Slip Slidin' Down Gold Mountain

Prologue

It wasn't the haunting bouquet of stale beer and sweat on oil-stained motorcycle leathers that bothered me. Talking here about that up-close-and-personal waft from a 300-lb biker as he hovered over me grinning like a goosed banshee.

Too damn close for comfort, not to mention for my own standard of civilized hygiene.

"Jeezis, Bear! Get them rubies outta my face!" Yeah, you'd figure it'd be the smell. But what bothered me were the jewels plaited into his auburn beard and now dancing on my nose.

"That'd be just Bear to you heathen hippies."

It's early morning, just on the Marin County side of the Golden Gate, at a turnout on the way to old Fort Lewis. I always admired that view of San Francisco Bay and The Bridge from the turnout. But it's a stretch to get gooey about a great view when you're hog-tied over a motorcycle. I had to admit that I was in fact mighty discommoded, garroted with bungee-cords and spread-eagled face up like that on top of a vintage 1941 Indian.

Embarrassing touch, those bungees.

The Bear was about to cut off my ponytail with his ancient Corps-issue KA-BAR. My wardrobe signature that I spent eight years growing. I felt compelled to remind him that not all hippies are chicken-shits and deserved to die like commie vermin.

"Of course, I do not include myself in that category just for convenience, you unnerstand." There were built-in limits to free speech here, though: it wouldn't do to voice concern over his manner of protest.

Hell, I knew he was just funnin' me, in one of the few short-circuited ways still left to him that didn't include taking out a platoon of gooks crunching their way over the north Korean snow-covered hills, with the jarheads advancing to the rear quick-time, aided by a tailwind of anal-puckering fear of those waves of hard-as-nails Chinese communist troops.

Bear flourished the KA-BAR blade for a damn fine dramatic effect. "Ya keep wigglin ya might be talkin out yer nether end."

"Mebbe then you can understand me. Lemme up, goddammit!"

He paused to finger the pendant around my neck. "Whatcha got here? More gook shit, Jack?"

"I am up in five seconds, or swear to your totem Grizzly, my next stop will be The Dragon Head."

The Bear stopped smiling and loosened the bungees real quick, mounted and kicked the Indian to life. "Go see yer Dad," he yelled. "And quit lying about them gooks." Bear threw me the finger and scattered rocks as he spun onto the asphalt.

That was The Bear's way of saying he's proud of me. I ambled stiffly back to my flower-power van, caressing the coolness of the jade pendant, and climbed up.

Now, to some people, all that might have a patina of aggression and mebbe a tad of violence tucked in there. What he was referring to was my being accepted into the Master's program in Asian studies at Harvard. He's ex-Marine, one of the many who roll with my Dad. No prob for me: I speak Chinese, Chamoc Indian, and Jy-fucking-reen.

I draped the leather cord over the rear-view mirror, next to the dangling red-hawk tail feather. Damned if the blue jade eagle didn't look like it was pulsating.

The more I looked at it, feeling the colors reach into my skin, the less it seemed like just a fashion trinket. I mean, a flying blue eagle inside a red triangle within a golden circle--adds up to more than adornment. Chinese red, I figured. I really did need to see The Dragon Head about this. Still early, so I knew just where he'd be.

Time to talk Chinglish.

* * *

The VW wasn't going anywhere, just sitting on the Bridge in the morning rush. I found my hands kinda automatically floating up to the rear view to work the five-inch diameter, rose-and-cerulean jade circle like an old friend. Or family. Wasn't the first time I'd mused on the pendant's mysteries - more like the hundredth...