung open. 

I admired her breasts as I sipped the hot coffee.

A slight frown on her face, she stared at me for a few moments as she absently twirled the belt of her robe.  Then looking annoyed, she said,  "I always thought you were real hot on dealing.  I mean, you used to deal.  What's the difference whether I do it or you do it?" 

I shrugged, still gazing at her breasts.  "I was real small time, just did lids.  Nothing like what you're doing.  And number two, my father isn't a big-time lawyer with the DA's Office up in San Francisco that'd keel over if I got caught."  Looking up into her eyes, I went on, "It's like I said, I just didn't think you'd take such a chance.  You get caught, your father and mother'd die."   I shook my head and continued,  "Where they're concerned, you've always been so careful not to offend.  What was it you said, about how one of your dad's favorite subjects is how the hippies are scum, and that you've never, never really challenged him on it, simply because you know he'd be hurt if he found out your views?  Same thing with Viet Nam – you told me how you'd always back off when he started going on and on about the war protests, and how he woulda freaked if he'd known we were almost arrested that time.  And then when you quit school, remember how you said you felt so bad about letting him down, even though you knew it was something you had to do?  You told me you cried and cried, and why?  'Cause he wouldn't talk to you.  That's bad?  Shit.  You get busted for dealing, oh fuck – I mean you ain't seen nothin'."  Frowning, I paused for a breath, and then said softly, "Man, look I'm sorry.  There's really nothing wrong with you dealing as far as I'm concerned.  I can't think of anyone I'd rather see as a dealer.  But you've always been so careful, Gail."  Still frowning, I added, "I guess I didn't think you were into taking big risks." 

Her eyes widened a bit like she was seeing me for the first time.  She looked down at the belt of her robe, took it in both hands and began twisting it.  She shrugged her shoulders. 

"It isn't all that big a risk.  Really.  Yeah, if I were busted, dad'd go nuts – God, I'd die."  She frowned, and then went on, "Yeah.  But I'm not going to get popped.  I'm not going to embarrass them.  They don't know anything at all about me dealing and I'm for sure going to make certain they never find out.  No, never.  They can't find out.  I only deal to people I know, and I'm not on the street – that's where all the busts come off.  I don't take chances.  Only calculated risks." 

I managed a smile. "Gail, if anybody could figure the angles and stay out of jail, it would be you.  And if you're not on the street, that's a good start."  I paused taking a breath, then softly said, "I guess what I'm concerned about is your head."

Staring at the floor, she nodded.  "Yeah, me too.  Or at least I was at first.  I guess I've always had this kinda schizo thing where my dad is concerned.  Like I'd be living two lives – my own life and the one he ordained.  And you're right, I've always been afraid to tell him how I really felt about things.  Always afraid to oppose him."

"Exactly.  You're on your own, you've got all this political invective about how we've got to change the world, but mention your father and you roll up the carpets and turn into a debutante."

She frowned slightly.  "I don't think it was quite that dramatic, but whatever."  She paused for a moment still playing with the belt of her robe, and then said, "The point is I've made my break.  I'm my own person now.  Yes, I still care for him deeply.  But I'm not going to let what he thinks control my life."

I shrugged.  "If you figure you can handle the trip with your dad, it's cool.  I care about you Gail, that's why I asked."

She smiled, and it looked like a tear was forming in the corner of her eye.  She wiped it away and said,  "Thanks for asking.  And thanks for caring."

Uncomfortable with the way conversation was going, I asked, "Hey, you said you were dealing coke.  You got any coke right now?  I'd really like to do some with you." 

Her face brightened.  "Later.  I've got to go to work soon, and I don't want to go screwed-up."  She paused for a second, smiling, and went on in a low voice, "Anyway, you know how coke makes me feel, and we really don't have time for that now, do we?"

Coke made her horny as hell. 

I smiled broadly.  "Like two and a half hours isn't enough?"

She grinned wickedly.  "Not for what I have planned."  

I laughed.  "Oh shit, I'm in trouble now."  I lay back, slumped in the chair.  She continued to study me.

