Reverend Vernon Foster was searching for a sign. His tiny congregation was dwindling before his eyes as he watched the big time televangelists use mass media to convert multitudes. The soul of America was being lost and he was doing little to stop it. God wanted him to do more. He was sure of that much. So in the summer of 1972 he found himself nervously heading for a meeting of Christian broadcasters in the unlikely city of San Francisco, the capital of sin. It was there he would find his sign at the Sir Francis Drake Hotel, but the devil was fighting him every step of the way.

The 9:00am traffic from the airport to the city was brutal, and Vernon was late. He hated being late. He was a punctual man. But Satan had delayed his plane for two hours and left him stuck in the morning rush. So here I sit drumming my pudgy fingers on the wheel of my rented car while someone up ahead is conducting a lengthy conversation with the parking attendant. They ought to have a separate lane for rental cars, he thought.

He glanced at his watch: 9:06. The first session was starting. Rex Humbard’s session! Probably the most successful evangelist on TV and I’m missing it. And I so need to talk to him. If God wants me on television I’m going to need all the help I can get. Vernon knew he was no Rex Humbard, but he was convinced that if the lost soul of this poor misguided nation could be rescued it would be by the crusaders of the air. He was much less certain of his ability to be one of them. He couldn’t imagine why God would choose him for such a task, but then, Moses had been reluctant to embark on his mission and look how well that went. At least Vernon didn’t have a speech impediment like Moses.

Impatiently, he gunned the motor of his very sensible compact car, and a long haired, young man in a red Mustang convertible idling next to him, looked over with a startled expression. Vernon glanced sheepishly at his young neighbor and then fixed his pale blue eyes on the car ahead of him, feeling the color burning his round, fair cheeks. Young upstart needs to mind his own business. How long can it take to pay for parking—even if you’re asking directions, he grumbled. How complicated can that be?

He punched on the radio and a little boy’s voice pleaded, “Oh! Baby, give me one more chance…” He scowled, switching the channel, and a screaming guitar almost blasted him out of the car, causing him to jump and knock his glasses off one ear. As he fumbled frantically for the volume button and tried to readjust his glasses the Mustang driver grinned at him and gave him the thumbs up sign. Upstart, thought Vernon.

“Nice stereo for a Pinto,” sneered the ingrate. “Jimi Hendrix fan?”

Vernon considered rolling up his window, but to his relief the impudent, disrespectful young man pulled ahead and out of sight. At least one lane was moving. Of course, it would be the other one. He was getting later by the minute. He hated tardiness.

Vernon snapped off the radio, scowling and muttering to himself. At long last his lane moved forward and he made his way onto Highway 101 heading north to the city. For perhaps five minutes he enjoyed the cool Pacific breeze blowing through the open windows. It is true what they say about San Francisco weather, he decided. It’s pleasant even in July. But his elation was short-lived. The traffic was heavy and slowing down. He soon found himself creeping forward at the pace of a banana slug with a bunion.

No, tell me this isn’t happening, thought Vernon. He was beginning to wonder if he might have already missed his holy sign at the Sir Francis Drake. He’d be the only man in the history of the universe to miss his sign from God by being stuck in traffic. What could he tell Saint Peter? Could it be some kind of test?

He couldn’t believe the traffic—bumper-to-bumper, and barely moving. He gazed morosely out his window at the vehicles surrounding him: big-finned Buicks, little Dodge Darts, VW Bugs, convertibles, and brightly painted vans. A young couple was engaged in heavy petting in the back seat of a huge Pontiac convertible idling next to him in the stalled traffic. They were sighing and moaning. Vernon was horribly embarrassed. They were right next to his window, practically in his lap. But obviously they didn’t care how many people were watching. Young people today have no regard for public decency. He tried to keep his eyes averted, but it was like passing the scene of an accident. He didn’t want to look but his eyes seemed to travel back there of their own volition. It was scandalous! They were lying down now, groaning and crying out. Vernon couldn’t stand it any longer. He feared what might happen next. Someone had to do something.

