Speedway

~Gonna’ find my way to heaven cause I did my time in hell…I wasn’t lookin’ to good but I was feelin’ real well…

Bill Frivol
The Nation
C/O Zentz Publishing Inc.
118 Avenue of the Americas
New York, NY
10029

Dear Bill:

Here’s what we’ve got so far on the Denniker piece. Not a fucking bone-anza to be sure, but Mr. Denniker is game, and every session brings new treats. Take this very raw, very first round and be assured: the thing’s got LEGS. I’ll send you another batch by weeks end and then work through the weekend to get number three crushed into diamonds. If The Nation is still 10-timing then I think Summer 2, Fall 1, Fall 2 would be the way to run. A holiday extravaganza capped off with Keef, Altamont, and time travel…Beats Hell’s Angels by a nipple or two, no?

Best,
GC

PS: The harvest in Eugene started early and we’re a rager already in late August. Come out and go unconscious with us won’t you? I’ll leave the lights on…

Smokey Denniker started feeling better as the suburbs of the Golden State gave way to the Livermore desert. After spending most of a day beating his psyche senseless with worry, He’d finally ripped through his reserves and was, for a while, content to watch the sand turn purple as the horizon crawled past. Passenger number four, he was, and comfy. Right rear in a spanking Cadillac, gleaming and clean. They picked him up halfway down the 405 towards San Fran. The girl driving was a dry honey blonde with a deep rasp of a voice. She proffered no greeting. The brown-haired guy next to her didn’t turn around either. The girl in the back bench, brown all over and amazing, spoke from rolling while holding the door:

You tryna get to San Francisco?

and looking right into Smoke’s eyes. He jumped in, the Caddy never actually coming to a full stop.

They were from the valley, elated at the biggest rock and roll party yet thrown falling the same weekend as their parents 40th wedding anniversary. Left to their own devices for a week, the Armour kids had set out for San Francisco on a rumor: The Dead would play there in Golden Gate, The Stones too, Sunday next. Lynn Armour’s brother Nicolas was, she proclaimed, too young - at 15 - too be left alone. Besides, he knew where dad Roger Armour kept the car keys to the virgin-new powder blue, 1970 Cadillac Eldorado Convertible he’d recently bought, CASH, with the money from his bonus. Lynn Armour thought that was ironic, since her dad had earned the bonus by selling more Cadillacs than anyone else at the dealership where he worked. The amazing one, Toni, smelled of honey and had bare feet. She’d spoken since the lift was offered, but mostly just to agree:

Laurel Canyon is awesome:
Totally awesome. I love it there

I saw Bullit, with Steve Mqueen? I loved it:
Me too, Steve Mqueen. I love him!

I’m like cooking. I work at a restaurant now as a line cook. It’s hard, but I love it:
Wow. You’re a cook. That’s SO great…

And so on and so on, deeper into the desert, the conversation reducing to occasional discussions of local geography between long silences. They went on like that through a dusky sky’s incremental evolution through purple, grey, and then flat black. At 10:17pm it was absolute lightlessness as far as the eye could see in any direction. Nicolas - slumped over in the passenger seat - had switched driving duties by then with his sister. When the tape we were listening to came to Sympathy For the Devil, Lynn opened all the windows and turned the Delco stereo up past it’s comfort zone. She killed the headlights, and it was just the kids and the music, undulating easy Cadillac sine-waves down the cooling tarmac. Speed and direction indistinguishable for the void enveloping their progress.

Dude…

Spake Smoke, almost asleep on a front-lawn sized leather bench.

This car…

But nobody said anything back and he let it lie.

***

He must’ve dozed a bit, because he was having weird waking dreams in which Vulture and three bikers he didn’t recognize were looking him over and castigating him. They were talking in words he didn’t understand, occasionally laughing out loud, but mostly just standing there looking big and mean. Despite the fact he couldn’t make out words, Smokey knew full well what they were discussing ways of doing away with his corpse after they’d hacked him up. Laughing about how his poor self would look butchered and then left to rot in some Tenderloin-District dumpster.

