A Plunge into the System – Part 2

November 22, 2013 in Happenings, Thoughts, Uncategorized

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Danny, Jimmy, and Casey have driven down to San Diego to persuade their buddy, Greg to join their band. They’ve payed a visit to two female friends and the six of them have gone down to Black’s Beach at night  for a swim. Now the cops have shone up, shining their flashlights as Greg, Danny and an older man are stuck out in the water. Greg tells Danny that whatever happens, he’s going to join the band…

 

Short Fuse

 As soon as I saw Paul’s nude and slightly flabby body silhouetted in the flashlight’s glow, I knew it was a mistake. After what appeared to be a brief conversation, the lights suddenly swung in our direction, dancing over the charcoal water until they found their mark. We were in the spotlight. The jig was up.

“Get out and approach slowly.” A stern voice commanded.

Any definition of vulnerability should include having to stand stark naked before a policeman with one’s hands on head. A tall officer stood waiting for us. His cap was low over his eyes. His partner remained in back with our friends. The cop shined his flash light point blank into my eyes. “What’s your name?”

I told him.flashlight(2)

“Let me see some I.D.”

Suddenly Emily piped in. “Obviously, he’s not carrying any I.D at the moment.”

“Stay out of it!” the cop snarled.

Shut up Emily! I wanted to say. I’d learned from experience with cops that it’s best to melt into a state of obedience, to become egoless, and speak only when spoken to.  Above all, never, ever use sarcasm. One did not want to get on a cop’s bad side. I got the feeling that Emily and Betsy had already succeeded in doing so. This cop obviously had a short fuse. He was biting his lip.

“Go get your clothes on.” he said with disgust.

“People have been swimming nude at this beach for decades.” Betsy felt compelled to point out.

“If I want your opinion  I’ll ask for it?” Short Fuse said.

He stood over us we got dressed. I quickly pulled up my jeans, and struggled to put socks and boots over my wet, sandy feet. After being frisked, we showed our I.D.s. I could feel sand rubbing against my toes, and in my crotch.

Short Fuse grabbed and jerked me around by my right arm, and clamped a handcuff to my wrist.

“You’re under arrest.”

“Are you doing this for show, or is this just part of your routine?” Betsy asked.

I felt the cuffs tighten, digging in to the skin.

“Why are you arresting them?” Emily asked.

“You’re charged with ‘Indecent Exposure’, and ‘Lewd and Dissolute Conduct’.

I detected a smirk.

“Two felony counts.”

After all three of us were handcuffed, we were led down the beach.

Our friends shouted to us. “Don’t worry, we’ll get you out!” “Keep the faith!” “You’ll see us soon!” The voices grew fainter until they faded out completely.

A quarter mile down we made a left, and began ascending the bluff  by a different pathway, one that was paved , and wider. The black and white sat a hundred yards up the road. We were packed into the back seat. The car took off, climbing up and away from the beach area, and accelerating as it hit the surface streets. I vainly attempted to find a comfortable position, feeling numb as I watched the street lights flip by. It all seemed surreal.

Upon arrival at the police substation we were marched into a small room, and told to sit on a bench as an officer with sleepy lidded eyes began quietly filling out the paper work . A german shepherd  lay curled at his feet.  I had the urge to pet the dog. The cop was just doing his job, and I felt no animosity toward the man. The half  hour or so of quiet time gave me a chance to take a deep breath, compose myself, and summon an ounce of strength.

All the while, in an adjoining room, Short Fuse frantically turned pages in some kind of code book.  He slapped the book against his thigh and called to his partner, “Damnit, Mike! We could have arrested the girls. Accessories to a felony! Shit!”

Sleepy Lids drove us to the county jail, with Rin-tin-tin riding shotgun. As the San Diego skyline drew near, I thought about Emily and Betsy. They were blissfully unaware that they’d dodged the bullet. Guys are a little more prepared for the possibility of something like this happening to them. I was happy that they’d lucked out.

We’re ‘Fish’

Sleepy Lids escorted us into the San Diego County Jail, to be booked and processed. After our pockets were emptied, and the contents placed in little cardboard boxes, we were told to ‘Follow the yellow line.’

Being fingerprinted was the first step. The officer behind the desk said, “Just relax and let me do the work.”

