PAGAN
LOVE AND WILDING HEARTS
23.
Road Angel
Was she a
Goddess or an angel? I could see Her; I could feel Her mighty feminine sinews, Her
celestial character; I listened enraptured as She roared Her excelsior harmonies against
the winds of Earth. I sat upon Her back as She flew past a million worlds!
My Triumph
looked at first glance to be an ordinary motorcycle—but I could see Her true form:
the teardrop contour of the tank expanded from her narrow waist to her wide shoulders; the
chrome headlight was in truth Her delicate upward turned face searching the road as She
flew, the swept-back handle bars were Her loyal arms. My hands held Hers.
I
noticed a large aluminum heart on the side of the engine. A heart! The angel’s heart
purred and laughed and sang exuberantly, and I straddling Her back wondered in awe why She
had merged Her being with my motorcycle to fly with me down this summer highway?
And
I did not know whither came this Goddess, but that Her presence was my joy. Her spirit was
dark and luscious forest green, Her chrome was starlight, and warm moonlight ran in Her
like blood. And as I listened to Her song I came to know Her and I came to know Her
purpose:
She
was liberty incarnate, and being so She loved my own free heart and that was the reason
She deigned to bless me with Her company on that shimmering highway in July of 1974. She
was teaching me Her song and Her poem that I could weave it into my own life. And She was
establishing Herself in my heart so that I would never in all my life doubt Her reality.
Westward
we flew through green fields and rolling hills, westward into sunsets, westward into
safety, westward with a Goddess heart purring mightily, merging Her and I with ancient
rhythms, ancient rivers, ancient callings, ancient longings, ancient myths.
The
weather was so hot I took off my shirt. I had to hold back on the speed because She
responded so magnificently to my slightest touch. If
I started to daydream I would look down at the speedometer moments later and discover I
was already flying ninety miles per hour—and it felt so good I literally had to force
myself to back off on the throttle. It took
willpower. I did not want any more cop trouble.
I
had to panhandle for gas. I have friends who seem to enjoy panhandling. I pretty much hate
it. It is honest though, and if you are on the road and you need food and gas and you are
willing to work but you don’t know anyone and no one knows you, how do you work? It
isn’t easy. Sometimes the only honest
means available is panhandling. What I mostly didn’t like about it was that people
always thought I was a wine-o and that I wanted the money to drown a wasted life in booze.
It’s insulting. So panhandling made me
uptight—and uptight panhandlers are seldom very successful. However, I managed to get
enough gas money together to put the miles behind me.
But
it’s harder to get a larger lump of money to do mechanical repairs and that became my
newest problem: the magneto went on the blink and so I had to stop at a gas station every
hundred miles or so and recharge the battery.
I
was hoping I could get to California by just recharging the battery a couple times every
day—but after trying that I discovered it was retaining less and less charge. Bike
batteries are very small. The only way to charge them without damaging them is to use a
one amp charger and let it sit and charge all night. Gas stations don’t have one amp
chargers; all they have are large fast-chargers and even when they are set at the smallest
setting you can’t help but put more juice into the battery than it is designed to
accept: so inevitably you destroy it. Plus, I
had a real problem paying the four dollars per recharge demanded at most service stations.
So I realized I
had to stop somewhere again and do the repairs. And
since I was riding a British motorcycle, I’d have to be in or near a fair-sized city
or I wouldn’t be likely to locate the parts I’d need.
And so it was
that I rode into Oklamoha City.
I slept on the
edge of a large public park, in a little-used area, behind some small grassy mounds,
almost invisible. In the morning before I was quite awake I thought I heard surprised
voices near me but my fatigue bound me to my dreams for yet another half an hour. Suddenly
I realized my situation, to be still asleep beside a motorcycle on the grass of a city
park at mid-morning—and I jumped up and gathered my gear. Then I peeked out over the
top of the hills and sure enough, a quarter mile away I could see two cop cars were
driving very slowly over the grass in my direction. Fortunately there was an escape route
yet available to me rearward and I exited unseen before they arrived.
But it was a
matter of pushing my bike because the battery was too dead for the engine to start. So I
was pushing her as fast as I could. A teenage fellow was walking just ahead of me.
Inasmuch as haste was of the first priority I asked him if he would give me a hand and he
kindly agreed. As we muscled the heavy motorcycle over the grass I freely explained to the
fellow my latest predicament on this journey across the continent. That sort of thing may
easily spark considerable interest in any imaginative young mind and he listened
keenly—then at a certain
“Wait a
minute! Are you telling me there are police looking for you—in this very park and at
this very moment?”
I told him not
to worry -- we were well ahead of them!
