Читать книгу Mountain Madness - Jimmy Dale Taylor - Страница 10
ОглавлениеIn 1967, the country was running scared. Confusion reigned. During the past four years hope had eroded as one devastating event followed another. That dreadful day in Dallas was still etched upon the memory of those who had watched and prayed as their leader, John Fitzgerald Kennedy, was killed by an assassin’s bullets. In death, JFK had captivated a nation’s attention even more than he had in life.
The war in Vietnam had escalated to the point where it was the new president’s, Lyndon Johnson’s, obsession. He seemed convinced that he could bomb Ho Chi Minh into submission. During any pause in the action the leader of the North Vietnamese would order his people out of their holes and they would rebuild what had been destroyed, working with a demonic fervor until the next wave of bombers roared in. It became evident that LBJ was not a field general. His constituents remarked about how he’d aged.
At home, a civil war was being fought. Not between the states, but between the generations. The antagonists were parents and their teenage children, young people who were rebelling against the assassinations and the war. Once the hippie movement gained momentum, it rolled like a mighty river towards California, carrying with it rebellious children from families who were devastated by the disappearance of their offspring. Highways were lined with hitchhikers, most heading west.
One day a child would be at home, resisting parents who were out of tune with the times. The old folks were willing to continue bombing until the bastards surrendered; the younger insisted we walk away from Vietnam and mind our own business. Many youths felt as though communism might even be preferable to our corrupt capitalist government. They cried out for new leaders. They wanted Robert Kennedy and Martin Luther King.
Many of the younger generation fought tradition, corporations, and established forms of organized religion. It was important to them that they identify with one another, not with the warmongers who were running America. They liked colorful flowers, beads and bells, and psychedelic drugs. Their long hair, hard rock music and questionable morals earned them the nickname, “Hippies.”
A horde of these dropouts followed the sun until they met the placid waters of the Pacific. Thousands migrated to San Francisco. Many homes throughout the land were missing one or more of their children. Parents often wondered if the fault lay within. Stunned by this sudden shift in values and culture, most suffered in silence.
Seeing the United States after three years in Uncle Sam’s Navy, Jimmy Dale Taylor was suffering from culture shock. His ship had docked at San Francisco when he had received his discharge, and he had stayed there.
Now, as he strolled towards his afternoon job in the Tenderloin area this Monday, Jimmy reflected on his current status. He worked at a bar down near the wharf. It wasn’t the kind of job he really wanted but he was employed, which was more than many of San Francisco’s new citizens could say.
He came from a family of eight children. His father was a disciplinarian who expected patriotism of his children. His devoted mother said of her son, “Jimmy wore his heart on his sleeve. He was a bit of a Romeo, but he would get hurt real easy and he’d always believed in showing women respect. It was the way I brought him up.”
It was no wonder Jimmy felt somewhat out of place among the hordes of hippies. He was clean-shaven, even if he had long sideburns. His dark hair was no longer cropped with whitewalls, but neither was it long and unwashed. It was of a length that could be combed straight back.
He stared as a bus roared up the hill, probably headed for Haight-Ashbury or Golden Gate Park. The vehicle was packed with the young and foolish. They shouted inaudible sounds. Hands were in constant motion. These were the flower children. They came from varied backgrounds and from all over the country. The bus belched black fumes and passed out of sight.
Girls wandered the streets. Many were homesick but felt cut off from their families. Now they were reaching out for whatever affection they could find. Give them a joint or a hit of acid and they would love you all night. Or until they passed out. Few of either sex had a steady job or a reliable source of income. To the extent possible, they cared for their own. They laid claim to parts of the Haight-Ashbury section. There they would often live together in vacant houses until they were discovered and thrown out by the cops. These same cops sometimes got their kicks by waiting until rain was pouring before tossing hippies out into the muck.
As Jimmy pressed on, he wondered if the country was tilted towards San Francisco. Hippies from all over the country rode a numb thumb to the Bay Area. It seemed as though the coast was a sediment trap for the malcontents.
