Sewing Can Be Dangerous and Other Small Threads

by S. R. Mallery

  “Hey, Prof, how’s it goin?” The waitress couldn’t have been more than seventeen.

  “Good. Good. Thanks for asking. How’s by you?” He glanced up at her, then across the room. He had felt a pull.

  In the only booth, a lone girl was sitting, reading a book. He had never seen anyone as beautiful—long, shiny blonde hair, parted perfectly in the middle and big doe-brown eyes were only part of the package. A cherub-shaped mouth, very pale yet luscious skin, and an amazing body wrapped in a form-fitting paisley hippie dress, made her look like a Mod-Squad Peggy Lipton, with a touch of Veronica Lake.

  He had to meet her, get to know her. Watching her as she read, when she paid her bill and started to leave, he quickly grabbed some cash from his pocket, plunked it down on the table, and followed her out.

  He could see her dawdling along the Panhandle on the Pell Street side, maybe twenty yards from him and suddenly he decided to trail her, if only to enjoy how she moved. She seemed to float; a waif in the midst of a chaotic hippie world. At Clayton, she turned left, then left again at Hayes, stopping in front of The Blue Unicorn, but when she entered, he returned to his car and straggled home, unable to get her out of his mind.

  “What’s the matter, John? You look as if you swallowed a cat!” His wife, Susan, never minced words.

  “A strange expression, if ever there was one. No, I’m just tired, is all. I have a lot of stuff to catch up on for school. I’ll be up in my study.”

  Susan shrugged. So what else was new? She did a reverse turn and disappeared into the kitchen.

  His study was professorial—floor to ceiling bookcases overflowing with worn books, magazines, and newspapers. Disheveled papers, stacked high on his large mahogany desk, had reached chaotic proportions, and with his Underwood typewriter and lava lamp (a gift from one of his students) close at hand, he sank down into his leather armchair, closed his eyes, and sighed. He could still picture her.

  When his private line rang, he practically jumped out of his skin. “Hello. Professor Cummings speaking,” he breathed into the mouthpiece then listened to the voice on the other end. “I’ll get it to you when I get it to you. Be patient!” he grunted, suddenly flashing on his college roommate returning from one of the elite Yale Skull & Bones meetings. There had always been ‘in’ and ‘out’ cliques at school back then, so when he dated, then married the prominent Susan Livingston, the shy, awkward history major suddenly switched paths, and thus became privy to the inner circle and all its implications. It had seemed so important back then, but now, twenty years later, all he could think about was how much he could use a good, stiff drink. Trudging downstairs, he helped himself and by midnight, was passed out on the living room sofa.

  The next day, he survived his classes, but he still couldn’t get the girl out of his head; he needed to see her one more time. So at 4:15 p.m. he started out, hoping to catch a glimpse of her at the I Thou Coffee Shop.

  He didn’t have to go far. She was seated on a bench in the Panhandle, looking incredible: A vision in a wide straw hat, bell-bottoms, and a rose-colored tank top. As he approached her, he was searching for a catchy line, but couldn’t think straight. She was too damn distracting, particularly up close.

  “Hi, I’m Lyla. You’re the Prof, aren’t you?” He could feel himself melting as her big brown eyes reeled him in.

  “Yes, yes, I am. How do you know me?”

  “Everyone knows who you are. You’re the eight hundred pound gorilla around here, don’t you know that?” When she smiled, he wanted to stroke her face.

  “I’ve only seen you once before. How come? Are you a student at SFS?” He was trying to connect.

  “No. I was, but then I realized I didn’t need to go to school. So now I’m living by myself and doing my own thing.” She spoke these lines as if she had rehearsed them before.

  “What’s that, if I may ask?”

  “Macramé. I’m a macramé artist, among other things.” Her tone had picked up some confidence.

  “Oh. Is that that ropey stuff?” God! That sounded so patronizing! He cringed.

  But she didn’t seem offended. “Yeah. That’s it. Hey, I live nearby. Do you wanna see my studio?”

  This was way too easy. “Sure, why not?” He could feel his pulse race and as she stood up, he resisted the urge to put an arm around her waist.

