The noon sun shimmered off Monterey harbor. The moored sailing boats bobbed with the light breeze and hundreds of pleasure craft wavered on the wake of a departing fishing boat. A middle-aged man took a photo of his wife before a large trawler tied up to a forlorn dock, while I walked toward Cannery Row.
This waterfront had been immortalized by two of John Steinbeck’s Great Depression novels. Overfishing of the sardines had wiped out the jobs and the doors along Ocean View Avenue had been nailed shut by their owners. The hotels and bars catering to the fishing fleet had been razed to provide parking for the tourist trade and the only sign of life on Cannery Row were two cats fighting over a mangled fish carcass.
I wandered away from the forlorn harbor toward the Presideo. Two young soldiers guarded the entrance to the old fort. The Viet-Nam War was coming to a close and the hippie era had ended in the Haight. We nodded to each other in acknowledgement of the new era of peace. 1974 was not 1967.
I adjusted my sleeping and canvas bags on my shoulder and crossed the wooded peninsula in the direction of the sea.
Upon reaching the dunes of Del Monte Beach I stood transfixed by the perfection of the tubed waves rising from the deep. A dozen surfers in wet suits rode the thick green swells to shore like gods from Atlantis. California was Beach Boy country.
The broad slope of sand was dotted by sunbathers and mothers surveilling their children in the shallows. I stuffed my leather jacket in the canvas bag and kicked off my heavy Fyre boots. A little over a week ago I had swam in the Atlantic and today I walked barefoot to the Pacific Ocean.
Clear ripples eddied around my feet. The cold sand swirled over my toes. My arms stretched wide to catch the wind and the June sun tasted my skin. I fought the urge to strip off my clothes. Becoming one with the four elements was better saved for a more secluded spot down the coast and I retreated to the dunes.
Sitting on a charred log I brushed off the sand and tugged on my boots. My good friend AK and I had split in Lodi four days ago. The piano player was waiting for me down in Encinitas. At the speed I was traveling, San Diego was more than a month away. I picked up my bags and resumed my trek around the Monterey Peninsula.
Every winter until 1966 ABC Wide World Of Sports had aired the Bing Crosby Golf tournament at Pebble Beach and I stopped for a few minutes to observe a foursome of golfers approaching a tee. The first three landed their shots on the fairway. The last one sliced his drive right and the ball pocked a tree not far from me. The brightly-attired duffer shouted out an apology and I waved to indicate that he hadn’t come close.
17 Mile Drive wasn’t a good place to hitchhike and I trudged into Carmel a little past 1. A rustic Mexican cantina was selling tacos and I ate two at the bar. I could have easily put down a third. A San Francisco Chronicle lay on the counter.
The previous evening Cleveland baseball fans had rioted at 10 Cent Beer Night and the California police were conducting statewide raids to find the kidnapped heiress, Patti Hearst. The FBI was offering $50,000 for information leading to her capture. No one who knew anything about Tania’s whereabouts was saying nothing. The surviving SLA members had gone to ground. I paid the bill with the $20 that Maya had given me this morning and tipped the waitress a dollar. The dark-skinned girl couldn’t have been happier and wished, “Via con dios.”
“Muchos gracias.” That and ‘une otra cereza’ were the extant of my Spanish.
Reaching the Pacific Coast Highway I dropped my bags on the ground. The Frye boots had taken their toll on my feet. I was done with walking and stuck out my thumb. The shoulder offered little shade and the sun toasted my pale eastern skin. Most of the passing cars were big gas guzzlers from Detroit. The women behind the wheel fearfully avoided any eye contact and the men scowled a threat. Something bad was happening on this stretch of the coast and it wasn’t simply the recession.
I toyed with heading north to Santa Cruz and Maya. Returning to her house in the redwoods was not really an option. Boyfriends hated weekend lovers. I counted cars. Number 134 was a Volvo station wagon, which braked to a stop. The driver was a longhaired hippie. I threw my bags in the back and sat inside.
“Thanks for the ride.” The radio was tuned to a station playing Quicksilver’s SHADY GROVE.
“How long were you there?” The driver pushed red sunglasses back on his nose and then shifted through the gears to fourth.
