An early story, 1971

WHITETHORN, 1969

I

“Just who in the hell do these funky backwoods capitalists think they are?” Motherball looked down from where he was crouched fixing a light fixture in the roof. Business was slow at the Black Bear Garage.

“They’re not only backwoods capitalists, Motherball, they look like they’re startin’ out to be a backwoods lynch mob.” Jordan meticulously unwrapped a cold Red’s Tamale as he said this, his eyes fascinated by the congealed fat on the wrapper.

Motherball crawled along the crossbeam below the arched ceiling until he approached the middle, where he stood up. Then he casually stepped off the beam as if he were stepping into an elevator, and the elevator was going down. His fall was brief; he kept his standing posture and looked at his wrist as if he were wearing a watch; when he hit the floor his knees bent fully and he sprung back into a short hop toward Jordan.

“What do you think they’re goin’ to do, M. B.?” Jordan asked in concerned tamale talk.

“Who knows what powers righteous Stuart might have? He could get the good people of Whitethorn sorely grieved once he has a mind to. I think, Jordan, that we better go have a talk with Rozelle. Whitethorn won’t miss us for a couple of days.”

II

It must have been over a hundred and it wasn’t even noon yet. Everything was so still and dry. August is such a fucking hot month. Mark was driving his VW van slowly, easing it over the little hills, trying not to get it too heated up. You could burn a valve so goddamned easy in that heat. He was on his way to the little grocery store in town. Sally, his wife, decided not to leave the relative coolness of the woods. She was staying with their daughter April. Maybe they’d hike down through the woods to the spring and clean out the pump. Or maybe Sally would just sit around and watch April try to catch a chicken. April thinks the chickens are amazing. They’re much more fun than the two munching old goats they have. The chickens all hang around together, even when she’s chasing them. The goats just kind of move away when she comes up and starts bothering them.

Mark and Sally and April lived on eighty acres of ridge covered with lodgepole pine and lots of deer and poison oak. The only flat places were on either side of the dirt road that ran through the property. They cleared a couple of acres on the south side of the road as soon as they moved up to the land. Then came planting a very large garden. They built their house and chicken coop with the lumber they got from tearing down an old abandoned shack they found on the other side of Garberville. This they managed to get done before their first winter. And this they did with a young baby, living in a large canvas tipi. So far this spring and summer they added on another section to the house, bought goats, and got a good-sized water tank built at the top of the ridge. During their first winter Mark had to work in the sawmill in Garberville, but this year he didn’t plan on doing that.

Today was Stuart’s day to take care of the store. He should have been refilling the big earthenware crocks where they keep the whole grains; or any number of things that needed doing around the store. Instead, he was sitting on his hands on the edge of the big redwood stump that served as a counter. He was staring out the window. He saw a cloud of dust coming down the hill, and in a couple of seconds he could tell it was Mark’s van. He watched as Mark maneuvered around the various pot holes in the road. It seemed as if he were watching an old movie in slow motion. The only noise that came through the open door was the crunching popping noise of gravel being abused by snow tires. The reluctant sound of the engine hung in the background, as if it were mortally wounded by the dust and heat.

Stuart stood up and wiped his moist palms on his pants. He walked to the dairy case, took two beers and walked out to meet Mark. He sat down in one of the wicker chairs outside and opened one of the beers. It suddenly seemed strange to him to be sitting there. The scenery in front of him, some dry pine-covered hills with a gravel road trailing down from them, seemed two-dimensional. The blue and white Volkswagen bus seemed frozen in its relative position, as if it were glued on to a scene totally lacking in perspective. The store on whose wall he leaned, was it really a store? Did he really run a store in this town called Whitethorn? Was he alone, or was he part of an organic community? He noticed he was holding a cold metal can in one hand and his other was grasping the arm of a wicker chair. A wicker chair painted silver, peeling in places and unravelling in others. How strange it was to see that. Sitting in a silver woven chair. He was really just part of the weave.

