PAGAN LOVE AND WILDING HEARTS

21. Too Much Hair

        My trek across the states passed swiftly. Upon arriving in the small Virginia town I found the gas station owner had been true to his word; my bike was waiting for me.

        But he was a little surprised to see me. He told me he hadn’t really expected I would return for it. Nonetheless he offered to help me do the work of removing the heads and repairing the valves; vital assistance inasmuch as I had never before torn apart a British air-cooled engine. Several days passed while I waited for him to find the time to give me a hand. Meanwhile he let me spend the nights in the little room in the back of his station. He seemed to keep putting off the project and I began to suspect that he was hoping I’d finally just give up and return to California and let him have the bike.

        One day a local cop tried to bust me as I walked along a road near the station. He totally frisked me and searched all my pockets.  Although he found nothing illegal he informed me that he still intended to take me to jail. It seems he mistook me for some local rascal who was a drunk or doper or something and who wasn’t supposed to return to the area ever again, or something like that. He said he’d received numerous phonecalls from irate local residents about me—people were saying I frightened them! I guess it was just because I was a far-wandering stranger with long hair and beard. They thought that was a terribly wild way for a human to comport himself.

        Even after I showed him my Vermont driver’s license the cop didn’t want to believe I wasn’t the ruffian he mistook me for. He said I’d gone and done it now—I’d given him fake ID! He said any fool could tell that driver’s license wasn’t legitimate. He kept calling me “boy” and he was real threatening. He radioed in the information and was genuinely surprised to discover everything checked out clean and that I had no warrants. Finally he let me go but he ordered me to get out of town immediately.

        My Triumph still wasn’t running so I began tearing my hair out waiting for the guy to find time to get to it. I told him about the cop telling me to get out of town but he still didn’t stir much.

        Then late one night I walked through the office of the station to use the bathroom just as the same cop pulled up in his patrol car and shined his spotlight through the window. He thought I was robbing the place. I had a tough few minutes while he telephoned the station owner and verified my story. Afterwards the cop looked at my bike and suggested I just leave it and get the hell out of his town.

        I decided I could not afford to wait any longer for the station owner to help me—I’d have to do the repairs myself, immediately. The fellow gave me some pointers but I just went at it, working madly all through the following day. The cop came by in the late afternoon and menaced,

        “Hell! Yu hain’t gone yit? I warned yu, boy! Yu better git! Nest time ah see yowa silla face Ah’m runnin’ yu in fa shor... Yu thank yor fulin’ roun wi me yor makin’ a bag mastake. Yu hea me boy? Huh?”

        So, I didn’t sleep. I kept working on the bike all night long by an extension cord light. My heart surged in the morning when I heard the engine roar to life. The cop drove by slow, talking into his radio, watching me. As soon as he was out of sight I packed up fast and split town.

        Sometimes the bike ran all right and I bombed along at seventy. Other times it crapped out and I had to slow down. At lower RPMs it ran pretty clean but that speed was considerably under the speed limit, like forty-five miles per hour. But when I was out of Virginia I felt a whole lot better.

        I knew I would have to stop soon and find someone who could help me fix the bike right; also I was almost flat broke again. Also I needed sleep badly. There was a large town coming up— Crossville, Tennessee. If I had any idea what I was going to go through in that town I would have sure rolled right on past.

***

        I stopped at a convenience store and asked them where a guy could roll out a bag and get some sleep for a few hours. The man and women behind the counter stared me down and told me flatly that kind of stuff was highly illegal around there. We’re talking big fines and jail time.  They weren’t kidding.

        Yes, Crossville, Tennessee was another one of those places where you spend your greenbacks and you sleep in a motel or you can go to hell as far as they are concerned but you are not going to roll out your sleeping bag in a wayside area and sleep for free. Free-sleeping is not what America is all about; America means people lay their sweat-drenched dollars in fat greedy hands, hands with compulsively grabbing fingers.  That perspective didn’t appeal to me.

        I looked around and found a large shady park; it was “day use only” but I took a walk off the trails and found a hideaway place where I could push in my bike and lay it on its side so it couldn’t be seen and then I laid myself down beside it and slept too. I slept all night and all through the following day.

        When I awoke in the late afternoon it was already getting dark. I walked into town and found a bar where I sat down on a stool figuring I’d try to sell a stone or two in order to get together a bit more cash so I could afford to pay a mechanic to look at the Triumph and fix whatever was wrong with it. I began by being honest with the bartender: I told him I had exactly one dollar to my name. He poured me one drink and said it was on the house but after that he said he expected me to leave. He said he couldn’t have people loitering around the place. I showed him my rubies but he wasn’t interested, said they just looked like rocks to him and he reminded me America’s money system was green paper, not rocks. He urged me again to drink up and be on my way.

