Okies from Muskogee

PASSAGE

We rolled down east through Angel Fire, south to Guadalupita and on to Las Vegas, New Mexico. From there we headed to I-40. No one was talking much. Everyone was hung-over but Dennis; and he was busy driving with Wanda asking why she couldn’t go with us all the way to Jamaica. Dennis tried to explain that it wasn’t going to be easy and that she might end up stranded in Miami. I was concerned that Wanda might get belligerent when she started off with the business of racism.

Stan tried to cut her bitching off, “Hey, I had to leave Debby and Leah behind.”

Wanda was quiet for a few miles before she began putting down Debby and Leah, “What, Debby wasn’t your woman… neither was Leah. They were fucking everyone last night.”

Stan wasn’t going to let her get by with slurring Debby and Leah. “Look, what we did last night was a going away party. We will probably never see each other again. I thought it was damned cool that they put out for everyone.”

“Yeh,” Dennis added, “Lighten up Wanda. We can’t take you with us and we really can’t all stay crammed in this car any further than Amarillo. You agreed a week ago that you wanted to go back there where you have family.”

That was how it went all the way to Amarillo. I did get some rest, nursed a raging hangover and had sort of slept most of the way to Amarillo.There would be silence for a while and then she’d start in again. I figured that Dennis could handle her but it seemed touch and go at times. Finally, when we arrived in Amarillo, I gave her twenty bucks for bus fare or whatever and she had Dennis drop her off at a bar. That made a little more room in the car and a rotation system was developed. Jamie didn’t know how to drive a stick shift… or probably any car at all, so he was exempt from driving.  But I did look forward to getting behind the wheel just for the sake of stretching my legs a bit. Besides, I loved long distance driving.

 I hadn’t paid much attention to the landscape after passing Las Vegas, because I was sleeping or pretending to sleep most of the time. But once I got behind the wheel I loved the rolling hills and arid prairie along the way. I pictured buffalo covering the landscape from horizon to horizon and horsemen following the herds for the hunt; a way of life that came to an abrupt end a mere century before. Comanche, Kiowa, and Sioux… all across these plains: the majesty of the land dictated a humility and even pride in being a part of the drama of the wide open spaces.

I drove on through the panhandle of Texas onto and through the prairies of Oklahoma. A sea of grass and winter wheat as far as the eye could see stretched out, interrupted only by an occasional gully or wash. I envisioned the dust bowl era of Okies packing their belongings on their trucks and cars heading for greener pastures in California a mere generation before. The land had a sadness about its quiet dignity and the tragedies played out on these plains.

Stan took the wheel before Oklahoma City; I moved back to the rear seat and slept some more sitting shoulder to shoulder with Jamie and Steve. Dennis rode shotgun when he wasn’t driving… it was a tacit agreement as it was, after all, his car. I didn’t mind sleeping sitting up, drifting in and out of consciousness. Dust devils seemed to follow along side of the road as we made our way eastward on route I-40. Then, by a spontaneous and unanimous decision, we made a turn north at Checotah to Muskogee. After all, the song was an anthem enjoyed by both rednecks and hippies alike for completely opposite reasons.

Muskogee had the look of Everytown, USA. It could have been in Springfield Illinois or Grand Island Nebraska, Topeka Kansas or any other plains town. It too had a street called Broadway and a Main Street. It had hardware stores, drug stores, used-car dealers and diagonal parking along the streets in front of the shops. We stopped at a greasy spoon to sit at a booth and order a cheeseburger and shake. No one gave us any trouble. In fact, I figured, it was a friendly place where people treated everyone civil until proven unworthy. The middle aged waitress even called us honey.

“Sure, Honey. Would you like French fries or country fries?”

I had no idea what a country fry was so I answered, “Oh yes, country fries.”

A couple of older men in coveralls in the next booth watched us order and one of them asked, “Where you boys from?”

Oh, oh, I thought, here goes… “We’re from New Mexico… we just had to see Muskogee. We’re on our way to Florida.”

“Was it because of Merle Haggard’s song?”

“Yeh, ya gotta love that song.” Dennis acknowledged.

“I’m Hank and this here is my brother Jimbo…”

So they went around the table introducing themselves and feeling welcomed. It was no big deal. These people were authentically friendly. Here were the town folks of the most anti-hippy anthem of the era sitting next to us swapping friendly noises like old friends… Just goes to show ya how wrong popular images can be, I was thinking as I enjoyed the setting and the whole scene.

Muskogee sits in the middle of the country where three rivers; The Arkansas, the Grand and the Verdigris meander and converge. Something about all that water energized me. Id missed the green of the Northwest where I’d grown up although I’d learned to love the high chaparral of New Mexico. I felt as though Muskogee wasn’t such a bad place to settle down. We fondly bid the old-timers in the café adieu as our motley little group piled into the Hillman and headed back down south to the I-40.

Georgia Peaches and Southern Comfort

DEPARTURE

            The day of departure approached. The girls and Stan had been up at the cabin with Dad for about a week. It was a beautiful drive up through the forest and into the mountains to the place. Dennis had hooked up with Wanda, a Comanche woman, so his little Hillman was loaded with four guys and one woman. We stopped on the way at a service station in Rancho de Taos and had the oil changed along with air/oil filters. We bought a tire because the Hillman had one bald tire and no spare. We filled the tank and then headed up into the mountains to the cabins. When the Hillman pulled up in front of the cabin the party was already underway. The cabin was on two levels built into the hillside with the living room below and bedrooms and hallway on the second floor that opened up onto a deck. A pathway led up the hill from the deck to an opening among the pine trees with a fire pit and seats of hewn logs around it.

            The girls were in their Georgia Peach Southern Belle dresses and Dad was, in slacks with shirt and tie, looking genteel. Debby and Leah had spent the day making goodies like roast lamb, pies and cookies. There was plenty to eat and drink… a full bar and stereo system with speakers all over the house. Dad just wandered around the place aimlessly… not really talking with anyone beyond a muttered “Hello.” I pulled Debby off to the side at one point and asked her what the deal was with pops.

            Debby explained, “Dad is heavily medicated. He has only been out since last November.”

            “Out of where?” I feigned not knowing anything about Dad.

            “Milledgeville… a mental hospital southeast of Atlanta. You know about mom?” Debby was smart enough to know that I had heard something of what had happened.

            “Yeh, Stan told me a little but I am curious as to how it all worked out with you and your dad. I mean, how did it happen and all that?”

            “About ten years ago: Mom was having an affair and Dad was a pastor, an Episcopalian Priest, in Atlanta. He came home in the middle of the day and Mom was getting it on with a guy in the master bedroom. She had been seeing this guy for some time. Dad suspected it and that accounts for the surprise visit. Dad had a pistol. He shot the guy once but emptied the chamber on Mom. He then went down to the library, loaded another bullet in the gun, put it to his forehead, and pulled the trigger.”

            “Shit… he lived through that?”

            “Yes, it took out part of his skull and what damage that did wasn’t near as bad as the electro-shock therapy in the hospital. Leah found the whole mess when she got home from school.”

            “How about Romeo… Did he live?”

            “He was lucky. Hit the upper shoulder in the back. Dad probably didn’t care whether he’d killed the dude or not. He definitely wanted Mom dead though. So Dad was put under psychiatric care and treatment… sort of turned him into a zombie.”

            The party went on into the night. I started drinking Southern Comfort with Wanda and Leah. Big Brother and the Holding Company with Janis Joplin wailing was the background music for much of it. The girls were out of their Southern Belle dresses and into jeans, making out with the guys and swapping partners every now and then. It was a surreal scene to walk into a room and find Stan and Debby going at it and Dennis with Leah, Wanda with Steve, and Jamie alternatively switching off with one of the girls and all with each other. But mostly it was drinking. That is what I was doing. Everyone else was bouncing around like bunnies in heat but I didn’t have time for sex with all the good booze in the house. And then there was Dad… he was wandering around the property. It mildly freaked me out knowing that the good Reverend might be a walking time bomb with his own daughters slutting it up with all these guys.

            Wanda was the wildest. Everyone had been taking a break from the sexual escapades and were sitting at the fire pit under the crystal clear stars and the sky. Wanda challenged the men to see who could piss the farthest or highest. So then it became a contest to see who could piss higher up on a tree next to the fire pit. To make things fair the girls argued that the guys had to lie on their backs just like the girls. Dennis argued that a man stands when he pisses and that no man can piss from flat on his back. That debate went on for a while but Debbie declared that it didn’t matter… The men didn’t stand a chance: Even standing, no one came near the lowest mark the girls had made.

