1969 and Then Some

by Robert Wintner

  “It’s not like you have to go,” I said.

  She laughed short with resignation. “But I do,” she said, pegging suburban coordinates one more time.

  The two guys in front also hailed from the east coast and said they too had recently graduated in the Bahstin area. Small world, but Harvard was not what it used to be and, frankly, they were ready for some action before hunkering down on legal careers. The Harvard degree could not guarantee the presidency of the United States of America or the Supreme Court for that matter, but, really, you had to respect the stats and be ready.

  Stick thin and tall with impressive posture, Susan Bromberg did not slump to better meet her peers. Apparently sheltered, she had keener instincts than the average princess. Surely Daddy would have fixed the frizzy brown hair and arched nose, as surely she resisted. With such good manners, she was easy to like. She eyed me back and blushed, pretty in her way, but no, I did not want to be an item with her. I admired her womanly attributes, as hormonally crazed young males have done since forever. But prospects for intimacy with Susan Bromberg seemed distant, objective and impersonal.

  “So we’re cool, sharing the gas three ways?” The dude riding shotgun turned and squared his torso to better pose the question. Susan deferred to my apparent seasoning on such a rude opener. Ivy League University graduates may have required elaboration on an attempted ass fucking, but those of us from the State U did not. Susan had already agreed on the phone to share gas expense three ways. And surely I’d counted to three the moment I got in, after agreeing to share. “Besides, gasoline expense wouldn’t begin to cover wear and tear. Tires. Oil change. Grease. Lube. Battery. U-joints. Points. Plugs. Condenser . . . windshield wipers . . .” The guy already sounded like a candidate.

  “Sharing is cool,” I said.

  “Great. Okay, we were planning on LA, but we have to get back. But we do want to see Taos. So we can take you that far if you share the gas. Okay?”

  Susan shrugged, wondering instantly if this would play out as us against them. They seemed unusual to say the least, removed from the spirit of the day. I said, “Sure. We can use my credit card. In fact, I’d just as soon use it for all the gas and you can pay me back.” Six eyebrows rose. So I pulled the credit card all the way out of my shirt pocket. The shotgun dude said, “You want to put the gas on your credit card, and we pay you in cash?”

  “Yeah. Why not? My fucked up, downed out father pays the tab. So why not?” A personality defect had come to the surface; I’d matched their division by three with a sleight of hand and pre-empted follow-up with another great offer. “Tell you what: you guys just pay me a fourth. What the fuck. Dad’s a rich fucker. Know what I mean?” Oh, they knew, so they went along, shifting in their seats, seeking comfort on the advantage just gained. Was it the fair advantage they chronically anticipated? Susan looked me in the eyes, making me feel immoral, until she cracked a fractional smile.

  The crux for some was revolutionary behavior short of crime that could result in conviction. I felt beyond, pondering flight from the country.

  We camped that night in the full flavor of the times—in a clearing off the secondary road to Taos, around a campfire with sandwiches, chips and sodas. It was peace now, right on, fuck the pigs and down with the establishment at the expense of a combo gas station/grocery store. Everything went on the card, gas, groceries, some stretchy seat covers, a couple quarts of oil, some windshield juice and fuck it, throw in some that fruit juice too, and a deluxe snow scraper, because you never know—oh, and some new wipers while we were at it. Why not? I assured the Volvo boys that the crusty old fucker wouldn’t feel it anymore than a princess might feel a dildo under her mattress. They didn’t get it but chuckled on cue and agreed that a seventy-five percent discount didn’t come along every day.

  Giddy with victory, the Hahvahd boys scanned for what else might be granted as the attendant walked around back to write the license number on the voucher. I thought the jig was up. But the boys chortled, like the car was hot or they’d actually graduated from Beantown JC with a major in drama. Or maybe Dad was so connected that credit card fraud would be a trifle. They talked of tires, an oil change and a battery.

