But that was not what my father wanted.
On a pa.s.s close to the house, he turned me around and said, "Now we"ll try the hill."
The hill was up the block from our cul-de-sac. I don"t have any idea what the true grade was - but in the car coming home from swim practice my mother used the brakes. At the top of the hill was my beloved vacant lot. At the bottom was the right turn you had to make to get to our house.
My father had to push me up the hill. "Would you please pedal? For christ"s sake."
When I say I thought I might vomit, I want to you understand. The vomit I was pretty sure I was about to spew felt like if it happened, my entire body would simply go inside out. That I"d puke so hard I"d puke my self. To this day I don"t know why I wasn"t crying at that point. I was silent. Just the breath of a girl pedaling up a hill.
At the top of the hill he turned me around on my beautiful bike and held the back of the seat. I remember shaking and staring down what looked pretty much like that moment on a roller coaster before the dive.
He said, "You back pedal to break it - little by little - as you pickup speed."
He said, "Down at the bottom you break enough to make a turn, and you turn. Left."
Incomprehensibly few words to me a girl.
Then I did the unthinkable. "Daddy, I can"t do it."
My bottom lip kid quivering.
"You sure as h.e.l.l can," he said, and pushed.
Psychedelic drugs put you in realms where language fails to describe emotion. I know this as an adult. What you think, what you feel, what happens to your body - your head, your arms and legs, your hands - goes into an alien dream. Your body disembodies. Your mind folds inward to the undiscovered geography of the brain. That"s the best way I can describe the shape I was in when he pushed me down that hill. The endorphins of my terror induced an altered state.
At first I gripped the handlebars so hard my palms stung. I screamed all the way down. I backpedaled but it didn"t seem to me like anything was slowing down. The possibility of stopping seemed like a lie. The possibility of turning right seemed like trying to ride to China.
Wind on my face my palms sting my knees hurt pressing backwards speed and speedspeedspeedspeed holding my breath and my skin tingling like it does up in trees terrible spiders crawling my skin like up high at the grand canyon my head too hot turnturnturnturnturn I am turning I am braking I can"t feel my feet I can"t feel my legs I can"t feel my arms I can"t feel my hands my head my heart my father"s voice yelling good girl my father running down the hill my father who did this who pushed me my eyes closing my limbs going limp my letting go me letting go so sleepy so light floating floating objects speed eyes closed violent hitting objects crashing nothing.
I came to in my father"s arms - he carried me into our house. I heard the worry in my mother"s voice saying "Mike? Mike?" He carried me into my bedroom. She followed. He yelled "Get a flashlight." She yelled "What for? What"s wrong?" He yelled "Get it G.o.dd.a.m.n it. I think she"s hurt down there." She did. He laid me down on my princess canopy bed. I looked at the white lace. My hands between my legs. My mother returned with the flashlight. My father pulled my hands away and then pulled my pants down. My mother said "Mike?" I began to cry. Hurt where pee lives. My father pulled down my underwear. My mother said "Mike." My father spread my legs and turned on the flashlight and said, "She"s bleeding." My mother crying my father saying "Dorothy go outside you are hysterical," my mother leaving. My father saying close the door G.o.dd.a.m.n it.
Weren"t there things called doctors? Hospitals?
I"d crashed my bike into a row of mailboxes.
I"d ruptured my hymen.
My father"s hands.
A flashlight.
Blood.
Girl.
The next day he made me get back on the bike after work. He made me go back to the top of the hill. It hurt so bad to sit on the bike I bit the inside of my cheek. But I did not cry. He said, "You have to get right back on and conquer your fear. You have to." Again he pushed me. Little girl not old enough to know her anger her fear her body sailing down the hill on her hot pink Schwinn, streamers flying.
Between terror and rage I chose rage.
Partway down the hill I thought of my father and how I hated the way his skin smelled like ash skin yellow cigarette stains on his fingers and his big architectural hands and his pushing me and I closed my eyes... I closed them, I did, I let go of the handlebars and I put my hands out to the sides of my body. I felt the wind on my palms and fingers. On my face. My chest. Maybe blowing straight through my heart. I stopped breaking. My feet weightless.
I wiped out without making any turns toward our house. Though no bones were broken, I was sc.r.a.ped all over. My face. My elbows and arms. My knees and legs. My strong swimmer boy shoulders. All I was was my body. Bleeding. Bleeding.
But not crying.
For years and years, after that.
