The neon lights of Fuzzy Lipschits’ Tit City Topless Taco Parlor and Ye Olde Donut Shoppe blinked expensively and seductively through the smog. A neon girl’s breasts became donuts, then tacos, then donuts again, as Harley Mode tooled his 74 dress bike smoothly into the parking lot, pleasantly aware of the soft pressure of his wife, Amaryllis, on the seat behind him. He found a space and cut the engine, set the stand and turned to her. “Honey, we’re here.”
She was beautiful like this, he thought, her eyes closed in pleasure and her plump, dungaree-encased thighs unaware that the vibration had stopped. God, she loved to ride that bike. He kissed her on an eyelid, darkened either by cosmetics or soot, and hefted a soft breast under her T-shirt. “Amaryllis, this is it. We’re here. Remember Andy Warhol, maybe Andy Warhol will be here tonight.”
Amaryllis moved slowly on the seat and opened her eyes. “Jesus, Harley, that was a good ride. That was a gooood ride.”
“I know,” said Harley fondly, helping her off the bike. Amaryllis was still walking tenderly when the doorman smiled and admitted them.
It was clear immediately that Andy Warhol was not there, at least not yet, though there was a gigantic photograph of him hanging from the ceiling, in which he appeared to be accepting a taco and a Margarita from one of Fuzzy’s topless waitresses. The photo nagged at Harley. He didn’t like to think about it but he had the suspicion it might be doctored; it looked too much like an Esquire cover. But he put that from his mind, as a waitress showed them to a booth. After all, there was the Early American furniture, a nice eclectic touch, he thought, and the Visi-Box which showed underground movies, and the Chem-Sac sound system, and, of course, the waitresses, not a minus 37 in the lot. He noticed a pudgy man in a sharkskin suit and wondered if it might be Lipschits himself. The man was standing in a corner, looking worried, and that did not improve Harley’s mood.
Amaryllis and Harley had really wanted to see Andy Warhol, especially Amaryllis, who had visions of herself as a star, but this hardly seemed the right crowd for it. Tourists occupied a few booths, blushing and elbowing one another when a waitress walked by. A dark man in a turban sat alone near the bar and shot frame after frame with his 35-millimeter camera. Some high-school kids were getting juiced on $2.50 Margaritas near the front door. And a very obviously stoned Negro hummed “Bernie’s Tune” in a booth behind them. Altogether a drag.
Harley tried to soften the blow. “Hey, dig, they’ve got Chem-Sac here,” he said with false enthusiasm. Amaryllis was unmoved. But Harley read from the sampler on the wall anyway, hoping something would cheer her: Chem-Sac is a dramatic innovation in the world of popular as well as serious music. The sound you hear comes from strings of various lengths and tensions being parted by the action of a powerful space-age acid. The musician pours from a vial in each hand on the string or strings of his choice, and the sound of the string parting is amplified by the most sophisticated equipment money can buy. The music is taped and played continuously for your listening pleasure.
“Bullshit,” said Amaryllis, and they sat silently for a while as the various sized and tensioned strings made a variety of boings and pyoings and pings. “The squares are here and you know it,” she said finally. “He’s not coming.”
“Maybe not,” Harley said softly. “You wanta split?”
“I’m too uptight. Let’s have a drink first. Get me a Margarita . . . and a donut.”
Harley sensed the order was a form of protest and signaled quickly for a waitress. The one who came was Wanda, whom they knew from the days when she and Amaryllis had worked together in the Lace Spittoon as Israeli belly dancers. When the topless craze came, Amaryllis, who had beautiful but almost nippleless breasts, had bitterly gone back to work as a masseuse while Wanda, amply nippled, went topless. They realized with some surprise that she was also bottomless.
“Wanda, what’s happening?” asked Amaryllis, brightening at the prospect of a raid.
“Fuzzy just gave the word to go bottomless,” said Wanda, nervously shielding herself with her order book. “Figures a raid will hypo business until he thinks of something else. It was either that or let some of us go.”
So that was Lipschits he saw, thought Harley with some excitement. It was a name of some consequence in the avant-garde. At least they had seen him.
“But what’s the shyness routine?” asked Amaryllis, who opposed any form of repression.
