Life is like one big Appalachian Trail. You wake up some mornings with a song in your heart and a spring in your step, others with a splitting headache, but either way there is a job to be done, tasks to be attended to, miles to walk before you sleep. Some days, the going is easy. The sky is blue, the trail is firm underfoot, the air is clear and the path is forgiving. Others, the rain pours down and the climb is steep, your soaked feet sink into soft ground and the walk tests your mettle.
You are, in turn, elated and blue, optimistic and disappointed, hopeful and discouraged, determined and crushed. But all along the way, for better or for worse, in sickness and in health, for as long as you shall walk are the Fellow Travelers, your mates who share the trail, dispense a shot of encouragement or a piece of advice, gift you with a smile or a pat on the back or even the occasional scolding. Your spirit rises when you see them, hear their words, look into their understanding eyes. You breathe in their essence, heed their wisdom, rise to the challenge. You don’t want to disappoint them. It’s the code of the trail.
The walk on the trail is long but not forever. Fellow hikers disappear along the way, some filled with the glories of accomplishment, others succumbing to the weight of the journey. Getting from Point A to Point B is not the main objective, of course. The driving goal is to walk the trail with honor and compassion, to march with eyes and hearts wide open, to better discover the world around you and the travelers who fill it. Every day, you take a few more steps. Make sure that none of them are wasted.
 |
| Leslie & Stuart Bentler with Bill in Lawrence, circa 1968 |
Trailmates
Stuart Bentler was a wild and crazy guy, if you can say that of any architect. In his college years, he lived in a modest duplex apartment with his All-American Girlfriend Leslie Logan, a girl-woman of intellect and warmth, and he was an early customer of the Subterranean Circus. Stuart, a charter member of the Straight Guys Society was fascinated by the new hippie onslaught, wanted to know all about it, wondered if he could get a ticket to the ball. Leslie, who spent her working hours teaching school in Hawthorne, wasn’t so sure about all this but she knew better than to stand in Stuart’s path. He was like a firecracker---once lit, best get out of its way.
Stuart and Leslie opened their home to Circus personnel, providing excellent music on crystalline speakers, all-you-can-eat artichokes and even a Lite-Brite toy for stoned people to bliss out on. Bentler liked his marijuana and was eager to try LSD, but a smidge fearful. The residual value of a conservative upbringing cannot be dismissed out of hand. Nonetheless, one night we gave him some. At first, he was overjoyed, but then worried when he discovered there was no shut-off valve.
“How long does it last?” he wanted to know. “I think I’m freaking out.” We assured Stuart this was a common concern for first-timers, but as the evening wore on he was certain he was in trouble. “I think I’m going crazy. I want it to stop. Take me to the hospital!” he pleaded. In those days, not many people wanted to escort a pal into the Emergency Room and advise the doctors they’d been playing around with Lysergic Acid Diethylamide. We calmed him down as best we could and got him through the night. Stuart finally went to sleep about daybreak. When he woke up, he drove directly to the Circus and jumped up the stairs. “WOW!” he smiled. “That was GREAT! When can we do it AGAIN?” We told him he was on disciplinary probation, two weeks duration. Next time, he behaved much better, but Leslie got naked and ran through the fields. All in all, a much better result.
She Came From Alabama With A Banjo On Her Knee
Betsy Harper was a Southern Belle emeritus and she had the background to prove it. An ex-student of the University of Alabama, she owned the heritage, the inclinations and the twang of a daughter of the south. She was just a lot smarter than most of the others in her sisterhood, and a lot more liberal. Her brother, attorney Bobby Harper, was the universally accepted go-to lawyer of choice for Gainesville dopers of all persuasions, which made Betsy an even more popular girl.
I attended Betsy’s splashy tented wedding to prominent drug peddler Rex Johnson on the grounds of the ancient Thomas Hotel, a gold-star event on the G’ville social calendar. I knew of her reputation for good work at the stores she toiled in via one of my own employees, Jerry Juris, perhaps Betsy’s best pal. Still, I had never spoken much to her until the night she marched up onto my porch and rang the doorbell. She just wanted me to know that she thought a lawsuit being brought against me by a local would-be electrical contractor was unwarranted and absurd and she disapproved. Seems Betsy was going with the guy’s brother. Okay, thank you, we appreciate the support. She did look pretty cute standing in the doorway with her frowny expression of outrage.
