The Orange Blossom Express

by Marlena Evangeline

  Betty Swackhammer nervously put the brisket of pot roast on the dining room table while her son showered. Her husband didn’t get home from work until much later, and often he stopped for several drinks before that, so she didn’t expect him soon. There would be no way for him to know she’d taken time off work. She simply wouldn’t tell him. What else could she do, she thought. It had been months since Jackson had been home. And a mother always wants to see her son even when the father might not. The smell of alcohol on her son’s breath so early in the morning was no surprise, nor did she consider it unusual; the smell of whiskey was common in her house. What made her nervous was the thought of the father and son together. Their relationship hadn’t been good for years, but, lately, Jerry Lee had grown bitter about his son. In fact, Jerry Lee boasted, often, that he’d disowned the boy, and that the boy was a no good, draft-dodging, long-haired hippie. The small dark-haired woman took a plate out of the cupboard and set a place for her son, and then decided to put the roast back in the oven to warm. She was glad the boy had cut his hair and was clean shaven. That would make the visit easier for them all. After taking a bag of Nestle’s chocolate chips out of the cupboard, she measured out three-quarters of a cup of brown sugar, and then the same amount of granulated white, putting them both in a plastic bowl and stirring the sugars slightly with a fork. She checked the pot roast and turned down the oven before rinsing the grounds out of the metal basket of the electric percolator. Then she filled it with three scoops of Maxwell House coffee, put fresh water in the pot and plugged it in. Betty wiped the Formica counter before cutting a cup of Crisco into the sugar.

  By the time Jackson came out of his old room for lunch, his mother had put the first batch of cookies in the oven. She pulled the pot roast out of the oven and dished his plate, asking about his health, his friends, his plans. Jackson complained about the dry pot roast and thought the gravy was too salty. He talked as he ate, answering her questions and talking about Costa Rica. He told his mother that he had been there to import blouses, but that the manufacturer had gone out of business and he’d lost a ton of money. Boy he said, just his luck, wouldn’t you say, ma. He laughed.

  The Swackhammer luck. He shook his head, then asked why she wore pink; he’d always told her it wasn’t a good color on her. She smoothed over her polyester flowered blouse with her hands and ran her hand delicately around the collar before scurrying to the kitchen to take the cookies out of the oven. She scooped another batch of dough onto the cookie sheet with a teaspoon and brought a plate of warm cookies to the table along with a glass of milk. Jackson used a warm cookie to scoop the peas on his fork, and told his mother how he’d made another contact while he was down there that was better anyway. Of course, he needed more money to get started. But wasn’t it lucky, he said, adding that the cookies were great.

  Just by coincidence he’d run into even better people to deal with. What luck the Swackhammers have, eh ma, he laughed. Betty sipped on a cup of coffee, preferring, now, not to dwell on the Swackhammers’ luck. She’d been Swackhammer-lucky for twenty-five years, and saw nothing funny about it. Betty took the dirty plates into the kitchen and left her son with the plate of chocolate chip cookies.

  After lunch, Jackson went to the bank with Betty to pull six hundred dollars out of her savings account. Best investment you ever made, ma, he said, stuffing the money in his wallet and kissing her. Just don’t tell your father, she said; he wouldn’t approve and you know it. Jackson did know it. The last thing he wanted was a confrontation with his father. So how is he really, ma, he asked. How is the old man? Selling lots of washing machines, she answered. He’s got a good job now, Jackson. A good steady job, just like you should have. Have you thought about going back to college, she asked. Robert West graduated and has a good job now. A real good job. Jackson, sighed, yeah ma, he said, Robert always wanted a good job. But me. Me. I’ve got plans. I’ll make you a million, ma. You just wait. I’ll buy you the new house dad never did.

  Our house is just fine, said his mom, just fine. You be nice to your dad when you see him. Don’t you say anything foolish about any new house. She humphed. We’ve got a good house, and we’re lucky to have it. Not everyone does, you know, some people have nothing at all. Nothing.

