“Who’s a baby? I’ll be fourteen in two weeks,” she protested.
Lissa popped the top of an orange soda and passed it around. “Maybe we should go up to the boy’s floor and have a look around.”
Margaret giggled and poked her. Then she noticed someone standing in the doorway.
“Hi guys, Tom here,” said a husky voice.
Margaret did a double-take. The girl leaning against the doorframe was tall and thin, with jet-black hair cropped short around her neck but slightly longer in front and fringed bangs that fell over her eyebrows. Her pale face was made up with heavy black eyeliner and dark purple lipstick. Both ears displayed a row of silver studs, graduating in size. There was a matching stud in one nostril. She was dressed in a skimpy black camisole top, hip-hugging jean that showed off her belly button, black platform flipflops, and silver toe ring. But the coolest thing of all, the thing that Margaret couldn’t stop staring at, was a black widow spider tattooed just under her left collarbone. She had an iPod bud in one ear, with the cord running down to an armband pouch holding her Nano, which probably held thousands of death-metal songs Margaret wasn’t allowed to listen to. She was, in fact, the flesh and blood manifestation of all their Goth-princess fantasies.
“So, which one of you guys is my roomie?” she said, removing the bud from her ear and tucking it into the armband. She bent down and dragged a heavy Army-surplus duffle bag into the room.
Margaret raised her hand. “Me.”
“Cool. Who’re you?” Tom was looking at her, sizing her up, or so it felt.
“Margaret.”
“Got a nickname or do they call you the whole thing?”
“Margrits!” the other two chorused.
Margaret flushed to the roots of her hair. She twitched miserably, a red-faced, red-haired flame of teenaged embarrassment.
Tom nodded. “I like. So, Margrits, which bed d’you want?”
“Um, it doesn’t matter, I guess.” Margaret wished her voice didn’t sound so squeaky.
“Right.” Tom pushed the duffle bag under the nearest bed with her foot. Then she turned to the group. “Now, let’s get this baby up and running.”
It was only then that Margaret noticed the briefcase-shaped black bag hanging by a wide strap over Tom’s thin shoulder. Her heart skipped a beat.
Tom put the bag down on the bed and unzipped it, lifting out the sleek laptop. She set it down with care on the computer table, pulled a power strip out of the bag’s side pocket, and got down on her hands and knees, looking around underneath the desk.
Margaret looked at the other two in silent glee as Tom found the power outlet and plugged in.
Standing up, Tom powered on and typed in her password. “If you guys ever want to, like, check your e-mail or something, just let me know.”
Margaret could scarcely contain her joy. Not only did she have the coolest roommate at camp, she had unfettered, unsupervised access to the Internet and, most important of all, to Kinigar.
Chapter 15
May 1968
Suzanne Blacksburg blushed, her cheeks red as her hair. “He said what?”
“He wanted to know if you were unattached—”
“And if you were, did we think he had a chance with you.”
Suzanne pushed her sunglasses up on top of her head. “Like hell. I don’t even know the guy!”
Bailey shrugged. “So what? He’s groovy. I mean, we’ve been trying to score with him for months, and then you come back to Miami after a year in Paris and he falls ass over teakettle. It’s not fair!”
“You might like him,” said Paula. “At the very least he’ll probably get you stoned.”
They were laughing and teasing, but Suzanne heard that note of jealousy buried among the giggles. She’d known Bailey and Paula since they were all children. Living in the same neighborhood and going to the same schools, there wasn’t much about them she didn’t know. Now in their twenties, they’d all gone off to different colleges and each wore a slightly different veneer, but underneath they hadn’t changed that much.
It was a cloudless day in May, and they were all sweating, ambling down Ocean Drive toward the air conditioning and raspberry iced tea of The Rising Sun, a preferred hangout among the hip, those aspiring to be, and those who didn’t give a shit.
“Cool of them to send you to Europe as a graduation present,” said Paula. “All I got was a car.”
