“I beg your pardon? All I see is a work of art.”
I laughed. “They do say beauty is in the eye of the beholder.”
“It’s actually one of those cakes you bake in the box.”
I had heard of the concept, but never seen one. I gauged it to be the same dimensions of a store-bought boxed mix. “That explains everything, including the size.”
“Small but mighty.” He held it out. “Don’t you want to taste it?”
“Um, maybe later.” I took it and walked inside. Pete followed.
“I’m headed to Berkeley to get a few records. Want to come?”
I finagled permission from my parents, who were hacking away at shrubbery in the backyard, and we hopped in the station wagon, driving the fifteen minutes to Telegraph Avenue.
As Pete searched for a parking place, I took in the familiar sights: various street vendors along the sidewalk in front of restaurants and boutique stores, a group of long-haired hippies in tie-dyed clothing playing instruments on a corner, and a number of tourists snapping photos with their instamatic cameras. We drove by three record stores without a parking place in sight and soon dead-ended at the sprawling U.C. Berkeley campus. Pete turned right and slid into a spot one block up.
We held hands as we made our way back to Telegraph Avenue. We passed homeless people in front of a large department store. Pungent ethnic spices assaulted my nose, along with the mouth-watering scent wafting from Blondie’s Pizza. The distinct tone of a wooden guitar met my ears and moments later, the musician came into view. He sat on a cement stoop of a shop with strange objects in its display window.
“What are those?” I said.
“Pipes and bongs. You’ve never been in a head shop?”
I shook my head.
He steered me in. “Today’s the day.”
My nose wrinkled from the strong odor of incense, its drifting smoke crisscrossing with the few shards of light coming through the front windows. My eyes fought to acclimate in the dingy store, first spying the black light posters along the walls, followed by shelf upon shelf of drug paraphernalia. It screamed psychedelic between the bongs in every color of the rainbow and the glaring neon-colored art illuminated by the fluorescent tubes.
“How can they sell this stuff? Isn’t it illegal?” I whispered.
“It’s what goes into the pipe that’s against the law. These items are sold as multi-purpose. For instance, the bongs could be…vases.”
I guffawed. “There ain’t no flowers going in there.”
“Poppies maybe.”
“What do you mean?”
“They make opium.”
“But that’s our state flower!”
“I don’t think anyone’s making opium out of the California poppy. It’s more of a South American crop.”
We browsed a little longer. Pete bought a pack of rolling papers, and we left. A block up, he steered me into Rasputin’s, which he called the quintessential record store. The vast selection of new and used records was prolific indeed. We walked to the rock section and he flipped through albums. I enjoyed the huge posters and read through all of the category sections: rock, pop, soul, funk, jazz, classical, blues, rhythm and blues, punk, reggae, Motown, salsa, country, bluegrass, Broadway and more. Music blared from well-placed speakers throughout the establishment. As usual, I was clueless about the artists. Hippie clerks roamed, helping customers, or worked the registers.
“This is exactly what I wanted,” said Pete, “Led Zeppelin’s Houses of the Holy.”
I stared at the bizarre cover—silhouettes of naked kids crawling over rocks or something, the band’s name or logo strangely absent. “Freaky cover.”
“This art won a Grammy.”
I shook my head. “In the eye of the beholder, remember?”
Pete smirked. “When I play this, you won’t even recall the art, the music’s so mind-blowing. You wait.”
“What’s playing now, Mr. Know It All?”
He cocked an ear. “Sounds like Mahogany Rush.”
I huffed, secretly impressed.
“C’mon, I need one more.” He traveled up the row toward the beginning of the alphabet.
I shuffled along behind him. “Can we get pizza? I’m hungry.”
“Blondie’s?”
“Heck yeah.” I imagined the oozing cheese, tangy tomato sauce and sprinkle of oregano from a gigantic slice of pie I would gleefully struggle to negotiate with my two hands.
Pete stopped at the B section and rifled through it for a few minutes, pulling out Black Sabbath’s Technical Ecstasy album. I glanced at the cover, even more bewildered by its art than the other.
I held my hand up. “Don’t even try to explain.”
He laughed. “It’s not as bad as you think. Look again. Do you see two robots having sex?”
“Not by a long shot. I get the robots, but they look like they’re on escalators going opposite directions and one is killing the other. That is not sex.”
“Speaking of that.”
“Yes?”
“I was thinking we could date Friday night. I have a plan.” I found his sly smile endearing.
“Sounds good.” A jolt of excitement pulsated through me.
§§
Pete wriggled out of a birthday party for one of Mrs. O’Reilly’s sisters on Friday evening, but unbeknownst to them, we planned to take full advantage of their absence.
I took special care getting ready for the big event. I showered, shaved my legs and underarms, and spread peach-scented lotion all over my body. After blow-drying my hair, I painted my fingernails a soft shade of pink. Digging in my dresser, I found the nicest underwear I owned and donned a flattering white halter-top with snug blue jeans. The contrast of the shirt against my tanned skin was striking. As Pete knocked at my door, I applied a coat of lipgloss, the finishing touch.
I hid my nervousness as he drove us back to his house, but my mind raced. I had no idea what to expect. My only history was Alec. Would it hurt again or be the blissful experience everyone alluded to, like in my steamy romance
