“I’m not really a singer. I just wish I was.”
“Maybe not professionally. But who’s to say you can’t be?”
With downturned eyes, I answered. “I hope I can. One day.”
“I bet Hugh could get you a gig at the Whisky. Elmer Valentine’s a friend of his.”
What’s the Whisky, and who is Elmer Valentine? Livy would know.I smiled like I knew but wasn’t sure Brady believed me. He reached over to his table and handed me a shiny red box of matches with raised gold lettering:Whisky a Go Go, 8901 Sunset Blvd. OL2-4202.
I turned the box over, then handed it back. “Looks like a cool place.”
“The Whisky’s launched some pretty famous careers.”
I straightened. “Really? Like who?”
“The Byrds, the Springfield, the Doors. Frank Zappa and the Mothers got a record deal after playing thereonenight.” He smiled,scooted in a little closer. “Why couldn’t you? We’ll all say she got her start on the Hog Farm stage.”
Goose bumps rose on my flesh. I grinned at him but didn’t know how to respond. I didn’t want him sitting so close.
“Where do you live now?” he asked.
“Memphis. But I’m going back to college soon.” I inched away.
He took both of our plates—I’d barely touched mine—and set them off to the side. “Memphis, Tennessee. Beautiful views of the Mississippi.”
“You’ve been there?”
“Once. Drove through on my way from coast to coast.” He reached for his bong. “I just filled this with fresh water before the storm.”
The water may have been fresh, but the bong was well loved. Brown residue stained the glass. It looked gross.
I watched him stuff chunks of marijuana inside a funnel on the bong’s neck and sprinkle them with smaller grinds. He covered the top with his mouth and lit the funnel. Smoke filled the water chamber. His lips disappeared into the mouthpiece as the water bubbled. He removed the bowl of pot before sucking in the smoke, then blew it toward the door hole. After two hits, he handed both the bong and the lighter to me.
Confident I knew what to do, I took it from him. I did it exactly the way he had done, but when I inhaled, I hacked and coughed like I had tuberculosis. I made an even bigger fool of myself than I had that first night in the bowl.With Leon.
“Uh-oh,” said Brady. “Let me help you.” He took the bong back to demonstrate. “Don’t inhale right away. Just draw in a little smoke, and let it fill the chamber. Watch me.” I heard the water bubbling as soon as he placed his lips inside the glass.
Once he’d blown the smoke out the wigwam hole, he handed me the bong. He put his hand over the top so the smoke wouldn’t escape. This time, I took a hit without choking. I tried handing it back, but he stopped me. “Take a couple more.”
I took a couple more.
Within sixty seconds, a meteor shower exploded inside my head.Wow. Wow. Wow!I glanced around the wigwam. The pillows were dancing. So I stood up and danced along with them, with Mick Jagger singing “Under My Thumb” in the background.
When the song was over, I plopped down on his Indian blanket. “I’ve decided,” I announced loudly, settling down on my back. “I’m definitely joining your commune.” I pulled up my knees and crossed one leg over the other. With my head cradled in my hands, I stared up at the top of the tepee, fantasizing about singing at the Whisky.
Brady stepped over to the wigwam door and untied the rope so the flap would cover the hole. He stepped back and lay down next to me, turning his head my way. “Good choice, milady. You’ll never look back.”
I wished he’d stop calling memilady. “How much money will I need to join?” I asked, thinking about the forty-two dollars in my wallet.
“None. We pool our money. Everyone earns their keep.”
“Far out, man,” I said, in a daze. “Works for me.”
What else would I need to join the commune? First and foremost, I’d need clothes, many more than I had at the festival. It was dusk now. As soon as it got light, I’d go back to the butterfly meadow. I’d find my jacket, Livy’s pink top, and my new bra. Although I’d never wear a bra once I became a Hog Farmer, I still wanted to keep it. It matched my panties.
Would I change my clothing style completely? Wear flowy skirts and halter tops every day? A photo slideshow of all the adorable things I’d bought from Goldsmith’s played in my head. I’d never see a single one of them again if I joined the Hog Farm.Who cares?I thought.I’ll never miss a stinking one of them.
“It’s exactly what I’m supposed to do,” I said out loud, feeling relaxed and euphoric. I didn’t care about Leon. I sure didn’t care about Dad, or Livy or Shelly or that I had no home. I didn’t care about much of anything. Except singing at the Whisky a Go Go on Sunset Boulevard.
