In The Time of Job When Mischa Was A Zippie January 20th 1973 Part 1

 The Time of Job When Mischa Was A Zippie January 20th 1973 Part 1

The Journey

“Attention: All flights are canceled due to the current hazardous weather conditions.”

Oh, shite! I thought. I better grab a room for a day or two til this tornado blows over—and quickly, before they all book up.

The winds were getting worse by the moment. I immediately hailed a cab outside of Metro and headed for the nearest Kimpton. A few minutes after checking in, I was snugged into my warm bed, my only companion a newly opened bottle of French Burgundy which I became intimate with in no time at all.

As I sipped my wine, I pulled the Wilson Mower Pursuit Grande Ballroom card out from my purse.

This was the moment; this was the time. If I was ever to confirm that this card was indeed—dare I say it?—a vehicle for time traveling, this was it—the proverbial acid test!

I dropped another tab of acid in my mouth, complemented it with a few sips of wine, and comfortably laid back to relax with a cigarette. Several moments later, I exhaled my final puff and crushed the ashes into the tray, then fell into a nice mid-day's slumber. The last thing I remember hearing was the music coming from the radio.

I had begun floating in an astral manner; every breath seemed to send me further into space. The experience was like none I could ever fully describe...got me spinning like a top now, and I don't know how to stop now, here I go, higher, higher, here I go, higher, higher, here I go, go, go, go, go....1 Spinning and swirling, time stood still; I was completely unsure as to how long. Until—I was jolted back into worldly consciousness by the howling sounds of angry, screaming winds....

Damn was it ever cold! I shielded my face from the harsh wind and surveyed my surroundings as—crunch, crunch, crunch—my boots cautiously found their footing within the snowy frozen banks of the I-75 freeway on-ramp. My blonde tresses and fingers had already frozen stiff from the cold breath blowing off the Great Lakes. I might have looked like I was on fire; with every exhale condensation swirled around me. I cuddled my hands together and breathed into them. Ah, a few faint seconds of warmth, then the biting cold again. I saw some cars approaching and instinctively stuck out my thumb.

As I attempted to obtain a ride, the winds from the passing cars blasted my body, chilling me to the bone. Damn, was it freaking freezing! I recognized where this trip had transported me to—Michigan, south of Detroit—but was still unsure as to the when. It was winter, of course, but what was the year? And why was I hitchhiking in this God-forsaken cold?!

Another group of autos approached; again I stuck out my thumb. No luck. A truck came speeding past and—look out!—currents of nearly 70 mph were unleashed by that highway monster, nearly knocking me over with sonic waves of arctic ice. Another group of cars—my poor thumb frozen and red—but what's this? My heart rejoiced as a car slowly pulled off to the shoulder a short distance past me. Thank God, I thought. I was not certain how long I could have handled being out in the elements with these insanely frigid temperatures.

The Mustang had slowed to a stop on the icy gravel. Scrambling to get to the auto while trying to maintain my balance on the sleet-covered shoulder, I finally got to the car and eagerly reached for the door handle. As I pulled it open, I was relieved to see a red-haired girl in the driver's seat.

“Hurry in and close the door!” she exclaimed.

I jumped in her warm car and shut the door with a jolt. As I turned back toward her I began to thank her profusely for rescuing me, but stopped mid-sentence with a start. That smile, that crimson hair—Yes, I remembered this girl! And suddenly, I realized “when” this was and what I was doing here.

Yep, I had a real adventure ahead of me, and I was going to enjoy it this time around as much as I had the first. Funny, though, I'd sure forgotten the bitter cold that accompanied the beginning of this journey. Now, if I could just remember this girl's name.

“Hi, I'm Eva,” she stated, as if in answer to my unasked question. That's right, it's Eva. I told my kind benefactress that I was more than happy to make her acquaintance and, reflecting back to her a smile as warm as her own, exclaimed, “Mischa, I'm Mischa!”

Seconds later, we were on the road and headed south toward Toledo. Eva asked how far I was going and I told her to Washington DC. “I'm gonna be at Nixon's inauguration to protest the war in Vietnam.”

“I read about that—it was in the news. They expect over half a million demonstrators from what I heard.”

“Wow, that sounds way cool!”

She mentioned that she was headed to Connecticut. I was welcomed to ride with her to Harrisburg, where I would then need to head south to D.C., while she would continue northeast.

“Beautiful! That gets me most of the way there.” Just as the first time, our eyes connected in such a manner that suggested an immediate friendship. And just like old friends who had known each other for years, we chatted about concerts, family, food, dating and more.

There was no question that we were both mutually comfortable in each other's company. As we passed the roundabout near Toledo and proceeded onto the Ohio Turnpike, Eva asked if I got high and partied, to which I delightfully replied, “Of course!” She reached down and in an instant produced a joint out of her purse, offering me the honors of striking it up.

The joint lit easily and I inhaled slowly. I passed it to Eva who did the same. Upon exhaling, she remarked, “Don't you just enjoy smoking weed more with girls than dudes?”

“Yeah!” I replied, and even offered a reason. “Guys seem to always bogart the joint, whereas every time I smoke with my girlfriends we seem to be more into sharing.”

“Exactly!” she exclaimed. “By the way, Mischa, how old are you?” During this particular journey I had yet to reach my fifteenth birthday, but just as before, I told Eva that I was eighteen, and my above-average height let me get away with this deception. Eva herself was twenty-two.

It was such fun to be high and riding in the company of someone so cool. We listened to Spirit and Steppenwolf on her 8-track, and a “Nuggets” collection with the Electric Prunes and Amboy Dukes. I was enjoying Eva's company immensely, perhaps even more this time around. I felt like I had always known her, and in a sense I had—she had long been a part of a cherished memory. Many of the details of that memory had long since become hazy, but a few were now coming back.