            Later that night the Southern Comfort sank into my consciousness and I blacked out. I came-to on the front porch of a cabin I thought was the cabin the party was going on in. All the lights were off and I wanted to get in the door to go to sleep. I didn’t see any sign of the Hillman either. Figuring everyone was asleep I pounded on the door hoping to wake someone up. I called out, “Stan!”

No answer, “Dennis!”

No answer again, “Debby!”

“Leah!” Pounding on the door louder…

 “Peter!” Pounding and pounding louder.

“Jamie!” I was getting desperate. What if they all took off for Jamaica without me!

“Hey, it’s me, Max damn it!” I had my boot off and was ready to break a window.

“Max?” It was a female voice… “What are you doing?”

“Debby?” I saw her coming up the steps to the porch wearing a nightshirt.

“We were wondering where you went…” she did look gorgeous in the moonlight with her reddish hair catching a ray of light from between the shadows.

“God, Debby, where is everybody?”… I was still confused. I wasn’t so confused that I didn’t appreciate the fact that I was alone with her on the porch. She put an arm around me for support and led me off the porch.

“This isn’t our place.”

“Wha…?” I didn’t understand it yet… the words coming form her were words of concern… of caring for me the way a mother of a retard talks to her kid.

“This isn’t our place? Good thing nobody’s home or you might have your head blown off.” She explained further. “You woke me up. I was passed out in my bedroom when I heard you yelling and pounding on that door.”

“Shit no… where am I?” I leaned on her and let my hand hit her breast as she Florence Nightingaled me up the hill to the cabin.

When we got up to the cabin Dad was sitting in the kitchen like he didn’t recognize anyone. I noticed the scar where the bullet had grazed Dad’s head. She gave Dad a hug, “Dad, you ought to get some sleep.”

“You think so.”

“Yes, I think so.” And she gave him another more affectionate hug that seemed to assure him everything was going to be alright. He shuffled off into his bedroom and the light went off.

Dennis was snoring on the floor of the living room while Steve and Leah were in one of the beds in the girl’s bedroom. They were passed out and not doing much.  Jamie was curled up on the floor. Debby went straight to bed. I was still very drunk but wanted to make up for lost time and get laid one more time before we left. I sat on her single-size bed.

“I couldn’t help but notice the affection you have for your Dad.” Seeing the sadness in her face,  I realized that she might have been the most sober one at the party that night.

“He is my Dad, you know.”

“It must have been hard for you and Leah the way that deal went down.”

“You know how kids are… they aren’t as innocent and tender as you’d think. Besides, Mom wasn’t a bad woman but she did hurt him… it tore him up.”

“So, you lost both of them that day.”

“Yeh, Dad has been a dead man since then. The brain injury from the gunshot wound was more like a concussion because the bullet missed any major arteries… grazed his skull. He flinched when he pulled the trigger and it knocked him out a few days.”

I was feeling pretty brain injured at this point myself but it tweaked my interest so much that I almost sobered up talking with her about it. Up to that point Debby was just another good-looking red-head. I liked the idea of screwing but something deeper than that was happening inside as she explained what had gone on. Before that it was just another weird story… one I could tell others… the orgy the drunkenness… the going away party… the send off.

“Debby, you and Leah aren’t done with this yet are you?”

“Dad could have recovered okay if he hadn’t had the electro-shock therapy. Of course, he’d probably still be in prison too. Instead he was committed by the courts to Milledgeville. I don’t know what would have been worse.”

This was so much to absorb. “I’m not too proud of blacking out like this tonight and having this fuck-fest with your dad wandering around like a zombie. But damn… is he aware of any of this going on around him?”

“You know, Max, this will be a process. None of us are really aware of what is going on in his head.”

“God, can I make love to you before we go?” As drunk as I was my libido was still strong. Youth had something to do with it but I’d felt an intimacy with Debby and that helped spark it up some. She reached up and put her hands around the nape of my neck and pulled my face down to hers. Her passion was fire and I needed no coaxing but, even though all the lights were off in the room, I was distracted by a shadow… motion

at the door. I looked over to see dad standing there like he was watching an exhibit at the zoo. This caused me to stop and Debby looked to the door too. However, when she did, no one was there.

“He was there,” she said… her face flushed with either orgasmic blush or embarrassment… or both. We passed out afterwards as the morning light filtered in through the sheer curtains over the windows of the cabin. 

The Reading

TRUTH: 

A few days before everyone headed up to the cabin, Brian and Mason took me aside and blessed me with cedar and sage. They told me of a strange man who had been around lately and that I would have contact with him.
    “Don’t be put off by him. He eats only dried fruit and nuts and has a peculiar way of singling out people. Besides, we told him about you.” Mason added.
As the day of departure approached I spent more time down at the Dome. One such day, as we had been lolling about, there he was: a strange, thin, long-blond-haired man with a pouch holding a set of Tarot cards wrapped ceremoniously in a red silk cloth was at the door asking for Max.
 “I’m Max,” I answered.
“Do you mind if I do your chart and read your cards before taking this trip?”
    “Cool, but who are you how did you know about this trip?”
    “Oh, nothing psychic, you just look like you’re getting ready to go somewhere. Besides, Mason told me about you. My name is Truth.”
    “Truth? Well, with a name like that I can trust your reading.” I thought his name was pretentious or at least funny. Stan and Leah looked as though they’d seen a ghost.
    I had seen tarot cards before and I loved the primitive ones. I had no idea what the symbolism of them amounted to but they looked and felt like they held some sort of ancient wisdom. As for his name, Truth, I was getting used to street names. People out these parts invented themselves over and over again so I paid little attention to the name. I didn’t even think it was odd. We sat outside the dome and Truth laid out a blanket where our little group sat around the edges.
    “Are you going to read for each of us?” I wondered, speaking to Truth.
    “No, I’ve only been led to read yours. It takes energy to do this and I don’t like to spread my energy around like it is a parlor game; know what I mean?”
    “I like your attitude. I usually don’t go for oogah-boogah spirituality.” I was serious. I’d seen a lot of miraculous things and wonders I couldn’t explain but that didn’t mean I was buying everything that came down the pike.
    So Truth had me handle the cards, shuffle them and so on… “Focus your attention on the cards and when you feel satisfied you have shuffled them enough, take off the top card and place it face down in the middle of the red silk.”
    It was in a reverential ritualized sense that we respected each other as I followed the instructions. Truth picked up the deck and dealt out a pattern around the center card. The cards were laid down face up and the meanings were not clear at all to me. The pictures of swords, sticks, cups and coins intrigued me. The occasional cards, like the one with a beautiful woman with her hand on the mane of a lion; the ominous card with a skeleton with a scythe; or a tramp in a jokers’ hat hiking off with a hound at his heels; these were interesting too. They were all very mysterious and I knew I would have to study this card business myself to understand the symbolism... if only for curiosity’s sake.
    Truth started talking as if to no one; “The cards are an arbitrary arrangement… completely arbitrary and hold no magic of their own. The magic is what happens between the reader and the questioner.”
    “That’s good to hear. Where do we start?” I was anxious to find what sort of magic was being conjured.
    “We start here with the trickster launching out of a journey. You are the trickster. The trickster doesn’t know where he is going. He is just going. He wills the nine of swords. That is will power over towards dissipation… number nine over the top. I see the trickster imprisoned by late July.”
    “Late July? What do you mean imprisoned?”
    “Doesn’t necessarily mean in jail but it does mean the loss of freedom. And the Death card trumps it.”
    “Death, why doesn’t that worry me?” I was seeing how the cards worked… how they brought stuff out of me: pulled out the arbitrary so to speak.
    “Death means change. See this Hanged Man? You will want to be imprisoned… long enough to read the runes. You will stay until you are ready to go.”
    “Read the runes?”
    “The cosmos… the dance… see her there?” She was the card I found most beautiful. A nude woman with sticks or wands of some sort in each hand and standing on one leg crossed making like a number four.
    “What does it mean? We’re leaving on this trip to Jamaica. Why did you choose me to read the cards? I feel like it is so very important I pay attention. Why?”
    “There is plenty of time to be finding out the whys and all that. This trip is going to change your life… it is the shaman’s quest.”
I had heard a lot of hippy bullshit about “Shaman” and so on from artists and street corner gurus but I felt the term was far too liberally applied considering what a real shaman endured in acquiring occult knowledge. I suspected that it took a bit more of a commitment than taking a few hallucinogenic drugs and howling at the moon. However, I’d learned to never dismiss the serendipitous and arcane when it comes out of left field like this. This was especially so after the events of the past few weeks.

