It you want to stay in business, it’s probably a good idea to have a few customers. To the uninitiated, this is a venture fraught with peril, nowhere less than in the head shop trade, where strange and unusual beings can appear in a puff of smoke, confused and abandoned. Some of them were little more than children who fled from home to what they perceived as a shining beacon on a hill, the psychedelic eden called Gainesville, where rose the Temple of Plenty….that’s right, the Subterranean Circus. Dick North, steeped in the doctrines of Eastern religions and nipple-painting, had the demeanor, the wisdom and the Day-Glo colors to take on the role of guru, particularly when it came to attractive young women. If you couldn’t find him elsewhere, he’d be in the blacklight room painting breasts.
Do you remember when South Beach was a slum and the $25-a-night hotels scattered discount fliers up and down the East Coast to lure innocent travelers? Dick North must have dispatched his own brochures because every runaway teenage girl within a 300-mile radius came looking for him. Dick was a kind guru, who offered pearls of wisdom as he painted, provided direction for the aimless, gave his models food for thought as they spilled out their tormented tales of woe such as, “Nobody in this town will sell me any grass.”
Then there were the high-school kids like Marty Jourard and his brothers Jeff and Leonard, who hung around because they knew something was happening here even if they didn’t know what it was, Mr. Jones. First generation hippies in the making. The kids, unlike many of their errant elders, were invariably polite and appreciative of whatever largesse we doled out, verbal or physical. We kept an eye on many of them, steered them out of trouble, in a few cases even provided busfare home. And then there was Frances.
Angel Baby
Frances was a millimeter too large to be a pixie, but she had the eyes for it and the magic dust. Anywhere from the chronological ages 14-16, she was a much older being traveling in a child suit, an impossible combination of wisdom, daring and sensuality who wanted to play with the big kids. Most of you have experienced one of these, an unlikely charmer who places herself in risky climes but has the capacity to float above the rocky surfaces, a creature endowed with a force field which keeps her safe where others fall, a gypsy lusted over by lesser beings who somehow honor the inappropriateness of physical contact, almost as if the gods had placed a Hands Off! sign around her neck.
Frances was a Subterranean Circus groupie, but only spiritually. She visited often, never overstaying, occasionally helping out when it was busy, well aware of the effect she had on people. She was a good listener and spoke only when she had something to say and when she opened her mouth wisdom emerged. She had the heart of a poet but the savvy of a street fighter, a knack for saying just the right thing, she was blessed with compassion and ambition. Frances was on a journey she knew not where and she’d come to us for guidance. Much of the time, we felt like we should be coming to her.
Fools that we were, Danny Levine and I brought her back to our Summit House apartment several times for Marijuana Hour. She liked to smoke from a large glass water pipe which eased the harshness of the ride and she appreciated the opportunity. I felt like we were in the presence of a wise old soul who had somehow taken the wrong train in a rare moment of confusion, but was figuring it out day by day. I worried about the inevitable wolves and tried to help her out. A month went by, then two, as Frances learned the psychedelic ropes, avoided pitfalls and created her itinerary.
On a quiet day at the store, Frances wandered in with her usual smile, a sort of rucksack over her shoulder. There was almost always more than one of us behind the counter but I was the only one there that day. She came around, sat on the big counter stool and announced the inevitable. “I’m going to San Francisco this afternoon. I have my bus ticket and enough food to last the trip. I just wanted to come over and say goodbye.” I suddenly felt terrible and jubilant, all at the same time.
“We’re going to miss you, Frances. I’ve never known anyone like you. The next time I see you, you’ll probably be the Governor of California.”
“I sure hope not,” she laughed. “Maybe I’ll just have a place like this, or work for Bill Graham or start my own commune. Want you to know I couldn’t have gotten this far without you.” Then she got up, kissed me on the cheek and said, “I’ll love you forever. See you in the next life when we’re both 15.”
With that, Frances was down the steps and out the door on her way to the Greyhound station. I walked out to the parking lot to watch her fade away. I half thought she’d turn around once for a final smile, but no, Frances was looking straight ahead, as always. Then she was gone, solid gone, eventually only a smoky memory. Unsurprisingly, I never saw nor heard from her again. I keep watching the newspapers, though, always on the alert for the newest California gubernatorial candidates.
My inner Angels advise me it’s unlikely I’ll see 15 again. Wisely, they’re not betting against Frances.
The Customer Is Always Stoned
In Sears, of course, he was always right. At the Circus, we got that part cleared up right away. Jerks were dismissed forthwith, complainers were given short shrift and narcs got a label saying KICK ME slapped on their backs. Lunatics, however, were always welcome, benevolent clowns were encouraged and acidheads were given cookies and milk. Not everyone, though, could be listed in some broad category. Under what heading would you place an attorney who drives his just-wrecked sports car up to the door, staggers up to the counter and asks for a free-base pipe on his way to the hospital? How would you categorize Pookie, an effeminate African-American high-school shoplifter who threatened to burn the place down every time we tossed him out the door? And where, or where, does Glinda belong if Oz is no longer accepting sorceresses?
