The three of us are reclining on the set of blankets, able to look directly East down Haight Street, but also survey the mouth of Golden Gate Park that lays all along the Stanyan stretch.
I hear good old-fashioned SF sound feedback pouring out of a tiny amp down the hill. Sketch, the potaholic decked out in the classic seventies' denim uniform, does the hippy flail down by the guitar player and his old lady who are older both impossibly, stunningly beautiful. The guitar player backs a grindy riff with a mean reggae/blues howl:
Minstrel sing beware o’ Vanity Fair Poet cry don’cha heed the siren o’ the sea And the sin of the wicked city.
This turns out to be the guy’s only lyric but he bites down on the vocal really well and noodles the fuzzy sound in luscious tones.
So this poncho with hair gone the color of an old mop comes bobbing up the hill, and stops by our femora cove, just above Needle Lake. His name is James or Jamie or some shit like that and we instantly recognize each other as equals beneath the sun. We desire conversation because we see that shine in each other so clearly, but it is utterly useless. He can’t verbally communicate the distance he’s traveled to reach here, but looking into his steel gray eyes the answer comes so clearly.
Baja?
I don’t know. Is it that far? It seems longer rather than farther.
I see the thousand miles in his pupils; I see Cabo and a thousand million handouts and nights on warm beaches and not so warm nights underneath a levy or a broken bus stop or whatever holds up till someone comes to run you off. He doesn’t do acid anymore. He doesn’t need to, he’s tripping all the time now; life next to the ocean will do that to a wanderer. Can he see my coyotes in the Mojave? The shades and wraiths haunting the Valley of Fire...(?)
...Oh yes. His smile sees all, clearly and right through me.
Diana and John watch the whole time; they hear our conversation as “yeah, you know man, ‘cause it’s all like, like just totally so fuckin’ wow ever, you know man.” They laugh at us, but all I hear is the beckoning invite:
You could do it to you know. It’s all just one big beach between here and Chile, and the Incan ruins...you could go. You’re smart enough, you’re strong enough to start out on that journey right now and leave these sorry bitches behind right now and isn’t that what you really want, isn’t that all any of us who end on this frontier want?
Macchu Picchu fades and the drawings of the High Plateau’s become the shadows of the wrinkles in poncho’s face. The sun is low and gold/orange through the Eucalyptus and Oak trees. Now I’m looking at a malnourished man, an old man not much older than me, and a smoky voice, having hooked up a freebie from Diana’s American Spirits, asks if I know where to get something to eat.
The Krishna Temple is something like, three blocks down Haight and another four blocks up. They’ll feed you, y’know, up to a certain time. I think you still have a couple hours or so.
He gets that wry knowing look that comes so easy to those with premature crow’s feet.
Yeah, it won’t be the first time I’ve done some chanting. I can get off on it too, but at the end of the second day they start wantin’ you to hang around y’know?
I answer, That’s the price ain’t it? There’s always the introductory offer. There are a thousand ways to turn Bohemian in this town, each with the same market value as the entrance to any monastery of your choosing. Entire lives are bound in tightly wound strategies; entire histories are displayed in tightly wound stances. You have a stance now that projects the exact same thing in ways that some of us can see and others of us cannot see.
Now he laughs at me.
I think that’s a plan. Thanks Migs, you’ve helped me out a lot. And off he goes.
Diana and John are staring at me; stoopid acid grins pasted to their glazed mugs. John starts pealing out guffaws. Miggy, you’re a fuckin’ freak!
I told you he was the real deal Diana chides.
I have no choice but to grin back sheepishly. I tell them I think I have ESP. It’s only my second day living in San Francisco.