The Eyes of Hoover

The Eyes of Hover were upon us.

... Before night fell, or during a break in the afternoon, I hung out at the Dome. The distant sound of a vehicle coming up towards us on the gravel road could be heard ten or fifteen minutes in advance. On one such afternoon the graveling of tires alerted the four of us and we stood by the road to see who it might be. An ex-speed-freak called Shep came running up to us from where he’d been watching at the point of the mesa facing the valley.
“Hey, it’s the feds!” Shep was flinging his arms in paranoid gestures. “They’re in a late model Ford sedan! It’s the feds I tell ya!”
I wasn’t sure what we were supposed to do about it if it were the feds. Shep dashed up the hill towards the mesa and left us wondering. Stan and the girls went inside the Dome but I stayed out front just to see. The sedan pulled off the road in front of the Dome. Two, crew-cut six-foot-plus, men in their thirties wearing suites got out of the sedan. I couldn’t help but notice the spit-shine on their shoes getting dusty. One of them held a binder and approached while the other flashed a badge.
“FBI, Do you live here?” The man with the badge asked the obvious. I wanted to say no but thought better of it.
“Well, up the hill… but not here.”
Stan opened the door enough to see what was going on but was not going to let them in the Dome.
“I live here… what do you want?”
“We just need you to check out some pictures and tell us whether you’ve seen any of these people here.” The agent with the binder said in such a way that I could see he wasn’t asking for cooperation, he was ordering it.
Stan was going to close the door right then and there but I answered first, “Sure, won’t hurt anything.” I had caught a glimpse of some of the pictures and those pictures were not unlike high school year-book pictures. I knew I could honestly say I hadn’t seen any of these folks because this was a collection of clean cut suburban white boys and girls in letter jackets and glee club sweaters: a world apart from anyone on the mesa.
The agent paused on each page as I looked at the pictures, hoping not to recognize anyone on one hand, but thinking of how I could warn whoever it was if I did spot a fugitive from justice, on the other. As the pages were flipped I did recognize one girl, Candy, who had arrived only a few days before. Under her photo was her birthday; May something, 1957. She had paired up with Shep, coincidently, and I knew she was very young. This birthday put her at around thirteen. Shep was only about fifteen or sixteen himself but the girl was… well, nowhere near ripe. I had mixed feelings about it. So many run-away kids were on the streets in those days that a thirteen year old girl with a sixteen year old guy hardly turned a head.
The agent caught me hesitating at her picture and I knew it. I would have to bluff my way out of it if I was going to trip-up this guy. I wished I could get to Shep to warn him but decided to simply shrug my shoulders, “Naw, nothing here… haven’t seen any of ‘em.”
“Are you sure, now?” The agent wasn’t buying it. “You know it is a federal crime to obstruct a federal investigation?”
That did it, “You know, none of these kids look anything like these picture now. If I were looking straight at someone I grew up with I couldn’t recognize them.” I took a deep breath and made like I knew what I was talking about; “Now, this is private property and you are wearing out your welcome… good-bye, sir.”
    I was a little surprised when the feds turned their sedan around and went the other way. I was expecting them to plow further onto the property. I took the same shortcut to the top of the mesa that Shep had taken before the Feds arrived. When I got to the Pueblo everyone was already gathered together listening to Shep.
    “What did they want?” Brian asked.
    “Just showed me some pictures. I didn’t recognize anyone…” I added, “You know, high school yearbook pictures.”
    “Well, anytime some radical bombs a bank in Ann Arbor they send up some agents the next day to see if we have any mad bombers in hiding.” Brian looked at Shep and Candy… “If anyone has any warrants or is on the lam, it might be a good idea to stay out of sight a few weeks.”
    Shep came to me with Candy in tow afterwards. “What should we do? They are here looking for Candy.”
    “What makes you say so?” I could understand the paranoia but the urgency with which Shep asked was not easily dismissed.
    “Her dad is the chief of police in her home town.” Shep eyes were darting back and forth and he was looking over his shoulder as though the government sedan might be pulling up at any time.
    “Whew!” I didn’t want to seem overly alarmed but Candy’s picture was in the binder and I had a strong feeling Shep’s paranoia was well founded in this case. “How old are you, Candy?”
    Candy hesitated but let out the usual lie… “I’m eighteen.”
    “You know that Shep can be in deep shit if you are not telling the truth?” I felt uncomfortable thinking about her age and rechecked the math in my mind. She could have passed for a very young looking sixteen but eighteen was stretching it more than a bit.
    “Maybe we’ll just hike up to the creek and camp out a few days until this blows over.” Shep offered.

Easter Peyote Ceremony

When we got back to Risingstar I was on another plane of existence. I wasn’t sure what I believed in but I was sure that something was happening on that high altar of the earth called Taos. Something was happening and it seemed that the more I tried to define it the more evasive it became. There was a hand in all of this for sure. I couldn’t wait to tell Stan and the girls about it as I rushed to the Dome full of excitement and bubbling with enthusiasm. The peyote hadn’t worn off yet and everything was still vibrating as I related the whole story of the peyote Chief, the rattlesnake Grandfather, the Border Patrol, and the Texas Rangers. Stan was looking at me like I was nuts; I caught myself babbling on and wondered too if I hadn’t completely flipped.

There was plenty to be flipped about too as the Easter Peyote Ceremony was in preparation and the whole area was involved in it beyond the Risingstar commune. I had never even thought of peyote as being anything but a drug like synthetic psilocybin, mescaline or LSD. The trip to and back from Laredo gave me an insight into the spirituality of the drugs and the manner in which I’d approached their use. As I talked with Mason and Marcos I also thought about the implications of my casual attitude towards the spirit world. Respect that bordered on awe was evoked. On the ride back Marcos looked at me as though he’d read my mind and said, “There is a creative spirit… ride with it… don’t resist it.”

The customary ritual of the Peyote Ceremony broke from the Native American Church’s tradition not only in that white people were to be the principle participants but that women were also going to be allowed to participate in the tent. Traditionally, women prepare the breakfast for the men who participate. In this case the ceremony would have one guide from the Taos Pueblo to make sure the ceremony is conducted in accordance with ritual tradition although he would have no role in the observance itself. Still, many women preferred not to attend; but to prepare and serve the breakfast instead. Though some of the prayers would be in the native language most of the prayers were to be in English so that all in attendance would be able to participate.

I was able to fast three days prior to the ceremony and I was happy to find that fasting was not all that difficult for me. Getting up at first light, I drank a tea from sage or juniper but after that, the thought of food was mostly a habitual urge and easily dismissed. As the evening approached my enthusiasm grew. The tepee filled as people filed in before sunset. I took a seat on the left from the door. Brian, who was the eldest of the folks at Risingstar, sat at the head opposite the door behind the chief button placed in the center on the crescent mound just past the fire pit. Marcos, as Roadman, sat on his left and Samuel’s woman, Sandra, sat on his right. She was the natural for her size alone but her matronly carriage commended her for the leadership role of the women and I supposed that is why she merited the honored seating. Brian explained with a few comments from Marcos how the ceremony was to proceed. Mason was the Fireman whose duty was to oversee, not only the fire, but also tended the door flap and seating arrangement. Mason laid out sticks for the fire in a V pointing to the Peyote Chief on the crescent mound away from the door.

 Brian started things off with a prayer in Native language accompanied by Marcos; whereby they beat the drum in a steady unvaried beat as they chanted. When they had made their invocation with a prayer cigarette, Bull Durham wrapped in a dried corn husk, the drum was passed. The beat of the drum was also carried by the Thunder Stick. The Thunder Stick was a walking-stick adorned with feathers and a string of bells wrapped the length of it. It was held vertical and pounded the ground chinging the bells to a steady rhythm of ching-ching-ching along with the drum. The affect was quite hypnotic as these instruments were passed with each person offering an introductory prayer. I wondered when we would eat the peyote as I saw the large bowl with peyote buttons cut up in it just sitting there. A bowl of peyote tea with gourd ladle preceded it. I soon forgot about it as the prayers and the beat reverberated in my head, replacing almost all anxieties and concern for when in the hell we were ever going to get high. These sounds reverberated steadily via the drum, the chants and the thunder stick for at least an hour before I realized that I was high already and I hadn’t eaten any peyote yet.