He cleared his throat loudly and shook his finger at the couple, assuming his sternest ministerial scowl of disapproval. But the only person who noticed was the passenger in the front seat, who responded by turning around and baring his buttocks for the entire world to see. Vernon ducked under the steering wheel, he was so shocked. He gasped and averted his eyes. After that he rolled up his window and kept his entire body facing in the other direction with his elbow propped on the steering wheel and his hand covering the left side of his face as a barrier between him and his offensive neighbors.

Finally the traffic picked up and he entertained hopes of making it to his meeting after all. He glanced at his watch: 10:25. He’d been stuck in traffic for well over an hour. He was shaken by the scandalous behavior of the young people in the traffic jam, and was beginning to wonder how Christians could function in such a place. It was worse than a mission to Africa. Satan was really pulling out all the stops today and it looked like he had control of the entire city. Well, he wouldn’t deter Vernon. This was just more evidence of how much the country needed to be saved.

He got off the highway at Ninth Street and immediately hit a detour. He could almost see a sneering devil perched on the detour sign. Soon he wasn’t sure which way he was going and decided to turn back. Several wrong turns and six traffic lights later (all red, of course) he found himself, fuming with frustration, in a strange and foreign neighborhood.

Storefronts were painted in psychedelic patterns of swirling flowers, peace symbols, and signs of the zodiac. It looked like an alien planet to Vernon but he badly needed directions so he pulled into a parking place behind a neon green VW van with a yellow cartoon character painted on the rear doors. The character was extending one very large foot over a gothic inscription that read: Keep On Truckin’. It looked familiar. Was it national, he wondered? Well, at least a trucking company could give him good directions.

As he got out of the car two young men walked past arm in arm, and he noticed with a jolt that one of them had his hand firmly placed on the other man’s butt. Oh, no. This is too much, he thought. He started to get back in the car and leave, when a young woman called to him from a doorway where she was lounging. She sauntered to his car and leaned casually on the fender. Her long brown hair was parted in the middle with a sky-blue embroidered headband around it, and her many beaded necklaces were almost azure like her large and rather unfocused eyes.

“Lost, mister?” she asked.

“I, I am,” Vernon stammered. He walked around the car to show her his map. They spread the map on the hood as he explained that he was very late for an important meeting at the Sir Francis Drake Hotel. For some reason she found this funny.

“You missed the Sir Francis Drake by quite a bit,” she giggled, “but you’re just in time for the parade.”

“Parade?” Vernon sputtered. “Oh, no! I must get to the hotel as soon as possible.”

“Why?” She swayed back and forth like a child listening to music, which made her long, flowing skirt swirl around her ankles and Vernon noticed her feet were bare.  She’s a hippie, he thought, with a ping of prim distaste. He’d heard of hippies and seen them on TV. They’d been in the news since the notorious Summer of Love in 1967, but since he spent most of his time in a small town outside Cincinnati he’d never seen one in person.

“Why?” he repeated, his hope of assistance fading fast. “I, I am already very late, three hours late. I’ll miss the entire meeting I came all the way here to attend,” he added, exaggerating a bit for dramatic effect. “If you could…show me…how to get to the Sir…Francis…Drake.” He spoke slowly and quietly, as if to a truculent child, or perhaps a slow learner.

“Oh, I’m no good at directions,” the girl trilled. “Maybe Jerry can help you. He’s good at directions.” She swirled around and wandered across the street, floating into a shop with a yellow submarine painted on the door. Seeing no alternative, Vernon followed.

The atmosphere inside wrapped around him like a blanket, assaulting his senses with a smothering odor he couldn’t identify. It reminded him of perfume he had forbidden his daughter to wear—had she called it patchouli? Little patches of light darted across the walls and ceiling like spots before his eyes. He took off his glasses and wiped them with his handkerchief as he waited for his eyes to adjust to the darkness. Soon he could see crystals dangling from the ceiling catching rays of light from an undetectable source and scattering them across the room. There were several ornate incense burners filling the store with their heavy perfume like mosquito foggers on a summer evening. This must not be the trucking company, Vernon decided.

