Chapter 7. Hollyweird!

The trip started off strange enough. A camper truck gave us our first ride. We piled into the cab that opened into the camper. Norm passed the packs and bags to me in back and sat next to the driver. Miriam rode shotgun. I felt uncomfortable and, after gassing up in Gilroy, the driver slowed down reaching across to the glove-box, Miriam let out a scream and bailed out of the moving truck. Norm pulled the emergency break and grabbed the drivers arm before he could open the glove-box. It happened so fast I had no idea what was happening but I tossed out our bags and packs from the back door and jumped out going after Miriam.

Miriam was rolled up on the side of the road. I was relieved that the truck finally came to a complete stop. Norm came out grinning like the Cheshire cat. The truck sped off like a bat out of hell.

“What happened?” I shouted to Norm. I tried to comfort Miriam who was shaking uncontrollably on the ground, curled up in the fetal position.

He was still grinning, “He was just going to get a bottle out of the glove box. I took it from him. He oughtn’t drink-n’-drive.” Adding, “Sometimes street smarts work against you and they become paranoia.”

I wondered how I could comfort Miriam. She had been shaken up quite a bit but not from her roll. This was enough adventure for me for now. What if there had been a gun in the glove-box? What would the guy think he was going to get from three obviously thread-worn hitch-hikers?

“Miriam? Why did you bail?” I asked.

“It has happened before,” the words were barely audible from her quivering lips.

“What do you mean?”

“When I was fifteen I was raped… it happened just like that.”

“But there are two of us with you.”

“Can’t count on that....” She said with a determination that defined her road spirit. “You can’t count on that… I’m not ever going to be raped again.”

The next ride from Gilroy was to Santa Barbara and we got out on the section of the freeway that ended at a strip with grass along sides of four lanes with traffic lights. This break allowed a pleasant place to hitch a ride and take a nap if needed. I felt a premonition about that town. I thought it might be a little rich for my blood but I was able to see a future there and it was love at first sight for me. I wanted to stay but Miriam and Norm were impatient to get to L.A.

Getting off at Sunset on the Hollywood Freeway in the middle of the night, we walked down a couple miles to the West Hollywood Presbyterian Church on Martel and Sunset. We heard it called the Free Church. Anything free had to be good. Transients slept in the courtyard, the idea being that the church would feed and shelter the poor. “The poor” turned out to be hippies, street people, and runaway teens. A few South-Central L.A. hustlers, I called X, Y, and Z, were trusted with the keys to the place and saw an opportunity to muster up the resources of the church for themselves. running it like it was an Orwellian prison yard. Staff, stayed inside of the church and let whoever was part of their posse stay tenuously there too.

Young runaway hippy-chicks were always welcome inside. The rest of the riff-raff had to stay outside after ten p.m. when the church employees and ministers left. The place was to be hosted by the self-appointed Alphabet Staff until six A M. As for feeding the poor, food was donated and then distributed by the Alphabet Staff. It was mostly day-old sandwiches, canned food, or whatever could be scraped up. One regular donation, by the case in cans, was Sego diet meals. You had to gulp down about six of these cans to feel like you had anything at all in your stomach.

Miriam and I curled up together in our bag next to a solitary pole by some bushes. We fell asleep immediately did not awake until dawn. When we awoke we rolled around a bit in our sleeping bag and ended up with Miriam on top. Looking up I saw that the pole we made our bed next to was a tall white cross hovering above us… “Holy fuck,” I groaned. She moaned back and we collapsed together there.

We got out of the bag awhile later. Norm was inside the church Sunday school classroom where he was selling his stolen twenty-two to one of the so-called staff. I would find out later the guy was called X.  I saw X slip Norm a few bills and Norm passed the piece to him as though it was nothing more than a lid of pot. When I found out the guy called himself X, I wondered if the other two called themselves “Y” and “Z”? And where did the rest of the alphabet keep themselves?

The guy I dubbed Y played the part of the Guru. He was a tall, well-built man with a Fu Manchu mustache and beard. He was coifed with an impressive Afro over a set of piercing, cynical looking eyes. He called himself Yogi too, so I felt somewhat vindicated by my alphabet sarcasm. Yogi was in charge. The others did his bidding. The third, I called Z at first, was Willy: it should have been W, X and Y. Willy was a good natured young man still in his teens. He was helpful to Miriam and made sure she got extra cans of Sego.

That night in the classroom, where various street people hung out, the Ghetto Triumvirate revealed the true hierarchy of the place in case there were any doubts. Willy came back all fucked up from turning tricks on Sunset and had been drinking wine and doing Reds.

I noticed a bit of a ruckus going down and people were sort of encircled around Yogi and Willy. Willy had apparently taken the twenty-two Norm had sold to X. Yogi had been talking quietly to Willy with X butting in… “Hey, that piece is fucking mine, nigga!”

Willy shouted at X, “Yogi runs this place… see… don’t fuck with Yogi!”

Willy stumbled back and broke away from the group around him.

X tried to sound calm but his voice quivered, “Listen brother, the gun is mine. I bought it.”

