Working hippies in Redneckland

Late seventies

The Hatfield Fiasco

“Here’s a hundred years worth of old maps of this town. They relics, but have them

bound and indexed in six months.  Tell us what ya need, or better yet, get it yerself

and give us a bill.  It’s all yours.”  He looked at my breasts and nodded goodbye. 

Slammed and jangled outside.  Then he returned as abruptly as he’d left—bursting in

the room:  “Well, what are ya waiting for—someone to do it for ya?”  Then he burst in

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to laughter, I suppose to let me know he didn’t mean it, chewed on his cigar and

sized up the lower portion of my body pensively, spit into my empty coffee cup,

coughed and stormed out.

That was when I decided to become a smoker.  I went across the street and bought

my first pack of Salems:  “That’s what Michael smokes...It must help....”I thought.

I returned to my office and pulled out the first scrolled up map, got down on the

carpet and opened it out.  It rolled back up immediately.  

The next day I brought in an iron and ironed out the maps flat on the floor.

In six weeks I tore through those damn maps, while chain smoking, swearing to

myself, and changing the radio stations incessantly.  One time pot belly burst in again

, this time yelling,” You been sleepin on the radiator covers!”

“What!”

“I got proof!  Look at em—they’re bent!  I catch you sleeping agin your smug little smile won’t be so

happy.”

I couldn’t suppress my laughter.  It was all too absurd.

HE tried to conceal a smile too:  He tried to act like he believed what he was saying

but to no avail.

I met the superintendent of schools in the school cafeteria next door, where all the

town employees ate for free.  The foul-mouthed man was either unaware of women

or he was passive-aggressive. He sat down by me at the long table and started

telling, Ed, the superintendent of streets, about a parent who’d come in to the office. 

“What a set of knockers, and an ass to match!  I was gettin hard...”  

“Excuse me,” I blared, interrupting him and not caring, “This isn’t a locker room.  You

guys are disgusting.  I feel like I’m back in Junior High—only the kids weren’t as

perverted as you horney old bastards!”  

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Apparently the superintendent  liked it when people insulted him.  He was so taken

with me that pot belly told me the next day, he’d gotten rid of his secretary to have

me come work for him.

One day when I was typing in his office, a student came in, in tears.  “Pull yerself

together, young man!” he demanded, and sent him back to class, without even

finding out what was wrong.

“Why are you so HARD?” I asked incredulously.

He ignored me.

A small time crook, he embezzled the milk money and paid the janitor to work on his

house during school hours.  (After I left he was sent to jail for embezzlement as well

as molesting his secretary.)

I hated working for him.  I was always late.  He warned me, “I’m gonna have to fire ya

if yer late one more time.  I came in late the next day.  He was all smiles.  I said to

him, “You wouldn’t believe where I’ve been for the last half-hour.”“Where?” he asked

suspiciously.  

“The bathroom.  Have you ever gotten stuck on the toilet?  You think you’re done but

your not?”  Bathroom talk—that was his language.  But he didn’t know how to

respond, coming form a girl (which was my intention). He did do away with me,

however, and sent me to work for the superintendent of streets, another sleez-bag.

One day my new boss came in to the dirty garage office where I worked among

grease, dirty coffee cups and cigarette buts, and said to me, “You aren’t wearing a

bra are you?  Let me check.  Before I could kick him in the balls he had his hand

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down my top.

I shoved his hand aside and glared into his eyes and said with icy control:  If you ever

touch me again or make one insinuating sound, not only is your wife going to know

about this, but it is going to be in the newspapers as well.  I stormed in to my car and

tore out of there, burning rubber, with him following me, spewing incoherent excuses

and explanations.  I raced straight to Mr. Bardwell’s house in tears.  I breathlessly

told the selectman my story—his face darkened:  “I can remedy the situation but he’ll

loose his retirement.”   I told him I’d think about it.