A young man who wore his hair and beard like Jesus addressed him from behind a display case filled with items that Vernon found unfamiliar, and of no interest.

“Can I help you?” asked the man.

“This gentleman is terribly lost, Jerry, and terribly late,” said the blue eyed girl, who clearly found this hilarious. Vernon was beginning to wonder if there was anything she wouldn’t find funny. “He’s later than the White Rabbit,” she giggled. “Don’t you want somebody to love, honey?”

Vernon was shocked speechless.

“Don’t mind Suzanne,” said Jerry. “She thinks she’s Gracie Slick.”

What in the world is that supposed to mean, Vernon wondered with a frown.

As if reading his confused expression Jerry explained, “Grace Slick is a rock and roll singer, and the words Suzanne recited are lyrics from her latest song.”

“Oh,” said Vernon, with sinking spirits. Yet he plunged ahead as best he could. What else could he do? “I do need help. I am in fact, as the young lady said, lost and late.” He spread his map on the counter and continued, “If you could show me how to get to the Sir Francis Drake, ahem, I would really appreciate it. Ahem!” The incense seemed to fill his lungs. He could hardly breathe and was beginning to cough dryly.

“Want some lemonade?” asked Suzanne.

“Yes,” said Vernon, rubbing his throat. “Thank you.”

Suzanne poured them each a glass and got out a plate of brownies. 

“You’re not a cop, are you?” asked Jerry, with a wink and a nudge of his elbow.

“Uh, a cop?” stammered Vernon. “Oh, my no. I’m a minister.”

“Far out,” said Jerry, offering Vernon the brownies. “I’m a spiritual person, myself. What’s the name of your church, if you don’t mind my asking?”

“I’m the pastor of the Burton Hills Independent Christian Church of God and the Apostles in Fairbrook Township outside Cincinnati,” said Vernon, noticing that the background music did sound like a hymn. It was soft, soothing, almost a chant: My Sweet Lord. Alleluia, My Sweet Lord. “I’m here to attend a meeting on Christian broadcasting,” Vernon continued, feeling vaguely reassured, “but I got completely lost.”

“Bummer,” Jerry said, offering his hand. “I’m Jerry Herman. This is my shop, and that’s Suzanne, my old lady. We don’t get many actual, ordained ministers in here, although we do cater to a very spiritual clientele. Glad to meet you.”

“Vernon Foster,” said Vernon, shaking Jerry’s hand and smiling uncertainly at Suzanne, who didn’t seem old at all, certainly not old enough to be the young man’s mother.

“These are tasty brownies,” he added, handing his pen to Jerry, and patting his map to draw attention to the business he hoped to accomplish. These people seemed to function in a different time frame than he was used to, he thought. It was like being stuck in slow motion—but at least they were friendly and cheerful. He patted the map again.

“Oh, yeah, the map,” Jerry chuckled.

“Yeah,” giggled Suzanne, “remember the map?” They both started laughing heartily. Apparently they got a big kick out of the prospect of consulting a map. Vernon affected a thin smile and waited. Eventually Jerry pulled himself together.

“Let’s just take a look. We’re here, by the park,” said Jerry, drawing a circle on their location. “And…over here is where you need to go.” He drew another circle. “It’s not far really, but the easiest way is to go over to Oak Street. Take Oak to Market, maybe two miles or so, then left on Powell. The Sir Francis Drake is just past Union Square on the right. You can’t miss it.”

Why do people giving directions always say that when it’s obviously false? Vernon wondered, as he smiled doubtfully and took the map.

“I mean you really can’t miss it, man,” said Jerry as though reading his thoughts. “There’ll be a guy standing out front in red tights and a cape.” He and Suzanne burst into laughter again. They sounded like a barnyard — or at least a donkey and a chicken.

“And a Van Dyke beard and those bloomer pants they used to wear in the olden days,” Suzanne added between cackles. Vernon smiled a little, but his doubts were increasing. He hoped at least they were telling the truth about the directions.

“We ain’t shittin’ you, man,” Jerry tried to reassure him while guffawing so hard he had to sit down. “It’s a trip, man. You’ll see,” he added, wiping tears from his eyes.

