Cary was very gentle with me when I told him I’d never really had sex, never been penetrated before, anyway. I heard stories from many of my friends (Carol mostly) about how painful the first time was: there would be blood everywhere and how huge the ‘members’ typically were. A little apprehensive, but the reality would set the tone for my future sexual adventures. I liked it. It wasn’t painful at all and there were only a few spots of blood. Fortunately, and I think of this in only the kindest of ways, Cary’s penis size matched his height: average. Which was fine with me and put me at ease. I wanted to do it again, many times, all the time. I wanted to ball as many guys as I could now that I wasn’t a virgin. I liked this sex thing, this absolute abandon. And, I felt a certain power in my sensuality. This was the hippie life I had envisioned.
We spent the next few days, traveling back and forth between the Ave and the Hills. I’d rendezvous with Carol at Robbie’s so we wouldn’t lose track of each other. Carol had met a hippie guy by the name of Scorpius. A brooding character, he smelled like an overabundance of patchouli and marijuana, and was constantly sweating, but seemed to treat Carol kindly. He had a room in a commune, so I knew she would have a place to sleep and felt less guilty about being with Cary.
Cary would play his guitar on the Ave, keeping the guitar case open for ‘spare change’. Although I wasn’t very good at the time, I knew a few chords and some songs, so occasionally he’d let me play and I’d ‘earn’ a few coins which we’d generally spend on acid or pot, with very little left over for the disgusting fare at Robbie’s. It was simple, perfect.
Ideally, and in the life I’d imagined at 17, my story would have ended there, skipping off into the sunset, across the bay to San Francisco, to spend my time with Cary in an ‘okay’ commune room, right next door to where the Grateful Dead lived. My faultless hippie love. Everything changes. Nothing is forever.
On one particular day, I’d planned to meet Carol as usual, but Cary and I, (a little over exuberant and preferring now to linger in the tent, on the hills of Berkeley, exploring our bodies) straggled to the Ave, mid-afternoon. I headed over to Robbie’s, leaving Cary somewhere on the street, promising to meet him later at the Mediterranean. Summer in Berkeley, young, free, happy.
I saw Scorpius outside Robbie’s talking to a tallish young man with a wide brim hat, bad teeth and dark glasses. I didn’t see Carol and when I approached closer, Scorpius wheeled around to look at me with crippled eyes. Carol had been picked up earlier in a general ‘ID’ sweep of the Ave. Had I been there, I likely would have gone along with her and this vision would have ended for sure.
Scorpius had been talking with a guy named Ruben, who I later found out was a local promoter/part-time drug-dealer. Ruben had some connection with promoting shows through the Family Dog for the Grateful Dead, Jimi Hendrix, Jefferson Airplane, and other bands that filled the Bay Area venues during that time. He continued his conversation directed at me now, which quickly turned friendly. He suggested if I’d accompany him to a place out on North Beach to deliver a couple of ‘keys’ of pot, he’d give me $50 for my efforts and we could stop by The Family Dog to see who was playing. I was fretful over Carol’s current situation, but there was nothing I could do. Quick money and a quick trip (finally) to my Mecca, San Francisco? I seem to remember taking a joint Ruben offered me, and puffed on it, smiling. This was good. I looked for Cary at the Mediterranean, but didn’t see him and since this was just a quick trip which would provide us with some money, I’d tell him about it later at the café where we’d planned to meet. I’d never see him again.
Ruben had a giant Cadillac with an 8-track cassette player. It was the grooviest to be able to pop-in the huge rectangular objects into a slot in the dashboard whenever you wanted to hear a different song. Far out! And Ruben had a lot of cassettes, nearly 20 or 30, which filled the entire back seat of the car. Just before leaving Berkeley, we’d stopped by Ruben’s apartment to pick-up the two ‘bundles’ of marijuana he’d later sell in San Francisco. He called it ‘red wrap’ apparently due to some type of red cellophane covering around each kilogram package and was the same stuff we’d smoked early. He had a one-bedroom apartment, not just a crash pad or a room in a commune although, the place smelled like dirty socks and had an over-filled cat litter box in one corner of the living room.
Riding to San Francisco for my first time, I felt the desire and doom again. The car window rolled down, my hair blowing around in the late afternoon sun, I thought of Carol. She’d likely be going back to Corvallis, to live that dreary life in Oregon. It didn’t seem fair and so, life is that way sometimes.
