Mess by Molly

I awake with a queasy feeling in my stomach. It’s my last day in Eugene and my final opportunity to attempt meeting one of my heroes, Ken Kesey. While it seems like a gesture his adventurous nature might appreciate, now I’m chickening out.

What am I going to say and do? Knock on his door and sputter, “Hi! Just dropped by to meet you. I’m not a celebrity chaser or a wacko, just awandering intellect in search of answers.” Yeah, that will do I think sarcastically.

It reminds me of two years ago when I visited Los Angeles with my Notre Dame women’s tennis team during the OJ Trial.  Our gangly coach drove us around Brentwood in search of the knife. Later that evening, we ate at the Mezzaluna Restaurant where Nicole and Ron were last seen alive. It was embarrassing.

Ken Kesey, though, he sparked the entire psychedelic era with his LSD experimentations in the laboratory of Stanford where he studied creative writing. The Merry Pranksters, the theatrical gang he led which spawned the Grateful Dead, are the heroes of my underground music culture. And he’s a famous author. I admire his literary talent and intelligence as much as his outrageous escapades that blatantly challenged social norms of the time. Collegiate rumor has it that his lengthy descriptive passages of the Chief undergoing electrical shock therapy in One Flew Over the Cuckoo’s Nest, were the result of his own exploratory acid trips.

After spoking a bowl of kind Oregonian weed at 9:20am I hop in my 1988 navy blue Ford Ranger covered pick up and decide, ‘What the heck? I have nothing to lose.’  

I drive off the 5 freeway onto Country Road 58 and surprisingly discover Pleasant Hill with no problems. Rural Oregon it is, with lush green hills, cows grazing and horses lounging around every bend. Pine tree lined ridges, farm buildings and haystacks contrast the deep blue sky and I breathe in deeply the fresh country air. I turn left onto Ridgeway, Ken Kesey’s street, and drive a good five miles until I spot the correct number. I pass it once and see a gigantic swing hanging from a tall white painted wooden structure with a navy-blue star imprinted on the top. A half-finished tepee sits invitingly around the back, and an eerie looking leprechaun leers lecherously from the entryway. The place has a vaudeville touch, but the house itself, trim yard and enormous barn could belong to any rural Oregonian.

Again, I inhale deeply and prepare mentally to boost my self-confidence. I drive into the gravel-lined driveway and park my car. After gathering the essentials which include a notebook, disposable camera, and my resume, (just in case), I walk towards the house. Chickens run about aimlessly, and three golden and silver-blue peacocks prance regally through their kingdom. I do not, however, see any person. My heart thumps as I ring the doorbell. A dog inside begins yipping hysterically, but no one answers.  I turn, ready to leave, at least feeling good that I tried, when the door slowly opens to reveal a grandmotherly woman with medium length gray hair and glasses. Her long skirt and knitted sweater do not betray a trace of hippiness.

‘They really have all grown up’, I think to myself. In The Electric Koolaid Acid Test, by Tom Wolfe, the Kesey’s are forever immortalized in their twenties.

“Is this the Kesey residence?” I inquire timidly, embarrassed.

“Yes, it is.  I’m Faye Kesey.”

All the words fly out of my mouth like dried pollen off a dandelion. “Hi, I’m Molly. I’m visiting Oregon for a few days. I just recently graduated from college and am on an extended road trip.  I’ve always wanted to drop by and meet Ken Kesey.”

“Well,” she takes a step backwards thinking, “I guess I could show you the bus,” she says, wiping her hands on a dishtowel.

I can tell my presence has interrupted her daily routine, but with mention of the historic multi-colored psychedelic school bus legendary for driving across country full of tripping musicians and artists, any predilection for fleeing leaves me and I am exhilarated, “Oooh,” I squeal in delight, “I’ve always wanted to see the Merry Prankster mobile. Is it still running?”

“Oh sure, more, or less. We only take it out every now and then. Our grandkids enjoy going out to the lake for a picnic on sunny days. It, not us, travels some parts of the festival scene during the summer.”

She leads me into what I thought was a traditional barn. Instead, it is one giant arts and crafts playroom. In one corner, a plethora of brightly colored costumes hang; in another are paints and supplies. Backdrops from scenes of a play adorn walls, but dead center stealing all stages, is the rescued 1939 school bus fondly named Furthur, with two u’s, which first left Kesey’s California home in 1964 with Neal Cassady driving (already famous as Dean Moriarty in Jack Kerouac’s On The Road) enroute to New York to meet up with Kerouac, Allen Ginsberg and Timothy Leary.  Its last trip of course was to Woodstock. 