Vernon attempted an artificial little laugh. He could take a joke as well as the next man, but these people seemed to be speaking in a foreign language. Still, the directions looked simple enough. Maybe he could verify them with the trucking company that must be across the street. Vernon carefully folded the map so he could see the lines Jerry drew when he was driving. He was still feeling nervous and discouraged. The detour had left him completely disoriented—not that he was especially good at directions anyway. Everything that could go wrong was in fact going wrong today. He had no confidence in these directions. Besides that he was hungry. Come to think of it he’d had nothing but that one brownie to eat all morning, or maybe it was two—had he taken another while looking at the map with Jerry? Well, anyway he was hungry.

“Say, could I have one more of those brownies?” 

“Oh, um, I wouldn’t eat any more of those, Vernon,” said Jerry. “Um, they’re way too rich. They’ll give you the runs.” He smiled.

“Yeah, really rich,” said Suzanne, “totally.” She smiled, too. They seemed worn out from all the laughing. They both stood there smiling, almost entranced. Vernon was beginning to feel a little transfixed himself, with the soft droning music and the prisms of light and the wafting aroma—was he getting used to it? He shook off the odd feeling.

“Anyway, I have to get going. I’m scheduled to introduce the evening speaker,” Vernon said proudly. “So, thanks for your hospitality.”

He turned from the jolly couple and walked out the door only to find himself awash in a flood of people. He was blinded by color. Sunlight and fresh air assaulted his eyes and swept out his lungs. People were everywhere, streaming down the sidewalk and flowing along the street like a river. It made Vernon feel dizzy. Then he realized Suzanne was clutching his hand.

“See,” she said, “I told you there was a parade.”

“But, how can I get to my car?”

“You can’t. You have to go with the flow, Vernon. Come on. You can’t get your car out of the middle of a parade. It’ll be over in an hour and then you can go to your meeting.”

Vernon tried to think but his head was swimming. Suzanne was calm and reassuring. Somehow her reasoning was beginning to sound impeccably logical. His car was, in fact, immobilized until the parade subsided. He couldn’t even get near it, since they were being swept toward the park by the torrent of people.

“Let’s get ice cream,” said Suzanne, pausing at a little stand on the edge of the park. Vernon got them each a double dip, which wasn’t easy given the number of hungry customers vying for service. After waiting a lifetime, they licked their cones reverently.

“Isn’t this good?” asked Suzanne, curling her tongue around the creamy treat.

“Praise the Lord,” said Vernon. “I’ve never tasted anything so wonderful in my life.”

“Praise the Lord,” said Suzanne. And they wandered across the park, hand in hand, toward a circle of young women dancing to the music of two guitars and a flute, singing of love, peace and brotherhood.

On the other side of the park Vernon could hear angry men chanting “Hell no! We won’t go! Stop the killing! Fuck the draft!” Speakers denounced President Nixon, calling for an end to the war. The two messages didn’t blend well, and Vernon felt a strange dissonance in the swirling, buzzing colors and sounds that were fast becoming a mass of incomprehensible sensations. His glasses seemed to be fogging up and he tried to smooth back his thin white hair, as Suzanne pulled him along through little knots and clusters of people. She seemed to be saying, “Hello, my name is Alice and this is my friend the White Rabbit.”  But he wasn’t sure; he couldn’t quite focus, and he couldn’t remember where he was trying to go.  

“I’m very late,” he kept saying, as everyone laughed and patted his shoulder. And then he saw it — a vision of heavenly splendor — an angel of God sitting up in a tree. It was a very large tree which seemed to be growing visibly before his eyes. Then he realized that it was full of angels, teeming with angels, angels on every limb like a flock of starlings. Vernon called out to them but they didn’t seem to hear him. They were chattering and chirping and playing little banjos. This surprised Vernon and made him feel somewhat uncertain since he had never heard of angels playing banjos. He wondered if they might be lutes, but they sure looked like banjos. Some of the angels started flying around the tree, circling it like a mass of shooting stars and heading away to another tree.

