1969 and Then Some

by Robert Wintner

  What could I say, yes? I thought of asking her if she had any idea what her luscious curvature meant to a young male with raging hormones. But I knew she knew. I could have shared the Moody Blues paradox, that thinking is the best way to travel, but most people would rather take the bus. But witticism seemed the better part of not getting any.

  And what would the point be? Having learned my lesson on what women really want, I puckered up and leaned halfway in—too fast in closing the gap, maybe, but never mind; she made up her half the distance, and we stood in starlight smooching sweetly on the campground in Pamplona. It was easy, so thorough in its relief—not as thorough as it could be, but still, the gates opened. I reached up to squeeze a melon, because I knew that a woman would appreciate some foreplay before we found some relatively level ground on which to join the sexual revolution.

  She shuddered. She swatted me away, stepping back and asking the ultimate stupid question, “What are you doing?”

  “What do you mean, what am I doing?”

  “You touched my breast.”

  “Well. Yeah. I can’t really, you know, feel you . . . up. If I don’t . . . touch . . . your breast.”

  It was like a different kind of joke, a bad one, hardly funny if you have to explain the punch line.

  “I don’t appreciate that at all.”

  “Sorry.”

  “Don’t worry about it.” And that was that; another hundred yards of small talk, over and out, giving me a long night ahead to ponder what I’d learned or hadn’t learned or might never learn or maybe should seek special tutoring to learn . . .

  Never mind; the sun rose on a day that will bring Americans together from here to eternity. Well, that might be a stretch, but it was July fucking fourth, motherfucker, and we were feeling headstrong on a binge of kief and wine for four days straight—make that five. Wait a minute . . . Like magic, or maybe it was only collective addiction, the pipes came out and fired up in the dawn’s early light. No matter how old you get to be or how young you were, no time shines like first light on a day of reckoning. Primed for the rocket’s red glare, a day of days shaped up as an event, a happening, a . . . a . . .

  Out of the hubbub a skinny hippy with all the trimmings pulled a four by eight American flag from his pack—the size of a sheet of plywood. The guy was not original but was uniquely complete, a page out of ZAP Comix with long hair, a hand-embroidered headband highlighting the psychedelic spectrum, tie-die guinea T, beads, embroidered patches covering holes, fringe, ribbons, fruit boots and bell-bottom jeans. Running on retreads he showed one-owner confidence. The flag was in deluxe deep hues with gold fringe. A felled sapling made a flagstaff that got lashed to a motorcycle—my motorcycle. Digger or Dirt or Sisyphus or whatever the skinny guy’s name was sat on back, backwards to hold the flagstaff and orchestrate the parade and tell me what was up. Everyone agreed it would be perfect with fifteen motorcycles in the campground lining up two by two with me and Skinny up front. “It’s one of my specialties, man.”

  “What’s that?”

  “Fuckin’ orchestration, man. I’m really good.”

  Well, you got to love a parade, even one that sets you up in the crosshairs of the Guardia Seville. We cruised into Pamplona honking horns and revving engines. Skinny played the flagstaff like a fishing rod, heaving back to reel in the slack and really make the fabric billow dramatically. The local folk lounged on their balconies and terraces, gearing up for the Festival of San Fermin—they knew who we were and what day it was—and they cheered! It was a day of love for America and everyone, for Nixon and Franco and us, the ragtag revolutionaries who declined the jungle war and demanded its end, the anarchists who would rather get drunk and stoned than get a job or take a bath. Most of those we passed cheered for our side. Anyone could see what was going down.

  Oh, Buffalo Springfield sang and we believed, and so the Spaniards sensed our commitment and sincerity. In cross-cultural communion we cruised the antiquated homes of Pamplona celebrating independence and freedom with the families who lived there, who cheered us in the universal language, and love was all around us. Something changed on that resonant reverberation, as two peoples, two cultures, two spirits conjoined in happiness and goodwill, until things changed, as anything good or bad will change.

  Then came the Guardia Seville, who felt like a man with a gun over there many times over—like the Republican Party, even then. They chased us—I shitchu not—which was perhaps the challenge we both feared and fantasized. What could they do? Catch us?

