From The Going To The Jungle Series-The Sign Of The Easy Rider

From The Going To The Jungle Series-The Sign Of The Easy Rider

In a series of articles entitled Going To The Jungle I did for the long defunct East Bay Other back in the late 1970s dealing with a bunch of returning to the “real world” Vietnam veterans who were trying to just get by in the ravines, arroyos, along the railroad trestles and under the bridges in Southern California I basically wrote down what each man had to say, what he wanted the world to know about him. Some wanted to give a blow by blow description of every firefight (and every hut torched) they were involved in, others wanted to blank out ‘Nam completely and talk of before or after times, or talk about the fate of some buddy, some ‘Nam buddy, who maybe made it back to the “real world” but got catch up with stuff he couldn’t handle, as is the case here with Doug Powers, who went way out of his way to avoid talking much about ‘Nam, or about how he wound up in the hobo camps in the late 1970s after heading west from Ohio in the early 1970s,  but who wanted to talk about his biker friend from Maine, not a Hell’s Angel-type biker just a guy who liked to ride, ride free, a guy who had gotten him  (and a few other guys too) through the ‘Nam hellhole, a guy named Jeff Crawford, and about his life on the road, on the biker road, and of his sorry, beautiful life ( Jeff’s forever expression).

Usually when a guy told me a story he was either telling his own story, or that of somebody who he had first-hand knowledge about. Stuff that could be readily verified, or at least could be checked out in some detail.  Doug Powers had been drying out in a Sally shelter in San Diego in late 1976 when he saw the news on the shelter television screen that Jeff had made his last ride, had faced his waiting fate. He was sure the guy described in the news broadcast was old Jeff.  All the details about the guy fit, name, ‘Nam  veteran,  Norton bike that he always bragged about buying once he got back to the “real” world and got rid of that sluggish Harley that was sitting in his cousin’s back yard, from Maine, living up outside of Oakland in Albany, suspected drug smuggler which he had heard from another guy they both knew in ‘Nam he was up to, about 30 years old and so once Doug got clean (for a while) he drifted north to Albany to check up on what had happened to his old amigo. So this is the way Doug Powers told me the story, Jeff’s story, the story of his last big ride, the way he got it from Little Peach, Jeff’s last sweet mama and the one who was with him on that last journey, told him the road stuff, straight up, so some of stuff probably has the old hearsay problem, although later when Doug checked up, checked against stuff that he knew about Jeff from ‘Nam days and from the police reports after that it held up well enough. Held up well enough when I checked Doug’s stuff too.

This Little Peach, by the way, this sweet mama easy rider woman of Jeff’s whom he met at Ginny’s Coffee Shop in Albany, California where he hung out for breakfast, and where she was serving them off the arm, was at the time of her telling Doug what had happened just returning to school at San Francisco State where she was an excellent student if that helps any in making the story more trustworthy. It’s worth mentioning too in case you are wondering about what kind of woman Little Peach was to hang with an outlaw easy rider that like a lot of us then Little Peach was young, restless, working, going to school, living at home with mother, no boyfriend to speak of, a little unlucky in previous affairs and so when she saw Jeff, a little older which she liked, not a rough guy from appearances, seemingly a free spirit with that Norton,  once he started giving her a look, starting paying attention to her, started making his moves she was ready, ready to jail-break, to ready to be his sweet mama, no regrets. Here goes:       

He, the ghost of… Peter Fonda he, Captain America he , Dennis Hooper, Billy The Kid he, Hunter Thompson he, Doctor Gonzo on an Indian he, James Ardie he, Vincent Black Lightning he, hell, Sonny Barger or one of one hundred grunge, nasty mothers keep your daughters indoors under lock and key Hell's Angels brethren he (as if that would help, help once she, the daughter, saw that shiny silver sleek Indian, Harley, Vincent, name it, whatever come by and did some fancy footwork midnight creep out that unlocked suburban death house ranchero back door to meet with that power), Jeff Crawford he, Norton he,  just wanted to drive down that late night Pacific Coast highway. Where else in the American world could you have the hair-raising blown warm wind at your back and the sometimes hard-hearted, but mainly user-friendly, ocean at your right. Somehow Maine icy stretch Ellsworth Point did not make its case against that scenario. He knew those Eastern forlorn streets and back roads like the back of his hand but there was no going back, and no reason to since his divorce from Sheila and his Ma dying.

