Dark Side of the 60's Moon by Mike Marino (great novels of all time TXT) 📖

we’d reach the commune I stopped at a pay phone to check in with the family without giving away our location. Joey and Olivia did the same.

We were ready to enter the Twilight Zone of the Revolution...the sign post ahead..Canada, eh?
Chapter 22 - Canada, Oh Canada!

 

 

 

We had crossed over the Arizona  state line heading east into the red rock cleavage of New Mexico two days ago with Sante Fe dead ahead,  I had mixed emotions. We made it this far but,  would some mentally John Wayne deranged New Mexico sheriff’s deputy who was a mental patient  cross between Barney Fife and a mass murder who missed out on being a Gestapo goose stepper during the big war now see his chance to grab the brass ring by stopping a VW camper full of obvious commie pinko deviates who would disappear from the face of the Earth only to be discovered decades later buried in the sand, mummified pharaohs. Remember….it is a dry heat down there...mummification is as natural in the desert as shrinking heads is deep in the Amazon jungles among forgotten tribes of blow gun proficient marksmen you only see in National Geographics.

Carol had leaned forward towards the front seat while Joey and Olivia pulled a passion pit Saturday night at the drive-in movies display of copping feels and inserting tongues in each others mouth to see who could outdo their opponent.

The war in Vietnam was increasing in U.S. troop strength as were  the consequent number of dead G.I.s who would not be returning home to work the back 40 at dads farm in Kansas or marry the next door neighbor girl  whose pigtails he used to pull in school. Some would never see that son or daughter, now one year old grow up and give him grandchildren.

Carol laid out the game plan for us in as crystal clear a fashion as she could.
“In your case Mickey it won’t be too bad once we get you and Myrika across the border. We’ll even give you a language translation book from Berlitz so you can understand basic Canadian. Words like “Eh?” which has multiple meanings,” she laughed.

Myrika was curious about once we were in Canada. “How much danger of arrest will be in, I mean how far underground do we have to go?”

Carols response? “You, Myrika will have to be careful. You’re already illegal here in the U.S. with your expired Visa, but we can work on that too. It’s not as easy as you think. The Canadians are still mixed on the feeling about deserters and draft dodgers flooding the provinces.”

(By war’s end, 30,000 of draft resisters and deserters had left the country to Canada, as well as Sweden, France and even parts of Asia)

“Draft evasion by a U.S. citizen is not a crime in Canada, so far, but desertion by a U.S. citizen,  as in Joey’s case is complicated. Although not technically a crime Desertion is a crime in Canada, for Canadians, and the Canadian military strongly opposes condoning U. S. desertions. So far, the Canadian government maintains the right to prosecute  deserters, but pretty much leaves them alone and even instructs border guards not to ask questions regarding their military status!”

 

I chimed in as loudly and as excited as Quasimodo in a bell tower in Paris. “What about giving us the full run down, what to expect before we get there. How prepared are we going to be or are we just gonna cross over and be rewarded with a year’s supply of Canadian beer and Vancouver pussy?”

“You’ll receive full pre-immigration counseling at the commune. Do’s and don’t’s while enjoying Her Majesty’s colonial hospitality. Once there we have our Canadian counterparts and Americans already there who will assist you with work papers, drivers license, housing, that sort of thing. There are many communities already established to..well.. absorb you. I think a nice arts colony would be ideal, and Mickey, you can write about the resistance from a new standpoint, without of course, blowing our cover.”

Well, it all sounded kosher and saved me from showing up at Fort Wayne in Detroit wearing lace panties carrying Liberace albums under my arm.  I could even prick my arms to simulate hypodermic injections and be super junkie from the Cass Corridor ghetto.
(Side note, later it was found that those who left the country faced imprisonment or forced military service if they ever returned home and yes, the good old red, white and blue continued to prosecute draft dodgers after the end of the Vietnam War. Some of us  returned to the U.S. from Canada after a 1977 pardon, but half stayed behind having become fully Canadianized, whatever that means.)

 

New Mexico….gateway, in our case to the Great White north via the Pacific Left Coast route to Vancouver. I couldn’t wait to buy a truckload of plaid shirts and get Myrika a Maple Leaf bra!

Chapter 23 - Commune of Hobbits

 

 

We rolled ragged and tired into the Solstice Commune early the next morning an hour after one hell magnificent fireball of a sunrise only New Mexico in it’s infinite turquoise tranquility can offer. The Sangre de Cristo mountain range surrounding the region was a geological crown of thorns living up to their most Jesuit of names, The Blood of Christ.