  Ma, ma, he said. The house is nothing. We Swackhammers can do better. Just you wait and see. Mary didn’t have to wait long. Jackson left the house for a walk before Jerry Lee came home, saying he’d be back soon, but slipping his duffle outside the bedroom window and picking it up outside. He walked two blocks north from the house and put his thumb out. A pretty girl stopped to give him a ride. He explained, apologetically, that he’d had to get his hair cut for a job interview, saying that’s why it was so short, not saying that he’d cut it so he wouldn’t draw attention to himself while arranging the drug deal. She laughed at him for being embarrassed and offered a hit of the Colombian she was smoking. He said thanks and took a hit. He asked wouldn’t she like some good grass? She said sure. He had friends in Washington D.C., he said, and they always had the best pot. Did she want to go? She thought he was kidding, but he wasn’t, and then she felt the vibes, like something wasn’t quite right, and when they stopped for gas he pulled a hundred out of his wallet and paid and she dumped him right there at the station.

  After paying for the gas, he turned to see the girl pull out onto the road again, the little Volkswagen engine whining away from him. He ran a few steps after her, cursed under his breath, slung his duffle over his shoulder, and went to the road again, scuffing his feet, and stuck out his thumb. A couple in a painted school bus stopped to give him a ride. The inside of the bus was inset with handmade furniture. The cabinets were made of weathered barnwood; there were two large stereo speakers built in. There were purple paisley curtains on the windows and blue carpeting on the floor. Several Indian tapestry pillows were scattered on top of the built-in bed. There was a sink and a refrigerator, and turquoise colored mason jars full of lentils and almonds and sunflower seeds lined the sink counter.

  “Wow, this is cool, just like home,” said Swackhammer as he got in the bus. The carpeting blended nicely with the woodwork. “It is home,” said the pretty brunette in the front seat. She turned around to look at him and smiled. “We’re just traveling around, visiting friends, and hitting the demonstrations. Anti-war. Kangaroo here burned his draft card a few months ago, so, we’re headed towards Canada. Pretty heavy, huh,” she said and nodded seriously.

  “This is Kangaroo.” She nodded towards the driver. “And I’m Rainbow. Who are you?”

  “Yeah, heavy all right,” he said and looked around. “Just call me Swackhammer.”

  “Wow,” said Rainbow. “Great name.”

  “My dad gave me mine,” Jackson said.

  “No shit,” said Kangaroo. “That’s really great. We picked ours.”

  “You guys just picked out new names?”

  “Yeah. His name used to be Richard, but it didn’t suit him. Not at all,” said Rainbow. “After all, a name is really important.”

  “Yeah,” said Jackson. “Maybe I’ll change mine. I’m tired of Swackhammer.”

  “Oh don’t,” said Rainbow, “please don’t.”

  “We’ll see,” he said. “Who made the cabinets?”

  “I did,” said Kangaroo. He turned and nodded. His blonde hair hung past his shoulders and he wore a tie-died shirt. “I do it for a living, when I work,” he laughed. “This is my wife.”

  “Wow, nice,” said Swackhammer, starting to relax in the back seat, leaning against a tapestry pillow.

  “Where you headed?” she asked. Her wavy brown hair hung to her waist and she wore four or five beaded necklaces and long dangling earrings. She lit a match, dipped a stick of patchouli incense into the flame, and stuck the burning incense in the cigarette holder of the ash tray, balancing it, letting it burn.

  “North,” said Swackhammer.

  “We’re going to New York,” she said. “There’s a music festival there. Every
body’s gonna be there.”

  “Like who?” he asked, leaning forward to hear.

  “You know, Dylan, Baez, Joplin, Hendrix, everyone.”

  “No shit?”

  “Yeah. Wow, I thought everyone knew about it.”

  “I’ve been out of the country. Boy, I’d sure like to see them. You ever seen ’em?”

  “No. Why don’t you come? We’re gonna jam all night. You could help drive. The festival starts tomorrow. Everybody’s going. Seriously.”

  “Yeah,” said Swackhammer. “I’ll go. I’m definitely in.” Just what he needed, he thought. A crowd. “Where is it?”

  “In the country. A place called Woodstock.”

  “Hmm. Sure. Hey, I’ve got some good weed. You guys want to get loaded?”

