Revolution by Mike Bond

Author:Mike Bond
Language: eng
Format: epub
ISBN: 9781949751284
Publisher: Mike Bond

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WHO EVEN WAS THE FBI? Could be anybody, you couldn’t tell. Was it the chick with the long curly reddish hair and the peace sign on a silver chain between her lovely tits? Or the bearded carpenter who spent a week in town then vanished, but who seemed to have talked to everyone? Could be anybody to nail you, and then you’re on a bus to Leavenworth, wrists and ankles chained, ten years waiting.

You tried to not be afraid. To act normal, so people wouldn’t sense the fear, but you feared it didn’t work. Could never relax for fear of letting go. Like the World War Two slogan, Loose lips sink ships: any indiscretion would send you to Leavenworth.

Yet Bolinas felt peaceful; no cops ever invaded this tiny southern outpost of Point Reyes peninsula. So you had to relax, stop showing fear, being uptight. Because that was the thing that would give you away.

And it was easy to slip into the life of Bolinas. Everyone worked as little as they could or not at all. Most were young, a fellowship of everyone against the war. Grass was everywhere and smoked by everyone. It was normal in meeting a stranger that one or both would pull out a joint to be shared. In a new place one could ask anyone, providing they were long-haired and hip, where to find grass. It was the young against the government, against the older people who had made the war, made the country what it was.

But for the risk of the FBI he felt free. He still had nearly forty bucks from Clyde Gottson’s ranch. Every morning when he awoke he was free to do what he wanted. He could lie in his sleeping bag drinking coffee, smoking grass and reading, or get up early to enjoy the gorgeous dawn, or wander through a field of horses down to town to sit with friends on the beach smoking grass and enjoying the inward roll of the waves and swooping gulls, or with luck going with a girl into the long grass along the cliffs, the fragrance of her sex and the strident smell of the sea, the crushed wild leaves.

Some days he ran north up the coast in sun and sapphire sea-light through the manzanita and eucalyptus, in the lighthearted pace of everything new all around him, the land untouched by road for seventy miles along the steep-cliffed coast around Drake’s Bay down the other side of Tomales Bay to the ranch town of Point Reyes. Or south from Bolinas atop the Coast Range to Mount Tam then down along the wild seaside cliffs to the Golden Gate, miles and miles of freedom. Funny that when you didn’t have to be anywhere you had time to see where you were going.

Or he could risk riding the bike over Mount Tam to San Mateo or Mill Valley, sit in a café and read, wander and look in stores, have an ice cream. Or across

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