  Sandwiched in between crumbling Victorian houses, Lyla’s loft on Page Street was a true artist’s lair. Depending upon the time of day, high ceilings hovered over long, dusty windowpanes that let shafts of light filter through in variegated patterns. By 4:45 p.m., the rose-blue light had dissolved into a mauve color, casting a particularly subtle tone on all the macramé wall hangings nailed up in her living room area. Twisted, bejeweled rope and yarn were woven together like spider webs, creating intricate designs enhanced by delicate colors. Rock group posters in psychedelic colors and ameba-shaped letterforms covered the wall nearest the kitchen, while another wall was home to black and white photographs of assorted people. On the floor lay three or four large overstuffed pillows edged with gold tassels, along with a legless sofa bed covered with small East Indian-styled pillows—perfect for ‘crashers’.

  “I…I like your work a lot,” he remarked with a half wink. Anything to get in her pants.

  “Oh, yeah? Well, coming from you, that says a lot!” Her youth made her even more impressionable.

  His eyes zeroed in on her neck. “You even have a macramé around your neck, I see.” He needed to keep her interested. “What’s that large jewel in the middle of it?”

  “Oh, that. It’s a precious stone, a ruby, given to me by someone in my past.” Her face suddenly shut down.

  “May I see it?” He gently reached for the choker.

  “Oh, no,” she insisted. “This NEVER comes off—not for one second. I even shower with it.”

  A pregnant silence forced him to look away, but before he could muster a comeback, she asked, “Hey, you want some vino? I have a bottle in the fridge.” He nodded and she traipsed off to the kitchen area. When she returned, besides the wine and glasses, she had a plate of cheese and crackers. How civilized. Not a total hippie. Undoubtedly, good breeding.

  Three sips in and he looked at his watch. “God, I’ve got to go. I have an appointment. Sorry. A rain check, perhaps?” he waited a beat. Then, “Would you go out with me?” Fingering his wedding ring, he felt so nervous, so old.

  “Sure, that would be a blast!” she beamed. Obviously undeterred by his marital status, maybe she liked the age difference, he thought as they made their arrangements for that Friday night, 9 p.m., her apartment. He sighed. He could always make up some excuse to Susan. She was so predictable, and regular weekend nights with her theater and opera crowd allowed him total independence.

  As he knocked on Lyla’s door, 9 o’clock sharp, he could feel his palms sweating. Unbelievable! I haven’t been like this since I was a teenager, he reflected. Soon, he could hear light, padded footsteps just beyond the door.

  The door opened, and his eyes nearly popped out of their sockets. All she had on were blue jean overall cut-offs. That was it; no shirt, no bra, nothing else. It was a perfect end to his day. Instant testosterone managed his movements now—in two seconds, he had his hands all over her, steering her towards the bed.

  At 1 o’clock in the morning they were awakened by the sound of a neighbor’s laughter outside the apartment.

  “Christ!” he blurted out. Glancing at the time and pulling on his clothes, he leaned over to kiss her goodbye, promising, “Don’t worry, I’ll call you soon!”

  Their next date was at his favorite hangout, The Matrix, on Fillmore Street. As Jefferson Airplane played, Lyla looked around, soaking up the atmosphere. Everyone seemed high, whether on alcohol, pot, or LSD. Small round tables stood on top of a sawdust-covered floor, and the lights were turned low to create a soft ambiance. Small clouds of smoke swirled up like mini-tornado funnels, and the clanking of beer mugs resonated across the room. But i
t was the wall of hieroglyphs that really blew her away; she was just about to make a comment on it when he interrupted her thoughts.

  “I just love this place! Can you imagine? The owners thought up the idea of the wall of hieroglyphs. That’s my area of expertise, you know.” Apparently he liked showing off.

  “What do you mean?”

  “Well, I’ve studied these Egyptian letterforms verbatim and sometimes I trace them just to relax.”

  “You have a strange way of relaxing!” She started to laugh at him.

  “OK, OK. Let’s relax a different way. Do you want to go back to your place?”

  She giggled. “Talk about a one-track mind! OK. Let’s…”

  He didn’t let her finish. “Oh, God, I forgot. I’ve got to go to a quick meeting at school. Can I come back in, say, an hour and a half?”

