Free Walking Through Walls by Philip Smith Page A

anywhere but here. Somehow Pop sensed that this happening be-in was imminent. He was changing as fast as he could to be in tune with the coming youthquake. For a man in his sixties, he was definitely a hipster ahead of the crowd.
    The Miami Herald named Pop “the King of Beads.” His office took on the look of a psychedelic candy store. Thousands of bottles containing brightly colored beads lined the shelves, waiting to be artfully assembled into curtains and room dividers for the forward-thinking idle rich. His clients would line up to spend thousands of dollars for a designer version of what would be hanging in every stoned hippie’s Haight-Ashbury crash pad.
    On weekends we all sat down at the long dining room table, which he had designed of expanded metal mesh, and strung long strands of jeweled combinations that seemed worthy of Harry Winston, all destined for wealthy homes in Palm Beach, Miami, and the Caribbean.
    Eventually none of us could string fast enough to supply the needs of his design-starved clients. My father’s beaded curtains had become a “must-have” accessory for the competitive rich. To keep up with the demand, Pop discovered a family of dwarves living one block off the poverty-stricken Tamiami Trail, which led to nowhere except the alligator-infested swamps of the Everglades. This family, who desperately needed any kind of work, was more than happy to set out beads on their individual metal TV tables decorated with pictures of grapes and ivy, and string, string, string. Pop was their sole source of income.
    There was an unspoken but prevailing social stigma attached to being different in any way, and this included being handicapped. You simply did not see handicapped people out in public. They certainly did not hold regular, visible jobs; instead they stayed home and hid. Pop was always looking for a way to help those who were less fortunate. However, Mom’s compassion stopped at the door on this one. She was unable to socialize with the dwarves and covered her eyes when the mother dwarf came to answer the door. If Pop asked her to run into their house and drop off some money or pick up their handiwork, she would refuse.
    Each of us was finding ways to adjust to and accommodate Pop’s new metaphysical personality. To her credit, Mom tried to creatively incorporate brown rice into her best French recipes and feigned interest in a book on Krishnamurti lectures. After school I was teaching myself yoga asanas from a small pamphlet, printed in India on newsprint, with out-of-register black-and-white photos of men and women in tight bathing suits assuming the poses. One particular set of photographs demonstrated a nose-washing technique that involved pushing string up one nostril and somehow getting it out the other. All we had in the pantry was plain old kite string. I passed on this one. In the mornings, I was meditating ( ommmmm ) and listening to scratchy recordings of consciousness lectures by various yogis. I didn’t understand a word they were saying, but just listening to the sound of their thickly accented Indian voices made me feel holy and enlightened.
    Early in June, just as we all thought we were finally finding our equilibrium, Pop suddenly disappeared. After several days of not hearing any chanting, I realized that I had not seen him in a while. No good-bye, no explanation, just gone.
    Mom seemed perfectly content that Pop was MIA. Her daily routine continued as if nothing had changed. Every morning she got dressed and went to the design studio. I figured that maybe Pop was on another business trip to New York or California or Jamaica (Cuba was out by then), and someone forgot to tell me. Finally I asked. Her response was simply that he was “away.” Weeks turned into months—but no Pop.
    As usual, I found ways to entertain myself, which is the nature of being an only child. In addition to painting everything in my room fluorescent orange and