Cleo Odzer - Goa Freaks - My Hippie Years in India

Our apartment became the hangout for friends in town and friends passing through. Cecile and Texas Jack came every day. Richard popped in. Trumpet Steve dropped by with his son, Anjuna, who'd grown into a little boy. And, of course, Little Lisa. Lisa was a permanent fixture in the apartment. She'd arrive early in the morning and left I-don't-know-when. Since I was usually asleep by then. And there was Henry the lawyer. Henry wasn't into smack, but he sure liked coke.

Unlike John and me, Lisa preferred to fix her drugs, coke and smack. She usually didn't do it around us, though, since John sneered when he saw needle marks on her arms.

As soon as we had established ourselves at Trinity Apartments, John found a coke connection and started free-basing—smoking a purified form of cocaine. He had a base pipe and specialized gadgets, including a lighter that spurted flames like a blowtorch. I tried basing a few times but thought it a waste. It used more coke and, in my uncertain legal position. I worried about expenditures. No, thank you, I'll smoke my dope and snort my coke, if you don't mind. As John became swept up in his toys, Lisa fixed more openly. In a half-hearted attempt to hide her activities from John, she did it in the bathroom. Then came Henry—every day after work, in his neat suit and tie. Henry also liked to fix coke, so he joined Lisa in the bathroom. For hours. Hit after hit—the two of them stayed in there hour upon hour.

Knock, knock. "Hey, you guys. I have to go to the bathroom. Do you mind?" I'd ask.

"One fucking minute," would be Lisa's reply.

I'd stand patiently by the door. From the other side would come the sound of conversation. Something would drop on the bathroom tarn. Knock, knock. "Are you coming out?" I would say, reminding them of my presence. "I've really got to go."

"Just one fucking more hit. We'll be right the fuck out after this one."

The conversation would continue in the same unhurried tone. Water would run in the sink. There was a rumbling sound as toilet paper unrolled. Knock, knock. "Liiiiiaaaaaa," I'd sing. No answer this time. Same conversation. Something else dropped on the floor. A match struck. KNOCK, KNOCK!! "LISA! Come on! only be a minute, then you can have the bathroom back. Henry?" I'd rattle the doorknob and kick the locked door until I had covered its bottom in footprints. BAM, BAM, BAM. "WILL YOU LET ME IN! I HAVE TO PEE!" BAM, BAM, BAM.

The tone of their conversation didn't change. Water running again. A shoe dragging across the tiles.

So I'd go back to the table, where John reigned over the base pipe, and console myself with a line of coke. When Lisa and Henry would finally come out, they'd stand outside the bathroom door impatiently, waiting to get back in. Tie and jacket removed, Henry's once-crisp shirt had lost its freshness after a few hours in there with Lisa. When I'd hurry out, they'd give me a dirty look and rush back inside before the water in the toilet had stopped flushing.

"Oh, come ON!" I said. "I was only in there thirty seconds!" SLAM! "Hey, is that guy really a lawyer?"

There was always a crowd in the apartment. I'd have to climb over someone and step around two others to move from one side of it to the other. With his business complete, John felt free to indulge himself in playing the boss. He and I sat on the convertible bed, the others sprawling on the floor within reach of the bhong and base pipe.

I was annoyed. We never had privacy. I wanted to be with John alone! When people were around I wasn't with John; I was at a party. But Lisa was the worst. Aside from the fact that I had to plead and bargain every time I wanted to go the bathroom, she was ALWAYS there. If I was sleeping, it would be her morning arrival that would wake me up. If I was about to go to sleep, her voice or the sound of her running water in the bathroom would be the last thing I heard.

"Hey, JOHN! Where're the fucking cigarettes?" she would demand.

"The biggest problem we have, as I can see it," he told me, "is the judge who's been assigned your case."

"Bad one?"

"Severe. Very severe. He has a reputation for giving maximum sentences. Especially in cases involving drug smuggling."

"Smuggling! What smuggling? They busted me for a passport!"

Unsmiley scowled.

I sighed and reclined on his crunchy leather armchair "Okay," I said. "So now what? Should I leave the country?"

That shook him up, and he jumped. "What? No! You don't want to do that. Then you'd be in real trouble. Have patience and I'll see if I can't reduce the charges and arrange for you to go before another judge."

"Please, please. I can't go to jail. I can't do probation, either. I don't five in San Francisco. My home is in Goa, so I can't stay here for a probation period. They wouldn't make me do that, would they?"

He closed his eyes and massaged the space between them. "I'll see what I can do. In any event we'll have to set your court date back."

"No! I must return to India. I can't stay here longer."

He continued rubbing. "I'm telling you, you want to avoid this judge."

John was no comfort either. "Oh, Applecroc . . ." I'd begin, kneeling on the bed and clasping a pigtail. John would smile and put an arm around me, moving the base pipe out of the way.

"How'd it go with the lawyer?" he'd ask.

"He said the judge . . ."

Then Lisa would stick her head out the bathroom. "HEY, JOHN! Throw me that goddamn bag over there, will you?"

"I've been assigned a really bad judge . . ."

"HEY, JOHN! ARE YOU FUCKING DEAF? Throw me that goddamn fucking bag."

John would ignore her. Texas Jack would ask John if he was finished with the pipe. John would begin to pass it, then decide to smoke one more bowl before relinquishing it to the crowd. His pigtail would slip from my grasp as he leaned over for the spoon.

". . . apparently he gives maximum sentences and . . ."

By now Lisa would have made her way out of the bathroom and would be standing over us. She'd nudge John with her foot, smile, and in a softer voice demand, "Hey, fuckface. Give me that."

"What?" he'd ask in an aggravated tone.

"That goddamn bag right next to you."

"The lawyer’s trying to reduce it to a lesser charge so I can get another judge, but . . ."

"What the fuck are you watching?" Lisa would ask, looking at the TV, which remained on twenty-four hours a day.

John would hand her the bag and answer excitedly, "Oh, man. This is a fab movie. It's about a train robbery . . ."

"You can't get away with those robberies anymore," Cecile chimed in.

Richard: "Back then you could stop a train in the middle of nowhere . . ."

John: "Rob a payroll . . ."

Texas Jack: "Cool out in a mountain hideout . . ."

Cecile: "The good old days . . ."

Lisa: "Now they have fucking computers . . ."

Trumpet Steve: "Who's got the bhong?"

A voice from behind the sofa: "It's over here. Just a minute."

A voice from the refrigerator: "Anybody mind if I drink this Dr. Pepper? It's the last one."

Finally, my court date arrived. Unsmiley had succeeded in placing me before another judge, this one known to be easy. The charge against me had been reduced to a misdemeanour—theft of government property under fifty dollars. Unsmiley was optimistic about the outcome.

He accompanied me to the courthouse, where we had to wait in the hall before entering. I wore my boring, beige airplane outfit, with shoes that matched. As I paced before the double doors of the courtroom, a posted piece of paper caught my attention.

Oh my goodness! Look at that! Wide letters proclaimed: The United States of America versus . . . ME? I chortled out loud then clapped a hand to my mouth. I ran to where Unsmiley gazed out a window. I grabbed the sleeve of his neat, navy sell hurried him back to the door. "Look at this. I can't believe it. Look, look. Here—me! Against the UNITED STATES OF AMERICA! Isn’t that absurd?"