“This damn appendix scar,” said Wanda. “Fuzzy almost didn’t let me come on with the others, until I convinced him the leather crowd might dig it. I gotta keep it covered from the straights.”
“Like us?” asked Amaryllis, delighted with the irony. They all laughed at this, and Harley flushed with pleasure at seeing his wife happy again.
Wanda brought their order and hurried off to serve a growing crowd. It was amazing how quickly word spread along the freeways. Harley entertained briefly the idea of Warhol coming after all, but didn’t want to raise Amaryllis’ hopes. There were still a lot of tourists around, and another crowd of teenies from the Strip. The turbaned man had a movie camera now and was zooming madly over his untouched tequila. The stoned spade was still behind them, still humming softly to himself Cannonball’s solo on “Milestones” or an occasional June Christy tune. But there was still hope. They ordered again, and again, until Harley began to get jumpy from caffeine and switched to tequila and Amaryllis began to get drunk and switched to coffee. (Wouldn’t do to be gassed if he did come.)
But as the evening wore on, the crowd thinned and hope began to wane. Harley had been afraid to speak for over an hour, not wanting to give Amaryllis a focus for her despair. But when a cop walked in, had a cup of coffee, and walked out, he knew it was over.
“Harley,” she said, “we’ve got to talk about our life.”
“Sure, baby, anything you want.”
“Harley, I’ve been thinking a lot about it, and I think I know what’s wrong. You may not understand it at first, but I think I’m right.”
“What is it, sweetheart?”
“Harley, you’re square.”
He could tell she was serious, and he didn’t know what to say.
“Harley, who did you vote for for governor?”
“Honey, you know—”
“No bullshit now, Harley, did you vote for Reagan?”
“Amaryllis! How could you—”
“Harley, you voted for him. I knew it at the time. When you came out of the booth I could feel—”
“But it was a protest vote,” offered Harley lamely.
“Against who, Harley?”
“Against Jane Wyman. Did you see her in Johnny Belinda? It was—”
“Very funny, Harley, but it won’t work . . . Harley, something drastic has to happen.”
“Christ, baby, how unsquare can I be? I mean I slipped that once, but how about the other things? We’ve swapped with half the kinky couples in L.A. county. I even joined that computerized swap club and got you a coded bumper sticker for the bike so the guys who liked what they saw could get in touch. I’ve put up with some weird chicks for your sake, sweetheart.”
“Hugh Hefner says—”
“I know what he says. I read his advice to you along with the other millions of people. And you couldn’t even use initials, for Christ sake. I almost lost my job over that little caper. Really, baby, what else can I do?”
While Harley’s question hung in the air over the booth, the stoned spade, whose name was really Lamont Cranston, turned slowly in his booth, rose to peer over Harley’s shoulder, and said, “Split.”
Lamont’s mother had been greatly impressed with the powers of her son’s radio namesake, and had been in those days unaware of any pejorative connotations attached to Cranston’s alias. Lamont Cranston the younger, seated behind the Modes, rarely used the other name anyway, though he was, as they would learn, a shadowy character.
“What did you say?” asked Amaryllis, somewhat recovered from the shock.
“I said split,” said Cranston. “Cut. Make it.”
“We haven’t met,” said Harley, trying to twist his neck in order to see Cranston.
“Your wife is right. You are a square,” said Lamont, moving slowly around into their booth. “But I feel sorry for you both and so I am going to lay the word on you in the following manner: Frisco.”
“Frisco?” said Harley and Amaryllis together.
“San Francisco to you, my man,” said Lamont. “It is the only place where you are going to lose those bourgeois hangups which so obviously are contributing toward putting you down. I must go now.”
“Wait,” said Amaryllis, sensing Cranston had something for them. “How will that change anything?”
“You will have split this scene of crassness for a life of grooving, growing your own, and like that,” said Cranston with an edge of impatience.
“But why are you here?” asked Amaryllis, smelling a contradiction.
“My mission is a secret. You might say I am a kind of wigging travel agent. Or you might say I am something else. Who knows what evil lurks, man. Dig?”
“But we heard you humming ‘Bernie’s Tune.’ I mean how square is that?” said Amaryllis.
