They don’t look like the Atlanta hippies. Those hippies now seem like a bunch of kids playacting. These Haight hippies don’t look like the hippies at New Buffalo, either. Those kids worked all the time. Their hands were callused and their muscles were sore. These are leisure hippies watching me drive by. The world is falling apart around us and they look unaffected by anything. I stop at the light at Ashbury and we stare at one another.
It’s the middle of the day on a Wednesday and they have nothing to do. I envy them. I could be practicing with my band for my Shakey’s gig. I could be working — it could even be at Biff Burger — and earning money for more equipment, or records, or bus parts. I could be writing my cadences for band, or tinkering on the bus in the backyard. My friend Max would come over after supper and I’d say, “Come look! I put in the radio!” I’d crank up the sound and we’d sit there with Cream’s “Sunshine of Your Love“ blasting the backyard crickets into silence.
Instead, I’m looking for a pawn shop. Turns out, they’re easy to find.
“What can I do you for?” asks the owner, whose name is Wilson. His shop windows are plastered with concert posters for all the bands playing in town.
A half hour later, I no longer own a drum set. Barry no longer owns a guitar. I’ve pawned it all. The drums, the guitar, the amps, the 6,435 extension cords, all of it. Barry’s Stratocaster brought the most money. “Sweet!” said Wilson as I handed it across the counter and he took it in his hands.
What I pocketed should be enough to pay Barry’s bail, the court costs, a fine, and get us home. Maybe. Who knows? I don’t know what these things cost. Wilson offered to buy Multitudes, too. “You could buy plane tickets home for everybody!” But I said no. I’m not going to part with my bus.
I call Pam, who has the gift of being serious, positive, and smart at the same time. I tell her the charges and she sucks in her breath. They haven’t told Uncle Mitch yet. After years of being Barry’s sidekick, I am suddenly the one in charge.
“We might be able to get into court this afternoon,” I tell Pam. “Hold tight. I’ll let you know as soon as I know more. Tell Aunt Janice not to worry. We’ve got a good lawyer, and we’ve got some reliable adults with us. And,” I say, finally, “we’ve got the money.”
There is a short silence on the other end of the phone, then Pam says quietly, “You sold your drums.”
“It’s okay, Mom.”
“Mom,” she repeats.
“Yeah,” I say.
The operator comes on the line and asks for more money to continue the long-distance call. “I’ll call again soon!” I say and Pam calls out, “Be careful!” and we are disconnected.
I stare at the graffiti in the phone booth. It’s only stuff, I tell myself about my drums, but I miss them. One day I will have drums again, I tell myself, and I know this is true. But right now, I know we don’t have money lying around. I know Lewis is spending it all on the floozie. I know Aunt Janice will have to ask Uncle Mitch for the money, and I know if he comes to San Francisco, it will only be worse for Barry, which means it will be worse for all of us. Because it has always been like this. Why? I ask myself. Why?
Barry’s letter sticks in my craw like a swallowed chicken bone I can’t dislodge. I might choke on it. His tone is so cavalier, just like he always is. He expects me to say How high? every time he says Jump. All my life, I looked up to Barry. I wanted to be like him. I would do — and did — anything for him.
But when I wanted him to help me recruit members for my band, he was too busy. When I wanted him to put together a band and put me in it, he forgot about his promise and said he wasn’t interested in a band. When he wanted me to keep quiet about his whereabouts, or even the fact that he was alive, I did it. Molly is right: I should have told her. I helped break her heart by not telling her he was safe. Barry left her without a good-bye. Because that’s what Barry does. He does as he pleases. Has, all his life. Why do we let him get away with that?
Because he gives us all just enough back to keep fooling us. Because Barry has always been the best and the brightest kid in our family, the athlete, the leader, the future. The energy. Mr. Everything to Everybody. Bow down to Barry! He is the prince who was promised, like in the fairy tales, the one who will lead us mere mortal kids out of the darkness of childhood and into some kind of enlightened life.
