Chapter 8

We painted our walls white, did it ourselves because Priscilla liked climbing on ladders, wielding rollers, dripping thick paint on drop cloths, then breaking to go at turkey sandwiches on sourdough bread held in speckled hands. We hung Fillmore Auditorium posters, psychedelic works by Mouse, Rick Griffin, Moscoso, Wilfred Satty, gazing at them with fond irony, and then we suspended stained-glass mandalas and zodiac images from the vendors on Haight Street to improve the Aquarian Age sunlight through our windows. In the bathroom we mounted a sepia-tinted photograh entitled “Chocolate George’s Funeral,” which showed the memorial motorcycle cortège of Hell’s Angels commemorating the life and tragic end of a colleague who had collided with a black-and-white van full of pigs at an intersection where the right-of-way belonged to the survivors. Priscilla had once joined me in a summit conference I scheduled with George, who got his name from lounging about with a trademark container of chocolate milk propped against the hairy gap in his jeans. I needed to ask about a meth factory allegedly run by an alleged chief of a motorcycle sport club. We met at the corner of Page and Ashbury, near the detox unit of the Free Clinic. George graciously offered Priscilla a swig of his well-browned, well-muzzled milk; she, of course, accepted the Chocolate Milk of Peace. About the methedrine sulphate factory, whatever that might be, C. George declared he didn’t know nothing, but he sure thought the world of my old lady. “She’s a mama I could even have a go at myself,” he roguishly hinted. So the sepia commemoration print was meaningful to us.

Around this time the Native American separatist movement launched its war canoes to occupy Alcatraz Island, first installment on the rest of Amerikkka—important to include all those ks—and Alfonso suggested I put up a Free Hawkfeather St. James poster on my nice new white walls (how about the kid’s room, buddy, next to the seesaw mobile?) but not get otherwise involved. Some rough stuff going down, he said. Alfonso gave me these hints now and then, because what else are friends for, especially if they’re on the police force?

I asked Priscilla to stay away from this cause. She had already cooked up the buffalo stew but agreed to send it out under cover of darkness with an expedition of feral English rock and roll journalists. But then, bang, I was hired by a grieving father to look into the death of a Native girl who fell/jumped/was pushed down a flight of stairs, so I got involved anyway. And Priscilla asked if it was cool if she wore a headband. “You’d look cute in it,” I said. So she didn’t wear it.

Even when it wasn’t the sixties anymore, it still was. We had entered these times from different doors, at different stages in our lives. We kept rolled joints in a cup in the fridge, wrapped in Baggies so they wouldn’t dry out, but I preferred brownies because my whole life could be reexamined if that happened to be the program, unrolling with stoned concentration in super-meta-magnavision, without having to contend afterward with a scratchy throat. It was normal for me to move from spectator to chorus in the Aquarian operetta. Secretly, in my heart of hearts, soul of souls, ball of balls, I too was a runaway child. Those questers on Hippie Hill in Golden Gate Park, strumming their guitars, blowing their dreams at each other—well, maybe their parents hired me to find them, my brothers and sisters, but I tracked them down in the encampments of the Haight warmly, compassionately, cordially. Heaven and Siddhartha, patchouli and Isolde could be found in every crash pad.

One girl, Tanya Tangiers (born Terry Templemeyer), explained that she couldn’t go home to her parents because (a) she was now married and had been for a very long time, and (b) she was no longer sixteen years old. She was living in the Kerista commune and married to thirteen husbands. (How long? Since last Thursday.) And since Thursday she was two thousand years old.

I arranged for her father, an admiral in the U.S. Navy, to have a little talk with her and bring her home. I was not only Tanya’s spiritual brother but also her father’s.

Priscilla, my bride during these zigzag voyages, tripped and smiled triumphantly from her twenties into her thirties. She was willing to contribute small miracles as part of the whole-earth acceptance deal. She invented adding roast potatoes, carrots, onions, and leftover chicken from a sandwich to a can of Campbell’s Whatever Kind of Soup, cooking it with her secret, recycled ingredients so that eventually it actually tasted good, yummy, the best; as she did, too; and maybe a trickster brownie for dessert or maybe not. These were times when tremendous doings were afoot all over, and even kitchen life could be magnified, become tremendous.

*   *   *

Lots of LSD Jesuses seemed to be shipped to San Francisco by my personal guardian angels in order to provide employment opportunities. The father and mother of a freshly anointed Jesus would come on a referral from another PI search service, or just telephone from Frantic, Indiana, or the upper peninsula of Michigan, saying that their lovely son, Dennis, was heading west on a mission to be Savior of the World and would I please ask him to take the bus home because Mom was worried sick. Mom was often too distraught to come on the extension line with more than “Filthy drug addicts got ahold of him on a trip to Dee-troit. You’ll recognize him—grew his hair long and whiskers.”

