Now I’ll describe her exact opposite, complete in every way, Amira. She worked downstairs most afternoons with a tall, skinny, black haired Swedish girl named Suzanne, both of them lovely to behold. There was a small kitchen past the long counter in the Plough which was leased out at a very low rate, and the two girls made veggie burgers so good you thought they were real meat. We often ate there and invited them to all our parties. She, like Suzanne, was here with an overstayed visa, like thousands of others hiding safely in Berkeley at the time. It was a well known safe haven for such wandering youths because the police there were lax in enforcing any laws, always fearful of inciting another riot. Suzanne lived in an old, dilapidated Victorian house a few blocks away which was shared by another six or seven Swedish immigrants, all without papers. Then again, California probably had a million such guests from Mexico at the time for whom you could gratefully thank for every fresh piece of vegetable or fruit produce you bought at a grocery store.
Amira still had a strong Greek accent, though her English was good. She wore pleated, colorful skirts. They might have been traditional Greek, wool skirts for all I knew, they were so similar. She was blond, with long, curly hair and had a three year old boy with her sometimes, who was also very blond. She was medium height, with a muscular build, square shouldered, almost masculine, like some hard working Greek peasant woman, which matched her personality, strong willed. She ran the kitchen. I remember she never shaved her hairy legs or underarms and wore one set of boots that looked like they were steel toed. You wouldn’t want to get into a fight with her. Her eyes were like daggers, cold and piercing. That’s why I grabbed her that night to help save Beth. The two black youths backed off right away as she confronted them and they left, scared. In the few months we lived there I never heard of or saw a boyfriend or father to the boy and was afraid to ask. No one thought of making a move on her, though she exuded sexual appeal. She was headstrong, wilful, a force of nature, pure motherhood, like a wolverine, confident and calm, beautiful to look at and watch, admirably complete and compact, level-headed, someone you always wanted to be on her good side, because you could easily imagine what a fury she’d be if she was angry, like an ancient Greek Fury.
She liked me and Bones. She would see us stumble into the bar, bleary eyed, just waking up around two p.m. for our first beer of the day and start making us veggie burgers. She knew we often skipped meals, (most of them) and insisted we eat, handing us a plate and keeping an eye on us from the counter until we consumed them, like a mother. She came to a few of our parties but never did lines, consuming maybe a beer or two. I don’t know, but I never saw her even slightly drunk. Even our conversations were brief and light. She listened much more than talked. Yet we did consider her a close friend, or perhaps ‘guardian angel’.
One rainy day in January she came up to our apartment to collect a pile of kitchen plates left upstairs. People were always walking out the Plough with whatever they had in their hands and leaving them in our pad. After a big party, the next morning, we found almost as many glasses as were downstairs, on every ledge and windowsill or table, dozens of them which took many trips to return. On this day I showed her one of my old, beat up pocket editions of Greek plays and told her I loved to read them. She took one in hand and examined the beautiful, familiar letters and smiled, handing it back to me without a word. I think she had a fondness for me, the way she smiled at me when she brought us food. I know Suzanne spoke highly of me to her. Bones noticed this too and told me I should ‘go for it’. But I never did, except in dreams. In real life I’d feel much on a par with her three year old boy, not from weakness in me but from her dazzling and imposing strengths. That’s why we never heard mention of any boyfriend. I wondered how she got pregnant.
There’s one more scene too strange to omit, at one of our parties in late January. Ron D. and Barbara, still madly in love, paid us a visit, driving all the way from Bellingham, Washington. We gave them the middle bedroom as it had a double bed. They stayed four days. We had one of our large parties pre-planned during their unexpected stay and Barbara was ill. She’d seen a doctor up north and had been diagnosed with a flare-up of some venereal disease caught from Ron. So she spent most of the time there in pain, though in very good spirits, lying on that bed in her undies with her legs spread apart under a single white sheet, taking her medicine, day and night.
But the party had already been advertised and was on. That room was the walkway to the living room and the house was packed. I remember checking on her and seeing a whole group, all males, sitting on the edges of her bed, drinking beers, while she sat propped up on pillows in her bra, her legs covered by the single, white sheet, stopping at her waist, for ventilation. She was sipping beers with the crowd, making brave conversation like a trouper, describing her embarrassing condition with at least fifteen others in the room, all high and inebriate, smoking joints and cigarettes, passing them to her out of drunken sympathy, staying and talking to her above the loud music from the living room, yet everyone treating her with respect and having a good time. The next day she even told me she had a great time. Such were our parties, strange scenes.