        There wasn’t much of anywhere else for me to go so I sat outside on a bench for an hour. I quietly panhandled two more dollars while I sat there, but the looks people gave me were dreadful so I kept it real cool.  I looked inside again and a lady was behind the bar; so, thinking the shift had changed, I went back inside.

        She asked to see my ID. I showed her my pictureless Vermont driver’s license and she said she couldn’t accept it. I admonished her that it was a perfectly legal driver’s license. She ignored me for a few minutes after that and then told me she’d have to check it out with her boss. She went in the back room and returned with the same guy I’d talked to earlier. Angrily he asked me why I was giving his barmaid a bad time?  I assured him I wasn’t. He said if I didn’t have identification I would not be served. I showed him my driver’s license. He laughed and proclaimed it a fake, and told me there was a law against using fake ID.

        I insisted it was real. He told me if I didn’t have any better ID than that he’d better not ever see my face in his bar again. I told him I was twenty-six years old and I was thirsty. That made him so furious he ran around the bar clearly intending to do me bodily harm—but I beat him to the door and ran down the street. No doubt he called the police too, because a patrol car with red and yellow lights flashing pulled up behind me a few blocks away.

        The cop didn’t arrest me since I hadn’t actually done anything wrong but he took down all kinds of information and warned me I better not give him any more trouble. I told him I was stuck down the road and had just come into town to try to sell some jewelry so I could get together money for repairs and he told me if I didn’t have a city license to sell things I better not let him catch me trying. He mentioned he’d heard I had been asking people for money, too. He said I’d get one warning on that and if he ever heard of it happening again he’d take me to jail without question. He also told me there were strict laws against transients sleeping outside under the stars, not only in the city limits but throughout the entire state and he promised me he’d get me if I tried it. I told him I had no intention of doing that, that I’d met someone near my vehicle who had volunteered to put me up. He wasn’t convinced.

        As I walked out of town along the highway he followed me in his car for a long time real slow. He offered to give me a ride to my vehicle. I told him I’d rather walk—1 sure didn’t want to take him to the place in the day park where I had the Triumph stashed! When he finally sped up and was out of sight I stuck my thumb out and the angel of Providence knew I had a need. A guy in an old pick-up pulled over right away and drove me directly into the park where I waited just long enough for the truck to depart before I scrambled into the foliage and found my bike and sleeping bag and went to sleep thinking about all the lies I’d ever heard in my life about southern hospitality.

        The next morning I walked to the convenience store for some fast food and noticed the proprietors eyeing me rather shiftily. I paid for my stuff and observed them get on the phone while keeping me in sight. It didn’t look good. I walked quickly back towards the park. When I was out of sight of the store I scrambled off the road and hid. Sure enough a cop car came scooting along moments later. I stayed hidden and watched the highway. Five minutes later he came back again real slow, looking all around. I kept low. I waited another half an hour just to be safe. Then I ran at full speed all the way back to my bike.

        I tried to get my bike out of the trees but it wouldn’t start so I knew I’d have to push it out of the woods and across the grass to the pavement where I could push-start it—and I couldn’t do it myself because but I was at the bottom of a small slippery weed-choked hill. I heard a car coming and ducked down. It was a park ranger—driving real slow.  After he passed I went out and looked for some help. I saw two young guys sitting on the grass and asked them for a hand. They came with me and helped me push the Triumph out. About the time we reached the grass the ranger showed up. He was uptight, wanted to know what we were doing. I explained that I was just passing through and had hidden my bike in the trees to keep it from getting stolen. While he was blustering and gnashing his teeth I started the Triumph and told him I really had to go.  Good-bye. As I rolled out I noticed the Ranger pick up his radio mike and put it to his mouth.

        The Triumph was only running on one cylinder, just barely putting. I hadn’t gotten far before a cop car pulled up behind me, lights blazing. He checked out the whole bike and told me it wasn’t legal for the highway and he better not catch me riding it until it was. He wrote me up about a hundred dollars worth of mechanical violation tickets. He was a real puke.

        When he left I fired up the bike and started to ride towards the Interstate, which was about a mile away. A long mile.

        I only went a couple blocks before he was behind me again. This time he said he was arresting me and got out his handcuffs. I asked him what would happen to my bike. He answered that if it were left beside the highway it would be impounded and I’d have to pay the charges when I got out of jail. A small crowd was gathering around us. I asked one of the men if he lived near-by. He pointed to a house and said he lived there. I asked him if I could leave my bike on his property for a few days. He answered it would be ok. The cop got pissed off that I was talking to anyone but I continued talking to the guy real fast, over the cop’s protests. By then it was too late for the cop to stop it—I’d already gotten permission. So he allowed us to push the Triumph across the street and park it near the man’s house.

