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    The Misadventures of Mama Kitchen: A Novel
    The Misadventures of Mama Kitchen: A Novel
    The Misadventures of Mama Kitchen: A Novel
    Ebook279 pages4 hours

    The Misadventures of Mama Kitchen: A Novel

    By John Walters

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    About this ebook

    Sarah Tabitha Jones, a twenty-year-old fascinated by the youth culture of the late 1960s, leaves her middle-class home and wanders to a wilderness commune and then to the Haight/Ashbury in search of truth. On the way she encounters many strange characters: bikers, draft dodgers, Vietnam War veterans, peyote worshippers, heroin dealers, Jesus people, feminists, violent anarchists, Black Panthers, and science fiction fans. She experiments with drugs and sex, but at the same time helps out those she can; though often disillusioned, she believes that hippies should unite to create a better world. In the midst of all this she finds herself pregnant. Eight and a half months later, undaunted, belly bulging, she travels to Woodstock for one last attempt at finding the love and unity she seeks.

    "The Misadventures of Mama Kitchen" will appeal not only to those who lived through the disconcerting era of the 60s and 70s but to those younger who are curious about what took place back then. It will also resonate with anyone who is idealistic and in search of personal fulfillment, as well as those who simply enjoy a wild tale: sometimes comic, sometimes tragic, sometimes violent, sometimes sexy, always extreme.

    LanguageEnglish
    PublisherJohn Walters
    Release dateAug 15, 2012
    ISBN9781476421452
    The Misadventures of Mama Kitchen: A Novel
    Author

    John Walters

    John Walters recently returned to the United States after thirty-five years abroad. He lives in Seattle, Washington. He attended the 1973 Clarion West science fiction writing workshop and is a member of Science Fiction Writers of America. He writes mainstream fiction, science fiction and fantasy, and memoirs of his wanderings around the world.

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      Book preview

      The Misadventures of Mama Kitchen - John Walters

      The Misadventures of Mama Kitchen

      By

      John Walters

      Published by Astaria Books at Smashwords

      Copyright 2012 by John Walters

      Smashwords Edition, License Notes

      This ebook is licensed for your personal enjoyment only. This ebook may not be re-sold reproduced, or given away to other people. If you would like to share this book with another person, please purchase an additional copy for each recipient. If you're reading this book and did not purchase it, or if it was not purchased for your use only, then please return to Smashwords.com and purchase your own copy. Thank you for respecting the hard work of the author.

      This is a work of fiction. Any resemblance to actual persons places or events - except those in the public domain - is purely coincidental.

      Contents

      Part One: Mama Kitchen Goes Skinny Dipping

      Part Two: Mama Kitchen Gets Laid

      Part Three: Mama Kitchen Goes to Woodstock

      End Notes

      Part One: Mama Kitchen Goes Skinny-Dipping

      I

      Sarah was alone in the dining hall dancing to Strawberry Fields Forever from the Beatles’ album Magical Mystery Tour when she heard the throb of the motor. It was a deep, powerful sound which set the crockery and cutlery to vibrating. She glanced out and saw the chopper pull up outside; the driver revved it to a roar one last time, dropped his booted feet to the ground, and killed the engine. His passenger, who Sarah recognized as a commune resident, a poster artist from the Bay Area named Garrett, climbed off with his backpack, and then the driver popped the kickstand and stood.

      Whew, whispered Sarah to herself. She was used to seeing naked or nearly naked hippies running about and was not easily impressed by the male of the species, but this guy was spectacular eye-candy. He wore black leather military boots, tight brown leather pants, and a tan and olive sleeveless camouflage vest with no shirt underneath. He was darkly tanned, lean and tall, and his biceps, triceps, chest, and stomach muscles were all sharply defined, as if he were an Olympic gymnast, or even a superhero. A headband of turquoise and white beads kept his shoulder-length dark brown hair out of his face, though a few strands had escaped and hung over his forehead; he had a thick Fu-Manchu moustache and a few days’ growth of beard. His classically handsome features were all in just the right proportions.