  “Wait. What kind of date are you?”

  “I promise I’ll make it up to you later.” He had already risen.

  Make it up later to her, he did, and for many months beyond that, like clockwork, interrupted only by his SDS and college meetings, and occasionally by his wife, but clockwork, nevertheless. The explosive sex was far better than he had thought possible.

  But one Saturday afternoon in bed, John grew pensive. “Tell me about your family. If we’re going to be with each other, I should know more about you.”

  “There’s not much to tell. My mom has never had an opinion about anything. She’s definitely under my dad’s thumb.”

  “Well, what about your dad? What’s he like?” He delighted in probing; his Socratic classroom techniques had been a part of him for too long.

  “I really don’t want to think about him. He was always a cold son-of-a-bitch to me when I was little and as I got older, I didn’t like who he was and how he acted towards me. Besides, he was always getting away with things, too.” She turned towards the wall.

  “Tell me, what things?” Tact was low on his totem pole.

  “Leave me alone!” She flung off the covers and disappeared into the bathroom, leaving him with one eyebrow raised. Obviously, a nerve had been struck.

  January 1968

  The winter morning certainly proved milder than anyone could have anticipated. After weeks of rain, the sponsors of the Human Be-In were ecstatic. All the Haight shopkeepers had closed their doors, excited, albeit nervous about the upcoming event, and even the newspaper, The Berkeley Barb, usually condescending towards such happenings, was overwhelmingly supportive.

  “Prof. We’ve got to go to this thing. I mean it! No excuses this time. I want to share my world with you. Anyway, don’t you want to see Alan Ginsberg and Timothy Leary do their thing?”

  John sighed. Nothing was worth a fight.

  The Be-In was all set for 1 p.m., but by 9 a.m., they could hear people arriving. At first there were scattered voices outside her apartment building but soon, a wall of sound emerged, as thousands gathered, then headed towards Golden Gate Park Stadium.

  Dragging him by the hand, she led him to the stadium, where they were surrounded by multitudes of hippies and freaks. Bright, flashy banners depicting marijuana plants and the latest LSD tablets, White Lightning, blended with robes, Edwardian clothing, T-shirts, corduroys, long skirts, paisley blouses, and the ever-present sandals—sandals in the summer and sandals with socks in the crisp, cold air. Colorful flowers, fruit, incense, along with tambourines, congas, and cymbals colluded into an all-pervasive atmosphere of Free Love.

  Speaker after speaker, rock group after rock group held the crowd of thirty thousand captive. There was Ginsberg reciting the “Hari Om Namo Shuuya” chant and Leary declaring that “Turn on, tune in, and drop out” was the only true way of the world now, while joints passed freely and the few policemen present looked the other way.

  Back in the Haight as the sky darkened, Lyla, smoking a joint and humming a Beatles song from the “Revolver” album, turned to John. “Hasn’t this experience been transcendent? Can’t you feel the love pouring through your entire body?”

  “I guess so. I also feel hunger. Let’s go to the Matrix for a bite.”

  Her jaw tightened. “You SOB. Just like my dad! Always knocking me, then trying to make up for it later. You…”

  Suddenly, extra police descended on the area, randomly picking up stragglers for ‘loitering’, and carting them off to jail.

  “Hey, hey, hey HEY! What the hell are you doing?” John protested as he tried to loosen his handcuffs.” He looked over to Lyla with her own hands tied behind her back. She was crying softly.

  He softened. “Babe, don’t worry.” He managed a comforting tone, but Susan and job security were the only real things on his mind.

  Forty-nine people were housed in jail cells that night until 4:30 a.m., thirty-one males in one holding cell, and seventeen females in a neighboring cell. It was a depressing night, filled with “Those are the ‘Pigs’ for you!” “All we want is peace, man,” and “America’s not the place I thought it was.”

  Lyla kept straining to hear the Prof’s voice, but it never came. Finally, dirty and starving, she was released with the other women, but before she left, she questioned the night watchman about a John Cummings.

  “Oh, he was released earlier last night.” He stared at the beautiful girl.

  “With all the other guys?”

  “Naw. He was let out immediately. Captain’s orders.” He chuckled and shook his head.