They were telling him cats would eat his eyes…

One of them, a six foot-something fat dude with a baseball bat, said it out loud. Again, the giggling and dicking-around noises. Poking at his person and licking chops.

After that, the dream dissolved into the ether and another, more realistic one took it’s place. This time it was just him and Vulch, sitting atop a gigantic cliff. He could see clouds going by below them, and vertigo gripped him like vice. The Vulture stroking his weird silver and black billy-goat, saying: “A week kid. A whole sexy seven days… Don’t make me come looking for ‘ya!” and then he shoved Smoke off the rock, screaming into air too thin to hold him up.

***

Authors note: At some point during my driving shift, I remember telling the girl about the thing with Vulture and the speed. Maybe I’m making that up. Even so, weather or not I told her doesn’t change the story that much. Since I’m who lived it, I always have me telling the girl, and her sympathizing with me. When I get to the part about having to get into the stash with my own head,, she makes a concerned face like: “oooh. Terrible.” Then I tell her about the math, how it doesn’t work. About how, no matter how much cash he made at the shows this weekend, Vulture was going to kill him. Sometimes, after saying the part about Vulture, I imagine her getting on the phone to some unnamed but fabulously wealthy relative, and asking him, no demanding him - in the name of fairness, and justice - to wire her three g’s. None of that crazy shit happened, but I’m almost certain I mentioned the problem.

***

(sniiiiiif) Wow. Fuck. Thanks. Fuckin…Wow. Wow!

(sniiiiiiiiiiif) Good right? Good right?

It was. That was the thing. If it wasn’t so fucking spellbindingly superior, he probably never gets involved. He wasn’t really with speedy kinds of drugs, except - of course - as a utility towards avoiding the need to sleep for extended periods. He was an opiate man. Everybody knew that. But the substance he ingested with Fitch three nights ago was no kind of speed he’d ever felt. Fitch had brought it over on a Sunday, and they’d each had a little taste before halftime. After the taste, the game, the food, and the television were abandoned in short order, ceding the activities list to more immediate and productive endevours. They - he and Fitch - cleaned the house, did the floors, organized every closet, filed every file, scrubbed for mold, and vacuumed in places that had never been vacuumed. They took everything out of the refrigerator and freezer, defrosted, scrubbed out the long-frozen orifice’s with light bleach, replaced the food in neater, easy to understand groupings, and did away with anything out of date. They cleaned, washed, waxed, and detailed the interiors of Smoke’s car, and both his roomate’s cars, and the cars of four more people who happened to drive by during the hour of car-washing. Fitch and he solicited each of those while running - from a standing, car-scrubbing start - alongside of the cars as they trundled through the neighborhood. They’d found a stray kitten, assisted it in giving birth, and then run off, taken delivery off, and hung around the neighborhood, 300 “Free to Good Homes” flyers. They’d recovered a stolen purse, and wrote up a business plan for their own motorcycle dealership.

Then Fitch went home and Smoke fell asleep for 14 hours. The first thing he did upon waking the next day (wonder of wonders): call his old buddy Fitch…

***

He let you have the rest? All of it?

Fitch was clearly in disbelief, but he was acting out an exaggeration of surprise anyhow. The drug: How they sing! Smoke replied:

All of it. He’s running up to Big Bear this weekend and didn’t want to be road bound with this big white evidence grenade in his saddlebags. He comes back Friday night, so I got a week. After I pay him we can get moving to San Fran all worry free. I got four big fat Owlseys ready to slide onboard the very moment I get the cash to vulture. Now I just gotta sell ‘er up. The sooner I find some trade, the sooner I can relax. I want to be heading to Golden Gate in something rented. Rented and van-like.

