Sarah Of The Moon (2 page)

Alex quickly rose. He wanted out of there before his boss reconsidered.

“You don’t happen to smoke cigars by any chance do you?” Bestwick asked.

He shook his head no, wishing he had at least one stogie he could throw the editor’s way.

“Well go on then,” the editor said with a dismissive wave of his hand. “Get out of here, and Conley, do not screw this one up or I’ll have you back at the flower marts before you knew what hit you.”

TRAVELER

“I’m going to San Francisco.”

He made the announcement at the dinner table that evening. His father, who, until he retired the previous year, was a lifer in the Army, immediately stood up, approached his son’s chair, and proceeded to give him a suffocating bear hug.

“I knew you could do it boy. When did you enlist, this morning?”

His father was like that. He gave the Army the benefit of the doubt in every sentence.

“Dad, I didn’t enlist. The paper is sending me there to do some reporting on the hippie movement there.”

“Hippies! Hippies!” The bear hug now forgotten, his father could not get far enough away from him. “Why are you getting involved with hippies? No good dope smoking lazy communist bastards! They’re the ones that need to enlist, every single one of those long haired bums.”

Alex knew from experience that this rant would go on for a while. His mother, as she always did, ignored him unless he looked her way for agreement. Then usually a “yes dear” would suffice. He was a kind and decent man and a good father and husband. Nevertheless, his ways were set. He needed discipline and order.

Near the end of the Second World War, on the island of Iwo Jima, Corporal Tom Conley distinguished himself by fearlessly sacrificing his body to protect his fellow squad members. This reckless courage resulted in a field commission to captain.

When the war ended, Captain Conley, unlike many of his comrades, stayed on. He retired a colonel in 1965, with a silver star and a purple heart on his chest. Less than a year later, he tried to muster back in. Vietnam was cranking up and the old soldier wanted a piece of it. His wife Pamela, who he married in 1945 and had loved every minute since, discouraged him with a threat that, even whispered, had the power to put him back in his rocking chair.

Still, Alex’s father was a military man, and would be until his dying day. That is why the senior Conley, who was sometimes referred to as colonel by his wife, during moments of heated arguments or extreme passion, was reluctant to allow his son to travel to San Francisco. His hatred of hippies was a given, but he really disliked the free spirit philosophy as a whole. He was prone to make anti-hippie announcements, such as the following, at any time. “During the big war, those long haired peace loving freaks would have all been rounded up and put in interment camps.” News reports concerning the San Francisco scene would really get his goat.

“Now there they go, trying to ruin a perfectly good war.” Then he would turn his wrath on the television set. “Either enlist or go to Canada, but get out of my United States.” Following this outburst would be a litany of choice expletives before he uttered the word “cowards” and changed the channel to one of a more conservative nature.

There was much give and take in the next couple of days concerning Alex’s assignment but, in the end, the old man gave in and, with a reluctant shrug, handed him his traveling papers.

Alex was smart enough to know that he did not wear his father down. On the second day of negotiations, his mother became involved and things began to happen quickly. Mrs. Conley, who rarely raised her voice above normal pitch, tossed sentences at her husband that were as effective as the grenades lobbed at him on Iwo Jima.

Alex was always surprised that a few well-placed softly spoken threats, cleverly disguised as harmless rhetoric, could have such immediate impact. He vowed to one day ask his mother the source for her verbal magic, but for now, he was simply grateful that it worked. Nonetheless, as his father drove him to Friendship International Airport outside of Baltimore, many stern warnings on the evils of strange cultures were bestowed on the young passenger who, at eighteen years of age, was about to embark on the first great adventure of his lifetime.

TO THE WEST

On his right were two soldiers.
Two more sat across the aisle. In fact, close to one third of the plane’s occupants wore olive drab. Other young men, though in civilian clothes, gave themselves away as military by their close-cropped hair. The soldiers seemed to pair off and kept to themselves. Their civilian counterparts generally ignored them, although some seemed irritated by their presence.