I didn’t want to ruin the man—he was already a wreck.  I just wanted to scare the shit

out of him.  The next day I came in to work warily and Mr. Superintendent of Stretts

was as gentlemanly as could be.  Not only that, but he said to me,  “You know,

you’ve done such a great job that you can take the rest of the week off and come

pick up your check on Friday.  The following weeks were the same.  For at least a

month I only had to come in on Fridays to pick up my checks, with him being as nice

as possible.

The last week of my job I was in his grubby office filling out some form, when the

superintendent of my town, Gill, came in to chew the fat with him and the chief of

police.  “So how’s it going in Gill?” someone asked him.  

“O.K. except for them damn hippies at the commune—they’re like a fungus—they’re

everywhere! Anyone ever seen them around these parts?”“NO, how can you tell if

you see one?”  I asked.

“Oh, it’s easy,”  the Gill selectman answered...”By the smell...”

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“Oh really! Do I smell?”

There was shocked silence in the room.

“I thought you were from Hampshire County!” 

“I was staying there for awhile, but I’m back in Gill now.” 

“Well...you must be the exception to the rule.” the Super of Streets answered.

“NO, actually, I started the place,” I lied.

I took my paycheck off of the desk and left.  Nobody said a word.

As I drove out of the garage for the last time I thought of poor Mr. Bardwell, a gem

amongst the rubble.

Lumber Yard Hippies

Hugh was a slender, light skinned, sophisticated classy young man from California,

with steel blue eyes and angular cheek bones. He was articulate and convincing, a

hard working highly skilled carpenter, very focused, and  persuasive.  So it was not

out of character for him to return from  a swift trip up to Brattleboro, Vermont, and  in

a low key way mention at a meeting that he’d just convinced Tony Cersossimo,

owner of a lumber yard, to hire twelve guys whom he’d not yet met from the

Brotherhood.  And in the wake of Hugh’s impressive presentation, in which he stated

the communities goals and high standard work-ethic, it never occurred to

Mr.Cersossimo that he didn’t really have enough work for these wonderful fellows

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who he was to hire.  Hugh’s word was enough-if they were anything like Hugh, the

man knew he could trust them. 

Roy knew enough, due to his hurry-up-and-wait experiences in  the army that when

you run out of work in a place like that, you either hide or look busy.  

But apparently some of the others didn’t.   Among the multifarious crew that Hugh

recruited were three homosexuals who were very contained about their preferences,

centered around : John C., a jovial gentle regal type, being the dominant one in this

odd but intriguing trio. 

Every second you were supposed to be stacking lumber, even if there was none to

stack.  One summer day, around two o’clock when the crew was running out of work,

the foreman, Ray, was strutting about in the yard like a marine drill sargent, muttering  

“Damn Longhairs!”,  his hatred building to a cressendo...Just one look at him from

Roy, who was nearby, let him know that something was going to happen.  Just at

that time John C. and his boys ran out of work, and plopped down in the middle of

the lumber yard and lay down to “catch some rays.”  Ray’s worst fantasy was

suddenly realized as his eagle’s eyes landed upon the morbid  sight of this fat

bearded gay longhair from New Jersey lying there with two of his cronies—lazy

degenerate hippies!  He began to scream at them,  “What the Fuck do you guys think

this is!  You lazy bastards!  You’re supposed to be working!”  John C., being above

threats, responded  with a commune rap, carrying out what he was trained to do in

the face of negativity: giving back love in return for hatred,  “That’s not really how you

feel deep down inside.  Just slow yourself down, relax and feel the love that’s here. 

Don’t let the materiality shot-circuit the oneness that we can have.”

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Ray lunged at John C. and several of the workers nearby lunged toward Ray,

restraining him.

Mr. Cersossimo ended up firing ten guys from the brotherhood, leaving Roy and

four of his less zealous friends, who eventually won them over, with their hard work,

considerate manners, and entertainment through Roy’s humor and Ritchie’s,  a

Robert Plant look-alike’s musical abilities:   He played blues harp on the breaks and

even these “rednecks” loved it:  it beat the regular conversations that went on about

work even at the breaks.