Just then he realized he was being spoken to. Mark was standing opposite him, grinning.

“Hi, Mark; I’m sorry. Just day dreaming.”

“Day dreaming, huh. That’s nothing to be sorry about. It’s a very healthy, natural occupation around here. I wish people everywhere could do a little more day dreaming.”
Stuart handed him a beer. “Here, drink this.” His voice had an overtone of command in it.

As Mark opened the beer he noticed that Stuart seemed to be miles away again. Only this time it wasn’t so much like day dreaming, it was more like distracted brooding. Stuart seemed to be chewing on the top of the beer can.

“What’s on your mind, Stuart? Ginevra didn’t say much except that you wanted to talk to me. Is it about the Truckers?” Mark waited for Stuart to turn his head. “You working on your strategy, Stuart?”

“It’s not my strategy, Mark. It’s not my anything. It’s our problem and if . . . .”

“You mean they are our problem. Yes, I agree. Do you have any ideas ?”

“No, damn it, no. I don’t know what to do about it. They ripped off the store again day before yesterday. Just walked in nonchalantly and picked up a bunch of stuff and walked out. Jordan kind of giggled and Motherball didn’t say a goddamn word. Fucking zombie.”

Mark sat absorbed in his beer can.. He was picturing Motherball as he looked spring before last when he and Jordan and the other people in the Black Bear commune first came to these parts. He hadn’t changed. Still the strange quiet man who just appeared one day in Stuart’s store and asked how to get to Frank Rozelle’s place. If anything, he was more inscrutable now than ever.

“Stuart, where is Ginevra right now? Where did she go after she left my place?”

“She said she was going to go down to Olema to try and find some friend of hers that used to know them when the commune lived down there. She’s hoping to get her to come up and talk to the commune, to sort of mediate this thing.”

“Well, I guess it might do some good.”

“I don’t know. Right now I feel like nothing’s going to do any good. I think we ought to run those guys out of town. Burn down their fucking garage. It’s been done before.”

“Yeah, I know. The classic west-of-the-Pecos solution. Listen, Stuart, we ought to talk this thing over as a town. As you said, it’s our problem.”

“That’s more or less what I wanted to talk to you about. Paul and Elissa and Ginevra and I have had it with the Black Bear commune. We decided to try and get a lot of people together tomorrow morning here at the store. Maybe we can collectively decide on something.” The words “town meeting” and “posse” flashed into Stuart’s head as he said this. Was this what America was all about? Were the Truckers nothing but cattle rustlers?

“I take it Paul and Elissa have already started telling people what’s going on?”

“Yeah, last night they went out to the Egg Ranch. Today they’re probably almost to Garberville by now. Should be back pretty soon.”

Mark stood up, stretched and yawned -- “A beer before noon on a hot day is not good. I guess I’ll go out to Averill’s then. Have you talked to him yet?”

Stuart shook his head. “He’s all yours. Tell him to bring his philosopher's stone.”

