She sank to her knees on the pine needles of the forest floor, mindless of gaping bystanders, and wept freely, loudly, with the fariytale abandon of the lovelorn Svenska maid. The dour Norse? That Nordic phlegm? The dull and sluggish Norwegian permafrost? Tout au contraire: they are a wild and hearty breed, whose emotions from joy to despair and back again run deep, fierce, true and hotly energetic, untainted by the cynical affectation of Latin posturing, the operatic gestures of the lukewarm worn-out thin-blooded Mediterranean soul. If ever turned loose from their self-constructed cage of inner doubt, guilt neuroses and liberalistic angst, these northern races could subjugate the entire planet in approximately two weeks. (Well, Japan might give them trouble. And the Israelis. And the cheerful little Bushmen of Southwest Africa.)
Erika wept for a while, absorbed in her grief, then rose to her feet, wiped her nose, her reddened but spectacular seagreen eyes, and rejoined the dancers at the central bonfire, where music by Dakota Sid, Wobblie Bab, Lone Wolf Circles, Bill Oliver and the Austin Lounge Lizards, John Seed and the Canyon Pygmies kept the party alive.
The moon went down, the fire faded, the night took over, the last of the revelers staggered, crept, wandered and wobbled to their tents (if any), their pickup truckbeds (where relevant), their swags, kit, bedrolls and sleeping bags scattered through the forest (if they could find them).
Erika slept alone beneath a pinyon pine far out on the tip of a peninsula of limestone along the rim of Parissawampits Point. One thousand feet below a lion crept, with burning yellow eyes, with twitching tail, on padded claws, toward a browsing deer. Erika dreamed of calving icebergs, caving glaciers, Tapiola love.
Hoyle and Boyle rose at dawn, grumbling, from their rented campertrailer parked on a side road four miles north of the Rendezvous. Hoyle stirred bacon and scrambled eggs in a new skillet on a brand-new Coleman stove. Boyle popped the top from a can of Budweiser Lite, drank deep, his morning preliminary to the customary Bloody Mary and Hoyle’s All-American grease fix. He drank and drank again and felt, almost at once, the thin diuretic beer trickle through his kidneys, into his bladder, down the conduits of the urethra. He walked to the edge of camp, scuffed at an anthill until a few sleepy black ants crawled forth. Unzipping, he pissed on them. “This Bud’s for you.”
Young Hatch appeared in neatly patched bell bottom jeans, strings of beads around his neck, a leather headband around his brow, a pack of Zig-Zag papers showing in one pocket of his loose, baggy, ruffled Bengali shirt. An array of large metal buttons proclaimed his doctrine: Flower Power, Give Peace a Chance, Nuke the Whales, I’m Clean for Gene, Girls Say Yes to Boys Who Say No, Free Angela Davis, Free Huey Newton, Free Eldridge Cleaver, Free Bobby Seale, Zap Clap and Free Love. His hair was drawn to a stubby pigtail in back. He alit gracefully from his ten-speed Stump Jumper and prepared to give his morning report.
“Jeez,” said Hoyle, staring at young J. Oral, “what a sickening sight so early in the morning.”
“Enough to make a man puke his guts out,” Boyle agreed. “That coffee ready?”
“What’s wrong?” Oral said. “You don’t like my disguise? What’s wrong with it? Whose idea was this anyhow? You think I like it any more than you do? I feel like a doggone dope fiend in this outfit. You don’t like the way I look let’s see one of you guys try it. You wouldn’t last five minutes down there. Those people are crazy. I mean they are absolutely the craziest kookiest freakiest mob of … of whatever they are I ever saw. Half of them beating on drums while the other half hop around like frogs. There’s one bunch not wearing any clothes at all. Another bunch dressed up like Jeremiah Liver-Eating Johnson, walking around with muzzle-loaders and coontail hats and bearclaw necklaces and Bowie knives two feet long. Little children all over the place, most of them bare naked. A bunch that look like Hell’s Angels — they even ride Harleys. Some guys in sportshirts and bolo ties smoking pipes, they might be the weirdest of all, talking about biocentric land ethics. And there’s a little bunch called Sparklers and Twinklers, they think that cheering or handclapping is ‘rude and disruptive,’ they tried to get the whole insane mob — there must be a thousand by now — tried to get them to ban yelling, whistling, handclapping, any kind of noise — and the Twinklers believe you should sort of twirl your hands around in the air, kind of like this —” Hatch attempted to illustrate his words with grotesque limp-wristed birdy-like gesticulations in the vicinity of his ears; Hoyle and Boyle watched him with fascinated contempt.
“I feel sick,” Boyle said.