Next time I met Betsy Harper was at the wedding of Gainesville Original George Swinford. She showed up in her old classic wedding dress carrying a parasol and looked like a million bucks. The next day, I mailed her a plane ticket to Miami, where I had a horse running. When she got it, she called me. “Well, aren’t you romantic? she said. “I just have one question. How many rooms did you get?” I told her only one. “That’s what I was hoping you’d say,” she answered. I could swear I felt her smiling. The subsequent weekend was not one easily forgotten and the relationship was on.
Betsy Harper was an A#1 girlfriend. She put up with the lunacies of midnight showings of The Rocky Horror Picture Show. She brought nifty picnic lunches to my farm on Summer Sundays when I had to mow the paddocks for six straight hours. She put up with my two-days-a-week dating availability, calling the others “dark days” after the moniker for non-racing days at the track. And she always made a particular point of looking her best, come hell or high water.
Betsy Harper was the kind of girl you could bring home to Mother, and I did. They were both hopelessly romantic and empathetic, so they hit it off like old cronies. They continued to write to one another long after we were an item. Years later, my Mother still asked me if I knew what Betsy was up to. On that same trip north, I took BH to Manhattan. As soon as we got there, she zipped down to Times Square and sold her old wedding band for spending money and she did spend it. “I’m a little surprised to say so,” she told me, “but this is MY kind of place.” Among other highlights, we saw Marvin Gaye at Radio City, the only whitish people in a long dark line. The other customers were exceedingly nice to the Alabama girl and the concert….well, it was Marvin Gaye, right?
On the last day of our stay, Betsy looked out our hotel room window at Central Park and sat down on the bed, a couple of tears rolling down her cheeks. “What’s the matter?” I asked, surprised at the sudden change of mood. She turned and tried a smile. “I’m just a little sad because I know I’ll never come back here and see all this again.” I had to smile. “Betsy Harper, you’re just a kid....you’ll be back here a million times.”
I can only assume that was true. Charmed by the Miami area as a result of our many trips to the races at Calder, Gulfstream and Hialeah, she eventually moved on to South Miami. I saw her a few more times before losing track, once when I just happened to run across her while walking around town. We sat down at a little bistro and talked.
“I’m really happy here,” she told me. “It’s a little different for a girl from Alabama, but it’s exciting and I’ve met some people. The clothing stores are fantastic and because of the diversity of the people, you can wear almost anything. I am now an expert on the Cuban culture.”
I filled her in on the latest from Gainesville and environs and the exploits of her favorite citizens. “I never thought I’d leave that place behind,” she said. “It gets inside of you, you feel you belong there, you forget there’s an Elsewhere. Sooner or later, though...broader horizons. I do think I’ll wind up back in Alabama some day.”
And then Betsy Janet Harper smiled brightly, gathered her things together, stood up and offered a little wave. “Gotta run,” she said. “Places to go, people to see. You know I miss you to death but it’s like they say in the movies…we’ll always have Manhattan!”
The first time I met Rick Nihlen was at a little house I shared with Pamme Brewer almost across from the West End Golf Course just outside Gainesville. Prematurely I thought, he advised me he was going to soon be my best friend. I looked at Pamme. Pamme looked at me with the same notion. This guy is in a bit of a hurry. Nonetheless, two years later Rick was close to being in that seat of honor. He was Best Man at my wedding to the mercurial Harolyn Locklair. He even released a few doves, for crying out loud. Who does that? (And yes, all you Audubon members, we now realize it’s not such a great idea, the birds floundering around not knowing where to go. At the time, we were young and innocent. Give us a mulligan.)
When first we met, Rick and his perky wife, Lynn Levy, were on the verge of opening a head shop in stodgy Tallahassee and they came to the master for advice. That store became Gemini Bear, named after Rick’s birth sign and his wife’s cuddly nickname for him. Despite the name, the business was fruitful and Rick was a regular on the NYC buying trips at the National Boutique Show. On one memorable trip in the mid-seventies, we went into a packed restroom full of noisy cocaine-snorters at a 3rd Avenue moviehouse. Waiting impatiently in line, Rick finally roared, “Is anybody going to the bathroom in here? I’m getting testy!” A few miscreants stumbled from the stalls apologetically.