I pretended I was getting my first manicure.thumbprint (2)

The yellow line led us further on to a bench outside the mug shot room. To my right sat two guys about my age with dirty overgrown hair – rebels without causes. I picked up bits of their story. It included a stash of  drugs, and a car chase.

“I shouldn’t ‘a tried to ditch ’em.” One of them said. “I freaked out.” he admitted with a shaky laugh.

His buddy nodded.

No, you shouldn’t have. I thought to myself, Bad choice.

He continued,  “I got a feelin’ we’re gonna be in here for a long,  long time. Huh, huh, huh.”

I’d heard laughs like this before. It was the laugh of a loser.

The mug shot moment was an odd experience. How does one pose for such a photo? Having my picture taken had always been about presenting a happy image, about looking good, and my vanity always kicked in before a snap shot. At this moment  I was feeling sad, humiliated, and without the slightest desire to say ‘cheese’.  I just stared open eyed into the lens, not caring to put on a mask, but trying to muster a little human dignity as the camera clicked.

We moved further down the yellow line to a room where we exchanged our street clothes for orange jumpsuits. There was a toilet and a small urinal against a wall. I had to pee, and realized that this might be a last chance to relieve myself. To avoid leaving a mess, I chose to use the urinal. Afterwards, upon zipping up and turning around, I found myself staring into the eyes of one the guards, his face six inches from mine.

“You just pissed in the sink, dummy!” He said incredulously.

A chubby, round faced guard burst into laughter as he swung open the far door.

“Where to now?” Greg asked.

“You’re going to the fish tank.” he said with a chuckle…. “You’re fish!”

So here we found ourselves – in the fish tank.

The first thing I noticed was the odor – that distinct jail smell –  a mixture of sweat, breath, excrement, cigarette smoke, and bad food, with a strong dash of Lysol for the upper tones. It is an odor that permeates everything over the decades. It smelled of confinement. It was nauseating.

We were in a large cell which was divided in half  lengthwise. The back portion was split further into several sub cells which served as the sleeping area. The toilets sat in these sub cells. These “bedroom quarters” were already full and locked down when we  arrived, so we were each given a mattress  and a blanket,  and told to bed down in the large communal section in the front. Then came the ‘Lights out!’ call.

Going over the events of the last two days had exhausted me. Was it really only last night that we’d laughed at Joe Pyne? I grew drowsy.  An image of Sleep Lids, and his napping dog came into my head and I was soon asleep.

Born Free?!

 At what must have been 6:00 a.m. I was awakened by music. An orchestra hit a chord on the downbeat… bom, followed by a choir answering with… “Born free”,  then another chord … bom and answer…”Born free”.

Born free, as free as the wind blows

As free as the grass grows

Born free to follow your heart…

 I couldn’t believe it. We, who had just spent the night in a cage, were being awakened by the song, ‘Born Free‘.  Was it just a coincidence, or did someone have a keen sense of irony? Or were the gods mocking us?

 I heard keys ringing, irons doors sliding, and feet shuffling. Someone called out in a flat Midwestern drawl –

“Get up! Roll up your mattresses and bedding and stack them near the front on the left”.

I rose, complied with the order, and turned to see the speaker. He was sitting on a cot in the far right inner cell. The puke green bars cast shadows that ran down his face, and over his blue uniform.  He had broad features with straight black hair, and dark, sad eyes that didn’t seem to focus on anything in particular. He looked like he might be part Indian. Cherokee, I thought. Who is this guy? I wondered. Someone next to me seemed to have read my mind, and said in low muffled tone,” He’s a trustee.”

I looked over at Greg.

Well , here’s another fine mess you’ve gotten us in!” he said.

I laughed, and answered his Oliver Hardy with a Fats Waller line…

One never knows, do one?”

learymercury_front

Timothy Leary Poster

The two of us were close. I flashed back to an incident in January, when the son of an old family friend, a guy I’d known since kindergarten, was visiting. When we were alone, he revealed to me that he was a disciple of Timothy Leary, and persuaded me to drop L.S.D. right there in the family home. As the acid began to kick in, I did not experience the calm oneness with ‘the way’  I’d  been promised. Rather, I became aware of a latent existential rage which threatened to boil to the surface. Close to a real freak out,  I called Greg, who dropped whatever he was doing, and rushed over. He got me out of my folks’ house and over to my older brother Johnny’s place. His calming presence helped me to ride out the rest of the trip. Greg had my back. I was lucky to have a such a good friend with me in this place.