“Yeah. It’s like one of them old army V.D. movies.”
“ — and they actually managed to get the idea on the agenda and then the emcee, that’s Barbara Dugelby today …”
“Who?”
“Barbara Dugelby, sir.”
“Who’s she? She on the Index, Hoyle?”
“We’ll check it.”
“ — so Barbara called for a vote, all those in favor so indicate by twinkling, she said, and the whole lunatic crowd twinkled away like little butterflies and then she said all those opposed so indicate by clapping, yelling, whistling or wolf-howling and the whole crackpot mob except for the Twinklers and Sparklers started to hoot and holler and whistle and howl like a pack of animals.” Young Oral stopped for air.
“We heard it. Four miles away we heard it.”
“Yeah,” Boyle said. “The sound of Hell at Yankee Stadium when the ump called Winfield out on three pitches in the fourth game of the Series. You burnt the bacon, cocksucker, tastes like something somebody scraped off a brake lining.”
“Is that right? Well fry it yourself next time, shithead.”
“Well today they’re mostly broke up into what they call workshops.”
“Work? These eco-freaks work? Love says they’re all on welfare.”
“There’s a workshop on wolves and endangered species. There’s one for first-time Earth Firstiers. There’s one on what they call deep ecology and another on the Rites of Summer and — “
“Rights of summer?”
“That’s what they call it. Some woman named Dolores LaChapelle teaching people how to chant and dance and braid flowers in their hair and attain deep spiritual intimacy with the organic rhythms of Mother Nature.”
Boyle began to choke. His Bloody Mary fell from nerveless fingers and splattered on his Wellingtons. Tears streamed from his eyes. He gasped for breath, wheezing like a concertina. Hoyle slapped his back, harder than necessary. Boyle’s bridge fell out, his hat fell off, his toupee slid forward over his eyes.
“Oral,” said Hoyle, “you better take it easy. Poor guy’s got a heart murmur. Ain’t near as tough as he thinks he is.”
Oral stared. “I’m sorry, sir.”
“Just stick to the illegal stuff, Oral. Terrorism, PLO contacts, homicide, explosives, felonious conspiracy and so on. Skip the organic rhythms, Boyle can’t take it.”
Boyle recovered. Eyes watery, he readjusted his hairpiece, reinserted the bridge, replaced the hat, rebuilt his Bloody Mary. Humming a tune from Oklahoma!, he sat down carefully on a new aluminum camp chair, sipped at his drink, blinked, swallowed, cleared his throat, braced himself. “What else, Oral?”
“Well … there’s the Redneck Women’s Caucus. Somebody called Georgia Hayduchess and the Feminist Eco-Warriors organized that one. Doubt if they’ll let me in. There’s Art Goodtimes and the Seminar for World Re-enchantment Through Pure Earth Poetry.”
Hoyle raised a warning hand. “Careful.”
Oral nodded. “Somebody who calls himself Art Goodwrench is giving a course in diesel mechanics. I think I’d better check that one. Sounds significant.”
“Does indeed. What about Syn-Fuels, the Super-G.E.M., all that?”
Pause.
Oral said, “They’re talking about what they call an ‘action.’ ” He hesitated. “Erika’s giving a speech about it this evening at moon-rise.”
Hoyle and Boyle both glanced at their wristwatches. “Moonrise?” Hoyle said. “What time is that? Don
’t these bubbleheads own watches?”
“They don’t go by the clock. They claim they’re on what they call Earth Time. Something to do with natural organic — “
“Erika,” Houle interrupted sharply. “This Erika, who’s she?”
Oral began to turn red.
“Erika,” Boyle said, “she’s that juicy lookin’ long-legged cunt from Norway, right?”
Oral turned pale.
“Jeez,” Boyle went on, musing over his drink, “sure could get into some deep organic rhythm with that little piece of snatch.” An idea twinkled in his soggy brain. “Wonder if she’s legal? Tell her we’re INS, Border Patrol, maybe make a deal. Put out or get out, Furline What’s-yernameanyhow?”
Oral stiffened. “Mister Boyle …”
Sensing trouble, Hoyle attempted to change the subject, quickly. “That Foreman’s the one we got to nail. Him and Mike Roselle, Howie Wolke, Georgia Hayduchess, Karen Pickett, Bill Haywood, Roger …” He consulted a list in his hand. “Roger Featherstone? suspected bolt-weevil? Nancy Morton? And what about that Hayduke character himself? There’s the one the Colonel really wants, dead if possible, alive if necessary, but we’ll discuss that. …”
“Me first,” Boyle said, grinnng at Hoyle, “sloppy seconds for Oral.”
“… later?”
