The Road Home Read Online Free Page B

tiny golden beads sat against the wall. An expensive oriental rug lay on the floor. The stale smell of incense, Gauloise cigarettes, and patchouli oil permeated the room. On the back of the bedroom door was a hand-lettered poster advertising oneof Ken Kesey’s acid trips. The letters seemed to swell and pulse—more of the lingering effects of the acid, he guessed.
    His precious Gibson twelve-string guitar leaned against the wall, its case lying open on the floor beside it with a few dollars from his most recent panhandling foray still inside. His fingers ached from the hours of mindless strumming that had passed for music among his friends the night before.
    The sound of automobile traffic rose up from the street outside. His bed was a mattress on the floor next to the wall, so he turned over on his knees, grabbed the windowsill, pulled himself up, and looked out through the tall window of his second-floor flat. Traffic was bumper-to-bumper headed west. It was time for Sunday morning football at Kezar Stadium, and a line of cars inched along as the straight folks drove down Haight Street to see the hippies. Unfortunately for the drive-bys, the hippies had been partying Saturday night, and very few of them were out on the street Sunday morning.
    Johnny crawled off his mattress and groped his way to the pile of clothes heaped on the floor. He pawed through until he found the pieces that comprised his favorite outfit. He took hold of the couch and pulled himself up slowly, his head aching. He stood there for a minute until the whirling sensation passed. Then he pulled his clothes on. A thin cotton embroidered shirt, torn bell-bottom jeans, and green suede Beatle boots completed his attire. He stumbled over to the closet, pulled his leather-fringed jacket off a hanger, and put it on. He went to the mirror and stared at his pale complexion for a few moments.
    Sheesh, look at me. I’ve got to get out more .
    Then he ran his fingers through his long dark hair, pulled it into a ponytail, and fastened it with a rubber band. He looked at the orange headband on the dresser with the button that read, “Give us this day our Daily Flash” pinned to the knot, but he decided to forego wearing it this morning. His body was still wrestling with the effects of thedrugs, and he really didn’t feel like a “daily flash” at the moment. As he stared at the bleary-eyed face in the mirror, he wondered why he thought tripping on LSD was so great.
    He thought back to last night’s “freakout.” After the LSD had come on, Fat Freddy, one of his roommates, sat down in the corner and started asking, “But what does it all mean?” over and over until he had almost driven Johnny crazy. And then there was Lisa, the girl from Seattle, who liked to writhe like a snake on the floor when she got stoned. At one point Johnny got his guitar, and they sat in a circle and jammed until late into the night, everyone moaning and chanting along with the strumming.
    Then there had been a big fight over whether they should listen to a Jefferson Airplane album or just turn on KMPX and lie on the floor. The party had ended up being a bunch of strange people doing weird stuff and playing loud music. That was supposed to be enlightenment? At one point it had gotten so loud that Johnny had yelled at them to shut up and peace out. Then someone suggested doing a flaming groovy, and they almost set the ceiling on fire.
    Johnny opened the door and peeked down the hall. None of his roommates were up yet, and he was glad of that. He had made a bit of a jerk of himself by reproving his roommates’ obnoxious behavior, and he really didn’t want to face them this morning. Instead, he headed quietly down the stairs and out the door. There was a good breakfast place on Haight Street, and he wanted some strong coffee to wash the bitter taste out of his mouth and some decent food to help him feel better.
    The air outside was crisp