88 Gonna put on my golden shoes

Things were starting to crowd up in Berkeley. Students were moving in. Regular employees were showing up. The youth hostel people were pressuring people in the rooms to move on. We were given enough warning that things weren't going to be so relaxed and that our living in the bushes was close to coming to an end. We were leaving anyway.

I was so grateful to them for letting us crash there. They looked for our hiding spot and could never find it. They wouldn't have thrown us out, they laughed about it. No grouches there. I always cleaned the bathroom as thanks, but on occasion LBJ and I would tidy up a room when the occupants shipped out. It was a great deal for the workers too. We did the work, they had more time to play frisbee.

Sad to hear that the chicken lady and her man left. A couple of the youth hostel workers were honest with us and said they couldn't handle it. They handed us a bucket and a mop and I thought "Gee. What could be so bad?"

Typical 1972 dorm room

They handed us the key. Up a couple of floors. LBJ turned the key and opened the door. It hit us like a brick wall. I immediately turned and started gagging. It was a wave of hot air with a stench that came from the bowels of a decomposing skeleton. A dried pile of crap and garbage of an impossible concentration. I couldn't look let alone go in there. If we left the door open the stink permeated the halls. Neither of us could hardly speak. Cough. Gag. "What the hell?" I don't remember looking at LBJ because my head was down and my eyes were watering. He could hardly talk without gagging. "It's chicken shit." "Chicken shit?" "Yeah. There's feathers all over the place." "Oh my God."

We were as suburban as you could get. I never smelled chicken shit before. At least my family drove upstate in the summer to see the country. LBJ's family never went west of the lower east side. But this wasn't just chicken shit. This was chicken shit enclosed in a small dorm room. No open window. How the hell could they breathe in there?

LBJ did the brave thing and held his breath. Ran to the window and opened it. Ran back and slammed the door shut. So I guess the Chicken lady had chickens in those cardboard boxes they carried with them. She loved chickens but I'm telling you... that smell was unbearable. Oh yeah... so the window is open for about an hour and we decide to head in. We had fortitude to the hilt. I took my time walking in. Good God. I hear LBJ yell "Holy shit. There's a bunch of puke over here!" I don't know how we managed it. The room was a convulsion of the most putrid of rank earthly smells. No doubt there was a pile of puke. I could barely hold my stomach in there.

I have to hand it to LBJ. He got the big piles of stuff first. I was leaning low to the floor and a little faint. Newspaper was plentiful in those days, so we used a bunch of that to pick up puke, chicken shit and feathers. We were immortalized that day in that Berkeley Youth Hostel.

The shower was my next stop and then we had to think about which direction we were going to head. Seattle. Ever since "Here Come The Brides" it was on my mind.