Everyone there made way for Willy as he pulled the pistol out of his waistband… “You ain’t my brother! You ain’t my mutha-fuckin’ mother! And I ain’t yo’ nigga, Nigga!” With that he spun around with the gun pointing first into the air. As he spun around he brought it down to eye level at the crowd that stood frozen in a circle around him. “Pang!” the twenty-two went off. Nobody moved. Willy dropped the gun… “I… I… I didn’t mean to…”

It was as though everyone there was waiting to see who was going to drop. No one dropped. I crossed the room and, picking up the piece and handing it butt-first to X, I said, “I suggest you keep better inventory on this.”

I turned and walked away. I did not miss the fact that a small twenty-two caliber size hole was in the wall behind where my head had been. Miriam and I left then to find Norm; leaving the confusion of the situation behind as best we could.

Going down Sunset Blvd., Miriam and I were handed a flyer promising a free spaghetti dinner at such and such place. We decide it might be better than the Sego we’d tried to stomach the last few days and showed up at the designated time. The place was a big two-story house with a huge living room. The dining room had the wall between them knocked out and folding chairs lined up in rows, converting the space into a makeshift church. Miriam and I felt we had been deceived because the flyer said nothing about sitting through a sermon. Regardless, we took a seat and wondered how long we’d have to endure the sermon before the food was served.

She had a demon alright.

A tall, slender, blond woman in her late thirties or early forties took to the podium after some hallelujahs and a few songs. She introduced herself as Sue Alamos; and then went into her pitch about Jesus, how there were demons out there in the streets conniving to take these souls made vulnerable by drugs to their enticements. The enticements the demons used were nothing like the ordinary admonishments against sexual misconduct and so on, but rather, her sermon focused on suicide. This was somewhat unique to me because I’d heard most of the sermons against drugs and alcohol leading towards all sorts of unsavory behaviors but I hadn’t heard this slant before.

She railed on: “These demons are around us all the time waiting. When you drop LSD, a demon enters your body: the sacred Temple of God. It takes over and lets you feel powerful and wise. Just like Eve in the Garden, you become Gods; until LSD’s master, Satan, decides to call you in. That is when the demon whispers in your ear; ‘you might as well not live, to die is the best answer, take your life and go to Heaven!’” then she got very serious… “And then you commit suicide. Instead of Heaven you go straight to Hell! Don’t be fooled, children!”  It, her harangue, went on and on for the better part of an hour. This woman’s husband, Tony, was the founder of a cult and a ranch outside of town somewhere. They’d entice young and vulnerable white, middle-class runaway teens, or plain ole street people, up to the ranch to be brainwashed and sent back into town to recruit more like themselves. I was hungry but we left before dinner was served… if it was served at all. There were folks at the door, more like waifs, trying to keep us from leaving. They all had this look in their eyes of forced glee and it also looked as though they hadn’t eaten much themselves. Leading Miriam by the hand, I plowed through them like a hot knife through butter to a chorus of their protestations. We had to find Norm.

PS. Yes, this is the same infamous Tony and Sue Alamo. His real name was Bernard Lazar Hoffman (aka Marcus Abad) and hers was Edith Opal Horn. He was a convicted child sexual abuser and she was an actress who'd found a calling and a new name.

Chapter 6. Spokane

The further North we went the colder it got. Although the Bay area wasn’t exactly a tropical zone, I was no longer adapted to anything below forty degrees. The ride we took from Portland dropped us off in the middle of nowhere up the grade from the Umatilla Bridge over the Columbia River. There were a few inches of snow on the ground and we made camp among the sage finding only a stick here or there in the dark to light a campfire. Curled up in our bags we drifted off to sleep. An hour or so later the sound of dogs yapping woke me up. At first, I wasn’t concerned but the yapping seemed to be getting closer.

Then Norm woke up, “What’s that?”

“Coyotes, I guess.”

“Shit, really?” Norm sat up looking around.

“Nothing to be afraid of...” I tried to be reassuring. The yip-yapping seemed to be circling us. I envisioned being found in the spring… our bones scattered and sleeping bags torn up. Then I thought of the old western movies, in which the greenhorn would get spooked by the howl of coyotes in the desert, and tried not to panic.

“They’re getting closer.” Norm was nervous and I was getting edgy myself. I knew how sound can fool you in this semi-arid desert but the yapping did seem to be getting closer. I had never heard of anyone being harmed by coyotes but I had heard of packs of wild dogs in the desert pulling down mule deer and attacking children.

“What do you want to do… break camp?”

“Nothing is open in Umatilla… not even a gas station.” There was a gas station our last ride stopped at west of Umatilla on I-80.

Norm and I, like brave outdoorsmen, left our bags at the camp and headed down the road back towards Umatilla. A midnight traveler gave us a lift to Boardman hearing all about a vicious pack of wild dogs, or whatever, back there. We hung out at the only gas station in Boardman keeping the attendant company until dawn. Making our way back in the morning and expecting to see our bags torn up within a circle of dog tracks, we found no foot-prints in the snow besides our own. I walked out hundreds of yards from our camp finding nothing.

