Season of the Witch Read online

  Then Dr. McF hired a housekeeper to pretend she was John’s mother so the Environment would continue to have all the Essential Elements for Child Rearing and blah blah blah. I don’t know where he found her. She was the sort of person Ford would turn out if it was turning out mother substitutes instead of cars—all the latest gadgets but none of them really worked. She was a down masquerading as an up. Which is about ten times worse than being a good old-fashioned straightforward down. Her name was Mrs. Putz. That can’t be the right spelling, but it sounded like that, put with a z on it. Anyway, Mrs. Putz did everything right, Cooked Hot Meals, Was Cheerful, Took an Interest, Showed Affection, right down the old list, all for $600 a month and a room with her own TV. And so naturally between her and Dr. McF the whole situation got so plastic John nearly freaked out. He could take everything but the freeze-dried cheerfulness and the Saran-wrapped affection. The first few weeks were unbelievable. Then John and I got together and worked the whole thing out. We as much as told her that if she liked the job—and she did—she’d better play ball. So John got his Nice Hot Meals delivered to his lair, unbeknownst to Dr. McF, who was practically never there at mealtime anyway. (I think he lived on sandwiches choked down between patients. After all, when you can cop 50 to 100 bucks an hour, you don’t go squandering your time on meals. Not if you’re Really Responsible.) So John got left alone from then on and managed to cultivate his genius without too much bullshit. Mostly he stuffed his head with books.

  However. Back to the night of the first grass.

  I slip into John’s fabulous lair, my mind all fluffed up with this highly memorable Virgin High, and three joints stuck in my belt. John’s watching Huntley-Brinkley. Only if it was 11 P.M., it probably wasn’t Huntley-Brinkley, but anyway it was the news. News is sacred to John. He really studies it and knows what it’s about. Everything that passes before his eyes seems to grab the full attention and interest of this stunning mind of his. I’ve always had a deep natural respect for John’s concentration, so I sat perfectly still and tried to watch the screen. News is always a problem for me, but on grass I find it impossible. Suddenly it seems to me the news is over and they’re showing this bad-bad movie, some sort of comedy takeoff about a little Oriental dictator. I said, “John, did you switch channels?” He said, “No, why?” I said, “What happened to the news?” He said, “This is the news.” I said, “John, you’re kidding, you mean those are real people?” And then he shushed me, and during the commercial he started to clue me in about what was happening in Vietnam. Fantastic. Uncle Sam pretending to the world that this little shit is the People’s Choice and not allowing free elections because the Communists would win! I told John it was too horrible and I didn’t want to think about it.

  Right there and then I whipped out the grass and turned him on.

  Some people don’t get a thing the first time. But John’s a born head. He got the Great Grin from Within on his third toke, and by the time we finished the second joint, we both contracted a powerhouse case of the Psychedelic Giggles. For a while, maybe half an hour, everything was wildly funny. We went outside and ran around the yard looking at things like a couple of brand new angels set loose in paradise. It was still the same old yard, of course, but our eyes had changed. They’d gotten clear, like the eyes of small children, and we were able to see the magic of everything again, the way we used to, the real natural magic of the world that’s usually lost on you when you’re straight. For instance, trees don’t just stand there neutral. They’re friendly and want you to touch and admire them, and flowers quiver with pleasure when you look at them. Then we climbed the fence into my yard and sat on the teeter-totter for a couple of minutes. It was the first time we’d used it in years and years and a squirrel came out to watch. While we were teetering, John said, “Gloria, we’re criminals, do you realize that? It’s against the law to feel like this!” So we lay on the grass for a while thinking how peculiar that was, and while we were lying there, John said, “How do we know the sky isn’t down instead of up? Maybe we’re just hanging by our backs!” And so suddenly the sky was beneath us and earth became the heart of heaven instead of just the outskirts. Then we held each other and vowed eternal love, and went back to John’s basement to play “Sergeant Pepper” on the stereo.

