Summer of Love, a Time Travel (8 page)

Across
one whole wall are shelves of mason jars filled with leaves and powders and
bits of bark. She’s got the only place in town stocking acacia, angelica, black
cohosh, cascara sagrada, damiana, dragon’s blood, ginseng, kava kava root,
mandrake, periwinkle, quince, Saint-John’s-wort, and witch hazel. The heads
clean her out of catnip and parsley every time rumors of a legal high hit the
street.

She’s
had the savvy to score a Health Department certificate, which she hangs next to
her diploma from the Platonic Academy of Herbal Renaissance and her Bachelor of
Arts degree from Mills College. But the beat cops still rattle her cage now and
then. She’s got a running tab at HALO, the Haight-Ashbury Legal Organization.

That’s
one wall. Another wall holds crystal bottles filled with essence oils for
astrological signs, all the planets, and twenty saints. She stocks scented
candles, herbal bath salts, spice soaps, loofahs and real sponges, plus twelve
varieties of incense she imports for a nickel and sells for thirty-nine cents.
Seems people can’t get enough sweet smoke these days.

And
the Mystic Eye stocks books. Books you can’t find anywhere else: African spells,
alchemy, American Indian lore, the dark arts, dreams, hypnosis, the
I
Ching
or Book of Changes, out-of-the-body experiences, past lives, voodoo. Ever since
Ken Kesey and the Merry Pranksters spread the word you can discover psychedelic
secrets in certain novels, she can barely keep in stock Heinlein’s
Stranger
in a Strange Land
, Tolkien’s
Lord of the Rings
, or Arthur C. Clarke’s
Childhood’s End.
She herself believes that psychedelic secrets are
hidden in the stories of Cordwainer Smith, but that’s her opinion.

These
are strange and wondrous days.

In her
glass cases are amulets and talismans, Chinese coins for casting the I Ching,
ankhs and pentagrams, beads and fetish necklaces, peace signs strung on silver
chains. Devotees of the neighborhood band, the Grateful Dead, keep buying out
her inventory of skull and skeleton charms.

The
red-haired dude takes it all in, starts to touch a porcelain Kuan Yin, then pulls
his hand away as if he’s not allowed. He plants himself by the incense burners,
a vantage point from which he can see the whole shop. Alarm nicks Ruby’s peace
of mind. He stands there, alert, like he’s waiting for something, and surveys
the shop with lucid blue eyes.

She
can’t figure him out. A big-time booster or a knickknacker looking for kicks?
The teenybopper is trouble, but this one? She doesn’t pick up the vibe. He’s a
strange one, though. Sort of foreign-looking. Pa is a bigwig at some Euro biz,
Ma is a class act dripping with whatever she wants to drip with, and sonny’s
got a mind of his own. Accounts for his too-cool couture.

Ruby
sighs. Zig-Zag. Uh-huh. It never used to be this way, every punk demanding
rolling papers. High school kiddies flaunting roaches on the street like it’s
nothing.

She
never forgot how the Man shook people down in North Beach. You hear that knock
on the door, squint at that flashlight in your face, get slapped around just
once—one time is all it takes—and you never ever want to mess with the fuzz
again. It is not a moment in the brevity of life to treasure.

Some
folks dig danger. Not Ruby. That’s how she’s come to feel about illegal
substances. Never ever again. Just isn’t worth it. She’d trash her entire herb
collection—which took her five years to acquire—if she needed to. Like when the
Drugstore Café changed its name to
Drog
store ‘cause the heat wasn’t
worth it. Never mind that a mom-and-pop pharmacy selling calamine lotion and
Band-Aids stood in the same location on Haight Street fifteen years. Just not
worth the hassle. She thanks her lucky stars a crazy colored chick like her has
made out so good in a white man’s world circa 1967 San Francisco, U.S.A. Isn’t
anything
worth more than her life, liberty, and the pursuit of free enterprise.

Ruby
smacks the teenybopper’s change in his grimy palm. “No hash pipes, no water
pipes, no opium pipes, no chillums, no bongs, no roach clips, no plastic
baggies, no spoons, no rollers, no tweezers, no screens. And no Zig-Zag rolling
papers. Can I interest you in some jasmine soap?”