Years later, Nihlen moved next door to the Killeen residence because that’s what best friends sometimes do. Shortly thereafter, he decided there was money to be made in the marijuana import business. He said he had a contact in Jamaica and flew down there. It was scary.
“I was in the storage compartment of a boat just outside Jamaican territorial waters, surrounded by a half-dozen BIG Rasta guys,” Rick related. “And one of them smiles this big gleaming smile and says, ‘You know, we could just KEEL you, mon, and take your money.’ That was not a good moment. It made me think of retiring from the drug business.”
Rick got his marijuana, sold it for a nice profit and never went pot-shopping again. Despite being Bill’s best friend, however, Nihlen’s gypsy inclinations got the best of him and he disappeared into the mists somewhere near Albuquerque and was never heard from again. Somewhere in Jamaica, a big Rasta man is frowning and wondering why such a satisfied customer never came back.
Won’t You Come Home, Bill Partin?
The first time Bill Partin bounced into the Subterranean Circus, the Narc Alarm went off. We didn’t get many 6-2 bald guys wearing suits, let alone fellows claiming to be the first arrestee in Texas for smoking marijuana. We liked Partin anyway. He’d lean on the counter and regale everyone with tales of derring-do he’d participated in, a couple of which might even have been true. His expression for being all-in on a subject was memorable. “Yep, the whole mess of us were headfirst into that party—hips, lips and fingertips.”
Hips, lips and fingertips. Hard to beat, whether original or even borrowed from a friend. Partin was some kind of traveling salesman who showed up irregularly on an average of once a month. He took a respectfully long time asking if we knew where he could get some grass, but we didn’t. States Attorney Gene Whitworth had a nasty habit of sending infiltrators into the building and we couldn’t afford to take any chances. Nonetheless, on one propitious night, Partin returned to his car to find a lid sitting on the driver’s seat. He poked his head in the door and asked, “Where do I send the check?”
It became obvious after a few months that Bill Partin was not playing for the other side. In town for a long weekend, we finally gave him some LSD on the way to a movie. Bill, being an acid virgin, didn’t know what to expect but he was up for anything resembling a good time. Leaving the theater, Rick Nihlen and I were getting a little floaty, but not Partin. “When is this stuff supposed to start working?” he wanted to know.
We took him to the UF Rathskeller, where Goose Creek Symphony was playing. Not a gigantic space to begin with, the music was bouncing off the walls and right through some acid-laced attendees. Bill Partin finally succumbed, whooping and dancing like a damned fool. Then, a mere 90 minutes later, he announced, “Okay, I’m going home.” Rick and I looked at each other in something resembling alarm. “Uh Bill, not such a good idea to drive in this condition.” Partin assured us that no, he was good, in splendid traveling shape, then meandered out to his car.
Nihlen was gobsmacked. “He’s going to kill himself, we’d better go after him to pick up the pieces.” Listen to yourself, Rick, the man who just advised driving caution. “Oh, and I suppose I’m driving,” I complained. “Well, we came in your car. And I know I can’t do it.”
I got in the car and finally managed to squeeze the two steering wheels into one, then followed Partin’s likely path down route 441 to his motel out past Williston Road. It was about a ten-minute hop under normal driving conditions, but I was going 35 miles an hour, which seemed pretty quick. “You’d better pick it up, Bill, the cops will wonder what you’re doing,” said Rick. “You’re even blocking the granny ladies.” Don’t you folks just hate back-seat drivers?
When we made it to Partin’s hotel, we spotted his car right away. “Well, that’s a relief,” said Rick. “At least he’s not dead.” The room was dark but we could see enough to realize Bill was in there sleeping like a baby. “It’s amazing,” said Nihlen, shaking his head. “I won’t be asleep for hours.”
It had never occurred to me before, since I usually shared Lysergic Acid Diethylamide with 115-pound girls and not 300-pound men, but perhaps a very large being sucks up that acid and spits it out a lot faster than a normal human. We shrugged and drove home at a speedy 40 miles an hour. “You’re getting better,” smiled Rick.
The next morning, Bill Partin came leaping into the Circus, a smile on his face, a song in his heart. “I really had a great time last night, fellas,” he announced. “Let’s do that again real soon!” Then he was quickly out the door and back into Partinworld. The Narc Alarm did not go off this time.
That’s all, folks….
