Cinnamon Girl

by Lawrence Kessenich

  “Not me,” said Tony. “I’m going to bed. I’ve got the docks in the morning.”

  “John?”

  “I should hit the road, if I’m going to go home.”

  “Why don’t you just stay over again? C’mon, I don’t want to drink alone.”

  “Well, if it’s okay …”

  I looked at Tony.

  “It’s fine with me, man,” he said. “Have a beer and crash on the sofa again. It’s a long way to Whitefolks Bay on the bus, and we sure as hell aren’t going to drive you there tonight.”

  I reached behind me and patted the couch cushion. “Sold,” I said.

  “Good,” said Claire.

  She got to her feet and leaned over to pick up Jonah. The low-cut bodice of her dress revealed her full breasts. Again, I had to look away.

  “Come on, Jonah,” she said softly, as she lifted him. “Let’s put you somewhere more comfortable.”

  Tony got up, too, and offered me his hand. We shook warmly.

  “You’re okay, Meyer,” he said. “I like having you around.”

  “I like being here. Good night, buddy. It’s been real.”

  When Tony and Claire left the room, I turned off the radio and put on Raw Sienna. I was still pretty stoned and the sensual music got to me immediately. I sat down on the floor again, leaned back against the couch, and closed my eyes. Waves of sensual energy flowed up and down my body. The touch of Claire’s foot startled me.

  “Are you awake?” she asked, standing over me, her hand wrapped around the neck of a beer bottle. “You don’t have to do this, you know.”

  Her thighs were inches from my face.

  “Do what? You mean stay up with you? But I want to.”

  “Okay. I set your beer down next to you.”

  She sat down and lit a cigarette, then held the pack out to me. I took one. She lit a match and leaned toward me to light it. It felt inordinately thrilling to have her do a small thing like that for me.

  We talked easily together. She told me more about her sister, and we started talking about love relationships in general. I found myself relating the entire history of my relationships with women—short as it was at that point in my life. Claire seemed to soak up every word I said, which made me want to tell her more.

  We were halfway through our second beer together when Jonah woke up.

  “Oops,” said Claire. “Feeding time at the zoo. I’ll be right back.”

  She returned quickly, Jonah squalling in her arms. And, once again, I watched her feed him from her beautiful breasts. But this time I was stoned, and the music of Raw Sienna was reverberating in my body. Claire chatted away, and I tried desperately to hold up my end of the conversation, but all I could think about was how much I wanted to make love to her. Later, all by myself under a thin sheet on the couch, my imagination carried our encounter to an imaginary erotic conclusion.

  4

  THAT WEEKEND, NEWS ABOUT the Woodstock concert was all over the media. They were saying half a million people were there, a gathering of the counter-culture tribe from near and far. I was disappointed I’d made no effort to go. I had thought of it as just another concert, even if a mega-concert. But, hearing about it, I began to feel that I was missing a major social and cultural event of my generation.

  My parents were appalled by it, of course. The newspaper accounts told of widespread marijuana smoking and some nudity in the steaming heat. We watched news footage of the swarming mass of people before supper on Saturday night. My dad muttered that there’d be “hell to pay” with that many drugged-up hippies crammed together without enough food or sanitary facilities. For once, I didn’t argue with him. But I knew he was wrong. I knew there wouldn’t be any trouble. Max Yasgur, the farmer who provided the land for the concert, put it best when he later said: “The important thing that you’ve proven to the world is that a half million young people can get together and have three days of fun and music and have nothing but fun and music, and God bless you for it!”

  I had to get away that night to share the experience with people who understood it. I called Russo’s right after supper, using the basement phone for privacy. Tony answered. We exchanged greetings.

  “You following the news about Woodstock?” I asked.

  “Yeah,” he said dejectedly. “I could kick myself for not going along with Kolvacik.”

  “He’s there?”

  “Sure. Didn’t he mention it the other night?”

  “He made some comment about the concert in passing, but I didn’t realize he was actually going.”

