My Beautiful Hippie (13 page)

He frowned. “Slow, but Gus signed a contract with Bill Graham to play three weekends at the Fillmore in the spring.”

“Oh! Oh! Could you sneak me in?”

“Sure.”

“Really? And Rena, too?”

“Rena? That theater type you brought over that one time?”

“Rena isn't a type. She's my best friend.”

“All theater people are the same. Self-centered egomaniacs.”

Clearly my two favorite people in the whole world were not impressed with each other. It made me sad. “Wow, I didn't know you were so uptight and judging.”

He cocked his head and smiled wryly. “Sor-ree.” He picked up the pot sticker I'd been pursuing and popped it into my mouth. “You have to sneak in, huh?”

“Age doesn't matter,” I said, quoting him again. “I had a birthday last week.”

“Happy birthday. Which one?”

I swallowed the pot sticker and grinned.

“I have to sneak into the Fillmore, too,” he admitted. “It's not that hard.”

This good news made me laugh: “I thought you were way over eighteen!”

“Nope, the government's going to let me live a few more months.”

The draft. It hovered like the black angel of death in the soul of every American boy. “I'm sixteen,” I announced.

“Sweet sixteen and . . . kissed. I know for a fact you've been kissed.” He leaned over the table and kissed me lightly right then. I worried about my breath, but he said, “Mmm, ginger!” Kiss. “And garlic!” Kiss. “And soy sauce! You're delicious.”

The waiter set the bill on a little tray next to Martin. I took my four sweaty dollar bills out of my shoe and set them on top, and Martin added some change, leaving a small tip.

From Chinatown, we walked through North Beach, past the marina. “I wanted to take you to Muir Woods today,” said Martin, “but we really need all day for that.”

“Sorry,” I said.

“I know where we can go.” We crossed the Golden Gate Bridge, and when I stuck my thumb out at Martin's direction, I imagined the atom bomb dropping over us, everything blowing away, including myself and Martin, in a fierce, hot mushroom cloud.

A maroon luxury sedan pulled over to pick us up. Inside was a friendly couple, about my parents' age, from Kansas, who asked us all kinds of funny questions about being hippies as we
drove the fifteen miles to Tiburon. From there, Martin and I took the ferry to Angel Island. My whole life, I had looked across the San Francisco Bay beyond Alcatraz, to the green-and-brown hump of Angel Island, but I had never set foot on it. I knew it had once been an immigration station mostly for Orientals, the West Coast's version of Ellis Island, but now the few rickety buildings weren't used, and the island had mostly reverted to its natural state. No cars were allowed, so visitors traveled along the rough asphalt of its circumference on foot, bikes, and roller skates. Martin wanted to walk around the perimeter of the island, but by then I had blisters on my soles, heels, and toes.

Martin looked down at his sturdy boots and my pumps. “Why are you wearing those?”

“I told you. I had to be dressed up for master class.”

He shook his head. “Not worth it. There should be no such thing as shoes you can't walk in.”

I looked around at the other visitors and noticed I was the only one in a suit, nylons, and heels, except for a few old ladies. Walking the wooded dirt trails, I carried my shoes. It wasn't long before I had runs in my stockings, but I was too inhibited to lift my skirt and unhook the garters in front of Martin. Besides, it was cold.

On a sandy beach, we sat huddled together, talking and sharing a joint. It burned my throat and didn't have much effect. It was one of those great mysteries of life I had anticipated, only to feel let down when I unlocked it. At least I would be able to tell Rena and to hold in my own brain the thought, I smoked pot! The wind commanded Martin's hair to spiral and dance. I could have watched it forever.

We lay on the beach and kissed, and when the touching got too intense, I pushed him away. He sat up, hooked his arms over his knees, and stared out across the bay. “You're sure pure.”

“I like to take things slow.”

“You know I love you,” he said, still not looking at me.

“And Susie and Kathy and Judy and Cindy and Morning Girl.”

He got up in a huff and strode across the sand. I loved watching him walk in his lanky, loose-jointed way. He was a beautiful boy, even if he could never be mine.

I wondered if he was going to leave me there, stranded on the chilly beach without even the price of the ferry ride, but soon he circled back and pulled me to my feet and into his embrace. “I can't make you any promises, Joni, but for now, there's just you. Do you believe me when I tell you that?”

“I guess.”

“What do you mean you guess?” But he was laughing, and we had made it through our first fight.

The trouble with hitchhiking was that it wasn't reliable, especially if you had to sneak back into your house before your parents got home. It was dusk when Martin and I returned to Tiburon by ferry, and then we stood on the road outside town in the dark with our thumbs sticking out for a couple of hours. I fervently hoped Dad and Uncle Herb were getting along and the after-dinner bridge game was on. I was shivering and depressed, my stomach rumbling from hunger.

“You've got to smile if you expect someone to pick us up,” said Martin.

“I'm scared I won't ever get home tonight.”

“I know what.” He hid behind a bush, and when a car stopped with two men in it and I opened the door to the backseat, Martin leaped in beside me. On the San Francisco side of the Golden Gate Bridge, we got out on Lincoln Avenue. Martin and I hugged good-bye, and we took public transportation our separate ways. When I got off the trolley at Haight Street, I slipped off my shoes again and ran all the way home.

It was after nine, and our house was dark. I had made it! Using the key under the fourth flowerpot, I let myself in the back door and dashed through the house, eager to get out of my suit and into the shower before my parents returned. I bounded up the stairs and pushed open my bedroom door.

In the darkness, a man talked in a gravelly voice while a woman gently sobbed. My heart nearly exploded out of my chest.

It was Rod McKuen, murmuring his sad breakup poetry on an LP recording of
Stanyan Street and Other Sorrows
. I didn't have to turn on the light to know who was sniffling his accompaniment, but I did anyway.