“I think my parents would buy me a small country if I would just go ahead and finish,” said Bailey. They laughed, threading through the weekend crowd of tourists and locals.
Suzanne scanned the South Beach crowd around them. Mostly young, some white, some Latinos, some in hippie garb, the rest in bathing suits and shorts. It felt strange, being back, after having a foreign perspective for nearly a year. She wondered how involved any of these people were in the big issues of their times, like protesting the war in Vietnam or demonstrating for civil rights.
Hal’s last letter to her before her return had mentioned riots in cities around the country in the wake of Martin Luther King Jr.’s assassination, but now, barely a month later, things in her old stomping grounds didn’t seem much different from when she’d left. There were peace symbols everywhere, on clothing and posters and rock album covers, but how many people sporting those designs on their shirts and headbands would be willing to take part in a sit-in or risk police brutality for the sake of their convictions? Not many, she suspected.
For a lot of them, she guessed, the transformation was only skin-deep; there was a certain daring about going braless if you were a chick or wearing your hair long if you were a guy, but not as daring as, say, being tear-gassed for your support of the oppressed.
Which was pretty much her assessment of Bailey, who had always been a joiner of that sort. She looked sidelong at her friend, skipping along beside her: waist-length chestnut hair when it was down, no makeup, green tank top, no bra, Indian print sarong skirt with peace-sign button pinned to the waistband, handmade leather sandals, ankle bells, a stack of silver bangle bracelets on both arms, a rope of glass beads and tiny shells around her neck, and long silver dangle earrings with feathers in them. She was the perfect hippie poster child.
Paula, on the other hand, hadn’t outgrown her preppie roots and still wore perfectly fitted white walking shorts with a pastel polo shirt and white Keds. Her brown hair was cut short, just above her shoulders. Although her speech was peppered with hippie slang, it was clear she had not embraced the concept of throwing out one’s TV or giving up any other creature comforts. Suzanne could imagine Bailey moving into a commune just for the thrill of it, but not Paula.
Suzanne supposed she fell somewhere in between them. In her tie-dyed halter top and hiphugging cutoffs, she revealed more flesh than her mother would have liked, but her rope sandals came from Rome instead of some head shop in the East Village, and while she welcomed the idea of free love, she wasn’t too pleased that some head case the others were crazy over wanted to know if she would have sex with him, for god’s sake. Even if he was groovy.
Paula pushed open the Rising Sun Café’s glass door, painted from top to bottom with primary-color psychedelic designs. “Merciful air conditioning,” she said, looking over the crowded room. The others squeezed in behind her, where they waited to be seated.
The café was full and a hive of activity and noise, as usual. The Sun, as it was known to regulars, resembled a diner but carried on its business more like a Viennese coffee shop crossed with a vegetarian soup kitchen. Everyone from celebrities to campus radicals to sunburned tourists drank its espresso and ate its Jarlsberg omelets and hummus sandwiches with refillable homemade vegetable soup at all hours. Background music could range anywhere from John Coltrane to Ravi Shankar or The Grateful Dead.
The servers, in their black pants and black T-shirts with the orange and red sun logo over one breast, were quick on their feet and efficient, and familiar with the patrons in a cozy sort of way. The Sun had opened shortl
y after she’d left for Paris, and this was just her second visit since returning. It had not taken Hot-Waiter-Man, as her friends referred to him, very long to single her out.
“Warm enough for you ladies today?” he said, handing the menus around.
“It’s cool in here,” said Bailey, letting her long hair down and smiling at him in a way that made Suzanne cringe and want to kick her under the table. Paula giggled an octave higher than normal as she took the menu from his hand. To his credit, he seemed not to notice as he took their orders. Suzanne sank down in the booth.
“And you?” he said, making direct eye contact with her.
Suzanne returned his gaze with what she hoped was a no-nonsense expression.
“One Bavarian crème and a cappuccino.”
“A lady with a sweet tooth,” he said, writing on his order pad. She watched him angle his slim body through the press of patrons and waiters balancing trays on their arms, heading back to the kitchen.
