A Nation of Mystics

by Pamela Johnson

  “Are you kidding?”

  “No. I’ll leave the key under the mat so you can get in whenever you want. Tell no one.”

  Kathy left the flat and strolled up to Haight Street, turning right, toward Golden Gate Park. It was strange to be on the street and stoned. In Louisiana, they’d sit in a closet in the middle of the house, towels shoved against the bottom of the door so the telltale scent wouldn’t give them away.

  Suddenly, she understood why California could mobilize thousands of people against the war. And as she walked, she began smiling. The streets were mellow: only stoned people, all wanting the same thing—peace and fun and love. Here, race or creed didn’t matter. Only openness mattered, freedom and being high.

  The long counter of the Print Mint held rolling papers, roach clips, pipes, feathers, beads, bells, scarves, and decals. Among the many posters on the wall behind the counter were ones Kathy had seen in Richard’s flat. They piqued her curiosity, and if Richard had been there, she would have asked a thousand questions. But stoned, the thought of using her voice with the person behind the counter was something else entirely.

  Her attention wandered over everything in the glass case. Maybe she’d buy her own roach clip. But she couldn’t decide. Each one had aspects that another did not, and if she moved, the light changed, and then so did the color. Soon she found herself a living kaleidoscope, moving her body back and forth, different flashes of light striking the metal of the clips …

  “Yeah?” the man working in the shop asked.

  “Oh … hi.” Kathy tried her voice. Her mouth was dry, and she licked her lips. “I heard you sell newspapers here? Can I get a dollar’s worth?”

  “Here you go,” he told her, placing a stack of papers on the counter. “Make sure you keep at least one foot on the curb. The cops are bustin’ people standin’ in the street.”

  Finding a corner where someone else wasn’t selling, near a store called the New Geology Rock Shop, she imitated the other vendors, leaning out at the cars, herself unsure. At first, her awkwardness was so acute, she thought she might give the newspapers away to some other vendor, but a dollar was a lot of money, and she couldn’t afford to lose it. Especially if she needed $2.50 for the concert tickets. Perhaps it was the silly, stoned smile on her face, or her own natural innocence, but whatever she had, it drew business. Papers began to disappear into cars.

  “Peace,” she called, raising two fingers in a V-sign to each person who bought a paper. And suddenly, it was more than a word; it was a prayer. With the zeal of a new missionary, Kathy released part of her spirit to each buyer, her voice a song. On Haight Street that afternoon, she broke out of a plaster shell she hadn’t known existed until it began to crumble. The sun was warm on her face. The wind from a late ocean breeze blew through her hair.

  “Newspapers!” she cried, her smile wide. “Get your genuine psychedelic newspapers right here!”

  In half an hour, the papers were gone and she’d made a net profit of $4.

  Quickly, she hurried back to the Print Mint for two more dollars’ worth of papers, and once again, within the hour, they were sold. Unbelievably, this journey was going to work. If they could stay at Richard’s and be a part of the family, they could make enough to eat. And in September, when she returned to school, she’d get a job.

  “Say, you want a smoke?” someone asked in her ear.

  Turning quickly, Kathy stared into the face of a young black man with bell-bottom pants, vest, a scarf tied around his neck, and round, gold-framed John Lennon glasses. His sideburns were long and his hair was an outrageous Afro. In his right hand, he carried a guitar. She tilted her head to one side. A raging energy came from him and bounced between them.

  “What do you say, pretty lady? Want a smoke?”

  Kathy smiled shyly. What was she to say to the wildest looking man she’d ever seen?

  “Well, what’s it gonna be?” he asked again. “You gonna stand here and grin forever? Or come with me to the park?”

  “Yeah,” Kathy finally answered. “I’m comin’.”

  “Everybody,” the wild man called. “Smoke break!”

  Seven or eight freaks pulled themselves from the general crowd, and together, they ran across Stanyan Street. The man with the guitar took Kathy’s hand and raced with her through the tunnel that led them deeper into Golden Gate Park.

  “This is Alice’s rabbit hole,” he called to her laughing face, “and we’re all going to Wonderland!”