“About an hour. People looked at me like they were scared.” I stared out the window and the Pacific Coast Highway grew in legend with the passing of each curve.
“They have to be careful who they give a ride.” The Volvo cruised at 50. The car reeked of weed. Any police stop earned a ‘go straight to jail card’. “You won’t read about it in the newspaper, but a killer is working the PCH. People go missing all the time.”
“You don’t mean the Zodiac Killer?” This unknown maniac had murdered at least five young people in Bay Area. The police had no leads.
“No, he stopped in 1970. This killer targets women. The police don’t publicize this in the newspapers anyone, because they don’t want us to panic.”
“Or hurt business.” Panic had a bad ecomnomic effect in a recession. “Aren’t you scared about picking up hitchhikers?”
“No, but I’m careful about who I pick up.” His sunglasses slid down his nose, as he glanced at me. “You look harmless, plus the biggest danger to you are thieves robbing hitchhikers.”
“A gang tried to rob me in Frisco. I was lucky to escape without injury.” I said nothing about knocking out one of the gang. Violence wasn’t a good selling point to someone giving you a ride.
“San Francisco isn’t the City of Love anymore, but that doesn’t mean we have to stop the love.” The driver flashed me the ‘power to the people’ fist and turned up the radio. KSAN segued to the Airplane’s VOLUNTEERS we sang the chorus in harmony. The revolution was not over, then again neither were the days of Helter Skelter.
The hippie left Route 1 at a dirt road leading into the coastal highlands. He didn’t say where he was going and I didn’t ask.
The next ride was from a well-dressed man in a Chrystler Imperial. His dark suit was crisply pressed for business. Every fifteen seconds he glanced at my crotch. The wedding ring on his left finger didn’t prevent his cruising the PCH for adventure.
“I’m heading inland at Notley’s Landing. My cabin is surrounded by redwoods, plus my wife loves company, if you catch my drift.” what I mean.” Even straight America had succumbed to the siren call of the Sexual Revolution.
“Swinging isn’t my thing.The driver looked too much like my father and I feared that his wife was a dead ringer for my mother. Swinging wasn’t my scene.
“Tough going from here to Big Sur. Not many cars and more than one killer hunts for prey on the PCH.”
“So I heard.” America was awash with murder from coast to coast.
“I could drive you to San Simeon tomorrow.” He wasn’t giving up so easy and tapped his pocket. “I could make it worth your while.”
“No thanks.” I didn’t need his money that bad. “But if you see me tomorrow, I’ll be grateful for that ride.”
Ten minutes later he dropped me at Notley’s Landing.
Salesmen and businessmen sped past me without braking. Grim cowboys glared from dented pick-ups and battered hippie vans rolled past one after the other. Justified paranoia swam in the drivers’ eyes. I walked several miles down the road. I crossed the Bixby Creek Bridge. Arid pastures ended at sheer cliffs tumbling to a desolate beach below the concrete span. Waves thundered on the sand. I searched for a foot path. There was none and I stopped on the other side of the bridge, content to be part of the scenery for the rest of time.
Several minutes later a small truck loaded with hay stopped before a curve. The local farmer offered a short ride to Los Burros Road. His cheek was filled with tobacco chaw and rusty brown splotches stained his flannel shirt.
“Thanks for stopping. Everyone else seems to think I was a murderer.” I sat down in the passenger seat with my hands in sight.
“You don’t seem the type.” The old man examined me with a squint.
“Thanks, another driver said the same thing.” I didn’t feel the type either.
“But these murderers could be anyone. The boy next door or a policeman. Last year a madman killed a bunch of co-eds up around Santa Cruz and scattered their remains in Big Sur. The cops arrested him, but then another maniac began killing men around LA. The cops haven’t caught him yet.”
“Not to mention the remnants of the Manson Family.” Charlie and his girls had been sentenced to life. The rest of them were on the run. They were no angels.
“There are some fucked-up people out there, but while Big Sur has a lot of weirdos, none of them are dangerous, except to themselves.” The farmer spewed tobacco juice out the window.
“Sounds like you know the area pretty well.” He sounded local.
“My family has been here since the birth of dirt. Back in the 20s only two families had electricity. Ours wasn’t one of them. This road wouldn’t have been built if it wasn’t for the chain gangs. My mother told about hearing them convicts thumping the road. Took them 25 years to complete it.”