  Well, yes, they could catch anyone on a motorcycle with a backwards hippy on back holding onto a flag as big a quilt lashed to a small tree. Quicker witted in the survival realm than I was in romance, I had two or three turns before the jig would be up, so I took a narrow street into a narrow alley and told Skinny to get off.

  Naturally, he resisted, pleading that I could not just leave him there, assuring me that it would not be cool, no way, man, no fucking way. I kicked out the side stand, pulled my knife and cut the bindings between the tree and the motorcycle and the tree and the flag and told him to hang on, which he gladly did, ditching the tree and stuffing as much of the flag as would fit under his shirt.

  We hightailed it around the back way with Skinny facing front, calling directions. I followed his directions, knowing he could be no worse than me at navigating. Sure enough, we popped from the density onto a familiar road and made the campground in minutes. The others drifted in over the next hour, and another day of jubilation officially began with another adventure notched—a patriotic one. So fire the fucking pipes and man the wine bottles. Oh, say, can you see?

  That afternoon the motorcycle campers had to move. The last toilet had clogged and backed. The showers were cut off. All bathing was constricted to the creek, and the creek was getting funky to a hundred yards down. The only part of camp life not deteriorating was John and Jane, who seemed like a settled couple so intimately joined that a glance told the tale. They looked calm and content as old married folk with one big difference: riding the wild rooster nightly with abandon, at first light to help them start a brand new day and casually in mid-afternoon to sustain their humility and gratitude. It was like they’d met only days ago.

  The next two days blurred on toxic sludge and sunburn, sweat and dust and victory fatigue. The night of the sixth shaped up as a barnburner—or a brain burner. All those decades ago we were still a decade or two prior to the massive death of nature worldwide. Yet even then we saw symptoms of the end. I suspected that nobody in a half-mile radius had actually read The Sun Also Rises, in which a sadly wounded war veteran seeks redemption in Pamplona. But most of the campers had heard something about the book, like Ernest Hemingway wrote it, and it was cool. The end. The night before the running of the bulls was a debauchery, a binge-drunk by thousands of people clamoring madly to be something other than themselves. The festival had been debauched by then, and it’s way more fucked now, nothing at all like the festival of the soul it once was. Maybe the Fiesta de San Fermin was destined to degrade, given the abuse of the bulls and the spread of humanity.

  By sunrise on the seventh, I felt shot at and missed and shit at and hit. Up by six to get ready for the big doings in town, we could only get up, walk a few paces and take a whiz. No showers. No coffee. No breakfast—no worries, because nobody was ready for solid food anyway. We had nothing to do, really, but throw a leg over and ride the few miles into town and park and shuffle down to where we could watch.

  Run?

  No way. We could barely walk. I frankly felt part and parcel of the death of nature and culture even then and couldn’t have given a flat flying fuck about running anywhere, much less down the middle of a street chased by a gang of abused bulls who knew they had nothing to lose.

  So we jockeyed for a vantage and finally found a space that for some reason the crowd avoided. Oh, wait, that line painted right there on the street is the runner’s line. We needed to be on the outside. But no sooner did I step
back outside the line than a fascist billy club came down on my shoulder. The Guardia Seville yelled that nobody crossed back out. Maybe they recognized me. I shook my head. They shook their clubs, itching to brain me. I didn’t think I’d puke for another few minutes but really couldn’t lift my shoes from the sorry ass shuffle of the downtrodden. So I shuffled down the street, thinking I’d go ahead and shuffle into the arena before the bulls were released. After all, it was still two minutes to seven.

  But someone shrieked in another universal language, and it was on. Bulls weren’t actually necessary for the few ounces of adrenaline squirting into the heart. A few Spaniards in traditional white pants and shirts with red neckerchiefs ran past at full speed and jumpstarted me to the coronary redline on the very next beat. A quick glance back at the thundering tonnage of hooves confirmed the onslaught. Death was imminent. Way too big to dodge or duck under, the trampling wave pounded things senseless.

