by Sarah Relyea
As Joe was nearing Conrad’s house, a cop car rolled slowly down the block. Joe passed the house, hands swinging loosely as he sang, loudly and badly. The cop car glided along the lane. Joe rounded a corner and paused by a bush. Soon he was coming up on the address again. The cop had no reason to hassle him; as Paul kept saying, Joe was so young they’d leave him alone.
The house was large and gabled; ivy covered the upper story. Someone was playing Santana—Conrad, for sure. The song blared freely, as though confirming that everyone else was away. Joe enjoyed the glimpses of people’s houses that came with helping Paul’s deals go down. In each house, he would imagine living someday among the strange and wonderful objects he found there. With a regular buyer, he could really scope the place, get familiar. In the bedroom at home, he would stay awake replaying scenes from the houses he’d seen. Lying in the dark, he would imagine each house and the things he’d grab from there, if he ever got that far. He wondered what Paul had taken, beyond a school flag; but for Joe, it was houses, not schools, that really counted—houses had what he wanted. It was fun to have a flag hanging in the bedroom, and when boys came to the house they were impressed. But he’d seen much more enthralling things—personal things. Things that belonged in one place only, the place where he’d found them. In a fancy house on The Uplands he’d seen a parrot—a dazzling creature with a long, fluorescent plumed tail, eyes like glass beads, and a green helmeted head. It hung from a beam in the foyer by an unseen thread, seemingly perching on Joe’s shoulder as he passed through. The house had a sloping, overgrown yard. The boy was bland and haughty, the money ready, the drop coldly impersonal. Joe wanted the green-headed parrot—the cool thing that came with the house.
As Joe rang the doorbell, a new song, a lover’s ballad, flowed from the upper story. Conrad’s curly dark head appeared in the glass as he opened the door, grinning. “Joey, come in.” He closed the door as Joe entered the house. “Paul just phoned me, told me you were on the way. Come on up, man.”
They went up and along a dark passageway to a bedroom in the back corner of the house. Conrad turned down the phonograph on a crooning guitar. The room was hung with concert posters from the Fillmore West. A huge Cuban flag hung overhead, the lone star forming a canopy, the white and blue bands running down one wall. By the bed was an amp reaching above the shoulder, huge enough to blow the windows of the house, Joe thought.
“Just in time, Joey. There’s a jam this afternoon.”
Joe unbuttoned the Levi’s jacket. Under the jersey was a strange bulge above the belt loops. He felt comfortable with Conrad. He wanted to make the older boy happy with him. Joe unfastened his belt and the top button of his jeans and pulled on a corner of the jersey. Reaching in, he carefully removed a bag of marijuana from under the jersey and handed it to Conrad. “One . . .”
Conrad crouched on the bed, leaning over the bag as though examining jewelry or gemstones. “Lush, man, dense, green. Oh wow, potent stuff. Paul never fucks around with seeds and stems.”
Joe pulled out another bag, then another and another. Conrad was grinning.
“Wow, I’m gonna have some now. See what the man brought.” Conrad reached for a shelf by the bed, where there was a package of cigarette papers. He took some dry, crumbled leaves from the bag and placed them in the paper crease, rolling it back and forth firm between his fingers until it rolled smoothly and then tucking the paper for the final roll. He wetted the inner edge and sealed it. Then he fumbled on the shelf for a lighter. The flame rose high, higher than the flame on Paul’s lighter. Conrad inhaled on the joint, held the smoke for a long count, then released it slowly, letting it curl around his lips, flare from his nose. “Hey, man, I hope you get something outta this.”
“Don’t worry about me.”
“Yeah, I guess you’re a lucky man, having Paul for a brother.”
“You can say that.”
“Toke up, Joey.” Conrad passed the reefer to Joe. “Now for the money thing.” He pulled out a wad of bills and counted off seven ten-dollar bills and handed them to Joe.
“Six ounces by ten, plus another ten. That’s for you, man.”
“Far out—thanks, Conrad.”
“And make sure Paul gets the rest.”