We greeted Paul good morning and the three of us hunched down to chat for a few minutes. Paul’s speaking voice was bright and nasal. To my uninitiated ear the dialect sounded Northern England, perhaps Liverpool or Manchester. Back home he’d been a school master, teaching English literature, and had an upcoming interview for a position at a private school in Glendale.  He seemed to be intrigued by the band thing, and told us that he, too, was a musician… a church organist.

Uncannily, “A Whiter Shade of Blue” started playing on the intercom. The B3 organ part seemed to soar majestically over the cell.

“This is an interesting pop record.” Paul said. ” The organ line is quite similar to several Bach pieces I’ve played.”.

He raised his right hand and fingered the air as if he were playing. The Procal Harum tune was the first decent music I’d heard. Alas, it was to be the rare exception. The previous song had been a Nancy Sinatra record, and the next one up was the Royal Guardsmen’s Snoopy vs. the Red Barron.  After that I tuned out the sound.

 

Smell the Coffee

 “Get ready to line up at the bars to receive breakfast!”

Carts pushed by trustees came around loaded with greasy scrambled eggs, watery cream of wheat, and powdered milk. I suddenly realized how famished I was. When had I last eaten? I eagerly got a tray and requested all of the above, as did Greg, and Paul. Next came a cart with a huge vat of hot coffee. I loved coffee. My mouth watered and my head rushed as I anticipated the dark brew.

“I’ll have some of that coffee.” I said to the guy.

“Where’s your cup?” he asked.

“My cup? I don’t have a cup!”

The stocky Latino looked at me like I was the biggest dumb fuck he’d ever met.

“No cup, no coffee.”

“Well, can’t you give me a cup?”

“What’ve you got?

“I don’t have anything.”

“Sorry.” he said.

I wondered –  How do you get to first? If you can’t bring in any possessions, then how do you acquire anything with which to barter? It must start with a favor. I didn’t want to contemplate the nature of what a first favor might look like.

We gobbled down breakfast and settled in for the day.

Two older men, one thin and gray-haired, the other overweight and balding, were sitting at one of the tables in front, playing checkers. They were discussing their experiences in different county jails. Suddenly a six foot- three, geeky looking guy with glasses, dark kinky hair, and a wild look in his eye approached and insinuated himself into their conversation. Leaning his torso forward,  and stretching his neck, he got in their faces, saying,

“I’ve seen the inside of a lot of jails, and this is nothing. It’s a luxury hotel compared to some I been in.” he thumbed his chest.

The two men just looked at each other.

His proclaiming it as if it were a badge of honor struck me as really bizarre. This stork man looked more like a mad scientist than a criminal, but apparently wanted to be seen as a bad ass. I made a mental note that he was volatile and unpredictable, someone to avoid.jail bars(2)

Cherokee gave everyone a rag, and instructed us to start polishing the bars. I worked on my little section with vigor, glad to be busy, but with the knowledge that no matter how diligently I rubbed, the bars would always retain their sick green hue.

 

Number One

I began to take notice of a certain energy coming from the cell on the far left. The center of this buzz was another blue trustee. Handsome, probably in his early thirties with a dark, well groomed pompadour, the man was instructing two younger trustees.

Unlike Cherokee, who kept to himself, this guy was constantly engaged in muted conversation with various people, both prisoner and guard. He appeared to be number one trustee.

A little later a guard walked quickly by, making eye contact with Number One, and extending all five fingers on his right hand.

“Inspection in five!”

At this, the trustee and his two aids jumped into action. Out from under the cot came dozens of items: candy bars, gum, peanuts, crackers, plugs of chewing tobacco, packs of cigarettes, cards, cups, dirty pictures, and a bit of cash. They spread out a white towel and wrapped the contraband inside. A minute later, a trustee came lazily by,  pushing a laundry cart filled with towels. Number One and his men reached through the bars, placed the wrapped items under several layers of towels, and off rolled the cart. This all happened in less than two minutes.

As if on cue, a few minutes later, a team of guards unlocked the doors and came in to inspect. They entered Number One’s cell and looked under the cot. “Clean here!”

