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age of sorts, next stop San Francisco, to pay homage and check it out. The Selective Service
office had not changed its quota projection through April, which seemed propitious, since
springtime generally increases all activity, including war and killing, but the jungle war held
steady.
Greg and Jimmy were on the road together, possibly to review potential in Boulder, where
drugs of extreme recreational value were said to be available. Soon in Boulder we began our
summer of disorientation by celebrating no future to speak of and a past that didn't count or
matter. Everything relative to time and space was on its head. Or rather in its head, man. I
hitchhiked, because you could make better time without a car and hardly ever waited more
than two or three minutes for a ride, because the sisters and brothers were on the roads that
summer. Make that five minutes or ten, because I had my bicycle, because a guy needs trans-
portation. The Peugeot UO8 retailed for about eighty bucks and re-introduced a generation
to the joy of bicycling. Mine got stolen in Boulder three days in—which is still a laugh; not
the theft—that was a bummer—but the sheer freedom of hitchhiking with a bicycle. “Yeah.
That's cool, man. We'll strap it to the roof.” One ride after another tied it to the roof or stuck
it in back of the microbus. Then we got stoned, heading west. We all got stoned on meeting
and stoned on parting ways. We got stoned like first Americans, sealing a deal, affirming our
subscription, buffing the view to better roll down the road.
That was the year Heavy Greg got nicknamed after Magnavox came out with a new TV,
the Quasar, aggressively merchandized for easy access to its vital components. The Quasar was
the TV with its Works in a Drawer . Heavy Greg became known as Captain Quasar, because
he had his works in his drawers. He and Jimmy were hitting junk with greater frequency that
summer in Boulder's first infusion of heroin and the associated crime wave. Junk was not cool,
mainly because it segregated the brothers and sisters from the junkies, in most cases. Greg
and Jimmy were exceptions, remaining cool, because they had the good sense not to men-
tion junk in any company but that of other junkies, though they didn't consider themselves
junkies. Junkies needed the cure at very demanding intervals, and both Greg and Jimmy had
gone three days without to prove their point and could do so again. Any time, man. Besides
that, both had money and credit cards from their parents, so they didn't need to be out on the
street stealing stuff.
Their parents wanted them to stay out of trouble after all. Heavy Greg and Jimmy were as
well discreet enough to hit up in the bathroom, because heroin was still very, very heavy, man,
a certain taboo even among your major hell-raisers, and good breeding and upbringing didn't
count for nothing—not yet anyway.
Still, everything was a goof, and Stevie Getman and I giggled like hyenas when I reminded
him of the shit-fit Sylvia and the Wolf man would have if they knew who was running smack
in Stevie's bathroom. Sylvia and the Wolf man were dead fucking ringers for the portrait of
Ike and Mamie Eisenhower and held the pose far longer than Ike and Mamie ever did.
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