Ruben had a plethora of assorted drugs and when he offered me a couple of gelatin capsules, I took them, thinking it was acid or mescalin, but later found out it was PCP, a high-powered horse tranquilizer. I was limp as a rag in no time, but felt so relaxed and soon passed out.
When I woke, groggy, it was dark, but we were still driving and now I was sprawled out among the 8-track cassettes in the backseat of Ruben’s car. I peaked my head up over the seat and saw the road flat, stretching out before us, a sign whizzed by: I-5. I tried to focus my eyes, but still heavy from the drugs I’d taken, thought the clock on the dashboard flashed 2:00AM….AM!?
Noticing I had some life in me, Ruben rattled off that I’d been asleep during the ‘delivery’ process in Berkeley so he’d just left me in the car, moving me to the back seat first. His eyes, darting, twitching, his facial expressions the same as I’d seen on Dana. Ruben proceeded to tell me he had an even bigger deal in LA and we were on our way there now. LA! I’d been passed-out the entire time we’d been in San Francisco, I still hadn’t seen the city and now we were on our way to Los Angeles. Still heavy from the effects of the intense tranquilizer, I resolved to ride along, uncomplaining.
We stopped along the way at a gas station. While Ruben made a phone call, I took to the ladies room, splashing cold water on my face. I looked drained, terrible; why was this guy interested in me? I smelled sour, so gave myself a tepid ‘sponge bath’ using what the facilities had to offer. When I met up with Ruben outside, he’d bought me a t-shirt that featured a big green dinosaur on the front, likely sensing I was in need of a wardrobe change. Well, it was much cleaner than the tshirt I currently wore. Ruben jerked his head around nervously as if we were being followed telling me we needed to hurry as he was to see some guy in LA who would be performing at a festival where we’d meet him. I felt somewhat better now having given myself something of a bath and had on a clean tshirt, going to a festival. Ruben said Jimmy Hendrix, Joe Cocker and Jethro Tull would be there. My first chance to see them all! Berkeley disappeared from my thoughts.
Ruben gave me two other pills telling me it would help to wake me up. The sun rose as I felt the sensation of the pills take over, my scalp tingled and I began to fire off conversation to Ruben, telling him about my insignificant life. We both stepped on each others conversations, wrapped up in our own addled thoughts and dialog, whizzing down the road to LA.
Arriving at Devonshire Downs a beautiful sea of green grass and hippies dancing in the sun stretched out before us. Ruben took the road around to the backstage area, telling a huge man with biceps the size of my thigh that he was here to see ‘Chris’, apparently some guy in Joe Cocker’s band. ‘Giant guy’ turned his back on us to radio someone, but wheeled around to tell us it was okay to go on back and removed the barricade to allow the vehicle entrance. I was elated and scanned the area for signs of Jimmy Hendix or anyone from any of the bands. When we stopped in front of a huge trailer marked with the Band’s name, Ruben gave me the $50 he’d promised, but I never expected since I’d been passed out during the drug transaction in San Francisco. He instructed me to meet him by the soundboard located out in the crowd, saying he would see me soon. Ruben too would disappear out of my life forever.
I made my way through the swaying bodies finally finding a place next to the main PA system as Creedence Clearwater Revival hit the stage. Several people were passing around giant joints the size of my middle finger and nearly a foot long. As one was passed my way, a hippie boy offered me some capsules filled with a brown mixture he said was psylocibin, apparently an organic hallucinogen. I’d never had any, but hoped it would stop my jaws from clenching together and gave him $5 for the psychedelics. I soon forgot about anything, everything as the sights and sounds of the Newport Pop Festival streamed out before me. Later as I lay under a tree on the soft grass with ‘psylocibin guy’, he threw a musty smelling Mexican blanket over us. Although the weather was warm and we really didn’t need the covering it was more for modesty’s sake as he balled me under the stars until we both drifted off into some sort of dreamland. I liked the intense sensations of having sex while on psychedelics.