“Which is only toward indicating that my disguise is a success, my dear. Besides which you are not ready to hear the real music I could lay on you humming or otherwise, making this acid string shit sound like Strauss waltzes. I have told you what you must do and I must cut.” And Lamont left, humming “Work Song” and making weird faces at the turbaned cameraman.
“Well, what do you make of that?” asked Harley.
“We’re packing tonight,” said Amaryllis, with a dreamy look as though she too heard a different kind of music now.
Harley knew he couldn’t fight it. He resigned his position in the Median Strip Division of the Highway Maintenance Department and turned in his keys to the lawnmower barn. Amaryllis told Igor at Rub-a-Rama to stick the massage business. They called a realtor at nine a.m. and sold their split level with pool at ten for five grand more than they paid for it. They decided, for Amaryllis’ sake, to take the bike to Frisco, then get a car more suitable to their new way of life. Amaryllis called and canceled at the Swap Agency, and by noon they were on the road.
The long trip was uneventful for Harley (except for losing the way to San Jose), ecstatic for Amaryllis. Harley began to hope that the ten or more orgasms she had on the way up would take the edge off her San Francisco obsession. But she was just as firm when they arrived as when they left.
Things moved quickly as they settled into the Hashbury groove. They rented the former prep room of the now defunct Dimlawn Funeral Home, Amaryllis taking great pride in adapting the various prep tables and gurnies to their more homely uses. Other couples and groups occupied other rooms in the same building and there was a great camaraderie among the Dimlawn Group, as they called themselves. To celebrate the Modes’ arrival, a hashish punch was made in a left-behind embalming pump, and the party later delighted a busload of conventioning Seventh Day Adventists by weaving down the street wearing decayed wreaths and crying “We are ready.”
There was no longer any need for the Swap Club, although it took the Modes some time to adjust to the different hygienic habits of the Dimlawners. Amaryllis, in fact, came down with a good case, and gave it to Harley so he could go for penicillin, an act which some of the Dimlawners considered a cop-out.
They bought a more appropriate wardrobe, Harley finally finding a use for some of the junk he’d bought on a family vacation to Cherokee, and a new car. It was a beauty, an authentic 1948 Citroën Saloon Car, used by the Vichy High Command and still showing bullet holes inflicted by the Free French. Or so the topless Indian maiden salesgirl at Honest Fuzzy Lipschits’ Old West Auto Mart and Art Gallery told them. Fuzzy, it seemed, had seen the handwriting on the wall for tacos and had bought this agency. Then he had moved on, selling his name to a smaller entrepreneur named Albert Schweitzer (no relation), who now owned the business. Anyway, it was a beautiful car and life among the Dimlawners was, for a while, sweet.
Then, slowly, something began to grow between them again. Somehow, despite all their efforts, they could not quite fit into the Dimlawn world. For one thing, everyone knew the Modes had money. The profit on the house, plus a sizeable pension refund from the Highway Maintenance Department, made quite a bundle. And since there was little to spend it on that would not appear middle class to the Dimlawners, it sat in the Hashbury National Bank drawing five percent. Then, at the worst possible time, Amaryllis discovered, hidden in the coffin crate that was Harley’s armoire, his stash of Max Rafferty campaign literature.
He knew he should have destroyed it, but somehow he couldn’t bring himself to do it. A woman had given it to him on the street, and he had carelessly stuffed it into his serape. Once, while Amaryllis was attending her night course in the Kama Sutra, he had taken it out and read it with the same guilty thrill he used to get from the nude primitives in National Geographic. But then he had put it back and forgotten about it until the terrible discovery.
They both recognized it as a crisis. But it wouldn’t do to have it out where the Dimlawners would hear. So they went to Fuzzy s Nitty Gritty City, Soul Food Restaurant and Rare Chinchilla Ranch, the town’s latest rage. From a waitress, nude except for body paint and graffiti, they ordered Chitterlings Amandine, Grits with Garlic Butter, and Ripple Wine. Amaryllis seemed willing to set the crisis aside until they had eaten. Finally, moving a watermelon seed pensively on her plate, she spoke:
“Harley, what are we going to do? It’s all wrong.”
“I won’t do it again, baby, I promise I won’t.”
“But you know you will, Harley. We both know you will. And you know why you will, Harley, my love, you know why? Because you’re still square as a fucking brick.”