Slightly embarrassed, I stuck to the wild-dog story, saying, “They were getting closer, eh?”

“Yeah, they sounded real close” Norm answered. “They probably gave up when we left.”

 The next ride from there was from a wild, long-haired and bearded, man in an old green International pick-up truck that lived outside of Spokane before Cheney. And, as another coincidence, hunted wild dogs where the rolling wheat fields make way for pine trees and arid ground with little or no growth in between. He had us in for a dinner and a smoke or two. He told of how folks from Spokane drop off their unwanted pups in the woods around his place. “Of course, the pups grow into dogs that can do nothing less than follow their instincts; packing-up, and posing a very real danger to animals and humans alike.” He had a quad stereo hooked up to strobe lights playing, of all things, Steppenwolf. “Born to be WI…ILD!” blasting at us, he wanted to know what happened at Altamont.

I explained the chaos, starting with the early dawn cue stick beatings of the folks in front of the stage, to the school buses plowing into the crowd; the rapes, the carnage on the stage and so on.

The fellow sat there and listened, hardly saying a thing until I’d finished relating it all. Then he spoke; “So, there were three hundred thousand people at the concert?” He paused a moment as I nodded, “… and how many Hells Angels?”

“Maybe fifty or sixty… I didn’t count.” I answered but I hadn’t anticipated what was to come next from the wild-dog hunter.

“Why didn’t three hundred thousand people crush the mother fuckers?”

I had no answer. I could have explained how impossible it would be to motivate that many people to do anything in synch.

“So, all those musicians had the mics and the amps and they calmed everybody down and let a handful of thugs run roughshod over three hundred thousand freaked out hippies!”

“Yes.” I was beginning to get his point.

“There was only one man with any courage out of three-hundred thousand people and he’s dead…”

The implication was clear. Anyone still alive that didn’t try to crush anyone wearing Hells Angels colors after that man died on the stage was a coward. The Wild-dog Hunter didn’t have to say it. I just hung my head.

Then I understood how the Nazis did it; how the Stalin did it and how every tyrant from before and after Genghis Khan did it.

“Give a little candy to the babies and they are jelly in your hands.” The Wild-Dog Hunter said.

The Wild-Dog Hunter dropped us off in downtown Spokane a block or two from the Greyhound station. It was the part of town where the railroads were elevated before what was to become Riverside Park after the 1972 Expo. It consisted of three blocks of skid row up from the elevated tracks by the river to First Avenue. There was slush on the ground and my feet were cold wet and numb having only a pair of boots made more for looks than hiking in the damp and cold to ward of the chill.  We hoofed it up to Sprague Avenue hoping to hitch a ride. Walking out as far as the Dishman Hills, I was pleased to see that the Two Swabbies’ Army Navy Surplus store was still in business. I bought a pair of surplus Army boots and some wool socks. Finding a Navy pea-coat, wool watch cap, and navy-blue wool sweater, my mood was lifted by the familiarity of the clothing and warm feet... at last, I believed in that things were going to be fine from then on. My happy feet were ready to go now.

Norm was accommodating. He never complained. He had shot-up all his smack and was going through mild withdrawals but hardly ever complained about that either. I was afraid my pal might be a junkie but it turned out, I noticed, that some people can turn away from hard-core addicting drugs just like that and hardly miss it at all. As for me, sure that had I shot-up or snorted heroine long enough, like one or two times more, I would be hooked and there would be no end to it. I was finding it so true with alcohol and more so because I never kidded myself about the recreational use of heroin.

 We showed up at the door of my family’s home in Veradale, road weary and ready for rest. My folks were congenial enough and they listened as I related the story of what went down at Altamont. They had vaguely heard of it on the evening news but had no idea how big the event was. Some newspapers reported as many 500,000 attended while others as little as 80,000. Some played it up as “Woodstock West Gone Wild” while others hardly gave it note at all. The conversation around the dinner table turned and it went like this:

“So, are you going to settle down in Spokane now?” Mom asked.

“No, we’re going back to California. I’ve got to get back to my people,” I explained. Dad sat there with the sort of disappointment etched on his face that only a dad can feel for a wayward son.

“You know,” Dad spoke up, “You can go to school on the G.I. Bill at Spokane Community College.”

“I might do that later but I’ve got to get this out of my blood now.” I started to go into a narrative about “seeing America” and how a lot was going on now that I wanted to be a part of. I made casual mention of “My People” as though the whole Hippy Generation of Peace & Love was one spiritual body moving towards the future and that; jobs, careers, family and such, were not only being redefined but damned near irrelevant. The fact that I had little or no interest in any kind of peace movement was beside the point.

Dad made this one last stab at reaching through to me, “There is a spot open at Kaisers and I can get you in the machine shop easy enough.”

“I don’t think I’ll ever do that, Dad.” I was almost sneering at this point and, if I could have seen the hurt I was causing my father, it would not have mattered.

Mom butted in at this point, “What are you going to do when you are old? What will ‘Your People’ do for you then?”