  It was fairly new then and neither of us had really gotten into it before that night. Grass makes your ears enormous, you hear with your Whole Self. John has these Koss headphones that are always breaking, but that night they didn’t. You could actually hear an entire Lonely Hearts Club Band sitting inside your soul broadcasting through your bloodstream to every nerve you had. We lay on John’s lion skin with our eyes closed, holding hands. After “Mr. Kite,” John got up to turn the record over, and suddenly he had a whole new feeling about the lion. It was real. Really real. Lying on its skin became too savage for words. He petted its face and apologized to it, and from then on he kept it in his closet.

  Anyway, when he finally got the record turned over, he brought the album cover back with him and we sat there studying the photographs of these four fantastic men. On the inside cover, they’re all looking right at you, 100 per cent decent and lovable and sweet and manly. And you get the feeling that if they knew you, they’d dig you exactly the same way you dig them.

  “A Day in the Life Of” blew our minds totally, so we played the entire album all over again. For me it was a joy trip. I felt joy about everything, even the sad parts. That’s why the Beatles are geniuses. They give you the feeling that the world really is a ghastly mess, but it’ll be okay in the end because we’re all so beautiful. Stay high, they tell us, and the world will gradually come around. And you believe it, because it’s obviously true.

  When the record stopped, John just went on lying there with his headphones on, staring at the ceiling.

  I sat up and put my hand on his brow. He took my wrist and clung to it for dear life. I didn’t say a word. I just waited for him to show me what he was feeling. Pot gives you these flawless emotional instincts. Then, after the longest time, he said, “Gloria, I’m in love.”

  And I thought, Wow, with whom? Me?

  At this point I wasn’t sure John was gay. Once when we were 12, I tried to seduce him—not out of any real interest, it just seemed like a good idea at the moment. But John was more or less embarrassed, so I dropped it.

  I said, “Oh, John, that’s thrilling.”

  And I waited some more.

  He sat up and lit a cigarette, a regular one, and we passed it back and forth. Then he said, “It’s sort of a bummer, because it’s like I’m in love with George Harrison for godsake.”

  Then he folded his arms tight against himself and sat with his shoulders all hunched up as if he were in pain.

  I said, “John, I am, too. I’m in love with all the Beatles. How come you’re uptight about it?”

  “Because it means I’m a fag, doesn’t it?”

  “That’s ridiculous. Men can love men without being fags.”

  “Yeah, but I’d like to ball him.”

  “Me, too. All four of them. At once! But it doesn’t have to be a hangup, does it?”

  “I don’t think you’re hearing me, Gloria.”

  I was hearing him. I knew just what he was bugged about. But I was stalling. Because I didn’t have the faintest idea what to say.

  “Do you know what I’m telling you now?”

  I looked at him. “I guess I do.”

  We sat still for a while. Then John said, “Are you disgusted or what?”

  That really annoyed me. “Am I what?”

  He didn’t answer.

  “John. What do you take me for, some dumb shit? You are the most beautiful person in the entire known world, so how could I be disgusted?”

  “Well, you weren’t saying anything, so I just wondered.”

  “If I don’t say anything, it’s because I’m trying to think it over. I’m trying to think how you must feel and all.”

  “Oh.”

 
“I guess I can sort of sense why it’s a bummer, but in a way I’m not really sure. I mean, what’s the difference whether you’re balling guys or chicks, as long as you’re digging it?”

  “I don’t know. I guess the main thing is I’d like to have kids.”

  “There are millions of kids around. Do they have to be your very own?”

  “I’d like for them to be. But I guess that’s just an ego thing. Do you suppose?”

  “Probably. I never really thought about it. John, listen, you’re not even sixteen yet. How do you know this fag bit isn’t just a phase?”

  “It might be, but I don’t think so.”

  “Because, you know, all last year I was in love with Cecilia. I wrote her notes and everything.”

  “Did you want to ball her though?”

  “No. But I would have. I’d have done anything for her. And now I hardly ever even think about her.”

  “Yes, but then you had that big thing with Delano. That’s because you’re normal. You dig guys, don’t you see?”