"Mark?"  She paused, and then asked softly,  "You want to help me with my business, maybe?   The toast popped up. 

I straightened up in my chair.  This sounded a lot more permanent than anything I had realistically hoped for.  I wanted to be with her more than anything in the world, but I'd just never expected it to actually come together.  Real life usually doesn't work out that way.  Three years I'd waited to be with her.  Three years of dull, boring relationships, where nothing seemed to click.  The thought of actually living with her excited me more than anything in the world.

Playing it coy, I nodded.  "Yeah, right.  I gotta kill somebody or what?"

"No killing."  She smiled.  Finished spreading jelly on the toast, she laid it on a plate in front of me, and then sat down in my lap facing me, legs straddling mine.  With her arms cradling my head, she kissed me until I thought I was going to pass out.

Finally drawing back, and with a smile that lit up her whole face, she said,  "No, there's all sorts a stuff you could do.  You know the routine, you've dealt before.  You could uh, make deliveries, pick up money or whatever, you know, that sorta stuff.  A whole lot of different things."  She paused, stroking my face, then said in a whisper, "I'm making a bunch a money.  I'll split it with you fifty-fifty if you'll stay and help me.  Please?" 

Holding my head firmly between her hands, she stared at me intently and went on softly,  "I need someone I can trust.  Someone who is honest.  I need you!"  Smiling, she paused, then continued, "You can't believe how glad I was to see you here this morning, because of all the men I've known, you're one of the very few I was ever completely comfortable with.  One of the few men I could ever completely trust.  One of the few men who really cares about me."  She paused, running her fingers over my cheek, then said, "You can't believe the losers I've been with since that summer.  And God, Jules, he was the best.  He wants to keep me chained to the couch so he can show me off.  Serve coffee to his customers or grab him a beer when he calls, cook his food.  Anytime I get an idea, he shuts me up, the macho chauvinist ass. He used to make me so mad I could scream.  And then if he was really uptight, he might even hit me.  Yeah, we got into some pretty good ones towards the end.  I'm lucky there were no scars."

"He actually hit you?" I asked in disbelief.

"Oh, yeah.  Yeah, that was the main reason I left him."  Frowning, she took a deep breath, then kissed my cheek and continued, "Look ...  the point is you're not like that.  You're not threatened by me.  You don't use the way I look against me.  You don't try to prove how smart you are and put me down all the time, just to help your ego."  Smiling, she shook her head and went on, "You and I, we did so well that summer.  I've never been happier in my life.  You make me feel so good, Mark." 

The outline of a tear had started to form in the corner of her eye.  I brushed it aside with the tip of my finger, and then kissed her lightly on the lips.

With rapt attention, I nodded.  "It does work both ways, Gail.  I mean, Christ, I've never, never met a lady that makes me feel as good as you do.  No shit, never."  I shook my head, then continued, "You're smart as shit, you're beautiful, and you're a nice person.  You're not into head games.  You're a real fuckin' person – no phony bullshit, no jive, no come-ons.  And I've always respected you for it."  I paused, and then added, "But holy shit, it's been three years since we were together man, and Christ, we were just kids then.  It wasn't for real, like this.  Can we really do it now?  Can we still make it work?"

She sniffed, brushing some blonde hair out of her eyes.  She studied me for a long moment, then nodded her head and answered, "Yeah.  I'm convinced we can.  We will make it work."  She shrugged and said, "Sure, three years was a long time ago, and yeah okay, we were both still too young.  It wasn't the right time then because we both had different trips we had to do.  That's cool.  But we came together for a purpose – we did – we came together so we could meet again, now.  And that's our karma, I'm convinced."  She looked resolute.

"What if it doesn't work?"  I asked cautiously, still unable to really believe we could be together.

"Then we part as friends and go our separate ways."  She smiled, caressing my face again.  "Think positive.  It will work.  I mean, what's to lose?"

She clung to me and we kissed, a long and heated embrace. 

