I’ve posted most of this adventure previously, but this is where it belongs in the narrative.

The New York Commune

During the mid-to-late ’60s, I read a string of Hermann Hesse novels. There was Journey to the East, Siddhartha, Damien, The Glass Bead Game, Steppenwolf, and Narcissus and Goldman. They struck sympathetic notes in me and affirmed my desire for a full and adventurous life. I would try almost anything once, provided I was reasonably sure of at least an even chance of survival.

During this period, Ted A. and I hitchhiked to New York City, where we resided for a couple of weeks in late November of ’67. When we arrived, the first day and most of the night was spent looking for a “crash pad,” a place where transients and runaways could sleep and get out of the weather.

The first “pad” we found was an abandoned apartment building that was crumbling down around us. I had just started to doze, using my guitar case for a pillow while keeping a tight grip on it. You really didn’t know who to trust.

Suddenly, I heard sirens and people running. The “city’s finest” were rousting everyone out of the building. I barely escaped detention that night and was beginning to doubt the wisdom of my new adventurous life.

By then, I was so tired that events were passing before me like in a dream. I’m not even sure how we found the next “pad,” which became our permanent home for the duration of our stay. It was another condemned building, but many of the apartments were occupied. One of the apartments housed a commune, which took us in. This commune was made up of a real “motley crew.” The leader was a tall, gaunt character with a full beard and longish dark hair, who called himself Abdul. He proclaimed himself the “Christ figure” for the commune and provided most of the food, usually stale bagels that he collected from delis in the neighborhood.

There were, including Ted and myself, five men and a varying number of women. I use the term women loosely, as most were obviously runaways between the ages of thirteen and sixteen. Though when asked, they vehemently claimed to be eighteen. There were two of these women when we arrived and as many as six at one point during our stay. The more or less permanent residents of the commune were Abdul and his main female companion (don’t remember her name); a biker who called himself Cherokee and his “woman,” Mary; and a character who called himself Captain Trips and claimed to be a personal friend of Timothy Leary; he certainly looked the part. Abdul led the commune in nightly seances and discussions of his destiny. For my money, he and Manson were cast in the same mold.

Ted and I fed ourselves while we were there by busking (AKA, panhandling) in Washington Square, sitting around playing with our guitar cases open. People threw change in as they walked by. We also performed for evening meals in a little biker dive called “Juniors Cave.” The interior was dark. The walls were draped with old parachutes, and candles were lit on several of the dirty tables, where bikers and their “old ladies” drank lots of beer and ate greasy burgers and fries. The smell of stale beer, cigarettes, and grease was overpowering, and the volume of the jukebox was slowly pushing the entire room into the next building.

It was time to earn our supper. Here, I should mention that we were the first live band this place ever had (at least that’s what they told us). We tuned up our guitars, stood in one corner of the room, and started playing “Blowin’ in the Wind.” Everyone stopped and listened for a minute. Then, a particularly large biker stood up, walked over to the jukebox (which happened to right next to us), and shoved a dime in the slot. In mere seconds, Jimmy Hendrix and “Purple Haze” blew us through the wall.

That only happened once, though. The bouncer at Junior’s Cave was the sister of my commune brother, Cherokee. Her name? Baby Sunny, what else? And she was no one to be trifled with, as she was renowned for her talent with the three-foot length of chain she wore around her waist. She took a strong liking to us for some reason, and after that first incident, she would take her chain off and sit on the jukebox with it draped across her lap. No one dared approach it again while we were playing. And Baby Sunny was our biggest fan.

After our set one night, Baby Sunny, Ted and I were talking and joking around and she decided that she’d show me how tough she was by grabbing me from behind and attempting to choke me into submission. I think I’m the only person who had ever thrown her on her ass. and she ‘adored’ me for it?… I guess. As I remember, her attempt to make me submit was because I happened to mention that Ted and I would be leaving soon to return home. She was upset about it and tried to talk me into staying. She was cute, and I was very tempted, but saw no real way for me to make my way in New York City, and Ted was going back regardless. So, I left too.

After our last set on our last evening, one of the locals came up to give us some constructive criticism. As he walked up, someone said, “Hey Jimmy, what’s up?” He told me that I had a good voice, but sadly, no soul. As he left, Ted turned to me and said, “That was him, Jimmy Hendrix!” I looked hard after him… well, I kind of doubt it, but maybe… Imagine that, Jimmy Hendrix telling me I got no soul… fair enough.

The conclusion of this adventure is summarized in the poem below.

Wisps Over a Small Bowl

Five hours hitching outside Newark Airport
20 degrees, freezing fingers, ears, and toes,
no one stops or even slows down,
much less looks your way; must avoid eye contact.

Eventually, hike into the airport, warm up enough
to pull out your guitar, jam in the waiting area,
guitar case open, accepting donations, spare change,
eventually have enough … train ticket to Philly.

Caught ride North to Penn Pike … still icy cold.
After some empty stares, picked up by stoned
entrepreneur heading West; getting closer to home
after many bowls of red Lebanese hash.

Dreamy ride, with Hendrix, Cream, and talk, in a blue haze…
hurtling through interstellar voids, but for the moonlit
snowscapes, contrasting our smokey, warm vessel …
homeward bound, wisps rising from a small bowl.

To be Continued

–LE