deep into the crotch of america

It was the Fourth of July in the mid-seventies, and some girl was doing the splits upside down. She was young, maybe in her late teens, and wearing an American flag bikini. My mom and I were at a gathering of bikers and hippies at a waterfront park near the Gate 6 houseboats in Sausalito, where we lived for a year, or until the boat began to sink, says my mom.

I remember this moment so clearly, watching this girl do slow motion sumersaults, pausing to spread her pale white legs while on her head. I think we noticed her only because she had placed herself in the center of the grassay area, and bikers were shouting her on, like she was a stripper.

“Is she a hooker?” I asked — and I’m not even sure how I knew what a hooker was, but hey, that was the 70s.

“I don’t know,” said my my, pulling me in closer. The energy was sinister, although the girl seemed to enjoy being a spectacle. Soon the bikers had formed a circle around her, and I either sensed or knew that she was removing her bikini. My mom pulled my hand, and we left as fast as we could.

What happened? Was the girl gang banged by a legion of Hell’s Angels, or did she just put on a show? Whatever it was — it was pretty dark. And her frightening vulnerability as the bikers closed in on her is something I will never forget. She had to be about 17.

The Fourth of July is hot apple pie, county fairs and bbqs that reek of burnt meat, cheap coal and lighting fluid. It’s a small paper American flag attached to a toothpick, stuck in some old man’s straw hat. It’s wood-paneled station wagons and little blond kids who can’t contain their snot. Beer bottles, illegal explosions and steep holiday discounts at Safeway. And also, teenage runaways and biker gang rape. Happy Fourth, and God Bless America, y’all.