My Beautiful Hippie

by Janet Nichols Lynch

  With my sixteenth birthday only a week away, I tried not to think about it. What if no one remembered? Rena was so busy juggling Crucible rehearsals and school, she couldn’t think of much else. Mom would go the whole route, of course, make me a special dinner and sew something I didn’t want to wear. The whole birthday trip was just a bummer.

  It actually turned out to be pretty neat. Rena had play practice, of course, but she made me a beautiful belt out of suede with a row of little mirrors she sewed on. Denise and Jerry came over and Mom made me my favorite dinner, chicken fricassee with dumplings, and German chocolate cake. The big surprise was that she sewed me a cool Nehru jacket out of black-and-red paisley, with black frog closures and a red lining. No other girl at school would have anything like it.

  Dad gave me a patch of Schroeder playing the piano with the words I LOVE BEETHOVEN embossed around the circumference to sew on the back pocket of my jeans. It was extra-special, because he usually left the gift-buying to Mom. Of course Dan didn’t take off work to be at my birthday dinner, but he set on the kitchen table a tiny yellow glass vase with paper flowers in it, something the tourists bought at the Cannery, but I really liked it.

  Denise and Jerry presented me with recordings of the complete Beethoven sonatas, twelve LPs, packed in four flat cardboard boxes, which was more than they could afford. Jerry signed their card “to Beethoven from Beethoven,” making him probably the coolest brother-in-law ever. He had a crease across the pocket of his white Oxford shirt, a clue that Denise’s ironing had become careless. She looked tired, as if her shoulders could hardly bear the weight of her husband’s arm draped casually over them. She seemed much older than she had before her wedding, a few short months ago. After they left, I was relieved my birthday was over. I had been fifteen long enough.

  Thursday evening, the following week, I was practicing Beethoven after dinner, having progressed far beyond the C scale. Dr. Harold had scheduled me to play my sonata in master class the last week of November, and that gave me the incentive to work even harder. The phone rang, and I didn’t want to answer it. After the fourth ring my mother yelled in from the den, where she was sitting with my dad watching Peyton Place.

  “Get that, Joanne! It’s probably Rena.”

  I picked up the phone. “Hello?”

  “Joni! What’s happening?”

  “Hi-ay” came out on two pitches, my surprise apparent.

  Only one person in the whole world called me Joni. Had Martin found my number in the phone book? I wasn’t sure he even knew or remembered my last name.

  “Can I see you?” he asked.

  I glanced toward the den. “Now?”

  “Now is always the best time.”

  Beach Street was far, far away, and it was almost bedtime. “I can’t.”

  “I’m here in Hashbury. I came to visit you.”

  “Where?” I asked hopefully.

  “In the phone booth at Masonic and Haight. We can meet at the Tangerine Kangaroo.”

  “It’s late.”

  “In front of your house, then. I’ll start walking there right now.”

  “Okay.” I hung up.

  Mom called, “Who was it?”

  “Rena.” I dashed upstairs to grab a textbook, then ran down again. I poked my head into the den. “She forgot her chemistry book in her locker so I’m loaning her mine.” I sprinted toward the front door.

  “She’s the one who needs it,” said Mom. “She’s the one who can come get it.”

  I slammed the door on my mother’s words, then sped down the porch steps, through the gate, down the outside steps to the street, and fell into a warm, hard hug behind the retaining wall, my chemistry book crashing to the sidewalk.

  “Missed you, lady,” Martin whispered in my ear. He let go just enough to hold my face in his hands. “Why did you stop coming over? Did I do something?”

  “I did come over, but Byron said you weren’t home, and then another time—well, it’s harder now. I’ve got school, and you never want to plan anything, so—”

  His concerned look broke into a wide grin. “We can plan something!” He clasped my hands and playfully swung our arms between us. “Let’s spend Saturday together, the whole day!”

  “Can’t. I have master class.”

  “Can’t you ditch, like, one time?”

  “No! It’s the best time of my whole week—well, second best. Best is my piano lesson. I love my new teacher!”

  “And I love you!” He bounced on the balls of his feet. “Come play with me, Joni, on Saturday!”