No sooner had the team left, when the laundry cart reappeared. The goods were removed and tucked back under Number One’s cot.

I turned to Greg and Paul, “I bet they do this dance every single day.”

Greg laughed, “Yea, it’s insane!”

“So precisely played.” Paul added.

Wiggling his index finger in the air, Greg paused in contemplation. “This guy seems to know everything that goes on here. I wonder if he could find out something about our situation.”

“It’s certainly worth inquiring.” Paul replied.

Greg was comfortable engaging strangers in conversation. I trusted his instincts, and followed him into Number One’s cell. Paul stayed outside.

One of the aids looked at us, not sure if it was cool for us to be there. He turned to Number One, who gave him a nod, and we approached. From his cot, the trustee looked up at us with light green eyes and said simply,

“Yea?”

My ear picked up an urban accent. Philadelphia? His speech was soft but intense.

Greg spoke up, “Uh, we were wondering if you might know something about our case, like when we’re going to be arraigned.”

“So what are you charged with?”

“Indecent exposure and lewd and dissolute conduct.”

“What did you do, unzip and pull your dongs out at the mall?”

“No, we were caught skinny dipping at Black’s Beach.”

He laughed, “Man, somebody rubbed somebody the wrong way. You mouth off?”

I piped in, “No, but I think maybe the girls we were with made the officers feel inferior.

“Pussy, my friend, will do you in every time. You poor bastards! Write down your names, and I’ll see what I can find out.”

His body language told us our time was up. We thanked him, and stepped out of the cell.   zig_zag

 

Mates

Three empty stools at the front were suddenly unoccupied, so the three of us sat down to claim them. Paul, sitting in the middle, started drumming his fingers on the table.

“I’m climbing the walls for a bloody fag.” He abruptly said.

Greg and I made eye contact. I knew at that instant that he, too, thought Paul might be gay. It wasn’t that we misunderstood the British slang for cigarette; it was the mere act of looking at each other at the sound of the word. I’d never really had a friendship with someone homosexual;  at least that I was aware of at the time. I suddenly felt shame for any past lack of sensitivity. I liked Paul. The man was a stand- up kind of guy.  I don’t care what anybody thinks,  I silently declared.  We’re mates! I vowed never again to laugh at a ‘fag  joke’.

“You want a smoke?” Greg asked.

“Yes, I need me pack-a-day.”

Tobacco, like coffee, was provided, but cigarette papers were not. Thus papers, like coffee cups were a form of currency. It was crazy! It encouraged a jailbird black market system.

Paul picked up a hardback book that had sat neglected on the table, and began thumbing through the pages. It was the only book in the place.

“What is it?” I asked.

It’s a novel by Daphne du Maurier.”

I wasn’t familiar with the author. “What’s the writing like?”

“Oh, quite suspenseful, in a Gothic kind of way.  Stories about tragic love affairs that take place in dark mansions on stormy nights, with crazy wives hidden in the attic.” He laughed.

It sounded a bit claustrophobic for my current state of mind, but I was intrigued by the title, “Jamaica Inn”. It hinted at adventure  (Perhaps smugglers outwitting Red Coats?)  and, oh, how I wanted to be carried away. I began reading. I’d gotten to page twelve when Greg nudged me.

Number One was waving us into his cell.

“I’ve got good news for you gentlemen. You’ll be on a bus to your arraignment within the hour.”

We both thanked him. Greg hesitated, but then asked, “Do you think you could spare a few Zig Zags for our friend over there?”

“The Limey?”

“Yea.”

He pulled out a partially used pack. “Here” he said, “Keep it.”

Then Greg surprised me by saying, in that easy, ingratiating manner of his, “You really seem to make the best of your situation here.”

Number One responded, “I’ve been in and out since I was seventeen. Most everything I know, I learned in the joint. I smoked my first pot, and tried my first smack behind bars. Yea, I know my way around.”

Nodding uncomfortably, and rocking on our feet we muttered, “Oh, really?” … “Wow!”

Again we thanked him, and left.

Number One had done us a favor. Perhaps he’d felt sorry for us, acting out of compassion. More likely, he did it out of self interest. Extending a favor to a fresh fish was like money in the bank. We would owe him, and he could always call on the favor to be returned. Multiply that by twenty of thirty, and it’s a lot of favors. He had nothing to lose, and something to gain.