Commune kids in a working world/ workers lunches

Breakfast: Miso Soup.  Oatmeal or rice.  Lunch: zip or maybe a snack of carrot sticks

or home made very heavy brown bread with welfare peanut butter.  Dinner:  Maybe

soup, usually brown rice and perhaps squash.  Condiments:  sometimes we were

lucky enough to have margarine and tamari (soy sauce).  We got fat but we were

never satisfied.  I wonder how much time was spent collectively battling with thoughts

about food...Here’s a typical scenario that happened to Roy  between 1970 and ‘72:

We would get what was called “worker’s lunches”, that were made with heavy home-

made wheat bread, miso (fermented soy-bean spread, that looked and smelled like

vomit) or government surplus peanut butter.  Or sometimes we made greyish

spreads from garden vegetables, that we named, “unidentifiable vegetable matter.” 

Workers would get two of these disgustingly healthy sandwiches that they theye

could enjoy while the regular guys at work who still lived in the dark, would be eating

baloney on Wonder Bread.   Deep down inside there was a real preference for the

baloney sandwich, despite the obvious low vibrations that was emanating from the

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food.  We would be hard-pressed to admit that, compared to the bricks were were

eating, their processed American white food looked tantalizing with forbidden hearty

seasoned meat, garnished with a pickle and some with tasty creamy mayo or spicy

mustard, crunchy lettuce and pleasantly light on that easy-to-chew, light bread.  A

baloney sandwich became a garden of delight.  

Roy would wake up in the morning and go in a van with other workers, very hungry

because the sticky oatmeal wasn’t ready and there were never eggs—another luxury. 

So he would “sort of open up one and try to take a piece off,” just a bite to tide him

over.  But then he’d say to himself, “I might as well eat this half.”  So then he’d eat the

half and at that point he’d feel a little bit weird because he  should have waited.  But

because he felt guilty for not having more self-control,  he’d want some comfort, so

he’d rationalize to himself, “I’ll have half of the other sandwich,” as if it made a

difference—eating from the other sandwich meaning to him that at least he didn’t

finish a whole sandwich.  Meanwhile any inspiration that he’d woken up with to go to

this terrible job working in a sawmill in Vermont was drying up.  He’d think with dread

about how he couldn’t face these rednecks who talked really fast with a thick

Vermont accent that he couldn’t understand, having lived his whole life in New York

City.  

Then he’d remember Mouse lecturing him about listening “deeper” so he could

understand, but to no avail.  Shamefully, in his heart of hearts he considered that

maybe he didn’t want  to understand it when they said, “GitchaGawdamDebawkr,” 

Which meant, “get the goddamn debarker!”  It seemed to him like every other word

was “Debawkr.”  And he knew  that he didn’t want to understand them when they’d

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say at lunch, “Whet th haylls thit yer goddaym sawndwich.  Liks lahe goat tuhd!” 

Then they’d start asking, “Ya look kinda sleepy theyerya bin up allnite with ther

womentheyah?”

So Roy was sitting in the van, sinking fast, feeling heavier and heavier at the

thought of going to work there, especially after he was already thoroughly disgusted

with himself as well as his co-workers.  That would lead him to the next decision. 

He’d remember that the first sandwich had some jelly, which was unusual back then,

and he’d liked the taste of the jelly, so he’d say to himself, “Hmm, let me try one more

bite of that sandwich.  Life is hard—I’m having a hard enough time—I deserve to

have a little jelly in my life.”  So of course, after that first bite, he would continue “I

might as well have that half.”  His stomach burdened by the incredible weight of

these incredibly dense sandwiches,   he was now in deep trouble.  Here he was

going to have to go to work in this lumber yard and was going to need strength and

vitality and energy, which he’d negated with his food fiasco.  At this point he was

ready to go back to bed (with another sandwich).  Then he’d realize he’d gone too

far, so what difference did it make?  And he’d eat the rest.

