In 1967, the country was running scared. Confusion reigned. During the past four years hope had eroded as one devastating event followed another. That dreadful day in Dallas was still etched upon the memory of those who had watched and prayed as their leader, John Fitzgerald Kennedy, was killed by an assassin’s bullets. In death, JFK had captivated a nation’s attention even more than he had in life.
The war in Vietnam had escalated to the point where it was the new president’s, Lyndon Johnson’s, obsession. He seemed convinced that he could bomb Ho Chi Minh into submission. During any pause in the action the leader of the North Vietnamese would order his people out of their holes and they would rebuild what had been destroyed, working with a demonic fervor until the next wave of bombers roared in. It became evident that LBJ was not a field general. His constituents remarked about how he’d aged.
At home, a civil war was being fought. Not between the states, but between the generations. The antagonists were parents and their teenage children, young people who were rebelling against the assassinations and the war. Once the hippie movement gained momentum, it rolled like a mighty river towards California, carrying with it rebellious children from families who were devastated by the disappearance of their offspring. Highways were lined with hitchhikers, most heading west.
One day a child would be at home, resisting parents who were out of tune with the times. The old folks were willing to continue bombing until the bastards surrendered; the younger insisted we walk away from Vietnam and mind our own business. Many youths felt as though communism might even be preferable to our corrupt capitalist government. They cried out for new leaders. They wanted Robert Kennedy and Martin Luther King.
Many of the younger generation fought tradition, corporations, and established forms of organized religion. It was important to them that they identify with one another, not with the warmongers who were running America. They liked colorful flowers, beads and bells, and psychedelic drugs. Their long hair, hard rock music and questionable morals earned them the nickname, “Hippies.”
A horde of these dropouts followed the sun until they met the placid waters of the Pacific. Thousands migrated to San Francisco. Many homes throughout the land were missing one or more of their children. Parents often wondered if the fault lay within. Stunned by this sudden shift in values and culture, most suffered in silence.
Seeing the United States after three years in Uncle Sam’s Navy, Jimmy Dale Taylor was suffering from culture shock. His ship had docked at San Francisco when he had received his discharge, and he had stayed there.
Now, as he strolled towards his afternoon job in the Tenderloin area this Monday, Jimmy reflected on his current status. He worked at a bar down near the wharf. It wasn’t the kind of job he really wanted but he was employed, which was more than many of San Francisco’s new citizens could say.
He came from a family of eight children. His father was a disciplinarian who expected patriotism of his children. His devoted mother said of her son, “Jimmy wore his heart on his sleeve. He was a bit of a Romeo, but he would get hurt real easy and he’d always believed in showing women respect. It was the way I brought him up.”
It was no wonder Jimmy felt somewhat out of place among the hordes of hippies. He was clean-shaven, even if he had long sideburns. His dark hair was no longer cropped with whitewalls, but neither was it long and unwashed. It was of a length that could be combed straight back.
He stared as a bus roared up the hill, probably headed for Haight-Ashbury or Golden Gate Park. The vehicle was packed with the young and foolish. They shouted inaudible sounds. Hands were in constant motion. These were the flower children. They came from varied backgrounds and from all over the country. The bus belched black fumes and passed out of sight.
Girls wandered the streets. Many were homesick but felt cut off from their families. Now they were reaching out for whatever affection they could find. Give them a joint or a hit of acid and they would love you all night. Or until they passed out. Few of either sex had a steady job or a reliable source of income. To the extent possible, they cared for their own. They laid claim to parts of the Haight-Ashbury section. There they would often live together in vacant houses until they were discovered and thrown out by the cops. These same cops sometimes got their kicks by waiting until rain was pouring before tossing hippies out into the muck.
As Jimmy pressed on, he wondered if the country was tilted towards San Francisco. Hippies from all over the country rode a numb thumb to the Bay Area. It seemed as though the coast was a sediment trap for the malcontents.
These rebels liked to march down Market Street, protesting the Vietnam conflict. A familiar cry was, “Hey, hey, LBJ, how many kids did you kill today?”
Here there was a war, too. A constant struggle between the old law and the freethinking hippies. Jimmy was not willing to conform to what these dropouts considered to be a nonconforming society. He might puff on a joint now and then but he steered clear of hard drugs. Beer he liked. Maybe a little wine.
Jimmy wanted a change. He wanted to get out of San Francisco. He’d fastened on a place that had captured his imagination: Seattle. He’d heard there was clean air, good jobs, and more normal-looking people in Seattle. And girls who weren’t stoned.
As he moved along, cars crept down the street, horns honking. At a red light, a long-haired hippie, barefoot and bearded, probably stoned out of his skull, crossed the one-way street by leaping from one car hood to the next. There were the usual curses and shouting from drivers and honking of horns. The guy jumped off on the far side, shot them all the old right- hand bone, and went merrily on his way.
Jimmy shrugged. Similar occurrences could be seen every day. Time to get out of town. Maybe go to Yuma and visit my folks, he thought. It had been some nine months since his last trip home. Then his thoughts turned to Seattle once again.
Glenn True Clark believed he was a man born out of season. In just twelve days he would be forty-six. There hadn’t been any of this “anything goes” attitude during his youth. Now he lusted after and might even lay the meat to a hippie chick on occasion, but most of the younger generation would laugh, call him an old grandpa, and express doubts that he could still get it up.
Well, they were wrong. He had experience and staying power. When their legs were spread, they didn’t complain. He was the one who should be complaining. Some dingy broad had sure enough passed her crud on to him. He’d had to make a quick trip to Salt Lake City to see a doctor acquaintance who could be discreet. There had been little if any improvement. That was just too bad. Some stupid chick had infected him so he had no compunctions about screwing it into others.
Yeah, he had two pretty daughters who were about the age of these hot little runaways. This didn’t keep him from lusting. Their mother would be watching them. She’d damned sure better be.
He was running low on money, but this condition was only temporary. If a man was smart, and Glenn figured he was smarter than most, he could always drive a car without buying it and have a gun he could lay hands on in a hurry.
Glenn had spent Saturday night at a motel nearby. There he had slipped out and, taking advantage of the darkness, lifted a tag from a disabled car. It never hurt to have an extra. Time to get rid of the Utah plate and put on another.
Sunday morning, following a shower and shave, Glenn had stayed in the town long enough to have breakfast with his brother and sister-in-law. Their mobile home was only a block or two from where he had lifted the tag. After a couple of hours with his kin, Glenn had moved on. Sure, family ties were important but he was too different to feel comfortable around his relatives for extended periods of time.
Sunday afternoon he had cruised into San Francisco with the intention of getting laid and then moving on. Didn’t pay to stay too long in one place. Not when you’re hanging hot paper and traveling on stolen credit cards.
He had not found a willing woman. Not one young enough to suit his taste, anyway.