The pokier Jesuses headed toward the Jerusalem of Marin County; the freak Jesuses liked the Haight because of ample free parking—in doorways, in the Panhandle, in Golden Gate Park—plus crash-pad wise men for company and potential discipleship, plus the best music. They turned on, tuned in, and bought tickets; rock and roll was here to save.

A Jews-for-Jesus kid sang his hit single in front of the Haight Straight Theater—“I Knew Jesus Before He Was a Gentile”—whomping and wailing, until I put my hand on his guitar and led him off for a heart-to-heart discussion about the Last Supper. This one turned out to be somebody else, a second-generation Jew for Jesus, and later a star of the San Francisco Sound, with a record that landed up there with “By the Dock of the Bay,” “Hello, Hello,” and the one about if you come to San Francisco, wear flowers in your hair. “The Last Supper,” he explained, “was really the first free feed, like the Diggers, man. Now if you ask if He means for all the folks to join Him in the Big Auditorium—”

I didn’t ask. I was looking for Dennis. When I found him, inquiring at the Psychedelic Shop or the Drog Store, checking on Haight or in the Panhandle or on Hippie Hill in the Park—Lords of the Universe tended to stand out in crowds—sometimes all it took was a kind word: “Your mom misses you, Dennis. Your dad says you can drive the Trans Am on Saturday nights.” It got cold sleeping outside, because San Francisco doesn’t have the California weather people imagine, and the doorways were crowded with competition: L. Ron Hubbards, Paul Bunyans, Strangers in a Strange Land (symptom of an apolitical bent—never met a Napoleon around here). One Jesus got suspicious about the weekend driving privilege: “Where you get that Trans Am shit? My old man drives a ’64 Buick Skylark.”

I snapped my finger and scuffed my boots, eyes modestly downcast. If you try to carry your office in your head, you sometimes get the file on runaways jangled. “I meant that, son—Buick Skylark, right, right—just slipped out wrong. Hey, how about a little breakfast—two pork chops and some mashed potatoes sound good to you?”

“You can call me Joshua,” he said. “They got fries?”

The non-exalted runaways were harder to find, secretive, depressed, and sometimes in trouble. The girls were in danger. They would turn up pregnant if I didn’t hurry and sometimes if I did. Often I had to contend with a boyfriend or a pimp and a lot of sadness. I would go from squat to commune to group dwelling, generally within a mile or two of Haight Street—those free spirits tended to huddle together—and then find Valerie or Sharon suffering from malnutrition, venereal disease, and bad habits. “Can’t go home. They don’t want me.” “They want you, they love you.” “If they did, why’d they treat me like that?” “They’re going to do better now.” “Promise?” “Promise. Hey, come on, I’ve got a hotel for you, a suite, nice warm bath, the shampoo and conditioner kit, and listen in on the phone while you talk to them.” “What’ll I tell Luther?” (Luther or Dwayne or Terrence would be the boyfriend-pimp-guardian they had found to improve on their parents.) “Don’t you worry about Luther. I’ll handle Luther. Just pick up your kip, honey, and here’s a nice taxi.”

If Luther came bopping around on his cork heels, he would notice my mean eyes and think, Plainclothes cop, chick underage, and usually let go okay. Sometimes I’d help him: “I’m gonna watch you walk down that block to Page Street, Luther, and then you turn right without looking back. ’Cause if you do … I bet you’ve met Officer Jones over to Park Station—Alfonso Jones?”

Luther was less trouble than the girls. No tears, no snot in his nose, no turning back.

Priscilla called me “Finder of Souls.” I said I was only the shepherd dog barking after a little flock of Jesuses and Mary Magdalenes—was that disrespectful or sacrilegious? She worked her lips, checked her Sunday school memories. “I’ll have to see.”

While a sitter watched Jeff for a few hours a week, she was back to teaching at the Museum of Modern Art, running tour groups and lecturing on French Impressionism to high school visitors, some of whom wanted to know about American Impressionism. Opportunities for art history graduates were narrow if they couldn’t type, no matter how sweet their scalps smelled, how salty they tasted. The advantage of her job was that sometimes she could take time off to help in a difficult Jesus treasure hunt.

