Day Tripper
Day Tripper
It was the summer of 1966. I was sixteen years old and leading a sheltered life – not by choice, I can tell you. Anyway, my uncle had been teaching in London on a year-long exchange program, and my parents thought it would be a good opportunity for me to, you know, “see something of the world.” My mother actually used that phrase. I had hardly been away from home except on family vacations, and I guess they figured this would give me a taste of independence, while still under watchful eyes. I was cool with it.
And so I spent six weeks in July and August in London. I mastered the tube system with a little help from my aunt and a damn good map and spent most weekdays on my own prowling around London from their Finchley Road flat. I discovered Hyde Park, Buckingham Palace (where Christopher Robin went down with Alice), St. Paul’s, where I climbed to the very top, the Burlington Arcade, Madame Tussaud’s and, most critically, Carnaby Street, where the Brit girls made me feel weird about my short hair and American accent.
On weekends we took trips to Oxford, Blenheim, Stratford, Hampton Court (the maze was amazing), and way too many cathedrals which my aunt felt necessary for my grand tour, but which seemed to blend together. Yeah, you’ve seen one, you’ve seen ‘em all. We took an extended trip up to Scotland via the Flying Scot. I learned an important lesson in travel – it’s just as hard to sleep on a train as it is on an airplane, maybe harder. They serve warm Cokes without ice and call potato chips “crisps,” and the way they say it could serve as the example for onomatopoeia in the dictionary. We did Edinburgh, of course, Culloden and Bannockburn, my aunt on some sort of quest for Bonnie Prince Charlie. Then up along Loch Ness to Inverness, and saw as many castles in various states of disrepair as we had seen cathedrals in the south. We stayed in bed and breakfasts with ceilings that were too low. We had afternoon tea faithfully at four o’clock.
At the end of six weeks, I’d about had it. Don’t get me wrong; it was different, at least, but there’s a certain stress level when you’re, you know, out of your element, and I was way out of my freakin’ element.
My aunt and uncle are not fond of flying, preferring the more leisurely pace of ocean liners. And so here I am, wandering around the USS United States (which strikes me as a bit redundant) on the last evening out of Southampton of a five day passage home. I am dangerously bored, and nagged by a mild but persistent headache which my aunt attributes to the motion of the ship. I think the boredom and the rather cozy cabin-class accommodations are big contributors, and so I spend hours wandering around the ship, my guardians reasoning that I can’t go too far and then there is the very attentive crew in loco parentis. I watch the movie – To Sir with Love – three times (Pam Dare is hot!), play solo shuffleboard at length when it isn’t overrun by the blue-hairs, and decide that cruising the North Atlantic on the pride of American luxury liners is not all it was cracked up to be for a sixteen year old sheltered kid.
At about 10:30, having thoroughly chilled myself on deck (“Frozen in August, Jesus!”), not at all sleepy, and having nothing better to do, I decide to go into one of the bars for a Coke. It’s empty except for a group of college-age kids, British from their accents, dressed more or less in the mod style of the day, but a bit raggy. There are two guys and three girls.
I sit sideways to the bar, sipping my Coke and smoking a cigarette, mildly pleased that I had kept the fact that I smoke hidden from my aunt and uncle for six weeks. I am alternately examining a stubborn London Times crossword from a paper I picked up from under a deck chair and tuning in to the group of students. Apparently they are all attending college in the States, two of them acting like a couple returning to Columbia, and the other three just starting out. One of the girls, the prettier one, is going to Smith, and the others are giving her a hard time. It seems there is a certain rumor going around about Smith girls. I had heard it myself, since I’m going to be a junior and the hot topic is the whole college admissions scene.
One of the boys, the unattached one, has a guitar and is absentmindedly picking on it, and the conversation is interspersed with an informal sort of “name that tune.” I am enjoying trying to outdo them silently and soon realize that I am beating them to the punch about half the time. I have an ear for music, I guess, but I figure that they are more involved in their yakking and not concentrating on the music.
During the pauses, I am waiting expectedly for the next offering. The guitar player takes a swig of his beer and fumbles for a cigarette, finding none.
“Shit. All out. Anybody got a cig?” No one does. “Shit.” He goes back to the guitar.
“Day Tripper,” I say aloud, before the first measure is complete. The conversation stops abruptly, and they all look at me. I slide off the bar stool, pocket my London Times and toss my cigarettes to the guitar player, who catches the pack in mid-air. “Take the easy way out,” I say.
