^ ^ ^ ^
"Mosafer
aziz-e-khodast"
"The traveler is beloved of God"
Every journey begins with a dream. The one that led to this pile of stone began long before I had heard of Shambhala, Ka La Gi Ya , even of NunKun, or the Himalaya...other than they were very high and very far away. I suppose could trace its origins as far as memory takes me, for I believe destiny drew me here. Yet to spare weighty detail, I will shortcut to a mind trip first taken on a remote beach north of San Francisco. It was a time when I was coast-to-coast commuting in the acid trade and really burned—too much concrete, too many airport motels and coffee shops, too much paranoia about the "Man," too much of my own product.
"You look fried dude," the local connect summed up my mood perceptively. "I know just the place to cool you out."
It is a wild beach, reached only after a long ride and hike, ending in a precipitous scramble down crumbling cliffs. Few people go there, even today—no stink of sunscreen, no volleyball, no surfers. Frigid seas, savage undertows, and Great Whites make the beach tourist free. Over the years I have kept returning—a private yatra, I suppose. The beach had no name, so I gave it one, "Spindrift"—for the sea foam that danced across polychrome sand. This came to be my domain, my kingdom, and it was a distinct sign of favor when I introduced another to its sacred precincts.
In this magical place I spent many hours, watching the sea eat at the shore, the shore drink of the sea. Sometimes high, sometime straight, it didn’t really matter, for the very air seemed infused with mind-altering powers. I tripped on how life feeds on itself, surviving in an unrelenting recombination of energy. To my young mind, seeped in a culture of conflict and power, this was a battleground where the opposing armies, elements of water, earth, and air struggled, free from human constraint. I spent so much time there—a timeless time of the primordial—sitting on a rock, or sea-fuzzed log, sprayed by icy spindrift, observing the interplay of life.
Because of this place and what I experienced there, I began to shed the cultural filters clouding my vision, and observe directly. I tried to get past who was beating or eating whom, instead trying to grasp that exact space and time where the elements found first balance then union. I imagined, if I looked very carefully, I could see the point where particles of light, earth, water, air converged. That point was elusive, and I can’t really say I ever captured it. Certainly not on film, as I often tried, nor in my memory, although I might have in some unremembered, drug-aided moment of serendipity. But I did come to understand that what I had first seen as struggle was really an embrace.
It was only later, in answer to a much greater need, that I found the Himalaya, a great arcing edge of ebb and flow, a Spindrift writ on an incomprehensible scale—not only of water, air, and earth, but life and death. If on Spindrift I had glimpsed the unity of life, it was in the immensity of the Himalaya that I began to see a unity beyond life—that death isn’t extinction but reunion. You might well ask reunion with what? Such a name or description is what religion is all about, putting a human face on a faceless infinite. But religion is for the lowlands and the human-centered universe that is dominant. Here, in the Himalaya, is the ultimate edge on Earth, where humans have no hold, no power, and survive only through submission of both mind and soul. Yet I am a creature of the lowland, only a tenuous visitor to these mountains. I need to put a lowlander’s frame on the Himalaya’s infinite abstraction. This glimpse of a beyond, and its consequent sense of imminent loss, causes me to wonder. Who is this Guy in whose Maya-cast persona I have sheltered for so long.
So much has transpired since my youth. I am not quite sure how to recapture those times, free of all the noise intervening years bring. Time colors past events so heavily, what was once black now white, white turning to black. Events in the interim unduly prejudice past acts, not only in your eyes, but in mine as well. Forces, once held in contempt, reasserted themselves, taking control not only of the present, but how we view our past. The "Good Morning America" years brought to us by Ronald Reagan, George Bush, et al, proclaimed the ’60s and ’70s to be dim and dark, doomed to be torn from history as an aberration in the life and times of the eternal American Dream. Rambo, not Chomsky, is enshrined in our myth.
I knew how we had come to be viewed, my students let me in on that score: spoiled babies, weirdoes, greedy geezers, and of course the worst of labels, pinko, leftist…even liberal. My own images, drawn from long-dimmed remembrance, were highly colored—a purple haze—by stereotypes framed, after the fact, by ax grinding commentators. History was a morality play used to teach a rising generation. Just say "NO, Nancy!" What is left of my Sixties are short, drug-enshrouded fantasies, little films played in my head, but at least they are mine.
