Evergreen, Chapter 17
February 9: Bob Dylan and the Band
“I’m sorry, officer. My ride let me off here. I didn’t know where to go.”
“Obviously you knew you shouldn’t be here, or you wouldn’t have run off into the woods like that.”
“That was stupid. I’m sorry.”
“Kinda funny, actually. Cracked us right up, didn’t it, Stan?”
“That it did.”
“We’ll let you go this time, but you have to get off the highway. You can’t hitchhike here. Just walk down a bit, and you’ll see the onramp for I-5. You can stick your thumb out there. Good luck, and be careful. A lot of real losers out here.”
When my ride from Olympia, a scruffy, athletic man probably in his thirties, driving a new, yellow Dodge Challenger, picked me up, he told me he was going to Federal Way, about halfway to Seattle, but he neglected to say that his exit led directly to another four-lane highway. As I had no idea where I was once we left I-5, or how far it would be to the next exit, I asked him to let me out immediately, figuring my best bet was to get back to the interstate as soon as possible. He dropped me on the side of the highway, lined on both sides by dense forest, with no sign of civilization anywhere. I ran across to the other side and stuck out my thumb, hoping to quickly get back to the freeway, but within minutes a highway patrol car appeared around a bend. Stupidly, I ran for the trees. If I had just turned and walked up the highway, the police might not have stopped. It’s a good thing they were amused by my lame escape attempt.
“Oh, my God, did you see that? It’s like the sky is erupting.”
“What? What’re you talking about, man. Where? I don’t see . . .”
“Right there, can’t you . . . And there’s another one. Cosmic!”
“Are you tripping, man? You maybe think I should drive? Don’t go buggin’ out on me, now.”
“No, no, it’s copacetic, dude. Take a chill pill. You’re probably as slammed as me, anyway.”
“That’s a fact.”
I got a ride within minutes of reaching the I-5 onramp, but the brothers who picked me up are really stoned. The driver was OK at first, but now he acts as if he’s hallucinating. I feel like I’ve stepped into a Cheech and Chong routine. The driver has stayed in his lane so far, and he’s driving under the speed limit by about ten miles an hour, but I’m worried about how he’s going to negotiate the freeway exit, which is coming up soon. I also hope their destination hasn’t changed; they were a little vague about it when they picked me up. I realize that “Seattle Center” could either mean the specific urban parkland that contains the Seattle Coliseum, where Bob Dylan and the Band are playing tonight, or downtown Seattle in general. I try not to worry, consoling myself with the thought that if I end up in some unknown part of town, it should be easy to get directions to the Seattle Center, and if I’m close enough, I can just walk toward the Space Needle.
I bought Alma’s extra ticket to the Dylan concert, but she and Jenny drove up yesterday afternoon, along with Charlie and his girlfriend. They didn’t offer me a ride, much less a place to stay overnight. The weather has been clement, overcast but not too cold, and Walt assured me it would be easy to hitchhike to Seattle. I left Evergreen anxious but confident I could make it to the show on time. It’s a little past six now, so I’ll have plenty of time to find something to eat and get to my seat before the concert starts at eight.
“His clothes are dirty, but his hands are clean / And you’re the best thing that he’s ever seen.”
“I love this song,” Jenny says, grabbing my arm and leaning into my shoulder. I assumed that the Band would open the show for Dylan, but they all came out together, kicking things off with “Most Likely You Go Your Way (And I’ll Go Mine)” and now “Lay Lady Lay.” With the Band backing him up, Dylan’s delivery of his hit love song is much more aggressive—almost commanding (“stay, lady, stay”)—than the syrupy version on Nashville Skyline. Robbie Robertson’s stinging guitar fills replace the sleepy Nashville pedal steel, and Garth Hudson’s swirling, fractured organ lines supplant the eerie sustained organ pads on the record. Dylan pitches the verses higher, too, but I can’t tell if he’s changed the key or is in a higher octave. His singing is the very opposite of romantic, almost angry, like a holdover from “Most Likely You Go Your Way.” The last word of “whatever colors you have in your mind” seems to have three syllables: “my—ee—und” and Dylan sings it as if he has just bitten his tongue.
Jenny listens with a dreamy, blissful smile, her head half-cocked toward me. She’s wearing tight, threadbare blue jeans and a sort of Sgt. Pepper’s marching band jacket with a plunging neckline and possibly nothing underneath. We all met up a half hour before the show in front of the snack bar. Jenny bounded up to me, planted a kiss on my cheek, and took my arm to lead me into the arena, where she insisted on sitting next to me, with the other three in front, though my ticket had me sharing a triad with Charlie and Bonnie, his girlfriend. I never did find out who the extra ticket had originally been for.