“See? Now there’s a bloke what knows his music!” I am immediately invited to join them, and the other guy gets up and pulls over a chair, placing it between the two apparently unattached girls. Seeing that my glass is nearly empty, the one to whom I gave the cigarettes asks what I’m drinking. “Coke,” I reply, and instantly regret it. “Jesus. I thought it was dark beer. You ever had dark beer?”
“No, but if you’re offering, I’ll try it.” I say this because I am pissed at myself, knowing full well that I won’t like it. But I figure I can probably get it down.
George, the guitar player by introduction, puts down the guitar, inquires around the table, and has a couple of takers. He goes over to the bar and returns with the dark beer, a fresh one for himself and the girl to my right, the pretty one, who had introduced herself as Melanie. After a few questions about my travels, the conversation drifts back to its disjointed flow about music, New York City, Boston and college life. I’m able to contribute to most of the topics and begin gradually to relax. Eventually I take the guitar and lead them through a couple of name-that-tune exercises, though I’m not as good as George. They all laugh when I give them a recognizable “This Land Is Your Land.” Melanie is particularly responsive. She had joined in with a casual humming harmony on a few of my songs and pouts at me when I give up the guitar.
She has long honey-colored hair that flows around her shoulders and frames a naturally pretty, if not elegant, face, the most resplendent feature of which is her green eyes. She has on a long, loose shift sort of dress that is reminiscent of the flower child. She seems casually self-assured, yet oozes softness. Everything about her is soft. She is slim but not bony, graceful, even in the act of sipping a beer. She reminds me of one of those calla lilies that only blooms once in the winter, tall and smooth, everything in its place. The lily that you want to touch, but somehow you don’t.
After perhaps an hour, and most of two glasses of dark beer, the group begins to give indications that it’s ready to move on. George asks if I’ll come to their stateroom for a little while. I’m still not sleepy and the beer has me feeling pretty good, so I agree. As we step out on deck, a cold wind hits us, and Melanie reaches for my arm and puts it around her waist, saying, “Christ it’s cold!” I am pleasantly surprised by this, to say the least, and I slide my arm up to her shoulders and pull her close. “Yeah, and it’s August. Christ!” I regret that we soon turn off the chilly open deck, but she doesn’t completely let go, so neither do I. I have my arm around a lily.
Their stateroom is not luxurious, but it’s larger than mine. It’s evident, with little examination, that they are all in it together. After some milling around Melanie bounces up to one of the two upper bunks and pulls me up beside her. I notice how her fingers feel in my hand. The two I have now decided are definitely a couple move onto the bunk below us, and the other guy and girl sit on the floor. Candles are lit and the lights turned out. Beer is handed out, and I’m offered one, or a Coke. I take the Coke, and there’s no reaction. There’s another guitar, and the music begins again. On a few of the tunes, there’s singing. Dylan figures heavily in the repertoire. The room is pretty thick with the candles, the beer, the music and the smoke from pot. A joint is handed around and when it is handed from the lower bunk to the upper by a detached hand, I don’t hesitate to take part after first passing it to Melanie. My first thought is that it’s like a sour-tasting cigarette, but I begin to feel its effects after a few rounds. “Well, this is a first,” I think.
Melanie has a beautiful voice when she chooses to sing softly on the quieter tunes. I hum with her and find some harmonies – “What Have They Done to the Rain,” “In My Life,” “Girl from the North Country.” She likes that. She tells me that she’s never been out of England before and wants to know where I live. I tell her in Pennsylvania, and she only knows about Philadelphia. She lives in Leeds and I know there’s a cathedral there, but I can’t see it in my mind. Her father is American and her mother is English and she has two younger brothers. She’s glad to get away, but she’s scared too. She’s going to Smith because her father likes the idea, and she wanted to go to the U.S. I tell her I’m thinking about Cornell and studying architecture, and she wants to know where Cornell is, but I haven’t even been there yet, so there’s not much I can tell her. She hasn’t seen Smith, either.
I’m melting in the heat and pull my sweater over my head, and she helps me, giggling, in the cramped headroom of the upper bunk. I lay back and she curls beside me, running her hand up underneath my shirt over my bare chest, her head on my shoulder and my arm around her back. We hum softly together on a few Donovan things that I can’t remember all the words to, perhaps because of the distraction of her hand on my chest. The spaces between the songs grow longer, and the conversation dies out gradually, and she kisses me, first once, then again, longer, and then pretty much continually. This is not a normal experience for me, but I feel pretty damn good. I discover that she’s wearing no bra, and not long after discover she has no underwear beneath her loose fitting cotton dress. She is soft all over. As I begin to explore, so does she, and she undoes my belt and slides her warm hand inside and finds my hard on. Her hand feels electric.