Like everything else, becoming an "outlaw" was unplanned. I just fell…jumped…into it. After dropping out of college, I moved with Stephanie, girl friend of the moment, to New York’s East Village. At the time I saw this as my great escape, although experience reveals it was only the first step in a journey that will take an entire life, or more in Devara’s way of thinking. In the "Alphabets," or the "Soup"—those utilitarian named avenues, A, B, C, D—I first glimpsed a world outside the Establishment, which up until then I had thought was the world. This was a true demimonde, and like the "horse" that drove it, once tasted was hard to escape.
Stephanie was my first real relationship. Oh, I had fucked around like any red-blooded American college boy, but she was the first one I had actually lived with. She was in a word "artsy," a feature most intriguing at the time. In her I saw a means of shedding my up-tight, prepster demeanor, useful only in the world I had rejected, a way of becoming bohemian, if only externally. According to plan, I quickly found myself submerged in a world of creative wannabes. After all, what other folks would live in that warren, except for junkies and Puerto Ricans and, of course, they were a most distant other for a gringo like me. I was the straight who Stephanie and her hip friends tried their best to reform.
And was I ever straight! While she was cruising the Village, I had been locked away in an all-boys boarding school in New England’s boonies. Even after several years in urbanity, I still clung to my country prepster image, tweeds, rep ties, lacrosse. I guess I thought it was my advantage, what set me apart from the mob. That was what they had drummed into my head.
The "pad" was a ratty little walk-up near the corner of Eleventh and "A." Its only attribute was its proximity to the Psychedelicatessen, a veritable corner drug store selling without prescription. This neighborhood had served as the gateway to the rapacious American dream for so many incoming generations. By the late Sixties this dream was drug induced, dealing a way of life and the financial mainstay for the neighborhood.
As might be expected it was a tough neighborhood, particularly the street where I lived—mostly Puerto Ricans, or P.R.s as we called them. There were some good lessons to be learned. A knock at your door! Hell, you are a naive country boy, so you open up.
"Hey white bread give it up…yo mofuck stash yo honky hippie baaastart!"
You see the knife waving before your eyes, your assailant’s foot firmly in the door. Although he is thin and shorter than you, his eyes are filled with terrible hunger, a need that even you, the naive country boy turned "mofuck honky hippie baaastart," know all about—it hangs as heavy as the East River fog. You know it is a hunger that many have killed to fill. Yet you think to yourself, show no fear. That is what it is all about, fear. Whose fear will be greater? You fight back the welling fear that tells you to give it up, give him all you have and hope he goes away.
You hear your voice, desperately trying to reach the patois, saying, "Look dude, I’m just like you, I need it too and I’m busted." You are moving out to him, getting into his world, making him see himself in you. Then you hear, "Shit man, you know…man." He stumbles away. Had you given in to fear, you would have shown that you were weak, a mark. Every junkie for blocks around would be knocking at your door.
Despite all the horror stories that swirled around us—stabbings, muggings, rip-off of every kind, overdoses and other forms of suicide—Stephanie and I lived charmed lives. We tripped the neighborhood at all hours, both together and alone. Never once, with the exception of that one junky, were we hassled in that hell hot summer of ’67. We had our own little community, mostly middle class refugees like ourselves. Yes, white punks on dope! In our rush to escape from ourselves, at least that self our culture had crafted, we embraced what was the only real other we had ever experienced, Negro, Black, or in current parlance African American. Oh, we crossed over, casting ourselves as "white niggers." But it was a virtual existence that appropriated only the imagined joys—sex, drugs, and music—not the harsh reality of what it was to be Black in ’60s America. We still had our white skins. Long hair could be shorn, clothes changed, behavior modified. It was the tone of skin, the texture of hair, the flare of nostril or the size of lip that were, in that not so far off time, the deciding characteristics. As long as ours were right, which of course meant white, then we could always return. Not that we really went too far afield, for aside from the trappings of "the life," we lived much in the same way as in the suburbs, absorbed with ourselves, into our own trips, ignoring the ugliness and desperation surrounding us. Maybe the gods do take special care of fools We the flower children, tripping amongst that human misery, playing at poverty then escaping to Connecticut or Long Island on weekends, were most certainly fools.
Most of the time we were higher than kites, acid, mescaline, PCP, STP, you name it—except heroin, which was even beyond our most liberal pale—and, of course, the herb in its many forms to mellow the high. There I was, still at heart the bumpkin, tripping around New York. Imagine riding the Lex zoned. We would do it at night when there weren’t so many people. I never felt any paranoia, I mean, getting mugged or anything. They were expeditions into the unknown, each trip a journey to a new planet, though we covered the same turf time and time again. Going downtown late at night, we tripped to China. All those Chinese (then I would have called them Chinamen) who worked uptown in the restaurants would get on the train heading for Chinatown. Eventually, it seemed as if the entire train was filled with Asians and that the next stop would be Shanghai, Hong Kong, or some such exotic port of call.