Smokey staring off into space while speaking, aggressively trying to believe the lies he was telling his friend. He could see the potential rented van in his mind’s eye. It was purple with a 12-color gel coat depicting a wizard riding a griffin. In one hand the Wizard was holding a guitar. In the other, a newborn baby, naked and smoking a tremendous joint.

***

But circumstances conspired against poor Smokey, and things didn’t work out as planned. Suddenly, with everybody gearing up for the San Fran run’s three-plus hour arrest-gauntlet, nobody wanted to carry weight. Not when good, clean, strong Owlsey was shure to be in abundance. Speed, even pure, raw, nasty, euphoria-inducing speed like his wasn’t of any use. Nothing - it is well known - will stymie a good LSD rip like a leaner of great speed.

Vulture had given him three ounces and one week. After three whole days he’d sold none of the speed. After five days, he’d sold only six grams. Of course by the end of five days, he’d had to dip into the stash with increased prejudice, not having the cash to buy drugs of his own. By the time Vulture got hit the road for Big Bear (around 3am Tuesday), The rumors had been substantiated: The Stones and the Dead would play for free in Golden Gate park on Saturday.

For Smoke, it was a decidedly mixed blessing. On the one hand, he would be taking a huge risk by ducking Vulture. The festival was a one day event, but he was supposed to meet with the stinky biker they day before. Going to the show now meant jumping on the road earlier, Thursday am if he could, avoiding Vulture in a blatant, sort of suicidal way.

On the other side, being in attendance in Golden Gate would pay dividends far beyond mere music: There would be girls there, and free love was still alive and fucking in the city on the bay. Also, and perhaps most important, the concert would provide him the greatest chance of making at least most of the money for vulture. “Dude: they say there’s gonna’ be half a million people in Golden Gate on Sunday. You only have to move two ounces of tweek. The crowd is gonna’ be especially receptive to what you’ve got happening. Trust me, we could bring 3 pounds of this shit to San Fran and it would be gone by midnight on Friday”.

Fog. Ever the optimist. Even with all his friend’s reassurances, Smokey was getting no sleep. He stuck his thumb out early just as the Armour kids were getting on the road from the San Fernando valley.

***

Fuckin falling asleep…

It was only the third time hearing Nicolas Armour’s voice. The kid was a rock for the entire three hours but now his shit was flagging. For the last 70 or so miles, Smoke had witnessed roughly 35 instances of Nicolas loosing consciousness, and then jumping to alertness a few seconds later. A few times he actually began a move toward the front seat, ready to shove the kid aside and brake like hell in the case of contingency. The girls were both asleep. Smoke had an idea. He said:

I think I can help with that.

A few bumps of the bleach-white speed and Nicolas talked plenty: His parents wanted Lynn to go to college but she was stupid, and hadn‘t even applied anywhere. They’d lost a brother, an infant, two years ago and the Anniversary trip was the first time they’d been away since little Campbell Armour had died in his crib. His father, Andrew Armour, was the top salesman at Valley Cadillac, and this was the eighth (!) caddy they’d owned in as many years. Nicolas was a songwriter and hated when people called him “Nick”. Lynn was dating a black kid, mostly - Nicolas thought - to make her parents angry. If he could make it work, Nicolas planned on following the Grateful Dead up the coast and into the Pacific northwest. Jerry Garcia and Keith Richards were his favorite guitarists.

***

They hit San Fran early in he morning on Friday. Smokey had planned to hook up with Fitch and Stu Later that night, swallow the white lightning, and spend Saturday night, and all day Sunday in Golden Gate making back Vultures cash. Being almost a full day early though, he felt certain his friends would be hard to find, so he asked Nicolas if he could hang until they could be reached by phone. The younger Armour sibling was magnanimous:

Dude, if you keep me in that crazy tweek for the weekend, you can hang out all you want.

He motioned to his sister…

I’ll even let you fuck my sister. You and the Niggers can party it up, turn her out. She loves that shit!

Smoke laughed in the sort of uncomfortable way he employed when sudden, un-hinted-at racism made itself apparent. He said:

Whoa whoa…allright.