There were prayers for healing; there were prayers for prosperity; there were prayers for spiritual guidance; and there were prayers for any and everything. Some prayed to the “Great Spirit”; some Prayed to Jesus; some prayed to no one in particular and another hour passed. After the prayers and the drums made a complete circuit of the tepee, the tea was passed. The drum, the Thunder Stick and the prayers continued as the tea and buttons were passed. Mason placed more sticks on the fire. I noticed the arrangement of the sticks; a “V”, the crescent mound, the peyote Chief’s button, took on the resemblance of drawings I’d seen of a Thunderbird.

One fellow, David, who had been staying in the kiva, was known for his Bible thumping. When the bowl with the tea got to him he stood and, holding a Bible open in front of him, he began preaching; “Satan is in the drum. Satan is in the bells.” The drum and the Thunder Stick stopped. “Satan is in the Tea. Satan is in the Peyote. There is no chief but Jesus. There is no salvation but in the Lord. You are all damned to hell unless you repent!” and he went past Mason out the door…

Perhaps he’s expecting us to follow him out the door or sacrifice him to pagan gods? I thought.

Marcos’ eyes had a look of grave concern.

Mason asked, “Can we continue with the integrity of the circle broken?”

Marcos nodded.

Brian’s eyes followed suit, then he lifted his gaze and spoke, “Father, we thank you.”

The drums and the Thunder Stick started up again.

A bucket also followed the bowls of buttons and tea for vomit. Mason made sure everyone was able to have the bucket as called on in an unplanned but beautifully choreographed ballet. At another point in the night the flap of the door opened to a tall dark man with a lever-action Winchester rifle decorated with painted patterns and adorned with beads. It was so incongruous that I felt a tinge of foreboding after the business of the last interruption still fresh on everyone’s mind. Was he sent as an angel of death?

 Brian spoke, “Welcome, Angelo.”

Angelo didn’t answer. His intense gaze went around the tepee. He locked eyes with each person… one by one. I was curious as my eyes met Angelo’s.

He spoke, “Playin’ cowboys and Indians, eh?” He then departed out the door without another word.

Mason grinned: “This Bodhisattva moment has been brought to us by the Cosmic Construction Company.”

And the drum picked up where it left off. The distractions of the Bible Thumper and the Bodhisattva interruption melded into the vibration and reverberation of the constant drum beat. I had expected some sort of wild hallucinations and was eager to lose control and allow the spirit of peyote take me, ala Castenada, where it willed. However, there were no Don Juan spirit types, malevolent or benevolent, visitations for me. I halfway expected to find myself naked, wandering the mesa, babbling incoherent revelations from on high. But what I got was an increasing clarity with each chant and a transcendent love for the participants in the tipi. The first light of morning came as Mason scattered the ashes in the fire pit and Brian led an invocation ending the meeting.

I stepped out into the dawn of the day; a special marriage of earth on my bare feet greeted me simultaneously with sweetness in the air that I could taste. Over at the Pueblo tables with roasted blue-cornmeal and honey was served to break our fast. Prickly-pear fruit and pinion nuts greeted my taste buds but I had very little appetite for food at this time. The sunrise colors across the sky radiated as the light changed. It was mostly a revelation of love like nothing I’d ever felt before. It was universal. I saw the Bible Thumper, David, and I loved him and his agitation. David was busying himself with haranguing the women serving the breakfast as I approached him asking, “Tell me about Jesus.”

“You ate the peyote?” David queried.

“Yes.”

“You must repent of this idolatry.” David hardly paused.

“Tell me about Jesus.” I asked again.

“There is nothing but Hell and damnation ahead for you unless you turn away from this paganism and accept Jesus into your heart.”

I was drawing David away from the tables and but this was not my intention. I had no intention. I loved David in that moment and wanted David to know he was loved and appreciated. “Tell me about Jesus.”

“You know about Jesus. Don’t tempt the Lord your God.” David answered bitterly.

At least he recognized the question, I thought. We were walking away from the Pueblo now and towards the goat pasture, far away from the tables. The women were no longer being harassed. “It makes no difference what I know about Jesus. I don’t know what you know… so, tell me what you know about Jesus.”

Holy bullshit! I thought; this guy is stalling and very probably knows nothing about the God he so sorely wishes us to fear. About that time Charlie sauntered over to David and David put his hand out to scruff Charlie’s head between the horns. Charlie gave a push and David pushed back… Big mistake… Out of love, I might have warned him but I knew David wouldn’t listen anyway. Charlie pushed back, bowing his head down and putting some weight behind with all four legs planted firmly to the earth.

“I know God loves you….unnngggh!” he was leaning into Charlie with all he had. Charlie hadn’t even begun yet. “So much that he gave his only s…. so… son of a bitch!” and Charlie gave him a thrust sending Davis back… “How do you get this fucker to back off!” He shouted out his despair.

“You don’t.” I answered, knowing full well that poor David couldn’t even surrender at this point. “You are in it for the duration.”

“The duration of what?”

“Step aside and let go as fast as you can and run like hell to the fence!”

David did just that… Charlie lunged past where David was standing but David was too slow getting to the fence. Charlie was right there behind him lowering his head and putting his horns to good affect, lifting David over and out of the yard by at least ten feet. David never followed me out to the goat pasture after that day.

Sunflower .. A Revelation

Down at the Kiva the group had gotten together to introduce the new folks to meditation. We all went down to see what it was all about. I was slightly buzzed from the wine and so was Stan as we sat there with the group watching and listening to Samuel, sitting in the lotus position, as he spoke, “When we greet each other we ask, ‘How ya’ doin’?’ and so on. We hardly give it a thought and answer automatically; ‘Fine, I’m doin’ just fine.’ If the truth were known we might not be doin’ so well at all. In fact, things might be fucked up worse than ever… but we say ‘fine’. We can’t be authentic with other people because we aren’t authentic with ourselves. Meditation isn’t about navel-gazing as much as it is about uncovering the layers of the onion through the unconscious by means of chanting and focusing on our breath.”

It went like that as Samuel taught about the word, “OM”, and how to say it correctly without trying to sound pretty or melodic; but rather to let it out from the belly….aaaaahhhhh, OM… and then he went into a bit on chanting. He brought up the Nichiren Buddhist chant of “Nam-Yoho Renge Kyo” that I had been introduced to in Hollywood. Samuel was a good teacher and I absorbed most of what he had to say… even sobered up a bit. Surprisingly, Stan was soaking it up too.

When we got back to the A-frame, Stan brought up the subject of women again. “You know, there ain’t any available girls around here.”

“Yeh?” I wondered where this conversation was going but I knew Stan well enough to know that he was earnest.

    “What if we chanted for pussy? Eh?” Stan was grinning, “Let’s see if this crap is bullshit or not.”

    I scratched my head, “Hmmm… How would we do that? Say we just chanted the word, Pussy?”

    “That sounds good to me… Pussy!”

    We were both laying there flat on their backs with our hands clasped behind our heads… I said “Pussy!” and then Stan said, “Pussy.” I answered with “Pussy.” And we went on like that for a good fifteen minutes… in unison and back and forth: “Pussy… pussy… pussy… pussy… pussy… pussy… pussy… pussy”.

“Do you think it worked?” Stan asked.

“Do you see any pussy here… now?” I answered.

Stan was puzzled, “Maybe we didn’t chant long or hard enough.”

Such faith, had Stan really expected two women to show up out of the night there after fifteen minutes of chanting?

We rolled over in our bags and went to sleep.

The next morning we awoke to the usual breakfast of oatmeal with raisons. We noticed a new red and white VW van in the parking lot. After breakfast we went over to the Pueblo where there was music coming from one of the rooms with the door open and several people inside. I walked in the door to see a gorgeous brown-eyed, jet-black-frizzy-haired, dark-skin, girl playing a twelve-string accompanied by a long-straight-haired redhead playing a mandolin. I locked eyes on the dark, frizzy-headed, one and she stopped playing to ask me, “Do you know where we can get a bath around here? We’ve been driving all night to get to this place.”

“Yeh, sure,” Stan jumped on it like a lightening bolt… and looking at me, “Chanting does work.”

“There is a pond a bit from here, but it is cold… still got ice on most of it,” I ventured.  "The hot springs are a longer hike."

One of the peculiarities with the high desert was that it might be freezing with snow on the ground in the shade but, in the sun, if protected from the wind, you could actually sunbathe.

“Let’s go to the closest one then,” Frizzy introduced herself, “I’m Sunflower and this is my friend, Debby.”