“They did a good job.” The two-lane masterpiece hugged the bluffs above the Pacific.
“Like to see them try it now.” The farmer spit out the window to emphasis his disapproval. “All the damn fools know how to build are those freeways.”
“That’s why I traveled south this way.” Out my open window the sun paved a golden highway to the horizon. Somewhere to the west dawn was breaking in Asia.
“You made a good choice. I’ve been driving on this road since they finished it in 1937. I’ve seen hoboes, tramps, sailors, beatniks, poets, writers, artists, runaways, hippies. If this road could talk, no one would believe its story.”
“You ever pick up anyone famous?” Big Sur had been a refuge for writers and artists since the 30s.
“You mean like Henry Miller or Jack Kerouac?”
“Yes.” Kerouac had written BIG SUR at Lawrence Ferlinghetti’s cabin.
“They were too crazy for my tastes, but I saw them all at the Post Office. Liz Taylor and Richard Burton too when they filmed THE SANDPIPER. I got her autograph for my wife. Still plenty of artists hiding out here. Most of them don’t look like you think. Look mostly like anyone. You ever meet anyone famous?”
“I once shook hands with Robert Kennedy and I saw Albert DeSalvo at a mental institution.”
“The Boston Strangler. Bullshit. The police wrapped up the case after the ex-con confessed to the murders under hypnosis.”
“You’re probably right, but back in January of 1967 my school’s track team played at mental institutions around Boston and DeSalvo was sitting in the stands of Bridgewater State Hospital. He didn’t look like a killer.”
“Same as you. Did you get his autograph?”
“No, none of us didn’t go close to him.” He had been murdered in Walpole Prison by a member of the Winter Hill Gang.
“That killing craze could be infectious.”
The farmer dropped me a mile south of Point Sur and I walked the rest of the way to Big Sur. The famous destination for writers and artists wasn’t a town. A simple wooden store served as a post office and grocery store office for the remote coastal region. A few cars were parked in the dirt lot. A bearded man in his 50s exited from the store and got into his Volvo. He drove by me pointing to the left, meaning he wasn’t going far.
Neither was I.
The setting sun was seeping through the gauntlet of redwood groves. The air was scented by the ancient pines and I was thinking about finding a safe place to camp for the night, when a red Ford pick-up skidded to a halt twenty feet from me.
Two long-haired men scrambled from the flatbed and fled into the woods, as if they were wanted by the police. I hadn’t seen a Highway patrol car the entire day. Their hurried departure unsettled me and I readied to join their bolt into the trees, as the battered pick-up inched up to me. Scraps and dents had recorded a history of accidents on the steel body and I expected a mass murderer was driving the wreck.
Nothing else could explained the hippies’ fearful flight.
The passenger window rolled down and a young girl with curly hair asked, “You have any weed?”
“There’s a joint or two in my bag.” I glanced behind the truck.
The previous passengers had vanished into the forest.
“Cool.” The massive driver wallowed behind the wheel like a walrus stuck between two rocks. Her dark hair shorn short like a Marine. I knew her type.
“We’re going to crash in the redwoods for the night. You want to join us?” The smaller girl’s olive complexion betrayed her Spanish blood. She was all skin and bones.
“It will be fun.” The masculine driver was about twenty pounds short of Mama Cass’ mass. Dykes liked heavy. They thought that the weight made them tough.
“Where are you going?”
“All the way to San Diego.” The younger girl looked at my crotch and her brown eyes danced with mischief. “”But tomorrow. Tonight we’re camping in the woods. That all right with you?”
“I guess so.” Hitchhiking in the dark with a killer on the loose held no appeal.
“My name is Jill. My friend is Jackie.” Her smile suggested anything goes.
Both women wore loose denim overalls. Nothing else. No bras. No shoes. Their skin was bronzed without tan lines. They were obviously sun-worshippers.
“We can get some food at the store and a big jug of red.” Jill motioned for me to climb in back and I climbed into the flatbed. The two women were lesbians and probably lovers. As long as tonight was strictly weed and wine I was good with camping in the woods. There was safety in numbers.