Paul was grateful at getting the Zig Zags. He pinched out some tobacco from the communal can and began rolling a fag, as he would say. With his wire rimmed glasses, and cigarette hanging from the corner of his mouth he looked like John Lennon in How I Won the War. It was an image that made me feel good. Paul’s unrattled maturity was reassuring.  I resumed reading the novel.

I’d read another dozen or so pages of the book, when I heard our names being called. We rolled out of the cell just as the food carts were rolling in, so we would miss lunch. I didn’t care. It was a sweet sensation to be leaving the cage, even if just temporarily,  and I followed the yellow pathway feeling as perky as Dorothy setting off for the Land of Oz.

The story continues on Part 3…

http://www.dannyfaragher.com/plunge-system-part-3/

 

 

 

 

 

 

Graphic Design by: Bryan Faragher

A Plunge into the System – Part 1

November 13, 2013 in Happenings, Thoughts, Uncategorized

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It’s the fall of 1967. The ‘Summer of Love’ has come and gone.  Jimmy, Casey and Danny of the Peppermint Trolley Co. set out to recruit a new guitarist. A carefree act of celebration plops Danny and a buddy into hot water.  Strong bonds of friendship and a sense of humor helps to get the boys through the ordeal. 

Another Fine Mess

The mattress was thin. I could feel the cold cement floor beneath. I’d unrolled it a few minutes before, just prior to the lights going out. Now, in the dark I could hear the low muffled breathing and shuffling of forty other men – men I would be spending the night with behind bars. It was quiet, but it was not the silence of serenity, for everyone’s brain was probably humming like a high tension wire.  No, we were mum because one of the guard’s had yelled  “Lights out! And I don’t want to hear a fucking sound!”

I told myself, Hey, this is just an adventure into the unknown. Disassociate yourself from what’s happening, and you’ll be fine. You might even learn something. I tried looping a comforting melody in my mind.  It was no use.  I kept hearing the metal door being slid shut behind me, and the keys jangling as they turned the lock. I felt like a caged puppy. I longed to be in my girlfriend’s arms, and to feel her hand gently stroking my head.  As I lay there in agitation, my mind flew back over the chain of events of the last thirty hours. It had begun one hundred twenty-five miles north in Los Angeles.

 

In front of Buster. Redlands boys L.A. bound

In front of Buster. Redlands boys L.A. bound

Fade to Black

Jimmy, Casey and I sat watching the little rabbit-eared black and white television. Joe Pyne, a locally syndicated talk show host had brought one of San Francisco’s Diggers on his program as a guest. Angry, narrow minded, and right wing, Pyne was years ahead of his time. As usual, the host was acting the boorish bully, hurling epithets at his guest as the peanut gallery laughed and applauded each familiar insult. “Why don’t you take a bath, dirt head?!” Pyne asked. “Ah go gargle with razor blades!”

“How much would you pay to watch Joe Pyne and Al Capp run a three legged race together?” Jimmy deadpanned.

Capp, the cartoonist, once a liberal, had made a hard right turn, and was now a rabid conservative. He, like Pyne wore a wooden leg.

Casey and I cracked up. It was one of those off color, slightly shocking jokes my brother liked to throw out. One could not help but laugh, but always with a twinge of guilt at being complicit in its inappropriateness. Jimmy’s dark and caustic sense of humor was in sharp contrast to the idealism, and romanticism of his song lyrics.

We were a band. Jimmy played bass and sang lead, I handled keyboards, harmony and second lead, while Casey played drums. My brother and I had been in bands together for four years, and the three of us had been a unit for about eight months. Just recently, we’d added our buddy, Patrick, on guitar. We may have been green, but we possessed what few young groups ever acquired –  We had us a record deal.

We’d moved from sleepy Redlands, California, just a few short weeks before to try our luck in the big city. The Silver Lake rental house we lived in may have been a rat infested dump, but it was our rat infested dump, and we were excited about our new direction. Life, though, always seems to throw you a curve when you least expect it. Pat had come bearing bad news. Our spirits sank with the late afternoon sun, as he informed us that his girlfriend was pregnant, and that he was leaving the band to get married.