  KATHY AND MARCIE

  THE HAIGHT-ASHBURY DISTRICT, SAN FRANCISCO, CALIFORNIA

  JUNE 1967

  For a good part of the afternoon, Kathy had felt very much like Alice and ten years old again. She had fallen onto a grassy spot under a large oak on a rise that someone called Hippie Hill, smoked two joints supplied by the wild man with the smile of the Cheshire Cat, and had fallen down, down into Wonderland, her thoughts as outrageous and laughable as a white rabbit with a watch.

  “What’s your name?” the man had asked, lightly strumming the guitar.

  She’d leaned back on her elbows. “Kathleen. What’s yours?”

  “Felix. My group’s playing tonight at the Fillmore with Big Brother. Electric Reason.”

  “My girlfriend and I just hitched into town. But we’re planning to go. I made good money today selling papers.”

  Felix grinned. “Your first concert, huh? Say, bro,” he turned to the man next to him, “write the lady’s name down for some free tickets. Kathy, this is Tony, my manger. You might want to come backstage when you get there and meet some people.”

  Kathy yawned, tried smiling, and felt her grin fall flat. She was tired, more tired than she could ever remember being. “Um … maybe I’ll just lie back for a few minutes,” she told him, resting her head back on the grass, looking up at the branches.

  A hum swelled from the ground. The sun spilled through the trees covering her with warmth. The chatter of the group began to drone in her ears. Felix held his guitar, caressing soft tones from it. Slowly, Kathy drifted, caught herself, tried be with the group, but the music carried her far away into sleep.

  When Kathy awoke hours later, cold fog was beginning to cover the afternoon sky. She sat up with a start, unable for a moment to remember where she was, but she relaxed when she saw Felix still sitting beside her, everyone else gone.

  “You went out like a light,” he said to her. “I didn’t want to leave you and didn’t think I should wake you.”

  “I’m sorry, Felix,” she said, pulling grass from her hair.

  “Don’t be sorry. You don’t owe anybody anything. Not anymore. In the Haight, you just do your own thing. Besides, I’ve enjoyed watching you sleep. Peaceful.”

  “How long have I been out?” Kathy looked at her watch. “Four o’clock.”

  “Plenty of time before the show. Come on. Let’s get something to drink.”

  On the corner of Haight and Stanyan was a twenty-four-hour coffee shop. Felix spotted the only empty booth and guided Kathy toward it, holding up two fingers for two cups of coffee as they passed the waitress.

  “So what’s happening out here, Felix?” Kathy asked sliding into the seat. “I mean, with the peace movement. We were doing some organizing in Louisiana and thought we’d come out to see how so many people get involved …”

  Felix picked up his spoon to stir sugar into the coffee.

  “And how far is Berkeley from here? Do you know Jerry Rubin or anyone in the Vietnam Day Committee? And where’s the Oakland Induction Center …”

  “Whoa, girl. Slow down a bit,” he laughed. “Let’s do one question at a time.”

  “Felix!” a man shouted loudly across the room.

  “Hey, come on over, buddy.” Felix waved his arm.

  The man was moving fast and perched himself on the end of the booth seat as if he didn’t want to get too comfortable.

  “David, this is Kathy. So what’s happenin’, man?”

  David was of medium height, with a dar
k moustache and curly hair hanging to his shoulders. The leather jacket he wore fit perfectly. His eyes roamed once over Kathy, memorizing her face, seeming to try to place her. Then he reached inside his jacket pocket and flashed a plastic bag, holding it low under the table. “Take a look. It’s that Gold you wanted.”

  Felix studied the golden brown leaves of Acapulco with his eyes. “Nice. How much do you want for it?”

  “Just hang on to this bag. Try it out. If you like it, I’ll get you a kilo. But let me know tonight or tomorrow. I’ll talk to you later at the concert. Right now, I’ve got to get going.”

  Without taking her eyes off the man as he walked away, Kathy tried getting her mouth to work. “That’s … that’s the most amazing thing I’ve ever seen!”

  “What is? The weed? You didn’t even look close at it.”

  “I mean, the whole transaction. Where I come from we sit in a locked room to even talk about pot.”

  “You have to be careful out here, mind you. But if you’re cautious, you can do what you want.”

  “You said you’re playing music this evening?”

