by Nuel Emmons
Before getting locked up in ’60, I’d had a pretty good run on the streets, and though I knew I wasn’t a big success at the things I was trying to do, I thought I was a smooth-talking mother who knew what the score was. Jail life has always kept up on what is happening in the fast lane, but hell, the things I was seeing there in Frisco, I felt I was in a horse-and-buggy trying to keep up with a jet-liner. In the 50s, to score a lid of grass you had to make a phone call or two and use a lot of discretion about who you dealt with. As for making it with a broad, a guy might wine and dine her several times before even being able to kiss a girl goodnight. Now people were like the music, very fast. And all seemed willing. Pretty little girls were running around every place with no panties or bras and asking for love. Grass and hallucinatory drugs were being handed to you on the streets. It was a different world than I had ever been in and one that I believed was too good to be true. It was a convict’s dream and after being locked up for seven solid years, I didn’t run from it. I joined it and the generation that lived it.
Vincent Bugliosi, the prosecuting attorney and co-author of the book Helter Skelter, would have the world believe I got out of prison and pledged my life to corrupting the youth of the country. Hey, those kids knew everything and did everything. I was the baby! I was sleeping in the park and calling it home. I was shining shoes for money to eat on. That is, until a fifteen-year-old kid pulled my coat. I’d seen him around for a few days as I was hustling guys for shines. One day I asked him, say, pal, why aren’t you in school? He tells me he doesn’t go to school. Okay then, I asked, where do you work?
“Work? What kind of a rube are you? I don’t work,” was his indignant reply.
“Man, if you don’t go to school and you don’t work, how do you get by?”
“Are you a cop?” he asked.
“Hell no, I ain’t a cop. As a matter of fact I just got out of the joint and am kind of like a stranger in a strange land.”
That fifteen-year-old kid bought my lunch that day and we exchanged our life stories. Less than half my age, he was the professor and I was the student. He had run away from home over a year-and-a-half before. He had been picked up by the authorities the second week after running away and was returned to his parents. His stepfather kicked him out of the house a week later. He had been on his own ever since. He was one of the smoothest panhandlers I ever saw in action. Though he slept in the park most of the time, he knew where the crash pads were and was welcome in all of them. Besides panhandling and a little thievery, he would hustle pot and acid for a couple of small-time dealers in the Haight-Ashbury district. He introduced me to the district and turned me on to my first acid trip.
The night I dropped my first tab, The Grateful Dead was playing at the Avalon Ballroom. Even without the acid, the performance would have blown my mind. All the strobe lights blinking and flashing in a variety of colors. The people in all their strange clothing looked like they were at a costume party. I flipped over the completely uninhibited routines of the musicians. And though I had never danced to that style of music, I saw that it was all motion and each person did their own thing. The music seemed without direction but created a frenzy in the listeners and dancers. Before I actually realized what I was doing, I was out there on the floor innovating to the beat of The Grateful Dead. I was wild and I was loose; I attracted attention and applause from the other dancers. The acid, the music and the loss of inhibitions opened up a new world for me. I was experiencing rebirth. Finally, in the middle of one of my dances, I collapsed on the floor.
When I awoke the next morning I was in a room with several other people. My fifteen-year-old friend had taken care of me. The people in the pad where I had crashed were a mixture of young and not-so-young, male and female. All were cordial and none were curious as to who I was or how I had gotten there. Each was just into doing his or her own thing and letting the other person do the same. I was one of them without asking or being asked; I was just there, and I was accepted. Welcome to the world.