There was nothing to lose.  We still worked.  The chemistry was still there, even better than before, stronger and more urgent.  She was the woman I had waited for all my life, and this was what I had dreamed about since the summer we were together.  I held her to me, floating on a cloud of ecstasy. 

Pausing for a breath, I whispered, "How come I never can win an argument with you?"

She smiled.  "Because I'm always right."

 

 

4.

As we drove towards her bar, I got my first real look at Monterey.  It fit more or less with my notions of what California should look like.  Palm trees, Spanish architecture and street names, most of the cars with the yellow on blue license plates, weird streets that had no gutters, and instead of grass on the side of many roads, was some kind of semi-tropical ground cover she called 'Ice Plant.'  Only in California. 

We went down Del Monte past the Naval Post Graduate School, then past a row of auto dealers including one that had a bunch of Ferraris and other exotic cars, on into the center of town.  Past the Greyhound depot, through a short tunnel, then by the Presidio army base, on to Lighthouse Avenue.

Lighthouse Avenue is the commercial center of New Monterey.  It's about three blocks up from the row of moldering old fish canneries made famous by John Steinbeck, which according to Gail were now a terrible tourist trap.  She said Steinbeck would have rolled over in his grave, if he'd known.

The place where Gail worked was called the Half Way House Saloon – a place Steinbeck actually used to drink at way back when, or so she said.  It was located in the center of New Monterey on the corner of Lighthouse and Hoffman, halfway out to Pacific Grove – or "PG" as the locals called it.  The Half Way House had mostly freaks for customers and lots of good action now, she said. 

She turned into a driveway by the bar, and then parked in the gravel lot in back. 

We went in the front door.  The place was nearly empty, which I supposed wasn't unusual for so early on a Saturday night.  There were a couple of derelict-looking hippie types quietly playing pool at a table to the right of the door.  Over next to the window on the left, an older looking guy, maybe thirty, with a full beard and hair down past his shoulders was playing out a game of chess by himself.  Gail said hello to him, and told me his name was Butch, one of the regulars.

Behind the L-shaped bar was a light complected woman with blonde hair washing glasses as she watched the news on a TV, the set recessed into the far wall above a refrigerator.  In back of the heavily varnished wood bar were oak-paneled coolers, several of the doors with beer taps sticking out.  At the far end of the room on the left was a booth built around a red, freestanding fireplace.  Back from that were several other booths, then some tables and up against the wall, an old piano and next to it, a huge old safe that looked like an antique.  Unlike most bars, the front of this one was all windows, from about knee height almost to the ceiling, with several chromed rails running the length – which I assumed were to keep people from getting pushed through the windows.  The wood floor of the place was partially covered with peanut shells and we made a crunching sound as we walked down to the far end. 

As we sat down on stools across from the cash register, I tried to imagine the bar as Steinbeck had known it. 

Smiling to the blonde lady, Gail said, "Hi Cece."  Nodding at me, "This is Mark Roosevelt, from up north.  He's gonna be staying with me.  Mark, this is Cece Rogers.  Cece is the other bartender that works tonight."

I looked at her, smiled and said, "Howdy.  Pleased to meet you."

Cece looked about twenty-five, and was pretty in a quiet sort of way.  She smiled back. 

"Welcome to Monterey.  So you're Mark, huh?  Gail told me a lot about you.  You were just in the army?" 

I nodded.  "Me and the army decided it'd be best for both of us if I wasn't a soldier.  I just got out a couple months ago." 

Gail smiled.  "They couldn't wait to get rid of you." 

I laughed.  "No shit.  The feeling was mutual." 

Cece asked,  "So have you got any plans?"

I shrugged.  "Well, I'm gonna stay here in Monterey with Gail and collect my unemployment.  After that runs out, I may look for a job."  I turned to Gail and asked, "Hey, can I get a beer?"

She nodded.  "Sure.  What do you want?" 

She was wearing skin-tight jeans, with a black v-neck sweater showing lots of wonderful cleavage.  She looked so lovely, I was momentarily distracted.  Something about blondes in black, particularly her. 