The Less Than Merry Pranksters Bennett Huffman Jeff Forester Robert Blucher Ben Bochner James Finley Lynn Jeffress Neil Lidstrom Hal Powers Jane Sather Charles Varani Meredith Wadley Ken Zimmerman Lidia Twelve last ditch disciples and me.
How I walked through the door of the 1988-89 collaborative novel writing workshop with Ken Kesey was that my writer friend Meredith Wadley grabbed my hand and marched me into the cla.s.s without anyone"s permission. Meredith seemed to me like a cross between a gorgeous and complex Faulkner character with only the faintest hint of a southern drawl, and a wealthy English equestrian champion. Meredith had a mane of dark hair and even darker eyes. In her eyes there were electrical sparks. On the day the "cla.s.s" was to begin we were drinking beers in her apartment. I admit it. I was jealous. Almost choke on beer jealous. When it came time for her to go to the cla.s.s, she said, "Enough c.r.a.ppy things have happened to you. Come with me."
I said, "What? That"s crazy. I"m not in the MFA program. I"m not even a grad student. They"re not going to let me enroll."
If you look us up on Wikipedia it says the book we wrote was written collaboratively by Kesey and "13 graduate students." I was not an MFA student. I was an undergraduate sort of trolling in English and sleeping with lots of humans and riding the drug train and drinking drinking drinking. My athlete body was gone. I had grown big t.i.ts and something called "hips."
I had a huge hunk of permed blond hair. I wasn"t an accomplished writer. I wasn"t an accomplished anything. The only thing I was good at was being a drunk or high c.o.c.k tease, as near as I could tell. Why would they let me into their group? Why would Kesey?
"Bulls.h.i.t," Meredith said, "Kesey is going to love you. Trust me. Plus you are a good writer. You already know half the people in the cla.s.s. And anyway, you think Kesey gives a rat"s a.s.s about U of O rules?"
Blushing like an idiot, I let her march me down the road between the U of O and the Kesey house that would serve as the cla.s.sroom for the year, and through the front door.
Sitting at a huge table were the disciples.
My throat shrunk to the circ.u.mference of a straw. I thought I might barf.
"Everyone, this is Lidia," Meredith said.
Great. Now I get to stand here like a moron and explain myself. I just stood there with a little ticker tape running inside my skull: thisiskenkeseythisiskenkesey. The books my father gave me. Sitting in a dark theater with my father watching the films. Paul Newman in Notion. Cuckoo"s Nest.
Kesey, who was at the far end of the room, walked his barrel of a body straight over, pulled out a chair for me, and said, "Well h.e.l.lO. What do we have here? A triple A tootsie." It was the first time I"d seen him not in a photo or at some Oregon literary event. The closer he came, the more nauseous I felt. But when he got right up to me, I could see the former wrestler in his shoulders and chest. His face was moon pie round, his cheeks vividly veined and flushed, puffy with drink. His hair seemed like cotton glued in odd places on a head. His smile: epic. His eyes were transparent blue. Like mine.
My face got hot and the top of my head itched and all the others in the room looked like writers with special MFA badges while I felt like a human match. Like I might burst into a puny orange flame. While everyone was laughing about the tootsie remark he leaned down and whispered in my ear, "I know what happened to you. Death"s a motherf.u.c.ker."
In 1984, Kesey"s son Jed, a wrestler for the University of Oregon, was killed on the way to a wrestling tournament when the team"s bald-tired van crashed. My baby girl died the same year. Close to my ear, he smelled like vodka. Familiar.
He handed me a flask and we got along and bonded quickly the way strangers who"ve seen aliens can. That"s all it took. No one ever questioned me, least of all Kesey. It was brilliantly incomprehensible to me. I loved it.
I was 25.
The first day of the collaborative novel writing workshop, Kesey brought out a brown cigar box and asked Jeff Forester to roll a joint. Jeff Forester had beautiful bleached brownblond curly hair and translucent eyes and tan skin. He looked like a surfer to me. But with a wicked vocabulary and mucho skill with words. Jeff didn"t seem to bat an eyelash, he just rolled a perfect fattie, and Kesey began talking his Kesey talk, which began, "I"ve always hated sitting in a room with writers."
Bennett Huffman took a large toke from the christening joint and pa.s.sed it. Bennett Huffman was tall and thin and light skinned. His quietness mesmerized me. While we were smoking in a round, Bennett closed his eyes, lost the color in his face, and fell to the ground - almost in slow motion. Pa.s.sed out cold. I don"t remember who expressed alarm. It was maybe a woman. Like maybe we should call someone or do something. Beautiful Bennett there on the floor.