Young Hatch strode forward charged with adrenaline, grasped Boyle by collar and tie and hoisted him from his chair. And Boyle was a large and heavy man, two hundred pounds if an ounce. Through gritted teeth, eyes glaring, Oral breathed, “Apologize.”
Smiling, Boyle set down his drink. Both hands free, he was prepared to kill young Hatch — kill him instantly — with a single chop to the Adam’s apple. This was exactly the kind of situation he most enjoyed. Lived for. Dreamed about. Another notch on his coup stick. “Apologize?” Eyes half closed, lazily reclining in Hatch’s grip, he repeated, “Apologize? For what?”
Oral hesitated. How explain without revealing that he’d already blown his cover? But honor came first, the code of the gentleman Mormon missionary. “What you said. About her. You apologize.” His right fist hovered in striking position.
Hoyle intervened, breaking Hatch’s grip with an expert application of pressure points to the boy’s hand. Boyle slumped down in his chair, relaxed and smiling. Oral froze like a statue in Hoyle’s one-handed clutch.
“All right men, no foolishness. At ease, Oral. Boyle, give the kid a break, apologize.”
“What for?”
“Just do it.”
“Sure. Yeah. Okay. Okay, I apologize. Didn’t know you was in love, Oral.”
“I’m not in love. But you can’t talk that way about her.”
“So she knows you?”
Silence.
“How about it, Oral?” Hoyle said. “She spot you?”
“Yes.”
“How much does she know?”
“I don’t know. But they all think I’m a spy anyway. She will too, I guess. None of them seem to care. But …”
“But what?”
“She says she loves me.” At once he regretted the words.
Another silence. Boyle and Hoyle glanced at one another, then stared at the young man. He stared at the coffeepot simmering on the stove. Now what?
“Oral,” said Hoyle, “are you still working for us?”
“Yes sir. But not for him.” Glaring at Boyle. “Not for you either. I’m working for my country. For America.”
“Okay, good, that’s good enough. That’s the main idea. So here’s what I want you to do: go back to that Twinkies nuthouse jamboree. Observe. Listen. Talk. Make suggestions. Sit in on the workshops. And stick close to that Norwegian cutie. You say she likes you, we know you like her, make the most of it. Opportunity. Move in close, you lucky dog. If she’s suspicious now, tell her you’re a double agent. Tell her how much you really secretly love rocks and cactus and chipmunks, that kind’ll believe anything. Tell her your connections in Libya, Iran, Nicaragua, see what she makes of that. Find out if she knows Hayduke. You follow me?”
Young Hatch considered. “Yes sir.”
“Good. You’ve got your orders. Don’t forget your oath of loyalty to the Company. Don’t forget your pledge of allegiance to the flag. Don’t forget you’re an American first, a boy friend second, a nature lover third, right?”
“Yes sir.”
“Am I right?”
“Yes, Mr. Hoyle.”
“Right. Now how about shaking hands with this stinking booze-hound here, our good buddy Boyle. He apologized like a gentleman to you, you should show him there’s no hard feelings. Okay, Oral?”
Boyle stuck out his big moist right hand, palm mottled like a sausage, assuming on his red fat face an expression of solemn sincerity. Young Oral hesitated. Boyle waited. Oral hesitated. Boyle waited. Again Hoyle intervened.
“Better idea.” He placed his hand on his heart. “Let’s all recite the pledge.”
Boyle snapped to attention, hand on heart. Young Hatch did likewise. Lacking an actual flag, they faced each other. In unison, more or less, they chanted together, sort of, like Druids at the sacred oak, Lakotas at the sun pole, Christians at an execution, Hebrews at a penis party, Aztecs at a heart transplant, etc., the holy formula:
“I pledge allegiance … huh … to the flag … hah … of the United States of America … ho … one nation indivisible/under God [confusion on that point] … hey … with liberty … hoo … and justice … hi … for all … yah!
“Great,” Hoyle summarized. “Okay, Oral me boy, hop on your trike I mean bike here, pedal your rosy ass back to your … to the randy-voo there and see what you can see. Captain Boyle!”
Again Boyle snapped to attention. “Yes sir, Major Hoyle!”
“Give Lieutenant Hatch a formal military dispatch with full military honors!”
“Yes sir! With pleasure, sir!” Boyle raised both hands to his mouth — while young Oral, sunk in thought, slowly mounted his bicycle — and bugled forth, in perfect imitation of the real thing, a stirring cavalry charge, presto fortissimo.
Oral pedaled off, not very fast, wobbling a bit on the rutted dirt road, and dwindled off, down, away and out of sight among the colonnades of Pinus ponderosa.
