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When Rama closed the San Francisco Centre, Jack sold his house and moved to southern California, where he continued to run an Oakland-based fruit distribution company. Each week I stopped by Jack's Malibu apartment to pick up a crate of fruit for Rama, who lived down the block near Point Dume. Before I left, Jack slipped me a small, brown, paper bag. "That's for you," he said.
Rama and Sal looked at me disapprovingly. I couldn't have cared less. The memory of the MacDonald's trip made me smile. Later, as I approached Casa Del Zorro, I had a flashback of Rama giving me acid at his home in Malibu. I had been sitting on a rug in the living room. A Beatles record played. "How are you doing, kid?" he asked. "Not so good." I had been thinking about money.
The meeting was to be held hundreds of miles south of Palo Alto, in an obscure park in the mountains of Malibu. It was scheduled for December 5th, 1987 the following night. They showed.
Years before, in La Jolla, he had often suggested "Pool Therapy" as a way to douse the flames of a conflict burning within. In Malibu, as in La Jolla, my woes soon diffused among ripples from the impact of one hand slapping. I played in the shallow end during that LSD trip until Rama asked Sal, who was not tripping, to drive me home.
... namastvai namastvai... Renting the Del Mar castle, complete with turrets, a walk-in fireplace, and a full-court basketball-game-sized living room . Renting in Malibu what he claimed was Goldie Hawn's house . Spending roughly nine hundred dollars per night for a hotel suite where his dog enjoyed a room of its own . Buying a house on Conscience Bay in Old Field, New York, for about nine-hundred-fifty thousand dollars . Buying a house in Tesuque, a suburb near Sante Fe, New Mexico, for about eight-hundred-seventy-five thousand dollars . Spending approximately one million dollars on each house for electronic security systems and renovations . Renting Sting's house in Malibu Colony for about twenty-five thousand dollars a month .
I liked the idea of searching for a home. I loved to travel. And I looked forward to an exercise in *seeing*. "This is going to be fun," I thought. The trip began in a parking lot in southern Malibu. Rama raised his arms, made a whistling sound, and said, "The ocean is your friend. You do not know how long you have left in this world. You may never see the ocean again in this lifetime.
On the drive back to Malibu, Rama was perhaps experiencing flashbacks from the late '60s, because he "let me do my own thing." As a result, I rode with him in front, but focused on Cindy in back. Her flowing, blond hair and radiant face had made an impression on me long before she appeared on the cover of Rama's newspaper. I turned around often to smile at her. "Hey there!" I said at one point.
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