This one was Jesus Christ Satan, a solo practitioner of good and evil, spangled and caped over a red satin dress, iridescent, clumping along with his crooked staff, his puppy, his cat on a string, and occasionally a follower. His hair was put up in pink ribbons under a tin helmet with Viking horns on it. People tended to notice, even during those special times; maybe it was the red dress, non-natural fiber. I already knew him, but darned if he didn’t give me the slip for a week once he heard I was looking. Sometimes he lugged around clay tablets under his cape. People feared he might use them to sock sinners, but I sensed a middle name—Jesus Christ Moses Satan—and these were merely his ten commandments. Thou shalt end the war in Vietnam, thou shalt daily dose on acid, thou shalt not fuck with me, and so on. I asked for him up and down Haight and Page, down the Panhandle, on Cole, Stanyan, and Central, deep into Golden Gate Park. Everywhere his congregation cried out: “Dug him yesterday, looked kind of uptight, man.”

His shoes clumped; he believed in sandals, but these hiking boots happened to be more practical for a wandering freelance prophet and savior in the San Francisco Gomorrah. In the case of Jesus Christ M. Satan, it wasn’t parents. He stood apart, beyond family. He had been the art director of an advertising agency in New York and there was an urgent query about missing funds. His art director training accounted for his attractive decor (sometimes battery-powered Christmas lights flashing under the black-and-red cape); LSD accounted for his new role as King Messiah of both Heaven and Hell; he owed his taste for embezzlement to innate character.

It was frustrating. I knew him, but now I couldn’t locate him. He was wriggling out of view like a magician out of a cage. Jesus C. Moses Houdini Satan. In a shiny red dress, slippery.

And then Priscilla spotted him on Polk Street, hastening along with his animals doing their best to keep up behind the billows of cape. He was noticeable, but I was looking at Priscilla and Priscilla was looking at the world, saw him first, and ran up, inquiring with her happiest smile, “Mr. Satan, that’s such a cute couple of God’s creatures, I wonder if you got them at the pound or a pet store—”

“Not talking to womenfolks this week,” he said.

By that time I had him by the elbow, cornered him in the crowd at Travel Agency for Trips, had my own questions and statements, had a firm grip on the arm of the Ruler of the Here Below and Beneath. “Jerry,” I said, “since I’m not a womenfolk, I’m sure you and I can have a nice conversation.”

The folks lined up at the Travel Agency for Trips at Polk and Vallejo weren’t buying many plane tickets to LA, Denver, or Disneyland. They were buying tablets to take them farther than far out as they sat in the front row of movies and watched 2001, grokking and grooving, or Reefer Madness at midnight, hooting and hollering, their fingers in the crotches of the neighbors in the seats on both sides. J. C. M. Satan also sold high-test dynaflow acid from a pocket of his embroidered, button-loaded cape. As the Savior of the World, he embraced what came to hand, occasionally changing acid into sugar and the other way around.

“Begone,” he commanded me; he should have commanded Priscilla, since she was the one who had picked him out of the crowd, but because he wasn’t talking to womenfolks this week, I would have to do. I introduced myself cautiously—his middle name might also be Attila or Jack the Ripper—but he turned out to be a part-time sweetie.

His name used to be Jerry. Depositions were not his bag anymore. Besides, the tithe from the ad agency had all been spent in his unique combo of good and evil works. His mission on earth and in San Francisco required new sources of income. Expenses—grade A tunafish for the puppy and kittens was only the beginning—seemed to be the result of having an optional added spare middle name: St. Francis. This guy in the red dress kept a lot of arrows in his quiver.

I gave him my business card. He put on his glasses to examine it. Office Depot, nothing fancy. “Come to my pagoda,” said Mr. Satan. “I think you’ll find it dissolute but attractive. Lava lamps, I’ve got your basic Esalen pillow situation, I’ve got ample closets…”

“Jerry, you’re wanted.”

“And I want you, Mr. Kasdan. This card represents you correctly? Have you investigated the Path?”

“Jerry, if you want to settle this matter amicably, it can be handled. Otherwise, you know Sergeant Alfonso, he can cut a warrant and he’s no farther than a phone call away.”

“I know Alfonso, love that schwartzer, for even the Nubian shall find the Path. Doesn’t a warrant need a judge?”

“Jerry, come off it. I’ll give you a day to find a good home for the lava lamps and the pillows, but you may have to send the pets to the pound.”

“Eeek, sir,” he said. From a distance he had dramatic eyes, those of a silent film siren, darkened and intensified with soot; up close, as the mascara peeled off in the heat, they were bright little mouse eyes, darting here and there under the cosmetic burden he put on them. They wished Priscilla had never brought endarkenment unto this day. “I may have to pronounce a Malediction and summon the powers of Night. You wouldn’t like that.”