“Excuse
me, ma’am,” the red-haired dude says, “but I just saw him take something.”

Ruby
seizes the teenybopper’s wrist and lunges around the counter. The teenybopper
twists away and sprints. He and his hoodlum friends clatter out the door.

“Stop
him!” Ruby cries.

But
the red-haired dude shakes his head and doesn’t budge.

Damn!
Ruby dashes after the teenybopper onto the street. He careers into a troop of chanting
Krishna devotees with their orange robes, shaved heads, and finger cymbals.
Ruby donates two hundred bucks a year to the local ashram. The devotees dance
in place, a tangle of arms and robes and bare feet. Ruby catches up to the
teenybopper, grabs his wrist but good, and twists his hand back.

“Give
it up, you little shit.”

Like
a bitty boy, which is what he really is, tears pool in his eyes. He drops a pricey
silver skull charm in the palm of her hand.

“So,
sonny. You wanted to buy this?”

He
shakes his head, eyes cast down.

“Uh-huh.
I should turn you in. You want to go to the slam?”

His
hoodlum friends are jumping up and down across the street, whooping and
catcalling. The teenybopper looks up at her, and she sees how his pals harass
him, maybe a big brother bullies him back home or Pa lays a strap on his back.

“Like,
I’m sorry,” he whispers. “Don’t get me busted, lady. Please?”

He’s
such a sorry kid that a hangnail of mercy scrapes across her heart. They’re
pests—pests!—flower children like him. They’re ruining her neighborhood. But
they
are
children, some of them barely out of grade school, their ears
glued to transistor radios playing the Number One song on the Hit Parade. The
song tells them there’s a New Explanation, and if you’re searching for
something, you may find it in San Francisco. They all know the address.

“All
right, sonny, scram. Don’t you and your hoodlum friends ever come in my shop
again unless you’re there to buy something. You dig?” She lets him go.

He nods
and darts away like wild rabbit.

She
is hopping mad by the time she returns to her shop, madder now at the
red-haired dude for not helping her than with the teenybopper. But when she
storms back inside, she sees him standing quietly by the counter. He leans
against the wall, his stance anything but casual. He stares at Gorgon, and
Gorgon pretends to read the newspaper, his racehorse legs stretched out, his
eye on the drawer packed with cash. She left the drawer wide open, chasing
after a five-dollar silver charm that cost her fifty cents wholesale.

Ruby’s
eyes lock with the young dude’s. He did the righteous thing. But how does this
stranger know to distrust Leo Gorgon? And what about the dude? He could have
ripped off the drawer, himself. Why is he so good?

“Closing
in five,” she calls to the remaining shoppers. Exhaustion drags her down. Too
many weird trips today, and it’s only the first day of the Summer of Love. She
taps Gorgon on the shoulder. “You, too, Leo. Scram.”

He
jumps up, towering over her. Sweet Isis, she’s a soft touch for a tall man.
“Hey, Ruby. Don’t be like that.” He slides a finger down her shoulder, toys
with her neckline, touching her skin. “Don’t let’s call it a night. Maybe we
could go upstairs. I hear you like wine. I like wine, too.”

“Oh,
and I got me a fine bottle of Chablis.” A soft touch for a tall man, but her
well-developed sense of outrage kicks up. “So what is this? Hey, Ruby, I’d like
to go upstairs with you. I’d like to drink your wine. What else would you like
to do, Leo?”

He
looks puzzled. She might be telling him true or she might be shucking him, but
he’s not sure ‘cause she says all this sweet as poison.

“A
lot, Ruby. There’s a lot I’d like to do,” he says in a husky voice.

“And
there’s a lot we
could
do. Some fine day.”

His
genuine disappointment almost changes her mind.

But,
no. It doesn’t feel right. What does Gorgon think? What does he see? That she’s
got a brimming cash drawer? That she’s still on a rebound from Stan the Man? An
easy mark? An easy lay?

