I’ve just left the Freedom Commune of, well, somewhere in rural Virginia. I’ve been hitch hiking around the South this summer and have had a lot of fun. The folks here don’t know what quite to make of me because I hitch around wearing tie-dye coveralls and a tie-dye T-shirt. I have all my fingers and toes painted, each a different color, and a feather braided into my long hair. Lots of them stop to just to see if I’m for real and to harass me a little but then, like as not, they’re just as liable to take me home and show me off as a gen-u-wine San Francisco dipshit. “Hey Pa, come on out and take a look at this.”
But it’s all in good fun especially when they brake out the moonshine and guitars. I’ve hitched through every state in the South and had no trouble at all. In fact, everyone’s been real helpful and friendly, even the cops have either left me alone or given me a ride out of town.
Anytime some southern hippie sees me, it’s at least a ride and most of the time a flop and eats for as long as I like. All they ask is for me to provide them with amazing sex and dope tales from the San FranCheeseCo. That’s how I got to the Freedom Commune. It’s a small farm in the woods at the end of a dirt road where they do what they want with nobody to bother them. It has 10 members and since they don’t allow no exclusive relationships, the ladies were real free with their favors. There’s even a Roffer there who will Roff you for free. It hurts like hell when it’s being done but you feel great when it’s all over. They grow and raise their own food and they do expect you to work three hours a day, but that’s okay, I’ve done farm work before and it ain’t that bad. I had a really mellow time just hanging out with them. About the only excitement we had was when one of the neighbors dogs kept coming over and harassing the chickens, even killing a couple of them. The head of the commune, Rasta, told the neighbor about it but the guy wouldn’t do anything so one day Rasta simply shot the dog, skinned it and gave it to the cook of the day. That night we had dog stew for dinner and it tasted pretty good too, kind of like pork. About the only bad thing about being there was: No dope! It’s not they’re against it, it’s just there was none to be had. They always have moonshine, and once a guy dropped by with some dried datura root. A few of the members ate some and hallucinated their asses off all night long keeping everyone else awake.
After a couple weeks with no grass I was ready to leave, because let’s face it folks, a day without pot is like a day without pot, and why should I suffer. So I said “Aloha” to my new found friends and here I am on the road just going where ever the rides take me on a beautiful summer’s day in rural Virginia.
Oh, and here comes a ride now. A big old white Chevy with four young black dudes in it. They stop and ask where I’m going.
“Where ever you are.” I answer.
They grin and say, “Then throw your pack in the trunk and hop in.”
I get in back between two of the guys. They put some tunes on the radio and off we go, cruising and grooving with no one saying too much.
But hey, what’s this? We’re turning off the main road onto a dirt track. Oh well, they probably just want to show me something interesting, so I’ll be cool. But now we’re pulling into a cornfield, and nobody’s saying a word or even looking at me. Oh, oh, looks like I’m in for some white boy karma. We’re stopping. No ones talking. And now they’re all looking at me kind of funny.
The driver, not smiling, stares at me hard, then he says in a low menacing voice, “Want to smoke some hash?”
Now they’re all laughing. After a beat, I join in the merriment while they punch me on the shoulders saying, “We really had you going, didn’t we white boy?”
And I have to admit that they sure did. Now, did you say something about smoking some hash?