s. sits, sort of, leaning on the ladder. he's thirty feet up leaning into the apple tree suspended by a small limb. the tree is swaying in gusts from the ocean. s. looks out over the orchard and the grassy fields to the atlantic. the early morning september air has a rare clarity. the sun is risiing. he is a conscious part of the whole, which is infinite. he is without words or thought.

a week ago, s. was at the circle in the square. fritz and he were listening to a giant hippie extol the virtues of apple picking. he was recruiting for the apple farmers in maine. this seven foot youth had picked the year before and promised that they might make a thousand dollars if they picked from september 15th to october 15th.

when s. arrived at mcdonald's farm (yes, really) fritz was already there. the picking wouldn't start for a few days. fritz and s. scoured the dank woods for mushrooms. they found 30 varieties and sitting at the dining table under the watchful eyes of the five nova scotians, they sampled little bits of each of them to test their psycotropic properties.
"anything that will get you close to death, will get you high." doc stanley had said.

also in the bunkhouse was the portly 'cook' who was also the tractor driver. he moved the big wooden bins from the orchards to a cool storage warehouse.

they picked the apples from three orchards. the hours were 7:00 a.m. to 7:00 p.m.. at midday, for half an hour they ate two cheese and baloney sandwiches on white bread. if you took a little nap which was very tempting, you wouldn't be able to make yourself go back to work.

the work was strenuous and at dinner s. and all the other men would polish off not only a whole baked chicken apiece but also biscuits, potatoes and vegetables, plus a salad and apple juice; no coffee.
breakfast was at six, and you'd better get up in time.

a table would be set already with platters piled high with bacon and sausages. an unlimited supply of fried or scrambled eggs and even pancakes with real maple syrup.

the first few trips up the thirty foot ladder with a belly bucket were the hardest. but soon breakfast was digested and a good flow of power could be felt from it.

s. soon found out that apple picking was quite an art. the ladder narrowed to a single wooden tip about 18 inches long and sandwiched between the two side rails. this was called the 'feeler'. sometimes it was only the feeler pressing precariously on a flimsy high branch. you picked both sides and into the tree.

for speed you picked with both hands on the way up and on the way down until your bucket was full. then with two knotted cords you released the canvas bottom to let the apples gently roll into the bushel basket; which itself was later carefully poured into the big bin. that's how they knew how much to pay you. each day they counted your brimming bushels; .25 cents a bushel.



on the first interminable day, it seemed, s. and fritz picked 40 bushels each. that would be ten dollars pay. even if you only picked those 40 bushels for thirty days you would go home with $300., a tidy sum in those days.

s. studied the nova scotians and asked a lot of questions because they were all picking 90 bushels a day. that's where the 'art' comes in. of course the scotians had been doing this all their life. they migrated north to their home orchards. their 'season' lasted for three months.

with the help of the seasoned pickers s. was soon picking 90 bushels a day. fritz picked at his own leisurely pace and stayed at the unambitious 40 bushels.

one day fritz persuaded s. to hitch hike to portland to score some grass. but portland was dry. they hopped a freight to boston, scored and returned late at night on that freight train.

"freight train, freight train goin' so fast...."

the hypnotic rhythm of the steel wheels on tracks clacking clacking as they barreled through the crisp starry night, put them both to sleep for three hours. then the sun rising blasted into the open car door. they were close to bangor, the end of the line. from there they hitched easily to springvale. they missed breakfast and picking until noon was excruciating.

nobody said anything for a few days about their awol disappearance. then mr. mcdonald who was a wonderfully kind middle aged man with a large family, summoned s. to a private conference. he was the very picture of the farmer with denim overalls and a plaid flannel shirt.

s. hated confrontations but listened attentively.



"gonna let fritz go. he's not picking very well and i think he's a bad influence on you. since you pick a good share, you can stay." he paused, ruminating as he relit his briar pipe, "but we have to fire fritz. he can go to one of the other orchards, we'll arrange all that."

mcdonald also knew that fritz and s. would sometimes smoke a large bowl up in the branches. the pot always slows things down.

out of loyalty to his friend s. said, " i understand you need to get all these apples picked before a frost kills them, but fritz is not going to influence me anymore. please let him stay. i'll get him to pick a little harder."

"no, i'm sorry, he has to go."

"then i have to go too."

reluctantly, mr. mcdonald gave in and fritz and s. picked until the end of the season without any more holidays.

in a month the crew picked three orchards clean, down to the last apple on the last tree, so the field mice would have nothing to live on through the winter; they burrowed into the roots of trees. that could kill a tree.
the last week they picked the 'cortlands' (a large cooking apple) the cortlands grew in swollen clusters; you had only to kind of crack the cluster and the big apples rolled down your arms into the busket. the buckets filled fast and so did the bushels. the best nova scotian picked a whopping 165 bushels on each those days. s. was happy with 135. even fritz picked 60 bushels in the cortland orchard high on the hills overlooking the atlantic ocean.