These rebels liked to march down Market Street, protesting the Vietnam conflict. A familiar cry was, “Hey, hey, LBJ, how many kids did you kill today?”
Here there was a war, too. A constant struggle between the old law and the freethinking hippies. Jimmy was not willing to conform to what these dropouts considered to be a nonconforming society. He might puff on a joint now and then but he steered clear of hard drugs. Beer he liked. Maybe a little wine.
Jimmy wanted a change. He wanted to get out of San Francisco. He’d fastened on a place that had captured his imagination: Seattle. He’d heard there was clean air, good jobs, and more normal-looking people in Seattle. And girls who weren’t stoned.
As he moved along, cars crept down the street, horns honking. At a red light, a long-haired hippie, barefoot and bearded, probably stoned out of his skull, crossed the one-way street by leaping from one car hood to the next. There were the usual curses and shouting from drivers and honking of horns. The guy jumped off on the far side, shot them all the old right- hand bone, and went merrily on his way.
Jimmy shrugged. Similar occurrences could be seen every day. Time to get out of town. Maybe go to Yuma and visit my folks, he thought. It had been some nine months since his last trip home. Then his thoughts turned to Seattle once again.
Glenn True Clark believed he was a man born out of season. In just twelve days he would be forty-six. There hadn’t been any of this “anything goes” attitude during his youth. Now he lusted after and might even lay the meat to a hippie chick on occasion, but most of the younger generation would laugh, call him an old grandpa, and express doubts that he could still get it up.
Well, they were wrong. He had experience and staying power. When their legs were spread, they didn’t complain. He was the one who should be complaining. Some dingy broad had sure enough passed her crud on to him. He’d had to make a quick trip to Salt Lake City to see a doctor acquaintance who could be discreet. There had been little if any improvement. That was just too bad. Some stupid chick had infected him so he had no compunctions about screwing it into others.
Yeah, he had two pretty daughters who were about the age of these hot little runaways. This didn’t keep him from lusting. Their mother would be watching them. She’d damned sure better be.
He was running low on money, but this condition was only temporary. If a man was smart, and Glenn figured he was smarter than most, he could always drive a car without buying it and have a gun he could lay hands on in a hurry.
Glenn had spent Saturday night at a motel nearby. There he had slipped out and, taking advantage of the darkness, lifted a tag from a disabled car. It never hurt to have an extra. Time to get rid of the Utah plate and put on another.
Sunday morning, following a shower and shave, Glenn had stayed in the town long enough to have breakfast with his brother and sister-in-law. Their mobile home was only a block or two from where he had lifted the tag. After a couple of hours with his kin, Glenn had moved on. Sure, family ties were important but he was too different to feel comfortable around his relatives for extended periods of time.
Sunday afternoon he had cruised into San Francisco with the intention of getting laid and then moving on. Didn’t pay to stay too long in one place. Not when you’re hanging hot paper and traveling on stolen credit cards.
He had not found a willing woman. Not one young enough to suit his taste, anyway. And so he had spent Sunday night in his car, near Golden Gate Park. Alone.
Now he was cruising the streets of San Francisco, feeling more and more horny with each passing moment. The Oldsmobile purred like a mechanic’s dream as it climbed the hills with little effort. And why shouldn’t it? He’d had the foresight to visit the used car lot for a test drive before returning the following night to help himself. Some of these hick salesmen never seemed to learn that a smart man could have duplicate keys made.
Other than a few items left behind at his folks’ home on the coast of Oregon, all he owned was in this car. His gold-plated watch swung on the turn signal handle. A hand-carved billfold containing several stolen credit cards, fashioned by his brother who was a guest in Utah’s State Pen, lay in the glove compartment.
Still, there were times when a man needed cash. This might be the time to hit a store and then move on. Head up north. Where the chicks weren’t guarded night and day by some hippie punk.
In the car’s trunk were two .38 revolvers from a recent burglary. Wired to the underframe of the car was a rifle. A little insurance. Yeah, he had all he needed. All but a chick. Soon he would lay one and then he would be on his way.