After he left, the three of us had sat there in the retreating light, feeling numb. Many minutes passed before one of us flipped on the lights to break the gloomy spell. We began to brainstorm, going through a list of possible replacements. No one available from back home was up to the standard required, and none of the musician’s we’d  met in the Hollywood recording scene seemed to fit. I dreaded the thought of auditioning strangers. Feeling exhausted, and needing diversion, we’d turned on the idiot box.

Without saying a word, Casey suddenly got up and turned off the TV. Joe Pyne’s angry face disappeared into a tiny white dot which soon faded to black.  Knowing he had our attention, he wiggled an index finger vertically and declared “I have the solution. We’ll recruit Greg.”

Greg was our dear friend from Redlands. He and Casey had played together in a Stones cover band in high school. A folkie, he was great at finger picking, and could sing harmony. Yes, I told myself. Greg just might work out. True, he hadn’t played much lead guitar, but, hell, he could pick it up. The problem was –  he’d just started the semester at San Diego State. He was living in the dorms for which his dad had probably had to shell out for.

Jimmy was quick to respond. “Hey, man, Greg’s in school. Why would he want to chuck everything and join us.!”

1968 Party at Benton Way

House warming party for the Silver Lake band house. August, ’67
Jimmy mugging in front. Patrick standing 2nd from right. Greg, 4th from right. Emily in straw hat.

“Hold on!” Casey replied with a calming downward motion of the palms. “I think we have an excellent shot, especially in light of what’s happened in his love life recently. You know Greg.  He’s capable of making sudden sharp turns.”

He was referring to the fact that Emily, the love of Greg’s life, had thrown him over for another guy just the week before. The word was he was heartbroken. After all… Emily, who was a student at UCSD in La Jolla, had been the reason Greg moved to San Diego. Casey was always analyzing, always strategizing, and always several steps ahead.

“Well, I guess it’s worth a try.” Jimmy said.  “Okay, let’s give him a call.”

“Absolutely not!” Casey shot back. “We’ve got to drive down there tomorrow and talk to him in person”

“I agree.” I added. “On the phone he could just say no, or tell us he’ll think about it, which would amount to the same thing.”

“That’s right! We need to do some friendly persuading. We’ve got to sell him on the idea.” Casey said.

Jimmy laughed – “Yea, anyone thinking clearly would have to say no.”

We all agreed on the plan.

 

A Breeze Down the Coast

In the morning I awoke to the delicious aroma of pancakes. I threw on some clothes and ran down the stairs. Stepping into the kitchen, I saw Casey pouring batter, and flipping cakes on the electric griddle.  Jimmy was brewing  a pot of cowboy coffee.

“Eat ‘em while they’re hot and hardy, boys, we’re taking a little drive” Casey declared.

The three of us descended the steep stairs, which were so typical of the Silver Lake neighborhood in which we lived, and jumped into Casey’s silver ’66 Chevy van, which we called ‘Buster’. Giving names to inanimate objects, be it a car or a coffeepot, served as a reminder  that life should be an adventure. Jimmy had called shotgun, so I sat on the engine cover between the two bucket seats. It was always a butt warming experience, but as it was late October, and the air was cool, it would be just fine. At the bottom of the hill we made a left on Sunset Boulevard, skirted around downtown and caught Interstate 5. Within minutes we were slicing southeast through Orange County, ground zero of the country’s conservative movement. We’d started with a full tank of gas, so there would be no need to leave the safety  and anonymity of the freeway, and risk our being hassled by overzealous cops.

“We should have an old ‘Reagan for Governor’ sticker we could put on and take off.” I said.

Suddenly, Jimmy cranked down the window, extended his right arm toward the windshield, and turning his face to the right with raised chin, began yelling… “Heil Reagan!”… “Heil Reagan!”

Casey and I joined in with gusto. “Heil Reagan!”… “Heil Reagan!”

South of Dana Point the highway drew closer to the ocean, hugging the coastline. I looked to the right. Beyond marshy wetlands, the blue Pacific came into view.  A brown pelican was scanning the sea. The sight took my breath away.

“There she is… Ah… Mother Ocean.” I said with a sigh.

“Yes, and Father Sky!” Jimmy joined in with a quasi reverent tone.