  “Hell, yes. He got tickets the minute he heard about it. He and some guys from Harley-Davidson rode their bikes out there. They offered to borrow one for me, if I wanted to go, but I didn’t want to risk losing my number at the docks. What a bummer.”

  “I hear you. How about if we have our own little Woodstock Memorial Concert at your place? I need to share this with somebody who understands it, if you get my drift.”

  “The folks aren’t digging it, huh? Come on over. Kolvacik’s fiancé, Mina, is already here. She got left behind, too. We can all cry in our beer.”

  “I’ll see if I can get my brother to give me a ride down. He’s got the car for the night.”

  “Okay. But if you need a lift, give me a call.”

  George was agreeable enough about giving me a ride to Brady Street. He was curious about my lifestyle, being a neatly dressed, nose-to-the-grindstone economics student at Marquette, himself. My jeans and t-shirts were like dull plumage on an exotic bird to him, and he wondered if my habits were equally strange. I didn’t usually tell him much about what went on in my life.

  As we drove toward the East Side, I explained who the Russos were and how I knew them. George’s forehead creased when I mentioned the Water Tower Park demonstration, but otherwise he didn’t respond outwardly. I could see he was working up the courage to ask me something.

  “You guys smoke marijuana, don’t you,” he finally blurted out, his eyes glued to the road in front of us.

  I laughed out loud. I couldn’t help it. He was so earnest about the whole thing. He looked over at me, obviously offended.

  “Sorry,” I said. “Of course we do. Why?”

  Then he looked amazed. “Wow, you really do?”

  “Plenty of people at Marquette do, too, George. I know some of them. It’s not that big a deal these days.”

  He scratched his head as he pondered this view of reality.

  “I’ve heard that from other kids, too. It amazes me. Isn’t that stuff dangerous?”

  “No more than Dad’s martinis.”

  “But doesn’t it make you want hard drugs?”

  “Does Dad’s drink before dinner make him want to be an alcoholic? Alcohol is a drug, too, you know. Drugs don’t run you unless you let them—or unless you’re wired for addiction.”

  He thought this over for some time.

  “I suppose that could be true,” he finally said, tentatively.

  His overcautiousness irritated the hell out of me, sometimes.

  “It’s true, George. You don’t have to think about it for five years to figure it out. Just take my word for it.”

  He let that go, and we rode in silence for the rest of the trip. But I could see he was working something over in his mind. When we pulled up in front of the Headroom, below the Russos’ apartment, I mumbled a thank you, opened the door, and put one foot out. George put his hand on my arm. “Wait a second, John.”

  I turned back to him. “What is it, now, George?”

  He glanced over his shoulder, as if worrying we’d been followed, and when he spoke his words were so soft that they were lost in the noise of a passing car.

  “What?” I said irritably.

  He rolled up his window to block the street noise.

  “I said, I think I might want to try it, sometime.”

  “Try what?” I said.

  “Marijuana. I’m not ready, yet, and I’m not sure I’ll ever be,
but if I do want to try it, will you show me how to do it?”

  I couldn’t help laughing again.

  “You think I’m stupid, don’t you?” he said.

  “No. Of course not. It’s just … we’re just so different, that’s all. Sure, George. If you ever decide to take the plunge, I’ll be happy to introduce you. Like I said, it’s really no big deal.”

  He looked at me seriously.

  “It is for me, John. It is for me …”

  And I could see that it was. For him it was as serious as going to a prostitute or stealing petty cash from one of his clubs at school. It was breaking the law. My friends and I never thought of it that way. We considered the law discriminatory and ridiculous and not worthy of obedience. What right did anyone have to say that alcohol was okay for some people, but grass wasn’t okay for us? George was constitutionally incapable of thinking that way about established authority.

  We said good night, and I watched as he drove off, shaking my head. I rang the Russos’ bell. When Tony came down to let me in, I was grinning.

  “What’s so funny?” he asked.

  “My straight little brother just asked me if I’d introduce him to dope, someday.”

  “Far out. Wookstock takes over the country!”

