CHAPTER 25 Bonnie and/or Clyde
I became vaguely aware that outside of my relationship with Bonnie, I was not welcome in Jerome. In all fairness to her, my intentions had been to come and visit for a short time. I think that had become plain to the local gentry. Bonnie was the kind of girl you - or they, would want to protect, even if you were not that involved with her. I had not intended a permanent relationship, having maintained my bachelor status for some two or more years now. Truly, she was a fine lady and a fine match for anyone who would be ready for the long haul. At the time I didn't believe I was. She proved me wrong off and on, for almost ten years.
In the meantime there was a surprise visit and tete-a-tete with a girl named Susan from the KCAC days of Phoenix. A one night stand was nothing new to the old gulch house and its three stories and several rooms gave at least a passing chance for privacy. My indiscretions then and later there, as with Betty, took on the form of a statement of personal freedom. Bonnie was not happy about it but she gave me that freedom because I was courageous (or stupid) enough to exercise it and because we were after all, a part of the sixties sexual revolution.
Bonnie was a light dealer in natural soporific (marijuana, hashish) and organic psychedelics (peyote, psylocybin) and it became apparent that business was beginning to pick up. Organics were after all, good Karma. One fine day in Jerome, we had a visit from my old friend Bill. He was accompanied by a lady friend, none other than Crazy of the John Stewart song and the Magic Christmas Brownies from the Alice B. Toklas kitchen. I have no idea what had become of Jenny. Apparently she and Bill had broken up. At any rate the mood was very high energy and intense. The visit was brief and not all that friendly. It left me with the feeling of finally breaking off and washing up what had been a fine friendship.
After they left, Bonnie and I made our way in her old Chevy panel truck (remarkably similar to mine), up the hill to the Jerome post office. it was a ritual we performed daily. On this too-bright sunny afternoon though, we were surprised in the town square by three hefty cowboys looking to kick around some hippies. I arrived just in time to be chosen. There was no walking away from this fight. I shooed Bonnie off to the side as the three moved toward me.
I had become a hippie almost by default, partly because of my belief in political non-violence and in my personal stance against the Vietnam war. It was a stance that was often interpreted as cowardice. Cowboy redneck types often assume too, that stoned hippies have no energy or gumption for a fight, an assumption made by beer drinkers who have never had the taste of "gauge". They also assumed apparently, that hippies just sort of happened out of the clouds. It never occurs to them that some of us hippie types were once Good Ol' Boys before we began to think and develop opinions for ourselves.
What I noticed most about these guys were their clothes. The hats were brand-new and spotless. The jeans were barely broken in. These were "drugstore cowboys" who probably wore slacks and worked out at the gym during the week. Maybe they were cops or narcotics agents. Whatever, they were thugs and trouble makers. I chose off with the closest one who had the loudest mouth. It would be he and I. My energy was very high, my focus was clear and I was as cold as ice from head to foot. In a word, I was pissed and ready to kick ass.
The fight moved in frames almost like a movie. He threw a fast half-hearted punch that sort of whizzed by my nose. "See?" he said. I think he was letting me know that he could have hit me in the nose but chose not to. A rather odd thing to do in a street fight. I covered the short distance between us and delivered a quick karate chop to the right side of his neck. It stunned him. He didn't move but rather stood kind of rigidly as if he didn't want me to know he was in pain. Good machismo, hombre. I kicked him on the right leg just outside and behind the knee. Countering that move, he gave me a body toss and got me down on the ground.
Out of the corner of my eye I saw one of the other "cowboys" making a move to come kick my head in. There was a sudden blur beside him and he was out of the picture. I had my hands full with the fight, down on my back with cowboy #1 snarling "There! How do you like it?". That was it. There was a flash before my eyes of all the fights I'd had when I was a kid. All the times they held me down and laughed. I remembered what I did each time that had happened, the moves that let me win. In this unlikely street brawl as a fully grown adult at the age of almost thirty, I used those moves again.
I pushed him up away from, but not off me. I got my legs around his chest and crushed down with all my fury. It was all over. His eyes bugged out, his face turned purple and his lips made a silent "o". I relented, then crushed down again. "Say Uncle" I told him. "Say Uncle or I'll bust it" (his rib). The word was barely whispered, but at least it was sincere. He had become my nephew.
We stood up and shook off - with him inviting me for a beer. I replied that I didn't drink and checked around for Bonnie. The crowd itself was jammed together across the street. It seems I had been graced with an Angel. Cowboy #2 had indeed been ready to plant a boot in my head when he had been taken out by some long-haired hippie type who had just gotten back from a tour of Viet Nam. Cowboy #3 was nowhere to be seen.