They watched him go.
“What do you think?”
Boyle shrugged. “Stupid punk. I shoulda broke his throat. Why’d you stop me?”
Hoyle shrugged. “Can’t stand the sight of blood. Hate the paperwork. Have the Colonel on our backs again. Besides, might still get some use out of that kid.”
“Double agent. You make me laugh, Hoyle. He ain’t smart enough to make a double highball — or a single agent. You see those dumb badges?”
“Sure. What the hell, those Earth Firster types probly think it’s a joke. And he’s not as dumb as you think.”
“He’s dumber.”
“He’s simple. But he’s not dumb.” Hoyle stared down the single-lane dirt road to where it curved out of sight deeper in the forest, joining the main dirt road a mile beyond. “He’s not only not stupid, he’s not only gonna play double agent, he might even turn out to be a triple agent. We got to watch him; he might be smarter than us.”
“That’s not smart.”
“But he takes the flag stuff seriously. That’s why I trust him. He really was an Eagle Scout. He really is a Mormon. He really does like apple pie.”
Sagebrush Patriots, unite.
Flags rippled in the evening breeze. The flag of anarchy, red monkey wrench on a field of black. The green fist, red lettering and plain white of Earth First! The red, white and gold, with rattlesnake, of American independence. DON’T TREAD ON ME. And centered as a backdrop to the stage, and fluttering on hand-held staves throughout the assembled mob of misfits and mavericks and crazy kids, Old Glory herself — our flag — the red the white the blue the stripes and stars of the Fucking United Fucking States of America by God and by Christ. This was a mucho-macho patriot crowd, fanatic lovers of the land, of liberty, of a g
lorious tradition, and they were proud to show it.
GUNS, GOD, GUTS & GRASS, THAT’S WHAT MADE AMERICA GREAT! (sang a scarlet pennon waving in the air). MORE ELK! LESS COWS! said another.
And more (of course):
AMERICAN WILDERNESS: LOVE IT OR LEAVE IT
ALONE
ANOTHER MORMON ON DRUGS
BACK TO THE PLEISTOCENE
DREAM BACK THE BISON, SING BACK THE SWAN
ESCHEW SURPLUSAGE
HUNT COWS, NOT BEARS
HUNTERS: DID A COW GET YOUR ELK?
MALTHUS WAS RIGHT
MUIR POWER TO YOU
NATURE BATS LAST
REDNECKS FOR WILDERNESS
NEANDERTHAL AND PROUD OF IT!
PAY YOUR RENT: WORK FOR THE EARTH
WALT SAYS: RESIST MUCH, OBEY LITTLE
THINK GLOBALLY —ACT LOCALLY
SUBVERT THE DOMINANT PARIDIGM
HAYDUKE LIVES!
And so forth and so on. Flags, pennants, T-shirts and buttons, clenched fists and flying monkey wrenches, the import might be construed as suggesting a certain vague dissatisfaction with the “oligarchic swine” (as one wag put it) who “own and operate America” (in the phrase of another).
But all in the spirit of good clean fun, no harm meant.
Sun going down in a volcano of gruesome gorgeous clouds, that great big pizza in the West where God Hisself was splattering tomato sauce, melted cheese, purple anchovies and rotten salami clear across the celestial dome from Shithouse Mountain on the north to Dead Cow Butte on the south. Divine abstract expressionism!
So where’s our comely young mistress of ceremonies this evening? Why here she comes, Miss Barbara Dugelby from Muleshoe, Texas, picking her way through the milling mass of ragged anarchists, fanatic conservatives, environmental blowflies, unwashed preservationists, neat clean tidy wildlife biologists, sly sneaky courageous eco-saboteurs, wild and beautiful young women with wilting posies in their long and Herbal Essence-scented hair, gnarly unshaven handsome young men with naked chests, bulging biceps and no hips at all, nudist naturists wearing only sandals and magic crystal necklaces, wild and happy children chasing one another yon, hither and back, and all the others heretofore mentioned: the spies in hippie costume, the ecologists deep and shallow, the conservationists both respectable and disreputable, the founding fathers and sustaining mothers, the redneck women, the socio-femmes, Igor and the goon squad at the perimeters watching for a rumored night attack from the Posse Comitatus and Search & Rescue Team, a few free-lance correspondents like the aging geezer with whiskers and buzzard-beak gaping up at Barbara from the front or “Pervert” row, and such. As young Hatch had said, the festering crowd had grown close to a thousand, with hundreds of others still groping about through the woods all over the fifty-mile-wide Kaibab Plateau, snarling to themselves Where the fuck is this Pissy-wampitts Point, this fucking Round River Rendered View?