coyjay

Chapter Three-Seeing the Dragon




I had a long string a dat bad luck.… And I pray it's gone at last. Gone at last.… Gone at last.… I sang to myself though I knew I was pushing it driving all the way to Santa Cruz before I even had a chance to road test the junkyard carburetor that I put on the day before. In fact, going to the concert in Santa Cruz was the very last thing I wanted to do right in the middle of our Christmas vacation. For at least two weeks, I had tried to talk Stoke out of it; saying that we couldn't afford it after all the expense of the holidays, that we could wait until the group came to Oakland later in January, that the car wasn't running right, that I was right in the middle of my cab driving novel.

"Donny’s dad took us to the Coliseum. Eddie's dad already took us twice. You never take us any place," Stoke argued.

To make matters worse, Anne wouldn't think of going. I couldn't talk Alex into it. Just me and the kids, I told myself thinking I'd have a really great time.…

The second we hit that first long up grade south of San Jose, I knew I was right. The engine began to cough and sputter. I made my way to the inside lane and geared down. The hill got steeper. Creeping along at twenty miles an hour and holding up a long line of Sunday afternoon traffic, I was telling myself, I knew it.… I knew it; we're not even going to make it to Santa Cruz.

Why do I always give in to them? I wondered as I glanced across to where Stoke sat long legs stretched out in front of him. There he was just as tall as me, a little less than six feet, at a hundred and sixty pounds a bit heavier. Like yesterday, I remember teaching him to play catch.… Even back then, I always let him have his own way. When will I ever learn? When will I learn? I was asking myself.

When we cleared the last up grade, the engine seemed to run a little better, but I knew we'd never make it home. I pictured us on the way back some time after midnight, breaking down on the Nimitez, fighting the wind and cold and dark. I thought how embarrassing it would be if I had to call Donny’s father to come pick us up, how we wouldn't get home 'til three or four A.M., how I'd lose another day's writing.…

In Santa Cruz, there was a long line at the only open gas station, an off brand where I couldn't use my credit card. I counted the change from my last twenty and tried to figure out just how much the whole thing was costing me. Twelve fifty a ticket, and Anne insists that I buy one for Stoke's tenth grade pal, Donny. "It will make a nice Christmas gift," she told me. A tank of gas. They'll wanna eat after. And, Christ, if I have to get a tow.… I told myself and wondered if we shouldn't start home while it was still daylight.

Yet, even back then, in seventy-nine, there was a little part of me that took the whole thing as a small adventure, a part of me that identified with Henry Miller and Castaneda and wanted to experience the concert as a writer might.

To my surprise, there were parking spaces just a couple blocks from the civic center. As we walked by the empty government buildings, Donny was telling me about the time Ed's dad took them to a Kiss concert in Oakland. "He had these little bottles, you know, the kind they serve on the airlines. Driving over he was just sipping. But, when we got on the Nimitz, he started chugging 'em. I guess he didn't want to get caught with no alcohol going into the Coliseum. He was chugging and throwing the empties out the window."

"Right on the freeway? " I asked and told myself, God damm. Santa Cruz in the wintertime! My eyes opened wide as I got into the feel of that early December evening. A damp chilled breeze blowing off the Pacific. Streets lights blinking on. Stone civic buildings standing sentinel behind trimmed evergreen hedges. Strangers and Blue Oyster Cult fans funneling in the same direction. A touch of excitement sparking off the sidewalk and bringing to mind the old Trivia Coffee House days.

How long has it been? I wondered as an image from the winter of fifty-nine flashed through my mind. It's after closing, around two A. M. I'm sitting at the big brown table by the front window listening to a long drawn out story from Sol Weinstein, the comic who writes for the Trenton Times. My good friend and co-owner of the Triv., Vance, sits next to me. Across the table, the black capped little poet, Mark, laughing at all the right places his green teeth showing; John, descendent of African Kings, eyeing up the new kid, and hoping to walk his white ass home to the room he rents away from home; Black Barb, leaning back, eyes closed and legs wide open; White Barb, leaning forward, with eyes wide open and legs tightly closed.… As I listen, I remember the guy from Philly, Cal, with the same last name as Sol, and how he told the six Fort Dix soldiers that Jack and Vance were his friends, that he'd kick their asses if they didn't return the coffee cups, that they could fight him like men one at a time or he'd take on all six of them. They shake his hand and return and buy more coffee toasting his courage.…

Other faces from the Triv. ; the Village poets, Dick Woods, and Jonathan North; Big Leo, Bearded Gregory Demetrius, the bongo player, Concho, the copy boy from the Tribune, Frank. And out in an alley somewhere waiting to kick my ass 'cause I banned them from the Triv. for coming in all high on Four Roses and Tea, and busting up the place, were Jack Gore, and Tommy Booze.…

Where are they all right now? I asked myself. What would Vance say if he were here on this Santa Cruz night?