Kesey simply stepped over our comrade"s body and kept talking, pausing only to say, "He"ll be OK" Looking at us like don"t you know that? It happens all the time. The distance between the 60s and 1988 was as wide as an ocean. You could tell by our clothes, the beer we drank, the I"m a U of O duck looks on our faces. There was no psilocybin, mescaline, or LSD glittering on the surface of our skin. There was no CIA-financed study on the effect of psychoactive drugs. To my knowledge, only one of us had been to rehab or jail, and I wasn"t talking.
In my head I laughed my a.s.s off while I sat and tried to write weird sentences so I wouldn"t embarra.s.s myself. I"d never been in any "cla.s.s" like that in my life. But I"d failed several cla.s.ses, and I"d flunked out of college before, and I"d been to inst.i.tutional houses for bad behavior or instability already by then in my life, so this house seemed at least safe to me compared to the tyranny of others.
That first day we free-wrote in the house somebody - maybe Bochner - said, lamely, "I can"t write on the spot like this." Bochner was sort of an aggressive hippie - the tree hugger with weaponry type. Kesey said: "Then write like a terrorist just busted in and threatened to kill you all - like you have a semiautomatic machine gun at your skull." And looked at us like we should already know that.
Kesey laid forth two rules: first, we could not talk the plot of the novel with anyone outside of the cla.s.s; second, Kesey comprised 50 percent of the cla.s.s. Later a third rule materialized: there could be no writing outside of cla.s.s. Why? Because we"d do what Oregon writers do and become enamored with our individual voices.
Like with all cult famous folks, everyone in the collaborative novel writing cla.s.s wanted to be the one Kesey liked best. But since we spent an entire year with him, that energy dissipated at least a little. We saw all the prescription medication he was on. We saw the true size of his gut. We saw how bad his allergies could get. We saw how much he slept. How he smelled. How little energy he seemed to have. How his eyes, when he drank, and he always drank, looked like swollen vodka marbles.
Still, his aura filled the room no matter what the room was. At a reading at U of O during that year he stood on a table and screaming into the microphone "f.u.c.k You, G.o.d, f.u.c.k You!" The crowd of about 500 burst into cheers. He believed in spectacle. In giving people the show.
In the fall of the year of Kesey I felt like an awkward jerkette most of the time. When we met as a group my ears kept getting hot and I"d make lines of sweat between my legs and sweat cups under each breast. I didn"t know how to feel close to a group. My only model of group interaction was my dreaded Oedipal family death house. And swim teams. You don"t talk to anyone when you are underwater. My distinguishing character - istics felt like t.i.ts and a.s.s and blond. s.e.xual things. All I had.
I didn"t feel like a terrorist was going to bust in and kill me, but I did feel like some kind of academic authenticity police were going to bust in and cuff me and say you, you don"t belong here. You are not enrolled. You"re not even in the writing program. Look at all that ... hair. But it didn"t happen. I just wrote things down on pieces of paper, like everyone else did.
I got the closest to Jeff and Bennett. Maybe that opening scene somehow imprinted on me - Jeff carefully rolling the joint. Bennett pa.s.sing out like a reverse miracle.
The things I remember about everyone else are retinal flashes - how white Hal"s hair was. How lithe Robert walked. How Jane"s mind and sharp green stare intimidated me. How I wished Lynn had been my mother - a better more magnificent drinker than my own had been. How heavenly Meredith"s a.s.s, how Bochner became our Judas, how Charles became a cop and James had an impressive vocabulary to go with his blazing red hair, how Zimmerman appears elsewhere in this book.
In the winter of the year of Kesey we all went to his coast house near Yachats together. A run down old place with wood paneling, a c.r.a.ppy stand up shower, a table with some chairs, and no heat. But the front windows looked out onto the ocean. And of course the rooms were filled with Kesey. We drank, we walked on the beach, we listened to Kesey stories. Look I"d tell you the stories but you already know them. And he"d say the same ones over and over again. We were, simply put, a pile of new ears. At the coast house we listened to stories about Tim Leary and Mason Williams and Jerry Garcia and Neal Ca.s.sady. At the coast house we got high, some of us f.u.c.ked some others of us, we wrote in little notebooks. We slept on the floor in sleeping bags. We waited for something to happen.