      The driver and Garrett came into the kitchen, the screen door banging behind them. Garrett grabbed a chipped red coffee cup and drank water from the tap. The driver sat down at one of the scratched-up linoleum-covered dining tables.

      Sarah turned down the music. Hi, she said. Can I get you something?

      You got a beer?

      It was ten o’clock in the morning.

      He picked me up a couple of hours ago, said Garrett. It was damned dusty on the road.

      Sorry, we don’t have any beer. There’s some wine in the cooler.

      The driver nodded. Sarah pulled out the gallon jug and poured a large blue coffee mug half-full. The driver drained it in one gulp and poured himself some more. What’s your name? he said.

      Garrett, sitting on a stool and chewing on a slice of home-made whole wheat bread, said, She’s Mama Kitchen.

      The driver slowly turned his head and stared at Garrett. Who the hell asked you?

      Garrett lowered his eyes. Well, I just… Everybody knows…

      Hey, don’t worry. I’m just fucking with you. Garrett raised his head and smiled sheepishly. The driver didn’t smile, but pulled Marlboros and a lighter out of a vest pocket, offered a cigarette to Garrett, who took it, and to Sarah, who declined. The driver lit up, drew the smoke deep into his lungs, and exhaled. Then he tried again: So what’s your name?

      I’m Sarah. People here do call me Mama Kitchen. I spend more time in here cooking than anyone else.

      Sounds like you need a break. I’m heading up to Deer Lake. Why don’t you come with me?

      I don’t know. There are about thirty pounds of potatoes in that basin that need peeling. And I was going to bake bread. And there’s some old milk I was going to use for yogurt.

      Let somebody else do all that.

      Sarah knew that it wouldn’t even enter anyone else’s mind to do those things; they all assumed that she would take care of them. She had arrived at the commune six months earlier; right away she had noticed the erratic eating habits. It had been everyone for themselves as far as food was concerned, a policy that definitely did not promote unity. No one had asked her to step in and make things right. She was not even an exceptional cook, nor had she done much cooking before she got there. She just saw a need and filled it, and it seemed the right thing to do at the time. Every morning she would get up and head for the dining hall and stay there until two or three or four in the afternoon, and by the time she was done a plentiful hearty meal would be hot and ready. People came to depend on that meal; it was the one constant in the ever-shifting tableau of the commune. It was even more reliable than Johnny Potseed’s home-grown from the nearby hills; Johnny’s crop was weather-dependent and subject to theft and ravages from pests and blight. But Sarah always had that meal ready, and if there was no food to be found she bugged Steve the sponsor or someone else until they went out and got some. For many of the commune dwellers that meal was the only solid food of the day. For breakfast and dinner some munched on fruit or prepared simple chapattis with flour and salt and water, but for afternoon supper everyone knew they could count on Mama Kitchen.

      Sarah looked at the gorgeous guy in front of her. Then she looked at the heap of potatoes. She looked at the guy again, then at the potatoes.

      Suddenly she realized she was tired. Everyone else did their own thing in their own time: why not her? Why shouldn’t she take off and go swimming? It was not like she was on salary or anything; no one had ever even appointed her to do what she did. She was a free woman, an independent spirit.

      Sure, she said. I’ll come.

      * * *

      On the way up into the forested hills, speeding along in the clean fresh air, holding on to the driver’s midriff and ever-conscious of his tight muscular body, Sarah had second thoughts. It was true that she was answerable to nobody, but at the same time many people depended on her. There were kids at the commune, and a pregnant woman or two, not to mention all the irresponsible freeloaders without resources who didn’t know how to forage for themselves if that meal was not ready for them. Almost she asked the driver to turn around and take her back. Instead she shouted, What’s your name?

      Dennis. But people call me Cool Kill.

      What kind of name is that?

      From ‘Nam.

