Peacock Dreams

As Al Dooley Entered past the display of Tapered Surf Boy Sport Shirts, with rawhide tie fronts and side zippers in blue ("will evoke compliments"), he overheard a conversation between a Polk Street slicker and a Haight Street hippie. It was a fine sunny morning in the cool, blue and white and gray city, San Francisco. He noticed two, not one, but two pregnant women picking out tight-crotch clothes with their husbands. One of the pregnant women also had a child in a carriage alongside her confused husband.

The Polk Street slicker, in new white bell-bottoms, with striped turtle-neck dickey and virile olive Dutch Boy cap, was saying: "Did you hear what the Russian astronaut got asked by the first man he met on the moon?"

The Haight Street hippie in psychedelic-ecstatic paisley silk shirt, wide-wale corduroy pants with wide belt, trim seat, tapered, and top pockets, and boy-scout mountain boots, replied with interest: "There are men on the moon? Have they got a place to go? The fuzz don't give 'em a hard time?"

"You're up tight, listen," said the Polk Streeter. "And answer my question."

"What the Russian tripper got asked by the first stud on the moon?"

"Cool."

"I don't know, man."

"This moon stud come up to him and ask him in perfeck English: Is it true Woody Allen don't lorite his own material?"

With a laughter that sounded like subdued grumbling, the two pals pushed past Al Dooley into the sanctuary of Carnaby, the citadel of far out, the delight of the well-dressed San Francisco stud, Ye Sworde and Casual Whippe, purveyor of clothes in the ferocious, clawing, happy world of men's fashion on Polk Street. One of the pregnant ladies was chatting with the other pregnant lady. They were not discussing morning sickness. They were discussing their husbands' vinyl jackets. Vinyl is out. Further than madras. Paisley is in.

Al drifted out of earshot.

"Hey, how are you, buddy," said a slender young man in tangerine plush-velour pullover.

"Fine?" said Al, wondering where they had met.

"Lookin' sharp," said the plush-velour boy encouragingly.

"Thank you," said Al.

"But not sharp enough, thinks I. Thinks I: You need you a fire-patterned paisley sport shirt to jazz up whatever downtown outfits you got hanging in your closets next to the old Murphy bed."

How does he know I have an old Murphy bed? Al asked himself. How does he know I call.the fall-in, fall-out, fall-down old bed a Murphy and not a California bed?

"How do you know?" said Al.

"I can tell, judge of human nature and nurture," the menswear psychologist admitted briskly. "First place, up front, and for openers, you got that studenty look about you, old-timy studenty. You got that apartment off-campus look. You got that look doesn't live in the motelly, swimming-pooly–type digs. You got that turn on, tune in and drop out charisma to you, kid. Second place, and what's most important: So what if I'm wrong? So what if I am wrong, buddy? The ice is broken and I can talk clothes and you can answer back and in the end I get my commission, which is what made America great, aside from coonskin caps and moccasins and dressing right for the times. Now the times is different-o, made for trips festivals, psychedelic-ecstatic shirts, up-tighty expressions of ye olde Zeitie geistie. Which is why I am here to aid and counsel you, Fred."

"Al."

"Whoops, Al. My name is Buck Burford. My father came out here like an Okie, he was an Okie, all his belongings toted on Ford flivver, my mother had the pellagra, if only John Steinbeck could see me now."

"Lookin' sharp," said Al.

"As white men should, too," said Buck. He was wearing a button that said: Kill A Commie For Christ. "This is a great country, where in one generation a man can go from being a long-jawed (continued on page 170)Peacock Dreams(continued from page 137) Okie, his ears full of Depression dust, to a granny cyclops sunglass-wearing fagola. In appearance. Actually, honey, I'm as straight as they come. With my oxymo-ronism corrected—and the bad bite, too. Had to remove a bicuspid, though. I've just adopted this dykey manner to keep the avenues of communication disparate."

"Wha?"

"Confused. I dropped out of Berkeley because it was too square. I'm selling, man, you buying?"

"Buying what?" asked Al.

"Well, for instance, this mojo vest in soft cotton suede. I believe we have your size in olive, blue, blood, black and brown. Thirteen dollars and it'll make a gear new man of you. Or a pair of see-through, mesh-sides boxer trunks, very trim."

"I think I'll just saw off an old pair of blue jeans."

"Listen, don't think our stylists aren't inspired by the new casual manner— surf. Also the new Victorian manner— Teddy. And the new horny, careless, psychedelic-ecstatic manner—op, right? We are inspired by manners, kiddo. So how about starting yourself off in the authentic Sworde and Casual Whippe style with a letterman boating jac in regimental, excuse it, naval red. With competition accent stripe. After-swim jac optional."

"Actually, sir," said Al, "I was just looking for a friend I thought I'd find here."

"You'll find lots of friends here. Just wait. All your friends will be here. If you don't have any friends, you'll make friends here. This is the club, man, and none of your transvestite horrors, either. It's men, man to man to girl. Those who buy fag clothes now, buddy, are straight. It's life that's gone kinky. It's the universe in which our leaders stand waist deep in garbage, shooting missiles at the moon, which seems a little odd to us. So how about a Dutch Boy cap?"