  “Yeah. If you go to the will call window, your tickets will be there. A gift for a first night in the Haight. Seriously, come on backstage. You’ll have fun.”

  Kathy drank from her coffee cup, finally feeling more alert, and listened as Felix explained that the Berkeley campus was a short drive over the Bay Bridge, a simple hitching distance from the Haight, and how Telegraph Avenue ran from Sproul Plaza to Oakland, an easy march down the wide street if you had a mind to demonstrate.

  Finishing the coffee, Kathy smiled and touched his arm. “Thanks for the coffee—and the tickets. But I’d better be getting back soon. My friend Marcie’ll be worried.”

  “Girl, you don’t need to be on a time clock no more. Just do what you feel like doin’. Where you stayin’?”

  “With a pirate we met today.” And laughing at the quizzical look on Felix’s face, she added. “He says his name is Richard. The flat’s on Ashbury, right off Haight.”

  “Richard,” Felix mumbled, thinking. “Yeah, Richard. You’re in good hands with that dude. But from what I hear, watch out for Alex, his partner. Word is he’s the real scoundrel.”

  “Partner?”

  “Yeah. Come on. I’ll walk you down the street.”

  When Kathy arrived at the Ashbury house, she could hear voices from where she stood on the porch, and opening the door, she saw at least ten people in the front room. Marijuana smoke floated in red-tinged light from a Chinese paper lantern.

  “Kathy!” Marcie cried in relief. “Where have you been?”

  Kathy took the hands Marcie held out to her and leaned close. “Sorry, but I fell asleep in the park. And I met a man named Felix, who says he’s playing at the concert tonight. He’s going to leave us tickets at the door.”

  “Could that be true?” Marcie turned to Richard. “Is someone named Felix playing at tonight’s concert?”

  Richard nodded and grinned. “It sure doesn’t take him long. They say he’s always got an eye for the prettiest ladies.”

  “Oh.” Kathy gave a shy smile, then turned back to Marcie. “I’ve got it all figured out. I made $12 today in about an hour!”

  “Twelve dollars an hour?” Marcie asked, amazed. “How?”

  “Selling papers on the street. I think we’re actually going to be able to make it out here this summer without starving. And once we go back to school in the fall, we can get part-time jobs.”

  “Why would you want to do that?” Richard asked. “Work, school—sounds like a lot of hassle. Why don’t you just see what happens. Relax. Let yourself flow a little.”

  Kathy turned abruptly, surprised by the question. “What about you?” she asked uncertainly. “You’re more than just a pirate. You work. How else do you pay the rent? You’ve even got a partner named Alex.”

  A tall girl with hair the color of straw listened to the conversation from the mattress near the window. She shook a finger at Richard and trembled with quiet laughter.

  “That’s just it,” he insisted. “I pay the rent. You don’t have to worry about those kinds of things.”

  At that moment, the door roughly opened and a man barged into the room. Kathy thought it strange that a man of his height—probably five eight or nine—could appear so large. He filled the room, not so much with his stature, but with his attitude. His straight, sandy brown hair was thin and pushed behind his ears to hang three or four inches past his shoulders. He wore a dark leather jacket over a long-sleeved shirt with maroon hearts and flowers, wine-colored corduroy pants, a belt with a peace symbol buckle, and soft, brown suede boots.

  “Richard, got to talk to you, man,” he said, ignoring everyone else in the room.

  “Ah! Speak of the devil,” Richard grinned. “Kathy, Marcie—this is Alex. Alex, two new members of the house. Just got in today from Baton Rouge, Louisiana.”

  Alex looked them over with hard brown eyes. “Hi.” He threw the word at them, then appeared to dismiss them. With intense single-mindedness, he turned to Richard. “Something’s come up.”

  “I’ll be a few minutes,” Richard told the girls, then followed Alex down the hallway.

  “And I’ve got to use the bathroom,” Kathy said. “I’ll be right back.”

  As she closed the bathroom door, pink flamingos stared at her from the wallpaper. Then, surprisingly, she clearly heard Alex’s contentious voice coming from the kitchen.

  “… we should do it,” his voice urged.

  “I don’t know. We’re not using our regular channels. It might get messy.”

  “It’s a way to cut out a lot of middlemen. These guys must be pretty close to the source. That’s a damned good price.”

