Dave DeInnocentis Marin County Satori

Marin County Satori

dave d einnocentis

May 1968, our Bobby is all in, he’s going to end the Vietnam War, maybe end racism and injustice and inequality on the way by, he needs to win California, he needs help. And I’m free. I grab my least worn shoes, roll up the old Korean War surplus sleeping bag, hustle up a few bucks and head for the turnpike at Mass. and Newbury, thumb out and heading west.

A week later, and adventures including being escorted outside of Ogallala, Nebraska by the sheriff onto a gravel road alongside some long deceased decomposing cattle, otherwise known as the local hitchhike-free zone, a job offer in Mountain Home, Idaho, to help bring in the spring calves from the back country, withdrawn after I confess I can’t ride a hoss, never mind pronounce it, I’m on a jungle road somewhere near Mendocino when The Cheech and Chong Prototype Wagon pulls over populated in the back by a local tribe of semi-dressed young pilgrims, in front by a big, bearded guy opening the door and luring me inside with an engaging grin. They’re all trucking their way to a commune, and I seem to be invited.

That evening, a campsite. After a memorable dinner of hippie potluck-au-few, I become allied with the big guy, an affable and still and mellow and gentle dude and the only other person in this outfit reasonably evolved, who tells me he lives in Haight-Ashbury, is travelling to visit a woman friend, and is a good listener who wants to hear about all the affairs and exploits of being on the road. In an authentic Lowell accent.

At dusk he becomes very spirited, tells me he’s discovered a plant growing near the campsite, you can make tea from the leaves and get buzzed. I’m dubious. It looks like ordinary mountain laurel to me, but he steeps the leaves in creek water, pours the liquid into a cup, and offers it forward. Gentleman that I am, I say, “You first.” He brings the cup to his lips, drinks it down in one swill. His eyes immediately roll back in his head, he collapses into the creek, head bleeding from a rock, face under water, mouth bubbling. He’s no lightweight, but I drag the fool out, make sure he doesn’t choke on his vomit, clean the forehead gash, oversee the slow return to lucidity. Later, lying among the redwoods, I realize I’ve probably just saved my new scruffy-bear friend from drowning.

Sunrise, minus a few defectors, and we arrive at the commune. The big guy has a joyous reunion with his lady friend who seems to run the place, and in time we have a great endless softball game, Marin County Rules, with a goat playing third, some stoners in center, a few naked girls in left, a sheepdog the designated runner for both sides, and of course, under local rules, both sides win. After a farm grown dinner there’s a bonfire, instruments come out, the big guy grabs a guitar, someone hands me a tambourine. Even a sax materializes. Music envelops the hills and we’re singing about Love Lights and Letting It Shine and maybe

some songs that haven’t been written. A perfect day on the road, a perfect night. Another sunrise and I’m poked awake in the morning dew-covered Korean bivouac by the big guy’s friend. She hands me a glass of breakfast fresh from a goat’s udder and informs me that my friends left in the middle of the night, had to get back to The City. She’ll give me a lift down the mountain to the paved road. I’m not great at reading people’s thoughts so early in the morning, but I suspect she was so non-conversant driving me down because she didn’t appreciate that the first head that popped out of the sleeping bag when she woke me was her California-bred and commune-raised sixteen-year-old daughter. I go in peace.

And the first car that comes chugging along is a strange, alien-looking little thing called a Toyota. A young Raggedy Ann of a girl pulls over and asks if I could drive. When I agree, she gets out and lets me squeeze into the cockpit. As I get rolling she reaches into the back and produces an infant who’s lying hidden across the seat. She explains that she needs me to drive because it’s feeding time and her breasts are bursting, and while fueling the baby she tells her story, punctuated by her San Francisco destination because her nineteen-yearold big sister has promised her a well-paying job in a massage parlor. I decide any advice I might give will be worth a lot less than the proverbial two cents and hop out at the first exit over the bridge.

The next few days transpire in the Marin fog I carried south. I get a very part-time job unloading a truck for a little Jewish Deli owner originally from Boston who pays me in salami and jack cheese and sourdough rolls and oranges, sustenance for a week. A day later around noontime I’m wandering the Haight, oranges hidden in my roll, when a mass migration of freaks, hippies, long-hairs, friends of the devil and the less reputable of my tribe begin moving towards Golden Gate Park. Like a modern day flash mob. Something is happening, so I enlist in this little army and find a shady park bench to watch. A shirtless kid plops down next to me looking to cadge spare change, and we recognize each other as associates of the recent commune expedition. I ask him what’s going on and he tells me my pal’s band is giving a free afternoon concert in the park. I don’t comprehend. He says, “Your pal Jerry. From last week.”

Throughout my life I’ve been challenged at recognizing people met “out of context.” The person seen in suit and tie behind a desk every day becomes a ghost when seen in jeans and t-shirt in the supermarket. The uniformed ballplayer on television becomes invisible on the street. I was once picked up on the One-Oh-One in Hollywood by a guy who after hearing my accent just wanted to talk about Kerouac and I didn’t realize it was Charles Bukowski until I was getting out.

I push through the ten-thousand strong Golden Gate horde to the stage to see this Jerry. The band is still setting up but there was the big guy. And there was Lesh. And Weir. And the Pigpen. We make eye contact and he nods a familiar grin, a bandage still over his eye, but he’s a bit busy. I feel humbled as I melt back into the swarm.

Primary Day looms. I make my way to Chinatown to do my share of official campaigning, consisting of donning my entire collection of found Bobby buttons and making as much noise as possible as the motorcade passes. The crowd is massive, dwarfing the free concert in the park. Bobby is standing with his wife in the back of a convertible. Every window of every apartment is filled with screaming faces. Kids are setting off Chinese firecrackers ahead of the parade adding to the din, occasionally causing Ethel to drop and cover. People who can’t speak English are climbing over each other to touch his hand on the way by and

Bobby is trying to touch them all back. This is Scarlet Begonias and Sugar Magnolias for real. There’s no way we can lose.

Election evening, and the word on the street is that Bobby’s winning big. Down near where the cable cars turn around I hit a favorite wide window ledge I can climb to, too high for the winos to vex, and settle in for a desolate night with my oranges and a stale roll and my blizzard-proof bag, happy and gratified over our victory. I’m above the street and slightly hidden from sidewalk traffic, but the Tenderloin is unusually quiet in the witching hours. The next morning I appropriate an early Chronicle off a stoop, printed before any late news but declaring Kennedy a winner. No way is Tricky Dick going to stop our momentum.

I see a friend in the street and ask how it’s going. He says, “Robert won, so they shot him.” Fifty plus years later, and I still hear those words clearly. “Robert won, so they shot him.” In a typical city involved in a typical daydream. It was only a week prior that I was merrily joining the tribe singing about what a long strange trip it’s been. Now I’m the Do Dah man.

That afternoon I dig into my bedroll, find my tattered old Phillips 66 road map, and figure out the best hitchhiking route to Chicago. There’s a convention scheduled, and they need help. And I’m free.