I didn’t realize he was trying to get away from us, but now it’s clear to me. He wanted out. If it hadn’t been Vietnam, it would have been something else that gave him a way. When the arguments started at family gatherings and Uncle Mitch got unreasonable and Lewis left us for the floozie and the bleakness began to gather, we all supported Barry, our king.
We championed him, like he might save us. We treated him better than we treated ourselves. We gave him the piece of cake with the most icing on it. We made up stories to cover for his absences without knowing where he’d been. We told ourselves he was going through phases. We made excuses for his behaviors. We gave him everything and let him take it.
Here, take more.
But something in me knew.
Barry can take care of himself. That’s what I told Molly when she first came up with this harebrained idea to come get him. She knows it’s true, too. We both know it, Aunt Janice knows it, Pam knows it, and yet we came, me and Molly, to take care of Barry.
And now we need money. For Barry. Because he got in a fight and he’s in jail. All hands on deck for Barry. Well, I’ve got money now, and I’m here.
I make a purchase for myself. “Thanks, Wilson.” Then I stride out the door and back onto my bus.
Let’s get this over with.
MOLLY
There is a sign at the door: ALL ARE WELCOME. Another says MAY ALL BEINGS REALIZE THEIR TRUE NATURE. Eddie points to a large Om and smiles at me. He is happy to be here. His friends are happy to see him. They make tea for us. They smile.
We are in the courtyard waiting for the phone to ring somewhere. Silent monks in long robes and with clasped hands walk past us in a line, a fountain burbles, green plants sway. More tea is served. The smell of incense surrounds us. Somewhere a tiny bell rings once, softly. Everything about this place says calm.
But I am going crazy with worry. Eddie thinks he’s comforting me when he says, “Sit quietly. Your don’t-know mind will become clear. You may even get in touch with your Buddha-nature.”
Flam sticks close to Flo, who pets him and asks me, “Do you want to go sit in the meditation room?”
I shake my head. I try to relax. I take my first deep breath in San Francisco when a quiet, smiling monk in a long robe comes to tell us we have a phone call.
DAZED AND CONFUSED
Written by Jake Holmes
Performed by Led Zeppelin
Recorded at Olympic Studios, London, England, 1968
Drummer: John Bonham
MOLLY
“All of you, say nothing,” says Cassandra as we walk together through the echoing rotunda of City Hall to the courtroom. “The man who was threatening to press charges has declined to do so, I don’t know why. I would have, but that’s another story. As it stands, we may have a good chance for dismissal here. How long has it been since you’ve seen your brother?”
“Over a year,” I say, stepping faster, trying to keep up with Cassandra’s fast clip.
“Say nothing when you see him,” says Cassandra. “This is a courtroom, not a family reunion picnic.”
“Yes, ma’am.”
“Where’s Flam?” asks Norman.
“We left him at the Zen Center,” I tell him.
Cassandra opens the door with one hand and removes Eddie’s hat with the other. She takes a closer look at Flo as he passes her into the courtroom. “Come here.” She straightens his tie. Flo wears sandals, bell-bottoms, one of Norman’s white oxford shirts, and a tie Jo Ellen gave him.
Eddie takes my hand and leads me to the row behind the defendant’s table. I let him do it. He’s a nice guy — I know it, and so does he.
Norman sits next to Eddie and me, and Flo sits at the end of the row. So Eddie and Flo flank us, like sandwich bread.
“I’ll be back.” Cassandra disappears under a sign that says JUDGE’S CHAMBERS. She shuts a door.
My heart bangs against my rib cage. I have a hard time breathing. Now Norman takes my hand and squeezes it. I squeeze back. We wait an eternity. I wonder where Jo Ellen is. Where is Barry? Is he behind that door? Are all welcome there? I say nothing. I do as I’m told.
A policeman walks up the aisle, opens the small gate, walks across the courtroom and through the JUDGE’S CHAMBERS doorway. A man dressed in a three-piece suit does the same. He has a tall young man with him. Everyone disappears.
Soon a court reporter leaves the judge’s chambers and sits in a box by the judge’s bench. I’ve seen them do this on TV. She is followed by the policeman, the judge, and everyone who just trooped through the courtroom, and then — my brother.
Tears flood my eyes. There he is. Barry. He looks so much older. My heart!
