POINT ARENA, CALIFORNIA | 1995
After the hour-long winding drive on Mountain View Road from Boonville, the sight of the blue Pacific Ocean was a revelation after the untamed stretch of green trees. The Kid was itching to stretch his legs and get centered before he started recording the locals talk about what they remembered about the early ’70s at Girassol.
Having grown up in Mendocino County, he was ready for that job to be more difficult than it looked on paper. It wasn’t that the old hippies were wary about expounding about their glory days, it was often the case that there were large holes in their memories of the era, which they would then fill with unmitigated bullshit.
The Kid parked his ’91 Light Blue Metallic Saturn SC2 coupe in front of the Lighthouse Café. He had spent a considerable amount of time making phone calls over the past few weeks talking the owners into letting him borrow their unused backroom for his project interviews. He finally played his ace card and told them that he had been born out at the infamous commune, something he hated to do but was going to have to get used to once the project was finished. The disclosure changed the owner’s attitude immediately and suddenly the documentary was real; as real as something that was going to take a semester of interviews and editing to finish, that is.
“Hey, man,” a voice called from down the street. “Is that one of those new GM deals? How far the mighty have fallen.”
“Excuse me?” The Kid turned around to see what appeared to be an aging stuntman coming toward him pointing at the back of the Saturn.
“I remember when General Motors was proud to put their name on their cars. What is this shit?’
“Can I help you?” The Kid said, eager to get inside the café and set up his equipment.
“The question is, can I help you,” the man took off his Vietnam veteran baseball cap and stuck out his hand. “Charlie Perigo, at your service. You must be The Kid.”
“That’s me,” The Kid declared, everything suddenly swinging into focus. Thank you for meeting with me, Mr. Perigo.”
“The honor’s mine, kid… or Mr. Kid, or… how are you dealing with it?”
“TK, is fine.”
“Far out. You can drop the Mr. Perigo business; it makes me feel like I’ve been pulled over. Charlie’s fine, or ‘The Stick,’”
“OK, Mr. Stick,” The Kid motioned to the backseat of the Saturn. Would you mind giving me a hand with this stuff? Then I won’t have to make two trips.”
“Not ‘Mr.’ Stick,” Perigo emphasized, “‘The’ Stick.”
“Right.”
“So, TK, have you ever been shot?”
“Scene one banana, take one,” The Kid announced once the pair had set up in the backroom of the café. “Mark.”
“I haven’t been in here since it was the Burger Shack,” Perigo noticed.
“I see,” The Kid asked, hoping to move the conversation along as the video was rolling. “Did you move away after the commune split up?”
“Nope,” Perigo answered, still trying to reconcile the room he was sitting in with the place he remembered. “86’d, I’m afraid. Honestly, I don’t remember why.”
“I see. Did a lot of your… communards come out here, then?”
“Ha! Communards. That would not have gone over too well with the feminist caucus, I’ll tell you that. You know, this place is where I first met Zongo.”
“Zongo Khumalo? The guy arrested for trying to bomb the Pentagon with the Weathermen?”
“I don’t know anything about that,” Perigo waved off the question. “I don’t know who your parents are, either.”
“Excuse me?”
“Your parents,” Perigo repeated, “I don’t know who they are.”
“I didn’t ask you,” The Kid stopped the video. “That isn’t what is this is about.”
“Isn’t it, though?” Perigo asked. “Do you get high, TK? We should take a break.”
Román Leão 
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