  The first few bulls were fast, much faster than me, so I took a lead from a Spaniard and found a doorway to duck into. It allowed only a foot or so of recess, but that seemed better than sticking out from the wall. Many bulls remained, so I ran with the crowd toward the tunnel. The tunnel was mayhem if you got caught in there with the bulls. I slowed, glanced back and then downshifted for a balls-out sprint through the darkness that kept stretching, stretching, even as the turf pounded closer from the rear. Life would end in a pounding—but then shooting into daylight I ran for the perimeter of the arena, where fans cheered and beckoned me to run faster.

  Andale! They urged with gaining urgency. Pop eyes and sweat-beaded faces reflected the reaper one step back.

  With a hot snort on my neck I thrust both arms up just at the wall. In a blink the hands of God grasped my forearms and sprung me up and over to safety. Eager fans patted my back and head briefly then returned to the fray and another runner to save. Here too was rare evidence in the case for humanity. I loved them in a dazed hangover, panting and feeling existence just over the line.

  Well, it was a beautiful time of survival, all things considered, but Pamplona felt ready for an exit, what with the shit and toilet paper running downhill and the binge going way past the limits of a binge. Somewhere else seemed in order. Anywhere would do. The loosely spoken plan was for John and me to ride along with Jane and Rianne. Chas and Billy would ride in the van too, since they’d hitchhiked to Pamplona anyway, and Billy was still banging Rianne, though she’d cut him back to once daily, or maybe twice if it was a long day. I went along with the plan, grateful for friends who seemed to know the road and California, our spiritual base and the original Mecca of Revolution and Freedom.

  Everyone was done with Pamplona after a week of watching the campground become a disaster area—like Earth in time-lapse. We would leave the following morning and gladly forego six more days of bull running because, frankly, we’d been there, done that. And by leaving early, we could beat the rush.

  But another disaster occurred that changed everything. Near the summit of a sundown sexual interlude—a favorite time for John and Jane; the light was so soft, the campground so peaceful at that hour with everyone prepping dinner on their fires, and a nice fuck relaxed them so well—Jane found out or John let slip, that he was nineteen.

  Jane was twenty-two.

  It was over. She’d bargained on a man, not a kid on summer break. Not a . . . a . . . a fucking teenager! Fuck! Man! Packed and gone in mere minutes flat between dusk and dark, she gave him what for with a drop dead, motherfucker on the way out. She hit another wall besides the bingeing and the shit-smell walls and the crowded, dirty, nasty walls. Jane got clogged like the clogged up baño and had no choice but to overflow. Now where the fuck is that? At.

  Beans and wine for dinner? Again? Just like that, Jane and Rianne were gone. So were Chas and Billy, and in spite of the difficulty before us, the outflow relieved many things that felt clogged. It would have been nice riding along with a van, but convenience seemed similar to baggage. For starters, Chas and Billy wouldn’t shut up. Billy rambled over the incredible, amazing, unbelievably best fuck in his whole, entire life. “I’m dead motherfucking serious, man. Her pussy smells like gumdrops, or lightning oughta strike me fucking dead! Lemme tell you what she likes . . .” This, with Rianne paces away, as if brothers and sisters were meant to share natural truths naturally. It wasn’t natural. In those first awkward phases of realizing that we were not in fact brothers and sisters, it was harsh.

  Rianne and I blushed through those interludes. I wanted to comfort her but could not. Then she was gone.

  John and I had a bowl of kief like men coming to terms with a milestone in life, looking ahead to what men must do. We would cross the Pyrenees into Andorra, a good ride for the morning, then head down to the coast and follow the coast road toward Monaco. We wanted to see the Riviera and the topless women there. I felt experienced and wanted to engage one in conversation. Then we’d head into Italy for what could well be a whole new phase of fun.

  As our planning reverie finished, the nurse from Canada walked over to ask for a minute, please. I sensed a scolding for feeling her tit last night—or was it night before last? But she got me aside to say she’d been thinking, you know, and wanted to come along, you know, on back and be my, you know, date—not date, really, but you know, kind of a travel companion, you know . . .

