SAN FRANCISCO, 1967—THE SUMMER OF LOVE HAIGHT-ASHBURY.
The street signs on the corner slipped into late-night fog, blurring as the young woman swiped long dark hair out of her face and blinked to focus. She looked around, more than a little disoriented. She couldn’t remember leaving the apartment. The tiny pink barrel-shaped pill she’d ingested a few hours ago had reached a new peak. Dropping acid was beginning to feel like one of the biggest mistakes she had ever made. Her scalp prickled with apprehension.
What was she doing out here?
Making a phone call. That was it. Make peace with her parents. Talk to her little sister. Alex needed her. She couldn’t let her make the mistakes she had made.
It was time to go home.
The dime grew slippery in her hand.
Haight Street was empty, veiled in mist that wanted to be rain. She was underdressed, wearing only a short Afghan coat, a thin tie-dye top, miniskirt, and white go-go boots. San Francisco summers could be so cold.
The street signs curled at the edges. Her head began to spin. Her insides bubbled as she fought nausea from the clouds of smoke that had been hanging in the room where she shared a mattress with whoever crashed there that night. The stinging reek of unwashed bodies. Sour milk. Music too loud—turning to noise.
All she wanted now was to go back. Where it felt safer.
But first, she’d make that phone call. There was a pay phone at the end of Haight, where Golden Gate Park loomed in the shadows.
She pressed on. The sidewalk seemed to move underneath her, rocking from side to side.
Then two shimmering lights blinded her. She froze as fuzzy headlights approached. Were they making sounds? So many noises whooshed in and out of her ears. Distant guitars. She found herself falling forward. She caught her footing, regained her balance.
The car crawled toward her. A streetlight blazed off its green hood. It had started to rain. Dazzling beads of moisture on the hood grew larger, blending with the guitars, and she could taste the notes, like drops of water, cool and metallic, even as they blinded her.
When would this acid wear off?
Phone call. She would make her call, get back to the crash pad.
The sleek car floated over to the curb, taillights leaving a choppy streak in the air. The interior glowed, a single occupant lit by dashboard lights. The doors throbbed with drumbeats. An electric window whirred down. The music gushed out. Pounding drums. Pulsating keyboards.
She bent down, the sounds drawing her in.
A young man in a dark zip-up sweatshirt was hunched over the steering wheel. He wore a black watch cap pulled down tight on his head. She saw black-framed glasses on a thin face hollowed by angular cheekbones. His hands clutched the wheel. She saw a dirty nail. She wasn’t sure what to make of him.
“You okay?” he mumbled, staring through thick lenses. His big pupils reminded her of a fish. “You’re all over the place.”
He was just checking up on her. Seeing that she was all right.
“Jefferson Airplane,” she said, hanging on the music.
“Oh, right,” he said. “Eight-track.”
“Eight what?”
“Eight-track tape player.” He stroked the car’s dash as if it were skin. “Top of the line, this baby.”
His car was like a spaceship.
“Is it … a Mustang?” she said, her voice echoing in her head.
“Falcon,” he said. “Ford Falcon.”
“Far out Falcon,” she said.
“Yeah.” He pushed his glasses up and toothed a grin. “Get in.” He patted the passenger seat. “Check. It. Out.”
She thought about it. It was raining.
But there had been stories.
“No,” she said, then added: “No thanks.”
“Oh, come on,” he said. “You’ve seen me around.”
“I have?”
“Your name is Margaret.”
“Hey! How did you know that?”
He laughed, holding the wheel. “You’re so ripped. Get in, Margaret. It’s freezing. It’s wet. It’s not safe.”
“What’s your name?”
“Gary,” he said.
“Gary.” She didn’t think she knew any Garys.
“You’re out of your head. I could see that a mile away. I’ll drive you home.”
“Phone call,” she said.
He blinked through his glasses. “What phone call?”
“I need to make a phone call.”
“Okay, got it.” He nodded to the beat. “There’s a pay phone, end of Haight. By the park.”
“I know.” She did know that. She was glad to know something.
“I’ll run you down there,” he said. “Then take you home.”
The song ended, the woman’s brooding voice fading with a crescendo of guitars. Like the rush of waves on distant shores.
“Come on …” His voice became nasal.
Then the music kicked in again, a new track. A bass guitar, echoing and lonely, sounding Middle Eastern. Military drums. Electric guitar, ribbons of steel spinning up into the sky. The woman singing in a haunted voice. About dropping acid. Just like Margaret had done.
“I love that song,” she heard herself say.
“Who doesn’t?” he said. “Get in. I just got this car. Doesn’t even have plates yet. You can be the first.”
“The first what?”
He stared at her, his eyes hard and seemingly vacant at the same time. “My first passenger. I’ll drive you down to the phone booth, you make your call, then I take you home.”
She thought about that, and the song she liked, about the very same trip she was on.
“You’re getting wet,” he said.
“Why not?” she said, opening the door, the music spilling out in clouds. She climbed into the cockpit.
He reached over her, pushed the lock down on her door. The sharp stink of sweat from under his armpit shook her senses awake. She sat back, trembling. She turned, saw his eyes slitted.
“You have no idea who I am—do you?” he said. “Who I really am?”
Her heart thumped with anxiety.
She reached for the door handle. “I think I’ll walk …”
“No, you won’t,” he said calmly. He snatched her wrist with his left hand, held it like a vise. “He never even told you about me, did he?” He bent her arm back. It hurt.
“He who?” she gasped. She tried to raise her right arm, but he twisted her wrist further, pushing her down into her seat.
She noticed something in his other hand. A handkerchief.
He grinned, the tip of his tongue showing, sending shivers down her back.
He held up the cloth. It smelled of some sweet chemical.
“My father,” he said.