Joe held the money in one hand as he drew long on the joint and then reached it toward Conrad. Conrad moved closer, grinning, pinching the joint. The older boy’s blue and gold jersey was worn and comfortable, Joe could see the shoulder muscles moving under the cloth. Joe looked down at the money, fanning the paper in his palm. He peeled off one greenback and slipped it into the pocket of his jacket. Then he carefully folded the others and thrust them into his jeans.
As Conrad continued to smoke, Joe wandered toward a wall hung with an image of embedded blue squares, each one smaller and receding deeper from the surface, becoming more intensely blue as they plumbed a pulsing cavern. Joe felt himself falling toward nothingness; then he flinched and pulled away.
Conrad had approached, staring at the gathering blue. He gestured toward the wall. “I could plunge in there.”
Joe stood, hands hanging loosely, dreaming. Conrad turned and laughed, “Such an odd feeling.” Then he added, “Maybe you and some pals want to go to the Fillmore tonight. Someone gave me some comps, and I can’t use them.”
“Who’s playing?” Joe wanted to know.
“The Dead.”
“Wow, how come you’re not going?”
“I’ve seen them so many times, man . . . and something else came up.”
“Oh.”
“You’ve been to the Fillmore, no?”
“Sure . . . with Paul.”
Paul and some other guys had already taken Joe to the Fillmore West, where he’d seen Jefferson Airplane. That had been months ago, even before Altamont, in early December; and for Altamont he’d approached Jim on the playground one day, hoping by the look of the boy that he would know a way there, and sure enough, Jim’s dad had found them a van from the Avenue to the muddy speedway. Now things were moving fast. Chris had begun hanging with them and they wandered as a group, leaving school together for the Avenue or some grass in Jim’s dad’s apartment. And more and more, Valerie was coming along.
Conrad opened a drawer by the bed and found a small envelope. “Here you go, pal.”
“Wow. Thanks.” Over Conrad’s shoulder, the blue squares were plunging through the wall. Joe imagined a throng, a stage, a rough leather angel hurling down a lightning bolt on a dark figure squirming on the ground. He could hear the roar of guitars and motorcycles, feel the crowd churning, flinching away. He squinted through the glare and saw a shadow prancing overhead on the stage, under the searchlights. Turning back toward the low hills thronged with people, he saw thousands of small flames burning, stars fallen from somewhere, anywhere . . . Joe looked away, feeling queasy. “Conrad . . . the phone . . .”
“Oh, sure, down the hall, my parents’ room. I’ll show you.”
Joe followed Conrad through the hall to the doorway of a sprawling bedroom overlooking the street. The room was sunny and lushly decorated, the bay windows forming an alcove furnished with a pillowed couch and a telephone. Bookshelves covered one wall; on the others hung woven Japanese mandalas. Overwhelmed and pausing near the door, Joe found refuge in a small framed photograph of a man with furrowed brows. He had the tempestuous look of someone who had just stepped from a racing car, or maybe a bomber plane. A smoke dangled from the clamped but sensuous mouth.
“Your father?” Joe wanted to know.
“No way . . . some Frenchman, an author. There was a novel about Reds in Shanghai, and another one about Spain, you know, anarchism and all that.”
Joe squinted at the man in the photograph. “You saw the film?”
“No, Joey. I read the books, they’re here somewhere.”
“Oh.” Joe glanced around the room, finally registering the wall of books. “Wow, your father reads.”
“Yeah.”
“One of the professor
guys.”
“He has a campus gig sometimes. But he’s really more journalist than professor.” Conrad paused, glancing over the photograph. “Now he’s into something really cool, a book on Cuba.”
“I saw that one . . . Fidel playing baseball.”
“Yeah, that was a cool film. Man, who needs the Giants . . . You saw the flag, the one in my room? It’s from Cuba. He’s there now, rapping with them.”
“Wow.”
“Yeah. Hey, phone’s over there, by the couch.”
Joe knew the number by memory. He called Chris, who suggested meeting by a muddy vacant lot, not far from the former People’s Park.