As the car approached a deserted looking street, Glenn was surprised to see an acquaintance, Marty, standing on the corner waiting for the light to change. He pulled to the curb and called through the open window, “Hop in, buddy.”
The bar was swept out and the shelves were stocked. Jimmy would fill in while Eric took a break. First he stepped outdoors to escape the sounds and odors from within.
He leaned against the building, smoking a cigarette and looking at the girls passing by when he spotted Marty, an acquaintance, coming out of a nearby liquor store. A brown paper bag was under his arm and a man Jimmy didn’t know was by his side. Well, he had work to do. He flipped his cigarette into the street, waved, and had turned to go back inside when Marty called out, “Hey, buddy, wait up!”
Jimmy watched them approach. The stranger was big, not only tall, but heavy, with sharp features and thinning hair. He wondered what in the hell the old fossil was after. Probably panting after the young chicks.
Marty swaggered up to Jimmy and said, “Hey, my man, this is . . .”
“Jay,” Glenn True Clark said as he lifted his hand for a shake. The less any stranger knew about him the better. “Call me Jay.”
Jimmy’s slender fingers gripped Glenn’s thick ones. The man was strong.
Marty shot Glenn a quizzical look and said, “Okay, Jay. Since you’re Jay, this is John.”
Jimmy decided if they were going to play games, “John” would suit him as well as any other name.
Marty jerked his head towards the alley. “You want to go in there and have a swig of the good stuff?”
“Naw, I gotta go to work.”
“Then take my buddy, old Jay here, and buy him one or two, will you? He’s running a little short on cash today, and I got a hot one waiting. You know what I mean?”
Jimmy knew exactly what he meant. Marty would grab the first chick with hot pants and a cold conscience and they would hope to find a place that wasn’t too public.
Jimmy wasn’t happy with the prospect. Before he could decide whether or not to stake this guy to a beer, Marty left on his mission.
Turning to the man he knew only as Jay, Jimmy said, “We might just as well go in.”
Glenn studied his new acquaintance and grinned. He preferred to travel alone but there were times when another good man was needed. He had big plans and young John just might fit in. And hell, the dude wasn’t big enough to be a threat.
“Sure, John. Why the hell not?”
While Glenn headed for a table, Jimmy drew a beer and handed the money to Eric.
“Who’s your buddy?” Eric asked.
“Damned if I know. He got dumped on me.”
“You want some advice?”
“Not especially.”
“He looks like trouble.”
“He’s just an old guy out for a good time. Give me a minute or two and I’ll take over.”
As Jimmy approached the table, Glenn said, “Women and money. That’s all there is, ain’t it? What I’m looking for is an eighteen-year-old nympho with a fat bank account.”
Jimmy grimaced. “They aren’t too plentiful. Drink this while I tend bar.”
“I’ll buy the second round. That’s ‘bout all I’m good for at the time, but I’ll have plenty of money later.”
For twenty minutes Jimmy served as the lone barkeep. As he was turning the duties back to Eric, Glenn swaggered over and bought two beers. Jimmy followed him to the table.
Glenn fingered circles in the condensation on his glass and said, “So, John. What’s coming down? You been over in Vietnam?”
“Close enough. Too damned close.”
Jimmy shivered. Too damned close, all right. He had been off the coast aboard a tanker, a refueling ship. A target the enemy had tried its best to destroy.
Jimmy’s ship had sat in the middle of the fleet. You have to protect your fuel. Everywhere Jimmy looked he could see a ship. Until then he had never seen ships’ guns firing at sea. It had scared him.
“I was in the last one,” Glenn said. “Not just close, but in the son of a bitch. Came out of it disabled. There’s some work I still can’t do. What I can do though is find ways to make a living. Old G1-, Jay, might be a little short on cash, but that’s temporary. I’ll have money soon. Money and a chick. How about you? Got a lady to call your own or do you play the field?”
“Neither.” Jimmy shook his head.