After three or four more songs, Dylan leaves the stage to the Band, who launch into a few of their best-known songs: “Stage Fright,” “The Night They Drove Old Dixie Down,” and “King Harvest.” When Robbie Robertson’s guitar kicks off “When You Awake,” I turn to Jenny and repeat back to her, “I love this song.” But Rick Danko’s herky-jerky, half-spoken vocal is disappointing. It’s like he’s been advised by Dylan to remove all trace of sentiment from his singing. The Band’s backup is restrained, too, with just a couple of short Robbie Robertson solos and simple accordion and organ chords. The high harmony vocals on the record are missing, and Danko’s world-weary lullaby has become a jaunty recitation. He seems to be trying to avoid all the original melody notes. But the funky version of “Up on Cripple Creek” that follows restores the smile to my face. Richard Manuel’s wah-wah clavinet dominates, channeling Stevie Wonder’s playing on “Superstition,” and Garth’s wild keyboard conjuring justifies the price of my ticket. Dylan comes out for a few more, including a searing “All Along the Watchtower,” and the first set ends with an uninspired, plodding “Knockin’ on Heaven’s Door,” the weakest song of the set.
I lose Jenny in the crowd filing out for the break, but after a visit to the restroom, we all meet by the snack bar. Jenny and Alma walk up as I’m telling Charlie about my hitchhiking experience.
“The driver was pretty buzzed, but he seemed to sober up after a car veered into our lane as we passed the Seattle city limits sign. At least I got here in one piece.”
Charlie laughs, and Alma asks, “When are you going back?”
“I was thinking I’d hitch back tonight, but maybe I’ll see if there’s a Greyhound.”
“The Trailways station is closer, I think,” Charlie says. “You might try that first.”
“It’ll be pretty late by the time you get to Olympia,” Jenny says. “If there’s even a bus after the show. You could stay at Alma’s house. We’re taking the bus back tomorrow afternoon. Her sister Greta is coming for brunch in the morning and then her mom will drive us to the Greyhound station.”
“I thought you all drove up together?”
“We did, but Charlie and Bonnie are staying at his parents’ house in Duvall, and they aren’t going back till Monday.”
“You’re sure your parents won’t mind if I crash with you?” I ask Alma.
“It’s only my mom, and no, she won’t mind,” she says, taking a sip from the large plastic cup in her hand.
“OK, yeah, that’d be great,” I say, smiling at Jenny. But, as I’ve come to expect, her exuberance suddenly dims, and as we head up into the tunnel leading back to the darkened arena, she turns to Charlie to ask about his family.
Alma’s house is at the top of a small rise on a residential ridge with a view of Puget Sound. A midnight moon is out, and the water sparkles even from this distance, a half mile or so from the shoreline. The quiet, dark house seems small at first, but Jenny leads me through the living room and kitchen to a door that leads down to the basement. The lower level is almost a separate apartment, with a large family room, full bathroom, and spare bedroom. Jenny shows me where everything is, pointing out the light switches at the bottom of the stairs and outside the bathroom, and tells me brunch will probably be around eleven. “But get up whenever you want. Alma’s an early riser.” She leads me to the door of the small bedroom, but doesn’t enter, sleepily bidding me goodnight with a gentle squeeze of my arm.
Jenny had been quiet and subdued ever since I took Alma up on the offer of a place to stay, though she was the first to leap from her seat as Dylan and the Band left the stage at the end of the show, clapping and cheering wildly until they returned for an encore. She was also first on the bus to Alma’s house, striding all the way to the back and taking a seat next to an elderly woman, leaving Alma and me to share a two-seater opposite them. Had I misread her ebullience and affection during the first set as something more? Or was she just telling me not to expect a late-night visit to my bed?
I have trouble getting to sleep, though the bed is comfy and warm, with two fluffy, padded quilts and a thick foam pillow. All I can think of is that somewhere above me is the sexiest, most alluring woman I’ve ever met. Jenny’s soft, wavy brown hair is thick and sensual, chaotic ropy strands entwining like jungle vines; her dark brown, almost black, eyes are tinged with an alluring melancholy, even when she’s laughing or excited; and her full, crimson lips often seem as if they’re searching the trembling sky for a home. My impression of her body has primarily come from a few hugs, promising a soft, voluptuous form hiding beneath her usual baggy, shapeless shirts and army pants. Tonight’s Sgt. Pepper’s jacket was a charming surprise. But her vacillating moods make me wonder if, as with Emily, I’ve mistaken platonic warmth for something more romantic, and that this is the way she treats every male friend. Of course, I saw how she flirted with Tracy at the DeLuxe, which I know led to at least one trip to the bedroom, and that flirtation was not unlike the way she treats me at times. But . . .