I climb inside psychedelandia, laughing, unable to contain my joy.  Standard bus seats are gone and in their place are couches, pillows, futons, and bean bags, all tie-dyed.  I grab my camera for a few quick shots. 

“Ken’s out on his tractor.” she says, “we can go see if he’s nearby and you can meet him,” Faye says. 

I bounce happily behind her.  We see Ken in the distance on what appears to be a large, seated mower, some white tufts of hair peeking through a rugged Indiana Jones hat.  Donning protective orange goggle sunglasses, he looks handsome and strong in his old age. He mows one more quick length of the yard, and then putters up to us, killing the engine. He removes an ear plug and gardening glove and reaches out to shake my hand.  I jump at the opportunity. “Hi, my name is Molly. It is nice to meet you, Mr. Kesey. I’m here visiting Oregon for a few days, and I wanted to come by and tell you that I really admire your work.”

His handshake was firm.  His presence commanded respect, “Well then, I thank you, it is nice of you to drop by. Molly, did you say your name was? Where are you visiting us from?”

“San Diego, but I just graduated from the University of Notre Dame and have been on the road ever since.”

“Good for you.  Faye, why don’t you show her my studio and my latest project.  Poke around a bit.  I’ve got to finish mowing this ridge.”

“Thank you.  It was nice meeting you,” I say, following Faye into a small shed 20 feet from the barn.  It’s his office.  Inside are three desks lined up to make one large working space.  A computer sits in one corner and backed rolling chairs are spread throughout.  Crazy old posters and knick-knacks from the 60s adorn the walls.  Video tapes are scattered everywhere and lying on the worktables are Kesey’s latest projects.

“Old notebooks keep turning up in different places, “Faye explains, “so and so was moving a few months back and found Ken’s notebooks and drawings from when he was in jail.”. 

I vaguely remember this from the book; the charge was possession of marijuana.

I sit down and begin looking through several drawings which lay piled on the table. Some are small scraps, some blown up poster size and duplicated. Many satirize the police and other authority figures and their hypocritical behavior towards criminals.

Then came the real treasure: his notebooks. There are about six and I begin paging through them, amazed to see his handwriting, messy and with spelling errors. I ponder how difficult it is to transform this into a freshly bound novel for sale on Amazon.com.  Truly, this is a dream come true for me.

“Have you always lived in San Diego?” Faye asks quietly, looking at me from behind her bifocals with sky blue eyes.

“No, I lived in Fargo, ND until I was 11, then we moved to California.”

“That must have been a big contrast.”

“Yeah, actually I think it was good because I lived in a safe place with great public education when I was young then I moved out West where liberal ideas influenced me. Sort of the best of both worlds. I’m not sure why I went back to college in the Midwest.”

“Why?  Didn’t you like it?”

“Other than my friends, no.  Notre Dame was too conservative.  Single sex dorms with weekly mass in the basement. Guys couldn’t be over at girl’s dorms past 12 am and vice versa.”

“That’s the way it should be.”

I’m surprised by her comment, so I add “most people at ND reject a lot of what Kesey believes in.”‘

“That’s odd,” she counters, “because he’s been asked to speak there many times.”

“I don’t mean in the literary sense. His views on drugs aren’t accepted there.   People love his books.  Last year, Notre Dame’s theater department performed One Flew Over the Cuckoo’s Nest. My Argentinean housemate Mario played the role of Chief. Mario is 6 feet 5, with a mop of dark wild hair. He didn’t have many lines of course since Chief is mute.  But he did a great job of drinking!  No one knew it was real vodka in his flask.”

She laughs and we begin to discuss books. She asks me if I know of Barry Lopez, a nature-writer, who graduated from Notre Dame and lives nearby. I had indeed read one of Lopez’s treatises, on wolves, when I was in my Annie Dillard phase. I tell her that I mainly like women writers and Latin American authors. I quote my favorite line of poetry written by Sor Juana Ines de la Cruz; “quien es culpable?  La que peca por la paga o el que paga por pecar.” It’s an 18th century social criticism of colonial prostitution in Mexico, I explain. Translated it means, who is worse?… she who sins for pay or he who pays to sin. She says that Kesey enjoys many women writers.

