Riding the Underground Range with Abbie

One April day in San Francisco last year, I was awakened at the crack of noon by the trill of my doorbell. A postman with an American-flag lapel pin handed me a letter with four cents' postage due. Inside was a cryptic note: "Hi! Greetings from The Underground! Wanna rendez-vous? Go to a pay phone and call -- 11 P.M., April 15. 11:05 will be too late. Your old pal, Abbie." The postmark was Seattle; the area code, Miami. I pictured a coast-to-coast tunnel of radical molework.

For the next three days, I found myself reliving old memories of Abbie Hoffman. It had been more than a year since I had last seen him, just before he vanished in the wake of his cocaine bust. I remembered the first time I had met him, in 1968. It was in New York's Tompkins Square, when the Lower East Side teemed with the flotsam and jetsam of flower children not yet wilted. A demonic apparition had popped out of the hordes, its head a mass of friz, and parked itself in front of me.

"I'm Abbie. Wanna see my tongue?"

Nobody had ever asked me that before. Before I could muster a "Shucks," a wondrous membrane slowly unfurled itself, wet, flat and craggy. I knew it was the beginning of a lifelong friendship.

At the appointed hour, I walked to a nearby phone booth and dialed the number. Instead of Abbie's Boston pool-hall twang, I heard a friendly, businesslike female voice. She was, she said, also at a pay phone, and "our friend" wanted to see me. If I wanted to meet him, I was to go to a certain department-store parking lot in Phoenix in exactly one week, at three p.m.

Now, there are no doubt less interesting places for hanging around to meet an underground fugitive than a suburban department store in the Arizona desert, but after three hours of waiting, I was becoming bored. Then I noticed a white T-bird, late model, pull up near me. Opening the door, a tall, slender, flaxen-haired woman beckoned. I nervously plopped myself into the front seat without a word. She wheeled out like a pro.

"Ken, my name is Angel," she said after a few minutes on the road. It was the same mystery voice from the Miami phone. I was to find out later that she had been a highly paid fashion model before taking up with Abbie. She handed me a black kerchief. "I know this sounds weird, but you have to put this on and slouch down in your seat."

Perhaps half an hour later, we turned left, went another 100 yards or so and turned left again. She shut off the ignition. "Take that thing off, keep your eyes averted and follow me." We walked up two flights of concrete stairs. A typical American Highway Gothic motel room, empty. "Wait here, on the bed," she instructed, and walked into an adjoining room. I heard the doorknob click. I opened my eyes and in strode a handsome, auburn-haired, seersuckered dead ringer for an associate professor of philosophy at Bryn Mawr. The professor smiled, half-yawned and, in a familiar brogue, said, "Oh, shit, they told me Clarence Kelley [of the FBI] was out here. I guess he'll have to wait till the Ks come around again next year."

"Abbie!" I whispered loudly.

"How'd you know it was me?"

"I'd recognize that tongue anywhere," I said.

"This is only one of about seven disguises I have down."

He wasn't kidding. Over in a corner was an antique steamer trunk, which Abbie proceeded to open with some ceremony. Inside he had stashed an assortment of costumes suitable for Madame Tussaud's. For formal occasions ("such as Rockefeller's funeral"), a dark-blue tuxedo with tails and satin cummerbund. For more casual attire, a simple silk pinstripe, black. Abbie stopped me before I could inspect the final item of apparel--he wanted to model it personally. Faster than Clark Kent in a phone booth, he emerged from the bathroom sporting three proud sergeant's stripes on his sleeve: a New York City policeman posed menacingly before me. "I just got promoted last week!" he shouted. "Now, up against the wall!"

Inside a compartment of the trunk was his "Head Kit"--a huge assortment of make-up, wigs and beards, face putty, eyebrow paste-ons, a yarmulke, even a stretchy pink fake scalp for the Telly Savalas look.

Abbie chose to remain in his police uniform for the duration of my visit. We had an auld-lang-syne chat for the next couple of hours. Somewhere in the course of it, I said, "Say, why don't we do an interview? You know, sit down for three straight days of Q. and A. I bet that Playboy...."

"We'll see. I have to consult my collective, you know, before I can give you a yes or no. I'm a full-fledged Commie now."

Then a treat--in the motel kitchenette, Abbie fixed a sumptuous five-course French meal that would rate a couple of stars from Michelin, presented with a flourish.

Abbie, Angel and I sat around briefly after the meal. Abbie informed me that I was taking a nine-o'clock flight back to San Francisco in the morning, that Angel would drive me and that when he figured out his plans, he would let me know in the same way that this meeting had been arranged. Meantime, I should put out a feeler to Playboy, but I was to select only one editor at the magazine, swear him to secrecy and communicate with him only in person or by mail. Abbie then swept Angel up in his arms and exited stage left.

