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.”
Chief Burton sat alone drinking his morning coffee at the café’s counter when Perigo and TK emerged from the backroom.
“Well, look what a bird dropped here,” Burton swiveled around on his padded pedestal stool. “Mr. Perigo, I don’t believe I’ve seen you in this place in 20 years.”
“Chief,” Perigo offered the one word he was willing to give.
“It’s good to see you out in respectable surroundings again. Who’s your friend?”
Perigo, having already spent any social capital he had reserved for the police, kept silent, waiting to see if TK would offer the chief anything further. Burton, for his part, kept an inquisitive look plastered on his face and trained on the newcomer.
“I’m TK, a documentary filmmaker,” he finally bowed to the pressure and stuck out his hand.
“Teacake?” Burton chuckled. “Well, that’s not the craziest name I’ve heard in these parts. It’s right up there, though. What are you documenting, if you don’t mind me asking?”
“Actually, chief,” Perigo found some more words somewhere, “we were just leaving. We need to scout some location shots, you know, while we have the light.”
“The light, of course,” Burton accepted the brushoff. “You never know when a black cloud is going to show up out of nowhere in this town. It can ruin the whole day.”
“Chief,” Perigo uttered as he ushered TK out of the café.
“Teacake, if you get tired of listening to The Stick’s bullshit, you know where to find me,” Burton called after the pair. “Get the real story!”
“What is his problem?” TK asked as they crossed the parking lot.
“We have, what you might call, history,” Perigo confessed. “It’s a long story, and not an especially good one.”
“Teacake? Seriously? What the hell, man?”
“What can I tell you?” Perigo opened his hands in a gesture of supplication. “Chief Burton is well known for making friends wherever he goes.”
Román Leão 
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