CHAPTER 19 Those Of You Coming To California, Please Arrive In Time For The Earthquake

El Paso had the feel of Something Inevitable About to Happen. We were very careful with our stash of pot. The car was spotless inside and out, having been vacuumed that very day. We carefully wrapped our half-lid of marijuana and placed in in a paper bag next to a fence a few blocks stateside of the border to Mexico. It looked like all the other litter. When we went across to Juarez, we were ready for some serious shopping and fun. Truly, we had a very good time, ate well, bought souvenirs and generally did the tourist thing. Coming back was a bust. More than one of us had long hair. That was enough for the border crossing guard who also liked Colleen's looks. Who wouldn't. She was a former beauty queen, a Miss Dallas. They made us unpack the car, spread our luggage and clothing out and submit to a personal search. What the hell, it was a slow night for them and we didn't look dangerous. After three searches of the car one officer squealed; "I found a seeeeeed!" Shit. After three searches? It was definately planted. The hassle continued until I got visibly angry and until the guards had had an eyefull of Colleen, then we were allowed to go. It made you wanna puke, then firebomb the place. El Paso/Juarez. Don't ever go there during 1968.

We drove the few blocks to the fence where we had hidden our pot. There in a paper bag amid all the other litter, was our stash. We smoked and enjoyed it openly while we found our way to the highway west. Jim drove for a few hours during the night while I snoozed. At about 4:00 AM somewhere in the middle of the desert, he woke me to tell me we were almost out of gas. Thanks, Jim. I drove another half-hour before we really did run out of gas. Thre was nothing for it but to hitch west to the nearest station. Since Jim had driven most of the night, It fell to me to find gas while he stayed with the car and protected Colleen. Thanks, Jim. Actually, it was Kismet for them. Jim and Colleen fell in love and married later. For them, it had been a wild and free experience with a drug-craze hippie friend. For me, it became almost a way of life for the next few years.

L.A. is never what you expect it to be. We were to hook up with Bill, Hank, Peggy and their entourage at Mike Baldwin's pad near Ventura Beach. Mike was a highbrow who had done well in Dallas. He had not done so well in L.A. Ventura Beach was quite intense, but it reminded me somehow of Beaumont, Texas. Somewhere in that stretch of real estate, Jim Morrison of the Doors had found a way to express what most of us were feeling. Mike had been a DJ during my other life in Dallas, doing a jazz show of his own at one of the Dallas stations. Mike was good, if a bit snooty on the air. He had soul, if it be tainted a little. He was more like a stoned Classical announcer. He couldn't drop the snobby stuff, but he sure grooved on the smoke. His choice of music was a bit commercialized. His lady Frannie could make the maddest DJ forget radio in a minute. She was a knockout.

Most everybody was broke and uptight. It had been hoped that I would arrive with the Jaguar and some cash and bail everyone out. There were some hard feelings and high energy conflicts. It finally worked out with Jim and Colleen going back to Dallas. Bill, Hank and Peggy would go east to Phoenix where it was heard that in Barry Goldwater's Promised Land, there was work. For me, Highway One would get me close enough to San Fransisco to find Scott and crash for a while. I had always wanted to go to San Fransisco alone and maybe even pick up that job at KMPX. I hadn't counted on feeling lonely. Haight - Ashbury in 1968 had a feel to it that was still clean and free. There were drugs and dog shit everywhere of course but the Seagull still had cheap and plentiful fish and chips and most everyone still smiled. I wore my cloak of loneliness honestly and noticed others doing the same. I even made a few friends in a period of a couple of weeks. One was a lonely guy like me who spent part of an hour eating my fish and chips and passing the time of day. I hadn't counted on him becoming attached. He wanted to be friends, almost desparately. He found out where I was staying at Scott's which was right across from the Hashbury Post Office, and would pound repeatedly on the downstairs door screaming that he needed to see me, that I was Jesus. He did that for a couple of days. It got to be embarrasing.

At nights the speed freaks in the next apartment downstairs would flush the toilet again and again, for hours on end. The only sane sound was Asia, Scott's little daughter, crying. Golden Gate Park was like an enclave being overrun by a guerilla army. The straight folks stayed on the sidewalks and were very high profile. Surrounding them were hundreds of troops totally invisible in the woods. From the air, it must have looked like Vietnam with two distinctly separate factions constantly in motion. Out in the park you had your pick of social phenomenae; hippies in the bushes doing dope and sex, the ever lovely Japanese Tea Garden or the very sophisticated and definately fashionable San Fransisco Elite strolling through the park talking to themselves in curious syncopated outbursts of orchestrated psychobable mania. The straight people were crazy as hell and it was a source of never-ending entertainment for the hippies. On Haight street you could be flashed by anything from genitalia to weapons, to food, to drugs, to badges. There was always the feeling that this could never last but God, wasn't it great right now?

Having me around all the time, Scott's old lady started getting the inevitable hots. It was the nature of the beast. It became my daily routine to try to make a quick exit right after Scott split for work, then come back about the time he arrived home or right after. Always, there would be the question in his eyes from him to her and each time her eyes responded the denial. It was getting too heavy for friends to stay friends. It occurred to me that we might be living under ancient Eskimo or contemporary hippie customs, where I was expected to please the lady or at least take advantage of her charms as part of the hospitality. I fought off my lustful instincts. Scott was like a brother. I would be The Better Man. No incest.

Mercifully, I got a letter from Phoenix one day. It was time to join up with Bill. I found a couple that wanted to head east. They would pay the gas, I would provide the car. Since we didn't have an extra $7.95 for a fan belt, we would have to drive without the power steering. That was OK, since most of the highway was a straight line.