  “Yeah, but it’s all our bread,” Richard argued. “That means we have everything in one basket.”

  “We’ll be able to turn it fast.”

  “If it’s good. I don’t want to ruin a carefully built reputation by selling shit.”

  “The Angels always have good acid,” Alex insisted. “And anyway, we’ll get someone to test it.”

  “Okay. I’ll eat it. Get me a few samples.”

  Without flushing the toilet, Kathy tiptoed out to the front room, hoping Richard and Alex would never learn she had inadvertently heard their conversation.

  “What’s up?” Marcie asked, looking at her face.

  “I think I know what kind of business Richard and Alex are into,” she whispered.

  “What’s that?” Marcie asked, matching her tone to Kathy’s.

  “I think they’re dealers. You know, selling grass and acid. LSD,” she added, remembering her conversation with Jim about some group called the Brotherhood of Eternal Love.

  Marcie thought about this new possibility and caught her breath. An element of danger was part of Richard’s life. Her heart pounded a bit faster thinking of him—strong, sure, a measure of quick wit and charm. She’d been wondering about touching his mouth. He was … romantic. A pirate. And now a dealer. Everyone cool smoked, and grass had to come from somewhere. Why not from someone like Richard?

  “Come on,” she took Kathy’s arm. “I want you to meet some people.”

  In one corner of the room, two girls sat together on the floor, quietly spaced out. “Honey and Ellen,” Marcie knelt on the floor next to them, “this is Kathy, the friend I hitched out with.”

  “Peace, sister,” Honey murmured in a small voice. Petite, eyes light blue and sleepy stoned, skin like ivory, hair a bright red, arms dusted with freckles. She was dressed for the concert in a long, fern-green velvet skirt and a lace blouse. “Are you going to the Fillmore tonight? Richard is driving a bunch of us.”

  Kathy nodded. “I met this guy named Felix today. He’s going to leave tickets at the door.”

  “Are you kidding?” Honey’s eyes suddenly came alive. “Felix Ringer?”

  The girl who had chuckled and shaken her finger at Richard joined them. Tall, big boned, with fl
axen-blond shoulder-length hair and wide-set deep blue eyes, she introduced herself. “Hi! I’m Greta. And this,” she motioned him over, “is Merlin.”

  “The Wizard?” Kathy giggled.

  Merlin was taller than Greta, with thin, blond hair mixed with streaks of brown, a darker beard and mustache, round Lennon glasses, and a smile plastered to his face. Merlin put an arm around Greta, comfortably drawing her to him.

  “Life is magic, isn’t it?” he answered, still grinning.

  In the bathroom, Kathy and Marcie took well-needed showers, unsure about their nakedness in front of Honey and Ellen, who had crowded into the bathroom with them.

  Wrapped in a towel, Marcie searched for something to wear, finally pulling a pale blue blouse and a pair of clean jeans from her suitcase. She dressed quickly and reached for her makeup bag.

  “Oh, no!” cried Honey. “Don’t do it! Look how beautiful your eyes are naturally. Don’t cover them with mascara.”

  Marcie looked at Honey, then Ellen—neither wore makeup. With some decisiveness, she put away the makeup bag and took out her hairbrush.

  “Um …” Honey again. “Have you ever thought about not wearing a bra?”

  Marcie looked down at her blouse. Two hard, artificial points stuck straight out from the material. She bit her lip, took a deep breath, and unfastened the back of the bra.

  “You know,” she said firmly, convincing herself, “you’re right.”

  “That’s it. Here.” Honey laughed and added a few drops of patchouli oil behind Marcie’s ears and on her throat and wrists. “Don’t be afraid to use your body.”

  Tucking the shirt back into her jeans pulled it tight across her chest, and when she studied her image in the mirror, Marcie was somewhat alarmed to see two piercing nipples cutting into the fabric. She turned and regarded her hair, no longer slick with oil and plastered to her head but damp, drying in crimped waves, dark brown and shining. Then, leaning toward the mirror, she studied her face. Honey had been right about the makeup. Taking stock of the whole of herself, she knew that everything was softer, her face, her round body. The perfume teased her nose. Shyly grinning at this new person, she wondered what Richard would think.