“We’ll help each other, Mom. It’s incredible out there. We’re changing the world and, besides, when my people’s backs are up against the wall… we’ll be together!”

How incredulous this had to have seemed to my Mom and Dad whose lives had been completely devoted to family through the Great Depression and WWII. I had no idea how deeply my comments cut at the time but my fervor for something new... a hidden alternative social reality… was driven by a passion that ignored compassion as much as reason and went straight for blood at any hint of an argument.

After that initial confrontation Norm and I were treated as welcome guests. Dad showed off his trophy moose antlers from a recent hunting trip in Canada. We sat at the bar in the rec-room, played pool and Dad played his harmonica. He gave me a harmonica that he wasn’t using and tried to teach me some tunes but I wanted to play it like Bob Dylan. He also gave us some sausages (made from the moose the antlers had once belonged to) for our journey (whose antlers hung over the fireplace in the basement rec-room). We affectionately referred to it as Minnesota Moose Mung while on the road.

Mom and Dad weren’t sure what Norm and I had in common. Norm was so young and effeminate looking that they might have figured something strange was going on between us. The subject was not breached but Mom was likely relieved that we slept on separate beds and in separate rooms. After a few days, they drove us downtown where we could hitch a ride south. I felt the chill of icy roads and wondered why I was ever leaving that home for this adventure.

Our first ride got us as far as Richland and we were stranded there for half a day. It was getting towards the afternoon when I started practicing on the harmonica. I wanted it to sound bluesy but all I could manage was noise. About that time a big-rig pulled up; “How far you goin’?”  Norm called out as the driver reached over opening the passenger door.

“Depends, can he play that thing?” He pointed to me.

Norm’s enthusiasm embarrassed me, “Sure! He damned-well can play it.”

“I’m going straight through to Stockton and I need to stay awake.”

Hell, I couldn’t do anything but make noise on that damned harmonica but the driver didn’t care at all.

“Can you play ‘Red River Valley’?” the driver shouted over the noise of the diesel as we climbed aboard.

“I know the tune but I got to tell you right off I’m just learning to use this thing.” I admitted.

“Make yourselves comfortable… we’ve got a-long-ways to go tonight.” He motioned to Norm to crawl through the curtains to the sleeper bed in back.

“You can sit up here.” He wanted me up front with him... “I don’t give a shit if you can play or not. I just need some noise to keep my eyes open.”

“Okay then, you’ve got yourself some noise.”

By the time the rig dropped us off in Stockton I had learned to play “Red River Valley”. The ride was as wild as the I-97 through central Oregon. The two-lane highway was icy and completely sheeted-over with ice or blanketed with packed snow. This didn’t slow down the trucker one bit. I’d never seen anyone drive like that and I likely never will either. The guy handled that rig on those roads like he was a formula-1 racer, yet, I rarely felt my life was in danger. Passing rigs and slowing only when he suspected a speed trap, the driver chain smoked and coached me with his song through the long night. Arriving at the race track I was pleased Miriam was still there for me. We made up for lost time in the pillow shack and life was indeed good once more.

Most of the cleanup-crew had drifted off but Dan and Linda were still in the trailer. The company it was rented from had either forgotten about it or been waiting for somebody to return it. There were activities for what was left of the clean-up crew at the race track. One of the most enjoyable tasks was the dirt-bike races held on a track that was tricked-out with jumps, puddles and mud-holes, inside the oval of the quarter-midget track. A few of us volunteered to be red-flagmen. It was dirty, muddy, noisy and sometimes dangerous work, pulling bikes and bikers, from mud-holes after spills and waving the red flags until all was clear. Other times there were parties with a catered full-bar at the tower with the drivers and their dates or wives.

Miriam and Norm got along so well that we talked of going to L.A. together. We agreed that the race track gig was winding down and there was increasingly less for us to do there. Norm and I had a bond that happens on the road; standing in rain or sleet at a freeway entrance with a sign and a common destination. Miriam and Norm possessed combined street smarts that was tempered so very slightly by my age. I was twenty-three but may as well have been a white haired old man compared to my companions. Anyone seeing us could have imagined that I might be their leader or guru. However, Norm and Miriam had no use for a leader or guru and, even at times when I felt paternal towards them, I knew in my heart that it wasn’t my wisdom or age that carried the day.

“Is it warmer in L.A.?” I was huddled with Miriam under a blanket… it was drizzling wet outside the shack.

“Gotta be drier than this.” Norm answered, shivering in a corner from the other side of the shack.

“I’m ready for a change,” Miriam threw in, “the food is getting scarcer here and things are getting back to normal at the track. I have a feeling that Mr. Carter will have us out of here soon anyway.”

“Anybody been in L.A. at all… is there anything there?” I looked at Norm who shot back with another one of his, Duh, smirks. People like Norm make a place for themselves no matter where they are.

“I know of a house in Hollywood… sort of a commune… a big place.” Norm offered.

“How many people are there?” Miriam asked.

“Last time I was there it was like a family… about twenty. It had several rooms… pretty nice place really.” 

