Hippies

       My fingerprints line up almost perfectly with the ones I made yesterday. My forehead rests against the glass, and my eyes go to the same spot they did yesterday, and the day before, and the day before that.

            It is a normal size for a crowd–I had counted it before. Exactly forty-seven of them, all dressed the same but also completely different: flared jeans, bright shirts. Or sometimes no shirts at all. 

            One is strumming a guitar, and it is just loud enough that when a gust of wind comes, I can hear it thought my window–just a whisper of chords. Around him, people are sat in the grass, some of them lay, and a couple of them are dancing.  

            Others in a different group look to be somewhere else completely; shaking their heads as they laugh, passing a joint around. Not that I can see the joint–I am three stories above them–but I just know that is what they are doing each time they reach for one another.

            A girl and boy are alone, but not really. The girl is wearing a brown dress that does not allow the curves of her figure to be seen at all. It almost makes me appreciate this white gown of my own. 

            The boy is not wearing a shirt–and I assume that the bundled-up jumble of colours on the ground next to him is the missing item of his outfit. He is sitting on the ground with his legs crossed, and he throws his long blonde hair over his shoulders. 

            From where I am, I can only see his back and a small portion of his side profile (he has facial hair, but that’s all I can see). I watch the girl kneel down behind him, and her hands lift to his hair in front of her and begin doing something. I am completely oblivious to what she is doing until a pattern begins to form in his hair and I realize she is braiding it. I watch her until she reaches the end of his hair, which passes the middle of his back, and then removes something from her wrist to secure the braid in place. Once she is done, he turns around so I can finally see him completely, and he kisses her.

            As my eyes move to find something different to watch, a jolt of pain rushes through my spine, reminding me that I have been standing here for far too long already. I quickly leave my window just to take the ugly and uncomfortable blue chair from beside my bed and move it to the window, where I sit and resume my observing. 

            They always bring signs, but they all lay abandoned on the outskirts of the group. I had read them all long ago–all of them demanding the Vietnam war ends, that peace is the answer, and more with the same slogan, just different wording. 

I had only seen them used once. When someone important must’ve been in this hospital, and immediately after the ambulance or whoever brought them left, the news reporters were here, and the hippies had their signs ready to be seen by the cameras. I suppose it is a good place for publicity, but the opportunity doesn’t occur often. 

I sigh, noticing that the man playing the guitar before has now let someone else use it, and then a large sound of laughter jerks my attention away from the music scene and my eyes search for the sound.

They are easy to find. They are sitting in a circle, arms linked through each other’s, and all of them have their right fists closed tight, letting me know they are holding something. I recognize it instantly–I’ve seen this many times before. The laughter is gone, and after a few moments they all open their mouths and their neighbour presses whatever is in their hand past the parted lips. It’s a group high, and they are always well organized. 

Every person in the grass below looks happy. I cannot find a face that holds anything but a smile, and a sting goes through me as I realize that San Francisco is full of scenes and people like this. I am living in one of the biggest hippie capitals of the world, and yet I am locked away from them. 

Every part of my body seems to remind me that on the other side of the room, shoved in the back of the drawer, are my very own bell-bottomed jeans and tie-dye shirt. And just like every other day, I have to suppress myself from standing from my plastic chair and going to put them on. But I can’t, because last time I gave into the urge a nurse walked in as I was pulling on the jeans, and although all she did was look at me and leave the room, the look on her face is something that is often on my mind. 

They dance, they sing, they smoke, they laugh. The group below is living the life I had until two months ago–that’s how long I’ve been suck in this place watching them. I miss being out there, but unfortunately, I don’t think I’ll be leaving this hospital again unless it’s my body going to the funeral home, if my family even choses I am worth having a funeral for. In their minds I’m already dead.

There is a boy wearing green corduroy pants and no shirt. His hair is a light brown and brushes the tops of his shoulders, in his hand he has a cigarette or a joint that he brings to his lips every few moments, which is covered by facial hair. This man has always been my favourite to watch–he’s gorgeous. 

Then I hear the door behind me open, and the noise of nurses and visitors and patients out in the hall. The hospital smells enter the room: the plastic, the alcohol, the various cleaning products. Not that any of these things had left while I was staring out the window–but I hadn’t noticed them until the door opened and I was snapped out of my trance.

“Penny, it’s time for your afternoon treatment. Come on.”

I sigh, my eyes moving over the forty-seven beautiful people before I stand from my chair and move away from the window, and away from them.