“That’s one way to do it. But you need to have one you can fall back on at any time. As for me, I don’t want to be saddled day and night with no whining woman. I’ll just take ‘em as I need ‘em. Ain’t no trouble for old Jay to get laid.”
Jimmy listened without comment as Jay raved on and on about his conquests over women and his ability to make money without working. He was wishing Marty would come and take this old guy off his hands when he heard the word that captured his undivided attention: Seattle!
“What did you say about Seattle?” Jimmy asked.
“I’m thinking about heading up there. You want to go?”
“Seattle sounds good to me,” Jimmy said. Did it ever!
“Let’s get out of this town then,” Glenn said. “How you fixed on cash?”
“I got a little.”
“We’ll hit the road after dark. You ready to leave this place? Got something I want you to see.”
“Suits me.” Jimmy hurried to the bar and said to Eric, “Need any more help?”
“Naw, I can handle it.”
“I’m cuttin’ out then.”
“Better watch that guy.”
“You’re not my parents, man. Give me two six-packs to go.”
They stepped out into the afternoon sunlight. Glenn stopped to get his bearings, then said, “This way.” He led Jimmy to a white two-door Oldsmobile. “How you like this?” he asked.
Without really considering, Jimmy said, “It’s okay.”
“Okay, hell! It’s a beauty, man. I can get me a car anytime. We get tired of this one, I’ll get another.”
To Jimmy, this sounded like just plain bull from a man without money, but he didn’t comment.
Glenn keyed the door, climbed in on the driver’s side and unlocked the passenger door. “You still wantin’ to go to Seattle?” “Yeah, I want to go! I just need to pick up a few things.” The journey to Jimmy’s place took them through “Haight,” the name young immigrants had given Haight- Ashbury. It was a neighborhood filled with large Victorian houses once inhabited by the well-to-do and now by youth in torn jeans and mini skirts. Many of the guys had beards and ponytails. Their password was, “Freedom.” Some stayed; others moved on.
The community had certainly been transformed. Rock bands were plentiful. The Grateful Dead had bought a mansion here as had the Jefferson Airplane group.
As they drew near to Golden Gate Park, the atmosphere was charged. You could feel the excitement, sense the tension. Police cars cruised the area, hoping to keep the animals corralled. Young girls wore flowers in their hair and sold bouquets. Glenn visually undressed them all.
They decided to stop. Glenn parked, locked the car, and they strolled in. Jimmy carried both six-packs in a paper bag. As the fog closed in, they heard a ship’s horn out in the bay. Gulls cried as if trying to be heard over the raucous sounds from below. The birds were fighting a losing battle.
The two men entered the park and were bombarded by a cacophony of sounds. Individuals who thought they alone had found the profound meaning of the decade were shouting their messages. Some guitars played a soft melody; others blasted out hard rock. Jugglers vied for attention. A young girl with long brown hair sat beneath a tree, playing a sad tune on a flute. Many looked in need of a bath and a meal. Acid and grass were more available than was food.
Above the waist either sex might wear anything or nothing at all. Some girls, proud of their boobs, went topless. Some with tiny boobs went topless, too. Maybe the sunshine would help them grow.
As they wandered deeper into the park, they saw many couples embraced in the clutches of love, only partially concealed by bushes. It was as though the area had been set aside as a reservation and, so long as the inmates didn’t stray, they were left alone to satisfy what they considered to be basic needs.
Jimmy thought the park resembled a circus. Everywhere he looked, something was happening. There were jugglers and clowns, and music coming at them from all directions.
Glenn thought of it as a huge meat market. He was anxious to make a selection. Maybe a little rump roast, or breast of chick.
“Enjoy the view,” Jimmy said. “You don’t want any of these girls. There’s all kinds of disease down here. I don’t know much, but I know that.”
Glenn wasn’t ready to confide to Jimmy that he could spread a little infection around, too. After finishing one six-pack and starting on the other, they returned to the car. Glenn, who had done most of the drinking, was bug-eyed.