  The word “love” got a lot of use. I’m not saying it was overused; I’m not sure that’s possible, but that one little word had so many shades of meaning that its four little letters needed to explode into about fifty new words to express them all. “Oh, Martin, you love everything. You love this city, you love this tree, you love this chemistry book.” I picked it up and held it up to him. “Here, kiss it.”

  He did, and then he kissed me, softly, sweetly, deeply. His hand slid up my waist to cup my breast, and I implusively hooked my elbow over his wrist and pushed it away. I didn’t know where that had hand been, how many girls’ bodies it had roamed over since it had last touched mine. I was going to be someone special to him or nothing at all.

  “Oh, Joni, you feel so good,” he moaned, holding me tighter. “I need you, girl.”

  Then what had taken him so long to come around? “We can do something on Saturday after my master class. It’s on Nob Hill.”

  “Right next to Chinatown. Let’s have lunch there.” He rubbed his hands together. “Dim sum, duck with plum sauce, eels in squid ink!”

  I knew he was kidding about the last dish. “What about ‘Simplify, simplify, simplify’?”

  “Gotta splurge sometimes.”

  A flood of light appeared above our retaining wall. It meant Mom had turned on the front porch light and was coming to look for me. “Meet you at noon at the Dragon’s Gate,” I whispered to Martin, then kissed him on the ear. Toward the house, I shouted, “Coming, Mom!”

  Martin peeked above the retaining wall, beneath the shrubbery. “Nice digs,” he said. I thought I might have detected a slight longing in his tone.

  “Go!” I gave him a shove up the hill toward Masonic. I ran up the steps and met my mom just inside the gate.

  “Joanne, you still have your chemistry book in your hand.”

  I looked down at it. “Oh, yeah. Rena didn’t really want it. She just needed to tell me something.”

  “And she couldn’t do it over the phone? What about?”

  “Uh, it was about—”

  “Never mind.” Mom gave me a hurt, disgusted look, and I felt guilty. How could I confide in her? She wouldn’t allow half the stuff I did. I put my arm around her waist as we went up the steep porch steps, which made her puff.

  “Don’t worry so much, Mom. I’m not as bad as you think.”

  I was worse.

  As I scurried down California Street, past Grace Cathedral, the balls of my feet burned in a way that warned me blisters were forming. In the bottom of my right shoe were four folded one-dollar bills, which I hoped would be enough for my lunch. I was wearing patent leather pumps; nylons; a brown tweed suit Mom had tailored, with a skirt that hit the middle of my knee; and a ruffled butterscotch blouse. Master class had run over a half hour, and I didn’t realize how long it would take me to get down Nob Hill to Chinatown.

  After Mom had driven me to the first master class, I’d used public transportation. I had told her a half-truth, that I was having lunch in Chinatown with a group of kids from Dr. Harold’s studio, and then I was going to the main library in Civic Center to work on a term paper for history.

  “Dad and I are going to Uncle Herb and Aunt Meg’s for dinner,” she had told me. “There’s a TV dinner for you in the freezer. Get home before dark. I’m going to call to check on you.” She had hooked a dark-penciled eyebrow at me to indicate she meant business, but I knew she was bluffing. My
dad’s brother and his wife lived in San Jose, about an hour away, which was long-distance, and my mom never made an unnecessary expensive phone call. This dinner had no doubt been arranged by Aunt Meg and Mom exchanging little note cards, which only cost a five-cent stamp to send. It would be hard to know when my parents would be home. If Dad and Uncle Herb were getting along, my parents would stay and play bridge after dinner; if they weren’t, my parents would be home early.

  Nearly an hour late to meet Martin, I braced myself for utter disappointment. As I approached the stone arch of Dragon’s Gate, there was Martin panhandling, collecting the price of his lunch.

  “I’m late,” I said, puffing, reaching for a hug.

  “Are you?” Martin did not wear a watch. “There’s so much to see around here, I didn’t even notice.” He looked me up and down. “You’re so . . . dressed up.”

  What he meant was straight. “Yeah, for master class.”

