Wow. Early. And fucking freezing. Oh maaan…
California was known the world over for it’s girls and it’s surfers but Stinson Beach in March was cold cold cold.
Desolate man, fuck
It was a whisper in his mind, somehow leaked into his mouth. Turned into words. Silence - in response - told him he was alone. He was not awake, but he was no longer sleeping.
Hunter ?
He looked in the backseat and in the front seat.
Jeez man what the fuck ?
Then he saw. Below the frosty window-fog clouding the dirty windshield, a shape wiggling around in the middle distance. It was moving, but not fast and with no grace whatsoever. The opposite really - it seemed as if the person was falling from place to place, in dire need of rest after each pathetic burst of precious 7:30am, Stinson Beach-in-March, energy.
Hunter. Rummaging in the beach lot trash looking for breakfast.
***
Rob. Hey Rob mannn…
No response. Hunter was…Dead. No, his chest was moving. Ah. He wasn’t looking for breakfast, he was loosing his dinner. Had the common courtesy to take it to a can. Hunter: All class.
Rob, what the fuck dude? Where’d everybody go?
From inside the bucket:
The last I knew Bear was pushing that fucking thing around and wailing and then he was ripping up something. Newspaper or something…
Garcia smiling with the fragmented return of his memory
Yeah mannn. He was fuckin’ fucked up man. Yelling…I was getting a little scared. Fuckin’ Bear has weapons.
Yeah. I followed him out here, and I saw him race up to the top of the bluff out over there. I think he started a fire.
He did man. I fell asleep while he was dancing around it. He was yelling the word “shoes” over and over.
Hunter was still looking at the now-deserted bluff. In relief against the sea. Bathing in chilly No Cal ocean breeze. In the day it didn’t seem so far away as it had last night. Hunter with a lazy slow-motion double-take:
Wait…“Shoes” he was saying?
Yeah. Shoes man.
Hrmmmm. Hey what time is it?
Garcia looked at his watch…
It is….Hey man, fuck…
He made a sour face at is friend, whining:
Thing is out man. Some state of the art shit.
Hunter chose not to discuss the watch. Saying…
…I’m hungry dude. Let’s go get a ride back with Babbs or something. We gotta get the wagon towed…
Where’s that house man?
Uggghh. Hmmm.
They both just sort of looked around feeling sick and depleted for a while. Racking their crippled sense of direction. Stinson beach, giving no quarter in the frozen sunlight. It took 2 frozen hours to retrace steps, compare intel, define objectives. In San Francisco they were calling Garcia “the Thinking Man’s Hendrix”. But this was not San Fran, and most “thinking” men were probably home sleeping. Not likely to be suddenly regaining consciousness in a broken car on freezing, deserted Stinson Beach.
***
The girls expression was one he'd never seen before. Just that tiny glance though, and he found himself puzzling feverishly over just what it was she needed, and the means by which he might provide it. She was that hot, like to make a guy noble. Fuckin' chivalrous, he was. He crouched down next to her, squatting facing her armrest seat on the faded leather sofa. He put his face to hers, almost nose-mashing, and spoke:
Hey there. I'm Jerry. I think I can help.
At the same time he listened to Kesey, stage-whispering to Neal on the opposite end of the couch. Garc tuned in without breaking eye-congress with the girl. Heard Kesey:
…So yeah I didn’t even see. I came in here, started opening bottles of fuckin’ punch, pourin’ ‘em in trashcans and whatever. I didn’t even realize it was gone until Babs is tappin me onna shoulder, and he gives me this fuckin thing…
Kesey held up what looked like a 12oz. Coca Cola bottle and mushed it in Cassady’s foreground.
…Says “where’s-a-acid boss?”
Cassady, flipping his claw hammer with his right hand, was leaned in to Kesey. Almost - it looked like to an amused Garc - as if he was going in for a kiss. He saw understanding, then concern cross his buddy’s face. Neal, still speaking:
Woah. Like all of it? She drank that whole thing?
Fuckin’ yeah she did. She fuckin’ drank all of it. Last week I took an even tablespoon on a clean tolerance and I spent the next four days looked in my bathroom, tryna' fuckin’ see down the drain in my bathtub.
Neal - all furrows and nervousness now - leaned even closer in. Stage whisper replaced by something louder:
That’s all we have!? MotherFUC…
No. No. Listen. No. I have plenty more. All these…
he held up four more 12oz. bottles of clear liquid. It looked like water.
…Are full. But Neal, dude she ate like a million mics. She has to go see a doctor man. In like an hour she’s gonna start seeing fire and brimstone. In two she’s gonna think she’s a zebra. By tonight she’ll have probably attempted to kill somebody. She has to go, but I dunno man, I got two strikes.
Neal said:
I jumped bail just last week …
…Waving his arm to make a point.
Shit boss everybody in here is dutch with the law. She’s gonna have to ride this shit out. No choice. Hey doll!
The girl, who’d been staring at Garc while he stared at Kesey and Neal, snapped to. Annunciating sharply through slurry, active lips. Garcia saw her eyes were beginning to glaze and expand.
Me?
Before then, Cassady hadn’t noticed that the girl was amazing looking. But now, sizing her up a bit, he noticed a tiny waist, nice rack, great blondish hair, and a pretty, hot-chick smell. Looking up and down, he lost focus on Kesey, leaning over him to get more of himself near the girl.
Yeah. Um…Darlin’? What’d you do? Why’d drink that whole thing?
Well, somebody told me there was acid in it. I came here to take acid.
She looked satisfied, if not pleasantly surprised to have been able to fashion an answer. Then added:
So I drank it.
Cassidy, flipping the right hand hammer ever higher, but leaning and turning directly away from it:
Uh huh. Ok. So, uhh, you’ve done this before? (flip, flip flip...)
What go to parties? Sure!!
No doll. I mean, Have you ever eaten acid?
Nope, that’s why I came here. Why?
Cassady, Garc, and Kesey all now flipping nervous weird glances back and fourth. Never?? Garcia spoke:
Ok, well, good! We’re gonna’ have a great time. An remember: Any questions, you can ask one of us.
Oh thanks that’s really great. Hey I think I know you! Wait. Are you Marty Balin?
Oh my god you are! I’m sitting on a couch with Marty Fucking Balin!
Jerry nodded. Said:
Hey Kesey, can you throw me one of those bottles man?
Kesey said nothing, threw the acid.
Garc turned back to the girl:
What’d you say your name was again?
Oh me? I’m Gracie Slick! Ha! No I’m not. I’m not really her. I just said that cause you’re Marty Balin! Gracie plays in a band with him! I love him. You, I mean. I love you Marty.
She stares directly into his eyes for a full 80 seconds, as if she were now watching the Airplane in person. When she snapped back she spoke very firmly and deliberately:
My name’s Mia.
Mia Great…
Said Garcia, opening the acid bottle. He raised it in mock-toast, saying…
Here’s to you Mia.
He upended the bottle. Glogging it all down in one go.
Cassidy, dismayed at having Garcia steal his idea, spoke up:
Uh-Uhh hippie. Not on my watch.
He threw the hammer hard up toward the low plaster ceiling, the nail-claw smashed through and - for a moment -the hammer was still. Imbedded in the plaster and suspended over the heads of the four people on the couch. All, except one, looked up. Cassady - not looking up - snatched one of the remaining two bottles from Kesey’s lap opened it, and buried it in a shot-gun gulp. He looked at Garcia. At the girl.
Well, whaddaya say we hi the bricks?
Kesey, opening the last acid bottle and guzzling it all the way down, said:
Yeah we can’t stay here. We just stole all the drugs!
They tried their best to be low-key in escaping.
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