He opened the trunk and removed a brown bag. Inside the car, he glanced around to see if they were being observed. Satisfied, he pulled two revolvers out of the bag. Both were snubnosed. One was blue steel; the other a shiny chrome with a cracked handle grip.
Glenn pushed the shiny gun towards Jimmy. “This one’s got your name on it,” he said.
“What in the hell would I want with a gun?”
“Protection, man. Everywhere you look, there’s weird people. Never hurts to be prepared.”
“Where did you get it?”
“What difference does it make? Take it.”
Hesitantly, Jimmy took the gun in his hand. “Is it loaded?”
“I’ll load it for you. Ain’t no way you can protect yourself with an unloaded gun.”
Jimmy felt a certain amount of pride. This was the first pistol he’d ever owned.
Glenn took ammunition from a box and loaded the cylinder. Beside the glove compartment, under the dash, was a metal ledge with a curved lip. “Keep it up there,” he suggested. “Long as it don’t bounce out, nobody will ever know.”
Glenn plucked a leather pouch off the floor, placed his gun inside, and lay it between his feet. “Let’s see your gun. See if the safety is on.”
“Man, I know all about guns.” Jimmy didn’t want him to think he was a novice.
“Oh hell, yes! I’ll bet you’re some kind of an expert,” he said, looking at Jimmy and laughing. “Well, here’s how you hold it, sharpshooter.” He looked at Jimmy fumbling with the gun. “Now, where’s your pad?”
“Up ahead.”
Glenn parked outside a large house that had been divided into small apartments.
Jimmy gathered up the few items he needed, threw them into a duffel bag, and headed out.
“Where to now?” Glenn asked.
“Let’s stop off at the bar. I need to get some more money.”
As they were leaving the car, Glenn slipped his revolver out of its pouch and into a hip pocket.
“What in the world do you need that for?” Jimmy asked.
“Just for self-protection.”
They went into the bar together. Jimmy used the pay phone to call his boss. He told Troy he was going to be out of town for a few days and asked for some of the money owed him. Troy told him a couple of hundred would be sent within the hour.
Eric waited until Glenn had wandered off, then asked, “Who in the hell is that guy?”
“Like I said, I dunno. Jay somebody.”
“He looks like trouble to me.”
“You’re repeating yourself. Don’t sweat it, man.”
“Listen to me, Jimmy. I bet you two-to-one that if you go off with the old fart you’re gonna have more trouble than you’ve ever seen. I know the type.”
“Let it go, man. Give me a beer.”
A half hour later Jimmy’s money arrived and he was ready to head for Seattle. He found Glenn trying to make time with a blonde who seemed to be having some difficulty choosing between this new guy who was bigger and talked one heck of a line or staying with her escort who was a shrimp with a fat wallet. Before she could decide, Jimmy told Glenn they had to go right away.
“Dammit, John, you picked one hell of a time to hit the road. I was ready to get me some of that.”
“We’ll never get to Seattle if you go after that kind.” Jimmy swallowed hard and then said, “That guy can’t do you any good.”
“What guy, you asshole? I was after the blonde.”
“That’s the guy I’m talking about.”
Glenn stopped and gave Jimmy a hard look. “You’re putting me on.”
“You don’t believe me, go back and see for yourself.” “You mean I was trying to put the make on a man? He’s one hell of an impersonator, I’ll give him his due.”
“Yeah, he is.” Jimmy had no idea of the person’s sex but he suspected she was as female as any woman in San Francisco. From the looks of her, probably more than most. What mattered was he’d convinced Jay.
As they approached the car, Glenn said, “Hey man, how about sharing some of that money? I got things to buy before I get to Seattle.”
Jimmy wasn’t in any mood to take a bus or hitchhike. He peeled off three twenties and handed them to the old man. It looked as though this was going to be an expensive trip.
They both got into the car. Jimmy slumped down into the seat and fished a cigarette from the pack. He lit it thinking he didn’t care much for Jay, but the man was going to Seattle. The timing was just right. Jimmy was ready to put thoughts of the war behind him. He was ready for a new life.