Chapter 5. A Long and Winding Road

I’m addicted to hitch-hiking: at least I was back then. Hitch-hiking, standing at a freeway entrance waiting for a ride, became a Zen exercise of letting go of expectations and restraints of time. The next ride was it... never knowing where or how far it was going, who’s driving or what their motives were for picking up complete strangers. In the late sixties and early seventies, it had been easy to get around because our hair and clothes were a uniform that said, I’m cool and part of the alternative culture. It was an extension of the beat generation: On the Road or Dharma Bums (that very few had read), with everything, all one’s worldly possessions, in a bedroll and backpack.

Standing at a freeway entrance in Stockton, I couldn’t remember whether Norman had told me why he needed to go to Portland. I laughed when I thought of it….

“What’s so funny?” Norm asked.

“I was just thinkin’… what are we going to Portland for anyway?”

Kicking a rock across the pavement Norm was quiet… like he hadn’t given it any thought at all. “Uh, well… my folks live there… a little town south of Portland, Bethany. I have some stuff there I’d like to get.”

“Oh, okay… I was just wondering.” A few more cars went by, mostly workers… not going any distance. “My folks live in Spokane… figure maybe I’ll head up there after Portland… Are you planning on staying there?”

“Maybe, but they’re just foster parents. I don’t really care for them all that much.”

“Oh? Where are your real folks?”

“Don’t know… well, moms a bartender in Salem but… haven’t seen her since I was… oh, about eight.” He answered as though he were talking about somebody else’s life.

“Sorry, how about your dad?” before he could answer, an extended cab pick-up pulled up with a couple of characters in the front seat.

One opened the passenger side door, “Throw your bags in the back and jump in up here.”

I started to open the back door. 
Norm grabbed my arm… “Hold it Max.” And then, “Forget it dude!”

The wheels screeched as the wagon burned rubber on up the ramp.

“What happened there?” I hadn’t seen that one coming at all.

“I never just throw my bag in the back before I get my ass in a damned car. 'Sides, those guys looked queer anyway.”

I had to chalk that one up for Norm.

The trip to Portland was uneventful but Norman had us take a side trip to Bethany, just south of Portland. Bethany was such a small town… it had no center. It was a bedroom community of suburban houses a couple miles hike from the freeway mixed with older country, white-picket-fenced, cottages and much older farm houses. I felt uncomfortable, knowing that a couple of hippies on foot wouldn’t go unnoticed. Sure enough, within a half hour a patrol car pulled up to us and asked for I.D.’s. I had my  DD-214, separation papers, folded-up in my wallet but Norm had no I.D. at all. The officer wanted to know where we were going, Norm gave the address of his foster parents and a name that may or may not have been his. That satisfied the officer sufficiently to let us go.

We arrived at the address (Norm's foster parents home) but, instead of going to the front door, Norm went straight to a basement window at the side of the house. He picked up a rock, smashed it and started to crawl in.

I stopped him, whispering; “Hey, what are you doin'?”

“No one’s home,” Norm answered in a hushed voice.

I looked around, “Why didn’t you knock first and find out?”  We were behind some bushes and out of sight from the street but we could have been seen approaching the house.

He looked back at me with that familiar, Duh, smirk. “You stay here and keep watch for me… I’ll be right back.”

Damn, I thought, I’m standing watch while this kid burglarizes his own house… um, not his house… his foster parents house! A cop already knows we are in town and that this address is where we are headed! Shit! How do I get into these things? I pictured myself locked up for…

“Hey, grab this bag!” Norm called from another window on the main floor.

I took the pillow-case he handed down to me as Norm plopped down on the ground from the window. It felt like it might have had jewelry and something metal.

Norm led the way down a creek bed, “this is one of my old escape routes. The creek runs all the way to the freeway.”

 We stopped to rest as Norm went through the pillow-case stuffing its contents into his back pack. I saw a nice looking twenty-two revolver and realized that Norm was taking more than just his stuff from the house. I had no more questions.

“Shit, they must have found another hiding place for their petty cash somewhere else. I could only come up with this.” Scattering the contents of some envelopes he spread out a handful of twenties, tens, fives and some ones. It came to around a hundred fifty bucks. He gave half of it to me asking; “You think we have enough to get to Spokane and back now?”

“Yah, sure… what are you going to do with the other stuff?”

I had figured Norm was going to stay in Bethany but it was apparent now what the trip was about. Norm answered; “I know of a place down by the Union Station in Portland where I can fence this stuff. It ought to pull in another couple of hundred bucks.”

I wasn’t sure what I wanted to do besides getting as far away from Norm as possible but I felt oddly committed to the whole process. It was a sort of resignation I didn’t like at all. It was as though I had no personal control over these kinds of minor incidents harboring extreme consequences. My heart was heavy with the burden of feeling it was not in my hands to make a choice in the matter. I wondered, how many times can I get by with these abdications before it catches up with me?