By listening to their conversation, he was able to ascertain that this group was Vietnam bound. They, like him, would deplane in San Francisco. From there they would be bussed to Oakland, on the other side of the bay bridge, where they would be warehoused, then processed, in preparation for their journey to the Far East.

Alex knew it could just as easily be him making the trip. The army was drafting teenagers as quickly as they could type up the paperwork. Several of his friends had already received their draft notices. A few fortunate enough to have excellent grades, or accommodating parents, headed off to college and the subsequent deferment. Others had high numbers on the lottery-based draft and decided to cross their fingers and wait it out. Some ran straight to the first reserve branch they could find only to discover the waiting list was to retirement age.

He had not yet received a summons or a notification on his number status, though he assumed it was only a matter of time. He could not help but think that his father had probably contacted the local draft board by phone the minute he returned to his house after the airport run. He imagined the conversation in his head. “Damn it! He’s on his way to San Francisco this very minute. Those damn hippies will have flowers up his butt before he gets off the plane. Get that paperwork out now! And make sure it’s a low number, and I mean between one and ten.” That call would be repeated daily with the same or similar sentiments until that United States Government mailing was in the colonel’s hands.

Alex told his father not to call him when his assigned draft number arrived by mail. Knowing his place in the draft might influence his decision-making in the short term. He would put his trust in fate and wait it out.

Somewhere over the mid-west, he struck up a conversation with the soldier on his right. His name was Jim Parsons and he was on his way to Vietnam after a short five-day leave to say goodbye to his family and girlfriend. If he was nervous about going to war, he did not show it. Parsons tales of boot camp and infantry training carried them through at least two or three states. As they crossed into California, Jim Parsons showed Alex a picture of his girlfriend. He handled the photo gently, touching only the edges with his fingers.

She was an attractive dark haired girl with such a lovely smile that Alex felt the need to comment on her beauty. Jim Parsons, the young soldier soon to be in a war zone, stared at the picture in his hands. “I took the photo the day I got home for leave. The next day, I told her I had orders for Vietnam. After that, she never smiled again.”

He studied her picture as the plane crossed the Midwest.

“I miss that smile.”

It was the last thing that Private Parsons said to him. After he carefully put the photo back in his wallet, the soldier off to war closed his eyes and did not open them until they landed.

A STRANGE LAND

San Francisco International Airport
was a bustling stew of agitated people pushing, shoving, and running to get to their destination, though it seemed to Alex that many of them were not certain where that was. Since exiting the plane, he was following a group of soldiers who seemed to know their way around. After a harrowing several minutes of dodging irate executives and other travelers with bad dispositions, he arrived at the baggage claim area. Around him, his fellow passengers stared anxiously at the empty slowly turning luggage carousel. It was a noisy thing that sputtered, jerked, and even screeched as if begging for lubrication. Those gathered around him paid it no mind. The older travelers stared at the contraption as if willing their suitcases to appear magically, while the young soldiers talked and laughed among themselves, ignoring everyone around them.

When the luggage eventually arrived, there was much pushing and shoving as people grabbed at anything resembling their belongings. Amidst all this chaos, the soldiers calmly took their duffel bags as they appeared, each one knowing instinctively which bag was his. Alex saw Jim Parsons one last time as he found his duffel bag on the other side of the carousel. The army private was walking away when he turned and glanced back at him in the dwindling crowd. Private Parsons hoisted the bag across his shoulder then, with a smile, raised his hand and extended him the peace sign. Before he could respond, Parsons disappeared into the crowd. Alex noticed that all the soldiers on the plane were gone now, soon to Oakland, then to war.

“Good luck and Godspeed” he said loud enough to draw the stares of some older men in suits and ties who were still irritated over their tardy luggage.

With suitcase in hand, and away from the noisy carousel, he began to relax. He took his time walking through the airport madhouse in search of a pay phone. He was almost to what looked like the main entrance of the facility when he spotted a bank of phones near the slowly revolving glass door.