I had to admit that I was slightly dazed as I led the group down to the pond. Once there the girls immediately put out a couple of blankets and stripped down. Stan followed suite as I hesitantly stripped down. I was in awe of being in the presence of such beauty. The sunlight played with reflections of water glimmering off goose-bumped flesh as wondrous and anything else in nature’s display. I quickly headed for the water and dove in while the others tested the water one toe at a time. The icy cold of it was a shock but I was not one to prolong agony. Swimming vigorously back to the bank, Sunflower dove over my head and into the icy water. Coming up from the dive... screaming-gleefully-shocked, she grabbed me from behind. When Stan and Debby dove in behind her, I felt her perky chilled nipples press in against my back as I fell back into the pond. There was no escaping the thrill and the ecstatic chill of it.

Yes, there was sex. There was talk of this and that. I had not been so fulfilled since the Pillow Shack with Mary. I wasn’t about to allow the moment to go unappreciated. Making love in the sun out under the New Mexico sky was more than sex for me. It was a holy moment in time, forever sacred in the open delight of sense for the sweet quality of it. This, I thought, is what making love ought to be… for I was making love… creating love... in spite of the casual nature of it. I was in, on and above love as the passion mounted and subsided... surrendered to time and the yam-yum timing of it.

Sunflower hung out with me and the rest of the folks there in the Pueblo for awhile. I began feeling like I wanted to cut her away from the herd to keep her for myself. She played the twelve string guitar in the small room where we’d first met, sweetly strumming and falling into a rhythmic flow of words and images unlike anything I’d ever heard before. As I watched, I pictured the bucolic life of the two of us standing barefoot in corn fields and making babies together. Back in the A-frame we made love into the night.

“How long do you plan on staying here?” I asked, thinking of corn fields, bare feet and babies.

“We are heading out first thing tomorrow.” She nuzzled her nose into my neck by the shoulder.
My mind raced… my Gawd! Thinking of the scene in Easy Rider where Fonda said he had to be moving on… the commentary in my head said her choice was too much like Fonda’s character as Captain America; his last chance to be human and settle down before going off to New Orleans to meet his fate, “Do you know there are alternative universes where you stay here with me?”

“I would like that… I really would, but I have a boutique on Sunset that needs my attention.” She turned serious.

“But…”

“No… don’t argue.” She rolled on top of me. “This is a special moment. Perhaps in the alternative universe you speak of we are already in it and doing it… hmmm… but I need to do what I am doing, Max.”

I understood and I certainly knew better than to argue while my lingus was bodily engaged in her holy of holies.

The warmth of the little hearth filled the A-frame as we lay there afterwards. She explained further, “When I saw you first walk in the door of that room in the Pueblo, I saw that your spirit occupied the whole room. I had to make love to you… I just had to. But I can see now that you are trying to make your spirit smaller to accommodate me…”

Sunflower left the next day leaving Debby and Debby’s sister, Leah. I hadn’t noticed that Debby had a sister with her. Leah had spent the day before visiting an old friend at the geodesic dome next to the road on the way up. There was no chance I would have seen her, even had I not been so busy with Sunflower. I went back to the A-frame and the goats while Stan moved in the geodesic dome with Debby and Leah. The friend Leah had been visiting at the dome left for L.A. with Sunflower so Stan had the whole dome and the two sisters to himself.

I was okay with the A-frame and the goats. Out there it was impossible for me to feel anything but humble in the wild landscape that gave me pause to wonder about the whole miraculous coincidental merging of the chant and the arrival of these goddesses. I felt a strong indication that it was the workings of something I hadn’t understood, let alone acknowledged, until this journey into this holy place.

The Goat Pasture & First Storm

            …The mesa was divided by a barbed wire fence that held a herd of goats. In the middle of the fenced area was a small A-frame a little bigger than a pup-tent. I asked around to find out who lived there and it was presently vacant. There were a few temporary structures from the previous year around the property that were lived in until the more permanent pueblo or hogans were built (the wickiup I mentioned was one such place). I liked the idea of living among the goats and moved into the A-frame after sharing the wickiup with a half dozen other young men for a week or two. The A-frame was comfortable, having a door on one end and a small hooded fire-pit with an adobe chimney at the other. It could comfortably sleep two people and had a larger fire-pit outside in front of the place.

            My first night sleeping in the A-frame was one of tremendous relief. At last I had a place of my own. I sat by the open fire pit and, as the coals burned down. I retired inside the A-frame, taking some of the live coals and starting a fire in the small adobe hearth at the far end of the frame. I wrote in my journal: First night… at home, high above the plain and deep inside my fortress, I will sleep well tonight. I snuffed the flame in the kerosene lamp and drifted off to sleep. I awoke just before sunrise to the sound of hooves on the roof. As I came out of the A-frame to see what was on the roof, Charley-goat, the alpha-male greeted me with a, “eh-eh-eh-a-a-ah!” It was the beginning of a testy but sweet relationship. Charley made sure that I knew exactly who was in charge of things in his pasture by sneaking up and gently butting me from behind as I walked across from the A-frame to the gate. The trick was to never react one way or another. If I were to make a break and run for it I would be run down and run down rather violently. To stand my ground and push back was an even bigger mistake because goats love the push-back. It isn’t enough to push a little and walk away. Once the push-back has been initiated you are committed until a Huey comes and med-evacs your ass.

            I was pleased with my digs and enjoyed the solitude of living in the goat pasture. There was something that felt biblical about it. One afternoon I was sitting by my fire pit and enjoying a pot of rice and beans. I looked out across the mesa and saw a very dark cloud approaching. It was at eye level and looked apocalyptic as it neared. The sky was clear otherwise but soon the thunderhead took up the whole horizon. It was ominous enough that I was struck with fear for a moment and, as a bolt of lightening burst through fifty feet from where I was sitting, I felt naked and exposed. It exploded with such force I found myself flat on the ground. The storm wasn’t done with me yet, however; bolts of lightening thundered, booming barrages like a cannonade, striking all around my spot on the mesa. Awe replaced the fear as I surrendered to the fact that there was absolutely nothing I could do… there was nowhere to run or hide. My little A-frame was the most prominent thing to cower in on the entire mesa. I saw the goats huddled, huddled down together under the piñón trees for protection from the hail stones and rain. Charlie bravely stood his ground and watched over his girls and kids. Even goats heed the call of leadership and its attendant responsibilities in the face of horror. Charlie had earned his stripes as Alpha Goat on this and countless other occasions.

            The storm passed almost as fast as it arrived. I crawled out from the cover of the A-frame; the odor of argon-electricity and fresh rainfall had wakened my senses. About that time an old bread-truck rumbled up into the parking lot between the goat pasture and the pueblo. A middle-aged man in a fringed jacket that was driving jumped out as soon as the bread-truck stopped. I walked over to check out the new arrivals. The winos at the parking lot fire pit had headed for shelter when the storm dumped its load so I was there before they could pan-handle the newcomers. I offered a greeting, “Hello…”

Sunrise in Taos

THE SUNRISE COMMUNE

            Crossing the landscape toward evening the van pulled into Taos with Maggie steering it to a house in town where her friend Magic Maya lived. The house was full of musicians that night and Magic Maya was nowhere to be found. However, we were welcome guests anyway, as a party had been going on for more than a day. There was talk of how the communes in the area were faring, enduring their first winter in the high country around Taos. Some communes seemed to be thriving while others tended to be nothing more than crash pads for dopers: there was even one house in Taos where everyone called themselves Lords and Ladies. Every fantasy was lived out in this place. The Hog Farm and The Sunrise Commune were the most open to newcomers. The Lama Buddhist Foundation in San Cristobel was even more interesting but I was told that there was no tolerance for drugs, even mind-expanding ones such as LSD or Peyote, so I figured I’d be better off at the Hog Farm or the Sunrise. It was a choice that seemed right at the time. It would be another time I’d often wondered which way my life might have gone had I chosen Lama over The Sunrise Commune.

            We crashed there at the house as bottles of Red Mountain wine laced with acid and bowls of pot, were passed around. The accompaniment of acoustic guitars and homemade flutes played wordless rhythms to the vibe of the night. It was sweet and exotic to me to lay there and listen, getting a good night’s sleep, before embarking on my adventure the next day.

            That morning Maggie drove up the hill from Arroyo Honda, about eleven miles north of Taos, to the mesa that was accessed by a one lane winding washboard and gravel road. An even narrower dirt road that was recently cut branched off past a geodesic dome to several switchbacks towards the top. A makeshift parking lot was graded out at the end of the road where all trucks and autos were parked; as none were allowed past that point. At the end of the mesa, a hundred feet from there, I could see a small complex of newly constructed adobes in a triangle formed around a small courtyard. The top of a teepee peeked out of a ravine beyond the mesa. Apparently, these people had been busy before winter set in.