      He seemed reluctant to talk at the moment and anyway Sarah thought it best to let him concentrate on his driving. He seemed to revel in the speed and the turns and the shifting of gears and the feel of the road, whereas Sarah was always beset with trepidation when traveling by car or motorbike, and preferred to go nice and slow. She closed her eyes, leaned into his back, and tried to forget her anxiety and guilt. She smelled the summer dust and lush plant life in the hills, and the musk of Dennis’s sweat. She tried to bask in the thrill of the moment, to experience the metaphor of existence, to cut loose from all her concerns; however, just as she thought she had attained a Zen-like acceptance of her situation they began, without slowing down, to ascend the switchbacks to Deer Lake, and she lost all her serenity until the driver pulled into the rough dirt parking area amidst a whole group of similar choppers and killed the engine with a final roar.

      The cooling motorcycle ticked loudly as Sarah stretched, shook dust out of her hair, and patted it out of her clothes.

      Come on, then, said Dennis, and started up a trail without a backward glance.

      Already having second thoughts about abandoning her post at the commune, Sarah now also began questioning Dennis’s character. Nevertheless she dutifully hurried after him, hoping for the best.

      About a hundred yards into the forest was the campground, and every campsite was occupied with groups of hippies toking on joints or jocks swilling beer. Some played guitars and some played radios, creating a cacophony of discord. Dennis wended his way through the merrymakers to a particularly noisy group near a rushing stream. Most of the men were festooned with tattoos and leather; some knives and even pistols were at their belts. The few women lolled against the men, eyes half-shut, obviously stoned or inebriated.

      Bikers. She should have known that Dennis had seemed too good to be true.

      Cool Kill! someone called, and tossed him a beer, which he deftly caught and, seemingly in one motion, unscrewed the cap and began to chug. He had not so much as glanced at Sarah since they’d arrived. She felt out of her element but was too mesmerized to move.

      A beer-toting pot-bellied man with a long thick tangled beard and huge arms covered with images of dragons and bloody knives stepped forward and spoke quietly to Dennis. Slowly Dennis raised his head and stared at another man who sat on a nearby stump; this man, staring back, got to his feet. He was taller, heavier, and darker than Dennis, with curly black hair and a permanent scowl. They stared and stared and Sarah was sure that one was going to kill the other; she became filled with dread and wished she were anywhere but there. But the visual duel ended in a draw, and both Dennis and the other lowered their eyes, turned away, and swigged their beers.

      It was then that Dennis focused on Sarah, gave her a good long appraising look, and said, Want a beer?

      Sarah shook her head no.

      I got some business. I’ll be with you in a little while, Dennis said.

      Okay, said Sarah.

      Dennis strode away, and the pot-bellied man who had whispered to him approached Sarah and smiled. Don’t mind him, he said. He’s always like that. He can be smooth as silk one moment and a royal pain in the ass the next. He showed a lot of restraint when he didn’t beat the crap out of Monster over there. Oh, I’m Paul Bunyan. He proffered a filthy hand which Sarah hesitantly shook. Here, he said, pulling a joint out of his pocket. If you don’t want a beer maybe this’ll do. It’s real Acapulco Gold – no bullshit substitute. He pulled out a shiny silver lighter, struck it several times until a flame appeared, and took a few drags until the joint-tip glowed. After only a moment his held breath exploded into a paroxysm of coughing. Damn, he said. Damn.

      Sarah took a pull. It rapidly expanded in her lungs like quality dope should. Exhaling, she right away felt buzzed.

      Listen, don’t worry about anything, said Paul Bunyan. As long as people know you came with Cool Kill no one will touch you. But watch out for some asshole who’s going around trying to get people to drop pills without saying what they are. He’s got a grab bag of multi-colors and some dude nearby is already rolling around on the ground puking his guts out.

      Sarah had taken several more tokes of the potent weed and felt curiously relaxed and paranoid at the same time. When will Dennis come back?

      I don’t know. Hell, just dig the scene. When he wants you he’ll find you.

      Sarah found that arrangement unsatisfactory, but high as she was by this time she saw no reason to debate the issue.

      A thin, wiry, obviously drunk biker approached Paul Bunyan. Bet you don’t have the balls to jump over that waterfall, he said.

      Just a few yards away the water dropped from a flat rock about ten feet into a deep pool.

      The fuck I don’t. But I don’t want to get my clothes wet.

