Marty began to notice a trend in his love life. Great amounts of energy were being expended in the buildup to an emotional climax that never came, leaving him burnt out like a wasted flare. To say he felt lonely would be to say that the Pope felt religious. He didn’t just feel the pain of unrequited love… he wallowed in it. He began to identify more and more with Vincent Van Gogh, and his obsession to have a deep, personal relationship with another human being.
He began to read Vincent’s letters to his brother Theo, and to deeply study his art… a fascination that Mr. Biagini encouraged heartily; even supplying him with background material. It was touching to read of his early obsession with his cousin, but he took it too far in Marty’s opinion. Still, he could relate to the need to have some sort of outlet for his intense feelings. He empathized that Vincent had a tremendous life energy which demanded expression, and until he found painting, and especially color, he tried to fulfill his longing for emotional satisfaction in relationships. The problem was, his personality was far too unbridled and forceful for most people to handle. Marty could really identify with his intense yearning for companionship and understanding, but not his imposing methods. The shy boy preferred to be more subtle and romantic in his approach.
That was exactly why he couldn’t forgive himself for that intense encounter with Alicia! He didn’t want to act so desperate and forlorn around her, but it just came out whenever he spoke, as if he was channeling a crazy Dutch painter. Marty could think of a million clever things to say to the object of his desire when he was alone, but as soon as he got near her – much less spoke to her – his tongue would be cut off with a razor.
“I long to tell you
That I’m always thinking of you
I’m always thinking of you
But my words just blow away”
— Cat Stevens
Instead of patching it up with Alicia and perhaps aspiring to have a normal conversation, Marty chose dwell on the past and stress about finding the right words to say in the future, while fading further away from the present moment. He didn’t realize that always having one foot in the past and one foot in the future meant he was pissing on the only reality he had, which was right now. Anyway, Alicia basically ignored him lately, and stopped talking whenever he entered the art room, which was a sure sign of repulsion. Marty sat at the same art table as her, but may as well have been on a different planet. His self-esteem plummeted faster than a meteorite, and burned up in her icy atmosphere.
Then Paula did the smartest thing of all: he stopped. He made enough money to pay off some enormous debts that had accumulated from the foolish days of his youth, then distributed the remaining packaging materials to his helpers, and changed his phone number to disappear completely. When he finally called it quits, there was enough money left over for a trip to France for the remainder of the summer, and he came back with a brand new Citroen and a Catalan houseboy.
“What did you say?!” a man with facial piercings and a bloody bandage on his neck shouted fiercely.
On the morrow, which happened to be The Day of the Dead, the erstwhile gang of conquistadores all posed for a picture: the wannabe warriors of the Valley tribe who dared to venture into hostile City territory. Mike had a bandaged head, a cast on his hand, and a puffy lip; Boobers hobbled on crutches from a twisted ankle; and Marty’s appearance was enhanced by a swollen nose, two black eyes, and a chipped front tooth. They were all dressed up for Halloween… a day too late. It turned out Dave was completely unscathed, so the rest of the gang wouldn’t let him in the picture. They felt like men when they posed, but the photographic evidence came back two weeks later, and exposed the pathetic little country toddlers who tried to party with the big boys in the city, and got way more rock & roll than they expected!
Typically, Marty approached his affliction in a creative way. He fancied himself quite the spurned romantic, and wrote pages of dreary poems about his dismal condition. He listened to sad, depressing music when no one else was around, and hugged his knees in commiseration to hear that someone else had once felt the way he did at that moment. He even wrote his own sappy songs, but had no string section, or other instrument on which to play them …except for his heart, which was worn and out of tune.