Coming back to earth, I said, "Uh, Coors.  How about a Coors?" 

She nodded again, and said,  "Sure."  She turned, put her arms around my neck and kissed me, tongue darting in and out of my mouth.  She was a real exhibitionist, never shy about displays of affection in public.  She got off on it, but it made me uneasy.  I figured it was something you saved for when you were at home. 

After about a hundred heartbeats, she broke it off and turned back to Cece.  "Put Mark's beer on my tab, would you?" 

She kissed me again lightly, then got up and left going around the end of the bar, through a door marked 'private' and into the back room to prepare for her shift. 

A party of what appeared to be drunken fishermen came in and diverted Cece right after she had given me my beer.  A few minutes later, a big, heavy Mexican guy came through the swinging door and sat down beside me.  He pounded his fist on the bar twice.

"Sonofabitch!  I need a beer and I need it now!" 

He looked like a sumo wrestler or something.  A big barrel chest and protruding stomach, huge arms, a black t-shirt, blue jeans and boots.  He had a thin mustache that drooped down at the sides, below his mouth.

I turned to him and said, "That bunch of fishermen just got here a minute before you.  Cece ought to be back soon." 

Looking at me closely, with a sideways glance at Cece, he said in a low voice, "Obviously you're new around here.  Cece could be days talking to those people.  My name is Raoul Sanchez.  I work at the cemetery digging graves.  Who're you?"  He pronounced his name with the emphasis on the `oul', drawing it out with a flourish.  There was only the barest trace of a Mexican accent.

"Mark Roosevelt."  We shook hands and I continued, "You're right, I'm not from Monterey.  Just got in from Washington.  I'm down here to visit a friend."  I paused then asked, "You really dig graves?"  I lit a cigarette.

He smiled fiercely.  "Bet your sweet ass!"  Turning, he shouted, "Cece, be a honey and get me a Superior, please." 

He put a couple of bills on the bar and continued, "I am a real grave digger, I do it by hand.  I work at the Monterey Cemetery.  The place is too old and too full to use a backhoe, so we do it the old way."  He twisted in his seat to look for Cece, and then turned back.  "How long you been in town?"

"Just overnight."  I took a drink of my beer then asked, "You dig graves by hand?  That sounds like hard work."

He shrugged.  "It's not that bad.  I like it.  I take pride in my work, working with my hands.  You use a backhoe, it is like digging a sewer line or something.  By hand, it is more personal.  You become a participant in the process of the person's death.  And I've helped put some of Monterey's most prominent citizens to rest."  He smiled then said, "Yeah, they say the words, the people cry, then go away after dropping a few spade-fulls of dirt over their beloved.  Then I finish my job, full circle.  It's a metaphor for life, and renewal." 

I took another sip of my Coors.  "That sounds interesting."  This was the first gravedigger I'd met that talked about metaphors.  For that matter, he was the first gravedigger I'd met.

While we talked, the bar started filling up.  Most of the patrons coming in were longhairs, scruffy hippie types like myself, or at least like I was before the army had gotten a hold of me.  Everyone was eating peanuts from baskets placed around the bar and dropping the shells on the floor.  When people walked across the floor, they now made a terrific crunching sound.

Staring at Raoul, I asked,  "So how long have you worked there?"

"A little over three years,” he said, after taking a sip of his newly delivered beer.  "Hey, do you play pool?"  The two derelicts had abandoned their game for more beer and the table was open.

"Sure, eight ball?"  I liked pool.

"Great, I'll rack." 

He started digging in his pocket for a quarter.  As we were getting up, Gail came back. 

She smiled broadly.  "So you've met Raoul, huh?" she asked, as she put a new till in the cash register. 

Raoul's face lit up.  "This is the friend you came to visit?" he asked, looking back at me.

"Yeah."  I hoped I wasn't blushing.

Gail came around the end of the bar and laying her hand over mine, grinned at Raoul.  "Mark's going to live with me.  It's going to be a long visit."  She looked at me.  "Very long, I hope." 