  I didn’t know but heard the offer to ride both on and off the motorcycle. Her rack and glow and pretty face were compelling, but along with blowing sure shots on two beauties that week, I’d blown my reason and patience, too. I said, “No. I need to ride alone now.”

  She hung her head to murmur, “I understand.” I’m not sure what she understood. Maybe she thought she shouldn’t have complained about a tit squeeze. Maybe she sensed a rare chance to hang out with a free spirit on a motorcycle. Maybe she was twenty-five already, or twenty-eight. I wonder where she went. On a few common coordinates she was willing to ride on back across Europe, because we were young and could resolve the hormonal challenge of the times we lived in.

  I walked toward the motorcycle bivouac through the disheveled, half-struck campground and campers cooking last meals before departure to fresher places. From the thick of it I turned to see her walking away among the campfires. Should I go get her? Is fate so fickle on a moment’s indecision? I took a step in her direction—what the hell. When you got nothing you got . . . But from the dwindling motorcycle line-up near the fence came another chaos.

  “Fuck!” John vented over love lost and more: Jane had split with his passport. Fuming and pacing he figured we could catch them if we left now, because failure would leave us stuck.

  He wasn’t worried about Andorra, because it’s a principality, not a country, no need for passports there, and we could enter Monaco the same way. But Italy’s border would be the end of the road with no passport. But shit, we had the Pyrenees Mountains and the entire south coast of France to catch them, which was good. And bad. Fuck. Who needs a mountain pass at midnight? Fuck that.

  So we stoked another bowl and popped the last of the vino to ease into a night of reckoning and steel us for long, winding miles at breakneck speed.

  What the fuck?

  I thought about seeing if the nurse from Canada wanted to, you know, hang out for a while, to further examine prospects for traveling together, but the dope and potential rejection on a test grind, I mean a little quiet time together, undermined motivation, or rather burned it down to embers and ashes.

  I drifted to dreamland on compound regret; events of the week had led to insight on the romance/love/sexual situation relating to women. Things were not yet clear, but a little light shone. That is, the Golden Fleece must not be pursued or resisted but sincerely observed. She would indicate what to do and when. Marisol and Rianne had shown the threshold, and I’d failed to carry them over. Unless I was wrong, and they too would have stopped cold on assault with attempt to grope. Unless, maybe . . .

  At daybreak John cooked cowboy coffe
e on a camp stove, ready to go. Other campers were waking to the noise of campers leaving. The American contingent had shot its wad in the build-up; no way did this crowd want another six days. It was black coffee and a pipe for John and me. He passed a wine bottle. I declined—a growth moment. We mounted up on sparse talk and rolled across the campground berms ready to ride but fearing indefinite ignorance on the ways of women and their illogical wants for many miles. The Canada nurse would likely pull an Oregon on the next male encountered, if he could show a pulse, keep his mouth shut and do as instructed, whether she instructed it or not. Damn.

  I glanced over the hillock where she would be waking up. She’s sixty-five or seventy now with a nursing career behind her and many grateful recipients of her care. Does she remember the randy thin boy who got away in Pamplona? More aware than most of what was upon us, she called it the times we live in and the world around us and the wonderful adventure ahead. Simply stating the obvious truth, she recognized the joy we shared. She’d called the night beautiful and affirmed our youth and life.

  Simon & Garfunkel sang of Old Friends with a perfect ballad for melancholy moments back then and forever more, its innocence and confidences flickering softly as candlelight at the shrine of the love all around us.

  More reflective lyrics never were, but John made the pavement and throttled with a vengeance, leaving no choice but a power twist to follow suit. Then again, we strove for the nitty-gritty, for getting down and getting it on. Paring fat, ditching baggage, down to two guys on motorcycles felt free and easy as open road. And leaving a place never felt better. What a dump—we made it that way, with the drinking and doping, the sexual howls of youth rutting like dogs and none for me, the overworked, graying, sudsy creek, the grassy campground reduced to tread marks in mud, the clogged toilets and overflowing sewage taking us to the more, more, more of the times and a vaguely familiar excess. Oh, it was all too much all right, and there we were, hell bent for more, just up the road.