Summer of Love
It was 1967 and we were on our way to San Francisco
“If you’re going to San-fran-cisco…be sure to wear some flowers in your hair…”
Benji sucked in another hit and rolled over, ass in the air. Bad enough he was sprawled in the back of the bus, buck-naked under his chaps and mooning whoever walked by the open side-door, but his yodeling rendition of Phillip’s monster hit was drawing attention. The wrong kind.
Not that the locals weren’t already giving us the hairy eye-ball — a bunch of long-haired, bead-wearing, fringe-swinging, peace-sign-flashing, gen-u-ine hippies in a rainbow, flower-powered, VW micro-bus. Probably the first ever to hit town.
“If you’re going to San Francisco…you’re gonna meet some gentle people there.”
It was our theme song. Benji, Charlie, Ariel and me, Scotty Granger from Podunk, Missouri, bound for Haight-Ashbury, to turn on, tune in and drop out.
Just over half-way there, we’d decided to stop for the night in this dusty, quiet little town. We parked outside ‘Watkins & Sons Confectionery’ to grab a few essentials before heading to the Rotary Park Campgrounds. According to the bill-board on the way in, it offered ‘clean rest-rooms and reasonable overnight rates’. On our budget, reasonable was always a bonus.
“All across the na-a-tion… there’s a new vibra-tion, uh-huh people in motion…”
The pimple-faced soda jerk’d goggled at us through the huge, multi-paned, glass windows. Poor kid nearly dropped the sundae he was building when he caught sight of Benji’s butt. His customer, a tired-looking woman with soft brown curls and a big purse, sat at the lunch counter with two squirming kids. She took one look and covered her little boys’ eyes with her white-gloved hands.
“There’s a whole genera-tion… got a new explana-tion, oh-oh-oh, people in motion…”
Ariel leaned over the bench seat and poked Benji’s shoulder. “Give it up, man. A lead singer, you ain’t.” She tucked up her flowing, tie-dyed skirt, clambered into the back and perched cross-legged beside him on a hand-woven mat.
Ariel wasn’t the name she’d been born with, but she said she’d “thrown that off along with the bad vibes of ‘the establishment’.” She was into crystals and astrology, and the name Ariel Stargazer “harmonized with her new state of being.” Ariel talked like that — a lot. With her shoulder-length Afro, beaded head-bands and silk-fringed, paisley shawls, she certainly looked the part.
As the uniformed deputy approached, Ariel smiled and flicked her scarf over Ben’s ass. “Sorry, officer. He’s had a little too much sun.”
I choked back a snicker.
The officer scented the air, Deputy Dawg on patrol. “Smells like he’s had a little too much a’ somethin’.”
“They’re herbal, from Holland.” Ariel offered him a slim, brown cigarette from her pack of Mantanos. Her sparkling, guileless gaze transfixed the deputy. Twin dimples in her cafe-au-lait cheeks deepened. Full, ruby lips parted in a low, throaty laugh. Her lush mouth begged to be ravished, plundered.
The deputy’s eyes glazed. His hand floated upward, fingers clenched as if he’d already twined them in her ebony mane.
Benji snagged the Mantano from Ariel’s hand. He lit up and sneezed.
The deputy stepped back. A dull red flush crept up his neck. “Where you folks headed?”
Charlie chose that moment to reappear with two cloth bags stuffed full of groceries — tall and lean, lace-up shirt open to his navel, bare chest suntanned and golden, his thick, auburn thatch was bleached almost white by the sun — God, he was beautiful.
“Hey, Scott, you ready to go?” He slung the bags in the back of the bus and slid the door shut. He smiled at the deputy. “Peace, man. We’re camping at the Rotary Park tonight, then San Fran in the morning. Join us for the evening?”
The cop shook his head and stomped away. “Friggin’ hippies.” He glared over his shoulder. “You keep it down out there. Any trouble, I’ll throw the lot a’ you in a cell.”
“No trouble, man. No trouble at all.” Charlie grinned and climbed into the passenger seat. “Beam us up, Scotty.”
I fired up the bus. As I pulled onto the gravel road to the campground, I caught Ariel’s eye in the rear-view. I wondered if she’d seen me staring at Charlie. She winked.
My cheeks flamed. I wrenched my gaze away and concentrated on the road.
Benji burped and let out a huge snore. Ariel patted Benji’s butt and removed the cigarette from his lax fingers. She took a deep drag. Wisps of smoke trickled from her nostrils as she stared out the back window at the rooster-tails of roiling dust.
That night was magical. A huge summer moon floated on the horizon and painted everything molten silver with deep-indigo shadows. We built a campfire, and sang to our eight-tracks. We laughed and danced. Ariel cooked ‘tagine’ — she said her ancestors in Morocco used to make it. Who knew roasted veggies and couscous could be so amazing?
As I lugged our dishpan to the cookhouse to wash up, I wondered if San Francisco could be this perfect. I hoped so.
I filled the sink with soapy water and dumped in our plates. A twig snapped. I jumped then laughed at my jitters. Then, someone was behind me, his breath warm on my neck. Strong arms wrapped around me. “Charlie?” Oh, God, dreams really do come true. A wave of heat surged through me. My knees almost gave out.
I started to turn but he pressed me against the counter and fumbled with my jeans. I reached down to help. My hands brushed against him, huge, already erect. He swatted my hands away and moaned, deep in his throat.
He yanked my jeans down and slid between my legs. My mouth ached for his, to kiss him, hard and long. “Charlie, wait. Charlie — ”
He drove into me, burning, tearing. I gasped, stunned, my world collapsed to a single point of fiery, molten agony. He pulled back and thrust in again. I bucked and kicked, but I couldn’t get away. He held me pinned in his arms, jammed against the counter. Blinded by tears, I begged him to stop. I tried to catch my breath, to tell him I loved him. That I wanted him, too. That he could have had me for the asking.
He grunted and pounded his way to a shuddering climax, and collapsed against me. Then he pulled up his jeans and walked away without a word.
I was numb. Some stranger in my body cleaned off the blood and pulled up my pants. They washed the dishes and carried them to the bus. Then, they grabbed my bed-roll and lay down by the flickering camp-fire.
I don’t remember how long I stared into the flames before Ariel came over. She sat beside me and smoothed my hair and patted my back. After a while, the tears started again. Ariel pulled me onto her lap and rocked me, while I sobbed out my pain.
“I loved him. I’d have given him anything. Why did he… ?”
“Shh, shh, baby.” Ariel’s tears ran down and mingled with mine. “That Charlie, he don’t know how to love. Only how to take.”
Ariel hummed snatches of an old lullaby, and talked about how wonderful our life would be when we got to San Francisco. I finally fell asleep in her arms.
Next morning, we packed up and hit the road. There was a glass wall between me and the world. The sunlight was dimmer. Colors were a little less bright, sounds were muffled. After a while, I realized I could make it all go away if I wanted.
Except Charlie. I couldn’t make him disappear. I could barely look at him sprawled on the front seat beside me, ‘going to San Francisco’ just like the song, for a summer of flower-power and peace and love.
This story is a response to Prism & Pen’s writing prompt A Little Night Music.