      I knew it, you fucking pussy.

      Oh, yeah? Paul Bunyan grabbed his challenger’s arm and, with a loud whoop, ran to the edge and jumped, dragging the other with him. There was a loud splash.

      Without anyone tuning into her, Sarah abruptly disconnected from the biker scene and wandered off. Sunlight gleamed through the tall trees in slanting rays of varying intensity. People conversed, laughed, moaned, shouted, sang; they passed joints and pipes and chillums and bottles; they sat alone or in groups, elaborately clad or nearly naked. Sarah took it all in with stoned magnanimity, passing through their midst with a faint smile as if she were dispensing benediction.

      At the lake several naked people, both male and female, were already splashing about in the water. Sarah slowly stripped, folding her clothes neatly and setting them on a rock. The water was cold but step by step, as mud oozed between her toes, she kept going until the water was almost up to her neck. Then she ducked her head under and reveled in the icy chill, let it cleanse and tone and invigorate her.

      Why did the water have to be cold? Some sort of perfection must exist in the arrangement of extremes. Why did the bikers and the Vietnam War have to coexist in the same world as the sun and the lake and the forest and Acapulco Gold? Heaven and Hell. Life and death. Male and female. Yin and yang. All this and much more passed through Sarah’s mind as eyes closed, fetus-like, she drifted underwater.

      Then she surfaced, gasped for air, decided she’d come down too much, and looked around for a likely smoke.

      On a sun-warmed rock she sat with half-a-dozen naked others passing around a pretty little hash pipe. Not a word was spoken, but smiles were exchanged. She stayed there a while and then wandered off along the lakeshore carrying her clothes. White butterflies fluttered around her like drifting flower petals. Eventually she found herself alone and got a little paranoid, wondering about bears and other woodland denizens. She didn’t stop, however, until she realized that she might get lost, and then got even more paranoid.

      Before she turned back she tried to imagine herself a natural part of the forest, somewhat like Rima of Green Mansions. She knew that such tranquility must exist and that it was something to be desired, but all that she could stir up was a vague sense of loss, the feeling that something was missing.

      She sighed, slowly pulled her clothes back on, and then made her way back to the campground.

      Seemingly nothing had changed, except that everyone had gotten drunker and/or more stoned.

      Paul Bunyan staggered over from somewhere. Dennis was looking for you, he said. He got really pissed off when he couldn’t find you.

      Why? I’m not his.

      He gets some funny ideas sometimes. Look, I like you. You’d best go your own way. Don’t mess with him. He’s bad news.

      Thanks for the warning. Why do you stay with him?

      Paul Bunyan shrugged and grinned. It’s my life. It’s me. It’s all I’ve ever been good for.

      Maybe you never tried being good for something else.

      Who cares? I don’t give a fuck. This is more fun. We’re free. We don’t belong to any big organization; we just ride with Cool Kill.

      Then Sarah saw Dennis sitting on a stump in the distance. He had a cigarette in one hand, a beer in the other, and was casting glances here and there as if searching for something. He took a swig of brew, tossed the bottle aside, stood, strode forward, and kicked someone. As his adversary stood Sarah recognized him as the tall one with the dark hair Dennis had stared down earlier. This time they went at it full throttle, exchanging punches and kicks, then grabbing one another and rolling around in the dust. They got to their feet breathing heavily. It looked like an impasse and that they were going to walk away from it, but then Dennis reached down, whistled, and as the other turned around swung a heavy cast iron frying pan and hit him in the forehead. The man dropped to the ground heavily like a sack of the potatoes Sarah had abandoned in the commune kitchen, the potatoes she hadn’t given a thought to since she had left that morning. Now abruptly, incongruously, she remembered the meal she had been planning to make that day, and wondered whether she would have prepared the potatoes with tomato sauce or olive oil and herbs. Now that she was stoned she had no further qualms about taking off and leaving the kitchen behind, but she wondered what was happening back there, as people wandered into the dining area expecting a meal as usual, only to be confronted with the unusual, that is, no meal. They had come to depend on her, she knew, but after all, it was uncool to burden others with your needs, wasn’t it?