We hit the Big Sur Outpost for provisions.
“Don’t worry about your stuff.” Jackie stepped out of the truck. She was over six feet tall. The giant motioned for me to leave my bags in the truck. “This isn’t the Haight.”
‘You sure?” My sleeping bag and canvas carry-all were the sum total of my worldly possessions.
“This is about getting back to Nature.” Jackie pulled me away from the truck. The big woman was used to getting her way. “It’s cool. Trust us. Trust the world and Mother Gaia will shine on you.”
“I’m into Mother Earth.” This morning a gang had tried to rob me in Golden Gate Park. I had knocked out the toughest junkie with a rock hidden in my hand. There wasn’t another car in the lot. I pointed to a pay phone. “I’ll be a few seconds.”
“We won’t be long, so keep it short.” Jackie guided her consort into the store. She was at least twice the size of Jill.
I emptied my pocket of quarters and took a piece of paper from my wallet. I dialed the number in Encinitas. The operator came on the line to demand $2.15 for three minutes. It was the price of an LP. I slotted the coins into the phone. A woman answered on the second ring and I asked for AK.
“Where are you?” my friend sounded high on weed. AK loved his reefer.
“Big Sur.”
“Big Sur? That’s only two hundred miles from Lodi. You haven’t made much progress.”
“It’s tough going.” Three days and nights with Maya had stalled my progress. Our bodies had locked time in chains. AK wouldn’t understand my sleeping with a Peggy Lipton lookalike. He was straight. “How about you?”
“I’m going to the beach every day. It’s great. My friend Vincent is coming on the weekend. He’s working as a dancer in Hollywood. Maybe he can get us jobs. Hop on a bus and get down here.”
“I’m trying, but tonight I’m camping with two women in the redwoods. Don’t get excited, they’re lesbians. The only reason they want me to camp with them is that I have two joints and they’re scared of a murderer cutting up women on the PCH,”
“I haven’t heard anything about that.”
“THere’s another killer slaughtering men in LA. The police are experts at keeping a lid on their investigations. I should be down there tomorrow or maybe the day after that. Hitchhiking isn’t that easy on the PCH, but it is beautiful.”
“I have some good news. You remember Pam?”
“Of course.”
The blonde nursing student had shared the driving across country with us. Everyone thought that she looked like Patti Hearst.
“Is she still up in Mendocino.” My ex-girlfriend’s roommate had headed north to meet her boyfriend.
“She called to say that her boyfriend was seeing another nurse and there was no job, so she’s coming down to Encinitas next week.” AK had a thing for her.
The line was cut by an avalanche of quarters into the collection box and I slammed the receiver in its cradle. The call had lasted less than three minutes and I cursed At&T, as I went to the truck and got out my black leather coat.
I entered the store. The floor creaked under my boots. The interior smelled of dust and stale food. The canned food appeared safe and I grabbed tuna, beans, and peaches off the shelves. The two women picked out sagging vegetables, Uncle Ben’s rice, and two bottles of Zapple wine. It was as sweet as cough syrup and I opted for a large jug of Gallo White. Big was good. I peeked out the front window. The pick-up was the only vehicle in the parking lot.
At the cash register Jackie slipped her arm around the smaller girl to confirm their relationship. The teenage girl behind the counter ignored the gesture. Big Sur was a magnet for all kinds.
I offered them a $10 and looked out the door. We might have been the only four people on Earth. My bag were safe in the truck.
“We don’t need your money.” Jackie waved her hand at the crumpled bill. She was the pants of the couple.
“I’ll pay for my own.” The bill came to less than $10. The way things were going I could stay in California the entire summer.
The three of us exited from the store, The girls walked barefoot across the pebbly lot with the grace of ballerinas crossing a polished wooden stage. Their soles had to be tough as leather. I climbed back into the back of the truck and Jackie unscrewed the Zapple to drink from the bottle. Jill took the next tug and her face shone with an imp’s delight. She was no lady.
The young girl handed me the Zapple. The wine was sweeter than I remembered it.
“We going far?” I wiped my mouth and returned the bottle to Jill. The sun had dropped lower between the redwoods and the ancient forest donned a fairy tale cloak of moss.