            There was a group of half a dozen men sitting at a fire pit by the parking lot smoking pot and drinking wine. I thought it odd to be drinking wine that early in the morning and was put off when a scraggly, red-bearded, hippy in a buckskin fringed jacket, partially concealing a bowie knife on his belt, approached Maggie for spare change. Norm told him to fuck off. I was pleasantly surprised when Bowie so readily obliged. Norm was even shorter than this character but his boldness got him through where superior size and a huge knife didn’t count for much.

            I noticed Norm wasn’t unpacking his own stuff. I knew before Norm spoke, “I’m not staying here, we're goin’ to Questa.” He was going with Maggie.

            “Great, I kinda thought so,” I was authentically happy for this odd Spring and Autumn coupling.

            We gave each other a warm parting and Norm and Maggie drove away. The characters around the fire pit told me that I could stow my stuff in the Kiva just past the adobe. A kiva is a circular building where native ceremonial rites are performed in the Pueblo culture of the region.    I climbed down a pole, with notches hewed into it for rungs. I adjusted my eyes to the dark. A kerosene lamp lit the interior but it still took a moment to adapt my eyes to the darkness. The forms of a handful of people in the dark began taking shape. I sat and opened my pack for a bag of Bugler and rolled one for myself, offering the pouch of tobacco to one of the forms. I didn’t speak but waited for someone to start off the conversation. A fifty-gallon drum situated on the opposite side of the center circle from the ladder pole had a stove pipe joined to it providing more than adequate heat for a fairly large space.

From behind the stove a shadow spoke, “What do you call yourself?”

I peered into the dark and made out a kind face of a blond, braided-haired, man with also a braided beard. Woven into the beard braids were turquoise beads. I hadn’t considered it but I figured I could call myself anything at this point; however, I stuck to my nickname, “Max.”

“I’m Mason. Pick a spot and roll out your bag.”

Mason did most of the talking. I wanted to know more about the place. I asked about the pueblo and Mason told me about how the local Taos Pueblo Indians came up and taught the basics of making adobe and that they’d put it up last summer. “I’ll show you the forms and where we make the mud bricks when you’re ready.”

“Who designed the kiva?” I was curious about the roof.

“It is mostly a traditional Hogan style built into the ground. Are you interested in building?”

I was looking up at the roof. Twelve inch diameter logs that tapered only slightly towards the center with notches cut out to lock each one crossing over the other. “Yeh, I want to know about that roof. Is that a traditional roof?”

“Naw, the way those logs are positioned was Barry and Brian’s idea. I mean, we were all sittin’ around trying to figure out how to make a roof for this place. Brian took some six-inch nails and laid ‘em out the way you see those logs. He set them up and challenged anyone to put enough weight on ‘em to collapse them. Barry knew it would work without bolts or nails.”

“So that ladder doesn’t support the roof?” I liked this Mason guy and I suspected that he was probably the brain in the outfit. I wanted to meet more of these characters.

“You’ve got a good eye, Max.”

 The pueblo consisted of three wings in a triangle open at two ends with about three to five small rooms in each wing. It sat at the end of the mesa pointing outwards over the kiva to the land beyond. Piñón pines and prickly-pear cacti along the edges of the mesa accented the mostly cleared grassy plane. It extended miles toward the Sangre de Cristo Mountains crowned by Wheeler Peak against a wild sky of swirling clouds.

Mason explained the property (about 800 acres) that The Sunrise Commune was on. It consisted of three or four mesas stretched out like fingers from the mountains to the plane below towards the Rio Grande. The Sunrise Commune had one mesa and shared another with a commune called The Cosmic Construction Company. The owner of the property was Michael Dragon and his house was on the last finger above the Rio Honda. Mason, or the others in the commune, never told me much about Michael Dragon but, from what I’d heard… picked up from here or there, the guy inherited some cash and used it to purchase the land for the purpose of opening it up to experimental communities.

The Sunrise was begun by folks around a character named Lenny Goldberg. They’d left the Mahayana Ranch, The Sunrise, in California to try again in New Mexico after city freaks, and eventually the authorities, began to move in on them. I was curious about who it was that was “the leader” in New Mexico. It didn’t seem possible that there was no single leader or authority amongst the group.

“So, how does all this get organized?” I asked.

Mason laughed, “You’ll see.” Then after a long pause he offered, “Most of our decisions affecting the group are made by the group.”

I sensed that this was bullshit. I knew, from experience, that there is always somebody that comes up with a plan and then organizes people around that plan; that the chaos I’d witnessed at Altamont happened because there was no plan or leadership. The Hell’s Angels had a plan and leadership. A handful of assholes were able to cow three-hundred-thousand disorganized and dazed hippies.

“There are no Charlie Mansons calling the shots here… if that’s what you mean. We only have one rule and that rule is love.” Mason explained.

“So, no one gets ‘vibed”’ on or off the mesa… like Zardoz?” I worried about the way the most egalitarian societies exert power and control. I could live with it if there was such a structure but wondered how it would work if there wasn’t.

Mason grinned, “You are either ‘On the Bus or Off the Bus’, you stay or leave of your own volition.” Then Mason paused a moment and added as an aside, “Look, the guys at the parking lot contribute nothing and bum enough for a jug of wine whenever a vehicle arrives. They won’t be told to leave either. They’ll get bored and move on. You don’t look like a wino. You’ll be okay here.”

I was familiar with the Ken Kesey bus ride across America but I had misgivings nonetheless about how far one could go with this philosophy for any real results.

Mason was looking me in the eye to point out, as sternly as Mason gets, “Cosmic Construction Company … on that mesa,” waving his hand north… “They have an elected council. They are trying it that way and we’re trying it this way.”

