“Come on, baby.” Sly looked over at me and took a hand off the steering wheel to touch my neck. “We're going to play a show in Upstate New York on a farm—some big festival.” Sly put on his puppy dog look, the one he'd worn when he first had jumped out of his camper.
“I'll try,” I said, acting casual, as though I were asked to go to New York every day. “When are you leaving?”
I imagined being in New York with Sly twenty-four hours a day and thought of what that meant for our relationship. I would have to get birth control pills. There was no way Sly was only going to keep making out with me, and I wanted to sleep with him.
All night I practiced telling Mom and Dad that Sly had asked me to go to New York. I made up ways to ask them if it was all right. In the end, I was too afraid they would forbid me to go, so I didn't bring it up, much less ask their permission. I confided in Kitsaun. She listened to my reasons for wanting to go, a wistful look on her face.
“Oh, God. New York is wonderful. You have to go! Just don't tell them,” she said. “It's only for a few days. I'll think of something to say after you're gone.”
The next afternoon, I left work early and took the bus to Fillmore and Clay to Planned Parenthood. I went home with pamphlets on birth control and a plastic disc with pills.
Sly bought me a prepaid ticket. He told me he would be waiting at the gate. He wouldn't let me say I wasn't coming. Clearly he expected me to work everything out and be there.
I packed a small suitcase with clothes for four days. The morning of the flight I got ready for work as usual. Mom and I had the habit of riding the streetcar downtown together. This morning I dragged out the process of getting dressed and put- ting on my mascara. Mom called from the kitchen, “Deb, it's time to go. Are you ready?”
My hands were sweating. “Almost, Mom.”
I sat in the bathroom on the end of the tub, willing her to leave without me. Dad was still in bed. I knew he was awake but that he wouldn't get up for another hour. He read the morning paper or “rested his eyes” until we all left.
Finally, Mom said, “I'm going to be late. I'll see you tonight.”
“Okay, Mom. Sorry.”
When the door closed, I went into the kitchen, pulled out the phone book, and dialed Yellow Cab.
“Pick me up on the corner of Harold and Grafton,” I whispered to the dispatcher, afraid to wait inside and have Dad see that I wasn't going to work after all.
On the drive to the airport, I reasoned with myself: I'm eighteen, almost leaving home for college. I'm old enough to do this without asking. But deep down inside I knew my actions were outrageous. I had never gone completely against my parents' wishes. Karmen and I had walked around the city barefoot after Dad forbade me to do it, but that was light compared to sneaking off to New York. I knew Mom and Dad would never have given me their blessing to go away with Sly. Dad said he had heard about Sly in the street. He called him a pimp. I loved my parents and knew they would always be there for me, but I had never felt like this about a man before. My desire to be with Sly fueled a passion that recklessly propelled me where it wished. I risked shattering my parents' trust to follow this man.
At the airport I paid the cab driver, grabbed my bag, and got in line at the American Airlines ticket counter. I walked to the gate, clutching my ticket and my purse, and I stopped at a pay phone to call work and tell them I wasn't feeling well. Nervous, I approached the gate. There he was. Sly was sitting in the middle of the band members: a carousel of tight pants, pink-and-blue geometric shirts, and a sea of sunglasses. Greg wore a leopard-skin vest; Rose, a blond wig, too bright against her brown face. Next to the business travelers in their dark suits, Sly and the Family Stone looked like a circus. Sly was talking to Freddy, who looked just like him, but with a baby face. When Sly saw me, he stood and walked to me. “I knew you'd make it, baby,” he said, pulling me into his arms.
ly introduced me to the band members I hadn't met: Jerry Martini, the saxophone player, his long, reddish hair hanging over his eyes; Larry Graham, the bass player, six feet five inches, dressed in a white suit and a tie, thin as a yardstick. Cynthia Robinson, the trumpet player—fair skin and soft Afro highlighting guarded amber eyes—reached her hand out to me. Rose, a familiar face, hugged me, making me feel like her sister, as she popped her gum. KC stood at the counter with everyone's tickets. I walked to him and said hello.
On board, we sat scattered through first class. Sly swayed down the aisle of the airplane and sat on the arm of Larry's seat, leaning over his conked hair. Larry handed Sly a large book; I could see the title: The World of Dogs.