“I know a place.” Jackie signaled Jill to get in the truck and she drove south. The outpost disappeared behind a wall of trees and the pickup veered off the PCH onto a logging road. Whatever they had planned for the evening was better executed beyond prying eyes.
The F-150 sped down the dirt trail and the tires lost contact with ground several times. I was rocked from side to side and banged on the roof for her to slow down before I was tossed from the truck. The two of them laughed with a wickedness emboldened by the V8. The truck lifted into the air and crashed onto the rough road. Jill screamed out a warning too late and the chassis ground to a halt.
The sudden stop threw me against the cab.
The fat driver cursed behind the wheel, as the dented Ford F-150 rocked back and forth without moving. The pick-up wasn’t going anywhere and I jumped out to look underneath the truck.
“You’re stuck on the stump.’ It was about two feet wide.
“Stuck?” Jackie shut off the engine and got out of the truck. Driving fast wasn’t funny anymore. Jill got out on my side. The smaller woman knew when to steer clear of her brutish lover.
“Damn.” Jackie slammed her thick palm against the steel.
“It’s not that bad. You were luck not to have shattered the transmission and I don’t smell any fuel or oil. You have a jack?” She had been lucky not to shattered the transmission.
“Yes.” The heavy-set driver brushed the pine needles off her overalls.
“Why?”
“We jack up the rear of the truck and once it clears the stump, we push it forward.”
“Then what?” Women were distrustful of men on the best of circumstances. Dykes even more so.
“If the truck isn”t fucked up, then we camp out for the night. No change in plans.”
“This is on you.” Jackie grabbed a rusty jack from behind the seat. I positioned it under the rear bumper and pumped the lever until the chassis cleared the stump by a good six inches.
“Is this going to work?” Jackie bent over to examine the situation.
“We could go back to the outpost and see if there was a tow truck around Big Sur. They could haul us off the stump in two minutes.” I had stranded my brother’s VW on Horseneck Beach at low tide. By the time the tow truck reached me, the waves were lapping at rear tires. The tow truck freed the Bug with ease. “It’s not like we’re in a hurry.”
“This truck can take a good beating.” Jackie was not interested in having another man around Jill. “Which way are we pushing it?”
“Away from the transmission, so to the right. You ready?” I placed my hands on the back of the pick-up.
“On the count of three. One-two-three.”
Jackie and I shoved in unison and the truck lurched to the right and fell six inches to clang on the stump, but the chassis had cleared the stump. Jill clapped her hands and kissed her smiling lover on the lips, then danced across the pine grove to peck my cheek.
“Thanks.”
“Glad it worked out.” My face reddened with embarrassment.
“Let me get the truck off this road.” Jackie pointed to a circle of redwoods. “That will be home for tonight. Start gathering wood.”
The porcine dyke drove the truck to the trees and unloaded camping gear. Jill gathered kindling and I picked up dried wood for the fire. A red glow faded from the chinks in the forest to the West. The sun was setting in the Pacific and darkness creeped over Big Sur.
The kindling took to fire and Jill spun around the flames like a Sufi mystic. The overalls fell to her belly. Her breasts were capped by puffy nipples. Jackie noticed my staring.
“Pretty?”
“More beautiful than pretty.” I was describing the redwoods more than her breasts. The king pines in Maine were half their size.
“She’s a free spirit.” Jackie chopped the wood with a small ax. She was good at it. A overalls strap fell off her shoulder. Her sagging breast was almost as big as my head. “We both are.”
“Freedom’s just another word for nothing left to lose.” I pulled out the joint that Maya had given me this morning. I lit it from the embered kindling. The first puff filled my lungs with smoke destined to bliss my mind. I passed it to Jill, dancing to the music in her head.
“This is the real freedom. Away from the cities. Away from the roads. Away from TV and churches and hang-ups.” Jackie cleaved the ax into the nearest redwood and undid the other strap. Her eyes sparkled with a missionary zeal. “Free as nature. Jill and I live on the beaches and in the woods. We have no house. Only the truck and us.”
The big woman described their voyage sound like the TV show ROUTE 66, where two men drove a Corvette around America, except Jackie and Jill weren’t men and the Ford pick-up truck wasn’t a Vette.
