I didn't know why I'd had a case of the itchy-head for the last couple of days; since it coincided with my discovery that I'd pitched my tent on some mysterious sandbags (becuz who expects the ground in a forest park to be made out of sandbags?), I thought the two things might've been connected somehow. The morning I woke up and found myself scratching my scalp almost insanely with both hands, I decided that I absotively, posilutely had to come back after lunch and move camp.
When I got to downtown Santa Cruz and sat on a park bench to scratch some more, the awful truth was revealed to me. With an audible plop, a pair of little white objects, not as big as rice grains, fell on the leg of my jeans...and started to walk away! I reacted in a way more appropriate to a character in a David Cronenberg movie, or maybe A Scanner Darkly. "Oh god oh no, BUGS! I've got BUGS! BUGS IN MY HEAD! Ohgodohshitohnonono, there are hideous parasitic blood sucking contagious LIVE BUGS ON MEEEEE!!"
Pediculus humanus capitis, in fact; common ordinary head lice. Indeed, they were all over the road-rat and hippie communities of Santa Cruz just then -- the street folks naming the Brancifort Street hippie house as the vector, the Brancifortean residents blaming the wanderers for bringing the bitey creeper-crawlers into their previously pristine (HAH!) environs. The controversy had been worsening the already fractious politics between these factions of the local counterculture for rather a while recently.
Feeling utterly unclean and leprous, I made my way downtown to where my friends were. Ashamed all out of proportion to my plight, I confided my condition to my best bud, a lovely slightly butch hippie-lesbian we called Cowgirl Betsey, on account of she wore a serape and Stetson straight outta High Plains Drifter. Betsey was sympathetic, but pragmatic -- "you gotta get that taken care of right away, Squish, it'd be hella irresponsible not to'" She also told me that UC-Santa Cruz had a free medical clinic, but it was for women only. I asked one of the older hangers-out whom I trusted if he knew what i could do; his advice was to go up to San Fran and hit the Haight Street Free Clinic. They'd give me a 'script for an effective buggicide, but I'd probably have to pay to get it filled. It would also be necessary to wash all I owned in very hot water and pet flea shampoo, and dry it even hotter for about an hour.
Okay, fine. Except these things cost money, of which I had none at all, Necessity is the mother of invention, they say -- but in my case it was a mixture of desperate embarassment, crazy-making itching, and being forbid to hug any of my pals. I tried that heaith clinic anyway, Three minutes later I walked away feeling hurt and insulted by the unwelcoming stare of the UCSC student receptionist and deeply disappointed that I'd failed so utterly to make any progress regarding of my uninvited visitors.
So hitching north to the free clinic was what it had to be. And I was broke as a joke. I grumpily went about hitting every grocery store and mom'n'pop in town, buying a banana or a pack of Now'N'Later candy with a one-dollar food stamp until I ran out of them, stashing the change in a gym sock. I'd never been able to panhandle -- talking to strangers made me self-conscious and nervous, to say nothing of asking them for things--but I did anyway. My method was walking up to the cafes and eateries with outdoor tables and announcing loudly and woefully to the diners that I had a bad case of bitey-bugs, and needed bug-killer shampoo but I was broke and could they please help me? If they didn't want to come close I understood (here I took off my hat and set it on the sidewalk) and they could put their change in here, instead....it actually worked. It was probably my delivery, since the material was [ahem!] old hat.
By sundown I'd accumulated something like most of the required fundage. Once they realized I was serious about solving my varmint problem, a few of my friends who weren't as broke as I was -- Woof and Maynard, and Al, and The Swami, and Cowgirl Betsey herself--kicked down a couple of bucks. And so I had it -- enough cash to fill that script they'd give me up North in Frisco, and get some dog shampoo, and wash all that I owned--which was fortunately just a tent, a sleeping bag, and enough clothes to fill a backpack and a pillowcase.
Bright and early the next morning I was up and about at the north end of town, waving my thumb at the cars on Highway One. I got a ride pretty quick.
Oh Lordy wasn't that Coast Highway North something to see for the first time! Looking over and down onto the Pacific crashing to the land was a rush and a half. And oh LORDY Lordy, what a trip it was to ride into the fabled city of San Francisco for the first time ever! Eh, I was a kid at the time, and easy impressed.
I'd made real good time getting there and was at the door of the historical Haight Ashbury Free Clinic right at opening time. Once the lovely person who saw to me heard me plead my plight, he gave me (of course!) a big bottle of prescription-strength personal buggicide wash -- active ingredient was Lindane, if i recall correctly. Afterward I wandered around until I found a Walgreens and bought some flea shampoo and detergent powder, and soon after that I was back on Highway 1, headed South.
Once again I lucked out bigtime getting a ride. The wheelman was my age and looked kind of square with his neat haircut and athletic build -- but he pretty quickly lit a joint, the best tasting pot I'd had in days--and told me I could have all the roaches in the ashtray, too, and they were long fat roaches, I mean a third or a half of a joint each, three or four of 'em!
Back in town I went to my campsite and bagged up and busted down my stuff. I found a laundrymat real easy -- it's a college town, so there's lots of 'mats. Washed the whole works twice in hot and hotter water, with Tide and flea-and-tick shampoo, dried it hotter and hottest for an hour and longer, and while that was in progress I locked myself in a gas station loo and washed the Hell out of my hair with that miraculous, technological elixir of death, Lindane shampoo. And then I snuck off and smoked one of those top-shelf roaches right down to a nib of a nub.
My best friend, Cowgirl Betsey, was the first person I met when I got back downtown. "Heya, Squish," she halloo'ed, "didja get your head taken care of ?"