The sun soon warmed the race track area. I left ‘psylocibin guy’ still asleep under the tree as I sauntered off the grounds deciding not to search for Ruben and instead, hitch-hike back to Berkeley. At a drinking fountain I found along with several other overnight ‘guests’, I splashed water on my face and hair, parched as well, I drank my fill. I asked around the crowd, attempting to find a ride back north. A hippie couple said they were going to Mendocino and offered to drop me off in Berkeley if I’d share gas expenses. With the remainder of $50 still in my pocket I agreed and exited the festival area, piling into their VW bus along with several other riders.
The ride back to the Bay Area was filled with wild conversation and marijuana smoke. It was just after dark when my drivers dropped my off on the Ave. I was back in Berkeley. I wanted to find Cary. Not that I had any real connection with him other than he was the first guy I had sex with.
I asked around at the Mediterranean Café where he’d typically go, but no one had seen him in a couple of days. A bit concerned as I had no place to stay at the moment and with less than $20 now in my pocket, I shuddered to think I might have to struggle for a place to sleep at the Free Church. Instead, I walked up the street to Robbie’s, hoping to find Cary or someone who had seen him. Not finding him there, nor anyone with a positive word, I decided to chance a trek to where he had pitched his tent, imagining that I’d find him there, waiting for me, warm arms, stars smiling down. When I arrived at the spot, there was no tent, not a trace of him. I stared down at the lights of Berkeley, blinking below. Sitting on the hill, my arms hugging my legs tight up against my chest, alone.
The next many weeks were filled with a succession of faceless men I would ball in exchange for a place to sleep. I found an abandoned building where I’d occasionally stay, sometimes weak from the assorted free-flowing drugs and once too sick to eat anything let alone fuck anyone.
Although I had made assorted acquaintances among the runaways and street people, I had no real connection with anyone. Carol had been my companion and at my loneliest which was usually when I was staying in the abandoned building, I considered going back to Oregon, but would despise those thoughts and instead opted to somehow survive my current situation.
Regardless, I continued my daily turn on the Ave, journeying between Robbie’s and the Mediterranean, panhandling what I could for food and often would go to the Free Church for peanut butter sandwiches and the odd shower. I’d since stopped wearing underclothing, that was no longer an issue so could usually find a clean tshirt in the donation box at the Free Church or a pair of pants that fit me. I’d lost quite a bit of weight, so my free clothing option’s had increased.
The Ave continued to offer up its weird assortment of characters and at any given time, local bike clubs, like the Gypsy Jokers or Hell’s Angels would have massive club 'runs' up and down the street, often lining their bikes up in front of Robbie’s, where one day, I met Terry. I rarely associated with the biker types, most were disgustingly crude, scarred and didn't particularly have any sentiment for the 'peace and love' vibration typical of the Ave. But Terry seemed different…I approached him, intending to ask him for a few coins. He was stretched along the length of his Harley sun bright in his eyes and didn’t look worn or rough like the other bikers. Terry was young, and would later tell me he just turned 19. I wondered how he'd become involved with these people. Instead of money, he offered to take me for a ride on his bike.
My arms gripping tight around Terry’s stomach, I’d been on various mopeds, but had never been on a real bike before. Terry loosened my hold around his middle instructing me to relax, to lean in closer to him and instead to hug him more with my thighs, to follow his body movements. It seemed like weeks since I’d smiled. I just wanted to ‘belong’ again. He'd lent me a giant leather jacket that hung heavy, but kept me warm against the cool air as we rode around for hours that day, down to Oakland and across the bridge to the south bay area. Going no where in particular, with Terry’s long dark braid, snug against my chest, July came to a close.
I stuck around with Terry for a few days and later, he’d look for me often and find me on the Ave. Having sex with him was, well, interesting. He had a short, rather wide penis, which was sometimes uncomfortable, and typically we’d ball in large rooms, with others doing the same or simply watching. It was only mildly irritating. After all, I’d just got started with this sex thing. I needed the practice.
The mood was intensely serious with plenty of drugs, beer and, women doing what their men asked of them. Terry wasn’t as old as some of the more established hierarchy but he apparently held some weight with the club. I had not a clue as to why Terry remained interested in me. Opposites attract, I suppose. Although I was approached frequently by others in the club (and occasionally decided a little experimentation was okay, blatantly curious as I seem to remember) and, I’d seen and heard what most biker types preferred to do with their women, it was understood I was with Terry so remained unharmed.