“Jack Kerouac said, “Live, travel, adventure, and don’t be sorry.” He had put us all on this road.
“And Lewis Carroll wrote, “If you don’t know where you are going, any road will get you there.” so here we are.”
Jackie pulled Jill onto her lap and took the joint. The two of them kissed without inhibition. I felt like a third wheel. I knew gay men in Boston. They were my friends. Lesbians existed in a parallel universe separate from us. My only knowledge of their behavior was based on dirty books and I was jealous of their ability to sustain an endless chain of orgasms.
Jill glanced at me and ordered, “Take off those boots, we’re going anywhere fast.”
“Sure.” Sorry about staring.”
“You never seen lesbians before?” Jackie’s question was edged with confrontation.
“Not really. When I was a boy, my father took me to a restaurant in Boston.” I pulled off my boots to free my feet from the thick leather. The pine needles were soft under my soles. “Durgin Park has been operating since the 1800s. The waitress staff is all-women and by women I mean retired Navy nurses. Their hair was cut short and they took no lip from the customers. They were real nice to pretty women and after we left I asked about those waitresses. MY father said they were lesbians.”
He had actually said ‘dykes’.
“And that’s it?” Jackie cupped Jill’s small breast. The small teenager squirmed on the bigger woman’s lap.
“Pretty much. I hung out at a gay bar in Boston. The 1270 was all men. The Saint was for women, but they didn’t like men in the bar, thinking they were looking for sex.”
“Men are only capable of one thought at one time.” Jackie passed the joint. “I suppose the only lesbians you ever saw were in stroke books.”
“Yes.” The joint had two more puffs in it. “The Combat Zone in Boston offered books covering a wife range of sexuality.”
“Which ones did you like the best?” The fire painted Jill’s face and the flames dancing in her Latin eyes.
“My favorite was THE ITCH by Steven Hammer. There was homosexuality, orgies, lesbianism, sadism, everything. I must have read it hundreds of times.”
“I know the feeling.” Jackie threw another log on the fire. “I frayed THE THIRD SEX by Artemis Smith and couldn’t keep my hands of THE BASHFUL LESBIAN.”
“You were my introduction to lesbians. Jackie picked me up hitchhiking a year ago. I was running away from a touchy stepfather in Texas. I bet you’d both like to read that book. Mybe I’ll write it one day.” Jill slipped off Jackie’s lap and pulled a blackened frying pan and greasy cooking utensils from a bag. She pulled up her straps and poured water into a pot. “I don’t know about you, but all this talk about reading has got me hungry. Here’s a knife, you chop up the vegetables. Jackie will read us her poetry.”
I diced onions, chopped carrots, and sliced potatoes, as the big woman half-recited poems about the Greek island of Lesbos, worlds without men, and tribadism with young girls. Once the water came to a boil, Jill plopped the vegetables into the pot.
Smoke from the fire of redwood branches curled up the chimney of ancient trees. A starry evening completed the roof of evergreen. We drank the wine from the jug and set up a comfortable seating area with our sleeping bags. The flames cast sly shadows on the girls’ faces.
Jill strained off the water and spiced the vegetables in the pot, adding soy sauce at the end. We ate off bent aluminum plates with wooden spoons. The truck was blocked from my sight and I said to the girls, “This could be 1900.”
“Back then they called what we have a ‘Boston Marriage’. Two women together. Emily Dickerson had one. When the other woman broke it off, she secluded herself for years.” Jackie shut her eyes and then said, “A solemn thing it was I said , A Woman White to be And wear Her blameless mystery.”
“You missed a line.” I had studied Dickerson in high school.
“No, I dropped it on purpose.” Jackie opened her eyes. “I have a thing about God.”
“She thinks He’s a She. Like maybe a transvestite.” Jill pointed to my bare calves. “You wouldn’t be such a bad-looking tranny. Of course you’d have to shave your legs.”
“The rest of me isn’t so hairy.” I opened my shirt. My chest was hairless.
An owl hooted overhead.
They pretended to be scared and wrestled me to the ground. Jackie pulled off my shirt and Jill stripped off my jeans. I was naked and within a second they were too, but instead of kissing me the two women embraced each other with a fervor I had only seen on the silver screen at porno theaters in Boston’s Combat Zone.
