Read Online The Totem 1979 by David Morrell - Free Book Online Page B
Authors: David Morrell
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arrested for possession, not of acid but of marijuana. That took place in 1965. In 1966 he was arrested yet again, same charge, but convicted by now on the first offense and out while sentence was appealed, he had fled his second trial, heading south toward Mexico. Unlawful flight. Rumors where he was. Then back in California where he was arrested once again. In 1967 he was serving time. That was how the acid culture got its start, from Kesey and his life style bigger than his books.
But there were other ways, those who said that Kesey had been wrong, that with a good thing going he’d been foolish to be so in sight. Better to do it on the sly, keep things quiet, keep them truly out of sight. Like the commune, some were saying. That had been a good idea. The trouble was that Kesey ventured out. He had been his own undoing. Better find a place where no one went, stay there, do your thing. Well, they did it, and where they chose to do it was near Potter’s Field, Wyoming. All it took was one rich kid whose parents had both died. He’d been with Kesey. He had seen the trouble that was coming, and he’d split. Twenty-one, he had complete control of all the money he’d inherited. He’d found a spot where no one ever went, fifty acres of thick timber in the mountains far across the valley from the town. He had bought it, paid the taxes for ten years, set up buildings, and moved in. It wasn’t just a place for freaking out. He had notions of a kind of ideal way of life. Those who marched against the Vietnam war but felt they weren’t accomplishing anything, those who tried to change society from within the system but found that the politicians they worked for betrayed them, these and others like them he would welcome to his arms. The new republic. Free love, free food, and free spirit. Everything was on his tab. Not an orgy, not the kind of free love everyone was thinking of. But something else. Simple freedom that permitted love, love in any form, physical, emotional, as long as no one would be harmed, the kind of freedom those who were attracted to him hadn’t seen before. First there were the freaks, imitation Pranksters, some who had indeed been Pranksters. Then there were the drop-outs, those who couldn’t stand things anymore, who couldn’t even bear to watch the television news. Queers and junkies, cowards, troublemakers, traitors and more, that was how the straight world saw them, but in Quiller’s fifty acres, they were just themselves. Quiller, twenty-one and rich and leader of his version of a country. Photographs of him were not at all what a conservative would expect. No long hair and beard and ragged jeans. No beads, guru shirts, or Captain Marvel costume. Quiller looked just as straight as those who spoke against him. Short hair reminiscent of the fifties, sideburns even with the middle of his ears, fair-skinned to begin with so his clean face looked like it was always shaved. He wore custom-tailored shirts and designer slacks and hand-sewn patent-leather shoes. Tall and thin. No, that didn’t quite describe him. Tall was far too relative. He stood six-foot-eight, a star in basketball in college, but that still did not convey his seeming height. Think of what he weighed. One hundred and sixty, sometimes less, just sinew, bone, and muscle, running ten miles in the morning and another ten at night. He looked as if someone had put him on a rack and stretched him, long legs, long arms, neck and body, stark thin hips and chest and waist. His face was in proportion, high and narrow, slight jaw, small lips, thin nose. Mostly what you noticed were his eyes, though. Even in the photographs. Bright and clear and gleaming, almost piercing. In color photos, they were blue.
Some who were against him said his eyes were bright like that because of all the speed and acid he was popping. Others, more inclined toward him, maintained that they were bright like that because he was so goddamned smart, his I.Q. close to
But there were other ways, those who said that Kesey had been wrong, that with a good thing going he’d been foolish to be so in sight. Better to do it on the sly, keep things quiet, keep them truly out of sight. Like the commune, some were saying. That had been a good idea. The trouble was that Kesey ventured out. He had been his own undoing. Better find a place where no one went, stay there, do your thing. Well, they did it, and where they chose to do it was near Potter’s Field, Wyoming. All it took was one rich kid whose parents had both died. He’d been with Kesey. He had seen the trouble that was coming, and he’d split. Twenty-one, he had complete control of all the money he’d inherited. He’d found a spot where no one ever went, fifty acres of thick timber in the mountains far across the valley from the town. He had bought it, paid the taxes for ten years, set up buildings, and moved in. It wasn’t just a place for freaking out. He had notions of a kind of ideal way of life. Those who marched against the Vietnam war but felt they weren’t accomplishing anything, those who tried to change society from within the system but found that the politicians they worked for betrayed them, these and others like them he would welcome to his arms. The new republic. Free love, free food, and free spirit. Everything was on his tab. Not an orgy, not the kind of free love everyone was thinking of. But something else. Simple freedom that permitted love, love in any form, physical, emotional, as long as no one would be harmed, the kind of freedom those who were attracted to him hadn’t seen before. First there were the freaks, imitation Pranksters, some who had indeed been Pranksters. Then there were the drop-outs, those who couldn’t stand things anymore, who couldn’t even bear to watch the television news. Queers and junkies, cowards, troublemakers, traitors and more, that was how the straight world saw them, but in Quiller’s fifty acres, they were just themselves. Quiller, twenty-one and rich and leader of his version of a country. Photographs of him were not at all what a conservative would expect. No long hair and beard and ragged jeans. No beads, guru shirts, or Captain Marvel costume. Quiller looked just as straight as those who spoke against him. Short hair reminiscent of the fifties, sideburns even with the middle of his ears, fair-skinned to begin with so his clean face looked like it was always shaved. He wore custom-tailored shirts and designer slacks and hand-sewn patent-leather shoes. Tall and thin. No, that didn’t quite describe him. Tall was far too relative. He stood six-foot-eight, a star in basketball in college, but that still did not convey his seeming height. Think of what he weighed. One hundred and sixty, sometimes less, just sinew, bone, and muscle, running ten miles in the morning and another ten at night. He looked as if someone had put him on a rack and stretched him, long legs, long arms, neck and body, stark thin hips and chest and waist. His face was in proportion, high and narrow, slight jaw, small lips, thin nose. Mostly what you noticed were his eyes, though. Even in the photographs. Bright and clear and gleaming, almost piercing. In color photos, they were blue.
Some who were against him said his eyes were bright like that because of all the speed and acid he was popping. Others, more inclined toward him, maintained that they were bright like that because he was so goddamned smart, his I.Q. close to
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