My guitar, my voice, my song writing and my homeless state put me right at home. I was just one of thousands who called wherever they were at the moment home. My hair grew a little longer. I lugged the guitar every place I went. I played on street corners, in alleys, in houses and on college campuses. Playing on a street corner might earn me enough money to eat on for a day, but that wasn’t my reason for playing and singing. There is communication through music, there are friends and appreciation. The past has no bearing and the future is not thought of, just the “now.” I played for myself and whoever cared to listen. Others might join me, or I might join them in their songs. We shared and related. Doors would open—not for lucrative opportunities or success in the music world, but for friendships and experiences. If money was needed I’d hustle a bar, using my guitar and voice. I’d look into a bar; if there were numerous people in the place and no music being played, I’d approach the bartender and ask if I could play a few songs. Sometimes the bartender wouldn’t go for it and told me to hit the road. If the guy gave me the go-ahead, I’d play and sing for tips. If no one was putting anything in the kitty, I’d stop playing and in my loudest voice insult the whole bar and tell them, “I just got out of prison, and me and my two partners had come by this place to rob it. I talked my partners into letting me try to earn a few honest dollars instead of robbing the place. Now if some of you bastards don’t put a few dollars into this empty hat, so that I ain’t a liar, I don’t know how long I can keep my two partners from walking through that door with their shotguns.” All the patrons would glance at the door, not knowing if I was bullshitting or not. It was surprising how effective the words were. I supported myself pretty well by doing just that. I wasn’t stealing, selling dope or doing anything that would put me back in jail. I might be smoking a little grass and dropping a tab or two, but at that time, I wasn’t dealing or robbing.
Or getting any sex from all those pretty little girls mentioned earlier. I was definitely conscious of them and drooled every time I got close to one. In reading about me, a person is led to believe I just moved right in and was balling every girl I looked at. But it wasn’t happening. Maybe I was just too hungry and eager for it to happen. The truth is, I was on the streets many days before I got my nuts out of hock. And it wasn’t with one of those pretty little flower children filled with free love, but a forty-plus-year-old lush who hustled me for a drink. For all the real pleasure she gave me, I’d have been better off finding a corner, jacking off and letting my imagination carry me away to satisfaction.
My first sexual encounter with one of the young pretties happened on a rainy night in Frisco. Due to the rain, sleeping under the stars was out. I found myself a dry nook in the alcove of an apartment house and hoped like hell nobody would hassle me before I had had a few hours sleep. I had rolled out my sleeping bag and was about to crawl in when this young girl carrying a guitar stepped into the alcove for protection from the heavy rain. She wasn’t dressed for the weather and was soaked clear to the skin. Her lips were quivering and her teeth chattering. For me, it wasn’t a question of chivalry or lust, but a natural concern for someone cold and wet who needed warmth and a chance to dry out. So I said, “Here, get out of those wet clothes and get in this sleeping bag.” She peeled off her clothes and buried herself in the warmth of the sleeping bag. I wrung out her clothes and hung them on the doorknob, then huddled up in a corner clutching my arms around my knees for warmth. She looked out of the bag and said, “Aren’t you getting in?” She didn’t have to ask twice. Twenty minutes later the moisture was sweat, not rain. And our bodies supplied all the needed heat. The little broad was an acid freak and not all that pretty, but she completed my welcome to Haight-Ashbury. It wasn’t love, and I don’t even remember her name. Love and real pleasure were yet to come.
I stayed in the Haight for some time. I can’t say I had an address there, but it was home. I never rented a room or an apartment. A crash pad, a spare room, the back yard of a new friend or
the park is where I would sleep. I’d catch up on baths when invited into someone’s apartment. Overall the people in the district were like one big family. As a true family is bonded by blood and heredity, those in the Haight were bonded by their counter-culture lifestyles and resentment of government and society. It was a place where everyone did his own thing and didn’t object to the other guy doing his. The rich, like the poor, wore faded and second-hand clothing or home-made garments. The occult was practiced almost as openly as socially acceptable religions. A Catholic or a Protestant would enter the Haight and possibly leave as a Buddhist or an atheist. Devil worship, witchcraft, sex orgies and perversion were everyday occurrences. A group of people might shed a tear one day over the slight injury of an animal, when the night before they had participated in some weird blood-letting ritual.