I"m not sure if this is true; I"d have to call all 12 of them and take a poll. But I think we had a dumb hope the whole year. Our hope had nothing to do with the not very good at all book we were collaboratively writing. I think our hope was that Ken Kesey would write another perfect book. That he still had one in him and that we could somehow get it out. But all he kept doing was drinking. No amount of our getting high with him or walking the beach with him or listening to his stories could resurrect the man within the man.
Sometimes a Great Notion and One Flew Over the Cuckoo"s Nest are on my bookshelf next to As I Lay Dying, The Sound and the Fury, and Absalom, Absalom. Some books take your breath away. Is it the books, or the writers? When I hold Kesey"s books in my hands, when I open them, I can hear his voice. I can see him. Smell him. Feel him. But it"s the words that take my breath. Isn"t that enough?
In the spring of the year of Kesey, on Easter, we walked up Mt. Pisgah to Jed"s resting place. Some of us were high on pot and some of us dropped acid and some of us ate mushrooms. And always Kesey drank from a flask. At the top the wind shuddered the leaves of trees. The mound of gra.s.s hill like one of Kesey"s shoulders. I liked being up there. Jed underneath us. I felt most alive near death anyway. I just didn"t talk about it much. Except a few times with Kesey. We embraced up there at one point.
Toward the end of the year of Kesey at his house in Pleasant Hill he showed all 13 of us video clips of Neal Ca.s.sady. I think Babbs brought them over. Some of us were high on pot and some of us dropped acid and some of us ate mushrooms. And always Kesey drank. Faye was in the kitchen, then she went to church. We sat on the floor we sat on old stuffed chairs we sat on a sunken couch.
When Neal Ca.s.sady came on the screen my chest filled with b.u.t.terflies. He looked and acted exactly like a Kerouac sentence. The close up face of Neal Ca.s.sady ... all that random quixotic fantastic gibberish and eye shifting and head bobbing and facial tic-ery ... it was beautiful. Still though it seemed unreal, or surreal. We were nothing in the face of history but a bunch of waiting ducks. Someone could have picked us off one at a time in a pond. I sat there and wished our watching meant more.
I turned to look at Kesey watching Neal Ca.s.sady. The look on his face. Sitting there in the dark with the last ditch disciples. His smile was crooked - an inside joke kind of smile. His eyes narrowed. He chuckled once or twice. Then I saw him rub his forehead - no doubt a migraine - but in the glow of Neal Ca.s.sady it looked to me more like a man trying to rub out time.
The whole experience made me feel like Alice in Wonderland. How was it again I was in a room with Ken Kesey watching a video of Neal Ca.s.sady with a group of people who were "writers?" Who were we? After the video Ken talked a little and we asked him a few questions. Then he had to go to bed. It was 4:30 p.m. I felt like we"d failed at something but I had no idea what.
The end of the year of Kesey culminated in a reading and reception for the book in Gerlinger Lounge at U of O. We all wore 1930s vintage clothing to mimic the characters in the book. We drank peppermint schnapps one at a time from Kesey"s flask, which sat up at the podium like a flag of his disposition. We"d been interviewed by People. We"d had a photo in Rolling Stone. There were a few parties after that. I barely remember them.
My father actually flew up to Eugene from Florida to attend the reading. He sat in the audience in a $400 grey twill suit. He looked proud. Of something. In Kesey"s presence. When I was born, we lived in a house in the hills over Stinson Beach. 1963. Close enough to ride a bike to La Honda, where Kesey began his parties and acid tests the same year.
When it was my turn to read I drank from the flask and looked out at the audience. My father"s steely architectural gaze. His unforgettable hands. Then I looked at Kesey. He pinched his own nipples and smiled and made me laugh. At the end of the reading my father shook Kesey"s hand and said "I"m a great admirer of yours." I knew it was true. I watched their hands press together.
When he met Kesey, my father"s voice tremored. In parting, Kesey said to my father, "You know, Lidia can hit it out of the park." Having gotten as far as a tryout with the Cleveland Indians, that meant something to my father. The phrase, I mean.
The relatively c.r.a.ppy novel that came out of us, Caverns, was inspired by an actual news clipping, an a.s.sociated Press story on October 31, 1964 ent.i.tled "Charles Oswald Loach, Doctor of Theosophy and discoverer of so-called "SECRET CAVE OF AMERICAN ANCIENTS," which stirred archaeological controversy in 1928." Set in the 1930s, Loach is imagined as a convicted murderer who is released from San Quentin Prison, in the custody of a priest, to lead an expedition to rediscover the cave.