FROM THE CORNER, Joe could see Chris, by a clump of plum trees in the muddy lot, and Jim, scoping the bulldozer. For days Jim had been planning on trespassing on the thing, whose engine required no key, or so they’d heard—there were so many things they could tear down. The bulldozer leaned on a mound of earth, mud clinging to the treads, steel arms bearing up the shovel as though Godzilla were marching on Berkeley. Joe slowed, concealed by a parked car, and glanced down the block for any oncoming cop cars. He was carrying a large sum of money, admission to the Fillmore West for the whole gang, and enough reefers for the weekend—Conrad was generous, more so than Paul. And so for now, he refused to fool around. A wonderful day was coming and he would have it.
Crouching by a blue Mustang, Joe saw the plan unfold. Chris ambled by the curb gazing nonchalantly for cars as Jim wandered near the bulldozer. Chris moved one elbow up, slapped the other shoulder as if swatting a fly, and proceeded slowly along the curb. By the bulldozer, Jim scrambled up a ladder and through the opening of the cab. Chris moved on, glancing across the mud. Suddenly a cop car rounded the corner, cruising slowly along. As though roused by irrepressible joy, Chris made a loud yodel; Jim came vaulting from the cab and ran toward the clump of plum trees. A few yards from the trees, he slipped on mud, went down on one knee, jumped up and surged under the branches just as the squad car passed.
As the cops glided by, Jim appeared too enthralled by plum bark to remember the hour, day, or month.
Joe ran up. “Close call,” he murmured.
“Where are they?” Jim’s mouth barely moved.
“Gone.”
Jim looked up through the plum branches. “Bummer,” he groaned, “even the trees are a bummer now.”
“Hey,” Joe said, nudging him, “here comes that girl.”
Jim glanced around, eyes narrow and wary. Chris was coming toward them, bringing a girl.
Joe looked her over: jeans and a boy’s paisley shirt; long legs; a calm, regular face—a normal American girl, the way Valerie would never be. They knew her; she was the girl who’d done yellow sunshine with them. Though she was only in sixth grade, same as the boys, she looked a couple of years older.
Joe waved. Maybe she would come to the Fillmore with them—she would be a pal for Valerie.
Alice
JOE WAS MUMBLING, Jim’s clothes were muddy and torn and he had a conspiratorial look—the boys were concealing something, Alice thought, pressing down a surge of eagerness, as if by doing so she could safeguard herself from the group. She would go home before they could sway her again. Yet who would care? Who would even be there? Only her mother, enclosed in the bedroom. On the other hand, if she refused the group now, they would drop her—she would lose a chance. Moreover, nothing so very awful had come of her foray; as the weeks passed, her mother had simply ignored the Greek Theatre day, leaving the roses drooping in a vase.
So far, so good. Her fears were meaningless—she’d done no awful wrong.
She’d been yearning for a group—and Joe had ceased mumbling and was welcoming her. Chris’s sunny face conjured up a memory of feelings shared on Gayley Road; surely he remembered. She’d seen the boys on the playground, and Tammy knew Chris from her neighborhood. He wore beads and a bandana, as usual—freak flags, Tammy called them—yet Chris’s dad was a professor, same as Tammy’s.
Alice would go along. They’d have a normal day.
“Let’s go,” Joe was saying.
Jim shrugged. “Why? They’re gone.”
“C’mon,” Joe urged.
“Hey, we’re safe.”
“How do you know?”
“Oh, I can feel it,” Jim bragged. He was scruffy and wild, more than Joe and Chris; if he’d been alone, she would have passed him by.
“Well, I’m going to the Med,” Joe announced. “See ya.”
The boys ran for the Caffé Med, racing each other. Alice joined them. She’d passed the cafe on her forays along Telegraph Avenue, and her mother had gone there—it was Sabrina Patterson’s hangout. Though there were only a few people in the damp room, Alice could smell the sour reek of tobacco. A young woman eyed her group, vaguely judgmental; a man’s glance passed over her. She was glad she had the group.
“Jimmy boy, where ya been?” demanded the counterman. He wore a greasy apron. “What’s for lunch? Bacon sandwich and lemonade?”
“Sure thing.” Jim drew himself up. “And these guys—”
“Oh no, Jimmy.” The man wagged a stubby finger. “Dan pays only for you and Val.”