- - - - -

The sun wasn’t exactly what you call taking over the sky just yet. In fact, it looked like it was having a hard time just getting over the scrub oak. Frank Rozelle’s silver Airstream trailer was just waking up to the faint pink reality of daybreak. The moon had given up and was dissolving rapidly. There was a dirt road passing by, elbowing its way determinedly through the scrub oak and manzanita. It began at one end of the forty acre piece, and it ended at the other end, in front of a three room cabin in which eight members of the Black Bear commune lived. Motherball’s form could be seen coming slowly away from the cabin. As he walked slowly along the road, he saw a group of deer coming down the slope a hundred yards or so to his left. They were going to drink from the little stream that watered three or four redwoods marking the edge of Rozelle’s piece of land. Suddenly the buck’s ear twitched and he turned and saw Motherball. Motherball noticed that the others in his entourage did the same. He stopped to watch them at length. Then he said in a soft voice, “Hello. It’s a nice dawn, isn’t it?” The buck was speechless. One of the does lowered her head and began nibbling at the new tips of a young douglas fir. The buck looked at her and then back at the intruder. Motherball said, “Help yourself” and recommenced walking. About fifty feet on he turned and saw that they were down to the stream and were drinking. None of them was watching any longer. Motherball suddenly felt very refreshed. He began walking again and realized how much he would miss the area. Still, one can always tell when the time to move on has arrived. Actually, It arrived some time ago; about the time they all left Olema. He shouldn’t have stayed with them here at Whitethorn. He should have kept going. He remembered his phone call to Frank; Frank saying no, he wouldn’t allow a bunch of no-credit strangers on his land; unless, that is, Motherball would take responsibility for them, watch that they didn’t destroy anything or bring the law down on him. That meant living here. When Motherball remembered how it was when they first got here his throat tightened. Moving into the old shack that Frank called a cabin; building the skeletal, hang-together structure they all dubbed the B1ack Bear Garage. And then there were all the bad times. Ah yes, the good old bad times. The all-too-omnipresent bad times. What would one do without them? Builds up muscle tone, strong bodies twelve ways. Opposite sides of the same coin. When you’ve got pride in the hand, you can be sure there’s shame lurking in the bush. And, one supposes, vice versa.

Motherball had thought about it a good deal and was decided that it would definitely be La Paz, Baja California. It felt good to be decided. Everything was falling right. Winter would be a good time to make the trip. He could probably stay either in Laguna Beach or La Jolla until November.

Just then the sight of the silver trailer brought him back to Now. Tangible Now; so thick you could feel it all around you; holding you in as you yourself would hold in a yawn, your eyes watering in the aftermath. He went up and put his face against the screened open window. As he cupped his face he said, “Frank, Frank, it’s me, Motherball. Wake up.”

Frank raised himself up and stared across into the greyness of the room, the back of his head to Motherball.

“Turn around, dear, and face the glorious dawn.”

“What the fuck? Oh, it’s you, M.B. What in God’s name are you doing waking me up so early?”

“I wanted to talk to you, Frank. Shall I come in or do you want to talk out here?” Motherball watched with a kind of detached good-natured amusement as Frank tried to make out his face more clearly through the screen. Then he threw back the covers and got out of bed. His nude body glowed slightly in the greyness. “Well, shit. I might as well come out there.”

Motherball sat down with his back against a stump and waited for Frank to come outside. It was hardly five seconds later that Frank stepped out, still nude, onto the little makeshift wooden porch and came walking over.

“Behold, the aborigine leaves his Airstream for the company of the bush. Watch out for the poison oak when you sit down.” Motherball flashed on the pleasantness of seeing a naked fifty-year-old man standing there, outlined by cedar, pine, fir and the brightening sky. He didn’t look bad at all; Motherball wondered if he himself would look that good at fifty. Hard to tell.

The first thing Frank noticed when he had come up to Motherball was the pack leaning against a tree. “So you’ve decided to leave. I was expecting it to happen. I’ve been expecting you to do that for the last month, at least.”

“This isn’t just a change of scenery for me, Frank. You might say I’m leaving now so I won’t be run out later.”

“And you think Stuart’ll be leadin’ the posse.”

Motherball focused his gaze on Frank with a look of surprise. “Have you heard about all this, Frank?”

“Yeah, I’ve been hearing snatches of conversation around town. I’ve even overheard gossip in Garberville. Something to the effect you guys been stealing from the store.”

“Well it’s not just gossip. It’s true. And there’s quite a feud brewing. But stealing’s such a hard word, Frank. We’ve offered to pay them in mechanical work, but Stuart won’t go for it.”

“Well, shit, then. That’s no reason to think you’re going to be run out of town. It seems to me that you could all make some arrangement or something. People around here are . . .”

“People around here are uptight. Right now they’re arranging something all right. They’re gettin’ together a town meeting. Jordan overheard Ginevra talking to Stuart about it. Which brings us full circle to why I’m here right now.”