“Wait! Wait!” cried Vernon. “Please! I need to talk to you.”

Suddenly the first angel he had seen dropped his banjo at Vernon’s feet and shimmied quickly down a rope that Vernon hadn’t noticed until that moment. He looked like a beautiful boy with golden hair in ringlets around his cherubic face. 

“I thought you guys used ladders,” said Vernon, handing the angel his instrument. “Here’s your lute,” he added. “Do you have a message for me?”

The angel looked at him as if he were crazy but smiled and reached out his hand.

“It’s a mandolin,” he said, examining it carefully. “What kind of a message?”

“From God,” said Vernon. “I’m here to join the Lord’s army to save America.”           

“Far out,” said the angel, testing his mandolin and then strapping it on his back.

“Far out?” repeated Vernon. “Is that the message? Do you mean far away?”

“Seek and ye shall find,” said the angel, climbing up the rope and disappearing into the leaves.

“But wait!” cried Vernon. “Seek what? What should I look for?  What’s the sign?”

“You’ll know it when you see it,” said the angel’s voice. The tree seemed to be shimmering with light, fluttering in the breeze. Its leaves were turning to glass, sparkling and spinning in blues and greens like a kaleidoscope, surrounding Vernon, propelling him into the sky, into a pure blue infinite space.

Some time later Vernon opened his eyes. He heard music. He smelled something sweet, but he couldn’t identify it. Lilacs? Fruit punch? Perfume? All he could see was deep, cerulean blue emptiness. Then he noticed something white. He told himself to focus his eyes. He tried to determine what it was. A thread of white was becoming thicker, a wisp, a cloud. It was a cloud floating across the sky. He was looking at the sky. Why was he looking at the sky? Where was he looking at the sky? He decided to turn his head. 

Slowly, tentatively he turned to his left and saw no more than a foot from his nose, a beautiful face. It had deep mahogany eyes with soft heavy lashes and tangled hair the color of oak. Was it another angel? Had he died?

“Welcome to planet earth, man,” said the beautiful face, suddenly laughing like a horse.

Vernon lurched upright. He found himself sitting on the grass with a group of young people he’d never seen before. Music was playing from several directions as Vernon looked, bleary eyed at the unfamiliar surroundings. He had no idea where he was or how he got there. Suddenly he remembered Suzanne — but Suzanne was gone — and his tie was gone — and his jacket was gone. He glanced at his wrist. His watch was gone.

“My watch!” he cried, “My watch is missing.”

“Bummer,” said the boy, who was lying on the grass next to him, with an even younger girl straddled on top of him, her big skirt spread out over them both. They were moving sensuously to the music as though having sex. Vernon gasped and shook his head. His mouth moved but no words came out. He babbled something incomprehensible and the young people laughed and babbled back at him.

“What’s the matter with you?” roared Vernon, recovering his capacity to speak. “Does your mother know where you are, young lady?”

That brought on a howl of laughter, and a dark eyed boy said, “Ohhh, Frieda, I’m gonna tell your mama you’re bein’ bad.” Frieda lifted her left middle finger to indicate her level of concern.

“I’ve got to find my car,” mumbled Vernon, getting stiffly to his feet. Memories were coming back in bits and pieces.  “I’m so late…”  And the little group burst into laughter again.

“What’s so funny?” demanded Vernon. “My watch is gone. I’m late for my meeting — and I can’t find my car. What exactly is funny about that?”

“Well, where’d you leave it, man?” asked a girl who looked like a statue in a lotus position. Vernon crumpled. “I don’t know,” he said quietly. “I have to find Suzanne,” he added, recalling his last clear memories. “She knows where my car is.” He ran to a girl in a swirling skirt with long brown hair hanging down her back.

“Suzanne,” he cried, grasping her shoulder, “Thank God!”