^ ^ ^The white noise-hiss of the stove breaks as the pressurized kero flares and splutters into silence. The deep trance, cast by my stream of consciousness, shatters. I am back in the present, yet at the same time filled with erotic images that thoughts of Steph always bring. Looking across at Devara, I find the confines of the tent bring us an intense intimacy. The light flickers in the dying stove. I detect a slight flush of embarrassment sweep across Devara’s now decidedly androgynous face. In this moment, as external forces drive us together, our minds coalesce. Do I read in his eyes that he wishes I was a woman? How much of this radiates from his desire? How much is the reflection of my own? He is, after all, a sannyasi, a renunciate. Even more, however, he is a man—or at least I am.
Maybe, Devara reads my mind. Maybe, he sees that this is the central puzzle of his belief, and perhaps for all. He is, of course, unable to articulate this directly in English. Yet how does this idea come to me? He worships a God who is both ascetic and voluptuary, a God driven to asceticism after being disappointed in love. According to myth, Kama, that most passionate God, continually tries to tempt Shiva from his meditation. Like most myth, this portrays a human struggle to control desires so basic to our very being. The eternal struggle isn’t to conquer desire, nor to kill it, but to find balance. No matter how high-minded I wish to be, no matter how much the altitude saps my strength, Kama comes from time to time to awaken that self-minded creature between my legs. Again, I am flooded with desires my conceit has conned me into thinking I have escaped.
Whether it is our extreme exposure, the closeness of confines, the charas and altitude, or some more mystical bond, our communion runs to an intimacy no longer sustainable by mind. To go further, it needs a physical context, a touch, caress, kiss, actual penetration of one into the physical envelope of the other. But, I am not a woman, nor do I believe is he. I had always found this to be the great barrier to my own sex. It always comes down to this, words aren’t enough, but to do more is taboo—heavy saman.
Devara looks deeply into my eyes. Yes, hunger is there. But again, is it like mine or just its mirror? Maybe it is only a hunger for lascivious tales to pass the time.
"More charas, Bhaai wanting?"
"Ji, Devaraji, that’s just what I’m wanting." And it is.
^ ^ ^Up to then sex, in keeping with my state, had been a rather straight affair. After years of boarding school’s imposed celibacy, I was so horny that when I got to the University I didn’t need wild fantasy to get me off. I was none too artful either. Usually I would be drunk and so would the girl. In those days some sort of excuse was required, and being drunk did nicely. There was little question of love either. Sex was purely a function of hormonal needs. Just get on top and rock n’ roll.
Not that there hadn’t been some outlet in those boarding school years. Rosy bared butts in the showers held a certain appeal when your "tube steak" was continually exploding, its only comfort your hand. Besides, the younger boys had such sweet, girlish faces. More than once, I had contemplated the feel of my cock sliding between some under classmen’s youthful cheeks. More than once, I had been invited to shower by upper classmen with designs on me. Yet all these impulses were more of mind than groin, at least in my case, and only—I kept telling myself for many years thereafter—because there were no more appropriate objects of desire.
Stephanie had also been the boarding school route. She was tall, aggressive, and capable of commanding the respect of weaker girls. While I might have fantasized, she carried her desires far beyond imagination. Is there less constraint for the female? That certainly was the case for Steph. Of course she was a switch hitter, as I wouldn’t have been with her without a mutual attraction. At first our sex had followed what was by then my all too predictable style. Only now, instead of booze, we would get stoned on more fashionable drugs. As we delved deeper into each other’s psyches, the complexities of her desires started to hang out. Any doubts about the range of these desires were removed by the way she encouraged other women to join us in our play. She had so many girlfriends. I am not complaining. I was in hog heaven. After years of an all-male existence, I hungered for women.
It was a warm, rainy night, almost tropical, the kind that really gets the libido raging, particularly if you are at the low end of your twenties. We had gone over to visit a neighbor, Paula. She was our age, another refugee from Suburbia. She was trying to make it as a model. Stephanie, who was trying to be an art director, met her in one of the photographer’s studios. I think Paula was from the Midwest, Kansas, Michigan. It was all the same to me—a great unknown—like that cartoon of a New Yorker’s view of America, the one with everything beyond the Hudson compressed into a short expanse of terra incognita, the West Coast a stone’s throw away. Although I had been in town for only a few months, leaving Manhattan seemed like leaving the planet. That was my reality. Maybe just needed to feel I was from somewhere, anywhere except where I was really from.