Joe came forward. “I’m paying,” he announced, waving a bill. “Four bacon sandwiches. Rye toast. And four lemonades.”
“Cool!” Chris was smiling. “C’mon,” he urged Jim, and they ran for the balcony.
The man pushed through a swinging door, calling the order. Alice absorbed Joe’s presence—a man’s denim jacket and baggy jeans, long bangs, a searching glance. Under the denim jacket was a hand-me-down soccer jersey, something her brother could have worn. But there was no teasing or contempt—he was welcoming her as a peer.
“I’ve seen you,” he was saying, “by the fence during lunch.”
“Oh?”
“You know some Girl Scouts.” He seemed amused.
“Yeah.”
“You’re one of them?”
“No, they’re in my class. I quit a while ago,” she confessed.
“So you’re cool,” he laughed. “I thought so.” Then, eyeing her boy’s shirt, he added, “There’s one who plays handball—”
“Nora?”
“Maybe.” Joe had long hands, and he was drumming on the counter. “Have you seen her house?”
“No.”
“I have,” he said, so casually that he scarcely seemed to be bragging. “I know her big brother.” Then he paused, remembering. “They have a Ping-Pong table. You play Ping-Pong?”
“No.”
“No? How come?” Joe was round-eyed.
“Do you?”
“Chris plays, but I’m no good.” Joe’s hand was reaching in the denim jacket. Suddenly he leaned in, fanning out some tickets. “For the Fillmore, tonight—we’re seeing the Grateful Dead. Wanna go?”
He’d been planning, and now he was including her in the plans. If Joe was asking her, that meant the boys would have her in the group.
“C’mon,” Joe wheedled, “why not?” Then he dropped, “Valerie’s going. She wants to see ya.”
Alice made a leap. “I’ve gotta call my mom, but sure.”
IN THE WANING afternoon, Alice pressed the phone to her ear. They’d gone to Joe’s house, and Valerie had found them there. Valerie was lying on the rug while the boys searched through record albums. Joe’s family was away, it seemed. Alice took a deep breath, moving away from the blaring speaker box abandoned on the floor—a conch shell rallying them in the cause of an increasingly improbable rescue. As the sounds ebbed, she heard a pause in the ringing and then her mother’s weary hello, as though confused by another demand.
“Hello, Mom, it’s me.”
“Where are you?”
“I ran into some friends from school.”
“Are you at someone’s house?”
“Yes.” There was no use in saying it was Joe’s house, because her mother had never heard of Joe.
“When are you coming home?”
Her moth
er sounded more unhappy than annoyed, thought Alice, though it was hard to gauge. In any case, her mother would be closed in the bedroom, supposedly reading books for her women’s group; as for her father, he was gone for the day—no one seemed to care any longer where. Alice would lose nothing by asking, and as long as Valerie was going along, the group of boys would sound nearly normal to her mother.
Long and lanky in jeans and a Spider-Man T-shirt, Valerie lay propped on her elbows, watching the phone call with an explorer’s daring smile. Alice recognized her as another tomboy—only more so because Valerie was a natural, as untamed as the boys. Roaming freely, she was an original phenomenon.
“Say there’s someone with a car,” she whispered.
Alice moved toward the window, away from the sounds in the room. As though on cue, Valerie groped her way to the phonograph and lowered the volume.
“They—some people from school—are going to a concert. Can I go?”
“When is it?”
“Tonight.”
“And where? Your brother and Sammy are going to something at the high school.”
“No, not that one. The Fillmore West.”
“You mean the place in San Francisco?” There came a long pause. Her mother would be angry now.
“Say we have a car,” Valerie repeated, more loudly.
“What’s that?” demanded her mother through the phone.
Alice gazed around at the boys and stumbled on. “They have a car. There’s someone with a car.”
“Someone who?”
“Her brother.” In a hurry Alice added, “Her older brother.”
A long pause followed. Alice imagined walking home, spending another evening in her room. She’d done what she could—not a bad try, really.
Through the phone came her mother’s tone of wary defeat. “And who are these people?”
“There’s Valerie, and her brother—
“He’s older and has a car?”
“Yes. And a couple of others, my age.”
“What’s Valerie’s last name?”