Barry is your heart. That’s why it’s breaking.
NORMAN
When he finally walks into the room with Cassandra, he’s strutting. Strutting! Smiling at no one — at his own good fortune, maybe — and strutting until he’s in view of the judge, who is sitting higher than we are and looking out at us. We are the only other people in the courtroom, but Barry doesn’t even look at us. He doesn’t come to the defendant’s table. He stands in front of the judge and next to Cassandra.
It goes quickly. Gavel down, a repeat of what was decided in chambers, dropping all charges, an agreement on damages from Barry’s attorney Cassandra, an okay from the district attorney. Then a promise from Barry to pay specified damages, court costs, and a fine. Then a question from the judge to Cassandra. “Who can vouch for this man, counselor?”
Cassandra walks briskly to where we are all seated and pulls Flo to his feet, almost drags him through the small gate, and shoves him in front of the judge. Barry still does not look at us.
“I vouch for my brother,” says Flo. “He is a lost soul. We have come to take him home.” He puts his heart into it. He sounds like he’s auditioning for a play. Barry stares at Flo but says nothing.
“Is this your wish, young man?” the judge asks Barry.
“Yessir,” says Barry, as if he’s known Flo all his life.
“How far away is home?” asks the judge.
“Very far,” says Flo in a Julius Caesar voice. “Across the continent.”
Cassandra clears her throat.
“Charleston, South Carolina,” says Flo, more humble.
“So ordered,” says the judge. Barry turns and begins to hotfoot it away, but the judge stops him. “Just a minute, young man.” Barry turns back. The judge folds his hands on the judge’s bench in front of him and speaks directly to Barry.
“Young man, you are lucky. Lucky you are not going to jail tonight and awaiting trial. Lucky you have this woman for an attorney. Luckier still in the district attorney. But luckiest of all that the young man you pushed down the stairs at the Castro Theater is not pressing charges. He has cracked ribs, a broken arm, and a black eye. You won’t be lucky next time. You come back into my jurisdiction, the criminal justice system will be happy to put you away — for years.” He beats his gavel again. “Get out of my courtroom.”
The judge leaves the bench and swishes his robes behind him, back to his chambers. Cassandra stalks away from Barry as he wheels around, turns on his megawatt smile, and lets us have it.
Cassandra stops at our row. “He’s not worth it,” she says to me.
Barry catches Cassandra’s arm. “Hey. Thanks a lot,” he says, still smiling.
“I didn’t do it for you,” says Cassandra. She’s furious. “I did it for your sister. She’s fourteen years old and has crossed this country to find you. You can thank her.”
“I will!” says Barry. He claps me on the shoulder and moves me out of the way, grabs Molly, and pulls her to him. “Polka Dot, come here!”
Molly is sobbing. Sobbing. I race to catch Cassandra before she leaves the courtroom.
“Thank you!” I call to her. She stops. “I want to pay you,” I say. “I have money.”
“Give it to Jo Ellen,” she says. “And see the clerk of the court to pay fines and court costs before you leave here today. I have to be in Berkeley in thirty minutes.”
She begins to open the courtroom door, thinks better of it, and turns back to me. “I want to tell you something,” she says. “We buried a Berkeley student last month, Jim Rector. Another man was blinded. Hundreds more were hurt during the People’s Park protest. Governor Reagan called out the National Guard and things got bloody. We’re still dealing with the aftermath and trying to keep students out of jail, expunge possible criminal records. The Guard is still on campus. These kids may be misguided, they may not be, but what I know is they are exercising their First Amendment rights and they are not throwing people weaker than they are down staircases and laughing in the faces of those trying to help them.”
You gotta go after the bullies. I would do it again. I would go after the bullies.
Cassandra puts a hand back on the courtroom door. “That’s all I wanted to say.” She pushes open the door and is gone.
MOLLY
I don’t want to let Barry go. I cling to him like he’s a lifeguard and I’m drowning, and he laughs and laughs, so happy to see me, or so happy to be free, or both, who knows, but he laughs and I am in his arms, and life is so good, so good, so good. I say that to myself as I cling to him. I think about Mom pulling me to her. Find him, Molly. Find your brother. Norman will help you. Bring him home.