As soon as we arrived, I could feel Steph’s vibes rising. She was all over Paula from the start, telling her how pretty she was, how sexy. She even coaxed Paula into showing us some bare-all photos she had done for some sleazy, one-shot, counter-culture magazine. The spread was called "Masturbation in Space." And "spread" was an appropriate term for there was nothing left to imagine about Paula. This set the mood for the evening. After seeing those pictures of Paula spread out, her fingers manipulating the most intimate parts of her body in weightless orgasm, I was as hard as a rock. There was no question that Paula could provide some real pleasure, if she had the inclination. But would she? Even if she did, who would be the recipient of those pleasures?
There was a good chance one of us would score. Supposedly, we had gone over to cheer Paula. Her married boyfriend had just dumped her, after months of promising her a boutique of her own. Apparently the old geezer, he was a professional baseball player of thirty-four, couldn’t handle the "Masturbation in Space" thing. Or at least it provided the convenient excuse. What better time than this to score?
Steph came on just like a man, encouraging me to join in a mutual seduction. We had all dropped "window pane," LSD that got its name because it was formed into little translucent squares. While we waited for the high, we smoked a joint and talked about the pictures, Paula’s boyfriend, and the importance of grabbing pleasure when you can, a "love the one you’re with" theme. Stephanie really belabored that one, all the time closing in on her prey. Then the acid took over, slowly creeping up so that, if you didn’t move, didn’t alter you sensory field, you might not notice. At least until those all too familiar jaggies danced up my spine, the acid spreading though the nervous system as it journeyed to my brain. It was a peculiar thing with acid and sex; you had to start with it right from the beginning, otherwise you would go off in a different direction, away from you body until you peaked or, more accurately, dissolved. In the thrall of such overwhelming dissolution, it was hard to get back to something as mundane as physical desire.
The pad was quite typical of the time and place: a railroad affair, the inevitable cracked and peeling walls covered with cheap Indian cotton prints. Brass cutout lamps threw us into a chiaroscuro thrall. A strobe light’s jarring flash synched to the beat of the music, pillows on the floor, incense and weed clouding the air; not to mention the scent of collective lust. Yes, you must get into it early, and this was just what Stephanie did, power tripping, taking over the direction of the journey. Of course this was a bit rude for experienced heads. You didn’t want the karma of giving someone a bad trip, and there was no faster way of doing that than taking someone where they didn’t want to go. Stephanie gave me a long deep look, one that told me exactly where she wanted to go, if not how. Slyly, I returned her glance, trying to express caution with my eyes—be cool babe, take your time.
^ ^ ^ She turned to Paula. "Hey puss let’s dance." It was halfway between a command and a request. Stephanie was trying to feel Paula out. Would she turn onto the domination that really got Steph off? Was she the bimbo we both hoped she would be, a willing toy for our pleasure? Paula seemed to respond to the masculinity in Stephanie’s throaty voice. As they danced, she fell readily in line with Stephanie’s lead, letting Steph’s hand run over her body at will. Without seeking direction, I made a beeline for the record player and put on a thick stack of LPs, an aural cocktail. Of course I can’t remember exactly, but most likely I played the things I was into at the time: Hendrix, Dylan, The Incredible String Band, Kinks, Pink Floyd, Stones, Beatles, Buffalo Springfield, Iron Butterfly, Doors, Moody Blues, Richie Havens, Peter Walker. These were tracks that would set the perfect mix. Whatever I chose, it would begin ever so softly, oozing from the speakers like exotic love oil, only later building to a crescendo, which, if my timing was right, would sweep us away all together, followed by more oil to ease our way down. The acid hit. At least I was getting those jitters in my teeth, those tiny little chills, that telltale queasiness. I had to move into their scene, if I didn’t want to get left out. Focus on something so that I didn’t get hooked into my own body. That could be a bummer. If you weren’t careful you could wind up spending a good part of the trip in the can. Things sort of tunnel; concentrate on what is before you, on your sensory array. Even within the array, it is usually one channel that takes over, one direction that trips you out.
Despite the chills, it was getting warm…no warmer than warm, real hot. Stephanie held Paula tight. In the background a guitar sobbed. Then, consoled by a sax, embraced by drums, it brightened, taking us all along for the ride. Looking over at the two women, momentarily I was inside Paula, all connection lost to anything but the hands that stroked, the mouth that sucked. It was no longer Stephanie’s hand, or even a hand itself, it was just the pleasure Paula was feeling. Stephanie, as she was about to remind me, knew how to give pleasure.