Drive, ride really, motorcycle ride  maybe with his new sweet mama behind holding on to her easy rider in back, holding tight, her breasts rising and falling hard against his waiting back, and riding, laughing every once in a while at the square world, his old square world (and hers too) against the pounding surf heading south heading Seal Rock, Pacifica, Monterrey, Big Sur, Xanadu, Point Magoo, Malibu, Laguna, Carlsbad, La Jolla, Diego, south right to the mex border, riding down to the sea, see. Riding down to the washed sea, the sea to wash him clean. Her, she had nothing to be washed, except maybe a little off-hand kinky sex she had picked up somewhere and had curled his toes doing more than once, but that didn’t count in the soul-washing department. She hadn’t been out in life long enough to build up soul dirts that’s what he told her and made her laugh. Hadn’t seen enough, not in his book. And made her laugh again. That washed clean he was seeking not some big old poet- wrangled washed clean either, some what did old ‘Nam Brad call it, some metaphor, if that was right, if that was how Jeff remembered it, not for him, just washed clean.  

Easy, Jeff thought, just an easy rider and his sweet, sweet mama, her hair, her flaming red hair, or whatever color it was that week. He didn’t care what color really just as long as it was long. He had had enough of short- haired women like Sheila all boyish bobbed, such women all snappy every which way, all kind of boyish do it this way and that way, all tense, and making him tense. He liked the swish of a woman’s hair in his face all snarly and flowing and letting things take their course easy. A ‘Nam lesson. Her hair blowing against the weathers, against the thrust of that big old Norton engine, all tight tee- shirt showing her tiny breasts in outline that a shirt or sweater made invisible (he didn’t care, unlike a lot of guys around the bar, the biker hang-out bar, where he hung out over in Richmond, the Angel Tavern, the one run by Red Riley whom he occasionally “muled” for heading south as he would do again on this trip, about big breasts, or small), tight jeans (covering long legs which he did care about), tight.

Maybe a quick stop off at Railroad Jim’s over on Geary before heading to ‘Frisco  land’s end Seal Rock and the trip south and if he wasn’t in then to Saigon Pappy’s, Billy Blast’s or Sunshine Sue’s to cope some dope (weed, reefer, a little cousin cocaine to ease that ‘Nam pain, the one Charley kissed his way one night through his thigh when he decided to prove, prove for the umpteenth time that he, Charley, was king of the night). Righteous dope to handle those sharp curves around Big Sur, and get her in the mood. She, ever since that midnight creep out of Ma’s back door over in Albany a few months before when he had challenged her to do so since  he wanted to test her to see if she was really his sweet mama, craved her cousin, craved it to get her into the mood, and just to be his outlaw girl.       

Yeah, it was supposed to be easy, all shoreline washed clean (no metaphor stuff, remember, just ocean naked stuff), stop for some vista here (about a million choices, he would let her pick since this was her first run, her first working run), some dope there and then down to cheap Mexico, cheap dope, and a haul back El Norte and easy street, easy street, laying around with sweet mama, real name, Susan White, road moniker, Little Peach (an inside joke, a joke about a certain part of her anatomy that was all she would give out to Doug) until Red Riley needed another run, another run against the washed sea night.

