1967 - A Day in the Life

I’m standing in a light drizzle, thumb out, on the shoulder of the Berkeley highway that leads to the Bay Bridge. The bay stretches out past the swampy estuary to the San Francisco skyline in the far distance. A Chevy Camaro pulls over noisily, and as I jog towards it the rear window rolls down. A low-rent fraternity type smiles maliciously—and spits at me.

“You fucking faggot!  Get a haircut!”

It’s January, 1967, and my longish hair marks me as the Enemy to the vast majority of America. I jump back and let the loogie fall at my feet, and the car roars away with the laughter of the other occupants. I take my place back on the shoulder, a little shaken, but I’m used to this by now. Someone nineteen years-old today, the age I was then as a freshman at UC Berkeley, would not recognize the landscape, but they might recognize the people.  We’re in that same place again.

There was no BART back then, and I certainly didn’t need, nor could I afford, a car, so my weekly trips to the City to see a shrink had to be navigated by hitchhiking, which at that time was not uncommon, even for the occasional strong-willed girl. You just had to be very alert, and ocasionally wave off the creepy ones with a polite smile.

Next thing I know, a VW van pulls over, the door swings open and a cloud of smoke billows out.  There are several bodies crammed in the back, but they make a seat available and I clamber in.  As the van pulls back onto the highway, I get a look at the crew around me and my eyes probably widen.  They’re all mature men, in their late 20s or early 30s, and their hair is so long that I’m astounded. All have variations of beards, long sideburns or moustaches. They’re passing a fat joint around, and there is a slight menace to their affect, like Hell’s Angels.

“Where you goin’, brother?” asks the driver in a shockingly deep voice.

“Just into the city, right by Union Square. You can drop me off wherever it’s convenient. Thanks for stopping…”

The joint reaches me and I take it sheepishly, making sure not to inhale too deeply and cough like an amateur. Then I see a girl with wild hair in the seat behind me, a flask in her hand, as she laughs at some remark. The cackle immediately gives her away, and it hits me who these people are. I say it out loud for confirmation:

“You’re Big Brother & the Holding Company, aren’t you?”

“You got it, kid,” says Janis Joplin. “Your lucky day.” And then that cackle again.

I keep to myself the rest of the way, and then the most unexpected thing happens.  As the van exits the 6th Street offramp, the driver doesn’t stop, but keeps going up the hill all the way to Union Square. Totally out of their way, I assume (I figure they live in the Haight). 

“Right here would be great, thank you so much,” I say and I jump out right in front of my shrink’s office building. 

“Don’t mention it, kid,” says the driver.  “And stay in school!” I smile, wave goodbye, and off they go.

Just another day in the life, 1967.

Next:  Why I was seeing a shrink…