Living On The Street
With zealous fervor Dave's brother woke me in the morning. He wanted
me out of his house. Back on the road, illegally hitching up to
Seattle, I couldn't help but wonder why human nature was so
deceptive, or maybe it's just that I'm a rotten judge of character.
At any rate, after all that Dave and I went through--all the laughs
and stories, I decided I would not let the last twenty-four hours
change my opinion of him. Dave was my friend and that is the way I
wanted to remember him. Besides, how could I not like somebody who
was so much like me! I guess there's something classic in that
observation.
Back in Seattle, after I bought my boat ticket to Canada, I was
disappointed to find that the boat had already left port. That meant
looking for a place to crash in a city that was, for me, losing its
shine. I went back to the hippie district to hang out. I had my
book, "Plato's Republic," to keep me company, but even that seemed
more of a pain than a pleasure. When I started reading the book,
Plato, for me, was one of Western civilization's greatest
philosophers, and then, an off the cuff remark by Dave changed all
that. He said, "Yep, the Republic was written by the world's most
famous fascist pig." Oh, well, on a planet made of dirt, what do you
expect, cleanliness?
I was not in a good mood. Plato was not the only thing that was
beginning to look different. I was beginning to see "hippie culture"
in a different way also. I now saw it as a mere coping mechanism for
the trials and tribulations of everyday life. Hippie culture, at
worst, was fake, an escape from reality, while, at best, it was
simply a means to hide the psychological scars and flaws of people
trying to be true to themselves in a society steeped in
materialistic values. Replacing materialistic norms with stifling
conformity was not going to get anybody closer to Utopia. In fact,
if it wasn't for the unspoken code that requires all "good hippies"
to travel the open road, hippie culture would suffocate under the
weight of its own conformism. Hippie culture was just one more path,
one more trend, which stops people from asking the hard questions.
Sitting on the cold cement wall, I no longer felt like I was part of
anything whatsoever. I was becoming more and more depressed and then
I remembered the chick in the submarine place. It was time to pay
her a visit. Fortunately, for me, she was working when I got there.
When I walked through the door, I was greeted with a smile and a
cordial welcome. I needed that.
Once I explained my predicament, she reluctantly let me
crash at her place. I felt like a jerk; asking favors is not my
style. In this case, however, I was so depressed I didn't care. I
arranged to meet her after her shift. She lived in a one-room
apartment with two girls and, when we arrived at her apartment, her
roommates were not happy to see me either. After the portable beds
were set up there was barely enough room for me to stretch out on
the floor. I could tell that Caroline was uncomfortable with this
situation, but that didn't prevent her from treating me with
kindness. Sometimes people can be genuinely decent and nice.
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