        It was obvious to me that the cop had had plans for my bike. He wanted it impounded. He knew I wouldn’t have the money to get it out after my release and he was figuring I’d be so anxious to get out of town that I’d split fast without it. Eventually the bike would go to public auction and he’d have an excellent chance of getting it for small change.  Or one of his good-old-boy friends would get it. You could read him like a book. He was ugly inside and out.

        So I went to jail but I was breathing sighs of relief that I’d managed to outmaneuver the cop and keep the Triumph safe.

        I was put in a solitary holding cell until they brought me before the judge the next morning. He seemed kinder than most of the other people I’d met in the town so I told him my whole story and he listened tolerantly. I explained to him I had only one dollar in my pockets and I was looking for work to earn some money so I could fix my motorcycle and continue to my family’s home in California. By this time the cops had verified that the bike was mine even though I’d lost the registration and title so the judge didn’t have much reason to keep me locked up. He let me go—but he told me not to drive the Triumph again until everything was legal on it.

        Out on the streets again I left the bike sitting at the guy’s house. There was no reason to tempt fate. I looked around for some way to earn a few dollars. I started conversations with folks and explained my situation and asked them if they had any ideas where I could get some work. Some people were nice, although they had no solution for my problem they handed me a dollar or two, sometimes five. By the end of the day I had twelve dollars.

        I noticed a movie was playing at the local theatre that meant a lot to our alternative-culture and I thought how weird it was to see that movie playing in that little red-neck town. The movie was “Hair”. I got to thinking: I’d never had a chance to see it yet. Maybe I should buy me a ticket. After all, maybe when the locals saw a “real” hippy in their theatre they would ask me what I was doing in their town and maybe when I explained how I was on my way home to California and I was having vehicle trouble and had run out of money—maybe they’d fill my pockets with cash—or maybe someone who knew about bikes would have a look at my Triumph—or at least maybe someone would give me a safe place to sleep—or maybe some nice person would at least invite me home for a hot meal and some good vibes... It was certainly worth a try.

        I think the ticket to see “Hair” cost me three dollars. The man who owned the theatre was in the ticket booth. When my turn in line came he said he didn’t want to let me in. I asked him why? He said because I always caused trouble in his theatre. He thought I was someone else, too…

        I told him I was new to Crossville and had never before been in his theatre. He took a good look at me and said my hair was too long for him to let me in. I told him I just wanted to see the movie and held out the three dollars. He glared at me and sold me a ticket. I went in and sat down in the back row.

        About ten minutes into the movie I had a weird feeling. I turned around and the owner was silently standing there in the dark about six inches behind my head. Five minutes passed and he didn’t go away. He just stayed right there, towering above me. I couldn’t concentrate on the movie. It was deliberate. His dick was an inch away from the back of my head. I mean, even though he was fully clothed it was impossible not to be aware of his imprecations. Pretty lousy. I got up and walked to the other side of the theatre and sat down. A couple minutes later I turned and looked and there he was again—standing behind me in exactly the same way. I tried to ignore him. He just continued to stand there. After ten more minutes I stood up and asked him why he was standing right there like that. He answered that he wanted me to leave his theatre.

        It was a real mind-game and he was a super-asshole. I asserted I had paid good money and hadn’t made a sound. He told me to get out or he was calling the police. I raised my voice then. I told him he was a genuine lousy human being to be harassing a perfect stranger who had done him no harm whatsoever. At that he said flatly “— that’s enough!”.  He said he was going out to call the police. He turned and walked out the double doors.

        I followed him out of the theatre and into the lobby and watched him go behind the candy counter and raise the receiver of a phone to his ear and dial. Damn! As I headed for the street door I yelled at him:

        “—Forget it! I’m leaving!”

        He stayed on the phone. I could see he was talking.

        As I hit the outside air I knew the cops would be there in seconds. Where was there for me to go? The only plan that flashed through my brain was to hide somewhere till dark and leave town then somehow. I heard a siren. I ducked between two buildings and went to the rear where a large field sloped downward and into some trees about five-hundred feet away. There was some sort of huge gravel pit with steep walls, about a twenty foot drop immediately in front of me. I jumped down into the pit and hit the ground running heading for the woods. But behind me I heard voices yelling:

        “He went between those buildings just a moment ago!”

        I knew I didn’t have time to reach the trees. There was an abandoned VW bug rusting out in the bottom of the pit. I climbed in and ducked down. A few moments later the cop was standing at the window ordering me to get out of the car. I complied.

        We stood there talking while he wrote down a report. I told him my side -- which was the only fair side -- not that he cared. He handcuffed me aand took me to the jail.

        The next morning I explained it all to the judge. He obviously believed the theatre owner’s version although I spoke from my heart and told the truth. He just wasn’t receptive enough to hear the truth. He set the matter for trial and agreed to release me on my own recognizance as long as I promised to return for the trial. I believe he doubted I would run off and leave my motorcycle behind. He knew I had to find work to repair it.

        So I was free again but things were starting to feel real scary.