“Oh. Brother Mountain, Where art thou?” – Casey chanted.

“Shut up!” I shouted with a laugh.

Jimmy reached into his pocket, pulled out a joint, and lit up. He took a hit, and passed it to me. I partook and passed it on to Casey.

Releasing my breath, I said – “I hope Greg will be open to it.”

Jimmy and Casey both nodded in agreement.

It was unspoken, but I knew all three of us felt a bit manipulative. After all, we were carrying out an ambush, albeit a friendly one. Using the element of surprise and a spirit of camaraderie we intended to get him on our bandwagon.  A cynical observer might  look at the situation and say to Greg “They just want to get you down in the same hole that they’re in.” to quote Bob Dylan. Indeed, Greg would surely lose his student deferment from the draft like the three of us had. But look at the opportunity we were offering. It was chance to make records, to be creative, to live the life of an artist, outside the system. Hey, the four of us were all on the same wavelength!  We knew it, and soon he would, too.

Casey took a drag and turned his head our way. His face was framed by wiry black hair, and sunlight danced in his light blue eyes. “I just hope he doesn’t fall in love with someone else. Have you ever known Greg not to have a girlfriend?”

We pondered for a few moments until Jimmy broke the silence,

“Hey! Don’t Bogart that joint!”

“Whadya mean…‘Don’t Bogart that joint’?” Casey asked.

“Well, what do you mean…’Whadya mean… Don’t Bogart that joint!’?”

“Well, what do you mean…’Whadya mean, Whadya mean…Don’t Bogart that joint!’?”

They carried this out several more times, getting broader with each extended line. It was definitely pot humor, but I couldn’t stop laughing.

Jimmy and Casey

Jimmy and Casey

 

Selling the Idea

 We pulled into the Cal State San Diego campus, around 2:00 p.m , and soon located  his dorm room. We knocked on the door. No answer. A student in the hall said he thought Greg was in class, and would probably be back soon. We walked around, killing time until shortly after 3:00, when we spotted a dark haired figure coming down the walkway. It was Greg!  We hid behind some shrubs, and just before he reached the steps, Casey, donning crazy google-eyed glasses, popped out from behind, and tapped him on the shoulder.

“Pardon me, but could you kindly direct me to the R.O.T.C. headquarters?”

Greg turned. Caught by surprise, he shouted “Casey?!  Casey! What the hell are you doing here?”

I approached from the other side. “Have you heard the good news about the kingdom Christ has in store for you?”  I asked with the creepiest smile I could muster.

His brown eyes got bigger. “Danny!”

Jimmy appeared from behind a tree, showing an open wallet.  “F.B.I.! We’d like to have a few words with you, if we might.”

“Oh my God! Jimmy? You guys. I can’t believe you’re here.”

After he’d calmed down, we began to talk seriously. We gave him our spiel. Patrick had left the band. We needed someone to fill the slot, and he was the perfect fit. We were scheduled to begin recording in about ten days. The record company was excited and totally behind us. We had a great producer. We’d met  a community of creative people – singers, songwriters and musicians. It was an opportunity to make music and be free. The only caveat was that we needed to know right away.

Danny

Danny

“Take all the time you need.” I said. “Take  five minutes!”

Everyone laughed.

His mind in high gear, Greg suggested that we go for a drive, get away from the campus, and let the information sink in.

“I was planning on going over to Emily’s in La Jolla to hang out. Why don’t we go there?”

“Emily’s?” I said. I thought you two were…”

“Split up? Yea, we are,  but we’re still close. She’s the only real friend I have here. Man, you don’t know how lonely it gets in that dorm room.”

I realized I’d been harboring a slight resentment toward Emily. My instinct was to circle the wagons around a buddy. The split, however, seemed to be mutually accepted. If Greg was cool with it, then I’d sure better be.

We all hopped into Buster. Greg, receiving the V.I.P. treatment, rode shotgun. I retained my spot on the engine, while Jimmy lay down in the back.  We were off  to La Jolla.

Emily lived on the UC San Diego campus, sharing a dorm room with Betsy, another high school friend from Redlands.  Some curious co-eds eyeballed the four of us as we walked down the dormitory hall. We crowded into the room, feeling slightly awkward at bringing our male scruffiness into the clean and tidy feminine space. We greeted and hugged the girls.