  “Yeah,” said Rainbow. “Sure. We’ll get high.” She smiled and turned around in the seat and looked straight at him. He smiled back and handed her the joint he’d had tucked in his wallet.

  By the time they neared Woodstock, the traffic had slowed to stop and go. They’d sit and move and stop and then crawl forward slowly for a few miles, then stop again. The cars were filled with hippies, yippies, radicals, jammed into cars, going with the flow, windows open to the humid summer heat. Impatient festival-goers that wanted to get on with the party pulled off and drove down the dirt shoulder. Finally another lane formed in the other part of the two-lane road, blocking all oncoming traffic, forming a mass of funky cars sputtering towards a big meadow.

  The bus moved slowly. A long-haired guy without a shirt walked by and handed up a joint to Kangaroo and kept walking. There were lots of people walking, more and more jumping out of cars. The heat was stifling. Then, after walking a while, they’d get tired and crawl on a hood or a trunk for a few miles until they were bored with that or uncomfortable and walk again. The swarm of cars and people seemed endless. In front of the bus, two Volkswagen bugs, and in front of that, an old convertible covered with hippies riding on the hood. One guy played a guitar on the trunk facing back and singing, and another guy, on the hood, played a flute. There were masses of people already camped on the hillsides, thousands of bodies, in colorful blouses, bare-chested, and star-spangled with jewelry and flowers and hankies wrapped around their heads of loose flowing hair.

  “I’ve never seen so many people,” Jackson said. And he hadn’t. They were all hipsters, too, he thought. Damn of all the luck. And no drugs to sell. He knew if he had something to sell he could’ve made a killing. All he had was some acid. But, he thought, he had more than one hit. He took a piece of paper out of his wallet and checked it out. There were twelve hits left. He shook his head. He could make a little. He’d wait a while. A little later people were bound to want some, he thought, a little later they’d pay more. He’d wait. He smiled and leaned up to the front seat.

  “Be great if we had some acid, wouldn’t it,” he smiled.

  “Yeah,” said Kangaroo. “Acid would be great. Wonder if we might find some.”

  “We can ask around,” said Swackhammer. “We’ll ask around later.”

  “Right, bro,” said Kangaroo. He laid his hand to the back seat, giving Jackson the high five, the sign of brotherhood. A pact. Swackhammer sat back in the seat and wondered how much they’d pay for acid. He only had a little so he’d have to time the sale just right.

  After they parked the bus, they relaxed before walking over to the meadow. Rainbow fixed sandwiches and they ate in the bus, but she packed a cooler with food to take. They’d done a lot of festivals and demonstrations lately, she said, so the cooler kept things simple. They didn’t have to wander away from each other looking for food; with all the people, it was easy to get lost. A sea of people flooded by the van carrying sleeping bags, blankets, food, hundreds and hundreds, of people. So, she explained, they wanted to find a place with a distinct landmark to put the blankets. It would be easier to find. They walked on past a muddy pond full of people splashing in it, past the stands where they were serving food, and on down to a stretch of grass to the left of the stage, but a long way back with a string of toilets in sight. There were already lines of people in front of the shitters. Some were walking about in bell-bottom and red Peace shirts, the festival fuzz, the wavy gravies, checking things out, along with hundreds with armbands that said the Please Force that were drafted as part of the help force: please don’t do that, do this instead. Yin Yang policing. This thing happening with all these people, a few hundred thousand strong, this good vibration, this incredible glow rush, rush, rushing through the smiles, kept right on happening as they milled towards the stage and the music and the happening that was happening now because they were making it happen something was happening here what it was ain’t exactly clear something’s happening something’s definitely happening with all the thousands and thousands so many thousands that all the thousands of kids were blown away because they’d been scattered here and there around the country as minorities the lesser part of everything the smaller numbers the ones against the many the minorities politically racially nationally religiously spiritually essentially the littlest fractions the minorities on campuses in demonstrations in jails in communities and communes and protests against war for civil rights for women’s rights against establishments any establishment against pigs against violence for Peace for Love and Peace and Love and Peace and Love and Peace in painted buses on farms in families dorm rooms in trouble in class drugged out drugged in dried out flipped out outraged against Viet Nam against draft against everything except here and now yeah together now finally a majority one big happening family of merry pranksters and hanksters and shuckers and jivers and high fivers and groupies and yippies and hippies and bippies and babies and wavy gravies and shankars and blankars and cycles and michaels and hells angels and hangers and bangers and gangers and guitarers and fluters and luters and scrappy dappy dopers and hopers and lopers blown out blown in blown around leaking peaking tripping skinny dipping lipping and lumping and bumping and grinding and vibing and reeling with feeling and vibing and tribing together with leather in weather that’s raining and draining and muddy and shuddy and scuddy and muddy and slipping and sliding and riding the tidin’ and mucky and fucky and rucky and rocking and rolling and laying and swaying and weaving and woving and roving and grooving and moving with motion and making commotion with all the emotion some laughing and crying and trying and sighing and raving and waving and drowsily lazily paisley crazily flashing.