At the civic center, the line was a little over a block long. We fell into place across from the driveway to a small parking lot. Stepping in behind, and lounging in front of us were just the kind of people you would expect; college kids in Levi's and sweat shirts, high school kids wearing their Day on the Green shirts behind open jackets, guys with long hair and beards, girls with big breasts, and nice asses, a scattered parent…. As we squared away in line, I thought of Vance's comment at a break in Sol's monologue. "Yea, you know what Lenny Bruce says, If Christ were alive today, in twentieth century America, he'd be electrocuted. Do you realize, instead of a cross, you'd be wearing an electric chair around your neck!"

Christ began to look more and more Beat in those coffee house nights and days didn't he? I asked myself as I felt a pair of eyes stare into my back. I turned and saw a college age Chinese kid.

"Got a match, bro.?" he asked.

"No, I ain't got one," I replied as I eyed the neatly rolled joint in his hand.

"I got a pack," Donny said reaching into his fur lined jacket pocket, and handing the pack to the kid.

A string of firecrackers went off near the back of the parking lot.

"Hey look,” Stoke said turning his attention to the action.

"Keep 'em," Donny told the kid, and moved a couple steps toward Stoke.

The kid lit up, sucked in deeply and passed the number to his girl who took a hurried puff and returned it. Looking toward Donny, and seeing a slender longhaired high school boy, he shook his head no, and pointed the number at me. Even if they do see me, it's no worse an example than chugging booze, I told myself as I reached for his hand. A big smile lit up the kid's face.

Probably home grown, I thought after a quick hit. The number went from the kid, to his girl, back to the kid, and then to me. I took another quick hit just to be polite thinking that Anne would kill me if she saw this.

"Put away half a bottle a’ Jack Daniel's before we left the pad. You know, man, you got to have your head really fucked up to get into the music," the Kid said.

The line grew longer. "Lucky thing we got here early like I said," Stoke told me as we stretched our necks to see the end of it. Donny stepped off the sidewalk for a better look. I followed while Stoke held our places. People crowded behind us for at least three blocks. Bumper to bumper cars circled the block. Kids hung out of windows greeting friends in the line. An occasional car came to a complete stop until horns and shouts from behind got it moving again. In the back of my mind, I was thinking about the up coming New Year's Eve at Alex's. How we'd toast in the 80's. How I'd have to tell him about my latest dream of the coyote.

"That's from their last album," Stoke hollered nodding to a full blast car stereo.

"Who, Blue Oyster Cult?" I yelled back.

"How'd you like living there?" Donny asked pointing to a three-story apartment house adjacent to the parking lot.

"Be great if you're into rock music," I answered noticing that the lights were out and the windows empty.

"Got a match, bro.?" the Chinese Kid asked of Stoke.

"Donny already gave you his," Stoke told him. As the Kid searched through his Levi jacket, Stoke and I exchanged places. Scratching his head, the Kid thought for a second, reached into his back pants' pocket, lit up, took a long hit, and offered the J to his girl. She shook her head no. When he pointed the number at me, I nodded to the boys, with an expression, which said, "Sorry." The Kid winked that he understood and took another hit.

As I looked towards the front of the line, another memory from the Trivia days flashed through my mind. It's a week or two after we opened. The Snowman walks in just before closing. I'm in the back office blowing some Z's. Vance, Mark, and some other regulars are at the front table waiting for Sol to finish his shift.

"You got any Tea?,,, Man?" the Snowman, a tall black man in his mid twenties, asks in a hoarse whisper when Vance steps behind the counter.

"Tea? Why hell yes, man. We got orange blossom, mint, jasmine, red rose, chrysanthemum, mulberry, herb, bancha-green, American.…”

"No, man... I mean Tea.… You got any Tea?" the man asks through sparkling white teeth.

"We got every tea a man could want. We got.…" Vance says running through the list again.

"Dig, man.… This is a favor. Couple sticks," the Snowman tells Vance as he opens his magazine to reveal the merchandise. Closing it, he passes the magazine across the counter. "Catch you later, man. Dig?" he says and takes his leave.

Vance wakes me up around five A.M. after Sol and the others are gone, and explains what happened. High school dope fiend movies still in our minds, I tell Vance, "Too late to try it now. I have to leave for work by one."

Vance comes back with, "We don't want to smoke none 'round the place, anyhow. Look what it done to Gore and Booze.…"

We decide to stash it under the back seat of my Buick and wait until Thursday, my day off from the airport job. "Yea, you can pick me up early. We can head down to the river," Vance tells me. Two days later, when we look for the stuff it's gone. We tore apart the whole back seat trying to find the two J's. One of the regulars must have heard the story and gotten into the car. Vance and Cal shared a joint on one of their jaunts through Philly together. But he and I never did share one.… I told myself as a couple of long legged coeds walked toward me searching the faces. I caught the eye of the closest girl and we exchanged smiles. As she continued down the block, I told myself that Alex would have invited her to cut in line.