I have made out, but only briefly and not often; I have kissed girls good night; I have groped around in movie theaters. This is a quantum leap – the wet dream in real life. I have read about this. I am terrified I will blow it. But God, I want her so much. She squeezes me and I reach down between her legs. I find her and she sighs and kisses me deeply. She squeezes me again and I realize she’s pulling me toward her. I roll on top of her as gently as I can and she guides me. At first I think she’s just playing with herself using me, but then she wraps her arms and legs around me, squirms against me, and I feel myself go inside her. I hold as still as I can, because I am so afraid that it will be over too quickly. What “it” is I have no direct knowledge. She whispers, “Come on,” and begins to squirm again beneath me. She writhes passionately, watching my eyes, and whispers again, “Come on. Fuck me.” And I do. And it is not long, but perhaps long enough, before I feel the waves overcome me. I push again deep inside her once, twice, three more times and hear her whisper, “Oh, God. Yes.” And it’s over. I stay inside her for a long time, taking her head in my hands and looking down at her, her fingers at the back of my neck. She smiles up at me and we kiss lightly. I am head over heels. “Welcome to America,” I say, and she laughs, which pushes me out of her in short order. We laugh some more, quietly, and I’m thinking that I can hear a British accent in her laugh. There’s no sound from the others, and pretty soon, we fall asleep, wrapped around each other, my pants around my ankles.
The fog horn wakes me up. I start, remember where I am, realize I’m holding a girl in my arms, and nearly crack my head on the low ceiling. I lean over the edge of the bunk and catch a look at my watch in the dying candle – 3:15 a.m. Uh-oh.
I look down at Melanie and she’s sleeping. Then the fog horn goes off again and her eyes flutter. “Melanie,” I whisper, and she opens her eyes, looks at me blankly for a moment, then smiles. It’s the most beautiful thing I have ever seen.
“I’ve gotta go. If they realize I’m not there, they’ll panic.” I don’t know what else to say at that moment.
“Yes. Okay. Kiss me.” I do. And then I kiss her again. The fog horn again. I sit up, groping for my pants and sweater. She helps me, giggling sleepily the whole time. I lower myself quietly from the bunk. She’s rummaging around in the blankets, groping in the dark for something. “Wait,” she says, her back to me. “Okay, here you go.” She hands me the crumpled London Times, my pen clipped to the edge. “A souvenir,” she says, smiling. I just stand there looking at her resting her head on one elbow, her honey hair all disheveled and her lips open in a half smile as though she’s about to have a pleasant conversation. She’s at eye level, and I kiss her again, which she returns. We separate and look at each other. She sits up in the bunk, and I hold her around the waist, my head pressed into her stomach. She strokes my head, then leans back against the wall as I gently press my head between her legs, feeling her warmth on the other side of the soft cotton. She sighs, squirms a bit, then lifts my head to her eye level. “Be off with you, and remember me.”
I back away from her, still holding her hand. We are smiling. I do not ask how to reach her, nor if I’ll see her again. It seems inadequate, inappropriate somehow, or maybe I just don’t think about it. I turn and step over two bodies in a sleeping bag on the floor and one of the guitars, and let myself out of the room into the bare hall, glancing back briefly to see her wave to me, still smiling. I close the door.
“Hey sport, time for breakfast. Gotta get it now or we’ll miss the Statue of Liberty.”
I roll over groggily, rubbing my eyes, realize I am still in my yesterday clothes, and then remember everything else.
“What time did you come in last night? We didn’t hear a thing!”
“Oh, I dunno. It was real late. Ran into a group of college kids in the bar. They had a guitar and we were up singing to all hours. It was nice.”
“Well, let’s get a move on. Your aunt’s already up in the dining room. Gotta have the coffee first thing, ya know.”
“Okay. Lemme change. You go ahead, I’ll be up in a few.”
My uncle leaves, and I slowly get down from the bunk, stretch, and head for the john. I drop my pants and the newspaper drops out of my back pocket to the floor. After I pee, I pick it up. I had not finished the crossword. Written in the margin are the words, “Thanks Day Tripper. Melanie Keough, Smith College, USA. Peace.”