Mostly, the men would talk about taking a trip east to New York. There was some sort of big music festival planned for the middle of August. Apparently, other assorted ‘road warriors’ were planning the same trek. Even though I could fend for myself on the streets, I’d hoped Terry would take me with him.
I had very few possessions and no clothing to speak of other than whatever sort of tshirt and well-worn jeans I could scrounge. Subsequently, some of the ‘old ladies’ gave me a few things. On a steady supply of various pills, I’d lost even more weight by then and fit well in a pair of black leather pants, my ‘clothing companion’ for the next week or more.
Connie had given me the leather pants. I liked her. She was the tall, quiet ‘old lady’ of a giant biker named Indian who was some sort of Vice-President of the club. Connie generally wore tight-fitting Levis and a tank top. Unlike the other women, she seemed intelligent and had most of her teeth. Although I tried to be cheerful, most of the ‘old ladies’ didn’t like me. I guess Terry was some sort of ‘catch’ I had somehow snagged, but Connie was always kind to me in her tough, biker-girl sort of way. She wore false eyelashes and lots of dark eye makeup, which made her eyes stand out like two huge black orbs. She’d tease her long dark hair with a rat-tail comb, lacquering it heavy with Aquanet hairspray. When she was drunk (which was often), she’d seek me out and throw her arm around my shoulder, crying into my neck, telling me about her daughter an ex-husband refused to let her see. Sometimes, Indian would find Connie in this condition and slap her hard across the face. I didn’t like that, but knew better than to say anything. Terry never hit me, which was unusual and often the source of temporary cajoling by the other club members. Sex was fast becoming the tool I’d use and would in an uncanny way protect me. I did so with any of the other members always with Terry’s approval, so never had to be ‘disciplined’ nor was I ‘turned out’ like some of the other roving females. It was a harsh reality and could have been worse, but I learned to navigate my life accordingly.
I soon found myself on the road, leaning hard into Terry, riding up Highway 80 towards Sacramento, on our way East. We rode in pairs. A gargantuan biker named Lee rode along side us. He was Terry’s friend in a way, although I never understood why they would burn each other with cigarettes. Connie was up ahead, in the 'bitch seat', riding behind Indian and every so often, I could see her arm raised, her hand clenched into a fist. Whenever we would hit small towns in Utah or Colorado, the police would ‘escort us’ to the edge of town like a bad western movie. Often we women would lift our tops exposing our naked breasts to the constabulary, sort of as a ‘thank you’ gesture for allowing us to pass through without being arrested. Truth be told, the club was carrying a significant amount of methamphetamines: ‘black beauties’. A delivery was planned in the Midwest before we continued East. Just outside of Salina, Kansas, we turned south to Oklahoma.
Wind, bugs and sun had turned my face raw in those early days of August. Adding to this general discomfort, my legs and buttocks were bruised and chaffed from bumping around on the back of Terry’s bike. When we’d camp at night, I was expected to ball whomever came my way, but found that men are easily pleased by any sort of attention given to their members. So, a good blow job seemed to suffice for the time being and thereby, negotiated my way out of anything more. I was anxious to head northeast after the business in Tulsa and get this ‘rough riding’ over with. Terry, in a tweaky mood one night, rattled off something about going to a place called Woodstock, New York. For me, near the place where I had been born but, don’t remember.
Tulsa would expose its pain to me. I seem to remember a dirty, hot gray sky stretched out for miles when we arrived - stern riders - spanning the streets of the downtown area. Eyes regard you depending on who your ‘associations’ are. My curious, tense mind, always in a haze from too many drugs and sun, considered black horned-rimmed glasses, the smell of frying food and flat stretches of Mobile Home Parks and pick-up trucks. We traveled several dirt roads on the outskirts of town to a flat, naked piece of land where a double-wide trailer perched with various cannibalized motorcycle parts scattered in small heaps everywhere. I’d developed a cough and runny nose and felt ill, but not in a "I think I’m in love" kind of way. I was sick.