“Fuck me now,” Jill begged with a bedeviled voice. I finished within the smaller girl in less than a minute. Flaccidity was not acceptable in their presence and they devoted their attention to getting me hard again. Jackie squatted on my groin. She thrusted down with the force of a Sumo wrestler. My bones cracked under her weight. Jill took pictures.
That night if I wasn’t with one of them, then the two women were at each other like cats mad for milk. Their tongues lapped loud on each other’s flesh. The second I recovered, they would enlist me back into service. Between breaks they huffed a white powder. Crystal meth was fueling their lust and they were getting wild on speed. They didn’t offer me any. They wanted their captive to be hard.
Jackie needed wine to calm her nerves and drove off to the outpost at sunset. I fell asleep so exhausted that I didn’t feel Jill shaving my body. It was night, when she shook me awake and held out silk lingerie.
“Dress in these. Jackie likes to see men in them.”
I didn’t put up much of a fight. The silk bra and cut-out panties were surprisingly soft on my skin and it turned Jill on. Jackie said that my face had Neanderthal features. They called me Bam-Bam.
Jackie shot Jill and me with her camera.
“I can sell them in LA for good money. You’ll be famous.”
I could do without such fame, but was in no position to refuse their demands.
For two days I was their rented mule. We linked in daisy chains of three. They worked my flesh to the bone and I recalled the two hippies fleeing the pick-up truck.
They had good reason.
These two women were sexual predators. The redwood grove had become our stalag. I was Charlotte Rampling in THE NIGHT PORTER. Jackie was Dirk Bogarde. Jill was from ILSA OF THE SS SHE WOLVES. Their nails tore at my flesh. My skin bore teethmarks. Blood stained my sleeping bag. These women liked it rough and I feared that wouldn’t stop until I was dead.
Jackie spoke of a world without men.
“If me and my friends ruled the world, we’d make all men dress like you and teach them what it’s like to be a woman. Jill, show him how we treat slaves.”
It wasn’t nice and that evening the two of them strayed over the border on sane speech and behavior. Jill sharpened the kitchen knife with a stone. The young Latina could have passed for a Charlie Manson inductee and mentioned the words ‘manslaughter of men’ more than twice, as Jackie chopped wood with a crazy-eyed frenzy reminding me of Lizzie Borden and the forty whacks that she gave her parents.
Most of that day the big woman spouted anti-male hatred direct from Valerie Solanas’ SCUM Manifesto. Jackie repeated a mantra about how a chicken runs without its head. Her ax shone in the firelight. Jill knife gleamed in the flickering flames. I stopped sleeping with both eyes shut.
On the third night they crashed out of their speed binge and lay on the sleeping bags dead to the world. I stripped off the lingerie and rummaged through their bags for the film that Jackie had shot of us. I stripped the roll out of the camera as well. Any evidence of my stay in the redwoods burned with a sizzle in the fire.
Grabbing my bags I darted from redwood to redwood. The thick trunks were good for hiding from any potential lesbian posse. I dressed quickly and then ran naked through the trees with my bags over my shoulders. I remained in the forest for several miles not wanting to risk the PCH. A little before the dawn I stepped from the redwoods. There wasn’t a car or truck on the coastal highway.
A farmer picked me up around sunrise.
“Whew, smells like you been rutting with hogs.” He rolled down the window.
“Something like that.” I sniffed at my skin. I was a little ripe. “You didn’t see a beat-up pick-up truck back near the outpost.”
“No. Someone you know?” The farmer was having second thoughts about picking me up.
“Just two friends. I was waiting for them, but they never showed up.” I looked back at the highway. It was empty.
“People get lost easy along Big Sur. You know there’s a murderer working the PCH.” The farmer glanced at the rearview mirror. He wasn’t buying my story.
“I’ve been warned about him and the other down in LA.” There were probably several other killers on the prowl. I settled into the seat and dreamed about bathing in a river farther down the coast.
I reached LA that afternoon and took the bus to Encinitas. AK met me at the Greyhound station. The pianist was driving a brand-new Volvo. They commented that I needed a long shower and once we arrived at the bungalow I took their advice and stayed in the bathroom until my skin was mine again.
