Travel Reference
In-Depth Information
pressure release in our rebellion that had come to a boil. Arlo Guthrie took the lead from his
old man Woody, going against the grain and the law for small victories in ballad form, com-
ing into Los Angeles with a couple of keys—which weren't keys to the city but kilos, two point
two pounds of smokable salvation.
Hard-driving anarchy was the antidote, and those of the 60s heart and soul know where
they were, what they were up to when certain hard-driving rhythms play back.
Pearl diving was a common job in those days—taking a shift in the kitchen, clearing the
plates into the garbage and setting them in the big sink to soak a few minutes before loading
the big rack and sliding the load into the commercial dishwasher for the scalding, then pulling
the hot rack out to stack and prep for the next wave.
Sometimes you had to hit the kitchen for some pearl diving if the mescaline was coming
on strong. It was enough to make you wonder who in their right mind would pop a psychedel-
ic at the front end of a shift—oh, wait! Did you say right mind? There was the fucking prob-
lem! The mind wasn't right! What a goof!
The paranoia/hallucination interface could get extreme in a hurry, with nobody watching
but you and the ether people. Well, they could gang up too, and sometimes you'd hike on out
into the cold, friendly night to get a breather from the chaos, not by choice but by necessity.
Not to worry, job security was not an issue, because the huge fucking mess would wait right
there till you got back, and so would the piece o' shit job. I hated it but oh, for one more night
of it—to feel the juice surge and wane and surge again, to achieve forgetfulness on a hard-
driving downbeat in a crowd clamoring for more, as all hands on deck joined the chorus to
shout down what stalked us. This was the process of becoming someone else in another time
and place facing something other than the future bearing down, dead ahead. Despite our ex-
perience with alternate realities, the reality upon us defied our grasp.
So we reached a might further.
Soon after the lottery the Selective Service projected a draft quota with a disclaimer that it
could not be certain one way or another, but number 195 would possibly fulfill annual needs.
The monster would be fed at that point, maybe, but it might need another course or two.
I drew 198. Dicey. What could you do? Get a job? Draft counselors were listed on a bul-
letin board at the Commons—I picked one and called. We made a time to meet at his house.
How strange, seeking help in the suburbs, penetrating the cul-de-sac, split-level sameness
we'd been goofing on those many semesters, parking on the set of
Leave it to Beaver
, walking
through the picket gate and up the trimmed, flowered sidewalk and knocking on the stately
front door.
He opened formally, pointing to his overstuffed living room where real life seemed sparse.
His family remained unseen, apparently instructed to stay back while Dad pursued his patri-
otic calling. I sat, fearful of soiling such a bogus chair. He showed me a paperback book.
1001
Ways to Beat the Drat
listed a thousand more or less practical pointers. The cover price of five