Let’s not mince words. Glinda was a crotch-grabber, a rare and unusual creature who scoffed at formalities. Her favorite t-shirt featured an image of Snuffy Smith together with the quote, “Time’s a-wastin’.” If she encountered the slightest bit of obtuseness on the part of a male target, she got right to the heart of the matter. This happened once in the Circus blacklight room. A smiling, disheveled customer eventually stumbled out, mumbling “Who needs foreplay, anyway?”
Glinda honed her craft in movie theaters, church apses and the rear sections of vans traveling south. She saved her best for last, though, being discovered en flagrante delicto in the back of a car with an old boyfriend just a few minutes after her marriage to someone else. Confronted by angry in-laws, she raised an eyebrow and said, “Life is short.” Who can argue?
The Naughty Lady Of Shady Lane
I have never been a big drinker, but neither am I a person likely to ignore my heritage, thus on St. Patrick’s Day there was usually a bottle or two of Jameson’s Irish Whiskey on the Circus counter. Near the end of one of these holy days, I was imbibing my share with countermate Rose Coward when an unusual young woman drifted in with a couple of compatriots. She was dressed in Gothic garb, hair as black as coal and showing a little cleavage. Under ordinary circumstances, I would have paid no attention, but Jameson’s has charms to rouse the savage beast.
“What’s a nice girl like you doing in a place like this?” I asked her. She didn’t get it, but I think every man should use this line once in his life, fruitful or not. Rose was tapping her pencil on the counter and rolling her eyes, wary of what was to come. One thing led to another and before you knew it we were through the double doors to a closed Silver City. “Be the strange you wish to see in the world,” she growled, attacking. Okay.
I gathered up all the strange I had available at the time and did my part. There wasn’t much billing and cooing but the lady was kind enough to say, “Thanks, I needed that,” before departing. Rose stood there with her hands on her hips and a very disapproving expression. “Bill Killeen,” she said, “you are a naughty, NAUGHTY boy! I don’t know whether or not I’m speaking to you. Do you still own your soul or did you have to make a pact with the devil?”
I assured her my soul was tightly wrapped in the velvet box Monsignor Daly had given me for just such an occasion and blamed the rest on alcohol saturation. “Oh, and by the way, I bought you a Betsy Johnson dress in Jacksonville the other day. You’re mad at me so you probably don’t even want to see it now.”
You should know that Rose Coward is a very fashion-conscious girl who celebrates receiving gifts in the same manner as a scientist who has just discovered a new element. Bigly.
“Well, nobody’s perfect, right?” she said, forgivingly. “Waste of time crying over spilt…um, milk. I know you’ll never, ever do it again. Now, hurry up, where’s that damn dress?”
Like hippiedom itself, the Subterranean Circus was a new and benevolent weather front which settled over the land for an extraordinary length of time, providing spiritual sustenance, brightening the mood, making all things seem possible. The store served as general headquarters for the new wave, carrying its newspapers, magazines and comics, offering its anti-uniform apparel, acting as a meeting place and GPS for immigrants searching for lost friends.
Many of us grew up in an era where authority was rarely questioned and children were faced with limited horizons. This was perfectly acceptable to many but some odd ones chafed at the confines, balked at the reins, wondered what was on the other side of the mountain. Advance scouts like Jack Kerouac told them and they made early plans. The Beatles arrived and provided a map. The Diggers showed up and offered to feed them. San Francisco told them the cost of admission: be sure to wear some flowers in your hair.
Dazed parents without kaleidoscopes worried and wondered. Why are all the children heading for Oz, the road is littered with monsters? They wheedled and cajoled. They offered bribes. They threatened mayhem. But the kids were awake now and drawn by a strange force, an irresistible magnet to a new land of milk and honey. Once there, they did their best to Make Love Stay.
Alas, the pendulum always swings back. Winter comes, the colored birds fly south, wonderful intentions lie withering on the vine. Soon, all we can do is remember. But memory is a powerful being and it clings to experiences the heart holds dear. First loves. The glorious sounds of new music shared with a field of thousands. The rollercoaster ride delivered by magic elixirs. The believers met along the way.
Whatever the final destination, there is scarcely a soul available who regrets the trip. Those were the days, my friend, we thought they’d never end. We lived, we loved, we learned in a world of our own creation. And, at least for a short time, we changed the world around us. There will be good times, but there will never be times like those. There will be fine friends but not like the ones we found in our adolescence. And surely there will be shops who can offer you the finest in psychedelia and smoking gear. But in all the years the lot of us have left, there will never ever be another refuge, another feast, another palace of clever delights like the Subterranean Circus.
The End.
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| Planning a Circus; Thanksgiving dinner at the Charlatan House, 1966. Far left, Anne White, top left, Pamme Brewer, Bill Killeen, Newt Simmons and Francis Patriquin. The rest of the rabble are classmates of Pamme with no place to go on T-Day. |
Obviously, that’s all, folks….