The only phone not in use had a large peace sign sticker covering the coin slot. Using a dime, he managed to punch out enough space to insert the coin. He pulled the folded paper containing a phone number out of his wallet and dialed the seven digits. The phone on the other end rang several times before someone answered.

“Yeah” a male voice said.

“Hello, I’d like to talk to Chick,” Alex responded. He heard the phone drop then faintly “Hey Chick, Paco’s on the line.”

Who is Paco? He wondered as he listened to what seemed to be many people talking and rather loud music playing. For some time, he waited on the phone thinking he had been forgotten and wondering how many minutes ten cents gave him. He stuck another dime through the peace sign just in case. The sound of the phone picking up was a great relief.

“Paco, hey man, sorry ’bout the Airplane tickets mix up. I could have sworn they were playing Winterland. Man, I heard you waited in the parking lot for over three hours. Again, sorry brother.”

Alex took a deep breath. “I’m not Paco. My name is Alex Conley. Your uncle Maxwell Bestwick told me to call you when I got to San Francisco.”

There was a long pause, then “You’re the guy who works for Uncle Max’s newspaper?”

“That’s me. Your uncle said that you might be able to help me out on some stories I’m doing on the summer of love.”

“The summer of love. You missed that by a year champ. Not to worry, I’ll help you out as best I can. Know the sites, know the people.” After a moment of silence, Chick said, “you’re not going to write anything bad about us, are you?”

“Oh no,” Alex quickly replied. “I just want to give an outsider’s point of view to what’s going on here.”

“That works for me. See you soon.”

“Wait!” Alex said loud enough to turn a few heads. “I need to know where to meet you.” Silence. “Chick?” More silence. “Chick?”

“I guess that would help, wouldn’t it?” Chick replied, and Alex jotted down the address.

The cab ride to the Haight Ashbury section of the city was interesting if uneventful. Though the buildings looked similar to his hometown, he could not help but notice the differences in the residential properties. In Baltimore, rows of brick homes lined the streets, many with marble steps to access the front door. It was a common sight to see those steps lined with their owners, on pleasant evenings, sitting and socializing with their neighbors.

Here, many of the homes were of the Victorian style with large front porches and comfortable chairs substituting for cold marble. Their differences in appearance maintained his interest for a time, but soon he became restless. They had been driving through the city for some time now and he had yet to spot a single flower child.

Things changed quickly, not long after that, as they passed by the Golden Gate Park. Hippies covered the grassy expanse. Most walked about mingling with others of their kind. Some lay out on blankets. Others played guitars to themselves or to groups of admirers. In just a few short minutes, the attire had changed from suits and ties to tie-dyed shirts, jeans, and sandals.

The middle-aged cab driver noted the development and began an obscenity laced rant about the deterioration of morals in today’s young people. Alex barely heard a word he said. A good portion of the older people in San Francisco obviously had no tolerance for hippies or soldiers. An irate cab driver would not dampen his excitement. His world had changed in a heartbeat from a drab gray to color.

CHICK

They were heading east
on Haight Street now. The street was alive with pedestrian traffic, almost entirely men and women under the age of thirty. The youthful free spirits that filled the sidewalks simply ignored the vehicles and the symphony of car horns as they crossed from one side of the busy road to the other. The driver of his cab had rarely moved his hand off the horn since the Golden Gate Park. Alex sincerely hoped this cranky old man would not run down a flower child for spite before they reached their destination, so pronounced was his agitation. Alex did his best to ignore him, and took in the dazzling spectacle outside the cab’s windows.

Traditional stores lined both sides of the street, but scattered about them were establishments with colorful names such as Xanadu, The I/Thou Coffee shop, The Psychedelic Shop, and The Blue Unicorn. Bright splashy colors decorated all the storefronts. Peace symbols, posters, and short philosophical statements adorned the brick and glass storefronts. There were many signs beginning with the word ‘free’. Free clothes, free food, and free readings and counseling were a few of the announcements seizing Alex’s attention.