My Beautiful Hippie Read Online Free PDF Page B

the muse struck them. I stood on tiptoe and peeked through the heads of the crowd, and there was my beautiful hippie onstage, strumming his guitar and crooning Bob Dylan’s “The Times They Are A-Changin.’ ” His voice was much smoother than Dylan’s, yet raspy in places for emotional effect. Between verses he improvised a guitar interlude that was not on Dylan’s recording. I loved to hop around and flail my arms to the hard, pounding screech of the acid rockers on the San Francisco scene—Janis Joplin, the Jefferson Airplane, the Doors, the Purple Cockroach, the Grateful Dead—but closer to my heart were the folkies: Dylan, ArloGuthrie, Joan Baez, Joni Mitchell, Peter, Paul and Mary, Judy Collins, Phil Ochs, and my favorites, Simon and Garfunkel, with their flowing melodies, soulful lyrics, and soothing acoustic guitars. Folk rock was something I could do: sit on my bed, strum a few chords, and sing a simple tune.
    When my hippie finished the song, he stood, took a bow, and set his guitar down to indicate he was done with his set. People approached him and rained change into his open guitar case. I waited for them to clear before I made my way toward him. I was wearing a homemade outfit of bell-bottom jeans and a flowered cotton blouse with a Peter Pan collar, the top two buttons unfastened to reveal the love beads he’d given me. My heart was hammering and sweat dampened the quarter I clutched in my hand as I tried to think of something to say to him.
    Only a skinny hippie girl with a headband of feathers and a skimpy halter dress was still talking to him. She was smiling and staring intently into his eyes, and he was smiling and staring back. Was she his girlfriend? No, she didn’t talk like a girlfriend. She was like me, trying to find an excuse to get to know him, her easy chatter peppered with “far out,” “groovy,” and “beautiful.” She had something commercials on the boob tube called sex appeal. In my dorky homemade clothes, I felt I was no match for her. At last the girl sauntered away, and he turned to me.
    I tossed my quarter into his guitar case. “I really liked your song.”
    â€œThanks.”
    â€œYou play really good.”
    â€œYeah?” His pale blue eyes sparkled.
    â€œAnd sing. You sing better than Dylan.”
    He laughed. “Everyone sings better than Dylan.”
    â€œI play guitar.”
    â€œI know. You told me.”
    â€œYou remember me?” I nearly shouted in surprise. I wished I could be cool.
    â€œI gave you those beads. It’s very important to give, you know? Feeds the soul. But it hurts some people, you know? That’swhy I panhandle—not to get, but to give folks an opportunity to give. Uptight straights visiting the Haight. They get a real pinched expression on their faces when they hand over their quarters.”
    I felt a hot blush rise up from my Peter Pan collar. “I’m not a visitor! I live here. I didn’t have any extra money that day and—”
    He waved a lazy palm to stop me. “It’s cool.”
    I had failed miserably at impressing this beautiful boy, who assumed he had me all figured out when he didn’t know me at all. Rena had warned me; I should’ve listened. All my hoping and fantasizing had come to nothing. A hot indignation bloomed in my throat, and my eyes welled up. I swung around to rush out of the place, but his hand caught my elbow, slid down my arm, and clasped my hand.
    â€œHey, now.”
    â€œMy mother sent me to the store with exact change and—” My chin trembled and I looked down in utter humiliation.
    â€œYou sure cry easy. Are you a sad person?”
    When I shook my head, my tears sprinkled him a little. “No, I’m a happy person,” I said to the floor. “I just
feel
things hard. I used to think everybody did, that all people feel alike.”
    â€œNot