•

Memorial Day weekend, I found myself in San Diego in the engaging presence of my two scofflaw friends. While it did not seem particularly frightening or different for me to walk around publicly with Abbie, he wanted to practice a day of being "normal," since the major problem he had with his friends from the past was their paranoia. It was an enjoyable, relaxed day that ended in another motel room, this one with sauna and whirlpool.

But behind this deliberately cheerful and relaxed vibration, I could sense Abbie's terrible uneasiness. His humor was more manic than usual--and his normal pace left most people breathless. There was a choppiness to his gestures; a haunted look would enshroud his eyes from time to time. I couldn't figure out why, but Abbie scared me. I soon found out. While he went downstairs to buy an after-dinner cigar, Angel told me about her past month with him. The pressure of meticulously preparing a tape to be shown on public television had wiped him out. On an impulse, he had taken Angel for a weekend fling in Las Vegas. It was there, she said, that Abbie had lost all his marbles. For 17 hours straight, he screamed his real name at the top of his lungs over and over again within earshot of hotel residents. Angel barely survived the ordeal herself.

Given his condition, the three of us agreed that we should find a spot for the interview that would be sunny, warm and relaxing.

"Why not Mexico?" I asked jokingly, as we were only an hour's drive from the border. To my startled chagrin, he looked at me with the old why-not gleam in his eye--why not do something a bit daring, unpredictable? Spontaneity ruled the moment.

So we packed our suitcases, beat the motel bill--I wanted to pay it, but Abbie insisted it would be "good practice" not to--and headed for a downtown bookstore.

As we got into the T-bird, I felt a strange pulsation under my seat, kind of a lilting back and forth. We parked and I went into a bookstore to look for a Mexico-on-five-dollars-a-day book. When I emerged, a surreal scene greeted me. Abbie was clutching a large Siamese cat by the nape of the neck, trotting after a slinky-haired woman who obviously thought him daft. I inquired as to what the hell was going on.

"This cat, this goddamn cat came out from under the seat!" Abbie yelled. "So I figured it belonged to someone around here. Then this girl that I'm sure is Cher came out of that shop, and this looks like a cat she would own...."

"C'mon, Abbie, what would Cher be doing in San Diego?"

"I dunno--getting married to a sailor?" We deposited the cat on the sidewalk and headed for Tijuana, stopping for a Baskin-Robbins sugar hit first. The border crossing was a cinch and we did a little shopping in town for some tequila, cigarettes and perfume that Angel claimed could be bought only there and in Aix-en-Provence.

We decided to head for the eastern shore of the Gulf of California--lots of beaches, small towns and sun.

We were all pretty tired when we arrived at a town called Guaymas. We drove until we came to a hotel right on the ocean with an alluring stretch of beach. Abbie went to sleep immediately and Angel and I decided to head into town for a little local culture.

We walked around town for 45 minutes and then heard the strains of rock 'n' roll emanating from a distant courtyard. We paid our way in and began dancing in a large, crowded room off the courtyard.

Suddenly a scuffle broke out on the other side of the room. Instinctively, I ducked and moved to a corner with Angel, though the distance between us and the commotion was a good 50 yards. I felt a whizzing pass in front of my lips, very close. I turned just in time to see Angel clutch her hands to her face. At her feet was an unopened can of beer, the top rim bloody. She took away her hand and a long, ugly scarlet gash started to ooze to the left of her eye, slanting down to her ear. She was in a state of shock, as was I. Complete pandemonium broke loose, everyone wanting to help, offering advice in a high-pitched Spanish staccato. I maneuvered her into the back room and someone called the Red Cross.

Two soldiers in full military regalia showed up, ushered us into a jeep and drove breakneck through the narrow cobblestone streets to the Red Cross Center. Inside, we found there was no doctor on duty--but a very crisp and reassuring nurse showed us into a makeshift operating room. Angel lay on the one cot in the room, clutching my hand fiercely. The problem was to prevent the nurse from stitching up the wound on the outside and leaving a scar. Angel's modeling career would end unless I kept a constant eye on the nurse to make sure she understood what we wanted--inside stitching, yes, but only a butterfly bandage on top.

An ungodly series of yelps and thuds commenced in the hallway outside and five brown-shirted Mexican gendarmes hustled in a bloody specimen. He was kicking and screaming, so they began to beat him with truncheons a few feet away from us until he subsided into a bloody heap. A few minutes later, there was another commotion and another unfortunate was dragged in, this one in even worse shape, with bullet wounds in his stomach and legs. The victim's mother came in, waving her hands frantically in the air, tears streaming down her face. One of the cops turned menacingly toward her. Jesus, I thought, now they're going to beat her into a pulp. At that moment, a nun walked in and interposed herself between them. She was a large nun. A typical Saturday night in the country, I figured.

The stitch job was completed and Angel and I returned to the hotel.

Now the real fear set in, a fear that transcended even the night's terrors. How would Abbie react? Would he pull another Las Vegas? We decided to let sleeping Abbies lie, and Angel said she would sleep in the back of the car while I tiptoed into the room. I managed maybe 15 minutes of light dozing, then heard him yawn and start.