I pushed the round silver button to recline my seat and breathed deeply. I had made it. A flight attendant leaned over. “Champagne, mimosa, or orange juice?”
“Orange juice, thank you.” I couldn't believe she was offering me alcohol. She didn't know I was only eighteen, but I was not about to get drunk on a plane.
Close to the thrill I felt in getting away without Mom and Dad knowing sat a gnawing worry about how they would react when I did not come home from work. Would Kitsaun be able to appease Mom and Dad, or would they call the police to bring me back? The flight attendant offered me a magazine, and I buried my concerns in Glamour. Sly's voice carried loudly through the first-class cabin. When I looked up, his eyes were on me. I thought about what a puzzle he was. He was obviously smart, but acted like a thug rather than intelligent in front of others. Since we had met, I had come to respect his poetry, his view of the world through his songs. Like Bob Dylan, a spokesman for social change for our generation, Sly's lyrics cleverly touted racial harmony, acceptance of those different from the mainstream, and standing up for one's beliefs even when the whole world tried to tell you that you were wrong. He was charismatic and sparkled with energy. When he spoke, his voice hummed, animated with laughter. I loved being near him when he captured melodies on the piano, singing new lyrics.
He sat in the seat beside me with the book in his hands and bent his head close to mine. My skin grew hot. “You're like music,” he breathed, “new melodies I've got to play. We're going to have fun. ‘Hot Fun in the Summertime,’” he said, quoting the title of the single the band had just released. He threw his head back, laughed, and opened the dog book. “What do you think of a bulldog?”
I looked at the photo of a short, stocky dog, swaybacked with loose jowls. “Hmm. Pretty ugly. We always had German shepherds. Don't bulldogs get lockjaw?”
“Only if they get in a fight—I like that they lock onto the other dog,” Sly said. “Stoner's getting old. I wanna get some new dogs. I'm thinking about a pit bull or a bulldog. Maybe both.” He turned the pages, and I looked at the photos and read the descriptions with him.
We flew over Manhattan before landing, the Empire State Building's silver art deco spire glimmering in the distance. I followed Sly from the plane onto the Jetway. A thin wave of blistering air seeped through the rubber molding and scorched my arms and legs. I was glad I had worn my white knit sleeveless dress. It was perfect for the August heat. Outside the terminal, Sly guided me to a waiting limousine. I had never been in a limousine, and I looked around to see whether the other band members would get in first. The driver opened the door of the long black car, and Sly put his arm on my back, gently pushing me in. I saw Freddy, Rose, Larry, Jerry, Cynthia, and Greg— the rest of the band—climb into a long van. Sly sets himself apart from his musicians. I wondered how that made everyone else feel. I felt awkward—ostentatious—sitting in the back of a car that could hold six people. “Should I get my bag?” I asked.
Sly ducked into the limo and yelled to his father, “Dad, don't forget Debbie's suitcase!” The driver closed our door and climbed into the front seat. Sly said, “Let's go to Forty-second Street. I want to get a new tape deck.” He raised the smoke-tinted window.
I had gone to Forty-second Street when I was in New York in June with Kitsaun. The shops with electronics piled high in windows, signs with “slashed prices” dangling, a
nd dark-haired men hanging in doorways had intimidated me. Sly knocked on the glass. “Stop here.”
He pulled me along from shop to shop, where he haggled with salespeople. I felt like a rag doll behind him, the limo cruising slowly along the curb beside us. In front of me, a tall, shapely black woman switched her hips from side to side as she walked in a skintight miniskirt, her hair curled in lustrous ringlets. Her arm was extended, holding a leash. “What a cute dog,” I said, looking at the bundle of white fur she followed.
“Every working lady in New York has a dog,” Sly said, his voice gruff. It took me a minute to realize what kind of work he meant. He pulled me closer to his side and tipped his head toward the woman. She smiled at him.
At the next store, Sly made his purchase. We were driven to the Hilton, Sly clutching his new tape deck and grinning. KC was waiting for us in the lobby. He stuttered, “I-I wish you had c-come on with the band. I-I was worried.”
“Thanks, Dad.” Sly patted him on the back, took the room key and my hand, and led me toward the elevator.