Sure.… Sure.… I answered remembering the kids, that I'm wearing a shabby sweater, that my Pinto probably won't even make it home tonight.…

"What time you got" Donny asked as he and Stoke returned from the curb. I pointed to my empty wrist. The Kid's girl told us it was just passed seven. More and more people kept coming. The dress got freakier; a girl in a long green velvet gown, a guy with top hat, tails, and cane, a couple dudes in full leather. The line behind us got longer, and so did the line in front of us with concertgoers spilling over into the street. I blinked my eyes trying to take it all in while I half listened to Stoke and Donny argue about the merits of the back up group's new lead singer.

The Kid took a fresh number from his jacket pocket. It slipped from his fingers. He stooped to retrieve it, leaned too far, and went over in slow motion his shoulder banging into the sidewalk. The girl, Donny, and I rushed to help.

"I'm all right! I'm all right!" the Kid shouted staggering to his feet. He checked his thumb and index finger, smiled, and shook his head.

"You don't need any more," the girl laughed and gave him a big hug. He returned her hug with his left arm.

"You got to have your head really fucked up to get into their music," the Kid told his girl as he lit a match and puffed into the flame.

A burst of excitement ran through the crowd. The line jerked forward, stopped, and then started up again. We crossed the driveway, and I turned to look for the Kid. He was rooted to his spot. The girl tugged on his arm with all her might, but he wouldn't budge. As the concertgoers stepped around, she dropped to her knees, and embraced the legs of the froze up Kid. Her teardrops washed his stonework body. "He got his mind fucked up all right, but his feet won't work,” I told myself as I patted my shirt pocket to make sure the tickets were safe.

"Where you want to sit?" Stoke asked when we stood on the wooden floor inside the five thousand capacity auditorium. I stared wide-eyed as the unlined crowd broke for favorite spots. "Me and Donny want to get as close as we can," he said with a sense of urgency in his voice. I turned in a circle and watched the seats filling up.

"You probably don't want to sit too close," Donny told me.

"Yea, over there," I said pointing to a section of seats to the right of a small platform that was filled with lighting equipment. "I'll meet you by the stage here when it's finished." The boys nodded their good-byes and took off in a rush.

Several rows up, I found an empty section of cushioned chairs and eased myself into the first one. Patrons were filling up the rows around me. Stoke and Donny, standing some ten people back from the right hand side of the stage, turned to check where I was, and then refocused their attention up front where a crowd of some five hundred hard core rockers were gathering. I could just make out a half dozen or so grips who were setting up in the dark. Recorded rock blasted from mountains of gray and black speakers. On the edge of my seat, a rush of excitement pounding my heart, an intense pull at my umbilical region, I had the notion that I should remember something.…

Relax.… Focus on the crowd. Try to find a “proper tonal,” I told myself. As my eyes swept the auditorium slowly up one side and down the other, face after face struck my senses. I squinted an eye and tried not to rest on a single aspect. Arms and legs and bodies merged one upon the other and battered against my thought stream. The lighting stage caught my attention. Two bearded kids worked with easy confidence on a jungle of wiring. On both sides of the stage latecomers rushed to remaining spaces. Mixed with the odor of cigarette smoke was the sweet smell of grass. I swallowed at the dryness of my throat, and listened to a faint moaning from the seats behind me. Muted conversations bombarded my ears, while electric charged rock blasted my eyeballs.

As I continued to search the crowd for a “proper tonal,” faces merged into memory. My mind drifted back to a Philadelphia stage that would soon hold Theodore Bikel. Vance is seated next to me wearing a small goatee, shades, a boat neck shirt, and three dollar white sneakers. "My old man." he's saying, "All he lives for is that God dammed house of his. You wouldn't believe the projects he's got lined up for me over Easter vacation. I mean, there's got to be more to life than jacking up the value of your property.…"

An image of my last visit with Vance, at his Vegas home, in seventy-five, floats up from my unconscious and mixes with the sounds of Fiddler on the Roof. He's showing me his latest project, an enormous brick barbecue. He takes a sip of his fifth Martini. "I've been wanting to tell you this all weekend, Daley. I mean, I never thought you'd let California change you like that. I always thought you were your own man. It hurts me to say this, but if the chance came up, I couldn't hire you to teach in my school. I mean, there are certain values.… Society is based on certain values. Values that go beyond that long haired hippy bullshit. The kids pick up on it right away. You let a teacher on your staff with shoulder length hair.…"

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You can read a synopsis and chapters of Tasting the White Water and Sunday Mornings on my web page, and at authorsden http://www.authorsden.com/jackdaley