  I could not imagine anyone so inured to common sense—what we at the State U called stupid. With a tinge of guilt I wanted to suggest a good story for when the credit card company came calling for payment. But the campfire blazed with future prospects. The gifted young men fairly crooned over career potential and political contacts. Names dropped with the dew as I yawned my way to horizontal. Susan stretched out beside me. At some point she nestled in for warmth. We woke at dawn, startled in our snuggle. I assured her it was cool. She sat up, perhaps prodded to do so. She ignored me admirably and softly suggested that, in her opinion, we would be better off hitchhiking rather than traveling with the Volvo boys. I asked what she thought was wrong with them. She looked me in the eyes again. She shrugged.

  Two hours later we rolled into Taos and another service station. I told the boys that Susan and I would say goodbye, because we’d decided to stay in Taos for a while. They nodded and turned away, then turned back to ask if the credit card might be for sale. Karmic consequence seemed balanced, and one of them flashed two twenties—they wanted to rack up a road trip on my father’s credit card in exchange for forty dollars. Their worldly way made the answer easy. “Why the fuck not?” I felt like a courier getting paid. Old Dad died ten years earlier, which somehow seemed right.

  We watched them head out, flush with greater potential, highballing into a dazzling future. Susan and I hoofed a mile or two the other way toward a village. Hiking down that solitary road, I asked if she felt better. She said, “Yes.” The bond between us was silent and tangible. In a minute she said, “I’m around those guys all year. I didn’t come this far for more of the same. Besides . . .”

  In another while I asked, “Besides what?”

  Togetherness sometimes happened. Sometimes it flowed. Susan was easy, deferential on some things, taking charge on others. She knew where to make camp, what to buy and who to trust, applying her smarts to the road like a veteran.

  We hiked to the truck stop in the village where the word was that “we” were camping by the springs another two miles out, and so we went and sure enough. Another blessing of the road was discovering “us” in another homecoming of brothers and sisters. One of us at the springs was extra dirty and tough, with his hair pulled back and woven into pigtails bound by a headband with two feathers out the top in back. His hair wasn’t simply naturally dirty; it looked like he’d poured dirt on it. Some beads and dangles off his leather vest in front did not make him look like Willie Nelson.

  Mental and dark; assessment took a fraction of the usual moment required. Snake Who Runs drove a new Buick Electra 225 convertible with the top down. Some of us were familiar with the Electra deuce ‘n a quarter because of establishment-based parents, or we had friends with affluent parents. This guy seemed way outside that realm, but he seemed sincere in saying, “Hey, come on. Throw your stuff in back. I need help with the groceries.” He spoke directly to me. Susan took the groceries we’d bought at the truck stop. She would find us a spot and get us settled. The simple act of keeping my rucksack with me reflected the vagaries of the day.

  I wanted to stay by the springs, where many young females soaked naked. Why would I want to go help with the groceries with such groceries at hand? Besides, Susan was looking better, and I knew she wanted to peel and soak. But the code of the times called for pitching in for the greater good, and when Snake Who Runs jumped over the passenger door and walked across the front seat in his muddy Dingos, I felt his urgency. I felt foolish opening the door and getting in, but a few home habits hung on.

  We hightailed it across the plains lickety split, thumpety thump, fuck a bunch o’ roads ’n shit. I wanted to say something, like this seemed an odd place for a grocery store, or this must be the shortcut, or I love Mom ‘n Pops that are way out of the way, but I wasn�
��t that dumb by nature and hadn’t graduated Ivy League. I knew Snake Who Runs had something in mind, like groceries without the grocer or the store, and I was afraid I knew what it was. Bouncing like a jumping bean and holding on with both hands, I would’ve had to yell anyway. Besides that, Snake Who Runs yelled first, “I love this car! Picked her up in Denver! I’d never buy one, though. Fucking piece o’ shit! It’s gonna fall apart before you know it! Just you watch!”

  We’d been pounding sagebrush and tumbleweed at forty to fifty mph along the base of a steep hillside and deep arroyo when Snake Who Runs hung a right hard enough to peel the tires off the rims. The tires stayed on, and when I glanced over, I thought I saw him nod in admiration, till he winced when we pulled a hit and run on an old saguaro, her arms raised in futile surrender against the onslaught, who was us. I braced both hands against the cushy dashboard briefly for the crash and splatter. The impact nailed me to the cushy seatback, and I glanced to see the Snake man grimacing in sheer gratification. We sure as fuck wouldn’t take no shit from no fucking cactus. And uphill we roared, spewing contrails of dust and debris, our hood hardly dented and not too schmutzed and lumpy with blood and gore from the old saguaro’s innards.

