Free Dreams by Richard A. Lupoff Page A

unmistakable sound of a female palm colliding with a male physiognomy and caught the wind-up of an angry exclamation that ended with, ". . . and your pitiful little weenie, too, you creep!"
    That caught my attention.
    I turned in time to see Frankie-Jimmy Kerr slinking away through the mob of stoned Tuna-lovers. And there was Vampirella decked out in black satin with opaque shades and her hair looking as if the sun had no other job than to make it look gorgeous.
    "Del!" Vampie squealed. "Del, oh my gosh, I'm so happy to see you. You won't believe what that son of a something wanted me to do. Oh, Del, please, will you stay with me in case he comes back, or sends that louse of a brother of his."
    We stayed together and Hot Tuna went on and on, the sky grew dark, the crowd thinned, the stars came out, the gray mist embraced us and we embraced each other and I had an inkling for the first time in my life of what love poetry is all about.

    ***

    And sometimes the world, as they say, is too much with us. I mean, the next day I scrubbed myself down, shampooed a couple of times, scraped the bristles off my face, threw everything except the sweat suit on my back into a couple of pillow cases and headed down to the local Laundromat. I sat there reading a copy of The Dharma Bums while my clothes and the soap suds went 'round and 'round and 'round behind the little glass window.
    When the machine stopped I transferred everything to a dryer and sat down again with my book only to feel a cool and gentle kiss on my freshly shaven cheek.
    And there stood Laura Tomkins, ace girl shutter-bug. "You're looking chipper as hell, boss, how's about buying a lady a cold refreshing brew?"
    And off we went to a nearby watering hole. There was a juke box in the corner and somebody had fed it with a bunch of coins and Grace Slick's voice was wailing. There was a TV set over the bar with the picture turned on and the sound turned off. In a totally bizarre way "Somebody to Love" made a perfect soundtrack for Karl Malden and Michael Douglas screeching up and down the streets of San Francisco in their mile-long Ford sedan.
    And when Laura and I got back to the Laundromat some skunk had opened the dryer and made off with my personal wardrobe. I collared the dragon who made change and sold overpriced packages of soap powder to customers and demanded to know who had my belongings. She said it wasn't her job to play policeman and couldn't I read, didn't I see all the signs that said, Keep an eye on your belongings, Management is not responsible for lost or stolen property.
    Jeez.
    Laura tried to cheer me up, invited me to join her and Gordon for a pizza and a movie, but I was in no mood. I just went home and sulked for the next several hours. When the walls started to close in on me and the only choice on TV was Lawrence Welk or Art Linkletter, I grabbed my Commander Cody baseball cap—at least I'd left that at home—and headed for North Beach. There's always some kind of distraction in North Beach.
    The flashing lights and pathetic barkers and moronic thrill-seekers didn't do it for me. Not tonight. They just depressed me. I walked down to City Lights and looked at the books in the window and decided maybe I'd find something to read. I wandered around picking books up and putting them down. I finally settled on A Coney Island of the Mind. I stood in line to pay for the Ferlinghetti until I got to the cashier's counter.
    All right, guess who was working the register.
    I don't have to tell you. Oh, boy, did she look good to me!
    "Vampirella!"
    "Yes, sir. You want that book? A great book, great book, excellent choice." She told me the price. It was right there on the cover but she told me anyhow.
    "Vampirella, it's me, Del."
    She told me the price again and held out her hand.
    I slapped the book into her hand and walked out.
    All right, all right, why didn't I just write her off as a flake and go look for another lady fair? Right. Try telling that to somebody