I have heard that Haight-Ashbury’s reputation was created by “flower-children” who advocated love and peace. There were a few of those still in the district, but as a whole, that image was on the decline long before Charles Manson appeared on the scene. Other than the love and hallucinogenic drugs, I did not participate in mind trips or rituals. Nor did I get involved in all the protest concerning the Vietnam War. When approached to march or stand in front of some building in protest, I’d say, half seriously, “What war? Shit, I been locked up for seven years, is there a war going on?” The recruiter would look at me like I was an idiot and go on his way.
I observed all that was going on with keen interest, but at that time I was not into controlling anyone or being controlled. My trip was being free!
Berkeley and the University of California offered a similar atmosphere of freedom, so occasionally I would put my guitar over my shoulder and hitchhike to the campus of U.C. to spend a day or two on that side of the bay. Sometimes I would join other musicians as they played on corners or the spacious lawns of the campus. Mostly I would just find myself a quiet spot somewhere on the lawn and play and sing the music I had written. Students and passersby would stop to listen, comment on the lyrics and sometimes compliment the music. I loved it. I made a lot of friends and took pride in my accomplishments and their acceptance of me.
One day while on the U.C. campus I was strumming my guitar and humming in tune with the chords when a dog ran up to me and started sniffing at my foot. I poised my foot as if to kick the animal and a girl’s voice rang out, “Don’t hurt my dog.” I hadn’t intended to kick the pup, but when I saw the concern in the girl’s face, I played a game with her: get this ugly dog away from me or I’m going to plant my foot in its ass. The girl was a slim, redheaded, straight-laced type. She wasn’t pretty, but standing there in defiance of someone who might hurt her animal, she had qualities.
Mary Brunner was her name. She worked at the university as a librarian. I teased and threatened all the more when I saw it was irritating her. In a few minutes she realized it was a tease and laughed at herself for being annoyed. She then began criticizing my grammar, telling me, “You should stick to singing; when you talk, you come on like an ex-felon.” Smiling, I said what a smart girl she was and then, hoping to shock her, I told her of my recent release from prison. She accepted my statement without displaying any emotion and quietly said, “Wow, I’ll bet you’re glad to be out.” Our meeting had begun with a certain mutual defiance, but the conversation mellowed and we found we communicated easily. Mary had just recently graduated from the University of Wisconsin and had moved to California to “broaden her horizons.” She was twenty-three years old, living alone, and as yet didn’t have many friends here on the West Coast.
With some encouragement on my part, she agreed to let me fall out at her apartment for the night. My immediate thought was, “Good, I’m going to score.” When we got to the apartment I was ready for sex and made a pass at her. She straightened my ass out quick. Firmly pushing me away from her, she said, “Look, I am giving you a place to sleep tonight; I’m not sleeping with you.” I backed off and became a gentleman for the rest of the evening. We went down to a local restaurant and I bought her dinner. We exchanged histories, and before the night was over I considered her my friend. I slept on the couch and respected her privacy. The next morning as she left for work, I asked if I might spend a couple more nights with her. She agreed, as long as I didn’t expect any sexual relationship between us. I took advantage of her hospitality. By the time she returned home from her job, I had gone to Frisco and picked up all my worldly possessions (a suitcase with three changes of clothing, a sleeping bag and of course my guitar, which had been with me the night before). When she came home and noticed my belongings, she smiled and let me know I was pushing things. Not really, I told her. I’ll help you out with the rent, protect you from all the bad guys and keep my distance. She smiled and I knew it was all right. We were good companions and I kept my word about staying my distance.