He’d go to work feeling fat, slow, (Jackie Gleasonish), yawning, feeling much more

vulnerable.  The rednecks would sense this and say how tired he looks to each other

and start in on him again, with, “Been up all night with them gawdamn orgies up

theyah?”

Threats and beatings to commune workers

Michael called a meeting when people were working and he was saying that the

pressure was getting to him (not to mention what it was doing to us!)  As usual, not

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really comprehending what our lives had become, he complained that he felt that if

he didn’t inspire everyone each week to get them to keep working that people

couldn’t keep it up.  It was no wonder:  When we started working in the outside world

there were threats and incidents of harassment, such as having our cars shot at on

the way to work and then one woman got beat up and threatened with rape, after

working one night in a restaurant.  According to Roy, all of the trouble began when

Michael started pushing people to earn money because so many people were on the

road promoting the record that there was no money to pay the bills.   Half the work

force had left.  He told people to get two jobs, and said that people  had to do more in

order to “stay with the energy”.    For those that were already stretched, this pushed

us over the edge.  And then when we went over, he felt bad, but instead of admitting

that he’d pushed us too far, he blamed the world. Michael wrote a full page open

letter in bold face type to the Greenfield Recorder (6/5/72):

Recently while hitchhiking to work, one of my people, a female, was sexually

propositioned and when she refused she was brutally beaten by a member of your

society.  The man’s dress, his costume of employment, showed such credentials as

you might find upon anyone of your so-called decent citizens. 

I’m so often told that I should forfeit all that I’ve attained to return to your society

which I don’t believe exists.  The sickness  I’ve witnessed through this experience

has revealed to me a diseased consciousness permeating your society.  It is this

diseased consciousness which is the dominating force used in determining your

society’s functions.  the act committed upon this member of our community merely

demonstrates to me the extent of this sickness.  

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This man’s ignorance evokes a deep sorrow in me.  I have so often perceived this

negligence toward woman in man’s thoughts.  It leads me to hope for an even

greater strength within myself to carry out my mission.

Man in your society does not respect Woman and Woman knows not Man.  this

condition is a direct result of a deep degradation and negative slander that men

continuously pour upon their brothers, and it is also this mental imbalance presently

“stimulating” your society’s media.  I have seen and heard the frequent indsults

hurled toward this Brotherhood’s purest intention.   I say to you that each and every

one of you who has slandered this brotherhood of the Spirit are contributors to the

same consciousness this man demonstrated through his consciousless act. 

It is because of this devastating sickness that I shall never live what is considered the

“accepted” life  of your society.  I give you my granite guarantee that you will never

find Michael Metelica, at any time in his life, relating to a woman the way I constantly

see it being done within the eyes of men in your society.  I have found a higher way

of life, its kingdom is within and all may enter whose hearts wish to know a purity of

purpose.

We of the Brotherhood do not practice this fraudulent love we see infecting your

society.  Instead we love mankind.  We love all living things and are learning to use

beneficially non-living things.  We shall try to save your world.  We will continue

working in it, passing on to you the will of God as love, without error, without

exception.

I must state to you, all those that have ever slandered the works of my people, all of

you that have ever insinuated that this Brotherhood is anything less than a pure

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School of Life, you are responsible for the despair and degradation that thrives in this

present day world.

How can it be that you cast demonic statements of untruth and ignorance toward

love?  How can it be that you speak with a wily tongue of untruth and state facts

whose only substantiations are public babbling and hearsay?  People of earth, now is

the time when you must learn brotherhood, brotherhood within yourselves, brotherly

intentions through every word, thought, or deed you would endeavor.  

I shall continue to teach the love and brotherhood of man.  I shall renew in all who

will listen the highest values toward one another through and by the Will of the

Highest Force in the Universe.  I shall be here for you, all of you.

And once again the Brotherhood of the Spirit extends its arms to you.  If you need

help in any way call us, 498-9358