Shoppers were browsing among the bins and racks like Jews in a bakery on Sunday morning. They tasted, they felt, they compared, they sucked in their bellies. They had good appetites. They looked as if they could gobble up these clothes. They were famished for dress. What used to be called "fag" was now named "psychedelic-ecstatic Mod," which means turned on, it's happening, it's what's happening, baby. In the words of a famous jazz critic, the 48-year-old schizophrenics were trying to decide whether to turn themselves into three 16-year-olds or four 12-year-olds. The thin voice of Bobby Dylan filled the cracks between wide-wale corduroy and thickly packed velour. There was a speaker between the hiboy shirts and the loboy pants. There was a speaker between the free Moroccan espresso and the fat Max ties. The folk-rock swing of the cash register interrupted the trance-like turning of men before full-length mirrors, trying on their footwear, their neckwear, their wristwear, their dickeys and hickeys and whatchamacallits.

"You like it?"

"Well ..."

"You like it?"

"I guess I like it."

"Well, don't decide in a hurry. Have some coffee first. You want to make sure it's a perfect fit." It was as if the customer should tuck a cup of Moroccan blend under his cowboy belt first, to try it on for size. And it was true that the friendly smell of Moroccan wafted by a little fan from the pin-striped blender did add something to the floating feeling of the clothes. A voice from the fitting room floated out, over Bobby Dylan's blowin' in the Moroccan coffee blend:

"Well, you see, sir, why I am here is, well, you see——"

"Out with it, man."

"I'm a Negro, sir, and I want to see how the white folks dress."

"It is recommended," replied a cool voice, "that you make your selections quickly, as many of the items are limited in quantity."

"I'm colored."

"All mail orders, for example, will be shipped within forty-eight hours."

"I'm black."

"In order to expedite mail orders, it is suggested that money orders or cashier's checks be mailed rather than personal checks. Or come in, soul brother, and pay cash, hey?"

Another new customer came out of the fitting room, gingerly walking in his pants as if he were carrying a prickly cucumber between his legs where it might hurt a little. The salesman smiled sympathetically, crinkling up his eyes, and then bent suddenly and straightened things out. "Excuse me, sir," he said, "but a gentleman wears his jewels on the left."

"Ah, that's better."

"Well, if you're new to long pants ... I didn't mean that, sir. Sometimes my kidding gets out of hand." His right hand, which had done the adjusting of the jewels, still held its pattern, as if it were calling for Ballantine's ale or perhaps still straightening some future or imaginary gentleman's jewels.

An old friend was talking with the owner at the cash register, or perhaps it was a friend of the owner, or a trusted companion, or a bonded cashier. The old friend was shaking his head. "Look, I knew my marriage was in trouble when we moved from New York to San Francisco and we had the same milkman ..."

Dooley's new salesman was smiling expectantly. This was his life. Al must have brought himself there for some reason. The reason would emerge in due course. Nothing in this life is done without good reason—even grokking the town. Grokking is a word that means "digging the scene." It comes from a science-fiction book by Robert Heinlein, which, to Al, made sense. It described a real-life activity. Today he was grokking a little. Grokking, he opened his mouth to have a word with his salesman. He spoke:

"Do you have any socks? Argyles? Jockey-type shorts or even Jockey shorts? Golf shirts with alligators on them?" With each word the salesman seemed to die a little. Al bombed him with these sneaky attacks on attire. "Bow ties?"

"Oh, stop," weakly spoke the salesman, whose name was P. J.

"Nylon dress shirts? Two-tone shoes? Leather cord ties with silver dollars imbedded in them, like the Las Vegas prospectors wear?"

He stepped over the body of P. J. who was lying there, perhaps still alive. Al stretched to step over him. The air stored up in P. J.'s bleeding madras lungs pushed its way past his slim-jim tonsils with a hissing sound. "For a natural-looking suntan all year long," the perishing breath hissed, "try a bottle of our Number One Suntan Lotion, Number One Lotion."

Al reached toward the natural-wood-style Formica shelf on which floated oceans of lotions in seashell bottles. He dashed five dollars' worth of after-faint onto P. J.'s pale cheeks. P. J. sighed and revived, murmuring, "Musk, elephant tusk, witch hazel, plus our secret ingredients." Thus lie correctly identified the liquid that saved his life. He pulled himself to his feet. "What can I do you for?" he asked Al.

"I'd like a pair of shoelaces," said Al Dooley. "I just broke my shoelace out there."

"Whalehiding?"

"No—shoelacing. To keep my shoes tied."

"I have just the things for you, thing," said P. J. with a touch of malice touched with gratitude. The gratitude was touched with a subtler malice, but this malice was not in turn touched with a subtler gratitude, and so there the chain stopped. He took a box out of a drawer. Shoelaces.

"Thank you so much," said Al Dooley.

"Twenty-five cents the pair," said P. J.

Al inserted the laces, first removing the frayed ones. A Roger Miller record played. The scent of Moroccan coffee filled the air. A faint tang of velour and corduroy to sweeten it. A touch of stretch fabric. A soupcon of peacock dreams.

He straightened up. He walked.

Al now stepped out into the world to settle the wars of Asia and Africa, to win fame, riches, and the love of beautiful women, and to answer, like everyone else, the great matter of inevitable time and alteration. Like P. J., for openers he would need to put on some raiment that could enable him to master the sense of his own mortality. Soul needed its disguises; soul moves in secret ways.