Emily sat in front of her desk. With her short strawberry blond curls, blue eyes, and porcelain skin, she was as pretty as an old fashioned doll, but she could hold her intellectual ground with anyone. Betsy was kicking back on the bed. Her honey colored hair was cut in bangs that nearly reached her big brown eyes. She had a wicked sense of humor, and those eyes lit up as she joked about a horny professor.

“He’s definitely a ‘hands on’ kind of teacher.” She said, using air quotes. “He really ‘reaches out’ to his students, especially those wearing  skirts.”

We cracked up.

After some chit chat, Emily turned to Greg and asked, “Are you up for going for a swim at Black’s Beach?”

She explained that it was a great beach. The location also happened to be a notorious nude bathing spot. One had to descend a high bluff to access it, so it tended to be more private than most.  It was nearby, and lots of students went there to skinny dip, especially after dark.  It was a thrill just walking down the trail to get to it.

Greg turned to us and said,  “You guys want a little adventure?”

“Sure!” we said. “You only live twice.” Casey added.

 

Black’s Beach

 We followed the girls’ VW Bug the short distance to the sea,  and parked on a bluff.  Standing near the edge, I could see the waves rippling frothy white to the shore, and  hear the water hissing as it retreated  back to the sea.

Emily called out, “The trail ‘s over here. Watch your step!”

By now it was dark. It was a moonless night and the pathway was steep. I imagined that we were Eighteenth Century smugglers trying to evade and outwit the Red Coats. The trail twisted and turned, inevitably winding its way down to the beach.

I saw the figure of a man running into the surf.

 Who was game?

 The girls passed on taking a dip. I think they were put off by the fact that we were not alone. Casey, who, surprisingly, had a strong streak of modesty in him, declined, as well. Jimmy, who was always fighting a cough or cold,  thought it best to take a rain check. That left just two of us.

Greg turned to me, “I’m going in!” he said.

“So am I!” I replied. I was genuinely eager, but I also thought that the act might serve as a symbolic ritual to seal the deal.

In the dark, Greg and I shed our clothes, stashed them behind the railroad ties at the foot of  the bluff, and made a dash for the surf. The water was cold, and my breath quickened at the shock, but to my naked twenty-year-old body it felt all the more invigorating. There was always something restorative about jumping into the Pacific, something that brought clarity of thought, and moments of epiphany. The dark, moonless sky delivered an extra thrill to the game. I dug my toes into the sandy bottom. God, I felt free!

We dived beneath a wave, emerging to a surface that foamed, and shimmered in the starlight. We found ourselves next to the man we’d seen running into the water. He was extending his arms for balance, and keeping his head above the waves. Older, perhaps thirty-five, he was wearing wire rimmed glasses, and a cigarette dangled at the far corner of his mouth.  His few words of greeting told us he was British. His name was Paul. We made small talk as we caught our breaths.

Black's Beach

Black’s Beach

Suddenly, we saw two flashlights making their way along the beach to the right. We gasped. Oh God! It was the cops, and they were approaching our friends. The three of us got low in the water. Perhaps they’d ask a few questions and move on.

The minutes went by. Had they found our clothes? I began to shiver. I hugged myself  to get warm. Greg and I looked at each other. More time passed. Had they seen us? At one point the flashlights turned seaward, making a sweep over the waves. We ducked lower into the water. What the hell was happening? Had they found Jimmy’s stash? Were our friends being arrested? My instinct was to stay put, to wait it out, but my teeth were beginning to chatter. I turned to Greg.  In his eyes I could see the same deep fear that I was feeling. His lips were turning blue. All three of us were freezing. We were trapped, naked in the water with our backs to the sea, and nowhere to run.

Paul suggested that he go speak with them, adult to adult. Perhaps it would smooth the way for us to get out, and possibly get off with just a reprimand. Not knowing what else to do, and thinking that the cops had spotted us, and were just biding their time, Greg and I gave our nod to the idea.  Paul began wading to the shore.

Greg turned to me and whispered, “Danny, whatever happens, I’ve decided I’m coming with you guys. I’m going to join the band.”

The story continues on Part 2

http://www.dannyfaragher.com/a-plunge-into-the-system-part2/

 

 

 

 

 

 

Graphic Design by: Bryan Faragher