Lynn stirred from sleeping in the back seat:

Fuck you Nicolas. You’d love to fuck a black guy, faggot…

And she turned over and trundled off once again into dreamland. She’s been snoring and dreaming away most of the trip with her head in the great-smelling Toni’s lap. Toni was sleeping as well, but still smelling and looking amazing. Nicolas pulled the Caddy up to a towering walk up on the edge of the Haight. Smokey saw a throng of people out on the oversize porch. They had cups in their hands. Laughter and the smell of cheap Mexican dope filled the air. Nicolas jumped out, but turned and ducked back in to caution Smokey:

This is my buddy’s place, totally cool. But wait here with them and lemme’ see what’s what. San Fran is full of cops and they don’t trust anybody.

Smoke nodded and settled back into the sprawling front bench. His poor stressed mind fell, immediately, back into the problem of Vulture and the Money. There was plenty of time, and yet…Something about the whole thing felt weird. The ride, the bigoted Nicolas, the shows…Somehow none of it seemed to work for him. He decided that he wouldn’t eat the Owlsey until the speed was sold and the cash safe. Nicolas came shooting out of the house and down the steps just as Smoke was looking around, up and down the block, for a pay phone. He ran up to Smokey’s side and made a roll-down-the-window motion with one hand. He was already talking as the glass lowered between them:

Change of plans dude. You ever heard of a place called Aremont? No, wait…Ellsmont? Out in the desert…The dude said two hours.

Smoke put it together even as the Nicolas was telling him. Cut him off:

The desert. Not Altamont? Altamont Speedway? No fuggin way…:

No that wasn’t it…

***

1986 miles away to the East, Smokey’s father Matthew was awakened by weird noises in his house. He heard his daughter Elsie cry out once, and then again, then his son - sleeping in the same room as the girl - got in the act. He yelled:

“Daddy! Daddy”

And then something Matt didn’t understand. His wife, Anne, stirred and mumbled next to him:
What’s that Matt?

He was about to answer when the door to his bedroom was kicked open with a loud “crack”.Light flooded in. Matt - seeing with sleep-mottled eyes - could make out his son, then his daughter, both being dragged/led by rough grips around their upper arms. He saw the invaders behind them. Each holding a black, double barrel street sweeper in one hand and one of his children’s arms in the other. They were dressed in dark clothing, and wearing masks. Flesh-colored masks. One of them said:

The FUCK out of bed you two…

Matt fumbled for his eyeglasses on the night table. His son, wriggling in the grip of the masked intruder, was saying:

Daddy help me! It hurts Dad!!!

His wife began to scream, loudly and without pausing for breath. The sound was piercing and for a few seconds - wife screaming, kids in danger, masked robbers threatening - he thought he might be passing out. He steadied himself though, and found the spectacles. His wife was screaming still, unintelligibly and constantly, so the masked man holding his son had to shout:

The wife shuts the fuck UP! Or I’m blowing your kid’s fucking face right fucking NOW I swear to FUCKIN’ Christ!!!

(Aughhhh, Aughhhhhh, Matt! Augghhhhh)

Shut her up!

(Aughhhhh, Augghhhhhhhhhhhhhhhh, my babies, Maaaaaaaaaaaaa…)

The Fuck Up!

(AughhhhNoooooooooo)

Shut the fuck…

(Daaaaaaddy!)

BOOM!!

It was easily the loudest sound any of them had ever heard. The bed was coated instantly with the remains of his three year old son’s head. It looked like a vat of black and red porridge had been spilled onto the comforter. He was deaf. His wife had lost consciousness, and she slumped in the muck next to him. The invader let his son’s headless corpse slough to the floor. And then, for a few minutes, Matthew Denniker did pass out. The darkness beckoned and he followed, hoping somewhere deep inside that all this was some terrible nightmare, and that he’d wake back in the world, with everyone safe.