“I don’t know what you’re thinking about, honey, but I came to the Haight to see the old neighborhood and visit an old friend”

August 1964

San Francisco’s summer sun struggled with the dust on the bedroom window, but a few determined rays managed to break through and pat Marjorie on the cheek. She shook herself awake, trying to remember where she was. There was a strange haze in this half-lit room: smoke from cigarettes and sputtering candles, a trace of lavender incense combined with the smell of dirty dishes and sweat.

Marjorie sat up and looked at the other cots in the room. Yes! There was Chrissie lying directly on a mattress, no sheet or blanket or even a pillow, snoring lightly. A second girl was huddled on the other bed, asleep fully clothed.

Marjorie looked down at her crumpled T-shirt and stained pants. She’d worn them, awake and sleeping, for the past two days (or was it three; hard to remember after all those hours in the car). She couldn’t wait to go out and buy some new cool peasant dresses and flowery cotton tops and maybe some groovy love beads.

With what, Marge? Or have you forgotten? You’re dead broke.

She shrugged; maybe she’d be able to borrow something cool (or, she sighed, at least clean) from Chrissie.

A second bedroom held similar sights: girls out cold on unmade beds, one with stringy black hair, another with — how crazy could you get — a rainbow painted on her face, stretching from one ear to the other.

She walked into the apartment’s tiny kitchen. Ah! Here was an aroma, warm and welcoming and familiar: oatmeal, being cooked by Mama Mumu on her camping stove.

“Good morning, Mama.” She spoke in a whisper, in deference to the sleeping girls.

“You can go ahead and use those vocal cords of yours, these gals are dead asleep,” Mama answered, ladling the oatmeal into a cracked bowl. “Nuthin’ except the San Francisco earthquake waking them up for hours.”

The oatmeal was thick and sweet and... not enough. “I’m still hungry,” Marjorie whined.

“That was the last of the porridge, and there’s nuthin’ else here,” Mama answered. “Check out the fridge.”

Mama Mumu was right: Marjorie opened the small Philco and saw some rancid cheese going green at the edges, a few uncooked potatoes, and a half full bottle of cheap wine.

Feeling a bit at a loss, with the excitement of adventure clashing with slight pangs of anxiety, Marjorie turned to her companion.

“So,” she said, pasting a smile on her face and determinedly ignoring the protests of her unfilled stomach, “we’re here. What do we do now?”

“I don’t know what you’re thinking about, honey, but I came to the Haight to see the old neighborhood and visit an old friend.”

This was news. “You have friends here?”

“You can say so.”

“Can I come?”

“Sure.”