While all this miserable moping was going on, he and Mike were spending more time over at the McAuliffe’s, because the place had totally become weed central. Everybody was selling, trading, and smoking pot – as if the Lagunitas Triangle was an herbal stock exchange. Gilly obtained some amazing Kona buds from Hawaii, which he photographed in an artful arrangement on his surfboard, and sent the prints to High Times magazine. Little Billy stuffed a duffel bag full of Thai sticks that he’d bought really cheap, when some guy got busted and his girlfriend had to get rid of it. Earl the Spook maintained a secret stash of hashish laced with opium, but would not divulge its whereabouts. Its exact quantity was a closely guarded secret, but he had so much of the stinky stuff there were often aromatic chunks burning in Turkish censers that hung from the ceiling in his basement room, or in the enormous hookah that spread its rope-like tentacles like a golden octopus on the milk crate that served as his coffee table.
Paula across the creek had the biggest enterprise of all. He started a mail order business called “Paula’s Parts,” which sold imported auto parts merely as a cover for a more profitable venture, considering that the shipments were padded by bags of marijuana to protect the delicate machinery from being damaged in transport. His phone rang so much, he had to get an extension. “Paula’s Parts!” He answered cheerfully in his thick Jersey accent, “We got all the parts you need…. Yup, we got a water pump for a ’68 deux chevaux, no problem. Lemme just jot down your credit card… oh, you need a carburetor gasket kit, too?” He had a whole menu of code names that he distributed carefully to his customers, so when they sounded like they were ordering parts, they were actually specifying the variety and quantity of contraband. It was a brilliant system that employed several of his gay friends, who were constantly coming and going in their European cars. It was common to see burly men in tight-fitting shirts moving large trash bags from the trunk of a Peugeot into the tiny cabin. They would pass by the drag queens on their way to the Post Office, laboring under bundles of packages to mail. Mike and Marty helped by filling orders and packing boxes, with an emphasis on testing the quality of the packaging material. It was a fascinating adventure, like being in a foreign movie, with strange and interesting characters always coming and going.
Meanwhile, the talk around the Lagunitas Triangle was that Earl the Spook was being adversely affected by smoking too much hashish. He’d stay in the basement like a monk until someone got within hearing range, and then he’d take the hookah tip out of his mouth and start babbling about “secret ops” and other arcane jargon from the intelligence community residue in his brain. None of it made any sense, and no one could get in a word edgewise; so unrelenting was his eclectic elocution. One learned to just smile, nod, and keep on walking, and eventually he’d turn his attention back to his hookah.
“The Jonestown massacre was obviously a failed CIA plot to assassinate Castro,” he babbled with a knowing gleam in his bloodshot eyes one evening, “Noriega has thrown down the glove, and Nicaragua is gonna blow up, for sure. Anyway, that’s just a cover for the Russians establishing missile bases in Grenada, which by the way is an artificial island in the Caribbean constructed by ancient aliens to hide the ruins of El Dorado. I was on the team that scouted it for the Agency,” he added, pushing up his glasses with a fingertip, “We came in low and quiet in a glider, and reconned the entire island in one night. The pinkos didn’t have a clue, because they were all drunk on vodka… They disappeared into the Bermuda Triangle, and nobody’s seen them since.” That variety of verbal nonsense would continue until you either moved out of range, or he passed out. Earl needed help that this planet simply couldn’t provide for him.
Tillie and Susie spent lots of time on the porch, binge-drinking Pepsis with their new friend, Maryanne, whom they had met at school. She started hanging out at the McAuliffes’ with her two big brothers, Chas and Iggy, a pair of wholesome brothers who were a little younger than Mike and Marty, and in their opinion were trying too hard to be liked. Marty still remembered what it was like being the new kid in town, and went out of his way to be nice to them. He had to admit, it was a pleasant change not to be the new kid anymore. Their family had moved up from L.A., and they were Dodger fans, which was a good enough reason in itself to let them hang out, just so the locals could abuse them about losing the World Series! Chas was the older brother, and exuded a practical, friendly wisdom far beyond his years. Iggy, on the other hand, was the annoying little brother stereotype, always cracking corny jokes with immature sexual innuendo that sounded ridiculous coming from a skinny little freshman with a squeaky voice. He was an extremely likable kid, however, just because he tried so damn hard to be liked!