"Where's Angel?"

I jumped up, ran to the basin and splashed water in my bleary eyes and recapitulated the story as fast as I could, trying to sound calm. I don't think I sounded calm. Abbie ran out to Angel in the car and they had a talk while I chainsmoked Fiesta cigarettes. In half an hour, he came back to the room. He was shaken and I smelled trouble. "We have to get back to the States right away," he said. "Go check on flights for you and Angel--I'll drive the car."

I knew there was a small airport in Guaymas and I trudged into the hotel lobby to get the clerk to place a call to the airlines. As I approached the desk, I did a double take. Surely this experience had finally taken its toll and I was a goner. The lobby was filled with Americans, and very unusual Americans, at that. Liza Minnelli. Burt Reynolds. A groggy-looking Gene Hackman. I cornered one of the crew--I wasn't hallucinating--and found that the cast of Lucky Lady was staying at that hotel on location.

I was strictly on automatic pilot. I was told there was a plane available in about two hours and booked two seats on it. I prayed that Abbie wouldn't pick that moment to stumble into the lobby. My prayer was answered: He waited fully 20 seconds after Liza had gone out the exit. The sun was rising and before I could head him off, he strolled out onto the veranda. All those Americans around--What's up? It took him all of several seconds to discover he was on location. Hollywood! Movies! His glitterbug went haywire. Inside of ten minutes, he had persuaded the entire crew that he was in pictures himself, a Hollywood film producer, but most of the cast concluded he was an obnoxious creep. An hour and a half to go, I thought. Abbie became even surlier with me when I tried to reason him back into the room. It became ugly. I walked back to console Angel and hoped for the best. It was the only thing I could do.

As we drove to the airport, his mania became more and more intolerable and both Angel and I were glad to get aboard the plane to San Diego.

•

It was with another taste of historical irony that I found myself in Abbie and Angel's company on yet another holiday--Thanksgiving, the day after which was Abbie's 39th birthday. Remember when you couldn't trust anybody over 30?

Anyway, this time the pay-phone connection instructed me to fly to Houston. The familiar white T-bird arrived, Angel picked me up and this time the blindfold was blue. We drove for hours and my spinal column felt sorely abused by the time we arrived at our destination, a sprawling Texas ranch.

There I found a much-improved Abbie Hoffman--the old Abbie at his best. And the new Abbie at his best, for that matter; he actually apologized for the way he had treated me, something I had never heard him do before. The trials and tribulations of the spring had mellowed him and he seemed resolved to take an active role in the revolution once more. As for Angel, the scar had been sanded off by the best Miami plastician and without a magnifying glass, you could never detect the slightest trace of our Mexican episode. Abbie and I did three whole days of Q. and A. in a relaxed and convivial mood. He fixed what was probably the most impressive Thanksgiving spread I've ever experienced, as more than 100 friends of his--locals who knew him only by his new identity--partied into the night. He kept hinting broadly that on my last day I would see another old friend, though I couldn't pry loose from him who it would be.

Since the ranch where Abbie reigned as patriarch had a stable of four beautiful horses, as well as some terrific riding trails, I arranged the night before my departure to spend the morning riding with Angel. I can ride competently enough, but I suppose the effect of watching too many Gary Cooper movies led me to dismiss her warnings about the big brown pinto.

Yes, it happened.

Going into a full gallop, the horse suddenly decided to take a short cut home, swerving sharply to the right. I was thrown ten feet into the air, into a stone wall, where, fortunately, my head was the first point of contact, and I blacked out for the first time in my life.

After what seemed like hours, I finally heard the wonderful purr of the T-bird, which soon became a white gleam down the road. In the front seat I could discern Abbie at the wheel and Angel behind him and a very familiar figure riding shotgun.

Abbie rushed out of the driver's seat, Angel jumped out of the back and Jerry Rubin stepped out of the passenger's seat.

"See, we're up to the Rs already," smiled Abbie.

"Howdy," I said to Jerry, whom I had seen two weeks before. Neither of us had mentioned that we were going to visit our special friend. It was an interesting contrast, bumping along that lonely Texas terrain, to watch the Sixties' most famous radical double bill chatting away in their new incarnations. Back at the ranch, Abbie called a doctor who pronounced my head fine and my joint sprained, then wrapped an Ace bandage around my knee.

Although the experience was painful, I was glad it had happened. It gave Angel the opportunity to tend to me in my time of need, as I had in hers. Or, in the ethos of the old West, we were even. In fact, there was only one missing element for the perfect cowboy saga with a happy ending. As Angel and I drove away, I turned around to look at the spectacular setting sun. Sure 'nuff, Abbie Hoffman was riding off into the sunset.

"Abbie's glitterbug went haywire. Inside of ten minutes, he had persuaded the entire crew that he was a Hollywood producer."