It’s clear that Faye and I share a common love of literature.  When I inquire if she finds plenty of time to read, she says yes, but after she finishes reading her friends’ books, she doesn’t have much time left over for other books she wants to read. I tell her I just finished reading Hunter S. Thompson’s, “Fear and Loathing in Las Vegas,” and wasn’t that impressed.

“I love Hunter’s work. I guess you just have to know Hunter to understand his writing.”

“I don’t understand how he could function with so many drugs in his system. He was a danger to everyone around him.”

“Aren’t we all though?”

We disagree again over Tom Robbins. She says he is great as a person but that his books don’t hold her attention.  I love Tom Robbins. It turns out she is more of a Larry McMurtry fan. I share an early memory of mine is my dad reading Lonesome Dove to my sister and me to help us fall asleep. 

She thinks that’s sweet and asks me about my studies at Notre Dame and my future. I evade topic of my career as best I can.   “I don’t want to work a real job yet. I want to get paid to write.  I’m planning on moving to Hawai’i in July to live for a while, but after that who really knows.”

“It’s tough making a living out of writing, you’re going to have to do something else at the same time. You also need an agent for your work. Someone you trust.”

“Believe me, I’m prepared to clean houses, baby-sit, whatever.  Um, how long have you and Ken been married?” I ask, consciously changing the subject away from my lack of life direction.

“44 years,” she answers.

“Wow! How did you meet?”

“We attended the same junior high and started dating in high school. We married during college.”

“I just graduated college and I can’t even visualize marriage.”

“Yeah, but back then, two thirds of my high school class married immediately after high school graduation. This is rural Oregon.”

“Have you always lived in Oregon?”

“Yes, I was born in a place that probably was pretty similar to Fargo. Flat with plenty of wheat farming. But Ken and I lived in Mexico for a while too­ avoiding the cops.”

“Those pesky cops.  Where did you live down there?’”

“In Manzanillo, back before it was built up with tourism. We loved it.”

“A few more questions and I’ll get going. Rumor has it back in Eugene that you guys still have parties here sometimes. Is that true?” I couldn’t imagine them still dosing on acid.

She laughs, “Well nothing big… sometimes Ken writes a play and then the barn becomes full of theater rehearsals, and it is a pretty festive atmosphere. Or we have a potluck with friends and relatives galore. But nothing like old times.”

“And how is everyone else? Mountain Girl?”  Mountain Girl was one of the original Merry Pranksters, a protagonist of the Electric Koolaid Acid Test and married to Jerry Garcia for a while.

“She lives just 5 miles down the road, but she’s been in Virginia visiting her mom who has been sick and gets depressed when she’s alone. She cheers right up though when her family is around.  Babbs[1] lives nearby too. Yeah, everyone is still pretty much around.

Have you read Burroughs? Every young author should be very familiar with him.”

I add Burroughs to my reading list and before leaving, I show her a printed out copy of my homepage. She says that Ken has a webpage too and usually changes it once a week to post his stories in progress.

“What is the difference between a homepage and a webpage?”

“None really, a homepage is just the main or central part of a website. It is all just terminology.  Thank you so much for taking the time to talk to me,” I say getting up, “I will get going now.  One last favor, would it be ok if I copy down one of these poems?” I point to Ken’s journal.

“Sure.  You will be very happy one day that you have your journals. Good luck,” she says, walking me to my car, “Farewell.”

I jump in the car with an adrenaline rush so high I jitter like Hunter Thompson on speed. I need to find a cool place near a river to begin writing.

POEM FROM KESEY’S JOURNAL

I think the bullet is a symbol

a capsule of lead that conceals many of the evils of our time.

Self-righteous wrath is in there. And racism. And cowardice.

Mainly, this little pill is aimed at the ongoing American Revolution.

Unlike certain other smoking substances, the bullet is intended to lower the consciousness.

It’s very purpose is penetration, isolation and cruelty. The pregnancy of this seed whelps death.

— Kesey

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[1] Ken Babbs, was a member of the Merry Pranksters and Kesey’s best friend.  The first Acid Test was a Halloween party at his home in Santa Cruz where the band that played was first the Warlocks and then became the Grateful Dead.  Babbs, like many of the Pranksters, was well educated: He earned an English literature degree from Miami University in Ohio and studied in the graduate creative writing program at Stanford.