I’m just drifting off, the screen of my mind shifting between the concrete and the fantastic—an image of Jenny singing with Angelica at rehearsal becomes Rick Danko and Robbie Robertson sharing a microphone—when I hear the cellar door creak open and gentle footsteps descending the stairs. Another door opens, presumably the bathroom, and a thin strand of light appears beneath my doorway. When the toilet flushes, I turn to the wall and pull the quilts over my head, assuming that whoever has decided to use the downstairs bathroom will be returning upstairs. With the quilts covering my ears, I miss the sound of the bedroom door opening, and I’m startled when the bed moves, the outer edge tipping toward the floor as Jenny crawls in next to me. She slides across the sheets, one arm moving up my hip and over my side, coming to rest on my t-shirt–covered chest.
I turn to face her and her dry, urgent lips meet mine, her tongue slipping into my mouth. She pushes me onto my back and rolls on top of me, sitting up to pull her shirt over her head. There’s enough light in the room to reveal the dazzling beauty of her naked upper body, though she doesn’t let my gaze linger on it, lowering herself to my chest after tossing her shirt to the floor. Her mouth moves to the back of my neck, and then to my earlobe, her hips moving slowly against mine. I move my hands down, slipping them beneath her underwear and over her smooth bottom. As my arousal becomes obvious, her body stiffens, and she slides slowly off my chest until she’s lying face down on the mattress next to me, her face buried in my shoulder with one arm over my chest. Puzzled, I pull the quilts over us, and she curls her body into mine, her legs together and her bottom away from me, her bare breasts sheltered by her arms.
“I’m sorry. I guess I’m tired,” she whispers. “Can we just . . . ?”
“Of course.”
She slides her arm slowly across my chest and down toward my navel, but then suddenly pulls it back, placing a kiss on my t-shirted shoulder as her body settles.
I have trouble getting to sleep, especially after Jenny’s arm and leg instinctively move onto me. But at least my insomnia is due to the confusion of erotic memory and spurned desire and not my usual anxiety and worry.
February 10
When I wake around ten, I’m alone; I have a vague memory of Jenny climbing out of bed in the light of dawn, pulling her shirt over her head before opening the bedroom door, which is still ajar. Overlapping voices and the sounds of kitchen activity can be heard somewhere above as I go into the bathroom and see that a towel has been left for me on the toilet seat. I take a shower and wash my hair, leaving my cheeks rough for lack of a razor.
I’m apprehensive, wondering which version of Jenny I’ll find upstairs, the soft, affectionate one, or the distracted, distant one. But after I pull on my clothes, which still reek of pot, cigarettes, and sweat, and quickly straighten the bedroom, Jenny appears in the doorway with a large mug of black coffee.
“For some reason I assumed you drink coffee?” she says, with a shy smile. “Do you like it black or with milk, sugar?”
“Usually a little milk,” I say, “Although black is fine.”
I take a sip from the mug and am surprised at the strong, bitter taste.
“Whoa!”
“Is it bad? Alma always makes it too strong. She gets beans from this place in the Pike Place Market she loves—Starbucks. Her mom sends her bags of coffee beans regularly, because she can’t get them in Olympia. I prefer tea, myself. I’ll get you some milk.”
“No, no, it’s good,” I say. “I was just surprised. I’m so used to the swill at Evergreen or my parents’ instant. But yes, I will take some milk.”
She leads me to the stairs, and after taking the first step, she turns to face me, her eyes level with mine, and plants a tentative kiss on my lips. “There, that’s better,” she says, laughing, before turning to ascend the remaining stairs.
“Hey Alma, Lucas is up.”
“Oh, good, we can eat.”
The rest of the day passes pleasantly, and Jenny remains in a warm, playful mood, mostly ignoring the half-contentious joking that characterizes Alma’s relationship with her mother and older sister. Jenny is not physically affectionate with me in the presence of the others, but she stays close, sitting beside me at brunch and in the back seat of the car on the way to the Greyhound station.
We find a seat together on the bus, and as it pulls out, we crumble into one another and I close my eyes, drifting happily into half-sleep, my hand resting gently on her knee. We say goodbye to each other at the Olympia Greyhound station, where Alma has arranged to be picked up by a friend who is taking them to dinner, after which I cross the street to wait for the Evergreen Shuttle.
On the shuttle, as the dirty, damp bungalows of the Westside give way to dense greenery, my chest tightens, and I fight back tears; a bitter sadness has risen unbidden from some place deep in suppressed memory. I’ve spent a wonderful day with an adorable, gorgeous woman, but a bleak, puzzling melancholy settles over me as I stare at the dreary landscape, the dark, secretive forest now ominous and threatening. I realize that, despite the romantic connection I’ve made with Jenny, I don’t know what any of it means. We never spoke of what was happening between us or the future in any way—what it might mean for the next time we see each other. In the moment, it was perfect and thrilling to simply be together, without any thought of where or when our next encounter might be. We are able to talk easily about insignificant subjects, like her inability to read past the first couple of chapters of The 42nd Parallel (I told her I thought that was a common problem) or the small, fussy man in the bow tie and fedora who sat opposite us on the bus from Seattle to Tacoma. Shared silence also comes easily to us. But, for example, we never discussed whatever happened between her and Tracy, or her relationship with Ezra, whose room she’s now living in at Willowberry, or my heartbreaking winter vacation.
