The year was 1967.
The “Summer of Love” in my hometown of San Francisco. I had just turned eighteen and graduated from
high school. For a gift, I received
luggage. Subtlety was not a strong suit
in my family. However, unlike so many
young people today who cling to the nest like a tick on a hound’s butt, I could
not wait to be on my own. In the time it
took to pack those bags, I found a job, a roommate, and an apartment and I was
out of there.
The job was answering the request line for DJ Tom
Campbell on what was Radio KYA at the time.
My on-air name was “Rabbit,” a nickname given to me by a high school
boyfriend who said I had long toes. It
was kind of sweet coming from him. Not
so sweet when it was blasted over the airwaves to the entire San Francisco Bay
Area but, despite my protests, it stuck and I became a pseudo-celebrity in my
own right. (For the record, my
toe-length is well within the realm of normal and perfectly proportioned in
size from big toe to pinky.)
While the job didn’t pay much, there was always
enough money for the necessities. My portion
of the rent on the apartment I shared with my roommate, Sharon, was
seventy-five dollars, gasoline was twenty-seven cents a gallon, Kraft Mac &
Cheese was thirty-nine cents a box, and marijuana was only ten bucks an
ounce. Good times.
Our kitchen window overlooked a National Guard
armory. On weekends, groups of ordinary
guys torn from family barbecues and now armed with rifles would prepare for clashes
with anti-war protesters in neighboring Berkeley. Because we were assholes, we would blast the
iconic Vietnam protest song, “Feel like I’m Fixin’ to Die Rag” by Country Joe
& the Fish, to taunt them. It never
occurred to us that they might not want to be there.
Inside the apartment, the air was thick with a
bouquet of weed, incense and patchouli oil, and often filled with friends in
various stages of hallucinogenic bliss listening to “The Moody Blues” and
eating copious amounts of Sara Lee chocolate cake. A long curtain of orange beads hung down over
the doorway dividing the living room from the bedrooms. Covering nearly every square inch of wall
space were psychedelic posters from Fillmore concerts that, had I only the
foresight to save, could be supporting me in my “golden years” today.
Sharon was already sexually active while I was
still a virgin and, though not quite the oddity it would be considered today,
still it was a situation that I felt needed to be remedied as soon as possible.
Another DJ at the station ten years my
senior and, as it turned out, married, was happy to oblige. Aside from being a liar and a cheat, he was actually
a pretty nice guy. He was gentle and
considerate, and he bought me a bottle of “Joy” perfume and a stuffed Snoopy
dog. Read into that what you will, but a
girl could do a lot worse for her first time.
Two years later, Sharon and I would part ways and
eventually lose touch, but the memories I have of that first summer on my own still
get me high to this day.
Sadly though, some things never change. Where's Country Joe when you really need him?