Early the next day we arrived in Portland, having made camp for the night in the woods next to the Sunset Highway overlooking the city. It had been drizzling all night and my boots were soaked through to my cheap thin socks from going through the woods. When we got into town Norm made straight for a pawn shop down a few blocks from the Union Station. The proprietor knew Norman and greeted him warmly… well, as warmly as a pawn shop owner can. Norm leaned in to the glass partition and spoke lowly through the grill. The owner nodded and said a few words looking over at me. 
Norm spoke louder saying, “He’s okay… he’s been traveling with me.”

I didn’t want to know what they were talking about. I knew more than I wanted to already. I went outside and waited on the curb. I watched a parade of winos and junkies pass by on the way to and from the liquor store on the corner. I began to feel a thirst and, with cash in my pocket, I figured I’d get something to eat and a pint for traveling.

There was an assortment of soggy bologna sandwiches in Saran wrap on a tray with hard boiled eggs next to the register at the liquor store. I wondered how long the sandwiches had been there but I was hungry and got one for myself anyway. I could have bought something better than the pint of Thunderbird… something like Jack Daniels, but I was drinking wine thinking it wasn’t as bad as whiskey. I hadn’t thought much about it but I’d figured I’d gone several months without drinking and had some control over it now, even though it had only been a couple of weeks since the party in the tower.

It must have been about an hour before Norman came back out from the pawn shop. He was grinning and there was a glint of light in his eyes, “Hey, I scored some China White, some cross-tops and some cocaine…” he said in hushed tones as he approached.

“You’re kidding. I didn’t know you did that shit.” I was strangely naïve when it came to drugs. I figured that pot smoking and hallucinogens were spiritual medicines but that heroine, Seconal (Reds), speed (meth tabs), and possibly cocaine, were hard drugs and entirely evil.

Norm gave me another one of those “Duh” smirks nudging me in the side, “Don’t worry, I got plenty for both of us.”

“I don’t want any of that crap…” But even as I was saying the words the idea… no, the warmth of the blood in my veins said otherwise.

“You sure, I got a couple rigs too. Hey, I rented a room from my friend above the pawn shop for the night. We can fix up… and there is a shower down the hall.” He dangled the plastic blue diamond with the hotel key in front of me.

I was going to walk away right there and then but the idea of a hot shower was more than I could resist. “Okay, but I don’t want to shoot dope with you.”

“That’s alright, more for me… tsk… tsk.” Norm was generous with his money and his drugs… it was a part of the hippy credo he hadn’t given up on yet.

Norm went up to the room but I went back to the liquor store and decided to get a pint of Jack Daniels after all. I got back up to the room, grabbed a towel and I headed for the shower. I scrubbed and stood under the nozzle for an eternity. There was only one shower in the tower of the race track back at Altamont. I did shower a few times there but found that the sulfur smell stuck and was worse than my own body odor. So, it was something special to have clean water and soap to wash off the road. I was mulling over the pros and cons of doing some heroin. I thought, “If I cook it up and snort it … that would be better than shooting it… or I can just drink and I still have a bag of pot to smoke…”

I was still wrestling with the idea when I got back to the room.

“Norm… Norm? Ah no, Norm! Shit!” Norman was knocked out on the bed, lips blue, with the rig still stuck in his arm… the cord he tied-off with was untied… still wrapped loose on his arm… he was out.

A tin with cocaine was next to his bag of H. I didn’t have time to fuss. I’d never done this before but I'd seen it once before... back at Tripler. I found the spoon that Norm had cooked up with and used it for the cocaine. I fixed it up and sucked it up through a cotton swab Norm had on the nightstand into the syringe. I tied him off and hit the vein next to where Norm had hit before and, within seconds after shooting it into the vein, Norm’s eyes opened.

It worked!

After that experience, I decided I needed some kind of reward and cooked a spoon of H for myself. I waited for it to cool down and snorted it instead of shooting up… like this made a difference. A warm glow coursed its way through my body and I no longer needed a drink. Life was good again and I could cope with the strangeness every turn life was taking on my wayward path back home.

Chapter 4. The Pillow Shack

I had to Photoshop it the way it was back then.

A more recent photo of Altamont.
The Pillow Shack is still there!

The pillow shack was a concession stand at the top of the bleachers where cushions were rented out to make the wooden benches more comfortable for the spectators at the races. It had a plywood front that opened-up above a counter and the pillows were stacked against the walls. While the others took refuge in the race track tower, Miriam and I set-up shop in the pillow shack. We threw all the pillows on the floor, making for quite a nice bed among the hundreds of them. We had tried staying in the tower but there was no privacy.

The tower had a large reception room below it, and above the bleachers, where the members of the press were entertained and mingled with the drivers after the races: after all, Altamont Speedway was a race track. The room had a refrigerator, grill and wet bar, with a stereo system along with a view of the whole track. It became a shelter for those we referred to as the Clean-up Crew: a collection of street people who spent their days with us wandering around the property looking for drugs.  Surprisingly, the month I was there, the drugs found on the grounds surrounding the track never abated. So, being called a Clean-up Crew pertained mostly to the diligence with which we went out to restore our stash from the day before.