“What did I say?” Bailey could barely contain herself. “Does he have a fine ass or what?”
Suzanne slouched back in her seat, looking at them. “Would you two just chill out? Yes, he’s nice looking, but Jeez, so are a million other waiters in this town.”
“You just don’t appreciate a beautiful man when you see one,” Bailey said.
“I saw plenty of beautiful men in Rome, but I didn’t try to pick any of them up.”
“Well, why not? I swear, Suzanne, you disappoint me. You should have been with me and Daniel when we went to San Francisco last year. Summer of Love. Now, that was a blast. That’s where I got these.” Bailey jingled the bracelets on her wrist.
“Here he comes again,” said Paula. “Hey, did you see that?” They all turned to look. “That other waiter just patted Hot Waiter Man on the butt!”
“Far out!” exclaimed Bailey. “Even other guys are into him.”
“You guys are too much,” said Suzanne, as she watched him navigate the crowd with their drinks and desserts on a tray. He deftly placed each order in front of the right person, and next to Suzanne’s pastry and coffee he set a small glass dish of cherries.
“I didn’t order this—” She looked up at him, startled.
“A little something extra, for the pastry,” he said and smiled. Before she could protest, he had disappeared into the crowd.
“See?” Bailey was pouting. “As far as he’s concerned, we’re in nowheresville. But for you, he brings cherries.”
Suzanne popped one into her mouth. “I’ll let you know if he’s any good,” she said.
“We hate you,” said Paula.
They talked and finished their food to the last crumb, and after a while Hot Waiter Man returned, squatting down on his haunches, so that he could lean his elbows on the table as he sorted through his handful of checks to find theirs.
“So how was everything?” he asked, smiling all around.
“Tripping,” said Bailey.
“Delicious, as always,” Paula added.
“To be honest, I had a better one of these in Marseille,” Suzanne said, touching her empty pastry plate with her fork, “but this one was good, too.”
“Uh oh, I’d better not tell the chef,” he said and stood up, leaning across the table to hand out their checks, and although he didn’t touch her, Suzanne was acutely aware of how close his left hip was to her shoulder. She also noticed that his arms had the strangest tattoos she’d ever seen. Maybe he was more interesting than she’d first thought.
When he handed the check to her, it had another smaller card on top. He gave her a wink and quickly walked away. On the card was his photo and a name: Ned Waterston, Artist for Hire. She stared at the card. So Hot Waiter Man had a name. She turned the card over and saw that he had added a note in tiny crimped handwriting.
Both the other girls were leaning over the table.
“He passed you a note? I’m going to freak out right here!”
“Read it!”
Suzanne tucked the card into her purse. “He wrote, ‘Make love, not war.’ Satisfied?”
“We hate you,” said Paula.
After they’d paid their bills and wandered along the beach till well past noon, they said their goodbyes, Bailey and Paula driving away in her new Thunderbird. Suzanne, standing by the open door of Hal’s Cadillac that she’d borrowed for the day, waved to them and waited till they turned the corner. Then, instead of getting in, she shut the door and locked it, and headed back down the block toward the Sun. As usual, there was a crowd lingering around the entrance, either waiting to get in or just talking and hanging out. She quickly scanned the faces and didn’t see him, so she sat down on the sidewalk and leaned against the wall of the building. Fishing around in her purse for the card, she found it and read the note again. What it really said was, “I get off in an hour. Meet me out front?”
So here she was, waiting out front for a complete stranger who might be a really nice guy, but might also be some crazed dope fiend who would drag her into a darkened alley and do God knew what.
“Hey, you did show up. Way out.” The man named Ned reached his hand down and helped her up. “What’s your name?”
“Suzanne Blacksburg,” she answered, ignoring all the warnings she’d ever had pounded into her about giving her full name out to guys she didn’t know. “Um, what did you want?”
Ned smiled. “Just your company. The first time I saw your face, I felt that you were someone special.”
“Boy, that’s an old line.”