It’s
too mixed up, and it’s way too fast. Happens a lot these crazy days. Flash!
People meet on the street, fall into bed. Flash! Longtime lovers fall apart.
Did people used to be this fast? Even Roi—her beautiful doomed Roi—actually courted
her in the good old days after the war. Or is she feeling her thirty-five
years?

“Leo,
another time.”

Gorgon
shuffles out, along with everyone else. She locks the door, dims the lights.
And turns.

The
red-haired dude stands silently at the back of the shop, with such a strange
look in his eye that a needle of alarm angles up her spine. She walks back to
the counter, calm as the moon. She should get a gun. She’s been thinking about
a sweet little number called a Walther since the spring.

“So,
sonny,” she says, tidying up. “Why didn’t you chase after that knickknacker?”

He
shrugs. “For one thing, he was dirty.”

“Dirty!
That’s a new one.”

“I
didn’t want to touch him.” Aloof, disdainful. “And you left your money drawer
unattended. I watched it for you.”

“My
friend was watching the drawer.”

“He’s
not your friend.”

“Oh?
What makes you think so?”

“I
calculated a positive ID from the Archives.”

“The
Archives, uh-huh.” She retrieves her broom from the closet behind the counter.
“So, what. You a narc? ‘Cause if you’re a narc, I can tell you right now, I
don’t deal. I don’t even sell paraphernalia. I want nothing to do with that
scene, understand? I study the ancient ways, that’s all. My herbs are legal
substances used for medicinal purposes. You cannot get high on catnip unless
you’re a cat.”

“A
narc? You mean a police informant?”

“Oh,
shit!”

“No,
no! I’m not! Please believe me!” He moves a little too close. “You’re not doing
anything illegal.”

“You
bet your ass.”

“But
there
is
something I’d like to know. Are you sheltering runaways?”

“Sheltering
runaways? Sonny, I live
alone.
”

“Hmm,”
he muses. “But there’s a probability you will.”

She
brandishes the broom handle. “There’s a probability I can poke your eye out
with this thing.” His eyes widen. “Out you go.”

“But--”

She
jabs the handle at him. “But nothing. You think I’m gonna let a little shit
like you sting me? Get out. Get out of my shop
now.
”

*  
*   *

Through
the peephole in the front door, Ruby watches him go. Halfway across Clayton, he
hesitates, returns, and sits on her stoop. Groovy. Better him than a flock of
flower children. Either he’s stupid or he likes her for some reason, and
that’s
stupid. She hits the three deadbolts home, hooks the chain lock. She runs the
broom over the floor, but her heart’s not it. Sweet Isis, what a day.

Has
she
become the target of a sting? Should she trash the herbs tonight or tomorrow
morning? She’ll have to call HALO first thing, find out if stocking an herb
collection is probable cause for a search warrant. She’s got nothing to hide,
but what if they plant something on her premises? Harassment happens. Damn it,
anyway.

Ruby
tallies and bundles the cash. She takes down the two-by-four, spray-painted-gold
Eye of Horus, pulls aside the red velvet curtain, opens the safe, and deposits
the bundle. The Mystic Eye has grossed two grand since Sunday, and it’s only
Wednesday night.

She
thanks her lucky stars she landed the long-term lease on 555 Clayton in the
spring of ’62 when rents were rock-bottom. Three thousand square feet at two-hundred-fifty
bucks a month for ten years. A commercial space downstairs, a two-level apartment
upstairs, a little weedy backyard, and a detached garage in the back. The
landlady didn’t care what Ruby did with the place, as long as she wasn’t
running a brothel. Mrs. Andretti turned out to be a nice Catholic lady who
liked to read the tarot. She and Ruby got along just fine.

From
spring of ’62 to fall of ’65, the Mystic Eye broke even, with fun money left
over. In fall of ’65, the Mystic Eye started grossing five hundred a month,
then a grand. Come fall of ’66, three grand a month.

In spring
of ’67, in anticipation of the mass pilgrimage of world youth during the
summer, people of the New Community were asked to join the Council for a Summer
of Love. The council consisted of hip merchants, hip newspaper publishers,
political leaders, and various tribal chiefs, several of whom are known drug
dealers like Stan the Man. The council booked campgrounds, planned festivals, and
sought donations for free services to be offered to the newcomers.