New Beginnings. Jill Barnett

She worked a part-time shift in a coffee-house bookstore and attended the Art Institute, where thought was free, ungendered, and those East Coast kinds of traditions her sister May wrote home about were nowhere to be found.

      San Francisco’s artists worked in loud, in-your-face-you-can’t-ignore-us colors that defined the place and time. At the Institute, among so many unique individuals, March didn’t have to be exactly like her family.

      A close friend from a graphics class created psychedelic posters advertising local rock shows at the Fillmore, Winterland and Avalon ballrooms. Another designed velvet, lace and leather clothing, fringed sweaters and beaded tops for a trendy boutique frequented by local rock singers. Some poster work came to March via her graphics friend, and by connection she was soon part of the San Francisco music scene most weekends.

      It was dark inside the Fillmore that night in mid-June, one of those down moments between music sets. The place was filled with three times more people than city hall permitted, because Joplin and Santana were on the bill. The cloying, sweet scent of hashish floated above the crowd in foggy clouds of contact highs, and crudely-rolled cigarettes were passed from hand to hand, glowing like red fireflies through small, compact circles of people.

      As one of her friends dragged her through the crowd, she spotted a stranger a few feet away, standing alone, wearing a Nehru jacket, faded jeans and sandals. His hair was thick and dark and almost to his shoulders. His profile was noble. Even the lack of light and his close-clipped black beard couldn’t hide his dark, intense looks, the kind of guy girls noticed but only the bravest or silliest would ever approach. Within seconds, the music started again and she lost sight of him when he was engulfed by a flood of half-stoned people making for the stage.

      By midnight the Fillmore’s lightshow rose up from behind the band in those vibrant, poster-colored hues, pulsing with the ragged voice of Janis singing a spiritual turned into hard rock by Big Brother and the Holding Company. Near the stage rim, March danced in a circle, barefooted, her sandals stashed in the deep pockets of her long velvet dress, her arms raised high in the air and five inches of mismatched bangle bracelets rattling down toward her elbows.

      Freedom rang through the notes of the music and the words of songs: there was nothing left to lose, something that felt more true lately than ever. Her loose, uncut hair hung freely, and beneath the heavy velvet dress she wore nothing—free after being held captive and rubbed raw for too many high school years of elastic garter and Kotex belts.

      Even the apples in a copper pot by the Fillmore stage were free for the taking, but probably laced with something to make your mood all too free.

      When she looked up, he was standing in front of her, his hand out as if they’d known each other forever. But she kept dancing, shouting over the music: “What do you want?”

      “You.”

      His eyes weren’t drug-shot, but clear, his manner too confident and too knowing for her. He’d caught her off-guard and she didn’t know how to react, so she shook her head and turned her back to him, cutting him dead and feeling surprisingly calm about doing so.

      Earlier, in a ballroom filled with people she had looked at him and felt something she couldn’t name, then an odd sense of regret when he’d melted into the crowd. When she had thought about it a little later, she told herself the moment had been silly and Hollywood, the kind of moment that called for elevator music playing in the background.

      A numb second or two passed before she felt his breath above her, the heat of his body as he came closer. Guys came on to girls all the time; three, four or more times a night someone would hit on her. But they gave up easily when she always hesitated. You couldn’t go two blocks without seeing a sign that said: make love not war; love was as free as thought, as free as speech, and as free as most girls nowadays.

      But he hadn’t moved on to some other girl who would give him what he wanted. He stayed by her, but didn’t touch her, a good thing since she might have incinerated right there.

      The music stopped with a loud end note from the band. In that first heartbeat of silence, he leaned in and said in her ear, “You’re a fraud.”

      She faced him. “What?”

      “I see a barefoot girl, dancing alone, dressed in velvet, and with ribbons in her hair. If I stand close enough, when she moves, her jewelry sounds like tambourines.” He touched the necklace she wore. “Tell me those are love beads.”

      She stepped back and pulled the necklace with her. “Do I know you?”

      “No. But I’m trying to fix that mistake.”

      “Who are you?” she asked.

      “You didn’t answer my question.”

      “You called me a fraud first. Let’s stay strangers for now and deal with that.”

      He shrugged. “You disappointed me, sunshine.”

      “March. My name is March.”

      “That’s different.” He sounded surprised. “I like the name March.”

      “My mother will be thrilled.”

      “Good. You can take me home to meet her. Mothers love me. My own can talk about me for hours.”

      “I don’t live at home.”

      “Even better. Where do you live?”

      “I’m not going to tell you where I live.” She laughed then. “I don’t even know your name.”

      “I’m Michael Cantrell. Don’t disappoint me, sunshine.”

      Sunshine? She ignored that he called her that out of self-protection. “Okay, Michael. Look, you don’t know me so how can I disappoint you?”

      He didn’t answer immediately, but studied her thoughtfully, seeming to find his words with care.

      She knew she was giving him a hard time, and she had the awful thought that the word he might say next would be “Goodbye.” He could turn around and leave, when secretly that was last thing she wanted him to do.

      “You look to me like the kind of girl who chooses to walk in the rain. Who stands on the breakwater, arms spread wide and laughing as a storm rages in. A girl who sings, even when there’s no music playing. And quotes poetry. Who’ll eat raw oysters and drink ouzo. The rare girl who will easily jump out of a plane or into my arms. Someone who’ll love me so long and hard I can’t stand up in the morning.”

      It took a minute for his words to sink in. His words? God…his words. So far from what she’d expected. She had always thought in a visual sense, her artist’s side, believing life for her was most powerful if spoken through the eyes. Through vision, life had volume and depth, color and impression. The things you saw, you could always remember in color.

      But his words came with more feeling than any first visual impression she could ever paint in her mind. She understood clearly at that moment the color of words.

      What he said to her was so different from anything anyone had ever said to her. Until that moment, standing in front of this one guy, she would have never believed a minute of conversation could affect her so completely.

      She heard his voice over again in her head saying those things about her. Is that who she was? A free spirit. Or was that only who she wanted to be?

      This stranger was suddenly something else altogether, and he watched her as if her reaction were the most important in his life. He was perfectly serious, waiting, and a little on edge. The way he looked at her made her feel exposed, film out in the noonday sun; vulnerable, like he could see her past and into her future; and sexually charged, naked and out of control.

      The music started again, loud and vibrant, and the crowd closed in. She felt the hard edge of the stage against her shoulder. Only a few inches separated her from him—they were breathing each other’s air—like a helium balloon she felt as if she needed to be anchored to earth. The poetry of what he had just said to her, the images it created,