  “Mm. And you just don’t dig girls at all?”

  “A little. But not like I should.”

  Then he said, “Another thing. My father. He’ll shit.”

  “He doesn’t have to know.”

  “He’ll figure it out. He’s already sniffing around asking questions.”

  “Listen,” I said. “I’ll tell you what. If your father doesn’t like it, fuck him! Okay?” John smiled. It was nice to see his sense of humor coming back. “And you and I’ll run away from home,” I said, “and go live in Pepperland, forever. Are you with me?”

  He was.

  So we smoked the last joint, got stoned all over again, and played the Bee Gees.

  There’s something about this bus that makes me write like a demon. It’s actually sort of compulsive, I don’t think I could stop if I wanted to. I keep getting ideas for novels, but the very thought of writing one makes me want to go to bed and die. How could anybody go through all that labor just to invent a bunch of bullshit, when writing the truth is so much easier and groovier. The only exception I can think of is Siddhartha, but that’s not really hard-core bullshit like most fiction, because it’s based on a man’s life.

  John just did something so cool and so John. He tapped my hand and leaned in, without even looking at me, and said, “Hey, Witch, are there any Mallomars left?”

  I reached into my bag and pulled one out for him. He started eating it, and I said, “Oh, John, that was nice. I really got a thrill out of it. How did it feel to you?”

  “Fantastic. I mean if you really feel like that’s who you are, I’ll be able to dig it just great. Shall we start calling you that full time?”

  “Why not? Sure.”

  “Okay. No more Gloria Random.”

  “What a scary, terrific thought!”

  After about a mile or two of no talk, John said, “Hey, Witch.”

  I said, “Yes, Roy?” And blew his mind completely.

  “Roy?” he said. “Is that me?”

  “I don’t know, it just came out.”

  He said it over a couple of times. “This is very spooky,” he said, “but I’m going to tell you the truth. I feel like I’m Roy!”

  “It just came to me.”

  “Where do you suppose from?”

  “Maybe from royal, I don’t know. I always think of you as a royal prince.”

  “Remember just now when I said, ‘Hey, Witch’?”

  “Yeah?”

  “Know what I was going to say? I was going to say ‘Hey, Witch, remember that chick named Gloria Random?’”

  “And I would have said, ‘Vaguely, what about her?’”

  “Then I’d have said, ‘Oh, I was just thinking, if it weren’t for you being so groovy, I’ll bet I’d miss her a lot.’”

  I said, “I love you, Roy.”

  But I lied. I don’t love him. I worship him.

  Breezewood, Pennsylvania, in the ladies’ room

  Either I am delirious from lack of sleep or I have just invented something fabulous. It’s called the Secret Zap, and I know it could catch on like wild except for one terribly fundamental snag. If I tell everybody about it, it won’t be secret any more.

  Anyway, here’s how it works.

  You see somebody that looks plain or sad or boring or mean, in other words somebody you don’t really adore on sight, and what you do is you keep on thinking about him until you can imagine what his soul must look like, and when you think you’ve got it, you say, under your breath, “Thou art God.” That’s all there is to it. What happens next is sensational, but I don’t know how to describe it.

  Back on the bus

  The Secret Zap is even more sensational than I realized. It also works on people you do like. I just tried it on Roy, and he opened his eyes instantly and smiled like an angel.

  I feel like I’m tripping. I wonder if this is what people mean about getting repeat flashes from psychedelic drugs?

  Still on the bus, 3:30 a.m.

  Roy looks like he’s asleep now. But I’m sure he’s not. His mind has probably fainted though. I better turn out the light.

  5 a.m.

