
By Jeff Hodges
In 1970 I dropped out of college and moved to San Francisco to perform with a guerilla theater group.
Goddard College in Vermont, where my girlfriend was a student, underwrote this theatrical undertaking. The troupe had spent the previous semester rehearsing with yogic exercises, improvisation, group nudity, and countercultural indoctrination, all for college credit. And although Goddard was footing the bill with student tuition, nobody seemed to mind if I tagged along.
My girlfriend and I rented an apartment in the Fillmore District, which, although it bordered on Haight Ashbury, was another world entirely. In the first week we were there, my girlfriend flipped the bird to some guys who whistled at her and they chased her into our building. I got held up at gunpoint by a robber who demanded my “ID” and my cash. As I had neither of these, I handed him my library card, which he threw in my face. Nobody seemed to be wearing flowers in their hair.
Our performances—which we called infiltrations—were often overbearingly political and outlandishly obnoxious. We infiltrated a porno movie theater with flashlights and stood on our seats illuminating our genitals, lecturing the audience about the importance of respecting each other’s bodies and that sex was not a commodity. Afterwards, we were approached by a couple of pornography producers who wanted to recruit us for their next film.
I openly shoplifted a book at the City Lights Bookstore in order to inspire a dialogue about art and profit. We were surprised by the reactions of the patrons and staff, the majority of them advocating on my behalf—in part, I suppose, because the book I stole was Steal This Book by Abbie Hoffman.
We infiltrated the Bank of America at lunch hour and attacked the “Banker’s Heart,” a 200-ton black granite sculpture at the base of the bank’s headquarters. With a loudspeaker blaring Timothy Leary’s suggestion that we “Resist actively, sabotage, jam the computer, hijack planes,” we threw bags of pig’s blood at the Heart and shook our bloody fists at the bankers, who pretty much kept on eating their sandwiches.
We posed as store clerks at Pier 1 Imports, explaining to the customers how the bargains were made possible by slave labor in Indonesia; we read Executive Order 9066 and Civilian Exclusion Order #5 in front of Japanese restaurants; we sold Viet Cong “body parts” at food festivals. But we really hit our stride after adapting Alfred Jarry’s Ubu Roi to include the bombing of Cambodia. This turned out to be our big hit, but also our undoing. We started to gather crowds, resulting in packed sidewalks, blocked traffic, heated discourse, and the attention of the police.
Finally, in Sausalito, the cops brought down the curtain with nightsticks and handcuffs when we refused to halt a performance. