Boomers' War

By Vidda Crochetta

When David Burton runs away from home with his high school buddy in the summer of 1967, the seventeen-year-old never anticipates he is about to enter a social maelstrom that will rock the very foundation of his generation. In an intolerant time and place, the farm-raised teen lives big city life to its fullest, from a Digger's pad in Los Angeles to the uninhibited bars of Greenwich Village.

Author Vidda Crochetta has chronicled the end of the sixties from the perspective of one teen's coming-of-age amid America's greatest period of social change. No other decade carried the mantle of revolution on its shoulders the way the 1960s did. The baby boomers lived an avant-garde way of life that younger generations today can only imagine.

Boomers' War is about young people who smoked pot, made love not war, did not trust anyone over thirty, and changed the world.

• Language: English
• Publisher: iUniverse
• Release date: Oct 13, 2005
• ISBN: 9780595814121

Vidda Crochetta

Vidda Crochetta is the cofounder of two nonprofit organizations and former president of a market research services company. He was raised and educated on the western shore of the Chesapeake Bay in Maryland.

Book preview

BOOMERS’ WAR

A novel by Vidda Crochetta

iUniverse, Inc.

New York Lincoln Shanghai

Boomers’ War

Copyright © 2005 by Vidda Crochetta

All rights reserved. No part of this book may be used or reproduced by any means, graphic, electronic, or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, taping or by any information storage retrieval system without the written permission of the publisher except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical articles and reviews.

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This novel is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, dialogues and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events, or locales is entirely coincidental. Corporations, institutions and organizations in the novel are the product of the author’s imagination, or, if real, are used fictitiously without any attempt to describe their actual conduct.

ISBN-13: 978-0-595-37004-7 (pbk)

ISBN-13: 978-0-595-67444-2 (cloth)

ISBN-13: 978-0-595-81412-1 (ebk)

ISBN-10: 0-595-37004-7 (pbk)

ISBN-10: 0-595-67444-5 (cloth)

ISBN-10: 0-595-81412-3 (ebk)

Printed in the United States of America

Contents

ACKNOWLEDGEMENTS

PART I

ALL ACROSS THE NATION

CHAPTER 1

CALIFORNIA DREAMING

CHAPTER 2

TAKE IT TO THE STREETS

CHAPTER 3

THE SUMMER OF LOVE

CHAPTER 4

MAKE LOVE, NOT WAR

CHAPTER 5

LOVE IS ALL YOU NEED

CHAPTER 6

SUMMER’S END

PART II

A COMING OF AGE

CHAPTER 7

NO PLACE TO CALL HOME

CHAPTER 8

NEW YORK CITY AND EVERYTHING

CHAPTER 9

THE CENTER OF THE WORLD

CHAPTER 10

THE BOY IS LEGAL

CHAPTER 11

THE REAL PLACE FOR REAL PEOPLE

PART III

A CRACK IN TIME

CHAPTER 12

IN THE BELLY OF THE BEAST

CHAPTER 13

TUNNEL RATS

CHAPTER 14

FRAGMENTS OF DISILLUSIONMENT

CHAPTER 15

THE WHOLE WORLD IS WATCHING

CHAPTER 16

GETTING ON WITH LIFE

PART IV

THE WAR AT HOME

CHAPTER 17

DOMESTIC JOYS

CHAPTER 18

SPRING FEVER

CHAPTER 19

THE CALM BEFORE THE STORM

CHAPTER 20

THE CARNIVOROUS LILIES

CHAPTER 21

PATIENT ZERO

Acknowledgements

As every author knows, the process of writing a novel is never carried out alone. For all who helped and encouraged me, I wish to express my heartfelt thanks.

This novel could not have made it to published-print without the assistance of my sister Jane and my dear friend Paul Bennett. Their combined contribution is incalculable.

My sister spent uncounted hours with me via telephone or hunched around her laptop in what seemed to be a never-ending process of editing. If we missed any punctuation or spelling mistakes, the fault is entirely mine. Whenever I became frustrated at finding another error, she gently reminded me that I am the storyteller and that, had I tried to edit along the way, I would still be writing the novel. She is my longest and dearest companion on this earth.

My friend Paul and I have collaborated on many projects over the years, both business and personal. So much of the road map of my sentient life begins and ends with him. I can’t imagine being a writer without his review and indispensable input. Of all the humans on this planet, we share the greatest meeting of two minds.

Professor Franklin McManus has been my good friend for nearly four decades. There are many reasons why I have long enjoyed our brotherhood, not the least of which is, he is the only person I know who can quote long passages from Shakespeare and Henry Wadsworth Longfellow equal to the theatrical flair they should be given.

When I realized I wanted to write a few of the dialogues in Japanese and Spanish, I found the Google.com translation tools to be quite useful for the Spanish translations. (See back pages of this book.) I appealed to my good friend, Ken Aoki in New York City, for the Japanese passages. To my readers in Japan, I can only say that if any of the translations are not perfect, I take full responsibility. Ken warned me of the difficulties involved. I asked him to persevere and he very kindly accommodated me.

My friend and colleague, Kathy Cummings, shared many conversations about her and my interest in writing. I will not underestimate the encouragement she gave me when she first learned about my novel. Thank you, Kathy.

During the redo process, Johnny Romanek and Paul Bennett were extremely helpful in searching for the missed and misused words, misspellings, etc. my sister and I were unable to catch during the pre-publication edit. If there are any flaws remaining, they will remain a permanent part of the book.

All of the people at iUniverse.com have been tremendously helpful in the publishing process, especially, Dan Silvia and Phil Whitmarsh, my submissions specialists and Rachel Krupicka, my very resourceful and charming Publishing Services Manager.

And last, but not least, I did as my brother Gary often encouraged me to do: Write, write, write.

Vidda Crochetta At the beginning of the 19th century, the Village was considered the northern extreme of the city. By the time of the Civil War, stables on Christopher Street rented horse carriages for city folk to get away from it all, driving into the countryside above 11th Street. Free from the constraints of city life, Villagers thrived on their rural feeling of independence. Thomas Paine chose to live in a wood frame ‘country house’ at Bleecker and Christopher Streets rather than the congested lower Manhattan.

In 1810, when architect John Randel was assigned to lay out the expanding city streets in grid formation, Villagers resisted his gridiron plans in favor of the quaint, narrow, odd and disjointed layout of streets that infused this colorful neighborhood so unique to the city.

By the end of the nineteen sixties, hippies, gays, black power and feminism from Los Angeles to New York City were the new counterculture, stepping into the public eye as the nation’s most noteworthy nonconformists. No other place epitomized the heartbeat of social discontent than Greenwich Village. The bohemian community contiguous to Christopher Street provided a reasonably safe haven for the rebellious and young-eyed. Here was the place to rub shoulders with people attracted to the socially unacceptable behavior pervasive throughout the dim, narrow, crowded streets. Accounts of the so-called moral and immoral have long kept the Village in a fishbowl where all manner of lively activities were open to public view.

The sixties was the decade of liberation. More than any other result, the shedding of inhibitions towards lawful, peaceful protest propelled the frontlines of the baby boomers forward with spasms of social change, by reasoning where possible, with kicking and screaming if necessary. Rebellions against the prohibitions of sex and drugs swirled around in a melting pot of black power, feminine mystique, religious laxity, student unrest, unisex mores, gay rights, paisley bellbottoms and super long hair, all of which was bubbling into a strange and wondrous brew by the end of the decade.

Boomers’ War is a must read novel about the last three years of the Sixties. Free love, long hair, illicit drug use, unisex fashions, war protests, sexual rebellion, assassinations and a quest for love and peace that continues to this day.

PART I

ALL ACROSS THE NATION

CHAPTER 1

CALIFORNIA DREAMING

Since the tenth grade when David first met Chase, the two teens had conspired to leave home and hitchhike to California as soon as they graduated. Charles Chase didn’t like being called Charlie and his friends didn’t like calling him Charles. So everyone just called him Chase. Chase was one of the first guys in the school to let his hair grow long. He always dressed in black vests with tight black pants and Beatle boots. It was his long hair that caught David’s attention when they first met in the school cafeteria. Two years earlier, only a few guys were rebellious enough to give up getting their haircut. By the time David and Chase were seniors long hair had made only marginal headway on the road of social acceptance for men. There were the usual ‘What are you, a man or a woman?’ comments. It was hard to stay out of fights with the shorthaired boys. Luckily, most of the girls liked guys with long hair.

After lunch period, he always knew where to find Chase. The cool students were usually outside behind the cafeteria having a smoke and chatting it up. On the last day of school, David opened the exit door and stepped into the bright midday sunlight. Hey Dave, Chase called out. David waved him over. Chase pulled out a pack of Marlboros and pointed them at him. David shook his head. After watching his mother choking and coughing nearly every day, it made him immune to peer-pressure smoking.

No thanks, he said. Listen, can we talk about the trip now?

Okay, Chase said, let’s go over here. He turned, Hey Brenda, see you on the bus. Brenda nodded and waved. One of her girlfriends leaned over and said something in her ear and they both giggled.

You know, Chase, said David, leaning against the red brick wall, we have to decide which day we’re leaving. Are you going to tell your parents?

No, are you?

No.

We’re still minors, you know, David said. What if they call the cops on us?

Well, I’m telling my mother when we leave. I know she won’t say anything to the old man, Chase replied.

You’re telling your mother? Are you sure that’s a good idea?

Yeah, if we get stopped by the cops, she’ll vouch for me.

Throwing his arms akimbo, David asked, What about me?

She knows you. I’ll tell her your parents don’t know you’re leaving. Don’t worry. She can vouch for both of us.

Yeah, I like your mom. David said. I like my mother too, but I can’t tell her we’re leaving. She’ll tell the old man for sure.

How much money do you have saved up? Chase asked.

A hundred-fifteen. How much do you have?

Seventy.

That should be enough to get us by until we can get a job there. Is Friday good for you?

Yeah, said Chase, taking a deep drag and blowing out a column of smoke.

Okay, let’s meet at Gino’s.

*            *            *            *

Soon after the last class, the school hallway was empty of students. Shafts of broad sunlight angled downward through the ceiling-high windows. David Burton made his way to the staircase that exited the building. This was one late afternoon he would gladly walk home from school. Pushing the double glass doors open wide, he stepped out under the overhang that led to the half-circle driveway entrance. No students. No buses. No cars. He was entirely alone. He took the sidewalk that led to behind the school, stepped onto the June-green grass and headed for the street. As he walked across the Lacrosse field, he turned around to take one last look at this bastion of his compulsory education. Now that he was a high school graduate and seventeen, going on eighteen, it was decision time. Even though he was accepted at the community college, a fresh sense of freedom told him that, at the least, he had his summer open. The real decision was whether or not he would live at home to go to college in September. The college part was okay in his mind; the living at home part was not. But he could decide that after reaching California with Chase. They both agreed that if they liked it, they would stay. Chase’s only problem was Brenda. She didn’t want him to go. Chase promised her he would come back but then told David it really depended on whom he met in California. Chase was a really hot looking teen. Brenda had good reason to be worried.

The song "California Dreaming," by the Mommas and Poppas was a huge hit the summer before. California and girls were on a lot of kids’ minds. In 1967, Lyndon Johnson was president of the United States. The population was approaching two hundred million; people born during the great increase in birthrate in the years following World War II gave rise to a generation of baby boomers; the unemployment rate was 3.8 percent; a postage stamp cost five cents; the United States and Russia finally proposed a nuclear nonproliferation treaty; Joyce Carol Oates’ A Garden of Earthly Delight was published and the Beatles tune Michelle was to become song of the year. Life was good, at least for some people.

*            *            *            *

Friday morning was already a blue-sky day. David walked into the bright sunny kitchen. He knew his mother was there. The smell of her Lucky Strikes and fresh brewed coffee were the twin aromas he grew up with. His sister Janie was sitting at the far end of the kitchen table. He leaned over his mother’s shoulder to see what she was reading. Then, with his eyes only, he motioned for his sister to meet him in the basement recreation room.

The basement was divided into the utility half with washers, workbench and furnace on one side and the other half a wood-paneled recreation room with a full bathroom, serving bar, gas-jet fireplace and entertainment center. David’s guitar and amp sat, abandoned, next to the sofa. He could hear Janie’s light-footed steps coming down the center staircase.

So, are you guys really going? she asked, swinging around the bottom banister.

Yeah, I’m meeting him at Gino’s in two hours. David ran his finger over the guitar strings. It would be awhile before he played his Les Paul again.

I wish I were going with you, Janie said with a sigh. I’m stuck here for a whole year.

Don’t worry. You just stick it out, said David reassuringly. Wherever I end up, I’ll let you know.

Since grade school, David and Janie had planned their escape from a man who called himself father but was more like a slave master. Janie was one school year behind him. They both agreed that graduation was too important to leave before then. The plan was that David would leave right after graduation and a year later Janie would join him wherever he was. In the meantime, they would bide their time and stay out of the old man’s way as much as possible.

I don’t care if you end up on the moon, Janie declared. I’ll be right behind you. David laughed.

You know I’m not telling Mom I’m going to the coast. She and the old man will figure it out soon enough. David opened the drawer of the end table and took out the cash he had removed from his meager savings account the day before.

What are you going to tell her? Janie asked, looking out through the screen of the basement window. She turned back at David.

We decided to tell the parents we’re going camping for the weekend. We figured that would give us a head start.

Good idea. Let me go back upstairs first, directed Janie, so she won’t think we were talking. You better take a good long shower. You never know how long you’ll be on the road.

David looked at his sister. He knew he wouldn’t see her again until he decided where he would end up. He was only eleven months older than her. They used to joke that the old man couldn’t wait another month. No twins could be closer than they were; there were times when they could read each other’s minds.

I know what you’re thinking, said Janie. Don’t worry, I’ll be alright.

David leaned over and kissed his sister on the cheek. He would keep his promise to her. They would be together again come hell or high water.

The steam from the shower clouded the full-length mirror attached to the bathroom door. David dried his eyes and then used his towel to wipe a circle clear to see his face. He looked soberly at his own reflection, as if to reassure himself that he was doing the right thing. California was three thousand miles away; a lot could happen between now and actually making it there. He patted himself dry with the towel and wiped clear the rest of the mirror. Standing naked in front of it, he looked himself up and down, assessing whether he was ready to go out into the world. Lifting both arms wide, and turning slowly, he looked at his small, lithe form as if for the first time, making a full revolution. Still holding his arms out wide he softly said to himself, Well kid, this is who you are and this is all you’ve got. A new look of determination crossed his face. He stared hard at himself for a moment, and then added with uncompromising resolve, You go…you go now.

Gino’s, on the outskirts of Marywood in Baltimore County, was starting to pick up business. The fast-food hamburger joint was popular with the local kids. David waved at two schoolmates he saw sitting by the large window. He walked to the corner and waited outside on the sidewalk under a tall Sycamore tree. A few minutes later, Chase’s mom parked the Chevy Nova across the street. Chase jumped out and gathered his bags, including his acoustic guitar. Mrs. Chase called out to him but he couldn’t hear over the noise of the traffic so he just smiled and waved at her as she drove away.

Holy shit, David exclaimed, when Chase crossed the street, you’re taking the guitar? I left mine at home. We’ll never get a ride carrying all of this stuff.

I’m not leaving without my guitar, Chase responded.

Two guys with three bags and a guitar were not exactly traveling light considering their only way to get to the west coast was by hitchhiking. At least Chase left his dog home. David shrugged and picked up his bag. It figures, he thought, Chase would be the one with all the baggage. A warm breeze rummaged the bright green leaves overhead. It promised to be a beautiful June day.

In the forties and fifties, people who personally wanted a piece of blacktop history popularized hitchhiking across long stretches of the country. Traveling in the cars of strangers was not only a cheap means of transport but also a way to add a little adventure to travel. Finding one’s self on the open road set you apart from other travelers. It is always a dubious and sometimes dangerous venture. Frequent communication with the folks back home assuaged some of the fear of the unknown. Postcards from anywhere and everywhere were sent to friends and families as the hitchhiking experience unfolded.

The last thing Chase’s mom said to him as he lugged his bags out of the car was Send me a postcard. The plan was simple. Hitch down from Marywood to Route 40, take ‘40’ to St. Louis and from there, catch Route 66 to L.A. With no fear and lots of anticipation they positioned themselves against the curb, extending their right arms. David and Chase stuck out their thumbs.

Within two minutes a guy in a blue Plymouth braked. They jumped in the backseat and got a ride to the main highway. Their beginner’s luck held out. The next car was going all the way to western Maryland and the husband and wife didn’t mind the company. In the backseat, David and Chase sat back and grinned at each other. What a good start!

The small town of Union, Maryland was as far as the couple traveled before turning south off of the main highway. Chase had fallen asleep with his head slumped against the partially opened window. David knew, without asking, that he had been up late last night with Brenda. He nudged Chase on the knee. Saying their thanks, the teens hauled their luggage onto the pavement. The couple waved and sped off. Nightfall was approaching so, hopefully, another ride would preclude the need to spend the night. Unfortunately, Union is a small town. Not many people were traveling west that night.

David looked around and spotted the police station several blocks away. Let’s ask the cops if we can spend the night in one of the cells.

What? Are you crazy?

No. What can they do? We’ll just explain we’re traveling to the coast and need a place to stay for tonight.

What if they ask for ID? They’ll find out we’re minors and send us back.

You wanna sleep on the street? We can get arrested for vagrancy.

Chase looked down the street and back at the police station. Okay, let’s go in.

The sergeant at the front desk took one look at the bags and guitar. If he thought they were underage, he said nothing. He escorted them downstairs to the cells and showed them where the bathroom was located.

You can wash up in here, if you need to, he said and left them to return to the front desk. The cellblocks were unoccupied.

Oh boy, David said, We have the jail to ourselves! Chase just frowned and pulled out a Marlboro.

*            *            *            *

The morning traffic provided a ride back to the highway. After two brief pickups, a man in a ’66 Plymouth screeched to a halt on the side of the asphalt several car lengths away. The teens ran, stumbling with their luggage to catch up. The driver, looking in his rearview mirror, shifted into reverse backing up to meet them. Cars in the other lanes sped around them without slowing down. They piled into the backseat with their luggage. Chase’s guitar banged with a loud ‘twang’ when the tuning gear struck the far door handle.

You guys got a lot to carry, the man said looking in the rearview mirror. Where you going?

California, David and Chase said in unison.

California? The driver asked incredulously. He turned around in his seat. With all that?

David gave Chase an, ‘I told you so’ look.

Chase grinned at him and shrugged. I’m not going without my guitar, he said to the driver.

Let me guess, you’re taking 40 to 66 aren’t you?

The boys nodded yes.

The driver, in his early thirties, was unshaven and looked like he had been traveling all night. He faced forward and shifted into drive. The car lurched back into the lane, the back tires squealing on the black asphalt.

Well, he continued, glancing in the rearview mirror, you’re in luck. I have a sales meeting coming up in St. Louis tomorrow. I should be in the city by the end of the day.

David and Chase looked at each other with boyish amazement. They would be on Route 66 by that evening!

The ride was fast and uneventful. Chase played some blues pickings for their host driver to wile away the time. Mostly, though, they dozed off and on as the driver played classical cassettes to keep himself awake. David was getting sick of listening to string ensembles and the fluty sounds of oboes.

Two stops to get gas and a bite to eat were the only chances they had to stretch their legs.

That evening, there was just enough daylight left to see the famous stainless steel Arch as their ride sped in the direction of the St. Louis skyline. The sun on the horizon turned the steel frame to an eerie golden-orange. The Gateway Arch commemorates the rallying point for the start of the Lewis and Clark westward expedition in December 1803. The classic, catenary-curving structure rises 630 feet from the ground. Spotting the nation’s tallest monument from the highway was a real thrill for the two teens running away from home. Soon they would be on their way to the main drag that would take them right into Los Angeles, California.

Their host, looking like he really needed some sleep, pulled off the highway just before the point where they could make an easy-connect with Rt. 66. Once again bidding farewell to a lucky ride, the two teens found themselves standing on the highway with their thumbs out. The cloudless evening sky carried the scent of the Mississippi River on the gentle summer breeze. David closed his eyes. The smell of water nearby reminded him of the Gunpowder River back home.

Cars, trucks, buses and vans rolled through the exit onto Route 66. No one stopped for two teens sticking their thumbs out standing next to three bags and guitar. It’s not easy getting rides as it is much less lugging everything they owned. After an hour and a half, even Chase was beginning to feel it was a mistake to bring so much with them. Just as they were thinking of walking back to the nearest motel, a new 1967 Chevy pulled onto the gravel side of the exit. David and Chase snatched their belongings and ran to the waiting vehicle. They hopped in the back and the driver took off. It was a new, air-conditioned car. The gray haired businessman asked, Where you boys heading?

We’re heading to Los Angeles.

Quite a trip ahead of you. Well, I can take you as far as Oklahoma City.

David and Chase glanced at each other, their eyes opening wide with delight. They were back in the saddle!

The trip across Missouri and through the lower right corner of Kansas was an all night drive. They awoke slumped over the bags on the seat between them. Chase had the guitar propped up between his legs. David lifted his head, blinking in the early light. He sat up straight, massaged his stiff neck with his right hand and whacked Chase lightly on the head with the other. Chase opened his eye with a start. Both started stretching and clearing their throats.

Good morning, boys.

Where are we?

We’re just outside of Tulsa. About two hours from Oklahoma City. Glancing in the rearview mirror, he asked, You boys hungry?

They piped up together Yeah.

After breakfast and separate pit stops to the john, the newly tanked car with everyone refreshed sped off in the direction of Oklahoma City. David was excited that they had such good luck getting rides but his butt was getting sore from sitting so much. It wasn’t long before his eyes tired from watching the small towns and farmlands whiz by. He dozed off and on while Chase picked lightly on the guitar. The driver made a few requests but Chase didn’t know the music to the songs he liked.

Stopping just outside the city limits, the ‘boys’ thanked their fourth lucky ride and carried their belongings to the side of the road. This part of Oklahoma was dry, yellow and dusty. Wisps of dust blew lazily across the horizon. Some of the dust seemed to just hang in the air like a ghostly shroud. The low mound of earth that the highway circled round was grass-less. David couldn’t help thinking dust bowl as he opened the Pepsi bottle they filled with water and took a sip. Just looking at the dry land made him thirsty. With very few cars going by, he also couldn’t help thinking that maybe this is where their luck ran out. Sometimes paranoia is justified.

Three hours later, in the blazing sun with no shade, the two jutting thumbs flagged down a ride. The white Ford slowed, stopped and waited while the two of them struggled to pick up the bags. Chase hung the guitar over his shoulder and carried his two bags in one hand. Just as he reached for the back door handle, the car squealed away leaving a trail of dust and rubber. Chase raised his fist and shouted, Fuck you!

By now, the afternoon sun was punishing these stranded, under aged hitchhikers double-time. The heat is always worse when there’s no breeze and the lack of greenery is depressing. Oklahoma is too close to Los Angeles and too far from Maryland to turn back home.

At least they had a big bottle of water with them but no place to let it out when their bladders were full.

Before long, Chase started doing a little ‘I-gotta-take-a-piss dance’ bending his knees and rubbing his zipper. I gotta take a piss real bad, he whined.

David, without a word, pointed to the shallow cut away in the mound off from the highway. Chase walked funny, like Charlie Chaplin’s tramp to the spot and unzipped. His urine stream pounded hard on parched ground kicking up dust.

You gotta go? he calls over his shoulder.

David shook his head. He felt awkward urinating in the open like that. No, I can hold on for a while, he said, keeping his eye on the oncoming traffic.

A second later a station wagon came speeding over the rise.

Shit Chase! Here comes a car!

Chase kept his back to the approaching car and zipped up.

David already had his thumb out.

The station wagon veered over and stopped next to him. The driver leaned over to the open passenger window and said, I’m going to Albuquerque. You guys need a lift? David twisted round grinning at Chase. They eagerly yanked open the door and jumped in with their belongings.

The driver introduced himself. Hi, I’m Steven. David and Chase introduced themselves. Steven looked to be in his mid-thirties. He was a nice looking guy, comfortably dressed for a long trip. David and Chase settled in the backseat. They were mostly quiet but some small talk helped to pass the next few hours. While they stopped for gas, Steven asked Chase if he wanted to sit up front. As Chase and Steven kept up their front seat chatter, David dozed in the backseat. They had about six more hours of driving before reaching Albuquerque and it was getting past 7 o’clock. It was Steven who brought up the idea of stopping at a motel.

You think we should stop at a motel?

I don’t mind keeping going, but it’s up to you. David said, You’re the one driving.

Steven looked at Chase. Chase turned and looked back at David and shrugged.

We could save money if we get a room together, Steven suggested. He looked at Chase again.

But motels only have one or two beds. David said. Besides we have the money to get our own room.

Well, I thought it might be nice to share one room. After all, we still have a long way to go. And we could get to know each other better. Steven looked at Chase yet again.

David was beginning to get the feeling that Steven had more than sleep on his mind. Making him feel worse was the notion that Steven was focused only on Chase. Chase was strangely quiet and seemingly agreeable to the arrangement. At least he didn’t speak up against it. An awkward silence followed.

Finally, David spoke up, taking the matter in hand. Hey Steven, would you stop at the next motel we come to. We’ll get a room for us. If you want a room, I think you should get one for yourself.

Steven looked at Chase again and said nothing. Chase just leaned against the car door staring out of the passenger window. A few miles outside of Amarillo, Steven pulled into a roadside motel and discharged his passengers. He gave Chase one final questioning look and drove off without a word.

*            *            *            *

Once David and Chase were settled into their room, they went out to have some dinner, walked around a bit and made their way back to get a good night’s sleep.

You know that guy was queer, don’t you? said David, trying to probe Chase’s thinking about Steven.

Chase was getting undressed. He threw his Beatle boots under the TV stand in the corner of the motel room.

Yeah, I think he was, was all he said, as he left the room to take his shower.

After Chase finished his shower, David took his. He could hear Chase playing the guitar through the bathroom door. At 11:30, Chase turned on Johnny Carson. David had never watched the Tonight Show before. It was a warm June night. The window was open so it was comfortable for them to lie on the bed only in their underwear. Carson really was funny. David was enjoying the show. During the commercial break he dropped his hands to his sides and lay there stretched out. His right hand brushed Chase’s hip. The room seemed to be getting warmer.