It was the summer of 1966. I was sixteen years old and leading a sheltered life – not by choice, I can tell you. Anyway, my uncle had been teaching in London on a year-long exchange program, and my parents thought it would be a good opportunity for me to, you know, “see something of the world.” My mother actually used that phrase. I had hardly been away from home except on family vacations, and I guess they figured this would give me a taste of independence, while still under watchful eyes. I was cool with it.
And so I spent six weeks in July and August in London. I mastered the tube system with a little help from my aunt and a damn good map and spent most weekdays on my own prowling around London from their Finchley Road flat. I discovered Hyde Park, Buckingham Palace (where Christopher Robin went down with Alice), St. Paul’s, where I climbed to the very top, the Burlington Arcade, Madame Tussaud’s and, most critically, Carnaby Street, where the Brit girls made me feel weird about my short hair and American accent.
On weekends we took trips to Oxford, Blenheim, Stratford, Hampton Court (the maze was amazing), and way too many cathedrals which my aunt felt necessary for my grand tour, but which seemed to blend together. Yeah, you’ve seen one, you’ve seen ‘em all. We took an extended trip up to Scotland via the Flying Scot. I learned an important lesson in travel – it’s just as hard to sleep on a train as it is on an airplane, maybe harder. They serve warm Cokes without ice and call potato chips “crisps,” and the way they say it could serve as the example for onomatopoeia in the dictionary. We did Edinburgh, of course, Culloden and Bannockburn, my aunt on some sort of quest for Bonnie Prince Charlie. Then up along Loch Ness to Inverness, and saw as many castles in various states of disrepair as we had seen cathedrals in the south. We stayed in bed and breakfasts with ceilings that were too low. We had afternoon tea faithfully at four o’clock.
At the end of six weeks, I’d about had it. Don’t get me wrong; it was different, at least, but there’s a certain stress level when you’re, you know, out of your element, and I was way out of my freakin’ element.
My aunt and uncle are not fond of flying, preferring the more leisurely pace of ocean liners. And so here I am, wandering around the USS United States (which strikes me as a bit redundant) on the last evening out of Southampton of a five day passage home. I am dangerously bored, and nagged by a mild but persistent headache which my aunt attributes to the motion of the ship. I think the boredom and the rather cozy cabin-class accommodations are big contributors, and so I spend hours wandering around the ship, my guardians reasoning that I can’t go too far and then there is the very attentive crew in loco parentis. I watch the movie – To Sir with Love – three times (Pam Dare is hot!), play solo shuffleboard at length when it isn’t overrun by the blue-hairs, and decide that cruising the North Atlantic on the pride of American luxury liners is not all it was cracked up to be for a sixteen year old sheltered kid.
At about 10:30, having thoroughly chilled myself on deck (“Frozen in August, Jesus!”), not at all sleepy, and having nothing better to do, I decide to go into one of the bars for a Coke. It’s empty except for a group of college-age kids, British from their accents, dressed more or less in the mod style of the day, but a bit raggy. There are two guys and three girls.
I sit sideways to the bar, sipping my Coke and smoking a cigarette, mildly pleased that I had kept the fact that I smoke hidden from my aunt and uncle for six weeks. I am alternately examining a stubborn London Times crossword from a paper I picked up from under a deck chair and tuning in to the group of students. Apparently they are all attending college in the States, two of them acting like a couple returning to Columbia, and the other three just starting out. One of the girls, the prettier one, is going to Smith, and the others are giving her a hard time. It seems there is a certain rumor going around about Smith girls. I had heard it myself, since I’m going to be a junior and the hot topic is the whole college admissions scene.
One of the boys, the unattached one, has a guitar and is absentmindedly picking on it, and the conversation is interspersed with an informal sort of “name that tune.” I am enjoying trying to outdo them silently and soon realize that I am beating them to the punch about half the time. I have an ear for music, I guess, but I figure that they are more involved in their yakking and not concentrating on the music.
During the pauses, I am waiting expectedly for the next offering. The guitar player takes a swig of his beer and fumbles for a cigarette, finding none.
“Shit. All out. Anybody got a cig?” No one does. “Shit.” He goes back to the guitar.
“Day Tripper,” I say aloud, before the first measure is complete. The conversation stops abruptly, and they all look at me. I slide off the bar stool, pocket my London Times and toss my cigarettes to the guitar player, who catches the pack in mid-air. “Take the easy way out,” I say.
