I Blame Dennis Hopper Read Free Page B

back home. I think I became a vegetarian only because I didn’t see very much meat as a child: “It’s too expensive. We can’t afford it! We’re poor now! Have a doughnut!” What’s funny is that my mother got food stamps, but her food choices always got her into trouble. My mother didn’t understand why chicken wasn’t on the government-approved list but Hamburger Helper was. She’d say, “I can buy Hamburger Helper, but I can’t buy a fresh chicken? I can buy fish sticks but I can’t buy a piece of fish?” Food stamps were for poor people. I’m sure they were happy with whatever they got, but it seemed to me that we had chosen to be poor. It was a difficult concept to understand, let alone explain to a beleaguered, underpaid sixteen-year-old cashier.
    My mom could make four sandwiches out of a tiny can of Underwood Chicken Spread or tuna, stretching it with what seemed like a lot of celery. One day she was making me lunch, and instead of asking me if I wanted a peanut-butter- and -jelly sandwich for school she called up the stairs, “Peanut butter or jelly?”
    My mother seemed to enjoy being poor. Maybe it finally gave her an identity. It was hard to compete with being married to Dennis Hopper, who was busy writing poetry and songs and assembling his band.
    I blame Dennis Hopper for the band.
    Of course there was a band! My father started a band called 40 Acres and a Mule. It consisted of two longhair guitarists and a longhair lead singer named Marvin. I remember that they played a lot of Stones covers, which made sense, because they were mostly stoned. They got some songs under their belt and somehow managed to get a few more bookings, so my father bought an old ambulance to drive the band and all their instruments from one gig to another. He and Tom the Hippie and the others painted it yellow, then covered it with flower decals and painted a giant American flag on the driver’s side.
    One day Tom abruptly decided to move on. By that time, hippies were coming and going at The Studio, but I had grown attached to Tom, as he had been a constant in my life, a father figure in a series of father figures who all looked like Dennis Hopper. And now he was leaving us. He was on his chopper wearing his dirty fringe jacket the last time I saw him. I still remember his toothy, mustached grin as he lighted up his last joint. Then he kick-started his chopper and rode down the driveway. We never saw him again. I am sorry to say that not long afterward, we heard that Tom the Hippie had died of a drug overdose. My father said that Tom had been a Vietnam vet and that he was probably suffering from shell shock. I don’t blame Dennis Hopper for that, but I wish I could, because I’d do anything for one more crazy ride in the van with Tom the Hippie.
    I want to mention that the goats had a great life at The Studio. My father had an old Comet, and he took the backseat out and replaced it with plywood so he could take the goats for rides around town. There was no real destination, but he was convinced that the goats didn’t want to be penned in all the time. The goats did look pretty happy hanging their heads out the window, catching the wind just like dogs. It was quite a sight, and it started to draw attention around town.
    One day while I was waiting for the school bus, this very sweet girl named Maggie Cooper asked me, “Isn’t your dad the guy that drives around town with goats in his car?” I pointed over Maggie’s shoulder and said, “Oh look, there’s the bus! We don’t want to be late for school!” I got onto the bus, and the bus driver gave me a dirty look, muttering under his breath that I lived in a nudist colony with hippies who were all smoking marijuana.
    Damn you, Dennis Hopper!
    At night, bundled in my new sleeping bag, sweaters, mittens, and a knit cap, I would curse you, Dennis Hopper! You took my father away