Raoul smiled back at her.  "Yeah? That's outasite, man.  Congratulations, Gail.  To you both."  He raised his beer to us.  "A toast!"  He and I clanked bottles.

"Thanks,” I said.  "You wanna do it?"  I hooked my thumb towards the pool table.  Raoul nodded and got up to leave.

Gail winked at me, then asked, "Mark, just a moment?"  Raoul continued to the table, and put in the quarter.  I leaned towards her.

She took my hand and pulled me closer.  In a low voice, she said,  "Most of these people don't know I deal and I want to keep it that way, okay?"  I nodded and she smiled, saying, "Go have some fun, then.  You need another beer, just ask."  She kissed me on the cheek.

"Thanks, Gail."  I stared at her for a second, still somewhat overwhelmed at being back with her, then picked up my beer and walked over to the pool table, and selected a stick.  Raoul was racking the balls.  Finished, he rolled the cue ball my way.

I positioned the ball and leaned forward to break.  He looked at me as he chalked his cue.  "She's a nice lady," he said.  "I've been wondering when she was going to hook-up with someone.  If she's picked you, you're very lucky."

Feeling lucky indeed, I lined up the shot.  Staring at the balls, I said, "Thanks.  I realize that.  She is one helluva lady."  I let go with the stick.  The cue ball crashed into the rack, jumping about three inches into the air when it hit.  Two balls went down.

 

Several games and a number of beers later, I decided that shooting eight ball was a losing proposition.  In the first game I ended up losing because I tried to show off on an easy shot.  After running three balls, I had gotten good position on the fifteen, which lay almost directly in front of the side pocket.  But instead of taking the easy shot, I banked the ball off the rail, going for the pocket on the opposite side.  It ended up giving me great shape on the nine, but the fifteen bounced off the edge of the pocket and rolled back into the middle of the table.  Raoul took the opening and won, easily.  After that, it was all downhill.  My game really went to hell.

While we were playing pool, the place filled up considerably.  And as Gail had promised, it was wall to wall with longhaired freaks and other interesting-looking and bizarre people. 

After declining a game of cutthroat with Raoul and Butch, I found a seat at the bar and tried to catch Gail's eye.  She was checking the ID of a couple of guys that looked like teenagers.  The pair was standing there, openly ogling her cleavage, very nearly drooling on the bar as she leaned forward to talk to them.  Looking away, I stifled my newborn pangs of jealousy and drained the rest of my beer, listening to the music on the stereo.

There was no jukebox in the bar.  Instead, they had a rather good stereo that was kept tuned to the local FM rock station, KLRB.  At present, it was turned up loud and John Mayall was belting out blues riffs on his harp.  I tapped my fingers in time to the music as I stared down the bar at Gail, trying to catch her attention. 

Finally, she finished what she was doing and came down to where I sat.

"So how do you like the place?" she asked, almost out of breath. 

She'd been running constantly for the last hour or so.  Probably close to forty people in the place and it was just her and Cece.  No waitress, and no one washing glasses.  Just the two of them, but it looked like she was enjoying herself.

"I like it.  You got another beer?"

"Sure.  I'll trade you for a cigarette." 

She reached into the cooler in back of her and got another beer and then popped the cap and placed it in front of me.  I passed her a cigarette.

Just as she was about to light the cigarette, she waved to someone in back of me, and shouted, "Hey Jimi!  Deb!"

I looked in back of me and saw a man and woman approaching through the crowd. 

The man was in his early twenties and about my height, five eight, but weighed a little more.  He was wearing a jeans jacket, and had his long, wavy brown hair tied in a ponytail running down his back.  His face was almost obscured by a full beard and mustache, both the same color as his hair.     

The woman was about the same age, and was a couple inches shorter and slim.  She had fine, straight, light-brown hair that went to about the middle of her back, and she was wearing faded jeans with a dark green body shirt.  She was rather flat-chested, but had a really cute face, with kind of an up-tilted, button nose.

They came to a stop beside me and Gail spoke to them. 

"Hey, you guys leaving?" she asked the man.