Mark would be the last person to tell you that this twisting, slipping piece of direction was a road. The van had successfully navigated the five miles that continued on from his eighty acres, but now it was time to seriously consider walking. The road was broken down into its component elements of dust and good-sized rocks. And in about a hundred feet it would be descending into a very deep ravine. Mark pulled the van over to the side and parked. Averill lived about a mile further on. He lived off to the right, near the bottom of the ravine. Mark started walking off the road, slanting down in the general direction of the plywood and two-by-four geodesic dome that Averill inhabited year-round. There was a deer trail that led downward through the scrub oak. In about a hundred yards it merged with another deer trail and soon, as he neared the bottom of the ravine, he would enter a small grove of redwoods that stretched quite a ways along the creek bottom. There were a few trickling springs here and there but this time of year the creek bottom was barely damp.

Soon, Mark could see the dome on the other side of the ravine. He was heading for it so intently that the sudden sound of Averill’s voice behind him made him trip.

“Jesus Christ, you scared the shit out of me Averill. What are you doing sneaking up on me like that?” Mark smiled as he ran his right hand through his hair.

“I wasn’t sneaking up on you, Marcus. I just happened to be kneeling here and you walked past me.”

Mark could see that Averill had been doing something to the pump (which was off to the left. His hands were muddy and he was holding a long screwdriver. Averill’s long, coarse black hair was pulled back into a stern pony tail. His clothes were in loud contrast to his surroundings and they just barely hung on a body whose gauntness testified to years of macrobiotic eating habits. Markwas reminded of the days three or four years ago when they were roommates in Berkeley. Averill was the alchemist -- the man in search of spirit. He had just gotten into his macrobiotic thing then, but had almost blown it very early in the game. He went too far too fast. Too strict a regimen, is the way he explained it to everyone after his doctor diagnosed his condition as malnutrition. So then he took a long detour and “acclimatized” himself slowly. He had come to Whitethorn about the same time as Mark had.

“I was thinking, Mark, about raising goats here. It’s a perfect terrain: lots of broadleaf plants and grasses from the topof the ravine down to where the trees begin. And a watering place at the bottom.”

“Goats tend to turn wild though, unless you keep them fenced in.” Mark was surprised at being induced to think about goats at this moment.

“It would be easy to build a fence at the top on both sides. They would have about ten acres of steep grazing land. Just what they like.”

“It’d probably be a good idea. If you got healthy goats to begin with you probably wouldn’t have any problems.” Mark was still a little distant. Things were a little schizoid. Almost like being back in Berkeley. Talk and plans but no for sure connection with reality.
Averill could tell Mark was elsewhere. “Why don’t we talk about what’s on your mind, Mark. Do you want to come inside and have some tea or something?”

“No. I really can’t stay. I just wanted to tell you about a town meeting that Stuart’s having at the store.”

“I already know about it. Ginevra’s been by here, and she told me what’s been going on.”

“Had she already been to Olema? No, I guess she couldn’t have. Mark took off his shirt and tied it around his waist. The sun was just plain brutal.

“So. She went there after she left here. That’s really a trip, mobilizing the whole town.” Averill looked at Mark with a questioning and squinting one-eyed smile. “What do you think will really happen? Ginevra told me what Stuart and them. have been thinking about doing.”

“I really think, Averill, that whatever we do, everyone should think about it and come prepared to make a decision.”

Averill stepped closer to Mark and grabbed him just below the rib cage and lifted him up about two feet off the ground. “Why don’t you take me up on some iced tea or something? The sun ain’t going to leave us alone out here.”

“Yeah, I was in the process of changing my mind just now anyway.”

Averill picked up the rest of his tools and the two of them began walking down towards where the dome sat on its wooden piers, which staggered out over the bed of the creek.