Connie passed by me and put her sweaty hand to my forehead. I was burning up and felt dizzy. She said something to a weathered woman who shuffled out the front door behind a giant, greasy biker. We women walked back inside where I was escorted to a small room in the add-on side porch. The interior was nearly as hot as outside, but I didn’t care. Or maybe it was the fever I soon found out I had when Connie instructed me to lie down on the bed and plunged a thermometer in my mouth. I remember telling Connie I was really sore, hurting from the ride, I thought, especially between my legs. I’d started to itch in that area too, but thought that maybe I was just ‘healing’. Still, I had some discharge now and it smelled funny. Connie screwed-up her lips, looking at her feet. She knew but, I’d not find out until I was taken by car to the local clinic: The Clap, Gonorrhea. Treatable, not a death sentence, but debilitating and humiliating nonetheless as I bore my buttocks to a strong shot of penicillin and was sent away with a prescription for the same to clear up ‘the dose’ along with the slight case of bronchitis I’d contracted.
Back at the trailer, apparently the transaction had gone well as a party was well under way. I felt near death’s door. I was surprised when Terry stepped up to help me into bed and wiped my head with a damp cloth, or maybe I just hallucinated it all. Regardless, I would spend the next many hours flat on my back, sweating out the fever and biting my lip wondering whom I’d contracted the clap from. It soon became evident that a biker named Joe had been the culprit. We all heard him screaming in the darkness, just a few hours before sunset as he attempted to urinate. Fortunately, I’d only balled one guy – Terry – since Joe, as I’d adapted to my current mode of sexual behavior due to the road battering my body had taken on Terry’s bike. The next day, both men would feel the sting of the giant needle in their respective asses. Then, they’d all leave for Woodstock. I’d remain, too ill to travel, staying with the worn-out biker babe who inhabited the trailer. Terry gave her some money saying something about coming back to pick me up in a week. Terry would become a memory too.
The irony of my whole stay in Oklahoma wouldn’t hit me until many years later. I detested the flat, hot dryness, the wind blowing mini cyclones around like little dusty dancers. I suppose I would have been hospitalized or dead if I’d not remained at the dirty trailer park outside of Tulsa, sad reality that it was. Suffice it to say, within a couple of days I was feeling much better. Although the oozing, smelly discharge between my legs had stopped and my lungs had cleared, I decided to wait a bit longer before I’d attempt any kind of move beyond my current situation.
Although I’d fantasized a lot of things in my sickness-induced state, I knew Terry and the other bikers weren’t coming back for me. I was alone, broke and just barely back to some sort of healthy state. Left to the mercy of an addle-brained biker chick, I would have gladly committed murder just to get out of there. I could likely hitchhike my way back to Berkeley, but didn’t exactly relish the thought of giving the odd blow-job to long-haul truckers just to find my way back to the Bay Area. Still, what else did I have going for me? My ‘break’ would come soon enough in the guise of a half-gallon of Thunderbird and a bad drug deal.
After a monotonous series of me waking up after a fitful few hours of sleep only to realize I was still stuck near Tulsa with no visible means of income and like everything else around me, little hope of breaking out of my current situation, instinctively, I realized this must be what hell is like and no, I wasn’t going to end up here either!
Waking one morning and in despair, I ambled out to the middle of the only ‘field’ within 100 miles and it seemed the only place where more than one tree grew in the same spot. Actually, I think the shrubbery was just giant sagebrush of some sort. All the same, I found some solitude and refuge in the shade.
I remember hearing a slight rumbling in the distance which grew incrementally louder and noticed a cloud of dust coming up off the flat stretch: Bikes. My heart pounded thinking it might be Terry coming back for me! It wasn’t, but as luck would have it and, unknown to me at the time, this would be the beginning of my leaving that hellhole.
I listened as the bikes drew closer to the trailer park and then finally the open-throttled sound of the machines wound around the front of the place where I’d been staying, idling down and some stopping completely. I heard voices. Soon I could tell some were raised in anger. I listened more intently, secreting myself behind a huge pile of spare bike parts near the shrubbed area. Although I couldn’t hear what they were saying, I recognized the big greasy biker who had initially been at the trailer when I first arrived had returned and brought others with him. He started yelling and hitting the woman I’d been staying with, slapping her hard across the face. An opened green jug of Thunderbird dangled from her hand. It was almost as if it were surgically implanted on the end of her fingers, since she didn’t let go and didn’t spill a drop even though her head was knocked from side to side. Soon she slumped to the ground, bottle still in tact: a pile of woman and booze. A lump of fear started to form in my throat. Although I had very little in worldly possessions still in the trailer, my life was more important, so I decided to stay hidden for the time being. In the meantime, the bikers who had just arrived started to tear-up the trailer, throwing furniture and all out in front of the trailer, creating a big pile in the roundabout, bikes rev-ing and circling the big mess. I worried that Greasy Biker-guy would remember I’d been there too but, it seems he was as dumb as he was big since they didn’t look for me. Fortunately, just before sunset, they all left as quickly as they had arrived, blazing through the trailer park.