I remember that I’m expected at Walt’s for tunes and dinner before the square dance tonight. I usually show up around four or five, and it’s four now, so I should be able to make it to Walt’s in time for dinner. I wonder if the elation of the first half of the day, or my current gloom, will be obvious to Sally or Walt. I should have invited Jenny to the square dance, or at least asked if she was planning to go. She hasn’t been to any of the dances since December. Perhaps she’s afraid of running into Tracy. I could have told her that he hasn’t been showing up much lately, but I was afraid that bringing him up might put her off, signaling that I knew they had had some sort of relationship. My chest contracts again at the thought of seeing Tracy at the dance.
I know it’s ridiculous to feel proprietary about Jenny so soon after our first . . . what? Not a date. Dalliance? Affair? That I do confirms how extraordinary this day has made me feel, despite the jolts of depression. Like Angelica said, I have a tendency to think too much about relationships instead of enjoying the moment. Because that’s where my exhilaration has come from: the momentary feel of Jenny’s tongue between my lips, or her teeth biting my earlobe; the momentary unveiling of her bare breasts, or her panty-clad bottom leaving the room in the morning light; the moment my anxiety evaporated as she appeared at the bedroom door with a mug of coffee and a smile, or leaned into my body as if she was trying to cast a mold of it on the all-too-short bus ride.
I need to accept my good fortune, my melancholy pleasure, wherever it has come from, and not try to analyze it or comprehend how it happened. If I do, I’ll lose it . . . or become lost.
Idylwild, 1969
Behind the playground, there are two paths that lead to the river. I know where one of them comes out, but not the other, and I’m hoping that Alice doesn’t know either and will assume that I’ve taken the familiar one. I can’t face her, not this afternoon, not after what happened at recess.
“Hey Lucas!”
Ignore them.
“Is that a sissy bike? Only sissies ride bikes like that.”
“Do you give Alice rides on your sissy bike, Lucas?”
The path veers to the left, and I let the bike slide into the narrow trail. It’s steeper than I thought. I’m going faster than I want to; I feel like I’m losing control of the bike. I jam on the brakes, but my foot slips off the pedal, and I hit a tree root. The bike bounces into the air, but I hang on. There’s a curve coming up and I slam on the pedals again. I skid around the corner, still traveling faster than I’d like, and see before me a tree that has fallen across the path. I don’t think I can stop in time, so I steer to the right, off the trail, into some low bushes and thick sand. I hear a loud “pop,” and my rear wheel fishtails. When I finally come to a stop, I look back and see that my rear tire is flat. I walk the bike around the end of the fallen tree and back to the trail. It shouldn’t take that long to get to the river, and I’m out of range of Chris and his gang. If Alice has followed me, however, she’ll catch up easily.
Around another bend, I see the river through the trees and smell cigarette smoke. I stop, wondering if I should continue or retreat back up the trail. But the river is not far, and it would take a long time to push the bike back up the steep hill. OK, keep going. It’ll be OK. I hear a cough, and a quiet laugh. I can see the sand along the riverbank. I’m almost there. The trail is moving parallel to the river now, instead of straight down to it. The smell of smoke has gotten fainter, and there are no more voices.
A bend up ahead looks like it’ll take me down to the river. As I approach the turn, I hear another cough from behind. I look back, but seeing nothing I keep walking. Around the bend is a small campsite. The trail doesn’t go to the river at all, but dead-ends here. On the other side of a fire pit three tall trees form a barrier that will make it impossible for me to proceed much farther. I hear a cough and turn to see a man sitting on a log, until now hidden from my sight, just outside the clearing. Behind him is a small, green tent.
“Hey kid, you lost?”
“Uh, yeah. I thought this went to the river.”
“Nope.”
“What’s wrong with your bike?”
“Flat.”
“Can’t help you there.”
“I think I took a wrong turn somewhere.”
“Were you coming down the trail? You probably got confused at that tree.”
“Yeah, I went around it.”
“Ah, right. If you’d gone over the top, you’d’ve seen that the main trail veers off to the left. You must’ve gone to the right.”
“Yeah, guess so.”
“ . . .”
“I guess I’ll head back.”
When I get back to the fork, I look up the trail and see Alice struggling to push her bike over the downed tree. She’s not having much luck. Her front fork keeps getting stuck in the branches. It looks like her front wheel is damaged. Maybe she ran into the tree. She hasn’t seen me yet, but I lay my bike on the ground and turn back up the trail toward her.
“Do you need any help?”