The guy was saying that he wanted to get a silencer for his gun, because he needed one for some shooting on the other side of the bay, and I remarked that it seemed to be strange to get a silencer, since I thought that the noise of the gun must be a main part of the fun of shooting. Which brought his contemptuous stare right at me and these memorable words out of his mouth, "It's not the noise, man, it's the blood."
I suddenly realized that I was way out of my depth in this late night dining room conversation.
This talk took place in a hillside apartment somewhere in San Francisco. The people that I had come out to California with during my spring break had some friend at this place and they left me there one night while they did some visiting. We were to go over to Berkeley the next day.
I didn't have much money, only the free rides and about ten bucks to last me for three days, so I was happy to find the place to crash for the night.
But things were pretty strange. Not that they were normal when I got to Berkeley. But at least no talk of guns.
The evening had started out calmly enough, but it was evident not all was well in the Flower Child City. Mainly, there was nothing happening. No one was there, no TV, no books. No one to talk to.
Then my host zipped in and back to his bedroom. When I wandered back and spoke briefly with him at his door he said that he had heard from my friends that I was a budding poet and could he please call on my apparently refined sensibilities to leave him alone just then. I had no idea what was going on, but I certainly left him alone.
But it was a lonely evening.
So when these other two guys showed up later I was happy to have someone to talk to. They were having a late snack or some beers or something. I didn't know who they were or whether they lived in the apartment or not. They just showed up.
I was sitting there with them, wearing no shirt and with only one strap of my bib overalls buckled. I thought that was somehow a more innovative way to wear the cliché farmer look, that it added a bit of style, or what would now be called attitude. This was in the middle of the late 60's, in the glory days of the counter culture, so I thought it was a fairly mild outfit.
But the guy who had just mentioned the look of blood didn't like my look, and didn't like me. He told me so, and then told his friend that he deeply wanted to beat me up with the cane-like thing that he had with him. His friend calmed him down, but during his tirade I sat quite still, not wanting to provoke him in any way. I didn't know what I had done wrong, and I quietly buckled the other strap of the coveralls.
And as soon as I could I found a reason to leave the table. It didn't seem like a safe place to spend much time.
The rest of the evening was spent staying out of the way and hoping that nothing stranger happened. Nothing did. And, despite the long hours, I was happier to have boredom than any more kitchen conversations. At least not at that table.