But then she turned to face him, revealing, to his horror an entirely naked upper torso — and what a torso. Vernon was so stunned he couldn’t move. It almost took his breath away. His mouth fell open and his eyes remained glued to those soft, rounded, curving, globes of milky young flesh, entirely unencumbered in a public place. He couldn’t get his eyes to turn away. It had to be Satan incarnate. Satan had been after him all day — ever since he came to this God forsaken place. Vernon could feel his heart pounding. He wanted to run but his feet would not respond. He stood there with his hand still frozen to her shoulder, while she in turn was putting her arm around him, saying, “I may not be Suzanne, sweetie, but I’ll be happy to help.” He could hear laughter all around them and yet he couldn’t quite make his brain connect with his body. He thought he saw naked devils surrounding him, prancing about, poking at him with fiery sticks.

“Get away from me,” screamed Vernon, coming to life at last. “Get thee behind me Satan! The Lord shall smite thee with his terrible swift sword, and ye shall be swallowed into the jaws of eternal hell!”

The girl backed away, mumbling, “Crazy, psycho.”

Vernon shook his clenched fist toward heaven, beads of sweat shining on his forehead, the veins of his neck bulging and swollen. He would call on his angry God to drive Satan to his knees. Yet, peals of laughter surrounded them on all sides. Vernon, it seemed was attracting quite a crowd. His former circle of friends were rolling on the ground. It was the best entertainment they’d had all day, but not for the two entertainers.

“Jezebel!” thundered Vernon, as the girl tripped on her skirt and fell at his feet. 

“Jezebel!” he repeated, pointing his finger at her, sweat dripping from his chin, “The Lord shall rain down on you fire and brimstone, and no life shall escape his wrath!”  

“Hey…. easy, man,” said a sun tanned boy with long tangled hair, wearing a denim jacket with no sleeves and no shirt. “Cool it, man. You’re gonna have a heart attack. Your face is red as a beet. Give this guy some water,” he said to a girl in low cut jeans and a tie-dyed shirt, as the topless girl scrambled away.         

“No!! No!!” Vernon roared. “I’m not drinking anything! I’m not eating anything! I’m not touching anything! I need to get out of this God forsaken…”

“Hey…Chill…out,” said the boy, holding his hands up in a conciliatory gesture. “It’s just water.” He took a drink himself, as though that would demonstrate its safety. “You’re gonna have a stroke, man, and we’ll have the fuzz all over us. Nobody wants trouble. At least get in the shade...Don’t freak out. We’re gonna help ….you lost your car. Let’s find it. Ok?”

The boy and girl each took one arm and led Vernon to a shady spot. He was trembling and sweating profusely. His face was fiery red and his chest was heaving. He suddenly felt weak and stumbled slightly. The girl took a bandana from around her head, soaked it in water and wiped his face. He collapsed on the grass and the couple sat down with him. Vernon sat with his head in his hands, his eyes closed. He took the water and drank deeply, putting the wet bandana on the back of his neck.

“Now think,” said the boy. “Retrace your steps. How’d you get here?”

“Oh, dear God,” moaned Vernon, resting his elbows on his knees and his face in his hands. “I have no idea. That girl, Suzanne, she knows. But I’ll never find her.”           

“Just breathe easy,” said the boy. “It’ll come back to you.”

“I was trying to get directions,” said Vernon without looking up; his brain was beginning to function. “I got lost trying to find the Sir Francis Drake Hotel, so I stopped by a little shop…”

“You know what street it was on?”

“I have no idea…”

“Do you know the name of the shop?”

“I didn’t notice a name….”

“Ok, what did the shop look like? What kind of a shop was it?”

Vernon thought about that. He realized he didn’t know what kind of shop it was. “Maybe a souvenir shop?” he guessed. “They were selling incense and little trinkets and knickknacks, I think? And maybe music and posters?”

“Five hundred shops like that around here,” said the girl.

“What’d the front of the shop look like?” asked the boy. “Were there pictures or objects in the window?”

“There was a yellow submarine with a bunch of flowers trailing after it painted on the door,” said Vernon, hopefully.

“That narrows it down to two hundred shops,” said the girl.

“What about the window,” said the boy. “Wasn’t anything in the window?”

Vernon racked his brain. He couldn’t believe the yellow submarine was not a discretely distinguishing feature. “The window had a scene from Alice in Wonderland painted on it.”