Several days later I was over in Frisco and in the Haight. I had been wandering around, playing a little music here and there and in general just looking for the unexpected. While standing on a corner, I saw a young girl walking up the street. She had a backpack over her shoulders and the lost, desperate look that was very common on the faces of new arrivals in the area. She stopped on the corner and took the pack off to rest her shoulders. I was thinking of walking over to her to start a conversation, but before I had a chance to move, a big black guy walked up and started talking shit to her. She bent down to pick up her pack in an effort to get away from the guy, but he put his hand on her arm and lifted her upright. I could hear his words. “Come on, baby, I’m going to give you a nice home and let you be my woman.” The girl’s face drained of color and she tried to pull away. As they struggled, I walked over, saying, “Hey, man, get your hands off of my sister!” He let go of the girl and started to give me some lip. I ignored him and called the girl by the first female name that came to mind: “Come on, Mary, I been waiting an hour for you; it’s time for us to get home.” We left the black guy standing there.
We walked down the street, me carrying her pack, and went into a restaurant. I bought her something to eat and listened to her tale for the next hour. She had run away from home ten days before. Her money was gone and she didn’t know what she was going to do now. She had been told about the Haight and hoped she would meet someone in the area who would give her a place to stay until she got a job and could afford her own place. I used the black guy to illustrate the kind of treatment she could expect if she persisted in hanging around this area. I tried to convince her it would be best if she returned to her parents and that, if she wanted me to, I would hitch back with her to make sure some creep didn’t pick her up. Her answer was, “If you make me go home, I won’t stay there. This is the second time I left and I’m not ever going back again.” Convinced she was telling the truth, I offered her the use of Mary’s place.
Her name was Darlene. She was sixteen years old, small and pretty, and didn’t even look thirteen. We hitched over to Berkeley. On the way I was wondering how receptive Mary was going to be to my bringing another roomie to her place. At the apartment Mary came through like a champ. She was even more concerned about Darlene being on the streets alone than I was. The two of us together tried to talk Darlene into returning home. Her answer was still a definite no.
In the following days I may have had thoughts about having sex with Darlene or Mary, but at that time I hadn’t stood in a court room and heard a prosecuting attorney tell the world that I was an unscrupulous deviate who lured young girls into my lair to perform sexual orgies. So I wasn’t prepared to take off some sixteen-year-old baby or rape my friend Mary. Actually I was surprised by myself. There I was, an ex-convict, a one-time pimp, who hadn’t had but two pieces of ass in the last eight years, living in an apartment with two lovely girls and sleeping by myself.
A couple of days later however, Darlene was hanging around the apartment in a pair of skimpy shorts and a very revealing halter. Looking at her, I noticed stretch marks on her stomach. I pointed and said, “What are
these?” Darlene glanced at the marks and replied, “Oh, that’s from when I had my baby. When I was fourteen a Mexican gardener raped me.” I responded, “Well, hell, girl, you’re legal then. Why haven’t we been sleeping together?”
“Gee, Charlie, I been waiting for you to say something. I thought you didn’t want me,” she said.
“Are you for real? I been locked up for a lifetime dreaming of a young tender thing like you.”
Mary was at work, we had the apartment to ourselves and our romance began right then. By the time a couple of long, hungry kisses were exchanged, we were both out of our clothes and making love on the carpet in the front room. She was young, she was pretty, and she knew how to make love. And once started, neither of us wanted to stop. It wasn’t rape, I hadn’t kidnapped her from her parents, she wasn’t turned on by drugs, and though she was less than half my age, she was years ahead of me in sexual experience. Well, that may not be a complete truth, but she did put me through a couple of moves I had never tried before.
That evening when Mary came home, I was telling her that Darlene and I had made it together and would be sharing the same room. Mary didn’t make a scene but she did indicate that she thought I was taking advantage of her. “She’s awfully young, Charlie. Are you sure you’re being right with her?” I replied, “Hey, look, I’m only human. She wasn’t a cherry and she wanted it as much as me. I didn’t twist no arms. You aren’t giving me any, so yeah, I’m being right with her, and myself.” Darlene then spoke up for the first time. “I wanted him, Mary. He didn’t force me.”