Stars above My Hearse

Chapter 3 Fire Control As the Avalon closed for the night, we stepped out into the San Francisco chill. Perry suggested that I ride back to Yosemite with him since Bob and Sara had decided to stay in the Bay Area for a few days. I accepted that invitation, told Bob and Sara how much I'd enjoyed the entire experience and that I looked forward to seeing them back up in the mountains. Perry and I talked as we walked the deserted streets to his apartment. I saw in him a strange mixture of dreamer, pragmatist, advocate, activist, pacifist, philosopher, skeptic, cynic, and planner. He was inordinately intelligent, gentle, angry, determined to change the world using love and whatever else it took, having faith that love was the primary weapon. “When we get to my apartment you will meet Zack and Jim. They work for the Park Service in Yosemite. They are Fire Control Aides. Tonight they went to the other concert, at the Fillmore.” “What's a Fire Control Aide?” “They do controlled burns to try to mimic the old natural pattern of fires that kept too much fuel from accumulating on the floor of the forest. When some fire goes through a place with too much fuel and starts damaging the living trees, they suppress the fire. Sometimes they bust the Forest Service firemen for racing through Yosemite on the way to put out fires on adjacent Forest Service land.” “What?” I asked, thinking I'd misunderstood something. Perry laughed. “Yeah, there is a big difference of opinion between Park Service and Forest Service. Forest Service thinks they have to prevent and stop all fires, but that is what lets the duff build up to unnatural levels and leads to catastrophic heat when a fire passes through. The Park Service Naturalists are trying to reestablish a natural equilibrium. There is a speed limit in the Park. Zack and Jim love to chase down the Forest Service firetrucks with their firetruck. It's about the only time they get to use their siren. When they catch the Forest Service guys and pull them over, the tourists get quite a show. Jim plays 'bad cop.' He's from Nebraska. Zack plays 'good cop.' He's from San Mateo, runs his own chapter of the Sexual Freedom League.” I was beginning to wish I'd stayed with Bob and Sara. Perry's apartment was in an old Victorian building. Zack and Jim were not yet there. Perry had an odd mixture of posters, paintings, and radical newspapers thumbtacked neatly on the walls. “Those are nice paintings,” I said. “Yes, my friend Elena does them. She also writes for Cesar Chavez' newsletters. Her ancestors were some of the Spanish aristocrats way back when the missions were built. You'll meet her in Wawona. She works at the hotel there during the summer season.” “Where's Wawona?” “It's in the southern part of Yosemite. That's where my home is. My brother Tim and I live there most of the time. Our mother still has the family home in Sausalito but I keep this place in the City for logistical reasons.” “You have a home within the park boundaries?” “Yes, our grandfather built it back when the park was just in the planning stages. So, we were literally 'grandfathered-in' like a few other families surrounded by public lands. We've always had the option to sell to the Park Service, but that's not going to happen.” “I should guess not, you had a very wise grandfather.” “Yes, he was special. So's Tim. He's a grad student at UC Berkeley, one of those crazy 'radical revolutionaries' you've heard about no doubt,” and he sort of winked to let me know that I should not be seriously worried about brother Tim. We heard some rowdies getting out of a car downstairs. “They're here,” said Perry. As they plodded up the stairs, Zack and Jim and Tim were singing something about a “White Room.” Perry said, “They went to hear 'Cream,' an English group. Sort of neurotic, high energy, more like Los Angeles music than Bay Area. Good musicians, though.” Perry opened the door and in came a short, frail-looking, sandy-haired fellow. Perry introduced us: “This is Zack, and this is Jim.” Jim was tall, scrawny, but dangerous-looking. “This is Mike, he's new, from Louisiana. Bob and Sara turned him on tonight, took him to the Avalon. He'll be going back up to Yosemite with us.” Zack cheered, “Ho! New Orleens, eh? What a place!” “No,” I said unapologetically. “Actually I'm from higher ground, Lake Charles, near Texas.” Zack looked disappointed. Jim said “Glad to meet you, I'm from Nebraska, we grow corn and weed, all you need.” “Glad to meet both of you. Perry tells me you chase down fire trucks with your fire truck. I'd love to see that!' “Stick with us and you'll see things so unreal you'll have to believe!” Jim charmed. Perry went on with the introductions, “And this is my brother, Tim, the thinker.” We were glad to meet each other. I was picking up mostly good spirits from Zack and Jim and Tim, so I began to relax again. Perry lit a joint. It got shorter and shorter as it made the rounds. Jim taught me how to use just my thumb to pass the “roach” along to the next person. Zack suggested that Perry put the “demo” on the stereo. It was an odd-sized vinyl record. “Some of our friends: Country Joe and the Fish. Give us your honest opinion.” The song was “Martha Lorraine” who was going to “sit by my bedside and watch me die.” I was thoroughly-bewildered by the words. The music was a form of cosmic order that I'd never encountered, order so extreme that it was startling. It was as though the Creator Himself had said, “Let there be music,” and “it was good,” but the worry about the Tree of Knowledge of Good and Evil returned. I realized they were all quietly looking at me, waiting for my critique. I could not speak. I looked from one to the other and shook my head in awe. They simultaneously burst out laughing. The singer shifted the song's architecture and said "Too bad you never learned nothing about country ways...about country ways..." I was comforted, partly. I wondered what country part of America had spawned that singer. If he could absorb and adapt, I figured, so could I. Next morning we went down to Zack's car, an old white Chevrolet. He patted the trunk like I would pat the Turtle, then opened it up so they could throw in their duffel bags. They all looked around snickering at me, like mischievous boys on a schoolyard. “Did you see that?” Jim asked me. “I saw it. Is it what I think it is?” “Yeah, about two weeks' supply.” It was about ten bricks of marijuana, about a kilo or two pounds each. “Y'all can't possibly smoke that much in two weeks,” I said. “No, Yosemite... the hotel workers, naturalists, trail crew, tourists, this will hold everybody for a couple of weeks until our next days off.” Perry said, “It's part of the Plan. We started with Yosemite and the Bay Area and now we've added L.A., Laguna Beach, Monterey, Mendocino, and Oregon. Let's get rolling, no pun intended.” I was uncomfortable again, riding with a big load of illegal substance. I kept running through my mind what I would tell the cops: “I didn't know it was there. It's not mine. I just met these guys. Are you kidding, marijuana? I'm just hitching a ride.” I knew that there was no escape. I was surely trapped. If we were to get caught... My friend Alain from Louisiana was somewhere out here as a fugitive because he got caught at home with two joints and was convicted and sentenced to thirty years. Now I was facing at least several lifetimes in prison. I was very uncomfortable. Zack was driving carefully at least. Jim was rolling a joint. Perry and I were in the back seat. Perry said “You look nervous. Don't be. We do this all the time.” Doing... Time... “No, thanks, I don't feel like it right now,” I said and Jim passed the joint over to Perry. Zack said “He'll be okay once we get out of the city, eh, Mike?”