Many of the fences, alongside and in the area, were demolished by the hordes of concert goers in the mad-rush the hours preceding the concert. The neighboring ranchers were understandably peeved, to say the least, at the damages incurred. Dick Carter, who was wise enough to know the PR advantages of holding the concert in the first place, was undermined and destroyed along with his neighbor’s fences. He volunteered the services of the Clean-up Crew to help-out wherever we could. It was because of one such attempt that the Crew was invited to dinner with one of the neighbors.

We showed up at the rancher’s house in a pick-up truck provided by Mr. Carter. Once inside the house, I was pleasantly surprised at how polite and kind that he, and his family, treated this scraggly bunch of hippies. We were seated at a long table with the patriarch at the head of the table. A leather-bound Book of Mormon and a Bible were on the sideboard next to the table. The rancher had seven kids ranging in age from about six years to seventeen. The oldest among them were two squeaky-clean girls and their brother, around sixteen or so. Under the boy’s shirt I could tell that the kid was built as well or better than anyone that could be seen at Muscle Beach. The Crew was all seated around the table between the seven siblings and their father, who sat at the head of the table.

Dan and Linda were considered our leaders. They sat on each side of the patriarch while mom served us all and sat at the other end of the table. There was roast beef and apple pie right out of Norman Rockwell. I was charmed by how polite and well-mannered the kids were but, most of all, how gentle and gracious the ole man and his wife were. He was not at all the stereotypical redneck or self-righteous Mormon I might have expected him to be.

This whole affair was orchestrated so that the rancher could explain why he could not accept Dick Carter’s offer to help with the fences. Still, he wanted to get to know the Crew… perhaps to evaluate what we could offer and to size up our character. He told us how impressed he had been when he’d seen us on TV the day after the concert and was touched by the volunteer spirit that we displayed. I felt more than a little shame that picking up trash that was secondary to finding drugs for me, and most of the others, except for Linda and Dan. Furthermore, that I had been tripping so heavily from the night before I needed to occupy myself doing something that day, anything, or go nuts. Still, I was touched by what I perceived as an attempt by the rancher to get to know his new neighbors.

Before the meal started the Rancher asked everyone to introduce themselves, going around the table clockwise. Nodding to me he asked, “Do you know the Lord’s Prayer?”

“Eh, yes… yes sir, I do…” I wanted to explain that I didn’t believe in Jesus and was certainly not Christian but I was caught off-guard by the rancher’s courteous request.

“Then, we would be honored if you would lead us in prayer.”

I felt an oddly familiar warmth as I recited the prayer. I hadn’t said that prayer out loud since I was sixteen. I felt, in the deepest part of my soul, that it no longer mattered what I believed or didn’t believe. I sat at a table where people were bound by a spirit of generosity and peace that had been missing amid of the chaos of the previous week.

The meal went very well. The hospitality offered by this straighter than straight Mormon family to this motley crew of hippies and iconoclasts of every sort, was accepted with the same grace and spirit in which it was offered.

Back at the racetrack tower awaiting us were a couple of electrical engineers and friends from Livermore who had heard of the clean-up crew. They brought up; electric heaters, hooked up strobe lights to the stereo system, food and a couple of five-gallon water bottles along with several gallons of Red Mountain wine (the tap water was unpalatable… came out the spigot black, smelling of sulfur). It was party time… several tabs of acid were put in the wine jugs and, as was the custom for some in those days, the wine jugs were passed around communally. I hadn’t had any sort of alcohol since before the acid trip on the beach in Waikiki but figured, since the sacramental acid was in the wine, it would be rude if I passed on it and accepted it as almost a religious offering. I’d also hadn’t smoked tobacco since Tripler Hospital either and, since I was drinking wine, it felt okay having a smoke also… just one… or two… mind you.

The night wore on and the sunset from the tower was as glorious as any I had seen. We had sat, drank wine, passed joints, jumped up, danced all through the night, and one by one, dropped off to curl up in sleeping bags around the electric heaters as the next evening approached.

I fell asleep dreaming of pastures and sky and visions of wide open spaces. At some point my dreaming became filled with the acrid smell of smoke. I recognized it but wanted my dreaming to go back to more the pleasant visions. The acrid smell of smoke became heavier… so heavy I tried to wake up but it was as though the weight of a smoke daemon sat on my chest… weighing me down as I struggled for each breath as much as with waking. Finally, I was able to open my eyes and register what was happening.

It was dark but I could tell somehow that the darkness was from smoke… I realized this and then started to fall back asleep a few times before the shock of it hit me. I tried shouting out… “Smoke!” but my voice constricted as though hands were at my throat…. “Fire!” … “Fire!” I crawled out of my bag… made it to a light switch… a thick, gray, acrid layer of smoke filled the room from ceiling to floor.

I made out the cause of the smoke. One of the revelers had curled up next to a space heater and his sleeping bag was smoldering. I pulled the plugs on all the heaters and shook the occupant in the bag who awoke groggily annoyed and awaking angry as I repeated over and over, “Get up! Fire! Fire! Fire!”

