one, though. Sort of foreign-looking. Pa is a bigwig at some Euro biz,
Ma is a class act dripping with whatever she wants to drip with, and sonny’s
got a mind of his own. Accounts for his too-cool couture.
Ruby
sighs. Zig-Zag. Uh-huh. It never used to be this way, every punk demanding
rolling papers. High school kiddies flaunting roaches on the street like it’s
nothing.
She
never forgot how the Man shook people down in North Beach. You hear that knock
on the door, squint at that flashlight in your face, get slapped around just
once—one time is all it takes—and you never ever want to mess with the fuzz
again. It is not a moment in the brevity of life to treasure.
Some
folks dig danger. Not Ruby. That’s how she’s come to feel about illegal
substances. Never ever again. Just isn’t worth it. She’d trash her entire herb
collection—which took her five years to acquire—if she needed to. Like when the
Drugstore Café changed its name to Drog store ‘cause the heat wasn’t
worth it. Never mind that a mom-and-pop pharmacy selling calamine lotion and
Band-Aids stood in the same location on Haight Street fifteen years. Just not
worth the hassle. She thanks her lucky stars a crazy colored chick like her has
made out so good in a white man’s world circa 1967 San Francisco, U.S.A. Isn’t anything worth more than her life, liberty, and the pursuit of free enterprise.
Ruby
smacks the teenybopper’s change in his grimy palm. “No hash pipes, no water
pipes, no opium pipes, no chillums, no bongs, no roach clips, no plastic
baggies, no spoons, no rollers, no tweezers, no screens. And no Zig-Zag rolling
papers. Can I interest you in some jasmine soap?”
“Excuse
me, ma’am,” the red-haired dude says, “but I just saw him take something.”
Ruby
seizes the teenybopper’s wrist and lunges around the counter. The teenybopper
twists away and sprints. He and his hoodlum friends clatter out the door.
“Stop
him!” Ruby cries.
But
the red-haired dude shakes his head and doesn’t budge.
Damn!
Ruby dashes after the teenybopper onto the street. He careers into a troop of chanting
Krishna devotees with their orange robes, shaved heads, and finger cymbals.
Ruby donates two hundred bucks a year to the local ashram. The devotees dance
in place, a tangle of arms and robes and bare feet. Ruby catches up to the
teenybopper, grabs his wrist but good, and twists his hand back.
“Give
it up, you little shit.”
Like
a bitty boy, which is what he really is, tears pool in his eyes. He drops a pricey
silver skull charm in the palm of her hand.
“So,
sonny. You wanted to buy this?”
He
shakes his head, eyes cast down.
“Uh-huh.
I should turn you in. You want to go to the slam?”
His
hoodlum friends are jumping up and down across the street, whooping and
catcalling. The teenybopper looks up at her, and she sees how his pals harass
him, maybe a big brother bullies him back home or Pa lays a strap on his back.
“Like,
I’m sorry,” he whispers. “Don’t get me busted, lady. Please?”
He’s
such a sorry kid that a hangnail of mercy scrapes across her heart. They’re
pests—pests!—flower children like him. They’re ruining her neighborhood. But
they are children, some of them barely out of grade school, their ears
glued to transistor radios playing the Number One song on the Hit Parade. The
song tells them there’s a New Explanation, and if you’re searching for
something, you may find it in San Francisco. They all know the address.
“All
right, sonny, scram. Don’t you and your hoodlum friends ever come in my shop
again unless you’re there to buy something. You dig?” She lets him go.
He nods
and darts away like wild rabbit.
She
is hopping mad by the time she returns to her shop, madder now at the
red-haired dude for not helping her than with the teenybopper. But when she
storms back inside, she sees him standing quietly by the counter. He leans
against the wall, his stance anything but casual.
Ma is a class act dripping with whatever she wants to drip with, and sonny’s
got a mind of his own. Accounts for his too-cool couture.
Ruby
sighs. Zig-Zag. Uh-huh. It never used to be this way, every punk demanding
rolling papers. High school kiddies flaunting roaches on the street like it’s
nothing.
She
never forgot how the Man shook people down in North Beach. You hear that knock
on the door, squint at that flashlight in your face, get slapped around just
once—one time is all it takes—and you never ever want to mess with the fuzz
again. It is not a moment in the brevity of life to treasure.
Some
folks dig danger. Not Ruby. That’s how she’s come to feel about illegal
substances. Never ever again. Just isn’t worth it. She’d trash her entire herb
collection—which took her five years to acquire—if she needed to. Like when the
Drugstore Café changed its name to Drog store ‘cause the heat wasn’t
worth it. Never mind that a mom-and-pop pharmacy selling calamine lotion and
Band-Aids stood in the same location on Haight Street fifteen years. Just not
worth the hassle. She thanks her lucky stars a crazy colored chick like her has
made out so good in a white man’s world circa 1967 San Francisco, U.S.A. Isn’t anything worth more than her life, liberty, and the pursuit of free enterprise.
Ruby
smacks the teenybopper’s change in his grimy palm. “No hash pipes, no water
pipes, no opium pipes, no chillums, no bongs, no roach clips, no plastic
baggies, no spoons, no rollers, no tweezers, no screens. And no Zig-Zag rolling
papers. Can I interest you in some jasmine soap?”
“Excuse
me, ma’am,” the red-haired dude says, “but I just saw him take something.”
Ruby
seizes the teenybopper’s wrist and lunges around the counter. The teenybopper
twists away and sprints. He and his hoodlum friends clatter out the door.
“Stop
him!” Ruby cries.
But
the red-haired dude shakes his head and doesn’t budge.
Damn!
Ruby dashes after the teenybopper onto the street. He careers into a troop of chanting
Krishna devotees with their orange robes, shaved heads, and finger cymbals.
Ruby donates two hundred bucks a year to the local ashram. The devotees dance
in place, a tangle of arms and robes and bare feet. Ruby catches up to the
teenybopper, grabs his wrist but good, and twists his hand back.
“Give
it up, you little shit.”
Like
a bitty boy, which is what he really is, tears pool in his eyes. He drops a pricey
silver skull charm in the palm of her hand.
“So,
sonny. You wanted to buy this?”
He
shakes his head, eyes cast down.
“Uh-huh.
I should turn you in. You want to go to the slam?”
His
hoodlum friends are jumping up and down across the street, whooping and
catcalling. The teenybopper looks up at her, and she sees how his pals harass
him, maybe a big brother bullies him back home or Pa lays a strap on his back.
“Like,
I’m sorry,” he whispers. “Don’t get me busted, lady. Please?”
He’s
such a sorry kid that a hangnail of mercy scrapes across her heart. They’re
pests—pests!—flower children like him. They’re ruining her neighborhood. But
they are children, some of them barely out of grade school, their ears
glued to transistor radios playing the Number One song on the Hit Parade. The
song tells them there’s a New Explanation, and if you’re searching for
something, you may find it in San Francisco. They all know the address.
“All
right, sonny, scram. Don’t you and your hoodlum friends ever come in my shop
again unless you’re there to buy something. You dig?” She lets him go.
He nods
and darts away like wild rabbit.
She
is hopping mad by the time she returns to her shop, madder now at the
red-haired dude for not helping her than with the teenybopper. But when she
storms back inside, she sees him standing quietly by the counter. He leans
against the wall, his stance anything but casual.
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