He looked at me
very puzzled then and with a bit of a smirk became a more energetic accomplice. When we at
last got safely to the street he asked me if I needed a place to stay while I was in town
and put forth the possiblility that his parents would be happy to let me stay a few days.
Providence! We managed to push start the Triumph on the pavement and I gave him a ride to
his home.
***
What a wonderful
family! Sadly, I cannot remember their names, but it seems to me my new friend’s name
was Frank or Franklin, so I’ll give him that name, right or wrong, for the sake of
this story. Frank had a beautiful sister who saw nothing of interest in me whatsoever and
hurt my pride. Frank’s father was a business man and must have been doing pretty well
because their splendid house was new and sprawled out and full of all the latest
appliances and comfortable furniture without blemish. They all had great cars, too.
Frank’s was some sort of fine Chevy with mags all around. His sister drove a flashy
little import. And the mom had a large station wagon, of course.
The mom... Oh
boy... How do I tell you about her... Never was a topic so delicate... Frank’s mom
was… kind. She was the quintessential mother. I am sorry I do not remember her
name either, but perhaps it was Mary -- so I will call her that. Mary had been a blond all
her life, but now she had silver hair. She was fifty-three years old. She was one of those
fortunate people who are graced with beauty which never fades with age. An excellent
figure and a natural grace were additional attributes.
Her personality was museful and lighthearted; she was an extremely loving
person. Her family loved her enormously.
Mary made me
feel at home; the whole family did. They gave me access to their telephone and their
refrigerator. They left me alone in their home without qualm whenever they all had to be
away at their various activities and occupations. I was waited for at every meal, all of
which were well-prepared and bountiful. And when it came time to sleep, no floor for
me—a bed was found! Me in a real bed! What an exotic feeling, clean sheets and
blankets. Ha!
I telephoned my
mother. Mary talked to her on the phone too, and in that way their family got to know me
better. My mother arranged to send me some money. I think it was a hundred dollars. She
sent it as a cashier’s check through the mail because Western Union is real
expensive. But the post office takes a few
days so in the meantime Mary and her husband loaned me money to begin the magneto repairs.
And her husband knew a little about mechanics and had some tools so I had his assistance
during the chore. Sometimes the daughter brought us sandwiches and kool-aide as we worked.
The father even bought a gemstone off me for a paltry sum, $25 as I remember—mainly
just to help me out. The whole family was like that.
Frank introduced
me to his friends and took me to parties. He drove me to parts houses and we bunked in the
same room and listened to records all night. Sometimes his sister came in and we passed
around a joint. Soon the ice melted and she and I began to be friends, though distantly.
And one night we all tripped on acid together in a near-by town.
It was a bad
trip for me. They couldn’t understand. I was afraid of acid now. Prison had put some
real cages in my mind. Ever since I got out I had been doing everything I could conceive
of to tear down those terror-binding walls. I was afraid of acid because of the hell that
abided in my dark recesses: the beatings at the hands of prison guards, the restraints in
the bathtub full of ice cubes, the sneers and leers, their vile deprecations of things I
held sacred... Prison’s formidable vestiges—nightmares by night and
gargoyle-strangers leering at me by day evidenced a tortured soul; and I feared I would be
smothered when the LSD permeated my mind, rooting everything out and exposing me helpless
before my naked fears. So, I always tried to keep a handle on everything. Uptightness. How
could they understand why I couldn’t just free my spirit and cavort with them? I
could hardly even dance! Ah! Didn’t I want to be as carefree as they were? Ho! And if
I tried to tell them my fears? Wouldn’t that bring down the gayest spirit? What right
did I have to do that to them?
No. it
wasn’t the best of trips. There are limits to how much people can understand, even
good people. But I’ve got to hand it to those kids -- they really really tried to
be naturally open and sensitive. I wish I still knew them today. I seriously doubt if they
would feel the same way about me though.
After the acid
trip I spent two days in bed without getting out for any reason except meals. The folks
had no trouble with that.
Sometimes they
brought meals to me. After two days I’d had enough; I was up again working on the
Triumph. My money had arrived; I’d paid my debts and the bike would soon be finished.
The two
teenagers had been trying to get their parents to do acid. It was an on-going infatuation
of theirs. The father was an absolute “No!” —But their mother toyed
with the idea.
I gave Mary a
Tarot reading one day which brought some revelations. We spent a good part of the morning
at it. She poured tea and we sat opposite each other. The Tarot readings and long
heart-to-hearts became a regular morning affair after that.
Her daughter sat
with us one morning chatting and LSD came up again. She placed a tab of lysergics on the
table and it just sat there, kind of glowing. Mary picked it up and examined it. She
couldn’t decide. The daughter retrieved
the tab and broke it into three pieces with her fingernail. One of us took one piece and
placed it on Mary’s tongue. (Was it me? I don’t remember...) The daughter and I
ate the remaining pieces. We all enjoyed a
very special morning.
