Cleo Odzer - Goa Freaks - My Hippie Years in India

But The Carver didn't find anything. They appeared disappointed "There’s nothing here. You can pack up."

"I can go?"

"You can go. I’m sorry about the suitcase. Only doing what I get paid to, you know."

"Oh, that's okay," I said, feeling Born Again. "Hey, listen, I deserved it Shouldn't have lied about being in India Stupid of me."

The Carver probably thought the other two had carefully searched my things, and they probably thought the man a the Customs desk had done the search. I couldn't pack fast enough. No neat folding now. I did use caution with the paint kit though It was not too late for someone to flash on it if it were seen. Again I listened for the direction of the voices behind me, but I could tell they weren't paying me any attention.

Somebody helped carry the mass of tom leather and wood that no longer functioned as a suitcase. In the taxi leaving the airport, I released the emotions I'd been holding in.

Oh my god—that was dose!

I was supposed to meet John at a nearby airport hotel I stayed there overnight but in the morning decided to wait for him a Momsy's. The room rates were high aid those timed encounters never seemed to work I bought a new suitcase but kept the slaughtered hulk so I could show John what the Carver had done.

In front of her frosted antique mirror, posing with a leg on a chair and an arm curled before her, Momsy asked me, "Well?"

"Well, what?"

"Can't you tell? Look a this muscle! I joined a health club. What do you think?"

In the four days I stayed with her, she never noticed the shipwrecked-looking suitcase.

Though I'd left a message for John at the hotel, I phoned every day to check if he'd arrived. From the Kathmandu experience I'd learned not to trust desk clerks. American desk clerks proved to be of a different character, though for John did get my message and phoned as soon as he had registered.

"Hi," came the warm voice from a face I could tell was smiling. "Applecroc! I missed you."

"How are you? I low was your trip?"

"Terrible! Wait till I tell you."

When John picked me up, I showed him the leftover shreds of the case. "They were waiting for me," I told him. He caught his lower lip with his teeth and raised his eyebrows. "They knew I was coming from India. How did they know that?"

Both of us lifted our shoulders and shook our heads.

"Computer?" suggested John. "They probably have us all in a computer."

"Did you have trouble getting in?"

"No."

"So! And I wasn't coming from the East. I came from Portugal. A harmless little country. I don't get it."

"Did anybody in Lisbon know what you were doing? Maybe somebody informed on you."

I thought of Marine, but he knew where the dope was hidden. If it had been him, they'd have gone straight for the paint kit. "No, I don't think so. Besides, they weren't looking for powder. They were looking for hash in the exact place I used to carry it—built into the sides of the case. Too bad for them; they were two years too Tate."

"That girl you sent who went down at Heathrow. You've been writing her in jail, haven't you? They might have your name from that."

"Lila! Her cases did have hash in the sides. Maybe. Anyway, I'm finished in the West. I can't run this route anymore. Not even to Europe. However it happened, they know me now. I only go East. Australia's probably okay. Anywhere but here . . . Unless I use another name. . ."

John's connection lived in Washington, D.C., and that's where we went. Or rather we went to a Sheraton outside of Washington. Way outside. In the sticks. I hated it right away.

"What a boring place," I complained. "How Long are we going to be here?"

"Until I sell the dope. A few weeks. Then we can go to San Francisco."

"San Francisco! Great! I’ve never been there. Can't wait."

The weeks in Washington dragged on and on. What a horrible, pokey place. I grew irritable. "I hate Washington," I said every day. "Why would anyone want to five here?"

"Actually we're in Maryland."

"Figures."

Another week. Then another week. I was sick of the hotel room. I was sick of John's doll friends. I was sick of the train ride into town.

"Listen," I said to him one day. "Why don't I meet you in San Francisco? I can't take this place anymore. Besides, I've had an idea. I want a passport in a different name. It might take time for me to get one, so I should start right away."

Much of the dope had been sold, so John gave me my share of the earnings. I spent two days turning tens and twenties into hundred-dollar bills.

John accompanied me to the airport. He laughed because I'd hidden my stash inside my Body.

"This is America," he said in a mocking voice. "They don't frisk you for weapons here. Especially not on domestic flights. They use metal detectors." He smirked. "Welcome to the developed world."

"Oh, right. I forgot about the metal detectors. Force of habit."

We kissed goodbye a thousand times. I would miss him. "You'll he coming soon?"

"Maybe the end of the week. Call me?"

"Every day."

In San Francisco I checked into a skyscraper in the centre of town. Now this was a place to five! Not like Maryland—ugh. This place had everything, and I wanted to do everything. I found a frisky club to hang out in at night. I found a connection for cheap and excellent brown dope. I bought two films to show in Goa, The Blob and The Thing That Swallowed the Earth . I planned to have the elephant tattoo on my foot coloured in.

John didn't arrive at the end of the week. Not the week after.

I started proceedings for acquiring a passport under a different name. I'd come across the way to do it in the novel The Day of the Jackal . First I had to find the name of someone who'd been born near my birth date and who died shortly after, before developing a history. Then I had to apply for a copy of the birth certificate. From there it was a matter of building identification.

I began at a cemetery. I perused tombstones, checking dates. When I passed a man walking the other way, we looked at each other sympathetically. I chose a girl who'd died at the age of four.

Next stop was the newspaper office. To find my "parents" name and maiden name, I examined old editions around the date of death. That done, I needed identification. I applied for a library card under the girl's name. A receipt for the cleaners . . .

When I'd collected a few such pieces, I went to the Records Office and asked for a copy of my birth certificate. "My mother can't find the original," I told the helpful clerk. "We've looked ALL over the house. Searched the entire attic twice!"

I was amazed when he actually handed me a new certificate. I couldn't believe how cosy it was. It had taken less than an hour.

But I needed more identification than that for a passport. A driver's license would be good. I didn't think I remembered how to drive, though, and anyway, that would take too long. Someone told me about a non driver's license, specifically for identification.

"But they take forever to get," the friend told me. "Five or six weeks. Unless you go outside the city. I knew someone in Oregon who got one the same day."

I called Oregon. Yes, the phone voice affirmed, I could acquire a nondriver's license the day I applied.

First thing one morning, I flew to Oregon. Cute little state. Very efficient. Wouldn't want to five there, though. When I boarded the evening flight back to San Francisco, I had a new piece of identification. It had my picture and everything. Neat.

Now, in possession of the proper materials, I went to apply for a passport. Unfortunately something blew into my left eye on the way to the government office. I stopped in a doorway to pluck it out but couldn't find it. The nasty thing pained me mercilessly, and when I turned in the application, I was holding a tissue to my red and runny eye.