“Y-You have a press c-conference tomorrow, Sly,” KC called after us. Sly raised his hand in the air as a response and pushed the button for the elevator. He turned to me and put his face nose-to-nose with mine. When the elevator doors opened, he almost carried me inside, not noticing other people or moving to let them on. At our floor, he put his arm around my shoulders, glanced at the key, and steered me down the hall.
Now that we were alone, my confidence waned. I wanted to leave my “good girl” lifestyle to be with Sly physically, but I was also scared. He opened the door to our room, waved his arm through the threshold, and bowed as I entered. I tried to drift easily into the room like a woman, but I felt awkward, like the inexperienced girl I was. The suite was large, grand. An overstuffed couch covered in bright yellow flowers sat between dark mahogany armchairs. Our suitcases were leaned against the wall. I scanned the room: A door led to a bathroom; the bed sat in front of a window; curtains were open; and New York City skyscrapers towered outside.
Sly set his tape deck on the coffee table and pulled up his pant leg.
Oh no, I thought. Not the weed already. I had been so preoccupied with thoughts about making love with Sly that I had forgotten about how he liked to get high. He reached into his sock and extracted a square piece of foil. Carefully unwrapping it, he took out two flat orange pills that looked like children's aspirin.
“Honey,” he said, walking me to the couch, “you look like a scared rabbit.” He held my hand open and put one of the pills on my palm. “This will relax you. I've taken it before. It's ‘orange sunshine’—very mild.”
“You mean acid?” I asked, my back stiffening. What have I gotten myself into? Sly's eyes were slits as he watched my reaction.
“Come on,” he coaxed. “We'll take it together. It'll be fun. I won't let anything happen to you.” I wanted to do what he asked, but I had heard nightmarish stories of people having bad trips on LSD, even dying.
Sly threw one pill in his mouth, swallowing it without water; then he ran to the bathroom and returned with a glass of water for me. I didn't have time to weigh the pros and cons of ingesting a drug I had never considered taking before this moment. Will he really take care of me? I believed he cared for me and wouldn't give me anything that would hurt me. I had resisted all offers of drugs, which began in high school. I guess I can loosen up now. Sly lifted my palm to my mouth. I set the pill on my tongue and swallowed the orange sunshine with a gulp of water, wondering what I was going to feel like and how long it would last.
“You said you write poetry. Did you bring any with you?”
I laughed, trying to cover my nervousness.
“What's so funny?”
“You know just what to say,” I said.
“Your eyes are like sunsets,” Sly said, moving toward me.
When our lips met, I was already inside his mind, his cologne, his arms. We lay together on the couch, kissing as we always had, but Sly's body pinned me. I tried to relax into the sheer pleasure of being alone with this man I had fallen in love with; I felt as though until now I had never before cared for anyone.
I knew the LSD was taking effect when the heavy, flowered drapes began waving back and forth against the pale yellow walls. The round-backed, Victorian chairs sat up straight. The ceiling vibrated as though there was an earthquake upstairs. Everywhere I looked, something moved. Sly's face had a green tint. I closed my eyes, fear gripping my stomach; but Sly caught me as I fell, his arms a net that encircled me.
The acid came on stronger, and my senses became more confused. Time was suspended above my head. Sly started to laugh; the sound seemed to come from my chest, then out of my mouth. We melted onto the couch, unable to stop giggling—tears running down our cheeks.
“Hey! Watch this,” he said excitedly, and waved his hand in front of our faces, creating bright colors and golden light in a trail of mirrored hands that followed his. We sat for a long time just moving our hands back and forth.
“Let's go to bed,” he drawled. Sly unbuttoned my dress as my head swirled round and round. I climbed under the covers, the smooth, soft sheets billowing and dancing on top of me as I settled on the pillow. Sly floated off toward the bathroom.
My senses were awake on the surface of my skin. The sheets became a landscape I was flying over. I felt as though I were hearing through my eyes and seeing with my touch; only my sense of smell seemed to be in the right place.
A tall, rectangular light shaft bled into the room when Sly opened the bathroom door. He spotted me gripping the covers up to my neck and smiled.