As soon as I knew they were good and gone, I made my way around the front of the trailer, only to discover the female I’d been staying with was just coming around, leering at me with glassy eyes and a nose now caked with dried blood. She mumbled something about the ‘outhouse…can’t find it’. Swigging on the dirty bottle of Thunderbird, she repeated the rhetoric but, I think she was mostly talking to herself rather than directly at me. Still I was somewhat curious as to what she meant and somehow coaxed her into telling me what had happened. Even though her language was slurred from drink and getting knocked around, I understood her all the same.
Apparently the bikers had been waiting just north of Tulsa for a significant delivery from Mexico which hadn’t happened yet. They’d given the Greasy biker-guy quite a lot of cash for the transaction. Some, of which the Stupid biker-chick had allegedly secreted away in the outhouse! Drunk and stumbling around, she continued to spout off randomly to the air as she didn’t appear to be talking directly to me anymore, ‘don’t tell ‘em …did they get it?’ Curious, I sauntered over to the outhouse, which looked and smelled like a shitty version of a nuclear waste dump. Regardless, a day or so earlier, I thought I’d seen the biker chick fussing around the back of the outhouse. She was as stupid as she appeared, because when I surveyed the back panels of wood on the outhouse, I noticed one panel was loose and a small piece of red cloth stuck out from the aperture. I tugged a bit on the wood and it gave way, a bright colored bandana tumbled out and I could see some Franklins - a big wad of them at that - peaking out of one of the tied-up corners.
Quickly grabbing as much cash as I could stuff in my pockets, I reeled around, half-expecting the drunken, bloodied biker babe to be waiting for me. Instead, when I peeked around the side of the outhouse, I saw nothing. I headed around to the front of the trailer and looking inside through the torn screen door, I could see she was likely passed out as I could hear her snoring crescendo. Turning on my heels, I walked straight out of the place. Down the road about 3 miles and with thumb raised, I caught a ride into town with a watermelon farmer who continually spewed brown liquid from his lips through the open window on his side of the pick-up truck he was driving.
In town, I’d buy some new clothes, a bag to put them in and a bus ticket to Berkeley. In the bathroom of the bus station, I’d had an opportunity to count the remainder of the cash I had: $839! My skin was jumping as the Greyhound pulled out of Tulsa. I was on my way back to California.
Berkeley, my ‘goddess’ of the Bay and now with money in my pocket, I could actually buy some good drugs and go to The Fillmore as I still hadn’t spent any time in San Francisco. Ah, the important things! Even though I felt like a millionaire, I needed to stay alert to any possibilities I’d be sought out by the bikers. So, I continued to play it low-key, sleeping in a hotel the first few nights, avoiding Robbie’s, but then soon, I returned to my cycle of abandoned buildings and street life.
Hanging out at Robbie’s one night, Dana appeared. Heavy-lidded, speech-slurred I’d roam around with him for the next few days. Remembering back and connecting me to my innocent first few days in Berkeley, I’d give him money to support his drug habit, which would alternate between heroin and speed. I liked him much better when he was high on heroin, dreamy and affectionate, rather than the intense, abusive person he’d turn into when he ‘had a gig’ and needed to ‘bump’ some speed. I soon became tired of waiting for him at Robbie’s not knowing what sort of ‘mood’ he’d be in when he'd finally show up. I’d also run out of money.
Late, one afternoon and down to my last few dollars, I met two other runaway girls outside of Robbie’s: Frenchy and Toy. They’d been panhandling for money to see that night’s show at The Fillmore.
Frenchy, tall, all arms and legs with a husky voice and big nose appeared almost masculine, but the sprinkle of freckles across her face and small bumps on her chest gave her away. Toy, on the other hand, was short, round, almost ‘hobbit-like’, a giggly little girl, she loved to dance, eyes lighting up as she spun around. Sharing a joint, we felt an instant bond.
