Randy White - Dead of Night

He made a puffing noise. “That hurts. Money, sure, I’ve been corrupted. Yes, the almighty dollar and I have been making the creature with two backs. But destroying the environment for profit-that I would not do.”

As I parked beside the Tropicane truck, I touched my finger to my lips-Enough-and got out.

The accepted method of alerting unseen strangers is to slam car doors.

We did.

A minute later, a skinny college-aged guy with John Lennon glasses and a ponytail came walking over the canal bank wearing hip boots, and an inquisitive expression, and carrying a rack of test tubes.

His expression softened when he saw us-men accompanied by an adolescent boy are an unlikely threat. He waved, calling, “If you’re here to fish, don’t worry about me. I was just leaving.”

I said, “There’s no rush. We’re not fishing. In fact, maybe you can help us.”

“Me? Sure, if I can-” He created a partition, the way he said it. Wary of strangers asking favors. But then he suddenly grinned-he’d noticed the Volkswagen van. “Ohhh… man. You guys came in that? Is it for real?”

“Too real,” I said. “Most people can’t look at it without sunglasses.”

“Not me, man. I love it. How wild. That is the coolest camper I’ve ever seen. It’s like… it’s like the perfect little Magic Bus.” He stared for a couple more seconds before repeating himself: “Just too cool. The paint job is living history. Is it yours, sir? No… it can’t be.”

His gaze swiveled from me, to Lake, then settled on Tomlinson. “It’s yours, man. Gotta be. Classic VW love wagon… but it’s new. I didn’t know they made them anymore. So you had it done custom, huh?”

Tomlinson said, “Magic Bus?” stuck on the name, considering it, tasting the words.

“As in the song. You know, by The Who? Man, I am so jealous.” He indicated the white truck. “I’m driving a company cookie cutter.”

“You… that’s your company truck? This’s gotta be one of those evil flashbacks they promised us.”

The kid’s grin broadened. “You’re too much, man. You’re the real deal, aren’t you? I love the whole look. Your hair-are those Samurai shocks?-the peace sign, the flowers. Who are you guys?”

He came off as unpretentious as a child. Tomlinson, however, was flummoxed. He’d anticipated meeting some Big Sugar corporate drone, but was now struggling to reevaluate a guy who could have been a shorter, younger version of himself.

He said, “You work for Big Sugar? How can someone who works for a giant like Tropicane get off on the Chimpmobile-the Magic Bus, I mean?”

The kid-he looked like a kid with his peach-fuzz goatee and sideburns-said, “Yeah man, I work for Tropicane. I’m a biologist, the environmental department. Two years, and they’re already moving me up the corporate ladder. I like it okay. It’s ajob, know what I mean? But it’s not who I am. Your generation-the whole hipster scene-that’s what I was born for. It’s my generation, too. Only I got transferred to planet Earth just a little late.”

Tomlinson remained baffled. “You believe that? You’re one of the brethren?” He was studying the man’s gaunt face, the Jesus hair, the wire glasses. The tie-dyed T-shirt he wore wasn’t clearly visible because of the chest-high waders, but there it was.

The kid said, “Man, I’ve read tons of books on the subject. It started out like a hobby, when I was little. But then it became my life. San Francisco; the Haight; Jimi Hendrix; the White Album. The whole philosophy. Immersion, man. Do you know how something just feels right? That feeling of coming home to a place you’ve never been?”

Tomlinson replied, “Well… of course. In astral projection, any kind of soul travel, that’s our only anchor. It’s the feeling that keeps us from spinning off. A kind of knowing.”

“Knowing. Exactly. I share an old chicken farm; rent with a dozen other people-like a commune? In the family, we’ve got Ravers, Wiccans, Punks, a Pagan, and a Christian. But professionals. Work for Daddy Tropicane.”

Tomlinson managed to follow that. “You’re a Raver. Definitely not a Punk. And the whole Wiccan deal is just too witchy-woman.”

The kid was nodding; the two of them connected. “Very intuitive, brother. Yes, I’d be considered a Raver, but I’m not into the whole today scene. A generation ago, that was my time. You ought to come see the classic posters I’ve got on the wall. Our whole family’s into it. Across the country, all over the world, the movement’s growing. ‘EX-sters’-that’s what we call ourselves. As in Hipsters? We still play vinyl, man. Not that CD crap. Revolver-that’s my all-time favorite Beatles album.”

“Okay, okay. I’m starting to get a fix on where you’re coming from. You and your friends are on your own personal vision quest. A little old, a little new. But, man! How can you work for the big-money screwheads?”

The kid, who turned out to be Jason Reynolds, Ph. D., was walking toward the paisley-painted Volkswagen in a sort of trance. “It’s biologists like yours truly who keep the old corporate leeches on the straight and narrow. But the younger suits, dude, the guys with the ties and stock options, they’re starting to get it. Mother Earth matters.

“I talk to them,” he said. “I get into their heads by preaching to their wallets. These days, they want to save the environment plus make a profit. Which is very cool. Money’s cool, man. Those’re two things I’ve learned: You’ve gotta join a tribe before you can change a tribe. And making money is very cool.”

Suddenly sounding more like a student than a teacher, Tomlinson asked, “Really? How do you figure?”

“Because it’s the only ticket to the party, man. The power structure is where it’s happening. If you want to change things, you’ve got to be part of it. My motto? Money doesn’t count-it rules. Hey, mind if I open the door and have a look?”

Tomlinson was following along behind him. “Ticket into the tribe, huh? Interesting that we should meet. I’ve been experimenting with that whole mind-set. Money. Materialism. Greed as a form of spirituality. You seem to have a handle on the big picture. I’d love to get together sometime, see how deep the roots go. Knock back a few, or burn something interesting-your call.”

Reynolds was inside the van, exploring, opening compartments, touching this and that. “Sure. In return, you could maybe tell us some stories from the old days. I’m a historian. I’ve got photo albums; a whole archive of taped interviews with people who lived it. This one dude I talked to, he’s met Timothy Leary, Janis Joplin, Edward Abbey, Hunter S. Thompson, a bunch of the icons.”

“Tim and Dr. Gonzo,” Tomlinson said fondly. “The Monkey Wrench Gang and poor Janis. Such beautiful spirits.”

“You knew them?”

His reaction-a slight dip of the head-said friendship is a personal matter made vulnerable by public declaration. “During those sweet years, if you hung out at the Hotel Jerome in Aspen, or rode a Harley in San Francisco, you met all forms of enlightened souls.”

“Edward Abbey. The man.”

“Ed did have a thorny side.”

“Oh, dude, we have got to sit down and talk. But to change the subject, this thing?”-Reynolds was in the van, preoccupied with what he was seeing, squinting through his glasses-“is this a refrigerator?”

“Uh-huh. Holds a couple cases of beer. Food, if you need it. I’ve got the deluxe Swiss Alps touring package. Special telescopic shocks, electric-start generator, and an automatic pop-top. Check it out: a ten-speaker Levenson sound system that’ll pulverize kidney stones if you crank it. All the options. Hey”-Tomlinson was chuckling, showing he understood the wealth angle-“it’s only money, right?”