  “Are you comfortable?”

  I shook my head and offered him a forlorn look. He laughed, took my hand, and led me to the Red Lion, where we gorged ourselves on abundant, cheap Chinese food. He told me about his latest adventure, how he had hiked up Mount Tamalpais. “What’s been happening with you, Joni?”

  I sighed. “Mostly doing battle with Beethoven.”

  “I would never play music if it meant going to war.”

  I tried to pinch another pot sticker with the chopsticks Martin had just taught me to use, and it fell back onto the plate. “I know you spend hours on the guitar, working out a new song.”

  “Only if I want to. As soon as I’m tired of it, I put it down.”

  I chased the pot sticker around with my sticks. “You didn’t want to play bass with Roach that time. I could tell.”

  “Oh, well, that’s different. I was doing Gus a favor.”

  “How’s the Roach album coming along?”

  He frowned. “Slow, but Gus signed a contract with Bill Graham to play three weekends at the Fillmore in the spring.”

  “Oh! Oh! Could you sneak me in?”

  “Sure.”

  “Really? And Rena, too?”

  “Rena? That theater type you brought over that one time?”

  “Rena isn’t a type. She’s my best friend.”

  “All theater people are the same. Self-centered egomaniacs.”

  Clearly my two favorite people in the whole world were not impressed with each other. It made me sad. “Wow, I didn’t know you were so uptight and judging.”

  He cocked his head and smiled wryly. “Sor-ree.” He picked up the pot sticker I’d been pursuing and popped it into my mouth. “You have to sneak in, huh?”

  “Age doesn’t matter,” I said, quoting him again. “I had a birthday last week.”

  “Happy birthday. Which one?”

  I swallowed the pot sticker and grinned.

  “I have to sneak into the Fillmore, too,” he admitted. “It’s not that hard.”

  This good news made me laugh: “I thought you were way over eighteen!”

  “Nope, the government’s going to let me live a few more months.”

  The draft. It hovered like the black angel of death in the soul of every American boy. “I’m sixteen,” I announced.

  “Sweet sixteen and . . . kissed. I know for a fact you’ve been kissed.” He leaned over the table and kissed me lightly right then. I worried about my breath, but he said, “Mmm, ginger!” Kiss. “And garlic!” Kiss. “And soy sauce! You’re delicious.”

  The waiter set the bill on a little tray next to Martin. I took my four sweaty dollar bills out of my shoe and set them on top, and Martin added some change, leaving a small tip.

  From Chinatown, we walked through North Beach, past the marina. “I wanted to take you to Muir Woods today,” said Martin, “but we really need all day for that.”

  “Sorry,” I said.

  “I know where we can go.” We crossed the Golden Gate Bridge, and when I stuck my thumb out at Martin’s direction, I imagined the atom bomb dropping over us, everything blowing away, including myself and Martin, in a fierce, hot mushroom cloud.

  A maroon luxury sedan pulled over to pick us up. Inside was a friendly couple, about my parents’ age, from Kansas, who asked us all kinds of funny questions about being hippies as we drove the fifteen miles to Tiburon. From there, Martin and I took the ferry to Angel Island. My whole life, I had looked across the San Francisco Bay beyond Alcatraz, to the green-and-brown hump of Angel Island, but I had never set foot on it. I knew it had once been an immigration station mostly for Orientals, the West Coast’s version of Ellis Island, but now the few rickety buildings weren’t used, and the island had mostly reverted to its natural state. No cars were allowed, so visitors traveled along the rough asphalt of its circumference on foot, bikes, and roller skates. Martin wanted to walk around the perimeter of the island, but by then I had blisters on my soles, heels, and toes.

  Martin looked down at his sturdy boots and my pumps. “Why are you wearing those?”

  “I told you. I had to be dressed up for master class.”

  He shook his head. “Not worth it. There should be no such thing as shoes you can’t walk in.”

  I looked around at the other visitors and noticed I was the only one in a suit, nylons, and heels, except for a few old ladies. Walking the wooded dirt trails, I carried my shoes. It wasn’t long before I had runs in my stockings, but I was too inhibited to lift my skirt and unhook the garters in front of Martin. Besides, it was cold.