My brother hugs me back with those strong arms and lifts me off my feet and brings me to the aisle where he swings me around. I start laughing through my tears.
When he puts me down, I start crying again. Barry squats in front of me, pulls his shirttail out of his jeans, and wipes at my eyes.
“You don’t know what we’ve been through to find you!” I say, choking on my tears.
“Shhhh,” says my brother. “You found me. I’m here.”
But I can’t stop talking to him; it’s been too long. And I need to know something. I almost whisper it.
“Did you push that man down the stairs, Barry? Did you?”
Barry’s smile dims, but not much. “It’s complicated, Polka Dot. I didn’t mean it. Things got out of hand.” His voice carries that same assurance it always has, that I’m going to tell you the way it is voice. “You believe me, don’t you?” he asks, but it’s not really a question.
I nod. But I don’t know if I do.
“He’s got a broken arm,” I say, searching for words. “He’s … hurt.” Eddie hands me a handkerchief and I blow my nose.
“I know, and I feel terrible,” says Barry. “But look, Molly —” He claps the palms of his hands on his chest. “It’s over!”
It’s over doesn’t make it feel all right. I wipe at my runny nose.
“We have to clear the courtroom,” says Eddie, pointing to someone trying to move us out.
“This is Eddie —” I start to say as Barry grabs my hand and pulls me through the doors and into the rotunda, where we find Norman standing with Jo Ellen and a well-dressed man wearing black slacks, a blue oxford button-down shirt, and brown dress shoes.
“Norman!” says Barry. He hugs Norman like he has been in solitary confinement for decades. “Thanks, man! Thanks for coming out here to get me! Thanks for springing me!”
Norman lets Barry hug him, but he hardly hugs him back. Barry doesn’t notice, but I do. Everything feels off.
“You must be Barry,” Jo Ellen says. She shakes his hand. “Congratulations, you’re a free man.” Even Jo Ellen sounds off.
Flo catches up with us. “How’d I do?”
I hug him madly and tell him he’s my honorary big brother. Barry shakes his hand and gives him another one of his big smiles. “Thanks, man.”
Eddie sits on a bench and watches us. He gives me a half wave when I notice him and a look that says I’m fine here.
Jo Ellen introduces the well-dressed man in the crew cut. “This is my dad,” she says. “Lieutenant Colonel Phil Chapman, USAF.” She makes introductions, then says, “I’m sorry I missed the courtroom; I was picking up Dad at the airport after I talked to the man who decided not to press charges —”
“Good man, that Parnell!” interrupts Barry, grinning.
“Is … is he all right?” I stammer.
Jo Ellen smiles at me. “He will be,” she says. She glances at Barry and adds, “It’s good of you to ask, Molly.”
She turns to Norman and says, “My dad and I are driving to Vandenberg tomorrow to meet Drew and then they fly home together to Charleston.”
“You’ll get to see a Titan missile launch!” I say.
“How did you know that?” asks Colonel Chapman. His eyes smile at me.
“We met Drew in Los Angeles,” I say. “At the Griffith Observatory!”
“Ahhh,” says Colonel Chapman. “He’s a talker.”
“He told us about the missile launch when we were in Little Rock,” says Norman.
“Oh?” says Colonel Chapman.
“I know,” I say. “It’s unbelievable.”
Flo shakes Colonel Chapman’s hand with great vigor. “Some of you Fly Boys dropped some of us Sky Soldiers at Tai Ninh in ’67. Never got a chance to say thank you. Maybe you’ll accept my thanks for them.”
Colonel Chapman shakes Flo’s hand and smiles at him. “That’s great to hear,” he says. “I’ll pass it on. Good to meet you, Flo. I’m flying C-141s over Nam now, with MAC, Military Air Command, strictly cargo and troops.”
Barry interrupts the conversation. “Who’s hungry? Can we eat?”
“I just wanted to say good-bye,” says Jo Ellen. “I’m glad everything turned out well for you.”
I hug her. “Thank you for helping us.”
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