“What are you doing? Hiding?” His grin grew large, exaggerated, like an unfriendly cartoon character. The short laugh that burst from his gut held a sinister tone. Is he laughing at me? As he climbed into bed, the entire room began to undulate and vibrate over me. Holding me in his arms, Sly began to love me, rubbing my skin, rolling on top of me. The bed and room became a vista of tall mountaintops, my body riding the peaks, up and down, up and down. It was an exquisitely beautiful country: verdant, lush, tall grasses; sunny skies; snowcapped peaks. I thought I was in Austria, a place I had never been.
I could feel his body on mine, his legs around me, his pressure inside, but I was still flying. “Whew!” Sly cried out, holding me—landing. My legs shook. I kept my eyes shut, skimming down the mountaintops like a bird.
Sly rolled over and jumped up from the bed, pulled on his Jockeys, and walked to the phone. “We had better get something to eat.”
Eat? I thought. I had just made love for the first time. It had felt heavenly, and my body was in a fluid form, open and alive. I looked around the room—the clock read 1:00 A.M. Five hours since we had taken the acid. I didn't think I could eat.
I watched Sly talk to room service. His thin, brown body was firm and taut. I could make out sinewy ripples of ligament and muscle beneath his skin. He hung up, put on his leather trousers, and bounced around the room like a toy with brand-new batteries.
A knock startled me. Sly jumped to open the door. A waiter rolled a table into the center of the room. I made sure every inch of my body was concealed. The silver domed plate covers looked like a miniature city. Sly signed the bill. As the man left the room, he looked back over his shoulder, leering at me.
“Come on,” Sly beckoned. “You need to eat or that acid will tear up your stomach.”
Obediently, I climbed out of my soft hiding place, the soles of my feet tickled by the carpet. I walked toward the bathroom, feeling exposed to the world, as though my veins and blood vessels were saying “hi” by reaching through my skin to wave. I closed the door behind me. My legs were wet with drops of blood trickling down my inner thigh. I had heard this could happen the first time you made love, but I felt like crying. My innocence ran from me. I mourned and rejoiced. I ran hot water on a washcloth and cleaned my body. A glance in the mirror showed a wild-eyed, bushy-haired animal looking back.
A robe lay folded on
the counter. The terry cloth felt rough and nubby against my body as I wrapped it around me. I joined Sly at the table. Rainbow auras pulsated around him as I pulled out a chair. “You okay?” he asked.
I wanted to say, “I'm not sure. I'm not a virgin anymore.” I wanted to cry and to celebrate. But I couldn't speak all that I felt. I answered, “Yes.”
My senses continued to play in a dimension I had never experienced before. Every move of my hand still created flashes of colors. I picked up a fork, feeling its cold, steely hardness. The scrambled eggs Sly ate looked like lumpy puddles of plastic vomit. My stomach told me I couldn't possibly touch them. The bacon smelled delicious but seemed to be wiggling across the plate.
A wicker basket of toast, partially covered by a cloth napkin, looked like a baby in a blanket. Cautiously, I opened the white folds. Aaah. It looked just like bread, toasted. I gently took a piece, careful not to wave it too much. As I bit into it, the toast tasted like construction paper. I swallowed a gulp of orange juice and sat back in my chair.
Sly was happy tripping on his own. I thought of Mom and Dad, and tears sprang to my eyes. Sly, naked again except for his Jockey shorts, turned on his music, took out his guitar, and devoured the songs coming out of the small black speakers. I was alone to feel the waves of acid rise and fall on my mind. I wiped tears, but he didn't notice. My heart felt like an ocean in my chest, love and worry floating about. Out of the corner of my eye, a Chinese vase began to levitate from the table. I looked at Sly and wondered whether he saw it, too. His eyes were shut, headphones covering his ears— he remained submerged in his sounds.
Shadows moved like clouds around the room, making large monster shapes that loomed above me. The bass guitar thumped from Sly's songs, echoing through his headphones, sounding like giant footsteps coming closer. I pushed the chair back and stumbled to the bed, sliding under the covers to hide from my LSD imagination. I shut my eyes hard. Rainbows and stars burst against my lids like bright fireworks. A thought passed through my mind to jump out a window to escape. I covered my head and recited the Lord's Prayer—over and over.
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