“I may have to summon the powers of the police. If I ask Alfonso to pick you up—”

“Eeek! Interstate warrant on what they’re trying to nail me won’t hold up, Mr. Kasdan. It was petty cash. It was discretionary funds at the art director’s disposal.”

“Hey Jerry, I’m not your lawyer. That’s why I say go back and settle.”

“Eeek! Sanctuary!” He held his fingers up to my face in the shape of a secular, authority-defying cross. The cape flopped. The puppy started yipping. The cat withdrew, yellow eyes incommunicado. “I’ll ask for sanctuary down at Anton LeVey’s Temple of Holy Satan Mark II. They got goats, they got chickens, they got a direct line to the ACLU, buster.”

“Ah, Jerry, no need to get abusive. Call off your terrier, okay? Let’s discuss this like gentlemen.”

But Jesus Christ Satan doesn’t have to be a gentleman. We stood there arguing and eeking about legal matters on a windswept corner of Polk Street, surrounded by gray wolves, runaway boys from San Antonio, chicken queens, and, carrying the new plastic shopping bags, your normal middle-class shoppers from Russian Hill, for whom the sixties were just another time when the kids had to be fed, clothed, and sent off to school. I asked Mr. Satan what I could do to persuade him to go back and deal with his problems. He asked me what could persuade me to stay here and let him help me deal with mine. Standoff time at the Polk Corral.

Ultimately I failed with this one, made the call to Alfonso, and another Savior of the World ended up in Vacaville. The ad agency in New York got zilch. Mr. J. C. Satan’s ultimate line of defense at his hearing was that maybe he belonged in Napa, a resort for the normal insane, but certainly not in Vacaville, which was reserved for the criminally insane. He was productively, creatively mad, an art director and bringer of miracles down from Twin Peaks.

The judge begged to disagree. Alfonso and I felt a sense of both relief and failure. Priscilla said she learned her lesson and it was the last time she would be party to a crucifixion.

“Just doin’ my job, ma’am,” I said.

“Come here then”—crooking her finger—“I’ve got another job for you.”

Happiness was my lot. Happiness was our lot. Alfonso said, “You guys. Let me take you down to Third Street for some barbecue, that sound okay?” We were so easy with things we could even digest Sam Jordan’s fried fish and ribs with sauce at the Primitive Bar-B-Que, 4004 Third.

And then there was the Pomona College boy I had to find. He thought he was Antonin Artaud, the French poet and actor who was also Joan of Arc. When he raised his cane, every woman in Paris peed her pants. So I was looking for a fresh-faced kid, blond, about five eight, freckles, carrying some kind of cane or staff and suddenly lifting it cloudways and darting glances at the passing girls, giggling, giggling.

It seemed that life in San Francisco just then was a carnival, and a festival for Priscilla and Dan. But not everybody was licensed to be happy on this planet earth, even during the Age of Aquarius.

*   *   *

An older man with hair beginning to gray—“gradual blonding,” I called it, “from all the chlorine in the YMCA pool downtown”—I lay alongside my wife and love and wondered if we should just go ahead and have another child. Then, as she moved her butt in a particular way, and grinned and squinted sideways at me, and that flush came over her face, I forgot that lovemaking had anything to do with child-making. Her butt made enough sense all by its lonesome, flying and twitching and rosy pink; she wasn’t afraid of Chocolate George’s slobber or of mine.

A newscaster on the “all the news, all the goddamn twenty-four-hours” station—much of the news being urgent bulletins about discount appliance sales—gave us unending joy. “Turn on KCBS, spouse, I need some giggle time,” and here was a flash flash flash about a cable car tragedy: “Several people are injured not up to the point of being considered dead.”

“Now I can rest in what some might call peace,” said Priscilla.

We wondered if it was correct to laugh about the report of a serious accident. We decided it was funny, we could share the guilt, silliness was an American birthright. “Not up to the point!” cried Priscilla, choking. “Not up to the point of being considered dead!… It’s brutal,” she said, frowning at a thought that troubled her for a millisecond. “People laugh. They can be so awful.”

“That’s how people are.”

“It just amounts to awful, doesn’t it?”

She switched off the radio. We listened to the ticking and creaking of household events. There was marital risk among our family accumulations of objects and histories. We aimed for the love of slow. San Francisco in those years also sent us other offers, but we steered our three-wheeled vehicle, Jeff, Dan, and Priscilla, down the highway into a shady tunnel of domesticity. Remembered the shade of the giant, ancient Muir Woods when there were only the two of us, Priscilla and Dan.