“You scared the crap out of me, Denise.”

“Sorry. I just came here for a little rest.” She was flung on her little girl's bed with bloodshot eyes and a nose red from crying. “Where've you been?”

“At the movies with Rena,” I lied. “Don't tell Mom.”

“Why? What did you see?”

I dropped my chin, striving for a guilty look. “
You Only Live Twice
.”

“Shame on you, Joanne!” she said in her big-sister scolding voice. “Those James Bond movies are for adults!”

“Don't tell Mom. What's the matter?”

“Oh, nothing.”

“Something is.”

“I loved playing house when I was little. I thought all I needed was my very own stove and refrigerator to be set for life.” Denise squinted and sniffed. “You smell like marijuana.”

I held the sleeve of my jacket under my nose and inhaled ocean, soy sauce, patchouli, Martin, and pot. “Yeah. This tweedy stuff traps odors, and the whole neighborhood smells of it.”

Denise frowned. “The whole Bay Area.”

Rod McKuen had stopped moaning in his dejected, raspy voice. I didn't much care for him, but his poetry books and records sold millions. It made me think there must be a lot of brokenhearted people who liked to lie in the dark crying. The needle on the turntable floated back and forth in the center of the record. I lifted the arm, hooked it in place, and shut off the record player.

“I miss school,” said Denise. “But Gerald says a degree in art history is pointless. All I could do with it is be a docent in a museum, and those jobs are for men. He told me, ‘You don't want to take a job away from a man who needs it to feed his family.' ”

“That's stupid! You're the one feeding your family now.”

“I hate my job!” said Denise in a little squeaky voice. “I hate Mr. Marlowe! I correct his grammar in the letters he dictates to me, and then he changes it back. ‘Dear Sir: A representative from Manning Corporation will meet with you and
I
.' ”

“That's terrible! Everyone who's been to the seventh grade knows objective-case pronouns follow prepositions.”

“Not Mr. Marlowe, and he's the president of a whole advertising agency! So then I have to stay at the office late, sneak the letter from outgoing mail, and retype it
again
to correct it.”

I batted the air. “Why bother?”

“Because everyone just assumes if there's a mistake in a letter, it's the dumb secretary's fault.”

Miss Perfect couldn't allow that. I went into the bathroom to brush my teeth, wash my face, and change. I tugged off my panty girdle and massaged the red, indented lines it left on my body before slipping into my comfy flannel pajamas. I returned to the bedroom and began hanging up my suit.

“Where is everybody?” asked Denise, propped on an elbow.

“Mom and Dad are at Uncle Herb's and Dan's at work. Does Jerry know you're here?”

“No. He had some psychology seminar thing all day. I thought I'd come over here for a few hours' visit, but now I guess I'll spend the night.”

“Won't he wonder where you are when he comes home and finds you're gone?”

“I don't care. I thought being married would be a lot better. More comforting.”

I blurted, “Don't you like doing
it
?”

Denise blushed. After a moment, she said, “Yes, I do. It's nice. At least, I liked it at first, but then Gerald started complaining about my sexual performance. He says I have clitoral orgasms, not mature vaginal orgasms, which means I'm frigid. But it's not my fault. It may take me years of psychoanalysis to resolve my sexual frustration. He says probably I was sexually abused as a child and don't remember it.”

I was staring at her so hard I could feel my eye sockets straining to contain my eyeballs. “You were never abused. I'd know. I've been with you night and day our whole lives.”

“Well, that's what Gerald says.”

“Denise, this may come as a shock. Jerry doesn't know everything.”

Denise huffed indignantly. “I shouldn't be telling you any of this. It just came pouring out. I don't have anybody to talk to.”

“Mom would freak out if you said any of this stuff to her. I'll bet she and Daddy did it only three times.”

“Joanne, that's not true. Don't you ever hear them in the night?”

“Our
parents
have sex? Still? That the grossest thing I've ever heard!”

“Why would they give it up? They seem a lot better at it than Jerry and I.”

“You should try talking to Maxine.”

“Who's that?”

“Mrs. Fulmer.”

“Oh, her.” Denise wrinkled her nose.

“She knows a lot! She's studying women at the university. And she's the only one of Mom's friends who talks to me like I'm a real person.”

“She couldn't know more about it than Gerald. He's an expert.
His dissertation is on Freud and female genital sexuality.” She raised her hand and rubbed her thumb over her wedding ring. “I also thought this would be protection.”

“Protection?”

“From men grabbing at me. Just about every date I ever went on turned into a wrestling match. I was just so sick of it I thought, Well, I'll get married and be done with it, but no, nearly every day Mr. Marlowe needs a file out of the ‘P' drawer.”

“Huh?”

“It's right in the middle of the filing cabinet. I have to bend over to pull it out, and when I do, he wanders behind me and rubs up against me. ‘Pardon, Denise,' he says, like it's an accident. Sometimes I think I even feel his hands on my . . . on me. And when I take shorthand, he stands behind me and
breathes
.”

“He breathes?”

“Real heavy. I don't know what he's doing back there, sniffing my hair, looking down my blouse.” Denise shuddered.

“Can't you complain to someone?”

“Who, the boss? He's the boss!”

The phone rang. I went into the hallway to answer it.

“Joanne? Is Denise there?” Jerry was obviously mad or he would have called me Beethoven.

“Yeah. She just came over for a little visit.”

“What am I supposed to do for dinner? I'm starving!”

Every night my dad came home to my mother in her apron and fresh lipstick, fixing his dinner, but it made me mad that Jerry expected the same from Denise when she also had to work for that awful Mr. Marlowe. “Oh, make yourself a PB and J, Jerry
Whiner
field. What are you, helpless?”