A certain statement about the personal freedom of our lives had been made that day. Bonnie and I continued in hard-won liberty, our pursuit of happiness.
In the meantime there was a surprise visit and tete-a-tete with a girl named Susan from the KCAC days of Phoenix. A one night stand was nothing new to the old gulch house and its three stories and several rooms gave at least a passing chance for privacy. My indiscretions then and later there, as with Betty, took on the form of a statement of personal freedom. Bonnie was not happy about it but she gave me that freedom because I was courageous (or stupid) enough to exercise it and because we were after all, a part of the sixties sexual revolution.
Bonnie was a light dealer in natural soporific (marijuana, hashish) and organic psychedelics (peyote, psylocybin) and it became apparent that business was beginning to pick up. Organics were after all, good Karma. One fine day in Jerome, we had a visit from my old friend Bill. He was accompanied by a lady friend, none other than Crazy of the John Stewart song and the Magic Christmas Brownies from the Alice B. Toklas kitchen. I have no idea what had become of Jenny. Apparently she and Bill had broken up. At any rate the mood was very high energy and intense. The visit was brief and not all that friendly. It left me with the feeling of finally breaking off and washing up what had been a fine friendship.
After they left, Bonnie and I made our way in her old Chevy panel truck (remarkably similar to mine), up the hill to the Jerome post office. it was a ritual we performed daily. On this too-bright sunny afternoon though, we were surprised in the town square by three hefty cowboys looking to kick around some hippies. I arrived just in time to be chosen. There was no walking away from this fight. I shooed Bonnie off to the side as the three moved toward me.
I had become a hippie almost by default, partly because of my belief in political non-violence and in my personal stance against the Vietnam war. It was a stance that was often interpreted as cowardice. Cowboy redneck types often assume too, that stoned hippies have no energy or gumption for a fight, an assumption made by beer drinkers who have never had the taste of "gauge". They also assumed apparently, that hippies just sort of happened out of the clouds. It never occurs to them that some of us hippie types were once Good Ol' Boys before we began to think and develop opinions for ourselves.
What I noticed most about these guys were their clothes. The hats were brand-new and spotless. The jeans were barely broken in. These were "drugstore cowboys" who probably wore slacks and worked out at the gym during the week. Maybe they were cops or narcotics agents. Whatever, they were thugs and trouble makers. I chose off with the closest one who had the loudest mouth. It would be he and I. My energy was very high, my focus was clear and I was as cold as ice from head to foot. In a word, I was pissed and ready to kick ass.
The fight moved in frames almost like a movie. He threw a fast half-hearted punch that sort of whizzed by my nose. "See?" he said. I think he was letting me know that he could have hit me in the nose but chose not to. A rather odd thing to do in a street fight. I covered the short distance between us and delivered a quick karate chop to the right side of his neck. It stunned him. He didn't move but rather stood kind of rigidly as if he didn't want me to know he was in pain. Good machismo, hombre. I kicked him on the right leg just outside and behind the knee. Countering that move, he gave me a body toss and got me down on the ground.
Out of the corner of my eye I saw one of the other "cowboys" making a move to come kick my head in. There was a sudden blur beside him and he was out of the picture. I had my hands full with the fight, down on my back with cowboy #1 snarling "There! How do you like it?". That was it. There was a flash before my eyes of all the fights I'd had when I was a kid. All the times they held me down and laughed. I remembered what I did each time that had happened, the moves that let me win. In this unlikely street brawl as a fully grown adult at the age of almost thirty, I used those moves again.
I pushed him up away from, but not off me. I got my legs around his chest and crushed down with all my fury. It was all over. His eyes bugged out, his face turned purple and his lips made a silent "o". I relented, then crushed down again. "Say Uncle" I told him. "Say Uncle or I'll bust it" (his rib). The word was barely whispered, but at least it was sincere. He had become my nephew.
We stood up and shook off - with him inviting me for a beer. I replied that I didn't drink and checked around for Bonnie. The crowd itself was jammed together across the street. It seems I had been graced with an Angel. Cowboy #2 had indeed been ready to plant a boot in my head when he had been taken out by some long-haired hippie type who had just gotten back from a tour of Viet Nam. Cowboy #3 was nowhere to be seen.
A certain statement about the personal freedom of our lives had been made that day. Bonnie and I continued in hard-won liberty, our pursuit of happiness.
posted by freespeak@gmail.com at 2:58 PM
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