As a rest from Bob Dylan records, and because we were serious people, now and then we put a classical tape on—maybe it was the Coasters or Chuck Berry. Later Bob Dylan would be a golden oldie, but some of us kept busy remembering those years when we witnessed lots of famous rock bands—It’s a Beautiful Day, Jefferson Airplane, even the Grateful Dead before Pigpen died of drink and the usual high-liver liver breakdown—all in San Francisco at the Fillmore Auditorium, or in Golden Gate Park, or at Chet Helms’s Avalon Ballroom. The late sixties and early seventies were made for ending the war in Vietnam to the rhythms of love, drugs, rock and roll; by that time we were taking Jeff along in a basket as fellow witness. We were happy. Danger, danger.

Priscilla bought a flashlight to keep under the bed in case an earthquake caused a power outage. We’ve got a child, she said. You can’t tell what might happen, she said. Who can predict the future, she explained.

Just once in a while she took on extravagant tastes; not too often. She couldn’t decide which granny dress she wanted, so she bought three although she would only wear one. I yelled a little, she cried, I apologized. Next day she gave the two dresses she didn’t like to the Salvation Army, but I knew enough now not to complain that she could have tried returning them to the shop. Like every marriage, ours moved down the road to normal, rich in daily drivel. I looked at her in her Amish housewife drag and said I felt sad because we didn’t have a horse and wagon. Although it was over, I felt sad because we had had a quarrel. There were times when she felt sad and I didn’t know why. “A little postpartum privacy, please,” she said.

With our house key I scratched our two sets of initials inside a little heart in the wet cement of a new sidewalk out front. It was a childish thing to do. I wanted our names to be marked together for all time, entwined in cement, and I wanted to come by now and then and peer at them and peek at her and say, “Remember?” and then ask again, imperatively, “Remember?”

But of course the utilities people are always digging, so one day the old cement was gone and new cement was wet in its place with the whiff of a secret cave. You can’t do a childish thing like that again and again. It’s gone, the single heart with our initials, but it’s not gone.

In the meantime we were having conversations like (me), “I think I’ll grow a beard,” and (she) “That would be not shaving”; and then (me), “What a keen logical mind, but unless it’s a rough kind of hippie prophet deal, I’ll still have to trim.” So then stuff about electric razors and energy and whether it’s masculine to do so and she’s behind me all the way as I find my path in life … The daily fare of married folks joshing and negotiating at the same time, fending off the married-folks boredom.

Personally, I didn’t need to fend it off. The flat times were almost relaxing because I knew I was just waiting for the happiness to rise up again so I could legitimately grab her. Marriage means another person’s fart sneaks out from under the covers sometimes in the morning. Marriage means your own fart gets commingled with hers and the blame is shared. I didn’t mind. Our morning farts could fill the sheets like sails, and off they might lift into skies blue above bright-sparkled seas. Carrying us with them like windsurfers, lovesurfers, in the free sulfurs of the empyrean.

Can’t speak for Priscilla, of course. That’s the inevitable dilemma of two hearts, two farts entwined.

Sometimes Priscilla had nightmares, which astonished a husband who had watched her ride through the years triumphant in her strength and gaiety. One night I was awakened by moans. She said she had dreamed of a long-legged running bird with a beak like a pelican’s. How big? I asked. Not a giant, as tall as you are, but that beak … Another night I shook her and she went on with those shuddering sobs and didn’t seem to awaken, didn’t want to, even when I murmured in my own sleepiness, said her name. I held her swelling and subsiding in breaths that came like sobs. I kissed her back and shoulder blades, swaddling her from behind. What a lonely tenderness to comfort a sleeping wife, comfort her like a hurt child, comfort my own griefs by sharing hers. I may have been ignorant of her sorrows. I didn’t fully know my own, either. I was happy to lie that way against her back. I brushed my lips across her shoulders, saying, Shh, sleep, sleep. She woke, muttering, “Oh, bad dream,” and I said, “I know, I tried to make you feel safer,” and then she suddenly sat up, demanding: “You proud of that? Is that your job? You’d rather just turn over and snore?”

“Only snore sometimes if I sleep on my back.”

But her head was in the pillow, her arms flung around it, sleeping or pretending to sleep.

Look down from heaven, look here, God of Christians and Jews, observe and judge how hard we try in the department of loving each other forever. Loving forever is a difficult procedure. We only do it the best we can.