“See? Now there’s a bloke what knows his music!” I am immediately invited to join them, and the other guy gets up and pulls over a chair, placing it between the two apparently unattached girls. Seeing that my glass is nearly empty, the one to whom I gave the cigarettes asks what I’m drinking. “Coke,” I reply, and instantly regret it. “Jesus. I thought it was dark beer. You ever had dark beer?”
“No, but if you’re offering, I’ll try it.” I say this because I am pissed at myself, knowing full well that I won’t like it. But I figure I can probably get it down.
George, the guitar player by introduction, puts down the guitar, inquires around the table, and has a couple of takers. He goes over to the bar and returns with the dark beer, a fresh one for himself and the girl to my right, the pretty one, who had introduced herself as Melanie. After a few questions about my travels, the conversation drifts back to its disjointed flow about music, New York City, Boston and college life. I’m able to contribute to most of the topics and begin gradually to relax. Eventually I take the guitar and lead them through a couple of name-that-tune exercises, though I’m not as good as George. They all laugh when I give them a recognizable “This Land Is Your Land.” Melanie is particularly responsive. She had joined in with a casual humming harmony on a few of my songs and pouts at me when I give up the guitar.
She has long honey-colored hair that flows around her shoulders and frames a naturally pretty, if not elegant, face, the most resplendent feature of which is her green eyes. She has on a long, loose shift sort of dress that is reminiscent of the flower child. She seems casually self-assured, yet oozes softness. Everything about her is soft. She is slim but not bony, graceful, even in the act of sipping a beer. She reminds me of one of those calla lilies that only blooms once in the winter, tall and smooth, everything in its place. The lily that you want to touch, but somehow you don’t.
After perhaps an hour, and most of two glasses of dark beer, the group begins to give indications that it’s ready to move on. George asks if I’ll come to their stateroom for a little while. I’m still not sleepy and the beer has me feeling pretty good, so I agree. As we step out on deck, a cold wind hits us, and Melanie reaches for my arm and puts it around her waist, saying, “Christ it’s cold!” I am pleasantly surprised by this, to say the least, and I slide my arm up to her shoulders and pull her close. “Yeah, and it’s August. Christ!” I regret that we soon turn off the chilly open deck, but she doesn’t completely let go, so neither do I. I have my arm around a lily.
Their stateroom is not luxurious, but it’s larger than mine. It’s evident, with little examination, that they are all in it together. After some milling around Melanie bounces up to one of the two upper bunks and pulls me up beside her. I notice how her fingers feel in my hand. The two I have now decided are definitely a couple move onto the bunk below us, and the other guy and girl sit on the floor. Candles are lit and the lights turned out. Beer is handed out, and I’m offered one, or a Coke. I take the Coke, and there’s no reaction. There’s another guitar, and the music begins again. On a few of the tunes, there’s singing. Dylan figures heavily in the repertoire. The room is pretty thick with the candles, the beer, the music and the smoke from pot. A joint is handed around and when it is handed from the lower bunk to the upper by a detached hand, I don’t hesitate to take part after first passing it to Melanie. My first thought is that it’s like a sour-tasting cigarette, but I begin to feel its effects after a few rounds. “Well, this is a first,” I think.
Melanie has a beautiful voice when she chooses to sing softly on the quieter tunes. I hum with her and find some harmonies – “What Have They Done to the Rain,” “In My Life,” “Girl from the North Country.” She likes that. She tells me that she’s never been out of England before and wants to know where I live. I tell her in Pennsylvania, and she only knows about Philadelphia. She lives in Leeds and I know there’s a cathedral there, but I can’t see it in my mind. Her father is American and her mother is English and she has two younger brothers. She’s glad to get away, but she’s scared too. She’s going to Smith because her father likes the idea, and she wanted to go to the U.S. I tell her I’m thinking about Cornell and studying architecture, and she wants to know where Cornell is, but I haven’t even been there yet, so there’s not much I can tell her. She hasn’t seen Smith, either.
I’m melting in the heat and pull my sweater over my head, and she helps me, giggling, in the cramped headroom of the upper bunk. I lay back and she curls beside me, running her hand up underneath my shirt over my bare chest, her head on my shoulder and my arm around her back. We hum softly together on a few Donovan things that I can’t remember all the words to, perhaps because of the distraction of her hand on my chest. The spaces between the songs grow longer, and the conversation dies out gradually, and she kisses me, first once, then again, longer, and then pretty much continually. This is not a normal experience for me, but I feel pretty damn good. I discover that she’s wearing no bra, and not long after discover she has no underwear beneath her loose fitting cotton dress. She is soft all over. As I begin to explore, so does she, and she undoes my belt and slides her warm hand inside and finds my hard on. Her hand feels electric.