I still had some control. I had learned the art of holding back, of navigating through the trip, at least until everything blew apart and there wasn’t anyone, or anything, left to control. I kept wondering how I was going to make it through this night? Would I wind up alone in the corner, while these two went off to their own private Shangri-La? That might piss me off. Acid is not all peace and love, and if the beast is unleashed…. I went over and put my arms around both of them, half expecting to be rebuffed. "Hey get your own action!" But that wasn’t Steph’s trip. She had it all planned out, sort of her coming out party. She wanted to show me this other side of her, yet at the same time, reassuring me that it didn’t have to come between us.
At first we just held on to each other, making sure we all wanted to go in the same direction. Back within myself again, I savored the warmth and safety offered by their velvet cream softness as the sharp, icy tentacles probed from within. I felt for Paula’s mouth, gaining entry with my tongue. She didn’t resist, opening like a willing flower. She tasted like a flower too, all nectar, so willing, so compliant, as if she had been put on earth only for my pleasure. Trip, trip, wherever it takes you, it is only in your mind. But don’t forget that the mind is part of the illusion, of no more substance than the spindrift of that far shore. Nothing is real, nothing only is…all will be well.
We were on the floor and groping beneath each other’s clothing. I felt the silken coolness of naked flesh. It was hot; it was chill; it was Paula; it was Steph; it was Guy. I couldn’t tell where one ended and another began, as if when Stephanie stroked Paula, she was at the same time stroking me. We giggled; we cried, everything fluid, moving, flux. We escaped from the bonds of our clothing. We were naked, both mind and body locked together, yet each traveling to different points in space and time. Then as one, perhaps sensing a common loneliness in the void, we needed shelter. I felt the nakedness and wanted cover, not the covering of my clothing, but of their bodies. Because I hadn’t experienced Paula, I wanted to possess her. I groped for her. Instead I found Stephanie had already established her claim, my hand colliding with her probing fingers. I joined her, our fingers together searching out that node of absolute pleasure. One hand still worked along with Steph, the other carried Paula’s essence to Steph’s open lips. She licked my finger slowly sucking it deep into her throat. She savored the gift I had brought her and finding it to her liking went directly to the source. Paula’s deep moans of pleasure proved Steph’s skill, a skill that could only come from experience. For a moment, I flashed into fantasies of all those pussies she might have tasted.
Steph wasn’t about to let me wander off on my own. Without disturbing the rhythm of her flickering tongue, she signaled me with her eyes to move behind her. She arched her back, a movement that spread the cheeks of her ass, giving me full entrance to her own seat of pleasure. I pressed my mouth to those vuval lips, mimicking her ministrations to Paula. Steph was ready; the salty sweet moisture dripped into my mouth, the bud of her clit hard against the tip of my tongue. Again, I could have lost myself, this time to my sense of taste. I eagerly explored with my lips, my tongue, the seemingly endless depths, the varied textures, contours, as if I was entering this passage for the very first time. Steph had other plans. She was out there, and determined to bring us along. I heard a voice that in its tone was deep, almost masculine, yet in its request most feminine, "No, not that way…with your cock, get inside me, deep, deep…fuck me, fuck me hard." She didn’t have to ask me twice. I thrust deep into her, driving her even deeper into Paula. We settled into a smooth rhythm, my cock setting up a beat that she followed with her tongue. This was Paula’s introductory ride; all she had to do was open wide and receive.
There was a period of seeming timelessness, measurable only by the pitch of mutual excitement. Then, time caught up with me, a time so primordial that there was no escape. I let go, filling Steph.
But Steph was far from satisfied. She slid forward, pressing her dripping pussy down on Paula’s lips, demanding now the favors she had so willingly given. I recovered quickly at the sight of Paula. Now unattended, her legs splayed open ready for the pleasure which, I imagined, only a hard male penis could bring. I rushed to fill the void; to give Paula in full measure what Steph could only foreshadow. A new rhythm was established. Paula was writhing under this concerted attack of pleasure and submission. Before my eyes smooth-fleshed mounds undulated, buttocks pressed against heaving breasts. My mouth hungered for flesh, and to explore the inviting crevices between. I bent forward, my teeth, at first content to gently nibble, then sensing such nirvana in the texture, sinking deeper. There was a moan, seemingly of pleasure, the pleasure of gentle, endurable pain. There was no resistance, only deepening surrender. Then, as I probed the cleft between cheek and breast, my tongue met Paula’s; we entered Steph as one. That was the spark. I could see it; I could feel it; jumping between my cock, now embedded deep within Paula’s body, to my tongue, and from there arcing across to Stephanie. Everything exploded. The atoms in our bodies flew apart into countless, unbounded universes. For a time we ceased to be. What had been so recently divided into distinct entities now flowed into One. We were no longer unique, no longer things apart. We were transformed into undifferentiated energy, part of the great Cosmic Sea...or at least that was how we saw it in those days.