The commune, a world unto itself lay near the forest east of Santa Fe itself, desolate, yet near enough to the commerce of the city itself. As the tired old camper limped into view of the early communal communion with nature, enjoying the gratification of another day rising as beautiful as a prospector’s sourdough starter just before he was about to strike the Mother Lode of silver in a New Mexican mine.

At first sight of us, and a honk of the horn, they all came running towards with childlike smiles beaming bright as headlights on an 18 wheeler. Flower power was in full bloom here with golden hair muses and bearded satyrs, both sexes festooned with beads and flowers.

It was a real Life Magazine photo op. We were all dressed in faux military field jacket and Digger Free Store/Salvation couture to complete our war torn wardrobe.

Myrika leaned over to whisper in my ear quietly, “We’ve stumbled into Tolkien’s world, darling. Don’t piss off the natives. That wise old one looks like Gandalf.”

“Yeah, but this ain’t Middle Earth and you’re not Betty Boop Baggins either,” I said with a slight snarl to my voice, but a wink of my eye.

“Hey, Frodo, wanna fuck later?”

“Jesus, Myrika you are one horny hobbit, but, yes, maybe we’ll get a private yurt where we can have  sex while doing yoga after feasting on Kama Sutra granola bars.”

Carol was laughing now, thankfully. “Alright you two. Be nice. I agree it’s a little bit stone age, or should I say “stoned” age, but believe me, they know what their doing. If you can get past the Mama’s and Papa’s look they are your best chance to get to Canada and all the snow you eat.”

She was right of course. We woke up a sleeping passed out Joey to join us greeting our new friends. “Hey, Joey, wake up,” I reached back shaking him vigorously. “We made it to Disneyland, Amigo. The Seven Dwarfs want to meet you. Hi Ho Hi Ho!!”

We exited the camper slowly and were introduced around by Carol. We met a cornucopia of girls named Sunflower, Sunshine, Moonlight and Starlight. The males of the species wore equally as “earthy” names. Hell, we met a Mountain Dave, one Jupiter, a Thunder and one Mad Hatter. Not one was named Larry, Moe or Curly. You’d think there would be at least one Groucho or Harpo. These people must have named themselves from the Andy Williams songbook, but not one goddamned person was named Moon River!

“Welcome, friends.” spoke Zarathustra, the communes spokesperson. “Carol and Will sent word and we’re looking forward to helping you. The struggle against the war can be dangerous, but we are all soldiers here. Soldiers with a cause. To end the needless bloodshed and profiteering of corporate America. Peace Brothers and Sisters.”

He wasn’t a human being. He was a recording...a pamphlet….a walking manifesto….a Gestetner Gandhi smoking  grass.

I extended my hand in greeting. “Thanks, Zarathustra. (Honest, that was his chosen name!) “We’re glad to be here and anything we can do to help out here. Uh, I assume everyone here enjoys a little weed every now and then, if so we brought plenty and some acid also unless you’re all on the wagon,” which of course was responded to by a torrent of laughter from the commune.

“It will be most welcome...we rely on deliveries from our sources in Albuquerque or visitors. We do have wine, plenty of wine mi amigos y amigas! Today and tonight we celebrate...tomorrow we begin getting you ready to pass into a brave new world without war and killing. Canada...the Peaceful Kingdom.”

Joey, mumbled “Beats a POW camp in Hanoi,” in his usual skeptical manner. “I’m good with it Mickey, or should I call you Thor or Zeus?” laughing.

“Whatever you want to General Patton! Got ya prick!”

We both laughed. We had too. It was a very granola fiber enriched experience we had through circumstances stumbled into, feeling like paraplegics in a foot race with Kenyans!

Two of the caftan garbed commune girls let us to what would be our Xanadu for the week. It was not a yurt, but one of many wigwams. (There is a difference between a wigwam and a tipi by the way) Wigwams are larger, quite roomy and comfortable, but  not portable, whereas tipi’s are smaller and can be moved somewhat easily during hunting migrations.

Who knows, someday you might see Wigwam Motor Homes and Tipi Fifth Wheel Trailers made by Airstream rolling down the highways as whole tribes head to the Grand Canyon or some vortex defying Mystery Spot where water runs up while the kids feed the two headed deer in a cage out back behind the tourist outhouse by the statue of Paul Bunyan or concrete dinosaurs.

As we four took or place in our wiggy wigwam, Carol went off to join the tribal elders of the commune, and later would spend the night banging Zarathustra while he spake. Who the hell spakes during sex?

We unrolled our sleeping bags, marked our turf in the closed confines and rolled a fat one to consecrate our dwelling. Pleasantly stoned, Joey