There I was at the ‘Big Smoke In’ at Central Park.  The year was 1974, and I had just turned 18.  A feeling of total liberation was in the atmosphere, or so I thought at the moment.  I was playing catch-up with the Woodstock Generation.  The goal was to be one of the many free spirits smoking marijuana.  I thought this would make me ‘Jack Kerouac Dharma Bum.’

With my tie dyed Grateful Dead tee shirt and my Free Angela Davis button in tow, I had journeyed from Rego Park, Queens to Manhattan’s Central Park looking for the Great Lawn, where the huge ‘event’ and march would take place.  I’d never realized Central Park was so vast, and I kept on asking people where the march was taking place.  Nobody seemed to know or care – most didn’t even respond to my pleas.  I was just wandering around.

I didn’t have a dollar to my name – only a boxed lunch I carried in a brown paper bag.  I was starting to get hungry for that kosher baloney sandwich on rye with brown mustard, but held off.  My only other culinary possessions were an apple and four bags of Andy Capp potato sticks for when I got the munchies later on.  For transportation – I had a 20₵ subway token in the back pocket of my blue jeans so I could get back home to Rego Park.  My beverage for the day with which I would drink the food down would be supplied by the legendary Central Park water fountains.  The ‘freaks’ seemed to be everywhere – long-haired dudes with hair down to their buttocks, John Lennon lookalikes, beautiful hippy girls wearing purple rainbow multicolored dresses with fringe jackets on.  I just didn’t know which direction to take.

I tried asking directions a few more times, but most of the Flower Children seemed to be in the same predicament as I was.  Finally, one disheveled, bearded, beatnik answered, “Don’t worry, man.  You’ll get there when you get there!”  After this reply, I just picked a direction, and started walking where most of the bohemians were heading.

As I marched around for about 10 minutes, the smell of dope was all around me.  It permeated my space, but still nobody was offering.  Finally, I took a break and leaned against a tree.  There was a couple sitting on the ground a few feet away from me and they were lighting up a storm.  Their reefer smelled real good, and sweetness was in the air.  They must have had some good shit!

All of a sudden the dude, wearing a colorful Mexican poncho, yelled out to me, “Hey kid, come smoke some Mother Earth with us!”

Wow, an invitation!  I immediately sat down with them.  Right off I noticed this cat looked familiar, and the woman did also.  She was very quiet – just giving me the Chelsea smile.

“Hey kid, you look a little lost, are you alright…?”

“Well,” I said.  “I’m looking for the Big Smoke In and march.”

“Aren’t we all!” said the very familiar face.  “Don’t sweat it, kid.  What’s your name, by the way?”

“David,” I replied sheepishly.

“Do you mind if I call you Dave?” the man in the blue-gray Capote asked.

“No.  I don’t mind at all…”

“Well my name is Elliott and my girlfriend there is Jennifer, and this is Panama Red!”

What Mr. Elliott held in his hand looked more like a giant cigar than a joint.  He then produced a large glassine bag containing green and reddish brown buds of what my old mother would call Mary Jane.

“Wowee!”  I cried out.  I had hit the jackpot!

We passed the huge spliff around quite a few times.  We were a stoned and quiet threesome.  Finally, I got the nerve and asked my benefactor, “Where do I think I know you from?”

“Kid.  I mean Dave.  Do you go to the movies?”

“Sure,” I said, startled for a moment.  “Wait just a minute…You’re the guy in the film, The Long Goodbye!  You’re Philip Marlowe!”

My patron just smiled.

“Elliott Gould – that’s your full name.  You’re a great Philip Marlowe.  I liked you better than Bogey or Dick Powell!”

He turned to his paramour.  “I like this kid, Jen.  He’s a fan of Raymond Chandler.”  He then turned to me and said, “You do know who Raymond Chandler is, right?”

I smiled.  “Testing me are you?  I’ve read everything by him – all seven novels of his, in fact.”

“What actor played the worst Philip Marlowe?” Mr. Gould wanted to know.

“Why that’s easy,” I said.  “George Montgomery in The Brasher Doubloon put out by 20^thCentury Fox pictures in 1947.

Shocked, Elliott Gould turned once again to his companion.  “Jen, I could’ve used this young man when Altman gave me the part!”  Then he turned back to me and said, “You’re something else!  I’m delighted that I turned you on to my dope!”

Subsequently, I turned my attention to Mr. Gould’s lady friend and said, “You look familiar too.  Are you an actress?”  She just smiled, looking like she was on Cloud Nine.  “Mr. Streisand” – what my mother always used to call him – answered for her.

“That, my friend, is Jennifer O’Neal.  Did you see the movie, Summer of ’42?”

I nodded my head.  “Oh yeah, I saw it a few years ago.  Fun film!”

We smoked a little more.  Jennifer O’Neal never said a word.  And then, as zonked as I was, I got the feeling that this Hollywood couple wanted to be alone – and intimate!  I got up, heavily stoned out and said, “Thank you so much!  I’m still going to try to find the Smoke In!”  ‘Marlowe’ just waived me goodbye.

About a block away, I gobbled up my kosher Baloney sandwich and jumped back on the subway to Queens.