After that first great melt down, my memories jumble, maybe they too melted into an irretrievable mass. Most likely we kept up our sex play. I was much younger then and possessed seemingly inexhaustible powers. Besides, when you come down there is always excess energy to burn away. That was the secret; unload, then crash.
It was over, nothing left to take or give. The rain had stopped; the dawn was breaking. We went up on the roof to watch the sun rise over the East River. It was a mysterious sunrise, the sky stained crimson by the lingering storm. In my semi-spaced state, I heard the sun calling me to find its source. Imagine, traveling across the sea, to Europe and then, perhaps, to those lands of mystery beyond, to Asia, to India. Those places, now like a second home, were so remote then, so shrouded in mystery and myth. I was caught on a crest of excitement, equal to any I had experienced in our nocturnal play. I thought hard on ditching my scene, on answering the sun’s command. But then the veteran space voyager took control, reminding me, "It’s just a trip Guy." Hell, life was good; the past night proved how good it could be. I lived in a world where the rules were few. I could travel in my mind to any place I wanted, without hassle—any place if I had the imagination…and balls. I thought that last night had been heaven. With luck I could go there again and again.
That was 1967. Aside from our own little zone, there was a world out there. On the other side of the continent, they were calling it "The Summer of Love." Maybe that was also just part of the illusion. But there were things happening that were all too real. Part of that reality, no less real for its remoteness, was an unknown place called Vietnam, or "Nam" as we Americans would come to demonize it. While the place, its people, and their culture seemed of little consequence to one so deep in the Soup, what was taking place there was heavy, so fucking heavy that it would soon reach out and zap me. Of course it had been heavy for the locals since day one, but, because I had dropped out of school and was no longer protected from the draft, it now loomed large for me too. Besides, the heaven I thought I had latched onto was rapidly falling apart. Steph was pissed and, in retrospect, I suppose for good reason. I had no job, no prospects, and my nascent dealings provided little more than a private stash and a rather erratic one at that. Also, there were those extracurricular explorations which inevitably, through some sixth sense, Steph would discover. Hell, I had a lot of time on my hands. It was okay in her code for me to screw around, but only when it included her. In revenge, she gravitated to Paula, increasingly on a solo basis. Our summer of love was over, and Steph moved uptown with Paula.
Then just in case I hadn’t been paying attention, I got a real message. Uncle finally caught me. Maybe it was just as well, since I was surely headed for the street. He had been after me for some time. My number came up as soon as I dropped out of school, but lost in the Soup it had taken time to nail me. But Uncle, if nothing else, is persistent. He also had the help of Stephanie’s mom, who was eager to have me shipped out of her darling’s world. What a joke! She thought I had corrupted her pristine daughter. Well hardly! Little Miss Suburbia was entrenched in that world long before I came calling.
What a deal, FBI and all! They busted me early one morning, dragged me downtown as if I was number one on the most wanted list. What a relief it was only about the draft. When they came through the door, my first thought was DEA. I will never forget that trip "downtown." The agents taunted, "It’s the big house for you Guy! Welcome to the belly of the beast!" They really laughed at that.
I had the last…well maybe just a subsequent…laugh. When I got to the office, I saw a faintly familiar name inscribed on the door. Todd Whelan…hmm…Todd Whelan? The wheels started spinning. All the drugs I was taking slowed my recall. I still didn’t make the connection even when I saw him. He looked so much like my past self though, such a typical prepster, with those tortoise-shell glasses, prepster rep tie, button-down, oxford cloth shirt, Harris tweed jacket, surmounted by an oh so smug look on his overly soft, Anglo face. The agents, with exaggerated politeness, introduced me as if I was a perspective client come to make a deal, which I guess I was. Whelan gave no inkling of recognition, just another piece of flotsam to be summarily dealt with. The agents made a big fuss about all the trouble they had gone through to track me down. I was a high flight risk. Since I was facing a five-year sentence, they suggested that my bail should be at least a hundred grand, which meant no bail. Then out of the blue, this scowling nemesis gave me a sly wink, thanked the agents and, much to their surprise, dismissed them.
