At six o’ clock both sides of Main Street were lined with vehicles. Unusual for a Sunday night during Winter Break. Sid and I were on our way to meet my girlfriend Emily at Swany’s Tavern to get a few beers and some onion rings before heading to the 242 Club. There was a hardcore band from Providence playing that night called Big Sausage. I had heard that they were banned from a club in Boston because the lead singer set his pubic hair on fire as part of the encore. Obviously we figured this would be a fun band to see. Besides, what else is there to do on a Sunday night in oh-so-exiting Burlington, Vermont.
“Christ.” I glanced over at Sid, who was drumming on the dashboard. “Why the hell can’t I find a parking spot?”
“There’s a concert at the Flynn Theatre. Three or four hippie jam bands I think.”
“Jesus Christ, the damn hippies took all the parking spots,” I said.
“Ross, just park at the bank. You won’t get towed on a Sunday,” Sid said.
“I could park at the bank, but I really don’t feel like walking six blocks to Swany’s. It’s raining, and it’s fucking cold out. Plus my spikes will be ruined. Hair glue doesn’t hold up too well in the rain.”
“You and your damn liberty spikes,” Sid said.
“Shit, I was in a good mood. Now I’m pissed,” I said. “And it’s all because of the fucking hippies and their preachy bumper-stickered Volkswagens.
“Why are you so hostile toward hippies Ross? They’re generally nice people, a bit smelly, but at least they’re friendly.”
“I hate them. How long have you know me? They are the one group of humans I can honestly say I hate without feeling one bit of remorse. I hate the original hippies from the 60′s and I hate the young, retro, poser hippies of today. I hated Jerry Garcia, the king of the hippies. I hate their music, I hate their fashion, I hate their politics and I hate their pointless causes. I especially hate the names hippies give their children, like Sunshine, Sky, Peace, and Moon Unit. Fucking losers.”
“Wow, if I didn’t know you any better I would say you are prejudiced,” Sid said with a smirk. “C’mon now Ross, smile on your brother. Everybody get together. Try to love one another.”
“I love people, jackass. I would never judge an individual based on his or her race, religion, national origin, sexual orientation, or gender. But hippies are not given this consideration. They are hippies by choice. And they have no purpose in this world except to be the object of my derision.”
“Wow Ross, derision. I’m impressed. Big words for a crusty street punk.”
Having no other options, I parked my trusty Chevy Nova at the bank lot. I took off my coat and my scarf and left them in the back seat. I could have used them for the six block trek, but I hate being confined to a lot of extra clothing and accessories in a hot, sweaty, people-packed punk club. And I never like to hang my stuff on the coat racks because you never know if it will be waiting for you when you leave. So I would make do with my thin black hoodie. Sid didn’t bother bringing a coat. He was wearing what he always wears: a plain white t-shirt and jeans rolled up well past his ankles.
It was unseasonably warm that evening, probably in the mid-40 degree range, but the cold drizzle made for incredibly uncomfortable walk. I could feel the raindrops hitting the tips of my red spikes and slowly creeping down to my otherwise bald scalp. I looked over at Sid and he had a huge grin on his face.
“I’m singin’ in the rain,” Sid sang. “Just singin’ in the rain.” He grabbed a freshly lit street-light post and danced around it like the bastard that he is. “What a glorious feeling. I’m happy again!”
He looked at me for a reaction. I couldn’t hold back my smile, which, in his mind, was a cue to continue.
“I’m laughing at clouds. Sing with me Ross buddy,” Sid sang in his best finger-snapping, toe-tapping lounge singer vibrato. He jumped off the sidewalk into a puddle on the street, making a dramatic splash, dousing his bare ankles, then looked towards the dark spitting clouds with arms outstretched. “I’m going to a punk show with a …smile on my face.”
I started walking again, leaving Sid to be admired by the passersby. He performed a final promenade around the light post and caught up to me.
“So tell me, my hippie-hating friend,” Sid began. “If a crunchy, stinky hippy found the cure for cancer or AIDS, would you change your views? Or, how about this one: If a hippy saved your life, say, if he pulled you out of a fire, would you begin to appreciate hippies?”
“If a hippie found the cure for AIDS, I would praise the deed but still condemn the hippie. If a hippie pulled me out of a fire I would thank him, and I might even hug the stinky bastard; however, this would be a tough call, and would be a function of just how close to death I was when the hippie saved me. Yet I would walk away hating him, probably even more now because I would be in eternal debt to a hippie. If I am ever stranded on a deserted island with a dead hippie and he’s the only source of food, I’d rather die of starvation than eat a dead hippie.”
Sid Laughed. “So, let me get this straight Ross. What you’re trying to say is that you hate hippies?”