  We slowed to cruising speed about halfway up, but I soon realized it was more stalking speed, till we turned left to run parallel with the tree line below some grazing cattle who stopped grazing and looked up with grave concern that was well founded.

  Cattle here and there vocalized, “Mmmuuhh!”

  Snake Who Runs eased us in as close as he dared before jamming the shifter into park and leaning over my way to reach under the seat for a handgun, a big sumbitch. I didn’t think he was queer and going for my crotch, and when he bolted back out and pointed his gun at my head I didn’t think he actually aimed to shoot me. But he would have shot me had I not ducked under.

  Two shots slammed overhead, and I sat up to see a big steer felled just uphill as the others loped away. Snake Who Runs was up and out, jumping over me and drawing his fifteen-inch, calf-strapped Bowie knife on the way. Like a seasoned field butcher he sliced out about a forty-pound section, say three feet by five feet, maybe two inches thick, with practiced long strokes of the razor-sharp blade. Hoisting the meat slab clear of the carcass he lugged it on short steps huffing and puffing to the car, where he flung it into the back seat.

  It clashed. Blood red on chiffon lime? Come on.

  “Top sirloin, man. We eat good.”

  “What about the rest of it?”

  “Fuckin’ wolves ‘n coyotes. They gotta eat too, don’t they? Fuck, boy. I gotta tell you everything? Hell, they oughta eat good ever once ‘n a while just like us. Don’t you think?” He pulled a t-shirt out of my pack to wipe the blood off his arms, adding with a short laugh, “Snakes too.” He wadded my shirt and pitched it in back on top of the meat. “Don’t you worry. That shit’ll wash out.”

  I didn’t complain.

  Then it was back to the springs and just in time, because the local contingent of itinerant workers had arrived for the show of naked hippie chicks up at the springs. The workers had gathered round a few tailgates to drink beer and wait for the emergence of fresh-soaked naked women right there free for the ogling and who knew what else. These were hippie chicks after all, and everyone knew they liked some hot tamale in their taco. The naked females had remained submerged till help arrived, which was us—or was Snake Who Runs at any rate.

  We pulled up and were almost stopped when he sprang from the car much like Jack comes out of the box, except that Snake Who Runs jammed the brakes and crunched the deuce ‘n a quarter into park before leaping out, flashing his giant, gleaming blade. Was it a warning? Not really, except for the capacity presented by a rough and tumble, dirty, shirtless man ornamented like an Indian and splattered with blood as he waved a knife bigger than most forearms. Leaning over the back seat he stabbed the meat with sincerity, like it wasn’t yet dead, then hoisted it on the knife up and out and onto the trunk.

  The itinerants murmured and rustled about, but Snake Who Runs sliced off a few square feet of top sirloin and offered it up as a most amazing and unexpected steak dinner—“Yeah, motherfuckers. I’m talking top sirloin! On me, motherfuckers!” So the peace offering was made. A few stray threads and foam core of Buick Electra 225 upholstery and some chiffon lime paint flecks looked like meaningful garnish. Make no mistake; the meat offering did not reflect the love all around us but rather proved the power to the people. That meat was not meant to signal the green light on our women. The clear and simple message was that every man among us understood the sweetness and danger of fresh pussy, and we could all eat steak and enjoy a lovely fucking evening, or you’re gonna die, motherfucker. Comprendez? The itinerants accepted the dripping, congealing, fly-swarming slab on short nods and murmurs of Gracias, Señor.

  Snake Who Runs could have been in politics too, running against the Volvo boys. His verbal skills weren’t articulate, much less loquacious, but neither are most congresspersons and senators. And the Snake man could have spiced up CSPAN with his diplomatic skills. He seemed insane and well intentioned, so maybe it could have worked out.