"Well Guy, I always said you’d land up in some sort of mess."
It didn’t hit me until I heard that particular intimate tone in his voice—that rang my bell. My God, it is a small world I thought. What the fuck! It was that cock sucking House Prefect from my first year at boarding school. He had made my life hell then, and I expected no less from the bastard now.
Whelan just sat there gazing at me. In my mind, paranoid, and justifiably so, he seemed to be savoring the moment, like a cat contemplating the battered mouse, milking out the last bit of sadistic pleasure, before boredom set in and he went for the kill.
All pretense went out of Todd’s act. It was as if we had been suddenly transported back to that distant time when we lived together in, of all things, a converted guinea-hen coop, actually called the "Coop." The school was located on several former gentry-farmer estates in the Berkshire, mostly relics of a couple of my ancestors, 19th Century robber barons. It was this connection that got me in. Berkshire winters were extremely cold, the snow deep. Across from the Coop was a barn. I was barely fourteen and full of shit. I had a real asshole roommate whose favorite pastime was to get me in trouble. His nickname, with some just cause, was Ape. Later I heard Ape was killed in Nam. He had given me such hell that a part of me thought, "what justice." There was a hard and fast rule about talking after lights-out. Invariably, Ape would do something obnoxious, shaking the bunk beds we shared, masturbating, farting. Oh, he could be a real pain. When I couldn’t take it any more, I would whisper "shut the fuck up"—you had to keep your macho to survive—and sure enough from the end of the hall: "Guy get you running shoes on." This meant that for the next hour or so I would be jogging around the barn, beating a path in what seemed to be always freshly ice-crusted snow. You had to raise your knees high or your shins would take a licking. Sometimes, when good old Todd got bored with my running, he would substitute calisthenics. Later, I had silently thanked him. I entered school on the fat side; after a year of that hell I was buffed.
"Look my man, you’re in a bit of a fix here. Between you, me, and whatever, you‘re going to have to suck up to our old Uncle. I don’t give a rat’s ass, grease up the bum and let him have a go if that what it takes." The old prepster lingo took hold. "Don’t quote me…uuuh…you know, I don’t like what’s going on any more than you, maybe even less. Why in the hell do you think I took this gig?" Yeah, Todd baby, get down! "My own arse could’ve been blown off by now. And after mon Pere sprang for Harvard Law and all."
The asshole made sure I caught those last words. How did a cunt like him ever make it into Harvard? But I didn’t have to puzzle hard for the answer. I knew that all too well, that was exactly why—that and his old man’s seat on the Exchange. Thankfully he wasn’t privy to my inner musings, for he continued in an almost conspiratorial vein: "I’m going to let you out on O.R., but I want you to take care of this. You know, go over to Whitehall and do the drill. I’m sure you can figure something out."
He must have thought he had caught some question in my eye. "Remember Guy, if things don’t work out, you can always put on your running shoes. I’m sure you remember that one." He gave me a conspiratorial wink and then turned his attention back to the folders stacked on his desk.
There are so many trips in life, so many ways to play the same game. Some went to Canada, others into the National Guard or Reserves, some even went to prison, a thought that scared the hell out of me at the time. I had heard tales of what happened to tender youths like me. Almost immediately after I left Whelan’s office, the "movement" contacted me. They tried to enlist me in anti-war demonstrations that were just beginning to take off. These folks, although quite solicitous, definitely had their own agenda. They were quite prepared to see me a martyr. I was equally solicitous and determined not to become one. "A nickel’ll be the most they can throw at you Guy. You can do that standing on your head…for the cause man, for the cause." Yeah, sure! They could do it standing on their fuckin’ heads. Thanks, but no thanks! I mean, I wasn’t doing this because I was high-minded, or looking for a fight. Sure, the war was wrong; but even more it wasn’t on my agenda; neither was five years rotting in a cell, giving up my sweet ass for protection.
I was by then a confirmed doper, and my first thought of escape was through drugs. I reasoned if I was totally stoned for the "physical" (not only physical but "psychological"), then I would have a good chance of convincing them I was more trouble than I was worth. On the appointed day, I prepped myself with a handful of drugs. While I can’t remember the exact contents of the cocktail, it did include hits of STP, PCP, mescaline, acid, and a lot of speed. By the time I got to the induction center I was flying. When I think back on it now, I can’t imagine how I handled the rush, let alone navigate. Even though incredibly distorted data overwhelmed my senses, I survived, muttering over and over the mantra, "It’s the drugs Guy, just ride out the storm." The "physical" was held at Whitehall, a huge induction center in the heart of Wall Street. Talk about the "belly of the beast!"