The daughter had
school, so that left Mary and I alone together. The
fact is I was clearly feeling closer to Mary than to anyone else in that family. We
understood each other.
Everyone watched
television in the evening. As the night grew late, one by one they all left the living
room to turn in for the night. Mary and I
were the last ones remaining. The television droned in the background but we were looking
at each other. She came over and sat in front of me and began massaging my feet while I
massaged her back. I liked the feel of her skin. She could have as easily been thirty
years old as fifty, she was beautiful...
We put a lot of
heart into our massages and I remember they felt extraordinary pleasant. She leaned back
against me and I encircled her with my arms. We stayed like that feeling very warm and
comforting to each other for several minutes. Then she turned and looked up into my eyes
and I kissed her forehead. She raised her lips and I kissed them. She opened her mouth and
we were lost in each other; she turned full to face me and we embraced with passion. We
slipped to the floor and made love.
She told me in
all her years of marriage she had never made love with anyone other than her husband. So
this was special to her. Special to me too—just the age thing for instance: she was
fifty-three years old; I was twenty-six. That’s a bit of a novelty—not to
mention that she was the mother of my friends. But all in all, I felt real good about it.
It was exciting, tender, wild—even healing.
Afterwards when
we rose to go to our separate beds she thanked me.
But in the
morning the house went insane. She had felt driven to confess all to her husband and he
came to me in his bathrobe crying.
“—What
have you done to my family? You made love to my wife!
Everyone knows! This is the end. We’ve been so happy all these years!
And now it’s over! We’re getting a divorce! And it’s your fault! Pack your
things and get out of here. Quick! Because I’m afraid of what I might do to you. GET
OUT!”
Franklin came to
see me too; my friend Franklin: my friend no more; no—never again. He asked me how I
could so betray them all. He demanded that I leave—FAST. His sister came through the
carport where I sat madly scrambling to assemble the last pieces of my motorcycle. She
The daughter
came and stood glaring at me as I threw the last pieces of the Triumph together. She
started screaming she was going to call the police. She yelled that the police would
surely get me out of their home. She ran
inside the house.
I packed up
faster than fast and pushed the bike until it was rolling down the half-mile long hill in
front of their home. At the foot of the hill I flagged down a truck and we hoisted the
Triumph into the bed. We pulled away from the curb just as a police car rounded the corner
and headed up towards the house. The pickup truck dropped me off on the freeway and I
immediately began pushing the bike along the roadside as fast as I could. The temperature
was over a hundred degrees and I was sweating like a maniac and my chest was heaving and I
was gasping for breath. I must have covered almost a mile before a car pulled over and
towed me with the tow-rope another few miles. That I was successful hitchhiking with the
motorcycle is a kind of remarkable thing. Perhaps I looked a little desperate and people
were curious. Or perhaps it was Providence again.
One last tow
pulled me into a tiny town ten miles or so outside Oklahoma City where I discovered out of
the four buildings there one of them was a small motorcycle repair shop—where a fat
red-bearded grease-monkey said he’d put the finishing touches on my motorcycle engine
and make it run for $20—which is just about all the money I had—but I told him
if he could get on it right away it was a done deal. I’d be happy to worry about gas
money later when I was a hundred miles down the road and safe.
He eyed me as he
worked. He knew something was up but I sure wasn’t into discussing it. I was jumpy. I
kept expecting a cop car to drive up at any moment, even though I wasn’t sure if I
had done anything that could exactly be construed as illegal. Or Frank might drive up. Or
his dad. I just wanted to get the hell out of that entire area. Fast.
The place was a
real biker haven, leather jackets and studs and chains and tattoos and hard-talking hairy
chested rascals with beers in their hands and crumpled cans laying everywhere. They were
pretty drunk by the time they finished working on my bike, drunk and turning shit-eating
mean. In a nervous attempt to say something that would lighten the atmosphere I had made
the mistake of inferring that they were hippies. They told me they weren’t fucking
hippies and that they hated hippies. They asked me if I was a hippy. I didn’t feel I
could back out of that one easily. I told them I was a hippy and that I thought some
hippies were some of the greatest people in the world. They glowered at me.
I handed the fat
red dude the agreed twenty dollars and kicked the motor to life and started rolling. As if
on cue two of them charged at me and I swerved trying to get up speed and the lead rat
kicked and busted out my taillight.
I spun the
throttle and hopped over a curb and roared through a stop sign and rammed my Triumph down
the highway like doomsday’s rag.