It isn"t a very good novel. Whatever it was we entered, it wasn"t a novel. And if we followed an ex-con priest into a cave, all we found was sea lion excrement.
I don"t know if the posse would agree with me on this, but it seemed to me like what we"d entered that year was an ending. The most extreme part or point of something. Or a small piece of something that is left after it has been used. Or perhaps it was simply Kesey"s last act - to further his own end.
Every Oregon writer has a Kesey story. I"m serious - go to literary readings in Oregon and 85 percent of the time his name will rise, whether or not whoever is speaking knew him. Sometimes it"s about his house in Pleasant Hill. Sometimes it"s about the bus. Sometimes it"s about writing. Sometimes it"s about his "wild spirit." Often, if I"m in the audience, it gives me a stomachache to hear his name used in such ... soft and impotent ways.
I think that everyone that knew Kesey knew him differ - ently. Maybe that"s true about all larger than life people, or it may be that no one really ever knows them at all - we just have exper - iences near them and claim them as our own. We say their names and wish that something intimate is coming out of our mouths. But intimacy isn"t like in books or movies.
It wasn"t until the following year, the year that was not the collaborative writing cla.s.s, the year after the book we wrote that was not very good came out that made me feel like we"d utterly failed Kesey, the year after he"d ended up in the Mayo clinic for his affair with his lover, vodka, we met once at his coast house by ourselves.
That night he boiled water and cooked pasta and dumped a jar of Ragu on it and we ate it with bent old forks. We drank whiskey out of tin cups. He told life stories. That"s what he was best at. Me? I didn"t have any stories. Did I? When it got dark he lit some c.r.a.ppy looking ancient candles. We sat in two wooden chairs next to each other looking out at the moonlit water. I distinctly remember trying to sit in the chair older and like I had been part of history. Which amounted to extending my legs out and crossing one ankle over the other and crossing my arms over my chest. I looked like Abe Lincoln.
Then he said, "What"s the best thing that"s ever happened to you in your life?"
I sat there like a lump trying to conjure up the best thing that had ever happened to me. We both already knew what the worst thing was. Nothing best had happened to me. Had it? I could only answer worst. I looked out at the ocean.
Finally I said, "Swimming."
" Why swimming?" he said, turning to look at me.
"Because it"s the only thing I"ve ever been good at," came out of my mouth.
"That"s not the only thing you are good at." And he put his huge wrestler writer arm around me.
f.u.c.k. This is it. Here it comes. His skin smelled ... well it smelled like somebody"s father"s skin. Aftershave and sweat and whiskey and Ragu. He"s going to tell me I"m good at f.u.c.king. He"s going to tell me I"m a "tootsie" - the nickname he"d used on me the year of the cla.s.s. And then I"m going to spread my legs for Ken Kesey, because that"s what blond clueless idiots do. I closed my eyes and waited for the hands of a man to do what they did to women like me.
But he didn"t say any of those things. He said, " I"ve seen a lot of writers come and go. You"ve got the stuff. It"s in your hands. What are you going to do next?"
I opened my eyes and looked at my hands. They looked extremely dumb. "Next?" I said.
"You know, in your life. What"s next?"
I didn"t have a plan. I had grief. I had rage. I had my s.e.xuality. I liked books more than people. I liked to be drunk and high and f.u.c.k so I didn"t have to answer questions like this.
As I"m telling this I realize there is another way to tell it. Tenderly. Quiet and small. The question he asked me. It"s what a loving father should ask.
Or I could lie. I could render an epic psychedelic love affair. Or hot older man younger woman s.e.xcapades. I could write anything. Maybe there are a million ways to tell it.
Kesey was the best liar I ever met in my life.
When I got home I cut all the hair off on the left side of my head, leaving two different women looking at me in the mirror. One with a long trail of blond halfway down her back. The other, a woman with hair cropped close to her head and with the bone structure of a beautiful man in her face.
Who.
Am.
I.
Back at U of O I went to cla.s.ses. Once in the creative writing department a man big as a wrestler walked by me staring at my uneven head hair and kinda banged into my shoulder. Must be a writer. Who gives a s.h.i.t about writers. Not me. Keep walking. But my heart nearly beat itself up in my chest.
I never saw Kesey again. His liver failed and he got Hepat.i.tis C. In 1997 he had a stroke. Later he got cancer and died. But I"m of the opinion he drowned.
There are many ways to drown.
III. The Wet.