Frenchy and Toy had been crashing in this two-room flat on the corner of Shattuck and Woolsey, and offered me a place to stay. Apparently, Frenchy knew the Asian exchange student who paid rent on the modest space so, felt some sort of ‘ownership’. I was grateful for the opening and for this friendship. I bonded instantly with these two. At the time and, although I needed the camaraderie, I’d not know how significant this relationship would be for me and how it would effect my life to this day.
We'd soon panhandled almost enough money to pay for tickets to The Fillmore. So, we decided to hitchhike over to the City, hoping to panhandle the rest of the cash or maybe someone would turn us on to a ticket, some pot or other drugs. I’d still not been to San Francisco. Well, not that I’d remember anyway and was elated at the fact I now had ‘two girl buddies’ who were runaways like me. I felt secure, comforted somehow.
We thumbed a short ride close to the Bay Bridge where we were finally picked-up by a single Spade driver. The driver suggested another way to avoid traffic, steering into a warehouse area close to the waterfront. I really didn’t think much about it and was just happy to finally be on my way to a show at The Fillmore. If there was a quicker route, I was all for it. The brief innocence we may have had was shattered in the next few minutes as the driver quickly turned right, between two structures that gave no room to open the car doors and blocked any means of escape. I knew he’d done this before.
Frenchy had been sitting in the front seat and when the driver whipped out a gun, he waived it at us, directing Frenchy to jump in the back seat, telling us we had 5 minutes to make up our minds as to who would get back in the front seat with him and give him some pussy. I started to cry as did Frenchy and Toy. Fear gripped me as I started to hyperventilate, feeling the acid from my stomach rising to my throat. Frenchy cried and hugged me, agreeing to the disgusting duties and shaking…frightened…but, displaying a strength I’d know and always respect about her, crawled over and back into the front seat. Toy held me close. In the back seat, we tried to look away but with the gun at Frenchy’s throat, Rape-guy demanded we watch. Frenchy was whimpering then, I was just wailing, gasping for air as he threatened to kill us if we didn’t shut up. I suppose we were ruining his ‘moment’. I figured this was it, I was going to die here. I remember envisioning my entire short life, my worthless 17 years playing, fast-forwarding in my mind. Somehow, resourceful thinking crept back to me and while Rape-guy was in the throes of his perverted passion, I whispered to Toy about my faking an epileptic attack and established fact: vomiting was no problem for me. I was soon feigning a convulsion and puking in the backseat.
Weird thing about rapists (well, this one anyway) apparently he was repulsed by my spewing and quickly disengaged from Frenchy. Pushing her against the passenger door, he rev-ed up the car engine and backed out of the space we’d been trapped in. Driving slowly but steering crazily down the street while screaming expletives at us, Rape-guy demanded we jump out of his car! With the car in motion, Frenchy (who’d managed to fasten her jeans by then), Toy and I bailed from the car, rolling out and onto the ground. Shaking, crying and, hugging each other, surveying our scuffed and scraped arms and legs we were in shock, but glad to be alive! We scrambled for a hiding place just in case he turned the car around and came back to look for us. Frenchy had endured the worst and stiffened when I grabbed her to pull her away from the street. If we’d had any kind of sense, we would have noted the license plate, at least the description of the car but, since we were all runaways, it would have just invited other difficulties had we reported the rape.
Cold chills enveloped me as we ran towards lights and signs of major public activity. Somehow, we found our way back to the main avenue that would take us over the Bay Bridge. By then, we were exhausted. I’m sure Frenchy was disoriented, still in shock as she talked non-stop about the show at the Fillmore, how we’d miss it if we didn’t catch a ride soon and on and on. You’d think after that experience we’d swear-off hitchhiking, but not 15 minutes after escaping a life-threatening situation, we were back on the street, arms outstretched, thumbing towards San Francisco, visions of immortality.
Eventually, 3 men in a new model van picked us up. They claimed to be off-duty police officers, but didn’t hassle us for ID as we blurted out our story of the rape and escape from death. They probably thought we were stoned or insane and chose instead to drop us off on Market Street, just over the bridge and within walking distance of The Fillmore. Finally: I was in San Francisco and, on my way to see a show at the Fillmore!
Outside the Fillmore and after regrouping, we still didn’t have enough money for three tickets. I spotted a guy I knew from the Free Church who always wore a flowered shirt, resembling some sort of tropical blossom. Everyone called him Hawaii. He’d once told me friends of his had raided a laboratory on some UC campus and made off with 10 gallons of LSD 19. Now, LSD 23 is the ingredient for the mind-blowing concoction most of us were used to. Hawaii and his friends though, in their effort to obtain a constant high, decided to drink a gallon of this LSD 19 stuff each, thinking that would probably ‘do it’. Well, it did, in a way, as later and infrequently, you might be talking with Hawaii who would suddenly jerk into spasms which would subside after a few minutes. It was downright freakish.
I approached Hawaii inquiring if he had any ‘spare change’. Instead, I got 6 purple double-domes and gave two each to Frenchy and Toy agreeing to meet up outside The Fillmore after the show if we were separated from each other. To this day, I wonder if I saw the show at all that night or if I just imagined it.
I guess I lost track of time and of Frenchy and Toy since I remember that night, I’d wandered the streets, following the blur of Hawaii’s flowered shirt. I suppose he hitched a ride for us as I soon found myself back in Berkeley, outside the Free Church, crawling on my hands and knees in the grass looking for imaginary strawberries.
I seem to recall Hawaii asking me where I was ‘crashing’ and as memory serves me, I’d remember the offer Frenchy and Toy had made me, blurting out, "On the corner of Shattuck and Woolsey", 20 blocks or more away. Since I’d never been to the place before, for the time being, I opted to stay at the Free Church, drinking coffee in the common room until nearly sunrise. And, as the effects of the LSD started to subside, I splashed water on my face from one of the bathroom sinks, rubbed my face partially dry with a paper towel and said good-bye to Hawaii as I exited, on my way to hopefully reunite with Frenchy and Toy.
I knew where Shattuck Street was. It ran slightly parallel with The Ave. So, I continued to follow the street away from the UC Commons. What seemed like an hour later, I asked a shopping-bag lady who smelled like dead cats if I was headed in the right direction for the intersection of Woolsey. She asked me for some spare change. I didn’t have any money, but gave her a smile instead. She still hadn’t answered my question, so I moved on figuring I didn’t have anything else going for me but hope. The strange thing is, that feeling would never leave me. You know, hope? I suppose that’s a technique a true survivor cultivates. At the time, other than the clothes on my back (and some things I’d stashed in a vacant building which I would retrieve later), I had nothing else.
Nearing mid-morning, I reached the corner of Shattuck and Woolsey. Okay, it had 4 corners; which flat was it? I eliminated the three larger buildings and went for the bungalow on the southeast corner. When I tapped on the door, my hunch was right as a sleepy-eyed Asian boy answered the door. I asked him if Frenchy and Toy were there as they had invited me to crash there and ‘was it okay’? He said he hadn’t seen them for days, but stumbled back from the door, allowing me to enter. It was a wall-to-wall crash pad as sleeping bodies were everywhere on the various mattresses strewn about the two small rooms and yes, even someone in the tub! I leaned against a wall, slumping down into a crouched position. Hugging my knees up close, I dropped off into an uncomfortable sleep.
I’d wake later to the sound of loud voices and people yelling. Frenchy and Toy were back and had brought several boys with them from the City. Apparently, one of the ‘crashees’ was none too happy and started spouting off that we had ‘no right to be there’ and to ‘get out’. Frenchy and Toy were still pretty high on whatever they had ingested the night before and lashed back at the loudmouth, Frenchy replying that she knew the Asian boy who lived there although he was nowhere to be found at the moment. Edging my way up the wall to a standing position, I rubbed my eyes and approached the crashee/troublemaker with a smile and words of ‘let’s all share’. My face met the inside of his hand.
With my cheek still stinging from the hard slap, head hurting from last night’s acid trip and the gallons of coffee I’d drank, one of the boys from San Francisco suddenly advanced, grabbed the crashee/troublemaker by the collar and pants and, ‘bum-rushed’ him from the tiny apartment. Returning, he touched my face asking me if I was okay. This boy, this man, he would be my knight-in-shining armor, my hero and the first man I’d ever love. To this day, I’ve never stopped loving him. He would be the father of my first child and would change my life forever.