I told Eva about how I would get to Ann Arbor for concerts by thumbing with a friend on the I-94. Sometimes we'd just check out the bookstores and hang out, and then by day's end we would head back. Yeah, seemed like a lot of people hitchhiked today. You saw kids with backpacks everywhere, but mostly during summer. “That's why I was so surprised to see anyone hitchhiking in this weather!” Eva exclaimed.

I brought up the subject of my friend Denise Harris, who also drove a Mustang, as I complimented Eva on her car. Eva replied that she always believed the Mustang was a girl's ride, and joked that Wilson Pickett sang about Mustang Sally, not Mustang Larry.

“You must pretty much be into what's going on in DC to travel that distance!” she remarked. I relayed how I estimated my travel time: ten hours there, ten back with a full twenty-four hour stay.

“Funny,” I told her, “the things you'll do to be part of history, even in a tiny way.”

We were nearly through Ohio and passing the outskirts of Youngstown when a rest area caught our attention, and Eva pulled off the turnpike for fuel and some refreshments. Our marijuana high had us acting rather silly. Everything seemed funny, and we were laughing sporadically as we entered the shop and picked out some treats. We became so distracted by all the details and patterns that our walk back to the car seemed to take forever.

Back inside the Mustang, Eva began rolling another joint. Funny, I thought, I hadn't remembered how beautiful the outside frost looked, reflected by the winter sun. Nor had I recalled the way Eva's index fingers curled gracefully upward as she patted the weed evenly into the paper. What I did remember was the tingling sensation I felt as she leaned close and offered me a shotgun hit. I recalled the strong yearning to touch her cheek, to kiss those heart-shaped lips, blossoming deep within me. As the smoke entered my lungs and swirled about, Eva's eyes met my own and for a long minute we seemed unable to pull away from each other's penetrating gaze.

Finally, Eva smiled, gave me a quick kiss on the cheek, then turned and started the car. It was beginning to get late.

Around two hours later we were nearing our separation point, Harrisburg, Pennsylvania, when we noticed how dark and icy it was looking outside. Even though we were both a couple of hours from our respective destinations, Eva thought it best to finish her drive in the morning, and told me I was welcome to stay with her at a hotel in town. I was more than happy to accept, as this meant that if I awoke and got on the road early enough, I could still be in DC by 9 am, in plenty of time for the protest.

We pulled of the road at a Howard Johnson's. Eva checked us in, and I followed her into the room with an inviting queen-sized bed.

We each kicked off our boots and began undressing. I was very attracted to Eva, but too insecure to make the first move.

We talked intimately for a short time and began to relax in each other's company, until our eyes met in a gaze that seemed intimately penetrating. We both froze momentarily, then softly put our arms around one another and began kissing deeply. Our mouths opened, our breath intermingled as we gave into each other's sweetness. My hand grazed her hair with her locks flowing between and through my fingers, much as a waterfall cascading in its freest form.

Our legs intertwined, I was gasping, struggling for breath,.This was assuredly as close to a heavenly satyriasis that any person could ever achieve while on earth.

We met each other's moves as sensualist dancers, and blended into each other with our moist french kisses. I had forgotten that such feelings were possible. God, I felt better than I had ever felt before; I reveled in the beauty of our passionate pleasures as they occurred in this night.

Eventually sleep overcame us.

It was still dark out when we rose in the morning. We shared a cigarette, then dressed quickly. After exchanging numbers we left the hotel, and Eva drove me to I-83, which was a straight shot to DC through Baltimore. We hugged and kissed good-bye. I parted from her with a renewed awareness of sensuality. I waved back to her one final time as she drove off and we each went our separate ways.

The following rides came quick and easy. The songs I had been listening to while riding with Eva were still in my head, giving me the energy I needed to brave the morning chill and and in just a few hours I was hitchhiking down Wisconsin Avenue. I stopped in Georgetown for a quick coffee and light breakfast, just miles away from my destination.

I decided to get as close to the White House as I could. I had forgotten how warm it was here by comparison to Michigan—amazing! When I had been picked up by Eva it must have been around 10-15ºF. When I exited my last ride I swear the temperature was nearly 60ºF—what a pleasant difference. It was lovely here; the reddish cheery blossoms were already in bloom and offered the most beautiful outline of each and every street.

It was getting close to 11AM. I hurried along, hopping on a bus for about a mile. I rode along until I was able to get as close as possible to the event, where I then exited the bus and quickened the pace toward my goal. People were everywhere, most lined up on Pennsylvania Avenue and others just milling about.

I soon saw my compatriots, leather clad long hairs, most wearing bell-bottoms and levi jackets. All seemed on a mission and all dressed for the part in the style of the rockin' hipster in some form or another. They were flying the Zipster banner and I immediately joined up with this small cadre of protesters. After an enthusiastic introduction, one of the guys from Detroit, who knew my sister Betty from some White Panther Party activities back home, came up and began talking to me. We immediately hit it off, and he told me about the time the MC5 played at the People's Park in Chicago where he first met my sister.

As we discussed our planned street tactics, a few joints were passed between us all. Our task was now known without another word being spoken, and we began our movement toward our mission. With utmost determination, we advanced as a small unified force eager to link up with the other Zippie groups in the area. We proceeded to the targeted destinations. Our ranks began to swell as we hooked up with other radicals moving en force toward The Rat Parade itself: King Dick's Inhogurational Presidential route.

1. Electric Prunes – Get Me To The World On Time - 1966

1Song lyrics