Harley sat shattered as the accusation rang in his ears.
“Still square,” echoed a voice nearby, not Amaryllis’, and slowly Lamont Cranston materialized. He was shaking his head like a patient mother. “I can see,” he said in an injured tone, “that getting you people with it is going to be in the nature of a fantastic hassle. But I am willing to do so by laying this on you: that your hangup is that you are married to each other and liberation depends on your like getting a divorce.”
“A divorce,” said Harley, half rising. “Now just a minute you goddamn creep. If you—”
“Harley,” said Amaryllis softly, with that mystical look again, “he’s right.”
“Oh, God,” said Harley, and took a belt of Ripple.
“You see, baby,” she went on, “it’s been our problem all along really. Do you remember how our neighbors were shocked when we introduced ourselves as Mr. and Mrs.? How do you think I’ve felt all these times, at all those parties with people eyeballing us like some freaks?”
“But I’ve let you do anything—”
“It’s not what you do, it’s how you feel when you do it. Don’t you see we can’t be really free until we’ve shaken this? Can’t you see that Cranston here is right?”
But Cranston was not there. He had disappeared, along with Harley’s last hope. The next morning they were on the road for Las Vegas.
The place to go, Amaryllis learned, was Lipschits’ Hitch and Ditch, Mud Wedding and Divorce Parlor and Jai Alai Fronton. Rumor was that Warhol himself had married or divorced there only last week, using Fuzzy’s specialty, Marriage a la Mud. The Modes, of course, would have the special too.
Fuzzy’s famous Mud Wedding required the couples being joined or parted to roll nude in a gigantic mud bath before the ceremony, thereby adding a sense of mystery to the personality of one’s partner. It was remarkable how many divorced couples immediately remarried and vice versa, a trend of which Fuzzy heartily approved. Harley, of course, was more than willing to pay for two ceremonies to have his Amaryllis. He loved her, muddy or no, and wanted to be married to her, even if it was a hangup. But she was adamant, and when they walked away from Fuzzy’s that day, still muddy in a place or two, they were just plain Harley and Amaryllis.
Harley had to admit it had done something good for them. Amaryllis was as amorous as he had ever seen her. She could hardly wait until he found a half-hour parking space and joined her in the back seat, that beautiful back seat which still seemed to echo the “Marseillaise.” Afterwards, they wandered in a daze, until they had lost all the money they brought from the Hashbury National in slot machines, and until the old dissatisfaction had come to live with them again.
They found themselves driving the Citroën aimlessly through the back streets of Vegas, until finally they came to a lot full of motorcycles. Even at three in the morning, the neon flashed above it, identifying it as L & C’s Machine Scene, Exclusive Agents for the Libidomobile. The Libidomobile, it turned out, was a bike which was not only tuned for performance, but for satisfying sexual vibrations. They traded the Citroën even.
By the time Harley hit the first red light, he knew Amaryllis had finally found her thing. He looked back at her, bouncing there, with mixed feelings. She had found her thing, and that was fine, but now what about him? What was he supposed to do?
“Honey,” he said softly, “where should we go now?”
“I don’t care, Harley, Mexico, Alaska, Tibet, Sweden, just get this mother moving!”
And so they rode, neither sure where the desert road would take them. He could feel her arms tighten around him now and then with amazing strength, but otherwise he was alone. Left to himself, something inside Harley snapped. The mind he had disciplined so long now fantasized out of control. He dreamed of addressing the Republican Convention. “My friends,” he would say, “I give you a man . . .” He saw himself aboard a slim white yacht, drinking all the martinis he had ever wanted. He played golf with Paul Harvey, corresponded with William F. Buckley, Jr., mowed his own yard with a riding mower. He read the Wall Street Journal and called his broker. He wandered deliciously through a country club of the mind. As he dreamed, the tears drained from the sides of his goggles and were whipped away by the wind.
Neither of them saw the black limousine pass them in the night. Nor, of course, were they aware of the conversation taking place within, between Mr. Fenton (Fuzzy) Lipschits and his partner. “Tell me, sweetheart,” said Fuzzy as he handed the man a drink from the custom bar, “what do the Shadow know new?”