… 

Dawn... New Mexico

.... We rode through the night and dawn found us in Las Cruces, New Mexico, hitching a ride north on Interstate-25.
    We stood at that on-ramp that morning for a couple hours until a, canvas topped, twenty-one window, Volkswagen van pulled over driven by a forty or fifty something, weathered skinned, blond woman (with gray roots) wearing a ton of silver and turquoise jewelry; necklaces, rings and wrist bands.
    “So where you kids goin’?’” she called out, opening the sliding side door to the back of the bus.
    “Taos!” I called back.
    “Well, get in. I’m goin’ beyond Taos but I have friends there and planned on stoppin’ overnight anyway.”
    The van roared off and she introduced herself. “I’m Maggie… what do they call you?”
    “Hi, Maggie, I’m Norman and this is my friend, Max.”
    “Do you know anyone in Taos?”
    “No, never been there.” I liked the idea that she knew people in Taos.
    “Do you know anything about Taos?” she had this air of knowing about her.
    “What do you mean?” I tried to figure her line of questioning. I felt tense in anticipation.
    “Yeh, well, whew! Taos…. It’s God’s Country!”
    “I heard something about free land and communes.” The tension in my gut rose as I said it.
    “Free land? Hah! Yeh, there are communes… New Buffalo of Easy Rider fame, Hog Farm, Rising Star, and a couple of others that amount to nothing more than communal crash pads around town.” She named them off with a familiarity I found soothing but the tension was still there.
    “What do you mean Easy Rider fame?” It was one of those movies I saw back in Waikiki.
    “Yeh… you know that commune they ended up in and Peter Fonda had to make a decision to stay or go?”
    “Yeh, it was the turning point in the flick.”
    “Well, it was shot there at New Buffalo and that nude scene in the hot spring was shot at the old stage coach crossing on the Rio Grande.” She wanted to say more but I interrupted.
“No free land then?” I really didn’t care who or what was in a movie.
    “None that I know of. But a couple of the communes I mentioned are open to newcomers.”
    There was something homey about Maggie. She seemed the kind of good-natured and strong women I’d grown up with in Eastern Washington and Northern Idaho. They were different from L.A. or San Francisco people, men or women. Completely absent from her attitude was any pretension towards snobbery that I was homesick for and found refreshing. The tension was gone now and I could relax once I heard a more realistic appraisal of the situation.
    “What’s with that?” I asked, pointing to a cross with colored yarn wound or woven around it dangling from the rear-view mirror.
    “Oh, that’s a God’s Eye.” She was grinning.
    “You religious?” I was comfortable asking what I would have considered an all-too-personal question otherwise.
    “You mean a church or something?” Her face lit up.
    “Yeh, like… do you smoke pot or anything? Or do you have a church you go to?’ Norm piped in.
    I could tell she loved where the conversation was going and she seemed so warm and genuine with Norm… maternal.
    She gestured broadly; her whole arm jangling with turquoise and silver, “This, my dear friends, is my church. We are driving through to the high altar of the most sacred country… the church of my religion.” She then let out a, “Whoopee!” that caught me off-guard.
    Laughing I said, “I want what you are on lady!”
    “No,” she directed her answer to Norm. “I smoked plenty up ‘til a few years ago.”
    “You don’t get high?” Norm was authentically puzzled.
    “I didn’t say I don’t get high… I just don’t smoke pot.” It was getting warm so she wiggled out of the fringed vest as she was driving. I noticed she had some pretty substantial boobs hanging bra-less under a tank top. I paused a moment and wondered if this were going to be one of those great rides where everybody gets laid and so on.
    “…Acid, then?” Norm probed further.
    She gave him a sweet smile as she answered, “No, dear… I got tired of taking the same trip over and over again.”
    “Did you have a bad trip, a bummer, or something?” Norm was like a puppy tugging on a sock he couldn’t let go of.
    Her gaze was off to the horizon as she spoke, “I was a black-jack dealer in Vegas. I drank after work but never on the job. It got to be a problem… Smoked pot a lot too.”
    “But you quit?” I let Norm do all the questioning but I was listening and paying attention as the open, broad, vista of the Rio Grande cutting its way through basalt cliffs spread out before the plane, back-dropped by purple-ish mountains far beyond. “You quit just like that?”
    “No… not just like that. I got my ass away from Vegas… for one thing.” I realized I was appraising her body: Firm, lithe and energetic for her age. Hell, she could even be sixty but she looked more like forty. Under the arms of her tank top I saw the fleshy white underside orb of her right breast and decided it wouldn’t be so bad to do her even though she was old enough to be my mother.
“I got some money from an insurance settlement and bought forty acres up by Questa… north of Taos. Man, if you guys haven’t been to Taos you are in for a treat.” I heard her saying. My thoughts turned back from the perpetual horny I’d been feeling since we got in the van back in Las Cruces.
    “This is the country settled by Kit Carson and over the hills that way is Lincoln County where Pat garret and Billy the Kid…” She waved her hand toward the east as we were entering Truth or Consequences.
    “Was this town named after the TV show or was the TV show named after it?” I was only kidding.
    “You got it. It was a spa town called Hot Springs before 1950. Ralph Edwards visited the place so they named the town after his radio show before TV.”
    “I thought it might have a more ominous meaning… like, ‘This is your last chance to water your camel.’”
“Speaking of watering the camel… You guys must be hungry.” She pulled the van over to a drive-in burger joint on Broadway.
I was lost in thought, thinking how every town has a street called Broadway or Main and this one had both. The streets were all broad and dusty looking in a semi-arid landscape that took some getting used to for me. Still, I could see in the older buildings the images I’d grown up with from Western movies. I started singing… “Gettie-up, gettie-up… hum-bob-hum mao-mao… My baby loves those Western movies…”
Hamburgers dripping with grease and fries hit the spot. Norm dove into his greasy brown-paper-bag only to come up for air to ask, “I figured you for a vegetarian or something.”
“Naw, I like red meat too much to give it up.” She said, as I felt a strong stirring in my groin with her mentioning red meat. Norm was grinning too.
    Seeing New Mexico and being reminded that this was the Wild West I’d imagined; with my childhood heroes; Billy the Kid and Kit Carson, stirred me. So much of what it really was, and is today, was unknown to me except for the fact that I was a born a Westerner myself and I’d come from folks who were part of that history. This thought brought me back to the God’s Eye hanging on Maggie’s rear-view mirror.
    “What about the God’s Eye, is that an Indian thing?” I asked as soon as we got back in the van.
    “Yes… easy enough to make, eh?”
    “What about the Indians? I saw some in San Francisco when I was there…. Y’know, Alcatraz and all that? Still goin’ on as far as I know.”
    “What about ‘em?”
    “I mean, what I know of Indians is from what I grew up with in Spokane: Chief Joseph, the Nez Perce, Generals Howard, General Miles and so on. I had an Indian friend who was a boxer, Danny Broncho. But really, I don’t know much and Indian stuff is all over this place.” My curiosity was authentic and ran deep. I realized that I had neglected or dismissed a whole people and that the very place I’d been raised was once the land of a tribe, a people, a nation shoved aside and forgotten in the tide of history.
    “Well, you know, the Taos Pueblo people have lived on the same land for centuries before white folks got here. They consider themselves stewards of the land.” There was nothing preachy about the way she said it and I wanted to know more.
“Max and I were going to be extras in a Western by Otto Preminger but we came out here to play cowboys and Indians instead.” Norm chimed in.
I told her about Otto Preminger… or the guy who said he was. She listened to it all, how we ended up heading for New Mexico, and then said, “Well, kiddos, you came to the right place. This here place is for those who have nowhere else to go; from Billy the Kid, Kit Carson to the Spaniards who came up here looking for El Dorado. You might not stay and you might not ever come back, but your heart will never leave this place if the Spirit sent you.” When she said Spirit she waved her arm over the landscape of sage and sand spliced through by a magical hand with hills and mountains… letting go of the steering wheel as the van barreled along the highway, crossing over and back the Rio Grande along the way… she drove seemingly unaware that the machine had any need for her guidance.
We got to Albuquerque as the sun was setting. She stopped at a motel and rented a room. I had my hopes up but she told us we could stay in the van. The three of us sat in the room, ate some piñón nuts and so on but I could see that she was more interested in Norm than me: she and Norm were touching, gently fondling and squeezing each other there on the bed. I was actually glad for Norm because I hadn’t really seen Norm get laid through all our travels so far. I wasn’t sure whether or not she was in for a threesome but I knew that I wasn’t. Everything was okay with me as it was. I retired to the van and let the children play.
That morning found us traveling further north and the further north we went the more mystical the landscape became. Approaching Santa Fe the Sangre de Cristo range hovered in the background as sacred as the blood of Christ. Being raised Catholic, the transformative power and meaning of the blood of Christ was not foreign to me.
Maggie and Norm hit it off so well the night before that Maggie wanted to spring for a lunch in Santa Fe at The Pink; an other-era real sit-down, restaurant. The setting was old adobe and rich with atmosphere that had me transfixed; I was home at last. It warmed me as much as my companions and the anticipation of what was to come.

The Aquarius Theater

....On one of those days Norm and I were at Fairfax and Sunset hitching a ride when a white German Sheppard ambled up to me with a crushed coke can in its mouth. The dog dropped the can at my feet and looked up at me with a pair of “Do you wanna play?” eyes that were hard to refuse. I tossed the can down the sidewalk and the dog happily returned it, dropping the can at my feet dutifully. This went on for a while and people began making kind gestures and dropping coin in the Green Power can I held in my hand at all times.
“What’s the dog’s name?” asked a nicely dressed woman who would not have ever stopped to give a dime to a hippy otherwise.
I responded immediately saying, “Jude,” I loved the Beatles tune ‘Hey Jude’, “Yeh… that’s his name… could you donate for some dog food?”
Jude turned out to be a boon until Norm and I got home and opened a can of dog food. Norm had lifted a couple of steaks from the grocery store on the way back to the pad but Jude would have nothing to do with dog food out of a can as long as there was a chance of getting his teeth into one of those steaks. Jude stayed with us for about a week and helped us out with panhandling. I had learned to tuck a steak or two into my pants on the way home every evening for Jude and was saddened when Jude took off one day and never returned.
It was the day after Jude didn’t return to the house I ran into Miriam at the market. She was friendly enough as she explained, “Max, I went to another Tony and Sue get-together. I’m moving up to their ranch.”
“Oh, see you later then.” I was crushed. I didn’t mind losing her to another man but this cult seemed too weird for me. I was surprised and disappointed that a street-smart girl like her would fall for it. Damn, I thought, I lost a girl, gained a dog and lost a dog all in a couple of weeks!