  Outside, on the police station steps, Lyla paused. Why would John get special treatment? Because he’s a professor and the rest aren’t? But Professor O’Brian was there along with the other men arrested. Well, maybe, maybe he was released, too.

  She went back inside, making her way through the prostitutes, petty thieves, and drug addicts.

  “Did Prof. O’Brian also get released?”

  The busy night watchman was beginning to get irritated. “Naw, your Professor Cummings’s a special case. Now, run on home little girl, and don’t bother me,” he snapped. Suddenly, it occurred to her how little she knew about her lover.

  By 11 a.m., the Prof stopped by, hoping for some attention. But when he entered her apartment, he saw Lyla in tears. A half torn-up letter with the opening words, ‘I’m so sorry,’ lay on the coffee table, inches away from a large glass of Chardonnay. Seeing him, she immediately reached over, grabbed the letter and threw the two pieces into the trashcan.

  Angling in to read the return address, he muttered,” What’s gotten into you Lyla? Why all the mystery? Who’s the letter from?”

  “They’re from my father.”

  “They’re? You mean there are others?”

  “Yes. But I don’t even bother to read most of them.” Her jaw was set hard.

  “Listen, you’ve got to work out your anger at your dad. You’re an adult, after all.”

  “Please don’t lecture me. You’re not at school now.” As she got up to throw out the trash, John reached out to her, but she dodged by him and continued on out into the hallway.

  Shuffling over to the refrigerator, he pulled out a bottle of wine, and pouring himself a tall glass, settled in for rest of the afternoon on the couch. When she sat down next to him, she made sure there were a couple of pillows between them. Then she lit up a joint of Mexican Brown and switched on the TV.

  He immediately started in. “What a waste; a goddamn waste. I’ve got too many other important things to do, I…”

  “Hi, I’m Patricia Wilkinson, part of the news team at WBBTV in Yorktown, New York. I’m here in Huntington, New York, waiting to get an interview with the CEO of Dow Chemical Co, Mr. Jonas T. Ashton. Mr. Ashton, do you have anything to say about the napalm bombings in Vietnam that have killed thousands of people? What do you have to say? Mr. Ashton—Mr. Ashton…”

  A distinguished middle-age man, sporting an expensive three-piece suit and an unexpressive face, automatically dismissed all microphones as he climbed into the back seat of a Lincoln Continental Town car. Then it cut to a commercial.

&n
bsp; Riveted, John sat still for several seconds before turning back to Lyla, pointedly staring down at her lap.

  “Hey, Babe, come closer.” For the first time in months, he was feeling affectionate. She eyed him cautiously before edging over.

  A minute later, she stated flatly, “I’m off to bed. See you later.” He nodded. Whatever.

  The bathroom was still, save for the leaky faucet. Drip-drip-drip-drip-drip. Transparent beads were slowly sliding down towards the drain as Lyla stared at the oval tin can resting on the tile counter next to the sink. Drip-drip-drip-drip. Inside the can, White Lightning pills from the Human Be-In peered up at her as she paused, unsure of her next move. Her last LSD trip, hidden from the Prof, had been bad. A real nightmare. No way did she want to repeat that performance, but now, the thought of blotting out everything was far too enticing. She breathed in, then, picking out a tab, quickly popped it into her mouth. There. That’s done. I’ll go and lie down for a little while.

  Twenty minutes later, when John went looking for her, she was lying under the covers. “Hey, Babe, where did you go?” He pulled the blankets back and stopped, horrified.

  She was curled up in a fetal position, shivering, clutching at the bedding as if it were her lifeline. Little kitten noises were mewing out of her throat, but when he reached out to soothe her, she snarled, in full self-protection mode. Leaping out of bed, she ran down the hall, hyperventilating as she tried to unlock the front door.

  “What’s wrong, baby, what’s wrong” His body landed hard against her back as she fiddled with the chain, and although he issued soft, cooing reassurances, she batted at him twice before taking off into the kitchen where she started pulling pots and pans down from their racks. Finally, he grabbed her, forced her into the shower, and turning on the warm water, ignored her howls until the soothing wet curtain covered her body and her sobs slowly dwindled into silence. Later, tucking her into bed, he wondered why the hell he was still with her.