“It’s not a line. It’s the truth.” She could see that he was serious, no smile this time.
“My two buddies are nuts over you, why not one of them?”
“You mean the hippie chick and the prep school princess? Definitely not my bag.”
“And I am?”
“Most definitely you are.” Ned slid his arm around her waist and started walking away from the restaurant. He’d changed out of his waiter’s uniform and now wore a faded work shirt and jeans with holes in the knees. In his free hand he carried a small gym bag, which she assumed contained his waiter’s uniform.
“Hey, want to get stoned? I live just a couple of blocks away. I’m not holding, but Crash won’t care if we raid his stash. Come on up to my pad, and I’ll show you my etchings.”
That was so corny it made her laugh. This Ned person seemed nice enough, and he was really easy on the eyes. He was smiling at her, definitely hustling her, but Suzanne hardly cared; she was charmed.
“What’re you thinking?” He looked at her with his funny yellow-blue eyes.
* * *
“I don’t even know you. Where are you from?” she asked as they walked arm-in-arm across the empty street toward a row of older hotels that weren’t undergoing restoration like the flashier ones near Ocean Drive.
“Here and there.”
“No, I mean originally.”
“I lived in San Francisco for awhile.”
“I’d love to go there. Bailey and her boyfriend drove across the country last summer just to see what it was all about. ”
Ned chewed at his lip. “I was there before it was cool. Left about the time it was getting too popular.”
“I still wish I could see it. What did you do there? Sorry if that’s too nosey. I’m just curious. I like to travel and see new places.”
He gave her a squeeze. “I was a street artist, doing quick sketches of strangers and sometimes telling their fortunes. I quit doing that after awhile though; it was starting to weird me out.”
Suzanne stopped walking. “Wow, are you psychic?”
“Naw, it’s just part of the act. I’m really a hustler.”
“You are that,” said Suzanne. She was smiling.
They walked for another block, and then Ned aimed across the street to the entrance of a fading pastel pink hotel.
“Get that look off your face,” he said. “It’s a residence hotel. People live here permanently. It’s not a flophouse.”
“Oh
. Like an artist’s colony or something,” she said, looking up at the frosted glass blocks that framed the entrance.
Ned led her inside where it was cool and the décor sea-green. She was relieved to see that the lobby was reasonably respectable, and there were no obvious dope dealers hanging around. She began to relax.
Ned steered her across the lobby to the elevators. As soon as the door clacked shut and the cab lurched into motion, Suzanne panicked again and wished she hadn’t come. But now, she had gone much too far to retreat.
They stopped at the second floor, and Ned led her down the hall. By the time he got his key in the lock and the door to the apartment open, she was playing out several possible scenarios in her mind, none of them good. Here was her chance to sample the free love and recreational drug scene she’d believed people had a right to enjoy, and instead she was looking the place over for an escape route.
The door opened into a tiny sitting room. From there she could see a kitchenette and two bedrooms of roughly the same size. “That one belongs to Crash, my suite-mate. This one’s mine.” Ned went to the room straight ahead and she followed.
“Have a seat,” he said, gesturing to his mattress. It sat in the center of the bedroom, flat on the floor with no bedstead. A tangle of sheets suggested it was the most-used element of the room. “Ah, sorry, it’s a mess. I wasn’t expecting company.”
Ned was just standing there, hands in his pockets, looking at her in a very unnerving way.
“What?” She sat down on the edge of the bed, shoving a pile of Zap Comix out of the way.
“Something I never expected to see,” he said.
He stepped out of the room, and Suzanne took a closer look at his surroundings. Ned’s bedroom was mostly empty of any real furniture, the main pieces being the mattress and a precarious set of bookshelves against one wall. Albums by the Doors, Cream, and Miles Davis littered the floor among discarded pizza boxes, random shoes, socks, and whatever he’d apparently worn and peeled off. At least, she noted, there didn’t seem to be any women’s clothing in evidence. The room had no seating except for a small folding chair next to a card table where all his art supplies were spread out.
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