He nodded.  "Yeah, we gotta go over to Seaside to see Deb's mom.  We promised we'd be there."

Gail smiled, then said, "Well hey, before you go, I want you to meet my new old man, Mark Roosevelt."  She pointed the unlit cigarette in my direction, and then looking at me, went on, "Mark, this is Jimi Erickson and Debbie Matthews.  You're gonna be making deliveries of, um uh ... Mexican products to them."  She raised her eyebrows and tilted her head towards them.

Smiling, I turned and stuck out my hand to the man.  "Deliveries, huh?  Pleased to meet you."

Jimi laughed as we shook hands.  "Yeah, same here.  Deb's in charge of the Mexican-type things department."

I turned to the lady, Debbie, smiling.  "Howdy."

She scrutinized me, staring at me suspiciously with her green eyes.  "You're the one that just got out of the army?"  Her voice was low and nasal, almost hoarse.

I nodded.  "Yeah.  I got out a couple months ago."

Her face softened, and there was the trace of a smile.  "Oh yeah.  I heard stories about you.  Yeah.  Something about you, her and three others smoking twenty-eight joints in two hours, and then another one about a bunch of kegs, and six hits of windowpane acid split two ways.  Mark, self-destruct Roosevelt, I think she called you."  Smiling, she and Jimi laughed as Gail bent low over the bar, hiding her face behind her hands.  Shaking her head, Debbie went on, "Well, welcome to Monterey, anyway.  You oughta like it here.  It's a pretty cool place."  She smiled.

I returned the smile.  "I only been here a day and I already like it."

Jimi broke in, "Hey, I saw you playing pool with Raoul and Butch.  You got robbed on that shot with the fifteen.  The rails on that table are shit.  I'm gonna complain about it to the management, I think."  He turned to Gail, smiling.

Debbie pulled on his arm.  "Do it later.  C'mon, we really gotta get.  My mom's gonna be pissed if we don't get there."  She turned to me.  "Nice meeting you, Mark.  We'll be seeing ya around."  Then to Gail, she said, "See ya, lady."

Gail smiled.  "We'll be over within the next couple days.  Later."

Jimi smiled and they moved off towards the door.

A customer sat down on the stool to my left and leaned a guitar case up against the bar in-between us.  Waving a dollar bill, he asked, "Hey Gail, you wanna roll for a beer?"  He was probably twenty-five, with shoulder length dark-blond hair.  He had a neatly trimmed mustache below his wire frame glasses, and was wearing blue jeans and an old army jacket. 

Lighting her cigarette, she said, "Sure."

She placed a leather dice cup on the bar and slid it across to the customer.  He shook it, and then dumped out the dice.

"Fives, a pair.  Match that."  Pushing the cup over towards her, he asked, "So when are you and I gonna go out and boogie again, huh?  You know I'll show ya a helluva good time."  He winked at her.

Smiling, Gail picked up the cup, gave it a shake, and spilled the dice.

"Three boxcars," she said, looking pleased.  She passed the cup back, then said, "I'm not sure when we can go out, you'll have to ask my old man."

He shrugged.  "Sure, I'll ask him.  Where is he?"

She smiled and nodded at me.  "Right there, actually."

The man glanced at me, and then muttered, "Oh, fuck."

Shaking her head, she laughed.  "I guess you haven't met my new old man, huh?" she asked, grinning, thoroughly enjoying herself.  He shook his head and she went on, "Gene, this is Mark Roosevelt.  Mark, Gene Rusco."  She looked back at Gene. "Mark's a musician too." 

Looking awkward, he stuck out his hand.  "Sorry man."

I extended my own hand and we shook.  "It's cool.  Pleased to meet ya."

             "Likewise."  He looked uncomfortable.

Eyebrows raised, Gail smiled at him and asked, "So you gonna roll them bones or what?"

"Sure," he said, and reached for the dice cup.

They continued their game, passing the dice back and forth.

They rolled several more times, and then Gail said, "Mark used to play bass in bands up in Washington.  They played all over the place."  She spilled the dice on the bar again, then shouted, "Die, motherfucker!  You lose!  Gimme your money."  She took his money, and then gave him a beer. 

