MONKEYSAYS

WORLDS IN COLLISION: THE HIPPIE DERAILS THE PUNK POET

A PRE AND POST LAPSARIAN TALE

Last spring, Thing One slipped and crashed down the stairs head over heels. She flipped once, slid to an almost upright position, then spiked headfirst to the bottom. I thought she'd come down directly on her head, but her shoulder took the hit. She escaped with only a broken collarbone.

The fall's been on my mind ever since. I was close enough to see it in horrifying detail, but not close enough to do anything to prevent or minimize it.

I started thinking about falling more and more.

I know old people who worry about falling. They know if that fall, they will break their hips and decline and die precipitously soon thereafter. But I know that what they know is out of sequence. It's the hip breaking that makes them fall, not vice versa. Nothing to be done, no need to worry. But I don't tell them. I doubt if it would be much of a comfort.

I heard of a friend and of a friend of a friend who had fallen, one from a roof, the other from a ladder. Serious injuries all around.

I got some roof patching to do myself, but I keep putting it off.

In the interim, Thing Two has taken to spinning. Head back, arms out, she's a little dervish, a whirling top, until she collapses, falls down, into a dizzy, laughing heap.

The conflation of spinning and falling, of falling on purpose, of purposeful derangement, of falling unexpectedly, of close escapes and serious injuries, disturbs me, intrudes upon me, reminds me, and finally sends me back to another time and place, to another unsettling series of events that I'd almost, but not quite, forgotten.


A HIPPIE WITH A KNIFE AND AN ATTITUDE

What I knew about Wes: That was his real name, but we were supposed to call him Jim. He was going by an alias as he was wanted by some authorities. We didn't know by whom or for what, but we had to play along. It was assumed, but never stated, that drugs were involved, not real criminal behavior. So it was OK. He was a real hippie, come from here, gone to San Francisco by way of New York, then landed back here some years later.

He was older than us, an authentic old hippie, a living remnant of a historic time and a place who had come back and insinuated himself into the regular world.

I worked with JJ. He had grown up with across the street from Wes. "I knew him before his hair was long," JJ said. "But he always had that gleam in his eye. Like he knew stuff that we didn’t. Didn't come out much, though. Stayed in his room listening to music and getting high."

"I don't have anything against him," I said. "But still, I've got no use for him. He's got that strange boyfriend who follows him around like he's on a leash. Who showed up the other day with a black eye and bruises on his neck and says he fell down."

"I never knew you were so judgmental," JJ said.

"He also carries a hunting knife in his boot," I said. "What kind of hippie goes around with weapons and beats people?"

"Your problem," said JJ "is that you're inflexible. You can only accept a hippie if he acts in a circumscribed hippie way. Wes is an individual, that's what bothers you. You think you’re liberal, but you’re not. You’ve got all these preconceived ideas about how people should act.”

“And by the way, why do we have to play cops and robbers whenever he’s around?” I asked. “He’s the most recognizable guy in the state. What is calling him by a fake name supposed to accomplish?”

“And by the way,” parroted JJ, “we’re taking him with us Saturday night. I told him we’d pick him up. So come by a little early.”

“Why would a guy like Wes want to go see Patti Smith?’ I asked. I thought he was into Quicksilver Messenger Service, and Spirit and all that hippie San Francisco stuff.”

“You think you’re so smart,” JJ said. “But there’s a lot going on that you have no idea about. Wes was in New York in the early 60’s. He used to hang around with The Holy Modal Rounders; that’s the connection. From them to Sam Shepard to Patti Smith, a straight line. Wes has the credentials. He probably wonders why someone like you is going.”

“I guess it doesn’t bother him so much that he’d take the train,” I said. "And what do you mean, someone like me?"

THE CONVERSE OF INTUBATION

It had been a relatively easy ride, but now we were stopped dead, midway through The Holland Tunnel.

I turned around and looked at Wes, then looked down at the brown paper bag he’d been clutching. "What do you have in the bag?" I asked.

"A turkey sandwich and a Rimbaud book," he said.

"Leftover turkey or fresh?"

"Leftover, what of it?"

”Nothing," I said. "I just didn't picture you as a Thanksgiving dinner family kind of guy."

"For your information, I was at my sister's for Thanksgiving," Wes said.

"When do you plan on eating it?" I asked.

"I'm saving it for later," Wes said. "I'll eat at the club."

I looked over at JJ. He was staring straight ahead, trying not to laugh.

Wes was getting a little agitated. "Something funny?' he asked.

”Not really," I said. "It's just that they sell food there. I don't think you're supposed to bring in your own."

"I always do it," Wes said. "I do whatever I want."

"Were you going to read during the show as well?" I asked. JJ snorted.

Wes's tone turned icy. "This is a very rare edition. I'm going to have Patti sign it for me."

I looked over at JJ. He shrugged his shoulders.

"I saw that," Wes shouted. "I've about had it with the two of you. I know what you're up to. You think you can just drive around like this and make fun of me? I won't put up with it!"

JJ turned around and motioned at Wes. "Calm down, nobody's making fun of anyone."

"You're just as bad as he is," Wes yelled at JJ. "You used to be all right, now you're hanging around with guys like him, and plotting against me. Things sure have changed."

"What do you mean, guys like me?" I asked. Then, belatedly noticing that Wes's eyes were spinning like pinwheels, I had an insight. "Wes, are you on anything? Are you messed up?"

"No, not really," Wes said. But then, with that twisted sense of pride and accomplishment that serious druggies and drinkers possess, he began to clarify what not really really meant.

"Because of the long weekend, I dropped some acid Thursday before I went to my sister's. Then after dinner, I got high with my niece when my sister was cleaning up. I dropped some more acid yesterday morning, but it was shit, so I took a little mescaline to smooth myself out. Since then, nothing, except I've been speeding since last night."

Wes relaxed. He sat back in his seat, and a dreamy smile came over his face as he contemplated the excesses of the last few days.

JJ was starting to look a little nervous.

Traffic started moving, then stopped again. I gestured at the line of cars in front of us. "I can't believe it; we'll never get out of this tunnel."

Wes lurched forward and grabbed my shoulder. "I know what you're up to now. I've seen narcs before, plenty of times. Well you're not going to keep me in here, no matter what."

With that he opened the door, scrambled out, and started running through the tunnel, heading for New York.

JJ stuck his head out the window. "Wes, come back. Everything's cool."

"Let him go," I said. "By rights, he shouldn't even have been in here; he never even chipped in."

END PART 1