His friend was living off a well-funded trust. Her bungalow was set in a flower farm. We drank wine and smoke pot. Dorothy put on Spirit’s TWELVE DREAMS OF DOCTOR SARDONICUS.
“It took you a long time to get down here.” AK had been at Dorothy’s place for over a week. His skin was tanned gold from the beach.
“Hitchhiking on the PCH took longer than I thought,” I told them about staying in Santa Cruz without mentioning Maya.
“What about the two women in Big Sur?” AK asked, as he rolled a joint.
“That’s another story.” I had nothing to hide and told them about the redwoods, Jill and Jackie, the knife, the ax, the sex, and my escape. They both laughed at the wrong parts. “What’s so funny?”
“All men want a nymphomaniac. You find two and what do you do?” Dorothy had a nice smile with crooked teeth. The wire-rimmed glasses framed her face with a welcome kindness. Her dress hid any curves on her thin body. “You run away.”
“I didn’t run away at first, but Jackie and Jill got scary and I don’t scare easy.” I shivered thinking about Jackie coming after me, but I was safe in this house. Dorothy went to sleep at 10. She had an art lesson in the morning. AK had the guest room and I was sleeping on the porch. I spread my sleeping bag on the floor and took off my clothes in the moonlight.
“You weren’t kidding about those women.” AK was shocked by the signs of their abuse.
“It was life or death.” I sat on the couch and told him about the killers roaming the highways. “It’s not a fairy tale out there, but we’re safe here. What about you? You said something about Pam coming here.”
“She called several days ago saying she was with some hippie, but I haven’t heard from her since.”
AK had fallen in love with the co-ed on the drive west. Pam was a good girl. The blonde nursing student was no Jill and certainly no Jackie.
“Don’t worry, she’ll be here.” I checked the lock on the screen door. It seemed secure. I pushed a chair against it. I wasn’t taking any chance. “I see you in the morning. We can go for a swim. I’m looking forward to that.”
“There’s a naked beach down the coast.” AK entered the bungalow.
“Sounds good to me.” I felt safe and fell asleep within minutes.
The next morning we drove Dorothy to her art class and AK headed south to Black’s Beach. A path led down the bluff to the narrow beach. Nude sunbathers were scattered on the sand. AK and I dropped out towels and I pulled off my clothes. AK was shy about baring all to the elements. The men nearest us were eying him. They were into men.
“Pretend you’re with me.” I examined my scraps and bruises. None of them were permanent.
“I am with you.” He held the towel over his privates.
“No, I like I’m your boyfriend.” The sun was bright.
“You want me to act gay?” AK was 100% straight. “I don’t know how.”
“Me neither.” I laughed and pointed to the sea. The waves crashed on the beach. Both of us loved the surf. I raced him to the water. He was faster than me, but I was a stronger swimmer. We stayed in the ocean for over an hour.
“Let’s take a walk.” AK surveyed the beach.There were more men than women and most of them were gay. AK spotted two women sitting under the cliff. A group of men surrounded two women.
“You want to stare at the naked girls?”
“It’s not a crime.”
“Let’s go talk to them.”
“It’s them.” I squinted in the glare and caught my breath. It was Jackie and Jill. Man-eaters. I dropped my head and jumped into the ocean. I swam with the current and came ashore some two hundred feet from them.
“What’s wrong?” AK caught up with me.
“It’s the two women from Big Sur.”
“I don’t know why you ran away.” He shook his head.
“Because I got the feeling that they were sucking the life out of me and they’d be nothing left, if I stayed another day.” There was such a thing as too much sex.
“How bad could it be?” AK looked over his shoulder.
“YOu saw the scars. It could be worse.”
The bare-skinned women checked me out like I was a piece of meat. I cupped my hands over my privates and waddled away to safety.
Later that evening AK related the encounter to Dorothy. She didn’t laugh this time.
“You’ll regret that at the end of your life. You’ll be lying in bed and ask yourself, “Why didn’t I have sex with them again.”
“No, I won’t.” I liked living and slept with peace of mind.
1974 was seven years after the Summer of Love. Encinitas wasn’t San Francisco and I was simply a hitchhiker on my way home only I wasn’t going home yet.