  On a sandy beach, we sat huddled together, talking and sharing a joint. It burned my throat and didn’t have much effect. It was one of those great mysteries of life I had anticipated, only to feel let down when I unlocked it. At least I would be able to tell Rena and to hold in my own brain the thought, I smoked pot! The wind commanded Martin’s hair to spiral and dance. I could have watched it forever.

  We lay on the beach and kissed, and when the touching got too intense, I pushed him away. He sat up, hooked his arms over his knees, and stared out across the bay. “You’re sure pure.”

  “I like to take things slow.”

  “You know I love you,” he said, still not looking at me.

  “And Susie and Kathy and Judy and Cindy and Morning Girl.”

  He got up in a huff and strode across the sand. I loved watching him walk in his lanky, loose-jointed way. He was a beautiful boy, even if he could never be mine.

  I wondered if he was going to leave me there, stranded on the chilly beach without even the price of the ferry ride, but soon he circled back and pulled me to my feet and into his embrace. “I can’t make you any promises, Joni, but for now, there’s just you. Do you believe me when I tell you that?”

  “I guess.”

  “What do you mean you guess?” But he was laughing, and we had made it through our first fight.

  The trouble with hitchhiking was that it wasn’t reliable, especially if you had to sneak back into your house before your parents got home. It was dusk when Martin and I returned to Tiburon by ferry, and then we stood on the road outside town in the dark with our thumbs sticking out for a couple of hours. I fervently hoped Dad and Uncle Herb were getting along and the after-dinner bridge game was on. I was shivering and depressed, my stomach rumbling from hunger.

  “You’ve got to smile if you expect someone to pick us up,” said Martin.

  “I’m scared I won’t ever get home tonight.”

  “I know what.” He hid behind a bush, and when a car stopped with two men in it and I opened the door to the backseat, Martin leaped in beside me. On the San Francisco side of the Golden Gate Bridge, we got out on Lincoln Avenue. Martin and I hugged good-bye, and we took public transportation our separate ways. When I got off the trolley at Haight Street, I slipped off my shoes again and ran all the way home.

  It was after nine, and our house was dark. I had made it! Using the key under the fourth flowerpot, I let myself in the back door and dashed through the house, eager to get out of my suit an
d into the shower before my parents returned. I bounded up the stairs and pushed open my bedroom door.

  In the darkness, a man talked in a gravelly voice while a woman gently sobbed. My heart nearly exploded out of my chest.

  Chapter

  Eleven

  It was Rod McKuen, murmuring his sad breakup poetry on an LP recording of Stanyan Street and Other Sorrows. I didn’t have to turn on the light to know who was sniffling his accompaniment, but I did anyway.

  “You scared the crap out of me, Denise.”

  “Sorry. I just came here for a little rest.” She was flung on her little girl’s bed with bloodshot eyes and a nose red from crying. “Where’ve you been?”

  “At the movies with Rena,” I lied. “Don’t tell Mom.”

  “Why? What did you see?”

  I dropped my chin, striving for a guilty look. “You Only Live Twice.”

  “Shame on you, Joanne!” she said in her big-sister scolding voice. “Those James Bond movies are for adults!”

  “Don’t tell Mom. What’s the matter?”

  “Oh, nothing.”

  “Something is.”

  “I loved playing house when I was little. I thought all I needed was my very own stove and refrigerator to be set for life.” Denise squinted and sniffed. “You smell like marijuana.”

  I held the sleeve of my jacket under my nose and inhaled ocean, soy sauce, patchouli, Martin, and pot. “Yeah. This tweedy stuff traps odors, and the whole neighborhood smells of it.”

  Denise frowned. “The whole Bay Area.”

  Rod McKuen had stopped moaning in his dejected, raspy voice. I didn’t much care for him, but his poetry books and records sold millions. It made me think there must be a lot of brokenhearted people who liked to lie in the dark crying. The needle on the turntable floated back and forth in the center of the record. I lifted the arm, hooked it in place, and shut off the record player.