As you might imagine, my recall of these events is scattered, just bits and pieces, a very spare montage. There were great stairways, and on those stairways I saw thousands and thousands of people. That wasn’t strange for New York, but these people dressed in fashions from different eras. Of course, this also wasn’t so strange, because at that time people were wearing all sorts of things. Then the tip-off came. After catching my eye, one after another would, like goulish flashers, take off a hat, open a coat, to reveal terrible, certainly mortal, wounds. Weakly, I tried to remind myself I was tripping: They're only projections of your fears. They're not really there Guy?
How could I convince myself? Even now I wonder. Somehow I believed those folks weren’t just the products of fear. They were really there, apparitions of all those men who’d passed through this abattoir. They had been promised, cajoled, threatened into doing what they were told was their duty—kill the red man, kill the yellow man, kill the black man, and even, (yes, this was a little trickier) kill the white man too. Now they had their reward. Those ghost legions filled the building, serving warning to all who followed, all who would look…listen, of the motherfucker that lay ahead. It was as if only I could see them, or at least I thought so, until I caught the eye of another freak. I knew he could see them too. We were on another plane, another perceptual dimension. Perhaps, there are such ghosts everywhere, ready to save us from some folly or other, waiting to guide us. Perhaps, they are equally ready to lead us into folly—angels and devils. Full of this world that we are, so taken by its illusion, we can’t see these ghost. If we do see them, we discount them as products of our own mind.
Then there were the other, more mundane experiences. A doctor, after examining me, grimly said, "Son, as soon as you leave here, do yourself a favor and get some professional help." I was trembling like a leaf, and he must have suspected I was really out there—imagine my blood pressure and pulse rate. That was heartening. I was beginning to think I had beaten them, or that was what I would have thought if I had been back on the ground, for by that time I was too high to focus on earthly problems. Next was the intelligence test, one of those multiple-choice things where you fill in the correct box. Instead I connected the boxes, coming up with a fair likeness of Mickey Mouse.
Unfortunately, my effort didn’t fool anyone. They told me to report the following day. I was still high from the effects of no sleep and STP residue, but I had long since peaked. That came during the intelligence test. I was undergoing an agonizing descent—psychedelics can be like the mountains, the retreat much more treacherous than the approach—and while I was mentally coherent, my body was near collapse.
The next day began with an address by a jar headed-looking Gunny Sergeant whose Bronze Star, Combat Infantry Badge, yellow and red-striped campaign ribbon, announced to all that he was fresh from the killing fields. God that bastard acted tough. He asked us if there were any faggots in the group. In those days there was no worry about being politically correct, multi-culturally sensitive, or any of that "pointy-headed double talk." Most of the guys were young Blacks and Puerto Ricans. They seemed really impressed by this macho asshole, which was exactly why he was there. For them the Army represented a step up out of hell. No one was about to give it up…except, of course, yours truly. In filling out the medical questionnaire, I had checked homosexual along with all the other disqualifying "diseases." That son of a bitch immediately focused on me, not only with his own scorn, but that of the group.
"Hey you! That’s right you freakin’ asshole. They tell me you a draft dodgin son of a bitch, too chickenshit to serve you country. You think you too good you puke. Let all these other assholes do you duty for you. You fukin’ little fairy, you gutless pervert cocksucker! My fuckin God, you not only queer you little bitch…you chicken as well."
I wondered which was worse for him, that I was queer or chicken? Probably the latter because, as I was to soon find out, many of these hard-on warrior types are closet butch gays themselves.
The Gunny went on threatening, shaming, working the audience trying to enlist the weight of their collective condemnation against me. "You faggot asshole, you never going to hold a decent job in you life. This will go in you motherfuckin’ jacket, you motherfuckin’ little worm. It'll stick to you like motherfuckin’ shit."
It was Friday. They told me to report on the following Monday; again the bullet-headed Gunny gave me the final benediction.
"Kiss you boyfriend bye-bye you queer little maggot an’ bring you toothbrush, if you got one. Monday night, your sorry ass’ll be movin’ on to boot camp…or in the slammer, givin’ it up to your new daddy. Damn! I hope for my Army it’s the slammer."
Over the weekend I split for London, never looking back. Money was scarce. I had only enough for the ticket and the first couple of weeks. It was a rough flight, skirting the fringes of a hurricane and the eight hours seemed an eternity. Finally, we made our descent into Heathrow.