Looking at me as if she were going to speak, she was distracted by a customer farther down the bar that was waving money at her and shouting her name.  She looked back at me.  "Uh, gotta go.  You guys talk.  I'll be back in a bit."  She smiled again and left at a dead run.

Looking a little embarrassed, Rusco smiled and said, "Uh, I didn't mean anything when I was asking her out.  I was just fucking with her.  I didn't have any idea she'd started living with somebody."

I shrugged, a little embarrassed myself.  "It's cool."

He took a drink of his beer and asked, "So, you known her long?"

I nodded, the beer poised before my lips, then said, "Yeah, we've been friends for a long time, about three years.  We met up in Seattle, hung out up there with each other for a summer."  I took a swallow and set the bottle back on the bar.

He smiled.  "Well you're a lucky sonofabitch.  Not many women like her – drop-dead beautiful and smart as a whip, all wrapped up in one.  Gonna be a lot a disappointed men around Monterey when they find out she's taken.  Damned nice lady."

"Yup, this is true," I said, feeling quite superior.

Rusco took a sip of his beer and asked me, "So what kind of music do you play?"

I shrugged.  "Oh, we did the Stones, Clapton, the Who, Savoy Brown, Allman Brothers, a fair bit of old blues stuff, and a few originals.  Not real commercial.  Only a couple of top-forty.  Try to stay away from the lounge stuff.  Shit gives me a headache."  I took a hit of my beer.

He smiled.  "Yeah, I know what you mean.  I was in this band last year, all they wanted to do was top-forty.  We'd have to learn about four new songs a week to stay current.  Man, it was bullshit.  I mean, we got a lot of gigs, but Christ, that wasn't music."  He paused then said, "I left after about six months.  I just couldn't get behind it."

"What do you play?"

"Guitar mostly.  And I can play the piano a bit."

"What kind of music?"

"Well, country rock is what I like.  You know, Jackson Browne, Eagles, Byrds, Crosby Stills Nash and Young.  That kind of space.  I like the blues, though.  Hey ... you got equipment?  I'm looking to put together another band.  I've got a drummer and a guy that plays dynamite piano.  What I need is a bass and a lead."

I frowned.  "I'm interested, but my equipment's still up in Seattle.  All I've got with me down here is my acoustic."

"What you got?"  He smiled.

"An old Gibson J-50.  Nineteen sixty-one vintage."

He laughed, his hand on the guitar case.  "No shit?  That's what this is.  I mean, mine's only a couple of years old, but it's a J-50."  He looked around in back of us. "C'mon, let's go sit down at that table back there by the piano.  Maybe play a couple of tunes?"

I smiled.  "Sure thing."

We picked up our beers and the guitar, and moved through the crowd over to the vacant table.  He pulled a chair around by him, laid the case against it, then took out the guitar and handed it to me. 

I accepted it gingerly, turning it over and holding it up to the light, noting the differences between his and mine.  "My pick guard is different, it's got a cut-away on the bottom.  And I've got an adjustable bridge and Schaller keys.  Other than that, it's about the same."   I strummed it on an open E chord, and then tried a few lead riffs.  "Nice action."   I could barely hear it over the din of the crowd and the stereo, but what I heard was good.  Sounded like he had new strings on it.  Felt like light gauge or maybe extra light. 

Gail came up from behind and placed her hands on my shoulders.  I looked up and saw her, and she asked, "You want me to turn off the stereo so you can play?" 

I tried to disappear into my chair.  Nothing happened.  Slowly, I said,  "Oh, no.  It's cool, I'm just looking at it."

She frowned and squeezed my shoulders.  "Mark, c'mon.  Just play a couple of songs.  People do it all the time in here.  Please, for me?"

Rusco joined in.  "Yeah, c'mon man, I'd like to hear you play too.  Go for it."

I sighed.  "Okay.  One song."

