SCARIEN NATION NOW BE ONE
COMING HOME BEAT
The Sneiracs fell back in at Greenwich Village several months after they had split. It was like everyone and everything had changed while they were gone. Corny hillbilly elvistic fare flooded the airwaves. Overnight, a lame button down collar version of real rock'n'roll got hip.
People avoided anything beat like it was a cultural disease. Finding a good reefer was like finding a needle in a hay stack. Nobody was making the scene at the little park on Bleeker Street anymore.
The cats stopped playing the Scarien melodies and played the blues instead. And they never spoke anymore about Mr. Scary or Mirror. Scarien jive was strictly off limits. Bud shut his peepers and could not conjure up Mirror's image. Things had changed.
The Scarien crusade seemed to be over before it even got started. The cats didn't know what to do with themselves. They couldn't even find a good gig. Their favorite coffee houses had all gone out of business due to the malt shop craze. And these Sneiracs were a little too frantic for the coffee houses that survived. They had a gig for a while doing Woody Guthrie and Leadbelly songs, but it was nowhere. A real drag compared to the Scarien tunes.
After a night of playing folk music, the Sneiracs decided to go down to the park on Bleeker Street and jam. Just for old times sake. Rusty had scored some reefers that would almost get you high and PJ had a gallon of cheap red wine.
They got lit up and decided to play some Scarien melodies. They hadn't jammed on these deep grooves in months. By 2 a.m., the cats were flying high. They dug these tunes more than anything else they could play. Just when they were getting ready to split back to Fessig's pad.......
Zoom. Screeech. Slam. Slam.
More big black cars than you could count circled the little park. About 20 zombies marched towards the combo. There were trench coats, suits, ties, walkie talkies, shiny black shoes, and the jingle jangle sound of the bracelets hanging from belts. Nobody was holding, so the cats weren't too worried.
PJ spotted the thin man wearing his G-man mask. The serious thin man approached them and whipped out his gleaming roscoe and a G-man badge.
"Bob Dobalina, CIA," the thin man growled.
"Oh, man. Ugly scene," whispered PJ.
"If you will come with us, we would like to ask you some questions."
"Cool it with the Melvin Purvis bit and tell us what's going down here, daddy-o."
With that pronouncement, the Sneiracs did a vanishing act. They split and split quick. The amazed G-men were so square that most of them just stood in the park looking confused.
PJ ran through an alley and jumped in a dumpster. Bud, the fastest, ran down the middle of Bleeker Street dodging cars. Mayhem and chaos.
PJ and Bud fell in back at Fessig's pad about an hour later. Chick and Rusty never did make the scene. Days went by and still they were a no show. PJ, pretending to be a mouthpiece, called the cops to see if the cats were in the slammer. The desk cop said they weren't in his jail.
PJ and Bud were real down. The CIA had busted up the combo. The Scarien mission was definitely bagged now. Finished, the gig was over, just like that. PJ shaved his goatee, put on a real square little checkered suit, and combed the usual haunts. No Chick. No Rusty. Those cats were real gone now.
Bud sold his bass and bought a used car. He drove down to Jersey and found a day gig at a chemical factory. He made big dough compared to the Sneiracs paychecks he never got. He met a chick named Harriet Anslinger who was half hip and reminded him a little of Mirror. They got a little apartment together. Bud bought a stack of Elvis wax because the grooves reminded him of the ancient Scarien melodies.
Bud never told Hariett about the Scariens. He gave her the brass medallion he had bought in Morocco, but he told her that he had found it in a pawnshop in Brooklyn. He spent most of his spare time studying the magic forces of nature.
PJ never grew his goatee back and he never took off the checkered L7 suit. He got a job as a bug exterminator in Manhattan. The pay was good. The fringe benefits were incredible. He bunked with Fessig for a while, but soon got a room of his own.
Once in a while, PJ would go check out the scene. Take a little stroll down Bleeker Street. Maybe cop a matchbox of reefer. He had stopped writing poetry and he had forgotten all the Scarien lyrics. He felt outside , no longer a part of things.
One night on Bleeker Street, PJ thought he saw Rusty about a block down the street. He ran and ran. Just like the night when Bob Dobalina, CIA, chased him out of the park. PJ finally caught up with the cat. The guy looked a little like Rusty, but no cigar. After that, PJ never went down to the Village anymore.