Don’t touch me.

I didn’t touch you.

Yes you did.

No I didn’t.

If you touch me again I’ll knock you off the bed.

Oh, yeah?

David poked Chase in the ribs with an insolent jab. Chase sat upright fast, glaring at David’s defiant expression. That was enough for him. He twisted around and leaped on top of David. To his amazement, David flipped him over and knocked him off the bed. Chase jumped to his feet and David crouched on the bed, ready for him. Glaring at each other for only a moment, it was hard to tell who lunged first. They wrestled furiously, twisting and turning every which way. David countered every move Chase made to better him. Chase had the weight and strength over David. Nevertheless, only a week before, David was plowing the field on his father’s small farm and hauling around ninety pound bags of fertilizer. He was small but wiry. The wrestling match continued far longer than either one of them thought possible. David might not win but he was not about to give in. The sheets and pillows were strewn around the room. The brawl moved from the bed to the floor and back to the bed. Their youthful, lithe bodies gleamed with sweat. Naked except for the Fruit of the Loom underwear they were wearing, it was becoming difficult to maintain any hold on their slippery wet flesh. Finally, Chase pushed David back to his side of the bed, collapsing. Prostrate with exhaustion, they breathed heavily for a few minutes. Side by side, their sweaty chests heaved up and down.

Whew! Chase exclaimed. You little bastard. I didn’t think you had it in you.

David struggled to sit upright. Who you calling a little bastard? he demanded.

Okay, okay Dave! Chase laughed and sputtered, I can’t fight any more.

Both of them lay parallel, drained of energy, sprawled across the bed. David was the first to get up and head for a second shower. He pulled a fresh pair of underwear from his bag and went into the bathroom. As he was closing the door, he looked over his shoulder and saw Chase looking at him. They locked eyes but quickly broke away. David closed the door.

*            *            *            *

Leaving from the motel near Amarillo the next morning meant that they were still sixteen hours or more from Los Angeles. They could easily find themselves thumbing their way over hot blacktop for another two days. And that’s if they got more lucky pickups. Having no desire to be caught standing on a hot pavement for God knows how long, David and Chase were hoping to make it as far as Albuquerque by nightfall. Their aborted ride with Steven yesterday set them back by a half day.

The first car that stopped was a Rambler with parents and two kids. David and Chase threw their stuff in the back of the half-shell trunk and sat with the kids behind the parents. The kids behaved at first. It was a hot day in Texas and the Rambler wasn’t air-conditioned. It wasn’t long before the kids started acting up. The mother turned around and yelled. They got quiet for a few minutes and then acted up again. The mother turned around and yelled again. It went on this way for the entire ride into Albuquerque. Ironically, Route 66 was also known as the Mother Road.

The father drove along without saying much, as if disciplining the kids wasn’t his concern. David sensed he was grateful that he had two young hitchhikers aboard. He suspected the kids were a real pain in the ass, only less so now that he and Chase were sitting with them. When the road signs indicated they were near Albuquerque, they exited the car. Thanking the parents, they tousled the kid’s hair and waved the little Rambler on its way to Santa Fe.

Route 66 into Albuquerque runs through a low, desert-like landscape with serrated mountain caps off in the distance. Sandia Peak, on the far eastern edge of Albuquerque, has popular ski and hiking areas. It wasn’t easy for the two teens to experience the state’s diverse display of terrain standing on a lonely stretch of the highway. Red clay and volcanic ash, native to New Mexico, which mixes and turns to sand over time, dominated the local geologic area with a russet patina. To David, who grew up farming with his hands in rich, black topsoil, the abundance of red clay gave him mixed feelings. It was nice to look at but he wouldn’t want to live here.

The traffic on the highway was moderately busy and they hoped for a quick pickup. They didn’t have to wait long. A blue Chevy Camaro with three young guys not much older than David and Chase stopped to offer them a ride. They said they were heading about thirty miles past Albuquerque. It wasn’t a long ride but it would get them a little farther. The guys were chatty and friendly and David and Chase joined in the youthful banter. One of the youths asked them if they had ever tried marijuana. It was the first time David heard anybody near his age talk about an illicit drug. None of the kids in his school knew about marijuana, much less talked about it. When he was in the eleventh grade, a local news station reported that Johnny Cash had been arrested for possessing marijuana. He was sitting in the kitchen at the time and remembered asking his mother, What’s marijuana? His mother looked up from drying the dishes and turned to him without answering. She turned back to the sink and picked up another dish. Never you mind, she said, drying the last dish and slipping the dishtowel through the refrigerator handle.

The young driver, and as it turned out, the owner of the Camaro, looked into his rear view mirror and said with a tone that got everyone’s attention, Oh shit! In an instant, a police siren wailed from behind them. Everyone twisted round to see. It was an automatic reflex. With lights flashing, a New Mexico State Trooper motioned for the driver to pull over. Oh shit!

The officer sat briefly writing something down before exiting the police car. He was wearing a brown shirt with a khaki tie with khaki pants. His western, wide brimmed hat was khaki color also. Nice color coordination, David thought. He was also the biggest cop he’d ever seen. Not that he had seen that many. But this guy was truly humongous.

Can I see your identification, please, he said to the driver.

He pulled off his sunglasses and read the license. Then, handing the license to the driver, he asked, Who are these people with you?