  “Maybe that’s it. Maybe change is in the air.”

  I went up ahead of Tony. When I walked through the door, Claire was in the rocking chair with Jonah on her shoulder. A woman I assumed to be Mina lay on her back on the floor with her eyes closed. She opened them. Joan Baez was warbling “Sad-Eyed Lady of the Lowlands.” Claire put her finger to her lips to indicate I shouldn’t talk. I went over to Claire and, spontaneously, leaned over and kissed her—a quick kiss, but on the mouth. She seemed a bit surprised, but didn’t turn her cheek to ward it off. Her lips were soft and dry. She smelled faintly of mother’s milk. When I turned, I thought Tony and Mina looked at me a bit strangely, but I might have been imagining it.

  Claire got up and indicated without speaking that she was going to put Jonah down in his room. As soon as she left, the song ended, and Tony introduced me to Mina. She held up her hand while continuing to lie flat on her back. I shook it.

  “Geez,” she said, slurring her words a bit, “a handshake instead of a kiss. Could it be my deodorant?”

  Tony laughed. I blushed. Mina was a beautiful olive-skinned Italian, with black hair, black brows, brown eyes so dark they were almost black, and a perfectly shaped miniature body, no more than five feet tall. She wore tight cut-off jeans and a bright paisley halter-top.

  “Don’t mind her,” said Tony. “She’s just drunk and horny because her old man’s in Woodstock fucking naked hippie chicks.”

  “He damn well better not be,” she shouted at the ceiling, her black eyes smoldering, “or I’ll cut his balls off!”

  She raised herself up on her elbows and looked me square in the eyes. “Or maybe I’ll just fuck a tall, blonde hippie boy of my own … C’mon down here, big guy.”

  I was too horny, myself, to play such games. Without answering her, I parked myself in the easy chair on the other side of the room. Tony chuckled. “Scary, isn’t she?” he said.

  She turned on her side, facing me, supporting her head with one arm. Her thick, black hair cascaded down around her arm. “Aw, c’mon,” she said. “Come to mama …”

  I gulped. “I think I’d better just stay here.”

  “Goddamnit, a gentleman, too! Where you been hiding this one, Tony?”

  He gave me a devilish look. “Just saving him for you, Mina, honey. He’s all yours.”

  I shot him a withering glance.

  “I’ll go get us some fresh beers,” he said. “You be nice to this boy while I’m gone, Mina.”

  He winked at me as he left the room. Mina crawled to her feet, adjusted her halter-top, and came toward me, a little unsteadily. Before I realized what was happening, she was nestled in my lap, her arms around my neck, her head resting on my shoulder. I felt awkward, but the sensation was hardly unpleasant. She was soft and warm and cuddly and smelled of some essential oil I couldn’t quite identify. I felt her hot breath on my neck. The only thing that saved me from an embarrassing erection was that she was crushing my penis. In half-a-minute, she was fast asleep, making a tiny snoring noise.

  Claire came into the room, cigarette and beer in hand, and looked at me quizzically, apparently afraid she’d startle Mina if she spoke.

  “I don’t think she’ll wake up too easily,” I said. “She’s zonked.”

  Claire sat down on the floor and pulled the ashtray to her.

  “Do you always inspire this kind of affection in women?” she asked, smiling.

  “I wish.”

  “Poor Mina,” said Claire. “She’s always been a cheap drunk.”

  Tony came in and laughed loudly when he saw Mina on my lap. This woke her up. She looked up at me without taking her head off my shoulder.

  “You’re nice,” she said.

  “Thanks,” I replied. “You’re nice, too.”

  “Okay, Mina,” said Tony as he handed a beer to her and one to me, “it’s time to break out Tim’s little surprise package. Where are you hiding it?”

  She waved her hand in the general direction of the floor.

  “It’s in my purse, in a sealed envelope.”

  The purse was nowhere in sight. Tony finally found it around the corner of the sofa. He pulled out the envelope, tore it open, and poured four small orange tablets onto his open palm.

  “Bayer aspirin for children,” I said. “How thoughtful.”

