A Short-Story From My 'Hippie Days'–– I was able to control my inner-emotions when accosted by owner of a radio store.

This posting is from my book "TWELVE DEAD FROGS and Other Stories--A Filmmaker's Memoir" (©2017)--(it comes after "Joe's Sandwiches," posted 12/15/23). https://www.goodreads.com/book/show/36005125

RADIO STORE (1969)

I had met a young woman near my art school, and with the tremendous amount of time on my hands that came from having no job, no family, no expectations, I was leisurely heading over toward her general neighborhood near Piedmont Avenue in Oakland, to see if she was home. It was still cold in the early mornings so I wore my long black thrift-store wool coat that reached beneath the knees. Looking back on it, I suppose that style of dress, combined with my beard and mustache, gave me an certain dark, ominous appearance. Anyway, I still wasn’t functioning as a goal- oriented person and had ample time to stroll into stores, smell the roses, just ease along toward my new girlfriend’s house. It didn’t really matter if she was home or not. What mattered was the walk over there and back as far as I was concerned. I was trying to just enjoy everything as it came.

I first checked out the pet store, looking at the specialized types of foreign fish floating in the tanks, strange deep water inhabitants that glowed iridescent blues and pinks. I watched as the parakeets squawked, canaries chirped away , wondering what they were saying in bird language and if two different breeds of birds could be understood by each other. Near the front door I reached down and petted a few adorable puppies trapped in the front window display. They licked my hand frantically, starved for affection of any kind. Then I walked outside, around the tiled doorjam, and right into the next store in line. It was a type of “Radio Shack” that sold TVs, stereos, home entertainment units. I browsed around, learning whatever I could learn, checking out the new models and prices, watching identical images on several TVs lined up in a row, then slowly departed. It was nice to warm up a bit in the stores before continuing on my walk.

About half a block up a side street toward my friend’s house I got the strange feeling that I was being followed. Looking over my shoulder I spotted a guy approaching me on a straight line from the other side of the street. He was wearing what looked like a bowling shirt, had short hair, and a face that definitely caught my attention. His cheeks were strangely scrunched up, like he was sucking on one very large marble, and his eyes formed narrow slits as if they were modeling for Polar snow glasses or something. I slowed down as he approached. Soon he was close enough to say his piece.

“I saw you in the radio store and I think you’ve stolen something,” he said, bracing himself, his body language indicating that he was ready to either run after me if I fled, or pounce on me if I made any false moves.

“So I’m going to have to frisk you,” he stated bluntly .

I could feel the blood rush to my face. I felt the emotion of anger, even hatred, wrap me like a glove, adrenaline pumping furiously to meet the requirements of inevitable battle. My fear was my hatred. The “flight or fight” syndrome was operating exactly the way nature intended it. I hated this guy. In a matter of seconds I had gone from enjoying a nice peaceful walk to being completely overcome by hatred for a total stranger. The shock of that realization hit my brain, my senses. What was happening to me? What had happened to the positiveness of the day?

Well, I was being negatively controlled by some guy I never saw before in my life. That scenario sounded too familiar. Hadn’t one of the a major factors in the failure of my marriage had to do with my being negatively controlled? Whenever I had accomplished a good artwork against all odds, my wife had been somehow able to alter my happiness with her dark moods. And now a stranger was trying to do it to me as well. No way, I thought. No way in hell!

So just as suddenly as I had felt the emotion of hatred flush my skin, I now experienced a complete physical and emotional reversal. I could actually feel my face relax, arms loosen, mind clear with new purpose. I somehow neutralized the force that was about to dominate me. I looked the guy in the eyes, and said, thoughtfully, and with kindness, “I know it’s as hard on you as it is on me, so go ahead,” opening my coat for inspection.

Immediately he shifted out of his fight mode, deflated before my eyes. In seconds he was apologizing, backing away, saying, “That won’t be necessary," and “Sorry to have disturbed you.” Before I could catch my breath he turned, walked back toward the Avenue and disappeared around the corner.

Epilogue. On re-reading my story, it dawns on me that it’s very hard to be so free- flowing as I was that day, without some modern life concerns—probably impatience—running in one’s head. Usually our minds and emotions are much more distracted, like rushing to work—shopping, running errands, meeting deadlines or other family responsibilities—all making it pretty impossible to handle (and overcome) the kind of emotions I experienced here, without making the situation much worse. So sadly, I doubt I’d be able to manage a stranger’s hostility now, at such an “enlightened level” as I was able to do back then. Maybe the only time I can be so objective again and in-the-flow is when I am “on-set” of an improv feature-length movie, working for 5-10 days in that kind of altered state, where my purpose is to create something meaningful.