sitting quietly he felt his solar plexus as a dark tunnel. a cold wind, a funnel of debris and shit and hopelessness. sure, his heart was rent and in his mind, nothing but dark thoughts; and the day had just begun.
s. was on the third floor of a dollar a day "single room occupancy"; dirty shower down the dim hall. there was something so depressing
about that corner of manhattan. third avenue and fourteenth st.

then there was the anonymity of the "horn and hardart", the last of the 'automats'. put a nickel in for a cup of coffee and a dime for apple pie or a bowl of soup. this was s's office. he had started a journal.




sipping his second cup of coffee he gathered his thoughts. this was a serious diary, black, 14"x 11"; no lines, so he could add sketches.
he wrote on the inside of the cover:
"this is a journal of the events, emotions and thoughts i have experienced during the period between 1966 when i first began to try to find something (in life) more than what was automatically mine and the time that i did find something and no longer need to do this.
this journal is a discipline and a reminder."

the first page is dated 1/19/66
some bullshit about a girl named ruth, a meeting with bob f. and carolyn where s. talks his head off spewing ideas for a movie they plan to make together.
and one line: "called julie, venice, ca..---- same as ever."

the next day he talks effusively about his job in the 'messenger service' , the injustices at the hands of the owner mrs. altman and the movie "darling" which he reads as the existentialist futility of an aimless life and compares his relationship with julie to that of the hero 'robert'.

on the 24th of january, s. complains about a rash of weeping sores on the palms of his hands, gigi and bob f. and the movie, sue bertram is around and tells s. a little about entering the 'work'. that night s. has a dream where he meets this white haired man behind his desk who asks him, "why have you come? what do you want?"
..... from the journal: his dream: " i want to become clean." he said, "why don't you wash yourself? i asked how? and he stopped and thought a while and i thought he was going to tell me something but he gave me some soap instead.
i am so sick of being nothing---- i must do something .

*************************************************

at one of their many instructive meetings at the automat, f. says, "julie is in town." they agree to meet at her apartment the next day. they agree to work together for a fund to pay a lawyer to regain the boys from the foster home in woodstock. bob would rent a car and be a gypsy cab driver at night. s. made a pretty sign for him to flash in the theatre district. it said 'TAXI' in giant ornate colored letters.

nancy romagnoli, a new friend s. had met at the "paradox", a macrobiotic restaurant on the lower east side, helped s. with his costume. a bright green over-sized angora sweater, with a collar they made together, a pair of bright red dancer's leotards, a crepe paper red and orange large flower with a butterfly pin attached.

s.'s idea was to buy dozens of red roses in the subway, where they were cheaper by the dozen. beautiful fresh long stemmed roses which hadn't even started to bloom. he would sell these for a dollar apiece in the high class eastside restaurants on saturday night.

with all of these things s. was made-up, all white faced with a red dot on his nose and a perpetual smile like a mime (he did this himself) and dressed (by the girls) at seven o'clock that evening with four dozen roses in a flat box, s. stumbled into his first restaurant. he would never say a single word or it wouldn't work. he had to use sign language through-out the night.

a short white mustached armenian stepped out of a bar. s. was just walking by very fast. the man stopped him impulsively, "what are you doing?"
s. waved his hand indicating the roses in the box.
"ahhh, you're giving them?"
s. rubbed his fingers together; the sign for money.
"oh, i get it. you are a clown." s. nodded demurely, smiling his biggest smile.

the armenian bustled s. off to a liquor store. from the back of the store, some children came out with their mother. they were greatly surprised and pleased. s. bowed and capered and gave them each a rose. during this performance the kind father surreptitiously placed a dollar in s's hand.

although s. was supposed to be selling roses for a dollar apiece, he thought it was best to say nothing.

another time s. was rushing around a corner and surprised a young couple coming towards him. she said,
"where are you coming from?", as if in a fairytale. s. gesticulated that he had these flowers to sell and held up his index finger; meaning one dollar apiece.
delighted, this beauty, in a fine evening gown, turned to her indian escort, expectantly. the lucky man reached for his wallet.

s. went to bars and restaurants. at first they made him leave. but he wouldn't. the patrons sometimes insisted that the management let him stay. after awhile, he learned to sort of come falling in as if someone had shoved him. then trippingly he would regain his balance dramatically in a room full of people. and the antics between the maitre d's and s. always brought roars of laughter. s. would pout and stomp around as if he wouldn't go.

s. observed that the girls were all enchanted with him, or the idea of him, and wanted a flower, no matter the cost was one dollar--- they would insist on having one. even the hatcheck girls, the waitresses and the showgirls expressed their sympathy. some would buy a flower themselves, some even tipped him. but they all helped. at one big party in a french 'haute cuisine' restaurant, a man at the head of the table paid for six roses for the ladies in his company. the pretty waitresses shamed the managers who tried to throw him out. they invited s. to meander around to all the tables. they helped with the flowers, passing them out.



what woman's love or friendship is not worth the cost of a long stemmed rosebud?

that night s. returned to grand central station for more roses two more times. he made $132 at a cost of $12 .

julie got the boys back. it took a while longer than they expected. but she got them back.