  “Yeah,” said Tony. “Tim must have left it in case Mina got a little headache worrying about him.”

  “Fuck you, Tony,” said Mina. “It’s mescaline. Tim scored some just before he left.”

  “Far out!” said Tony. “I’ve heard there was some good stuff around. Is this it?”

  “Tim says it’s good, for whatever that’s worth,” said Mina.

  Claire must have noticed the concern on my face.

  “Have you ever done mescaline?” she asked.

  “Ah … no.”

  “It’s not like acid or anything,” said Tony. “It’s much milder, more in the body than the head. You do see things in an interesting new way, but not all twisted up, the way it can be with acid.”

  “It’s really nice,” added Claire.

  I knew immediately that, in that environment, with those people, I was ready to give it a try. I trusted them, and I was up for a new experience. It seemed in keeping with the Woodstock celebration.

  “All right,” I said. “I’m game.”

  “Far out,” said Tony. “This might even wake up Mina.”

  She had dozed off on my shoulder again. Tony came over and shook her gently. “Come on, kid,” he said. “Time to take your medicine.”

  She stirred, sat up, and shook her head.

  “You’ve got to get out of working Saturdays, Mina,” said Tony. “You’re just not the party girl you used to be.”

  “Don’t I know it,” she replied.

  “Where do you work?” I asked.

  “At an answering service, out on Twenty-Fourth and Wells. You’d think there would be fewer calls on Saturday, but sometimes it’s worse than a weekday. I can’t figure it out. I’m dead tired.”

  “This will perk you up,” said Tony, opening her hand and laying one of the orange tablets on it.

  It looked beautiful against her olive skin.

  “They always put a little speed in with it,” he continued.

  He gave one to me, one to Claire, kept one for himself. He held up his beer in one hand and his mescaline tablet in the other, said “Cheers,” then popped the tablet into his mouth and took a swig of beer. Claire and Mina took theirs right away, too. I hesitated for a moment, then thought, “What the hell,” and followed suit.

  The moment I’d swallowed the tab, I thought about Jonah.

  “Jesus, Claire, what about the baby?!”

  “Don’t
worry. It’s fine. This stuff really doesn’t mess up your head the way acid can. I’d never do anything like that when he was around.”

  Nothing happened immediately, of course. It takes time for something like that to take hold. Tony put on Crosby, Still, Nash, and Young, and we just rapped for a while. Mina got off my lap and sat on the floor. We sipped our beers and waited for the gradual shift of consciousness to occur.

  The first thing I noticed was that all the colorful shapes on Mina’s paisley halter top seemed to be in motion, twisting sensuously in and out of one another around her breasts. Each color and shape seemed to be alive, to have a personality that manifested itself in the way it interacted with each of the other colors and shapes. It was beautiful and fascinating.

  When the Crosby, Stills, Nash, and Young album ended, Tony put on Santana. It was wonderful body music, its primitive, pulsing drums sending waves of energy through us. Soon we were all up on our feet, dancing around the room—together, but also into our own head-trips. I tried whirling around once, but it was too much. I felt as if my head was going to come unscrewed. Tony snatched up his bongos and rapped on them as he danced. Claire’s movements were slow and dreamy, half time to the music’s beat. Mina was the most uninhibited. She gyrated sensuously around the room, weaving in and out among us, a rippling embodiment of the Latin rhythms. Watching her was arousing, but the effect of the mescaline was to distance me from my own arousal. There was no impulse to act on it.

  We danced our way through the entire album. Our bodies were worn out, but our heads were clear and alert.

  “I’ve got an idea,” said Claire. “Come into the kitchen.”

  We followed her and she sat us all down around the kitchen table. Then she tiptoed into Jonah’s room and came out with a familiar-looking box, but she hid the words on the cover, so we couldn’t see what it was. She opened the box on the counter, unfolded sheets of smooth, shiny paper and set one in front of each of us. She filled a bowl with water and set it in the middle of the table. All of this without a word of explanation. Mina was the first to catch on.