      Her reflections abruptly dissolved as she realized Dennis was staring at her, was in fact approaching her.

      Hi, she said.

      Where the hell have you been? said Dennis in a quiet angry voice.

      Swimming. I was at the lake.

      Suddenly there was a sharp pain on her cheek and she found herself on the ground.

      He had slapped her. Hard. It really hurt.

      Why?

      Rubbing the warm tingling ache she said, Are you crazy? What did you do that for?

      You were supposed to wait for me. I was looking everywhere for you.

      You don’t own me. Who the hell do you think you are?

      Oh, shut the fuck up and come on. Let’s go.

      No.

      What did you say?

      I said no. I’m not going with you. I’m through with you. Go fuck yourself.

      Dennis drew his fist back to punch her, but then Paul Bunyan grabbed his forearm and said, Hey, Cool Kill. Forget the bitch. She isn’t worth it. Let’s go find us some real snatch.

      Dennis stayed still as a Greek statue for a moment, muscles flexed, dark eyes staring hard at Sarah, then turned, and without a word strode away. Paul Bunyan smiled, winked, and then followed him.

      The ache had spread around Sarah’s head. Standing up, she saw dark spots and swayed dizzily. She had lost all desire to remain at Deer Lake. She just wanted to go home to her little tipi, crawl into her sleeping bag, and crash out.

      Deciding to hitchhike back, she positioned herself beside the dirt road just outside the parking area and stuck out her thumb. The first car, a rusted red Ford station wagon with three young freaks inside, stopped. The man in the back seat, his long curly blonde hair held in check with a red headband, sported several strings of large wooden beads on his bare chest. Come on, he said. Let’s go.

      Sarah opened the door but hesitated. The interior smelled strongly of stale dope; the floor was covered with candy wrappers, empty potato chip packages, and beer cans.

      Well, you coming or aren’t you?

      She climbed in. The car peeled off in a cloud of dust.

      So, where you going? The blondie propped his arm behind Sarah on the seatback and not for the first time she wished that more hippies would discover the wonders of deodorant.

      High Flight.

      Ah, yeah, that’s Stevie’s place.

      That’s right. Steve lives there.

      Stevie doesn’t just live there, man. He owns the place. He bought the land and he keeps the whole thing running. Funniest fucking thing, man, how he installed all those fancy toilets and showers and shit like it was some kind of public campground.

      He hasn’t done it yet. Anyway, what’s wrong with a little sanitation?

      Nothing, man, nothing.

      It always annoyed Sarah when people used man to address everyone, both male and female, but she didn’t figure she was in a position to make an issue of it.

      I’m Eddie, said the blondie, as he dropped his arm from the back of the seat onto Sarah’s shoulder.

      I’m Sarah, said Sarah, as she tried to shrug it off. Thanks for the lift.

      No problem. Here, take a few out of the grab bag. He proffered a large baggie full of pills. Sarah recognized reds and meth and light brown mescaline capsules that had been making the rounds, but there were several other varieties of popables that she was unfamiliar with. Go on, close your eyes and choose.

      No thanks.

      Party pooper. He chose a red and swallowed it dry. Hey, he called to the driver, take a left here.

      The driver spun the wheel; gravel churned under the tires; dust billowed upward.

      Wait, I’m not going this way, said Sarah.

      Be cool. It’s just a slight detour, Eddie said. He slid his arm behind Sarah’s back and hugged her towards himself.

      Hey, what are you doing?

      Nothing, nothing; take it easy. Eddie tightened his grip, and put his free hand on one of Sarah’s breasts.

      Stop that! Let me go!

      Eddie told the driver, Pull over and help me out back here, would you?

      Sure, man, said the driver.

      Just as the car stopped Sarah jerked free, opened the door, jumped out, and hit the dirt running. Instead of chasing her, though, Eddie slammed the door shut. She heard them all laughing as they drove off and left her in the middle of God knew where.

      Assholes, muttered Sarah.

      And so it was that as the sun approached the western hills and the shadows lengthened, Sarah Tabitha Jones, known to

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