Gail leaned over and kissed me on the forehead and left.  A moment later the stereo went off.  Then in back of the bar, Gail began rapping a spoon on a glass, and shouted, "Attention, attention."  She paused to let the noise subside, then once it was quiet, continued loudly, "Tonight, for our listening enjoyment, the Half Way House Saloon is proud to present, direct from Seattle Washington, the renowned rhythm and blues guitarist, Mark Roosevelt!"  She waved in my direction and began clapping.  Two or three other people, Gene and Raoul, maybe Butch I think, joined in.  Everyone else stood staring, as if I had interrupted their private space. 

"Oh, shit,” I muttered under my breath.

Rusco smiled.  I sent a withering gaze in Gail's direction.  She just smiled and gave me the finger.

"I guess you're committed now, dude.  Do it, knock 'em dead," said Rusco, laughing.

I strummed the guitar again, tuned the high E string, and said in a loud voice, "Thank you, Gail."

I looked at Rusco who was still smiling, then launched into 'Friend of the Devil' by the Grateful Dead.  I was lucky.  I was able to remember almost all of the lyrics.  And I only screwed up the guitar part twice.

I had never felt comfortable playing solo in front of people I didn't know.  Gail knew that, which was why I was mildly pissed-off at her.  The problem is that I was afraid of embarrassing myself.  You see, playing with a band is different.  If you make a mistake, chances are unless it's something really bad, the other players can cover you.  To an extent, you get to hide behind the other people in the band.  But by yourself, everything is right out there in front of god and everyone, and if you screw up, it's there for all to hear.

The song finally ended without any major problems.  I was surprised when maybe a dozen people actually clapped.  I glanced at Rusco.  He nodded his head.  I looked around.  People had formed a semi-circle around our table while I played.  It was still quiet and the people were looking expectantly at me.  The reception had been a lot friendlier than I believed possible.  I decided to do another song.

I found Gail's eyes in the back of the crowd and said in a loud voice, "I'd like to do a song by Neil Young, 'Cowgirl in the Sand.'  This is for Gail Loughlin."  She dipped her head, smiling.

I opened the song, playing slowly.  I caught Gail's eye as I started to sing:

 

"Hello cowgirl in the sand.

Is this place at your command?

Can I stay here for a while, now?

Can I see your sweet, sweet smile?

Old enough, now, to change your name.

When so many love you, is it the same?

Is it the woman in you, that makes you want

to play this game?"

 

I couldn't tell for sure, but I was almost certain I could see Gail blushing while she stood there and watched.  The song was one of her favorites, and she'd asked me to play it for her on a number of previous occasions.  I'd always identified the lyrics with her, which was something she found endearing.  Once, after playing it, I'd joked about how the song fit her because she was a control freak, and always had so many other men chasing after her.  She'd confided that she was indeed a person who liked to be in 'command' of the situation, and that many men found her attractive, but strongly denied any game playing.  On that point, I had to agree.

I finished the song without doing anything that would have embarrassed Mr. Young, and there was a good round of applause.  The crowd had grown again as I sang. 

I looked over at Rusco.  "Hey, how about jamming with me on that piano?"

The old upright piano was just off to his side.  It was covered with cigarette burn scars, a hulk that looked like it had been there forever.  He shrugged his shoulders, then moved over and opened the keyboard.

"What you want to do?" he asked.

"You know 'Key to the Highway' by Derek and the Dominoes?  Three chord blues progression in A."

"Like this?" 

He played the opening notes of the song, and after a couple bars, I joined in.  He played well.  His style was somewhere in-between Leon Russell and Bobby Whitlock.  He gave the song an upbeat, kind of honky-tonk sound, reinforced by the piano no doubt, which seemed to have certain keys that were slightly out of tune. 

Letting him carry the rhythm, I set out playing as many of the lead riffs from the song as I could remember.  At the point where I ran out of riffs, I glanced at him and went back to playing rhythm and he picked up the lead part. 

We ended up trading vocals, and trading riffs back and forth.  The people loved it, and wouldn't let us stop. 

Gail sold a lot of beer that night.  I played until my fingers bled.