“The hippie ideal is supposed to be rooted in non-conformity to and rebellion against the status quo.” I tend to get preachy on this subject. “Yet the mere act of growing long and unkempt hair, donning retro-60′s hippie clothes, and listening to the Grateful Dead or Phish or any of the other god awful crunchy jam bands is conformity to a tired, boring, and utterly stupid culture much worse than the status quo.”
“Speaking of conformity to a stupid culture,” Sid said. “Your spikes are looking pretty pathetic right about now.”
“Yeah, fuck it.” I brushed my hand across what was left of my spikes, crunching them down to my scalp. “I’m gonna run back to the car to get my beanie.”
“Good idea, your hair is starting to look like dreads. Almost, god forbid, hippie-esque! I’ll meet you at Swany’s bro.”
“All right man.” I lit a cigarette. “Tell Emily I’ll be there in ten minutes.”
Sid flashed me the peace sign. I flipped him the bird.
I retrieved the beanie from my glove box, pulled it over my head to conceal the sticky mess, and started jogging back toward Swany’s. I was actually in a good mood again for some reason. I couldn’t wait to see my sweet Emily. I wondered if her spikes were lucky enough to survive the rain. I wondered what she was wearing. She surely wouldn’t be wearing her leather mini and fishnets in this weather. God, there’s nothing sexier than a hot punk chick
I picked up the pace of my jog and playfully splashed my shit kickers into every puddle that approached. I even found myself humming “Singin’ in the Rain”. Thanks a lot Sid.
Up ahead, about a block before my destination, there was a tightly packed crowd on the sidewalk, stretching the entire block. Ah yes, the hippies were waiting in front of the Flynn Theatre. I was hoping to pass right through the herd without being sucked into the swirling cesspool of patchouli stench, henna tattoos, dreadlocked heads, hacky sacks, hemp necklaces, pot smoke, and body odor. And there they were in all their glory, waiting peacefully for the doors to open. Many sitting on the cold, wet pavement, smiling at the beauty of the world.
I started walking through the throng—looking straight ahead, one foot in front of the other, stepping over outstretched limbs—when I felt someone tug at my pant leg.
“What the…”
“Hey I’m dying for a cigarette,” the childlike voice said. “You think I could bum one?”
I looked down and saw her sitting on the sidewalk with her back against the outer wall of the Flynn. Her big green eyes looked into mine with such sincerity that I couldn’t refuse her request. I shifted my gaze to my hoodie pocket and pulled out a fresh cigarette. She reached up for it, brushing my hand with her small fingers, and I instinctively took a drag from mine.
“Thank you so very much. I’ve been dying for one all afternoon,” she said. The rain started coming down more steadily. My heart was beating to the rhythm.
“I have these jello shots here that I’m selling for two dollars each,” she said with a smile. “But I’ll give you one for free.”
I took the clear plastic cup and slurped the sweet, orange, jiggling libation. The aftertaste was of bitter, bottom-shelf vodka. I looked down towards the sidewalk, and found her staring up at me with those eyes. She was wearing a sleeveless patchwork dress that clung to her skin from the rain. I’m sure her ass must have been soaked.
“Are you going to the show?” she smiled up at me. “I can’t wait. You can party with us if you want.”
“Oh no, no, no, not me,” I defended myself. “I’m going to see a punk band at 242. You should come. I heard the singer lights his pubes on fire. Anyways, I’m getting wet. I have to get going. Thanks for the booze.”
“Well, have fun,” she smiled and waved goodbye.
Walking away I glanced back. She took one more drag and stomped out the cigarette with her shoe. I did the same.
Finally, I arrived at Swany’s. There was Emily, beautiful Emily, waiting for me at the bar with Sid. She was wearing her ‘Fuck Everything’ top and plaid bondage pants. Her spikes looked phenomenal. She was wearing black lipstick so I gave her a kiss on her cheek. I sat down in front of the PBR that was waiting for me.
“Sorry I’m late my love,” I said. “I had a hard time getting through the crowd in front of the Flynn Theatre.”
“Oh, you mean the hippie show? I can smell them all the way from here,” she said.
Todd Hebert is the founder of Not About Religion. He is neither a hippy, nor a punk.
{ 2 comments… read them below or add one }
Why are you so anti-hippy? I don’t understand a lot of scene kiddies (punk included) but I don’t judge them…
You seem like you’re actually proud of yourself for hating hippies.
How is it any different from hating black people or hating Jews?
It’s a fictional story Rufus. I’m not anti-hippy, the dude in the story is. It’s trying to make the point that a prejudice can be overcome by something as simple as a chance encounter.