Coincidentally, Chas was also fascinated with cartoons. He knew Marty’s work from the Jolly Roger and the Sir Francis Duck, and was just a year behind him at Drake. They sketched a few characters together in art class, comparing the details that described their personalities. “Hey, where do you hang out?” Marty inquired, “I haven’t seen you at the bleachers.”
“Mostly at SWAS,” Chas shrugged dismissively, “My neighbor goes there.” SWAS was an acronym for “school-within-a-school” at Drake, a type of hippie hostel that was a haven for alternative learning and beatnik brainwashing.
“Oh, man,” Marty said confidingly, “You don’t want to hang out there, the chicks have hair under their arms. Come out to the bleachers, where the party babes hang out.” He gestured crudely with his hands to indicate exactly what kind of hanging out was happening. And so Chas became his cartoon apprentice, and a probationary bleacher creature. If he misbehaved long enough and didn’t fit in anywhere else, he’d eventually be accepted into the dysfunctional fraternity.
Meanwhile, Mike was growing restless again, in that persistently belligerent way of his, and announced one day at the Parkade that he was going into the city to party on Halloween. “Any of you pussies want to come along, I hear the babes are fine.” He paced next to his car restlessly, puffing on his cigarette aggressively as if it needed to be subdued.
“Are you bringing Annie?” Marty asked with a wink in his voice, just to put him on the spot like a good brother should.
Mike ignored him and continued, “I know where there’s a free kegger party.” Well, that got everyone’s attention! “It’s a Halloween party where the babes dress like Playboy bunnies.” Plans were immediately made to fit about 17 party people in the Stanger, but only four wound up making the trip: Mike, Boobers, Dave, and little Marty. They were all anxious to break free from the boundaries of their “turf,” and explore other territories. When Halloween came, none of them wore any kind of costume, figuring the object was not to trick or treat, but to get wasted as usual. They piled in the Stanger, and confidently lit up a huge doobie as they crossed the Golden Gate Bridge with the hammer of AC/DC pounding the anvils of their brains: four country boys from the Valley off to have a grand adventure in the big City!
They didn’t know San Francisco from beans – not even as well as most tourists – but that didn’t stop them from trying to find the party! Up and down the hills they drove, looking for an obvious spot with dozens of cars parked outside. It turned out that doesn’t happen in the city, where predatory tow trucks roam the streets at night like jackals. In addition, there were some terribly odd-looking creatures wandering the sidewalks. The four country bumpkins had to find the party the old fashioned way, by pulling over at a gas station and using a pay phone to call the number of the guy who was hosting it, whom Mike had met at work. He came back to the car all excited. “It’s happening, man! Four keggers down on Fillmore Street. Let’s go!”
They found the place, and rolled down the windows to check out the situation. The party house was rather obvious, with its stoop covered in costumed revelers like an Addams Family casting call, and ghouls creeping in and out of the door with cups in their hands. It’s just like the Rusty Bucket Ranch, Marty thought, but without the trees. They had to park a few blocks away, but could simply follow the noise until they made it back to the party. Mike confidently led his band straight inside – because after all he knew the guy – and they tried to blend in with an unexpectedly intense crowd of Halloween party people, packed into a tiny apartment like zombie subway riders. They overflowed in the hall, on the stairs, and out the door – all tattoos, chains, and elbows – and they smelled different in a distinctly threatening way. Heavy metal music was shredding the paint off the walls. There was just one babe dressed like a bunny, and she was as scared as a rabbit in a den of rattlesnakes. The kitchen was decorated festively with four shiny kegs of beer, surrounded by a vanguard of tough-looking young men dressed like samurai. Many stern faces stared hard at the young bucks when they expectantly pushed their way into pouring range, cups in hand.
