how much I liked the bracelet he sent.'
Walking down the street a few days later, I heard a voice call my name—'Yo, Cleo, it's the sheriff. Wait up.'
'Jimmy! You've been in Bangkok all this time? How's it going?'
'A real bummer, man. I'm broke.'
Black Jimmy and I went to smoke bhongs, and he told me his woes. He was having a hard time maintaining his habit. I gave him some stash. He needed money. I gave him a few
'Bummer, man. The sheriff's on a bummer.'
Over the next ten days I gave him more—both money and dope then I got fed up with supporting him. Fellow Goa Freak or no, his bummers ended up costing me money. Enough was enough.
I made a quick trip to Laos, partly to escape him. I returned with a Laotian marriage canopy to hang over my bed in Goa, a suitcase of Laotian wall hangings, and a toothpaste tube crammed with Laotian smack.
Then it was time for India. One last thing to do before leaving for Bombay—I wanted a porno movie. I'd bought a projector to show the movies I'd taken of the Goa Freaks in Bali. I thought a porno film would be an extra novelty to entertain the gang in Anjuna Beach.
A few hours before my flight, I went to Patpong Road and searched the streets of the red-light district for the right type of person. Finally I found someone in a bar who promised to deliver the film before I left.
'Soon, okay? My plane to Bombay leaves at 3:55.'
When he didn't show at the hotel, I was disappointed.
I never expected him to deliver the film to the airport and was horrified when I was paged out of the departure lounge and confronted with the sleaze holding a brown paper bag.
'Oh, it's you. That greasy bag is for me? Uh, thanks, I guess.' I looked around to see if anybody was watching. Everybody was watching. I didn't open the bag to check its contents in front of the dozen seated passengers, two security guards, three courtesy personnel, and a whole Cathay Pacific check-in counter. I paid him his twenty dollars in good faith.
Going back through Immigration and the weapons check carrying the bag, I felt conspicuous. I didn't peek inside until I reached the plane's toilet. Hey, it did contain a canister of film; and when I held it to the light I glimpsed tiny naked figures. In colour even.
Now I had the problem of sneaking it into Bombay, where such things were prohibited. The projector was another problem. India was strict about allowing certain products into the country. Cameras, tape players, and electrical equipment were heavily taxed, and the government tried to prevent their being sold on the black market. They had to be recorded on one's passport and taken out of India at the time of departure. Since I wanted to leave the projector in Goa and not take it with me whenever I left the country, it was important that it not be marked in my passport.
Arriving in Bombay, the Customs inspector asked his usual, 'Camera? Radio?'
I sacrificed the camera. 'Yes, a movie camera,' I said, hoping he wouldn't look beneath it to find the projector, nor beneath the projector to find the film. He didn't.
I'd changed during the monsoon season. I'd become audacious—a slayer of police dragons; and I'd become powerful—a chieftain of destine. I'd even learned to drive a motorbike! I'd earned the title Goa Freak and loved everything about being one—the excitement, the outlandishness, the opulence, and the camaraderie. What a wonderful life! I couldn't resist staying at the Sheraton. One's hotel reflected the success of one's monsoon business. The Sheraton or the Taj Mahal meant extremely profitable business; the Nataraj and the Ambassador, very good; the Astoria and the Ritz, nice, steady work; Stiffles, struggling (except at the end of the season, at which time it was okay); Bentley's, scrounging and probably looking to borrow money. Those staying by Juhu Beach near the airport were probably still doing business. And those like Kadir—who'd just taken an apartment to which no one had yet been invited—were most likely involved in a large-scale, continuous operation centred in Bombay.
Bombay buzzed as the Freaks returned from the monsoon months of business. The Freak hotels were fully booked. The air hummed with gaiety and festivity. Old friends reunited. From the end of September, ml the Goa Freaks began returning to India, Bombay was packed with people on their way down to Goa or just up from Goa. Dipti's had a crowd outside on the street, waiting to see who dropped by for ice cream and gossip.
'
' . . . about the generator Pharaoh bought in Japan . . .'
'. . . superb Bolivian blow. Brought it over myself . . . let you . . .'
'. . . from Laos. And I scored a porno movie in Bangkok. Why don't you drop by my room at the Sheraton . . .'
The shops and stalls of the silver market, Chor Bazaar, Bindi Bazaar, and Crawford Market were deluged with newly earned money. Dollars, yen, francs, pesos—you had to wait in line at the black-market currency exchange. Drugs from around the world, gadgets, electrical equipment, jewellery, art, trophies from the monsoon, all exchanged hands. We sat in each other's rooms and vied over whose stash would be used.
Everyone wanted to pay the tab. For dinner, groups of us would go to the Ambassador and order four courses each. While waiting for the appetizer, personal stashes would come out.
'Have you tried my Colombian coke?'
'Hmmm. Not bad. Now do a whiff of mine.'
'. . . here, and pass this down . . .'
'Anybody ever taste blue coke? Try this, man . . .'
Powders would pass back and forth across the table until the food arrived. By then, of course, we were too coked-out to eat. With a concerned frown on his face, the maitre d' would ask what was wrong with the food.
'Nothing. It's great.'
'Delicious.'
'Wow, man.'
'The best.'
Nevertheless, our food wound up back in the kitchen, practically untouched.
Between parties, I tore through the markets buying things for my new house. I got carpets at the Handloom House; papier-mache boxes, candlesticks, and six-inch-high Kashmiri tables from the Kashmir Emporium; tasselled, velvet pillow covers from Crawford Market; and yards of satin material to make sheets. I ran from my safety deposit box at the Mercantile Bank to the black-market exchange—where the money doubled—to the shops and marketplaces, and then back to the bank. I bought so much, I had to take the boat to Goa.
India was different now that I had money. This time I had a cabin on the front. First class occupied the top deck and consisted of one suite and six cabins, two of which held other Goa Freaks. A blonde Irish named Shawn had the suite. Junky Robert and Tish had a cabin across the halt from mine. We hung out in Shawn's suite, sniffing dope and coke, ordering room service, and telling our monsoon stories.
'Loathe me, it was something else, I tell you,' said Shawn. 'This was the first time I'd been to Ireland in six years. What a gas to go back with dough. Last time my father wouldn't talk to me because of my bong hair. Kept telling me to clean up and get a job. He talked to me this time, he did. The entire village came to see me. But, Lord, was I glad to leave. What sour fives they five—working every day.'
'I don't know how they stand it,' said Robert, nodding out, eyes closed and head leaning against a porthole.
'Can you imagine going to job every morning?'
'I'd puke!'
'Loathe me, nine to five. How do they do it?'
'Beats me. I'd rather be dead.'
In deck class, the last time I took the boat, dinner had been banged down on a crowded, dirty counter; this time it was served on a white tablecloth. Before; it had been cold rice on a tin plate, this time I had crispy chicken
