|
It was not unheard-of for a businessman to pick up a hitchhiking hippy, so I was not too surprised when he motioned me to get in while stopped at a traffic light on Lombard Street in the City. As I got in, I noticed a briefcase and a suitcoat on the back seat. I stretched my legs to full long length and inhaled the luxury of the plush American car. It was about two of a glistening summer Friday as we soared north over the Golden Gate Bridge . I was living then by jiggling the system for unemployment benefits and food stamps, while getting pocket money from selling underground newspapers from a street corner in the City every Friday. The rest of the week I spent reading, writing poetry, drawing, writing an occasional article for an underground newspaper, walking, staring - recuperating. He didn’t say much at first, but I knew what was coming: “What’s really goin’ on with these hippies? What’s this all about?” Just picking me up was a peace gesture. Satisfying their curiosity was the fare. They get to talk to the freak and I get a comfortable ride. But instead of starting the interview, he kept throwing glances at the paperback in my hand, then grinning at me with a glint of idiot-glee, then shifting in his seat. I got a lot of my reading done between cars while hitchhiking, and for some months now, beside freeway entrances, I had been percolating with epiphanies brought on by my second or third reading of an apocalyptic, visionary book of philosophy, Norman O. Brown’s Love’s Body. “How do you like that book?” he finally asked. I took this as a clumsy attempt at conversation. Nevertheless, I was bursting with enthusiasm for the book and had no one else to talk to about it. It was too sophisticated for most of my friends, and I was so desperate that I was willing to vent my feelings even if to an uncomprehending straight. “This is the most fascinating book I’ve ever read. But it’s very difficult. Kind of like great poetry. Like Eliot. Ya know? T.S. Eliot?” “I thought it was alright.” “You read this?!” “Yeah.” He smiled at my amazement. “He and I exchanged letters for a while.” “You . . .? With . . .? What’s he like? What did you talk about, in your letters?” “I wrote a book and I sent it to him.” “Did he like it?” “Yeah. He seemed to.” “Did you ever meet him?” “I was living in Japan at the time, so there wasn’t a chance.” I was also currently smitten by Japanese culture, having found my way to it through Zen. “Ah, land of ‘the fine arts of moon-watching and cricket-listening’,” I said, quoting Gary Snyder. Instead of parting, when we reached Petaluma, we had coffee at a diner. We became a mixture of friends, master-and-disciple, and intellectual sparring partners. This was despite the hip-straight mismatch to which he was completely oblivious, as he proved conclusively the day I went to his office.
|
|
 |
 |
|||||
 |
||||||