Then, like a lot of things in his sorry, beautiful life, it turned into one thing after another. He took a turn around a Pacifica curve way too fast, went way over the edge with his right hand throttle (Little Peach so excited by this outlaw run stuff she slipped her hands low, too low while he was making that maneuver, thinking, maybe, they were in bed and well you know things happen, distracting things, just bad timing) and skidded hair- pin twirl skidded off the on-coming road. Little Peach was hurt a little, a couple of bruises, but the bike was dented enough to require some work at Loopy Lester’s back in Daly City (Red Riley had guys, bike magic guys, up and down the coast). So delay, money draining delay.

A few more days delay too, they ran into rain down around Big Sur, pouring rain and Little Peach moaned about it and they had to shack up in a motel cabin for those few days, days spent looking at that fierce ancient rock littered ocean. She loved it, had never been that far south before but to Jeff just more delay. After those mishaps, he then made his first serious mistake, short on funds he decided to rob a liquor store in Paseo Robles, the nearest town big enough to have a liquor store large enough to rob. He decided not to tell Little Peach who would have cried him out of the idea. Hell, as he told Little Peach after it was over and they had time to take a breath, he had not  decided to do that deed  he was hard-wired compelled to make that decision, hard-wired by his whole sorry, beautiful life, his father (a drunk), then mother (none too stable, a product of those too close Maine family relationships and those long, bad ass Maine winter nights) left him Maine dumped, his whore ex-wife from over in Bangor cheating on him with every blue jean guy in town while he was in ‘Nam, his very real ‘Nam pain (while saving Brad’s, metaphor Brad’s city boy, college boy sorry ass when Mister Charlie decided, probably hard-wired too, to come prove who was boss of the night), and, a little his dope habit (picked up courtesy of ‘Nam too, he had always been strictly a whisky and beer man before like all the guys around town). Little Peach, gentle in some previously unknown, unknown to him, womanly ways, especially for her age, no question, and the eternal ocean, gentle, when it co-operated, his only rays.

Hard-wired to just take now, take it fast, and get out fast.  Hell, it was easy, he had been doing small felonies since he was about sixteen when he just had to have that first Harley some Ellsworth guy was selling, selling cheap, since the guy was headed to Shawshank for a long stretch. That first time Jeff wasn’t even armed, easy. As so it went. Easy, except that time down in Rockland where the clerk flipped the alarm and the cops were just a block away. Yeah, he didn’t figure that one right, not at any point. That was when he got the choice- three to five in county or ‘Nam. He hadn’t messed with that kind of thing, that robbery stuff, in California since he had hooked up with Red’s operation about a month after he got out of the VA hospital over in ‘Frisco.  

Trouble this time, the night he tried to rob the Paseo Robles liquor store, was the  owner, and he identified himself as the owner to Jeff, must have thought he was Charley, shot at him, nicking him in the shoulder. He grabbed the owner’s gun in the tussle that followed and bang, bang. Grabbed the dough, Jesus, almost five thousand dollars in that two -bit town, and the extra ammo under the counter and headed out the door, Little Peach waiting on the Norton, trembling, confused, tried to ask what had happened but he hushed her, and they roared off into the Pacific highway night.                           

A serious mistake, for sure, felony murder, one the cops kind of had the habit of pressing the issue on. They caught up with him just outside Carlsbad, South Carlsbad down pass the airport road, in a culvert near the state park camp sites, where he was resting up a little (bleeding a little too). He had left Little Peach back in Laguna to keep her out of it and with most of the dough, telling her to get out of town on the quiet, to use the dough to go back to school, and to have a nice life. He was okay that she didn’t argue a lot about staying with him, or getting all weepy about his fate. She had been his ray and that was enough, enough for what was ahead. So alone, not wanting to face some big step-off, he wasn’t built for jails and chambers, not wanting to face another downer in his sorry, beautiful life, taking a long look at the heathered, rock strewn, smashing wave shoreline just below, he took out that damn gun, loaded the last of the ammo, and doubled around to face the blockading police cars which had him hemmed in at both ends of the road, and throttled-up his Norton. Varoom, varoom…