  Rainbow offered Swackhammer a sandwich, and he’d just eaten, not long ago, but he took another and some apple juice that she poured for him.

  Someone was playing, but he wasn’t sure who, not The Who, another someone strumming, and he took a bite of food and chewed and watched the people mill around. A helicopter woop-woop-wooped overhead ducking around the back of the stage and wooping under the beat of music and then wooped off over the hill and away. The sky was a skraggy gray and there were people as far as the eye could see. He really wished he’d known about this, but now, he thought, was as good a time as any to sell the acid so he finished his sandwich and tripped around making a deal with a guy that had hash for two hits of acid. Then he traded another couple hits for some grass and went back to Rainbow and Kangaroo and said he’d found some acid but that it was really expensive and sold them a couple hits for three times what they might have paid elsewhere, pocketing the cash, and taking another sandwich out of the cooler.

  They all dropped acid and Swackhammer brought out the hash then and they lit a pipe and it was pretty good Afghani, actually, so Kangaro and Rainbow were impressed. A guy wandered by that Rainbow knew from college and he stayed while they smoked the hash, and Swackhammer sold him a hit of acid too, saying, he’d bought an extra one just in case. When he left to find the head, he thought he could find his way back easily, that he wasn’t tripping too much. He wandered to the shitters and stood in line for twenty minutes; by the time he went inside he was tripping. The smell was too much, the space was too small, he was freaking.
He started crying and couldn’t stop and someone outside pounded on the door and wondered if he was okay and he said sure sure he was but he wasn’t and he couldn’t stop crying. Then he suddenly ran out and people kept staring and staring and staring. He turned and didn’t know anyone and someone came up to him, someone said please, please don’t do that, do this, come with me, and took his arm and he was freaking out and screaming and screaming and someone else came with a low soft voice but Swackhammer didn’t know low or soft and he fought. But they insisted carefully firmly taking him to the medical center where a doctor laid him down and gave him a sedative, and three nice people watched him carefully very very carefully, until he slept.

  Fires on the moon …

  CHAPTER 19

  MAGGIE KEPT TRYING TO THINK her way through the life she was living, to make the wrong of it right, to rearrange the words and make them say safer things. But the text remained the same; no matter how she worked at revising, the text seemed wrong-headed. Was it her wrong head? What if she left home? She was barely on this page anymore. Was this home? She only had a tiny space in the margin. The margin doesn’t feel like home! That space is too small. Her text is way bigger. Books. Poems. Novels. Eons and eons of them. Not just the margins of this dysfunctional home page. Not at all. She hated the margin, squeezed into the side shadow of a text. Oh no, not this girl. If she felt marginal, she’d fight back her way into the text: right back onto the page of this startling existence. There: MAGGIE in bold-face capital letters. What if she fell off the page? Into an entirely new context? How would that feel? Safe? Sound? Sane? Oh, sure, she was part of the text; but just as an adjective. Rarely a noun. What might she do as her own word? What word? What word might she imagine for herself? But home had to be a full-blown page. A page in capital letters. She was sure of it! That was a real home. But she couldn’t imagine the page yet. Or what she’d put on it. Her imagination was entirely tangled in her descriptive relationship to Hank. The one that was failing them both. Her imagination needed to imagine its own words. The negative, like the vacant center of water washing down a drain, pulled all her attention down with it.