It was some doing to rouse everyone. I was struck by how that one sleeping bag could smolder like that without waking the guy that was in the bag. It was slightly amusing at how pissed everyone was at being awakened. Once they realized the disaster that had been averted, I was grudgingly forgiven, but no one ever ceded to me hero status because of the incident.

Miriam and I retreated from the tower back to the pillow shack afterwards. It was a cozy place on rainy days. There was no need for space heaters for us as we sank down under a sea of pillows. Miriam was a curious girl. I had a hard time figuring her age or very much more than that about her. There were times she looked to be in her early teens but her experience told me she had to be much older. She didn’t reveal much about herself in conversations that were, up to this point, minimal.

Rising up from under the pillows I looked into her dark brown eyes beneath heavy eyebrows framed by short curly golden-brown hair. Her guarded stoicism caused me to suspect she had done time of one sort or another

I asked, “Have you ever been in jail?”

“What do you mean?”

“You know, locked up… click, click … keys and bars.”

“No, why do you ask?”

“Fair question… I just sense it about you… it intrigues me. We have been in this pillow shack for some time and I know next to nothing about you.”

“How am I supposed to get a word in… All you do is talk about yourself… eh?” she tickled me under my ribs and laughed but something about her laugh was heavy … not bitter … sort of sad, I thought.

“Yah… well… you’re right. I do talk about myself but I am curious about you now.”

“A cat… you are a curious cat… hey, cat in the hat… What you wanna know about me?” She plopped a pillow on my head for a hat and laughed from her heart.

“Well… were you?”

“In jail? No.”

“In prison?”

“No.” She scrunched up her face and made her eyes cross under her thick lenses… “But I have been in a nut house.”

“How did that happen?”

“My dad committed me… Napa State.”

“Horrible… How? … Your dad? … What for? … Why?”

“It is a long story but it wasn’t so bad. I needed it and, yes, sometimes I miss it.”

“Really? I don’t get it.”

“I found God there…”

“Oh no… I didn’t mind you being a nut… a macadamia, a cashew, a walnut, f’chrissakes, but not a religious nut.”

“Oh yes, I am a holy rollin’ religious nut… what you gonna do about it… convert me to hedonistic despair?”

“So, you believe in God. No big deal. I believe sort of… not in a sky-bound Grandfather holding a good cloud for me when I die… but maybe… why not?”

“It isn’t idle speculation for me. I would still be locked up if it weren’t for God.”

“How did that happen?”

“They had me so fucked up on Thorazine… You ever see one of those Russian Dolls… One doll inside the other… on down to the tiniest they can go?”

“Yah…”

“Well I was down to that with a shell over a shell over a shell and I couldn’t get out. They kept me on that damned Thorazine … I could hardly move.”

I hadn’t heard her talk this passionately about anything. Still, I couldn’t let her off that easily… “How did God get you out of there?”

She crossed her eyes again and scrunched up her face, “One day He just walked in the door and handed me the keys, Max.”

I stepped out the door to the shack watching “the kid”, Norman, coming towards the shack.

Norman was no more than sixteen and looked it with his unkempt shoulder length blondish hair framed an almost angelic face. Later, I would appreciate Norman’s street smarts and, while I was older and could have been a mentor for the kid, it was obvious to me to determine who was mentoring whom.

“Hey Max, I’m going to Portland in the morning… you and Miriam wanna go with me?”

“How are you getting there?”

Norm held up his thumb and smirked a, “Duh!” gesture.

I glanced at Miriam… she smiled at Norm and saying “No, I’d rather stay here a few more weeks with the gang… Big Mama and Linda need some female energy around this place.”

It was true. Popular media often promotes the impression that the sixties were about free love and free love meant one big orgy. Perhaps this was the case on college campuses but the usual situation for street people was that the streets were populated mostly by young males… convicts, draft dodgers, and runaways from middle class suburban homes or mental institutions. Young women were generally not out there hitch-hiking around the country. In discussing the phenomena Miriam pointed out, “Men don’t have to find a place every month to do something about panhandling up a box of Tampons. Men aren’t the ones who get knocked up and have kids that need to be tended to.”

“Oh, hadn’t thought of that.”

The clean-up crew consisted of a dozen young men and three women. I found it peculiar that there was always a woman in any hippy group referred to as “Big Mama”. In this case Big Mama wasn’t all that big but she was very maternal and she helped make sure that there was always at least a pot of beans or spuds on the stove. Big Mama was also gay and so none of the young males were getting any action from her. Dan had Linda and I had Mariam… the rest had to pound one out or forget about sex entirely.

I wasn’t ever very sure exactly how this counter-culture deal went down for sexual relations. My observations did not agree with anything that was put out there by the media… alternative or mainstream. The impression I got from afar, when I was overseas, was that everyone States-side was hopping around like crazy sex-bunnies but I simply had not seen any of that sort of thing happening very much at all. On the surface, I didn’t want to be possessive of Miriam and take on the traditional role of a monogamous relationship but, in my heart, I wasn’t so sure I could cope with it if Miriam wasn’t my girl… my girl exclusively. Still, I tried to be open to her making her own choices and, hell, I’d only known her a few weeks anyway.