One place Norm and I found profitable for panhandling was the Aquarian Theater where “Hair” was playing. It was while we were there that conversation turned to New Mexico. I was burned out with L.A. but had nowhere else to go. The word on the street was that there were rural communes in New Mexico that welcomed refugees from Urbania. My ears perked as one freaky looking hippy told of the mountains and untouched land there free to anyone who wanted to settle it.
“What do you mean?” I queried, “There’s no such thing as free land unless you are talking about homesteading… do they still do that?”
“I don’t know what you’re talking about but I do know that there are communes there that welcome people like us.” The guy toned down his claim of free land a notch.
I then asked him, “Have you been there?”
“Naw, but a friend of mine knows someone who…”
Norm came running up to me excited and gesturing, “Hey, you wouldn’t believe what just happened. A limo pulled up to the curb where I was standing and this dude with a bald head gets out of the back seat and asks me if I have any change for the phone… I’m lookin’ at him and wondering why this guy needs change from me when he probably has some kind of  radio thing in the limo… just then… like he was reading my mind he says; ‘Some calls gotta be made by payphone and I don’t carry change’.”
Sounds bizarre…but interesting enough; I thought that was the whole story and turned to hear more about New Mexico.
“But that ain’t the end of it. I give him a quarter and, while he makes his phone call the driver comes up to me and says; ‘Do you know who that is?’ and I say no… who is he?”
There was a pause… I was getting annoyed… New Mexico was waiting.
“The driver tells me the guy is Otto Preminger. Yeh … Otto-fuckin’-Preminger!”
“Really?” I countered sarcastically. Man, I wasn’t impressed with celebrities and, besides, everyone pretended to be one in Hollyweird. I was surprised to hear Norm talking like this.
“But this is the good part…” Norm was excited and Norm wasn’t the type to get excited over nothing, “The good part is that this guy, Otto Preminger… you’ve heard of him haven’t you?”
“Yeh, I’ve heard of him.”
“Well he came up to me and thanked me for helping him out and then he gives me this card…” He flashed the card in my face so that I could see clearly the name, Otto Preminger, printed on the front with an address scribbled on the back. “So he says to get a few friends and show up at this lot and we’ll be guaranteed parts as extras in a movie he is making… a Western or something.”
“Yes, sounds good…”
“They pay extras good too… Union scale!”
The hippy guy added, “Count me in. Union scale is five hundred a day for extras.”
I scratched my chin, “I didn’t know Otto Preminger was still alive… did he ever make a Western?”
Norm had gotten hold of three hits of acid so we dropped it to celebrate our luck.
I had on several occasions wondered what would have happened had I followed through with the Otto Preminger shoot instead of dropping that tab of acid that night. You just never know where acid is going to take you. Sometimes it would be just another trip like the several before it. Other times an acid trip would have you making decisions that would turn your life inside out and upside down.
Norm and I ended up at the Taft house tripping through the night. Sarah was drinking wine, doing reds and ranting on about how Charlie Manson and his family were “set-up by the PIGS”. She’d finally taken one too many reds and pulls off the gallon jug of Red Mountain. She then needed to be walked all night to keep her conscious. Felix took her before dawn to the hospital emergency room and dropped her off. In those days most people who died from overdoses did so because their friends were afraid of the repercussions with the law for just being with someone who’d OD’d. Of course, ya just didn’t want emergency vehicles or police at the house.
That was the last bit of drama I could take in ole Hollyweird. As the sun rose we headed out to the freeway onramp on Sunset & 101 and put out our thumbs. There wasn’t any discussion about it but we both knew it was New Mexico, Taos. Otto Preminger would have to do without Norm and me. Once we got past San Bernardino it was easier to see the wisdom of our choice as the desert opened up before us. I had never been in the Southwest desert and Interstate 10 took us right smack dab through the most magnificent parts of the desert landscape. I felt a growing peace the further the highway took us from L.A. The sunset spread a crimson glow across the sky highlighting the Saguaro’s, they seemed to raise arms greeting us… welcoming us home like the prodigal sons. Conversely, they could just as well have been saying, “Halt! Stop before it’s too late.”

A Rainy Day

...Back at the house Sarah, Felix, Miriam and I slept together in the same bed for about a week. There was very little fooling around considering we were all in the same bed. One night, still half asleep, I felt Felix reaching over my waist from behind. I came full awake when I heard Miriam sternly insist Sarah take her hand from her breast.

The next day Miriam didn’t show up for one of her shoots and didn’t come back to the house until the afternoon after that. I had taken a job at a car wash on La Brea and thought nothing of her absence until after I got home from work. She came in the door, head hanging, with a gnarly-bearded-tall-longhaired-hippy dude.
“We have to talk,” she grabbed me by the arm and pulled me into the kitchen.
“Talk about what?” I felt a stabbing pain in my gut, “You with that guy?”
“I can’t hang here…” She started to explain.
“Are you with that guy?” I drilled her.
About then “That Guy” came in the kitchen.
“It’s not what you think, Max?” She began to explain.
“You gotta let go, man…” that Guy piped in.
“Let go of what? And what is it to you” I glared upward at the lanky hippy towering above me.
“We just talked…” the voice of a guilty little girl was so unlike Miriam’s.
“All night?” I was still glaring at the giant in front of him.
“Um… yes.” She offered hesitantly.
“Oh, I see.” I turned and walked out into the rain that was lightly coming down. I felt like going somewhere… anywhere but … I thought of Santa Barbara and how much I’d liked it there. I might head there.

I’d gotten as far on the Pacific Coast Highway as Topanga Canyon Blvd. before it started to get dark and the clouds thickened to let loose with a torrential downpour. I had been standing there with my thumb out for over an hour when a man in full rain-gear walking past me stopped.
“You want to get out of the rain… I have a place down over on the other side of the creek.” He pointed out the direction from where he’d come.
I was so enjoying the Bluesieness of standing in the rain in my sorrow, that I automatically responded with, “No thanks, I’m okay with the rain.”
The Rain Gear man walked to the corner of Topanga to a store and when he came back it was dumping twice as hard.
“Really, it’s okay. I’m not queer.” He stopped and gestured once more in the direction past the creek. “My wife and kid are all warm, dry and cozy with hot soup on the stove… You are welcome to it.” He gave me directions, described the house and slogged on in the rain towards home.
I stood there for another hour as the rain just kept coming. It was completely dark by this time. I stopped thinking for a minute about Miriam and the cold damp place I was standing in. I walked up to the door and knocked.
One of the most beautiful women I’d ever seen opened the door. She stood there angelically with her long ringlets of golden brown hair in a full length plain cotton dress. It was a small one-room cabin with an open loft built above for a bedroom. The daughter was a precocious girl of about four or five who immediately wanted to sit on my lap as soon as I sat down after discarding my drenched coat. I put on a robe offered in place of the soaking clothes that I’d been invited to hang high above a pot-bellied wood-burning stove. A pipe was passed and I was soon after handed a bowl of soup thick enough to be a stew. The rain pounding down above it all and the soft conversation along with the warmth of the stove was comforting.
“Where are you going?” asked the wife.
“I was thinking of Santa Barbara.”
“Are you from there?” Hubby busied himself with his bowl of soup but turned to show a gentle face as he queried.
“Santa Barbara! They have a Zoo!” the girl chimed in.
“No, I’m not from there. I just want to check it out.”
“We went to the Zoo and daddy let me pet some goats.”
“Honey, let Max eat his soup.”
“Oh, I don’t mind… really.” It was so warm and kind and nice in that room I felt as though I’d died and gone to heaven.
“What made you want to leave where you were?”
“Uh, Hollywood?”
“Yeah, if that’s where you were coming from?”
So, it went like that and we talked past the time the girl fell asleep on my lap and we talked about Altamont, Miriam, broken hearts, sorrow, crushed dreams, the military, the Navy, and hope and more smoke… lots of hope for the future and hope for the little girl. I would see some very dark days in the future but I could always point to this interlude on a rainy night in a cabin at the side of the road with a bowl of warm soup…God surely lives in these moments.

I awoke on the couch; my clothes were dry and folded. After dressing I stepped out on the porch as quietly as I could, hoping not to awaken anyone. When I got out to the highway the decision was already made for me which way I was to take. Santa Barbara could wait… I had to go back and find Miriam, but I had no idea why I had to find her any more than I had any idea where I was to end up. After all, Miriam had moved on. There really was nothing in Hollywood for me but I found myself back at Franklin and Taft. At the house, Sarah and Felix didn’t want a single bed partner, so I set up a cozy little den in a closet set under the stairs. I went back to work at the car wash to bring in a few bucks at minimum wage.
The house had become a metaphor for what had happened to the so-called counter-culture of the sixties. What might have started out as a wonderful experiment with communal living turned into little more than a crash-pad for drug users or addicts. The creativity that began the idea had moved on. Most evenings found me in the kitchen with a bottle of wine, disillusioned and waiting for something to happen out of the ordinary… something that might hold some promise for me. Norm convinced me that I could do better panhandling for Green Power or selling the Free Press at stop lights than the minimum wage I was pulling in at the car wash.