“The White Rabbit?” asked the girl.

“No,” said Vernon, scowling at her over his glasses. Why was everyone around here obsessed with that character?  “This was a picture of Alice talking to the caterpillar, who’s sitting on a big yellow toadstool.”

“Bingo!” said the boy. “That’s the Golden Mushroom. I know exactly where your car is. You can practically see it from here.”

“Oh, thank you God!” cried Vernon.

“I make no claim to divinity,” said the boy. “She’s the holy one.”

The girl smiled sweetly and bowed her head with her hands together in a gesture of prayer. Vernon felt confused and somewhat affronted.

“You seem better,” said the girl, as she and the boy stood up lifting Vernon between them. The boy pointed across the park to a bench near a lamppost.

“You see that bench by the edge of the park,” he said. “There are four, five people piled on it, and some more on the ground.”

“Yes, I see it.”

“See that street corner behind it?”

“Yes.”

“The Golden Mushroom is about a block from that corner. Should be where your car is.”

“I don’t know how to thank you,” said Vernon.

“No problem, man. Got any spare change?”

Vernon searched his pockets, but they were clean except for his car keys, a strange little pipe and a small brown cube wrapped in waxed paper. His money was gone.

“I’m sorry,” he said.

“It’s cool, man, but I’ll take that hash if you don’t want it,” the boy said as Vernon gladly handed him both foreign objects and started running to his car.

Turning to wave, Vernon tripped over a couple making love in the grass. He apologized automatically, but hurried on shaking his head in dismay, thinking: what is this country coming to? Reaching his car, he saw he’d left it completely unlocked. The windows were wide open; the car was clean as a whistle. No suitcase. No jacket. No map. The Golden Mushroom was closed. Vernon’s elation turned to despair. He opened the glove box. Of course, nothing was in it but the car manual and the rental agreement. “How could you have been so stupid?” he said to himself. It was so unlike him. Vernon was a careful man. He checked under the seat for what he didn’t know. Then he rested his head on the steering wheel and thought about the events of the day. This trip was a disaster. So many things had gone wrong he could hardly think. Should he just go home? Maybe he wasn’t meant to come here. Then he realized he didn’t have his return tickets. No driver’s license. No wallet. No identification at all. He couldn’t go home. Everything was in his jacket. He didn’t even have the money for a phone call. “Dear, God,” he moaned. “What have I done?”

“Wait a minute,” he suddenly recalled. “I put my suitcase in the trunk!”

He ran to the back of the car. His suitcase was indeed in the trunk, with his jacket slung over it. And in the breast pocket, where he always kept it was his wallet, the long flat checkbook type with his traveler’s checks and his driver’s license in it.

“Oh, thank you Jesus,” he cried. He took out the wallet and put it in his shirt pocket. Then he tucked in his shirt, which had somehow gotten completely pulled out of his pants, and smoothed his disheveled hair by running his fingers through it. He needed to get out of this evil command post of Satan. He glanced down to check his watch. It was gone, of course. He felt the heat of anger burning his face.

“Vernon,” he said. “Forget the watch. The Lord wanted you to see this God forsaken Sodom and Gomorrah. It was part of his plan.” He made a u-turn and headed toward the park, where he saw a cop on the corner. Pulling up to ask for directions, he didn’t take time to complain about what had happened to him, so intent was he on escaping from hell and returning to civilization.

Six traffic lights later (all red, of course) but with no further detours, he drove past Union Square and pulled into the valet parking area of the Sir Francis Drake Hotel, where he was greeted by a doorman in red tights, pantaloons, an embroidered cape, and a Van Dyke beard. He almost laughed. The first leg of his mission was accomplished. Satan had been defeated this day.

He stepped out of his car, and put on his jacket, patting his breast pocket thankfully. Handing his keys to the parking attendant he realized he had no cash whatsoever for tips. Avoiding the attendant’s glare, he picked up his own suitcase, smoothed back his pale, thinning hair, and head held high with renewed resolve, he marched into the elegant lobby of the Sir Francis Drake, without a tie.