  I don’t know how many of our women wanted to give themselves to Snake Who Runs that night, but it was a few, till he grunted one last time and then snored. Susan had wisely bivouacked on the periphery, away from the main fire. I found her there drying her hair, having changed into clean shorts and a blue shirt with no bra, an enticement framed in personal comfort. Looking back it frames as opportunity lost. She saw me staring and said she didn’t eat meat. She unpacked an impressive little camp stove along with a mess kit and a bag of brown rice. She cooked a cup of brown rice, and I had a square foot of sirloin to keep the peace. We talked of where we’d been and what we’d seen. She said she didn’t feel any too sure about that snake guy. I told her everything was cool, but yeah, we’d best keep an eye out. She made no bones about curling up next to me, though I slept sitting up till first light, when Boy Who Leaves Early woke his travel companion who gathered her kit quick and quiet. We strolled up to the main road to sling a thumb east, back toward the interstate.

  Susan and I parted ways in LA after three days on the road camping one more night behind another service station. Dirt and fatigue cancelled curiosities, and she said thanks, getting into a cab to a friend’s place just off the interstate. I suspected her friend was female and felt slighted when she didn’t invite me to stop in, clean up and relax, so I didn’t ask for her phone number or invite her down to my friend’s place in Venice Beach. She wanted to check out the University psychology department, which sounded chronic, but I didn’t press. What was to check out in a psychology department? I hitched on out to Venice thinking I could find her later if I wanted to, and I went over to UCLA a few days later to look around, just for a goof. I couldn’t find her, no loss, except for the bang that likely wouldn’t have happened anyway. And then came the worry that maybe she expected me to invite her down to Venice, because Venice was hip elite, and she didn’t want to seem pushy. That loss could have occurred in any decade, yet a reunion with Susan would be more than friends remembering; the context was so great.

  Gary Cooper and I were pen pals by then. He’d sent three checks for fifty bucks each and said he ought to have the rest by the time I got there. He didn’t, but he had a Kawasaki 350 he was trying to sell for two bills, a fair deal that could pay me off and make me road flush. Meanwhile, I could crash at his place and hang at the beach and check out the crazy scene there or cruise on his Cow. I toured town one day, amazed that anyone would ever buy a two-stroke scooter and a 350 at that, with the smoke screen and all that wing a ding ding ding ding . . . ding ding ding. But it was great to have two wheels below and great to cruise some new tundra, even urban tundra—it was Venice Beach in 1970 after all. I pulled in to gas up and a guy working at the station said he’d been looking for a 350 to restore. Had I given any thought to selling it?

  Restore a Kawasaki 350? Why? Was I missi
ng something?

  I didn’t ask, but in another synchronous cohesion I said yes and cheap, only two fifty. He took his lunch break to ride back to Gary’s, and the deal was done. Gary and I split the extra fifty bucks to seal our friendship. I never saw him again, but he still stands tall.

  Hanging out at the beach a few days more was easy, ogling the sex kittens with the huge racks, watching the muscle guys pump up and stare at their arms, roller skating, playing in the waves. It got old, and a major topic was rampant theft to feed the heroin habit creeping into the neighborhood. It did not feel fresh or free but more of a mutation. It felt like time to move on, a recurring theme of those days. Time to restore the soul at the Mecca of our freedom.

  On the road to San Francisco with my thumb curled north and my pocket thumping with cash, I figured life might well stay sweet till old age. I’d be rich and famous by then and could deal with challenges more easily. Why not?

  I thought about friendships and counted those solid enough to count on for a day or two of shelter, so if I wanted to stay on the road, hitchhiking cross country and back and around I’d have a place every few hundred miles or every night, whichever came first. I still think about Susan and would have called her a few times over the decades.

  Traveling indefinitely only seemed like a viable concept the first few days out. It could get old directly, but most things do, and the biggest challenge seemed to be in keeping things fresh and lively—and happy, in spite of the topsy-turvy world crying out for equilibrium. Call me old fashioned; I could stand on an on-ramp and watch a hundred cars whiz by with no chance of getting a ride to San Francisco, because unity got so diluted in your urban centers, especially LA, where everybody was in such a hurry to begin with. And I didn’t care.