"Ooooh yeah" I said, " got my head taken reeeeaaalll goooood care of!!" and I grinned from ear to ear, opening my hand to show her two fat half-joints of very good reefer.
When I got to downtown Santa Cruz and sat on a park bench to scratch some more, the awful truth was revealed to me. With an audible plop, a pair of little white objects, not as big as rice grains, fell on the leg of my jeans...and started to walk away! I reacted in a way more appropriate to a character in a David Cronenberg movie, or maybe A Scanner Darkly. "Oh god oh no, BUGS! I've got BUGS! BUGS IN MY HEAD! Ohgodohshitohnonono, there are hideous parasitic blood sucking contagious LIVE BUGS ON MEEEEE!!"
Pediculus humanus capitis, in fact; common ordinary head lice. Indeed, they were all over the road-rat and hippie communities of Santa Cruz just then -- the street folks naming the Brancifort Street hippie house as the vector, the Brancifortean residents blaming the wanderers for bringing the bitey creeper-crawlers into their previously pristine (HAH!) environs. The controversy had been worsening the already fractious politics between these factions of the local counterculture for rather a while recently.
Feeling utterly unclean and leprous, I made my way downtown to where my friends were. Ashamed all out of proportion to my plight, I confided my condition to my best bud, a lovely slightly butch hippie-lesbian we called Cowgirl Betsey, on account of she wore a serape and Stetson straight outta High Plains Drifter. Betsey was sympathetic, but pragmatic -- "you gotta get that taken care of right away, Squish, it'd be hella irresponsible not to'" She also told me that UC-Santa Cruz had a free medical clinic, but it was for women only. I asked one of the older hangers-out whom I trusted if he knew what i could do; his advice was to go up to San Fran and hit the Haight Street Free Clinic. They'd give me a 'script for an effective buggicide, but I'd probably have to pay to get it filled. It would also be necessary to wash all I owned in very hot water and pet flea shampoo, and dry it even hotter for about an hour.
Okay, fine. Except these things cost money, of which I had none at all, Necessity is the mother of invention, they say -- but in my case it was a mixture of desperate embarassment, crazy-making itching, and being forbid to hug any of my pals. I tried that heaith clinic anyway, Three minutes later I walked away feeling hurt and insulted by the unwelcoming stare of the UCSC student receptionist and deeply disappointed that I'd failed so utterly to make any progress regarding of my uninvited visitors.
So hitching north to the free clinic was what it had to be. And I was broke as a joke. I grumpily went about hitting every grocery store and mom'n'pop in town, buying a banana or a pack of Now'N'Later candy with a one-dollar food stamp until I ran out of them, stashing the change in a gym sock. I'd never been able to panhandle -- talking to strangers made me self-conscious and nervous, to say nothing of asking them for things--but I did anyway. My method was walking up to the cafes and eateries with outdoor tables and announcing loudly and woefully to the diners that I had a bad case of bitey-bugs, and needed bug-killer shampoo but I was broke and could they please help me? If they didn't want to come close I understood (here I took off my hat and set it on the sidewalk) and they could put their change in here, instead....it actually worked. It was probably my delivery, since the material was [ahem!] old hat.
By sundown I'd accumulated something like most of the required fundage. Once they realized I was serious about solving my varmint problem, a few of my friends who weren't as broke as I was -- Woof and Maynard, and Al, and The Swami, and Cowgirl Betsey herself--kicked down a couple of bucks. And so I had it -- enough cash to fill that script they'd give me up North in Frisco, and get some dog shampoo, and wash all that I owned--which was fortunately just a tent, a sleeping bag, and enough clothes to fill a backpack and a pillowcase.
Bright and early the next morning I was up and about at the north end of town, waving my thumb at the cars on Highway One. I got a ride pretty quick.
Oh Lordy wasn't that Coast Highway North something to see for the first time! Looking over and down onto the Pacific crashing to the land was a rush and a half. And oh LORDY Lordy, what a trip it was to ride into the fabled city of San Francisco for the first time ever! Eh, I was a kid at the time, and easy impressed.
I'd made real good time getting there and was at the door of the historical Haight Ashbury Free Clinic right at opening time. Once the lovely person who saw to me heard me plead my plight, he gave me (of course!) a big bottle of prescription-strength personal buggicide wash -- active ingredient was Lindane, if i recall correctly. Afterward I wandered around until I found a Walgreens and bought some flea shampoo and detergent powder, and soon after that I was back on Highway 1, headed South.
Once again I lucked out bigtime getting a ride. The wheelman was my age and looked kind of square with his neat haircut and athletic build -- but he pretty quickly lit a joint, the best tasting pot I'd had in days--and told me I could have all the roaches in the ashtray, too, and they were long fat roaches, I mean a third or a half of a joint each, three or four of 'em!
Back in town I went to my campsite and bagged up and busted down my stuff. I found a laundrymat real easy -- it's a college town, so there's lots of 'mats. Washed the whole works twice in hot and hotter water, with Tide and flea-and-tick shampoo, dried it hotter and hottest for an hour and longer, and while that was in progress I locked myself in a gas station loo and washed the Hell out of my hair with that miraculous, technological elixir of death, Lindane shampoo. And then I snuck off and smoked one of those top-shelf roaches right down to a nib of a nub.
My best friend, Cowgirl Betsey, was the first person I met when I got back downtown. "Heya, Squish," she halloo'ed, "didja get your head taken care of ?"
"Ooooh yeah" I said, " got my head taken reeeeaaalll goooood care of!!" and I grinned from ear to ear, opening my hand to show her two fat half-joints of very good reefer.