I have made out, but only briefly and not often; I have kissed girls good night; I have groped around in movie theaters. This is a quantum leap – the wet dream in real life. I have read about this. I am terrified I will blow it. But God, I want her so much. She squeezes me and I reach down between her legs. I find her and she sighs and kisses me deeply. She squeezes me again and I realize she’s pulling me toward her. I roll on top of her as gently as I can and she guides me. At first I think she’s just playing with herself using me, but then she wraps her arms and legs around me, squirms against me, and I feel myself go inside her. I hold as still as I can, because I am so afraid that it will be over too quickly. What “it” is I have no direct knowledge. She whispers, “Come on,” and begins to squirm again beneath me. She writhes passionately, watching my eyes, and whispers again, “Come on. Fuck me.” And I do. And it is not long, but perhaps long enough, before I feel the waves overcome me. I push again deep inside her once, twice, three more times and hear her whisper, “Oh, God. Yes.” And it’s over. I stay inside her for a long time, taking her head in my hands and looking down at her, her fingers at the back of my neck. She smiles up at me and we kiss lightly. I am head over heels. “Welcome to America,” I say, and she laughs, which pushes me out of her in short order. We laugh some more, quietly, and I’m thinking that I can hear a British accent in her laugh. There’s no sound from the others, and pretty soon, we fall asleep, wrapped around each other, my pants around my ankles.
The fog horn wakes me up. I start, remember where I am, realize I’m holding a girl in my arms, and nearly crack my head on the low ceiling. I lean over the edge of the bunk and catch a look at my watch in the dying candle – 3:15 a.m. Uh-oh.
I look down at Melanie and she’s sleeping. Then the fog horn goes off again and her eyes flutter. “Melanie,” I whisper, and she opens her eyes, looks at me blankly for a moment, then smiles. It’s the most beautiful thing I have ever seen.
“I’ve gotta go. If they realize I’m not there, they’ll panic.” I don’t know what else to say at that moment.
“Yes. Okay. Kiss me.” I do. And then I kiss her again. The fog horn again. I sit up, groping for my pants and sweater. She helps me, giggling sleepily the whole time. I lower myself quietly from the bunk. She’s rummaging around in the blankets, groping in the dark for something. “Wait,” she says, her back to me. “Okay, here you go.” She hands me the crumpled London Times, my pen clipped to the edge. “A souvenir,” she says, smiling. I just stand there looking at her resting her head on one elbow, her honey hair all disheveled and her lips open in a half smile as though she’s about to have a pleasant conversation. She’s at eye level, and I kiss her again, which she returns. We separate and look at each other. She sits up in the bunk, and I hold her around the waist, my head pressed into her stomach. She strokes my head, then leans back against the wall as I gently press my head between her legs, feeling her warmth on the other side of the soft cotton. She sighs, squirms a bit, then lifts my head to her eye level. “Be off with you, and remember me.”
I back away from her, still holding her hand. We are smiling. I do not ask how to reach her, nor if I’ll see her again. It seems inadequate, inappropriate somehow, or maybe I just don’t think about it. I turn and step over two bodies in a sleeping bag on the floor and one of the guitars, and let myself out of the room into the bare hall, glancing back briefly to see her wave to me, still smiling. I close the door.
“Hey sport, time for breakfast. Gotta get it now or we’ll miss the Statue of Liberty.”
I roll over groggily, rubbing my eyes, realize I am still in my yesterday clothes, and then remember everything else.
“What time did you come in last night? We didn’t hear a thing!”
“Oh, I dunno. It was real late. Ran into a group of college kids in the bar. They had a guitar and we were up singing to all hours. It was nice.”
“Well, let’s get a move on. Your aunt’s already up in the dining room. Gotta have the coffee first thing, ya know.”
“Okay. Lemme change. You go ahead, I’ll be up in a few.”
My uncle leaves, and I slowly get down from the bunk, stretch, and head for the john. I drop my pants and the newspaper drops out of my back pocket to the floor. After I pee, I pick it up. I had not finished the crossword. Written in the margin are the words, “Thanks Day Tripper. Melanie Keough, Smith College, USA. Peace.”
posted by An old throwback to the sixties at 7:20 PM
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