The young driver told the officer that the other two guys were friends of his but said nothing about his hitchhikers.

The officer pointed at David and Chase and asked, Who are they?

The driver told the officer he had picked them up hitchhiking outside of Albuquerque.

Can I see your identification? he asked pointing to David and Chase.

Unfortunately, being under aged teens, they had no ID.

How old are you?

Hearing that they were both seventeen, he asked them to step out of the car. The officer turned to the driver and told him to go on his way. The Camaro pulled back onto the highway.

David and Chase, lugging the bags and guitar, were taken to the police station. David thought for sure they would be sleeping in a jail cell tonight, but this time, not of their own volition.

Pointing at David, the officer asked, What’s your parent’s phone number?

I live in a rural area, he lied, we don’t have a phone.

Chase was already writing his mom’s phone number down. They both hoped she was home. She was. She told the officer that she was aware that her son was traveling with a companion to California, with her permis sion. She did, in fact, vouch for David.

David breathed a sigh of relief.

After hanging up with Chase’s mother, satisfied that they were accounted for, he asked but really stated, Don’t you know it’s dangerous to be hitchhiking?

I’m not afraid, replied Chase.

The officer, towering over them, looked down at Chase. You think you’re a big man being on your own?

I can take care of myself.

What if I were to take out my gun and point it at your head, what would you do?

You can’t do that, said Chase, nervously glancing at David.

David stared wide-eyed at them both.

The officer drew his pistol and pointed the barrel right in Chase’s face. Naturally this cop’s pistol looked as long as a person’s forearm.

Chase looked directly up at the officer, with a challenging glare. You’re not going to use that. You just got off the phone with my mother. She’ll know we were just here.

Chase was cool!

The officer smiled and, without a word, slowly holstered the pistol. Okay boys, I’ll take you to the limit of my jurisdiction. Since your mother okayed this trip I’ll get you on your way again. But I don’t want to see you in my city tonight. In twenty minutes they were again standing on the red clay-lined highway. This time thumbing was an urgent matter.

But the gods of hitchhiking were on their side. The next car that stopped was going to Flagstaff. With tremendous relief, they accepted the lift, climbing into the backseat. The pleasant middle-aged married couple offered them both Baby Ruth bars and root beer from a Styrofoam traveling cooler. The boys gratefully consumed the sugar products.

As their ride took them further west, David watched the snowcapped mountain scenery from the car window with a diminished sense of appreciation, wondering what was next. He was just saying to himself several days ago that anything could happen on a three thousand mile hitchhiking trip.

They had money in their pockets and were getting tired of being on the highway and eager to get to Los Angeles. They decided Arizona would be the end of their hitchhiking experience and they resolved to complete the remaining part of their trip to Los Angeles the traditional way—go Greyhound. David asked the couple if they knew where the bus station was located in Flagstaff. They did.

For the next several hours after the initial sugar high wore off, they half-listened to the woman describe her experiences as one of the first enlistees in the Woman’s Air Corp during World War II. She was their age when she enlisted, she said, not to fight in the war, but to have the chance to travel around the world. At first, David thought she was prone to some hyperbole until she described an aerial reconnaissance over Hiroshima a month after the United States dropped the first atomic bomb. It was her voice that told him she had really been there. She spoke softly the way people do at funerals as she described the utter devastation of an entire city of people. Her hands trembled as she pulled her premature graying hair behind her ears as if to make sure she could hear herself speak. As if hearing was more important than seeing. But David was certain she saw what she said she saw.

Flagstaff is situated at the foot of the three Coconino Peaks dominated by a dormant volcano in northern Arizona. It was given its name when lumberjacks celebrating the 1876 July 4th centennial nailed the United States flag to the tallest ponderosa pine on the outskirts of their small logger’s settlement. At an elevation of 7,000 feet, David felt his ears pop as the couple drove downtown to the Greyhound Bus Terminal. He shook the woman’s hand before departing and that’s when he noticed her eyes were of two different colors. They were blue and gray like a clear sky with a mix of clouds. She waved and smiled sweetly at him and Chase as her husband drove out of the terminal parking lot.

They purchased two tickets and boarded the next bus to Bakersfield, California. Seven hours later, during the layover at the one-room Bakersfield terminal, the two teens stepped off the 68-degree air-conditioned bus and gasped, inhaling the hottest air they had ever experienced. It was near evening, yet the temperature remained above 112 degrees, even in the shade. With some difficulty, they carried their baggage to the motel directly across the street and checked in. The next bus for Los Angeles wouldn’t depart until the following morning. This was the last night of their journey.

David strummed the guitar while his friend sat on the edge of the bed with a Marlboro hanging loose from his lips, watching him form the chords. It was too hot to do anything more. After a late dinner in the coffee shop down the block, they returned to the motel, stripped and watched Johnny Carson. Once again they lay side-by-side in their underwear but there would be no wrestling tonight. When they turned the lights out, the street lamp outside their window illuminated the room with slashes of artificial light. Occasional car headlights darted recklessly around the room as traffic turned at the intersection. The near naked teens slept restively in the heat dreaming of what awaits them in the fabled city of Los Angeles, California.

CHAPTER 2

TAKE IT TO THE STREETS

The United States has been at war with itself, even before the ink was dry on the Declaration of Independence, written and signed upon a locally manufactured parchment made from hemp trees. The first battle lines were drawn when the flowing words of wisdom from our law-making Founding Fathers left out blacks and women when enumerating the rights of man. White men, that is. Over time, the country paid dearly for the dastardly omissions.