  We’re almost in Philadelphia. I don’t think I’ve slept a wink. And yet, I must have, because I had a dream. It was ghastly. It was all about the death of Lake Erie, where Aunt June has her cottage. The lake’s been polluted for ages, so why am I just now getting around to dreaming about it? What’s really weird is that in the dream, I’m Lake Erie. At the beginning, I’m all alive and blue and shimmering with beauty, and then all kinds of people start shitting poison in me. But lakes have no voices, so they can’t protest. I just become more and more miserable, and then I die. But the minute I die, I’m not the lake any more. I’m me, and Roy and I are running away on his Vespa, and the lake is like a big black thing trying to catch us. I wonder what it means? Maybe if I go back and read over some of the stuff I wrote at Aunt June’s, I’ll get some big flash about it. Besides, I’ve been holding this pen so long my fingers are getting mad at me.

  AT THE LAKE, SUNDAY, JULY 13, 1969

  Aunt June and Uncle Arthur are stuck in Detroit for the weekend. So the only ones at the lake are my cousins Junior and Sheila and Sheila’s boy friend, Martin. Plus John and me.

  It’s really a stoned morning. Sky, sun, air, utter perfection. Consciousness kisses my head like a dream lover. I wake up feeling angelic, a person who is 100 per cent herself and digging it all. Still lying in bed, I swear a sacred vow not to do a thing all day long that isn’t pure Gloria.

  I hear sounds from the big main room. Voices, coffee-cup clinks, “The Millennium Begins” on the stereo. I’m excited because my friends are awake and they’ve already got the day going for me. So I jump out of bed, intending to run in and wish everyone good morning, and bang! I run smack into my first hangup. I should get dressed first.

  But I don’t want to. Therefore, knowing that if I think about it too much I’ll start being real second rate and come up with all sorts of reasons for copping out, I start moving.

  Blithely through the door, naked as Eve.

  Junior and Sheila are at the table in bathing suits, having coffee and rolls. John’s lying on the floor, fully dressed, reading Siddhartha. I don’t know where Martin is, probably still in bed. (Officially, the boys are all sleeping in one room, and Sheila and I each have our own. But Martin spent most of the night with Sheila, creeping back into the boys’ room at dawn. I have no idea what this sneaking around is about. Probably Sheila’s idea.)

  I pass right by Junior and Sheila and go to the stove for coffee, saying something like “Hi, kids, fantastic day.” They say good morning, and while I’m pouring I see that Sheila has caught my act and is busy nudging Junior under the table with her foot. She says, “Junior, if you want to see some skin, better get with it.”

  Junior glances at me, and then he looks. And then he smiles and nods approval. And then he goes back to his coffee.

  Sheila says, “
Looks like you could use some help with your zipper, Gloria.”

  This gets John’s nose out of Hermann Hesse’s head long enough to dig what’s happening.

  “I decided I wouldn’t wear any clothes today. Unless I want to later. Anybody mind?”

  John, unable to care less, goes back to Siddhartha. Sheila looks like she’s trying to come up with an objection that won’t sound square. Actually her deepest secret is that she is square. Therefore, most of her behavior is super-hip to hide how uptight she really is. Finally she comes up with something—but it’s hardly a winner: she’s worried about her boy friend.

  “What about Martin?”

  I say, “Don’t you think he’ll dig it?”

  “Oh, he’ll dig it all right. But still!”

  “Still what?”

  “Well, I just wonder what he’ll think. All the rest of us dressed to the nines, and my cousin running around in her skin!”

  “You’re dressed to the nines? Sheila, I can see everything but your nipples and your pubic hair.”

  “Gloria!”

  “It’s true! You know what that bikini looks like to me? It looks like something some tacky go-go dancer would wear to tease old men. I don’t know why you don’t take it right off. What do you think, Junior?”

  Junior says, “I don’t care what she wears.” Junior’s got a beautiful grin, which comes from not having an uptight bone in his body.

  Sheila’s really off balance now. “You mean,” she says to Junior, “you don’t care if your sister runs around naked in broad daylight in front of her boy friend?”

  Junior gave her an are-you-kidding look, thereby deftly reminding her that she and Martin have been making it every chance they could get for the last three months. Then he says, “I could dig going naked myself. Okay, Shee?” Junior’s his own man in practically every department, but at sixteen he’s still having these little-brother reactions around Sheila.