“Good People: My time is up around here. If it weren’t vigilantes it would be just plain boredom, although other possibilities exist, yes they do. The place has charm, but it makes me feel weird to say that. Why am I leaving, then? I guess it’s the feeling I get more and more frequently that I’ve somehow used this place, and now I’m done. Shit, it’s 4:30 in the morning and I’m running off at the mouth, as they say. There’s a ring around the moon. Jordan, you and Helene look like a matching set, back-to-back bookends. I envy you, I really do. I feel calm. I surprise myself. I half expected to feel extremely restless. But since I’ve been that way for a long while, I guess I’ve got it out of my system. I feel calm because it feels good to be moving on. I’m bound for Laguna Beach or La Jolla, or wherever I can find Skipper. Then, who knows, maybe I can talk him into going south to Baja. Beyond that the future is open to speculation. I have no idea what Frank will say to all this. I hope nothing unpleasant will happen, but maybe I’m being naive. Anyway, I’ve a hunch that with my departure life will be perhaps a little easier on y’all. Next time around. M.B.”

Jordan could feel the sun staring him down with full force, so he decided to get up. He managed to slip out of the covers just before Helene rolled over and dived beneath the covers to escape the exuberant brightness of the sun. He padded into the kitchen and sat down in the cool of the little windowless room. Then he noticed the note from Motherball lying there with a ketchup bottle holding it down. At that moment he realized that Motherball was nowhere around. Jordan read the note. When he finished he was fully awake. He was thinking about the conversation they all had last night. Jordan remembered how Motherball seemed to be taking all the blame for the way things were happening. But he hadn’t said anything about leaving. It made Jordan wonder how sudden his decision really was.

Jordan very quietly stood up, and the quickness of his motions surprised him. He dressed and was out of the house in a minute. He got in the old Dodge pickup and let it roll a little ways down the gentle slope before he started it up. He was on his way into town. But he wasn’t exactly sure why, or what he would do when he got there. He had a feeling that town was where he should probably be right then. In a way he felt relief; but he also felt sadness mingled with feelings of loss. He was aware that a change had occurred in all their lives; and as usual, you don’t notice it until it has passed and you’re sort of caught in the wake. Motherball was already a memory, but it didn’t surprise him. It was if the whole time they had been living with Motherball, he had been a memory -- a memory of a person they had always known, who was familiar to them.

When Jordan came to the stop sign at the intersection of the county blacktop road and the oiled road he had been driving along, his thoughts turned to Whitethorn. As he crossed the blacktop and began the descent into town, he could see Stuart’s store and the Black Bear garage. There was a small group of people standing around, maybe eight or ten, and they had some ladders set up in front of the garage. Again, he felt a feeling of recognition, of deja-vu. As he pulled up to a stop he could see that a few people were on the roof, pulling up the tar paper. Other people were clearing out the garage. Everyone had seen him coming, and after he had gotten out of the pickup, Mark came up. He had a kind of pained but assured look in his eyes.

“Jordan, I doubt that you’re surprised. I think something had to give sooner or later.” The sight of everyone dressed up like carpenters gave Jordan butterflies.
“No, I guess I’m not surprised. But what’s going on?” He hadn’t been able to voice the protest of a propertied interest. He suddenly felt powerless; he owned nothing, and protest seemed absurd. At that moment Ginevra came up, looking grim but trying to look indifferent.

“Jordan, you and your friends have forfeited your right to coexist in this town.” She was squinting from the sun and this helped her look less grim. Looking in the direction of the rapidly disappearing garage, she said, “We all decided we could make better use of the wood.”

Jordan was a little annoyed by her sarcasm but still he felt no particular loss. “Well, I’m not going to argue with you. I guess the reason I came into town was to tell you that Motherba1l’s gone. But I guess that means a lot more to me than it does to you people. I think, though, that you’re probably glad to hear it.” Jordan half expected some sort of momentary response from somebody, but it didn’t come. Everyone but Mark and Ginevra had continued working uninterrupted by his arrival. And these two had merely taken it upon themselves to let him know what they were doing. Jordan had a sudden ridiculous urge to volunteer to help, but then he began to feel very depressed. He stepped back into the pickup and drove away

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