On Friday, August 13th, 1965, the South Central Los Angeles community of Watts erupted into six days of riots that left 34 dead, hundreds of properties destroyed, and four thousand people arrested. Fighting against white injustices, black communities nevertheless inflicted most of the damage on themselves. Over the next two years, one hundred and twenty-five cities had endured race riots in the United States. It was nothing less than urban warfare in the streets.

In June of 1967, a different kind of war, but one that was very much related, would greet the occupant of Air Force One landing at the Los Angeles International Airport.

Nearly a half million US troops were stationed in Vietnam that year. Anti-war sentiment was strongly felt by a growing movement willing to take it to the streets, peacefully. On Friday, June 23, 1967, the day David and Chase arrived in Los Angeles, the LAPD attacked several thousand Century City anti-war demonstrators protesting against Lyndon Johnson’s visit. The weekly Free Press, in a special edition, reported the unprovoked assault against the peaceful demonstrators, with the help of radio station KPFK the following Monday.

David and Chase had located a digger’s pad in Los Feliz. The woman that owned the home opened her door to people without a place to stay. The house was crowded that night with everyone sleeping on any space available. By the time he and Chase were driven there by a helpful businessman they met at the bus station, the only space available was in front of the fireplace. David had never slept with his head in the hearth of a fireplace before, much less with fourteen strangers. Soon the travel weary teens were soundly sleeping on this first night in Los Angeles with a houseful of misplaced people.

The next morning, David bummed a ride to downtown, leaving Chase at the digger’s pad. Even the blistering smog couldn’t dampen his excitement of walking around the city streets. For him, turning unfamiliar corners and getting lost was an adventure, not an inconvenience. It was a cloudless, hot day. The smog hit you right in the face with an invisible punch that brought tears to your eyes.

Standing at the corner of a downtown Los Angeles intersection, he was taking in the new experience of people watching. The late morning rush hour was crowded with people crossing streets and stop-and-go traffic. A woman in pink bellbottoms and a white ruffled blouse came up to him asking for directions to Santa Monica Boulevard. Even though they were only a few blocks away, David had no idea how to give her directions. He watched as she stopped another pedestrian who readily pointed her in the right direction.

He saw his first hippie at the next turn. Spotting the colorful bandana holding the hippie’s shoulder-length hair in place from about a block away was easy. As the hippie got closer, David couldn’t help but stare. The guy noticed and smiled. David smiled back. The hippie gave a friendly nod and kept on walking. He even seemed to walk different than other people.

Exposition Park, the historic site of the first World Series, lay west of downtown Los Angeles. The old ballpark, jokingly known as somewhere around here was no longer used for baseball. The open space offered a getaway spot from the jostling streets. Once inside the park, a barrier of quiet peacefulness separated David from the city’s din. People strolled around; others were bunched in friendly clusters. Some were sitting reading the paper. A group of men walking off to his right caught him by surprise. He had grown up in a black and white world. The only exotic people he ever saw were in National Geographic magazine. He had never seen Mexican people in the flesh. What struck him the most is that they looked a lot like white people with very good tans. No ponchos or sombreros. They were dressed like he was, jeans and t-shirt. He watched them cross to the far side of the park.

Do you have a cigarette?

David turned around to face a young man with bright red hair not much older than he was. His hair was styled in a Beatle cut similar to his.

Um, I’m sorry. I don’t smoke.

Lucky you, he said, stuffing his hands in his pockets. Are you from around here? he asked, falling in beside David.

No, David said. I’m from Baltimore.

You’re a long way from home.

I hitched here with a friend.

You hitched all the way from there? His forehead freckles seemed to come together with admiration.

Yeah.

How long did it take you?

Almost five days. We got some good rides.

My name is Mickey Bollen, the youth said, holding out his hand.

David shook hands.

I’m David Burton.

Where you guys staying.

We’re staying at a digger’s pad on Los Feliz. It’s a little crowded but at least we’re not sleeping on a park bench.

They came to two guys playing guitars. Ten people were standing in a half circle already listening. Those guys were good. One played rhythm and the other picked out a very complicated fast lead with a style similar to Alvin Lee. Moving that fast on acoustic steel strings is really difficult to do. After a few minutes of listening they drifted on. The overhead sun broke through the trees creating bright dappled spots on the path and grass before them. Mickey stepped onto the grass and sat in front of a California juniper tree. David sat next to him pulling his knees up.

How you getting back to Los Feliz? Mickey inquired. Walk, I guess. I’m parked a few blocks from here. I can take you back, if you want. Great, David said, relieved. He was sure he would have gotten lost. Hey man! Mickey called out to a couple walking past holding hands, both smoking. Can I get a smoke? They swung around and stopped. The guy’s girlfriend pulled a pack from her purse and tapped out a cigarette. Her long blonde hair fell across her pretty face when she leaned over to offer Mickey the cigarette. Thanks, man. She smiled and reached for her boyfriend’s hand. Mickey pulled out a lighter and he was in business. He leaned his head back and exhaled. The gray puffs of smoke drifted up to the branches above them. So, are you working? David asked. Yeah, I work for Freep. Freep? The Free Press. Mickey explained. It’s a weekly, one of the many local alternative papers here. Not everyone reads the Times, you know. You’re not working today? No, I’m off today. I helped distribute the Extra edition until about eleven last night. So they gave me the day off. "What