It was a modern day commune, like in the sixties when it was peace and love, and brothers and sisters. Hey, man, mind if I sleep with your old lady? Sure, man, I don't own her. She's free as a bird, man.
The commune sat on old farm land just off the border of New York and Pennsylvania. A lottery winner had bought the property. An old sixty's throwback, dyed-in-the-wool hippie of the modern day of video games and cell phones and high-def TV. All of which were strictly prohibited on the property.
"None of the man's devices are allowed," Stu Robertson, the lottery winner and owner of the commune told anyone who wanted to join. "All the articles that corrupt our youth are to be deposited right here." Stu held out a large stainless steel garbage can half filled with cell phones and Blackberrys.
Stu Robertson stood six foot four, thin as a sapling, with straggly, albeit clean, shoulder-length hair, and a patchy attempt at a beard. Stu, immediately, defended his winning the lottery, another of the man's tools of corruption, as a sign from a higher being, that it was meant to be so he could buy this farm land and form a commune. "Synchronicity, man. Carl Jung. Dig it."
"The problem with the downfall of the sixties generation commune was the inability to designate work so the commune could function on a long term basis. Everyone was allowed to do as they please so the system collapsed," Stu preached our first day upon arriving. We all stood inside the expansive living room while Stu stood on the hearth of the fireplace and spoke to us. "Not that I'm opposed to free will and free love." Stu winked at a leggy blonde who had tossed her bra into the garbage, her nipples erect against the T-shirt she wore. "But there has to be organization or the system will self-destruct. Everyone here will be assigned a particular responsibility, one they are comfortable with, a strength. For example, I myself am very good with my hands." Another glance at the leggy blonde. "So any repairs to the house or barn, I am more than qualified to handle having been a carpenter under than man's iron hand. So what I'm asking is that you volunteer what it is you think you can contribute to the community to keep it running smoothly. As of now we are in need of some yard maintenance."
I raised my hand.
"Yeah, you," Stu said to me. "What's your name, brother?"
"Freddy," I said.
"I like your style, Freddy my man," Stu said, walking over to me and taking my hand in a soul brother handshake. "You definitely got the right attitude. You volunteering for the yard work detail?"
"I have some experience," I said. "So, yeah, I guess I am."
"Far out, man," Stu beamed. "Far out. What's your experience, man?"
"I did some landscaping and yard maintenance in California for a while."
"No fucking shit," Stu said, amazed. "A true Californian in our midst. Like a sign from the hippie gods of yore, man. That's righteous, brother, totally righteous." Stu moved back to the fireplace. "Is there anyone else willing to volunteer to help my man Freddy on the yard work detail?"
The leggy blonde raised her hand. Stu's face lit up like a beacon.
"And what is your name?" Stu said, jumping off the hearth again and taking the blonde's hand in his.
"Star," she answered.
You'd of thought she had told Stu she was the Virgin Mary by the look on his face.
"Truly you two are a sign of things to come," Stu said, still holding Star's hand and gesturing towards me. "Is Star your given name?" he asked turning his attention back to Star.
"Yes," Star answered.
"We are going to make it," Stu pronounced to the group. He let go of Star's hand and made his way back to the fireplace hearth. He turned back to the incoming group. "I feel it. Like when I felt it was time to play the lottery my brothers and sisters. The commune, a perfect concept of living together as a whole. Today is the first day of the rest of our lives. Let's celebrate."
In true communal fashion Stu made his way to the communal bong and fired up a huge bowl of reefer, each of us taking one of the hoses with the attached mouthpiece and inhaling.
Stu had taken the barn and converted it into a kind of mini hotel. He had built about thirty stalls with room for two people to sleep comfortably and private enough for the inevitable liaisons. The back, left-hand corner of the barn housed the urinals, toilets and communal showers. There would be no septic problems in Stu Robertson's commune.
Each stall had a mattress, blankets and two pillows. I took a stall with my buddy, Eric Stanton.
Eric was the one who had talked me into coming here. We had been working together that winter and spring for a company running machine parts from Buffalo to Cleveland. It was good pay, and fairly easy work. Too good for a couple of twenty-three-year-olds like ourselves. But come to find out we weren't just running machine parts. The Feds busted the operation in late May. Seems Great Lakes trucking was also running methamphetamine from the Canadian border.
"Hey, look at this," Eric said to me one morning as we drank coffee and read the paper.
There was an ad in the paper for "serious-minded hippies" to join a commune just outside of Jamestown, New York. Stu Robertson, Proprietor.
"I'm not a serious-minded," I said. "I don't even have long hair."
"Listen," Eric said, seriously. "We're on the verge of losing this apartment and with no legitimate jobs prospects this could be our answer. This is a commune. We don't have to worry about jobs. Live off the fat of the land. This is that dude who won the mega-lottery."
"Meaning?"
"Meaning we don't have to worry about a place to stay or food to eat," Eric said. "And from what I understand, these communes are full of chicks who are into free love. And you know what that means."
"What?'
"Free sex."
I met Star out in the backyard the next day. She was dressed in a pair of cutoff jeans, flip-flops and a T-shirt. She still hadn't retrieved her bra. I had on a pair of jeans, sneaks and tank top.
"Morning," I said.
"Morning," Star replied. "Ready to get started?"
I was, but I was disappointed. So much for free love and all.
Stu was prepared. He had bought two lawn mowers, a gas-powered weed eater and had them stored in a small shed.
"I'm not going to make the same mistakes as my predecessors," Stu said, when he came out back to check on us. His eyes roamed all over Star's body, sliding up her long, tan legs, lazily gliding over the frayed edges where the cutoffs met the curve of her ass and then continued on up over her breasts and to her face. "They let their land go to hell, pissed and shit wherever they pleased, and the next thing you know the local authorities were making a visit and shutting them down. Threatening to prosecute for illegal drugs, even prostitution. Ain't gonna happen here, my friends. They were afraid of organization. They should have embraced it."
I watched as Star took in every word Stu said. She was buying it, hook, line and sinker. So much for Star, I thought.
We went to work as soon as Stu finished his verbal manifesto about communal longevity.
The farm had a little over an acre to be mowed. Star and I went to work. I started on one side of the lot and her on the other. I got into the work. I forgot about Star and Stu and the commune. I stripped off my shirt, my muscles feeling like they had a life of their own, my adrenaline flowing through my veins and the sweat poured in the hot June sun.