“Who are you?” Marty heard one guy bark at Mike, but then the screeching guitars resumed their sand-blasting, and he could only follow their conversation by sight. It wasn’t going well. Mike was arguing and gesturing, and some of the bigger samurai started crowding around him. Meanwhile, Boobers, Dave, and Marty were surrounded by the ungrateful dead, who appeared to be speculating on the flavor of their brains. Mike finally gave up, and pushed his way back to them, yelling over the din, “Let’s get out of here, these guys are a bunch of fags!”
Leaving was suddenly an excellent idea. Unfortunately, it was getting harder to push through the party people who blocked the exit, because they kept coming in to see what was going on. The hostile samurai dudes were pointing ferociously at the Valley boys, and began shoving people out of their way in pursuit, as the young bucks squeezed out the door and into the hallway. “Fight! There’s a fight inside!” Dave yelled cleverly, which made more guys and ghouls ran up from the halls to look. This temporarily blocked the progress of the samurai gang, as the four rookies made their escape down the stairs and out into the cool night. Walking nervously down the street, they tried their best to look inconspicuous, but were the only normally dressed people in sight. Then they heard a commotion, and Mike turned back and waved goodbye to all their new friends, but without using all of his fingers. That turned out to be a huge tactical error!
A swarm of angry samurai scrambled down the stoop of the party house like fire ants, and started running towards them. The flight part of survival kicked in, and the prey had to dash for their lives. The four of them split up to meet back at the car, but not soon enough. The street was a chaos of running costumes headed every which way. A mummy dude came out of the shadows and bashed Marty’s face with a plaster cast on his forearm that was all too real. Pain shot through his jaw, and he briefly wondered – feeling detached from his body – if the dude really had a broken arm, or just used the cast as a weapon on weekends. Then he saw blood on his hands, which brought him back to reality in a hurry. Marty spun away quickly from the cast-wielding lunatic, and ran nose-first into a smashing karate blow that had been aimed at the back of his head! He flopped down like a sack of laundry and his mind went totally blank. Around him, he could vaguely sense the action continuing, carrying down the street away from where he lay. Flashing lights told him the police had shown up, and the motley crowd of phantoms scurried away like cockroaches when the kitchen light gets turned on.
“Marty, are you okay?” It was Boobers. He pulled Marty to his feet and into an alley, away from the action. “Mike got kicked in the head. The cops are taking him to the hospital.” Marty’s own head was erupting in pain, but he was worried about his brother, and could sense that Boobers was frightened, so he stayed focused on the moment.
Dave showed up. “I got the keys from Mike,” he jangled them for all to see. “I know where they’re taking him, let’s go.” They staggered back to the Stanger. Dave seemed to be unhurt, but Boobers was limping. Marty’s head felt as if it was full of molten lava, and he was afraid to feel his face, which jiggled with every painful step. They both looked at him with concern, and Boobers let him ride shotgun while Dave drove to the hospital.
The emergency room on All Hallows Eve resembled a nightmarish insane asylum, with a bleeding clown, a couple of twitching zombies, and a guilty-looking samurai holding a bag of ice on his head. The three remaining adventurers spent the whole night in the waiting area. A nurse looked at Marty one time, and said, “Your nose is broke, honey. It looks good on you, too!” Then she laughed and said to wait there, but no one ever came. It turned out Mike was bleeding from his ear – he got kicked in the same side of the head as the Zipper accident – and Marty informed the nurse of his previous injury. Dave called his parents and Marge, and just as it was getting light outside she and Jimbo showed up with Annie, who hysterically sprinted past the nurse’s station to find Mike, and was promptly dragged back to the waiting room by security.
They were told that Mike had a concussion, multiple contusions on his face, and a broken bone in his hand. Marty hoped the latter wasn’t a defensive wound. He wasn’t too impressed with the hospitality of the San Francisco party people! Dave’s mom came to pick up him and Boobers, but the rest of them stayed until Mike was discharged, with garbled instructions, enough pain killers to make him extremely popular, and a few smelly carbonless copies to follow up with his doctor back home.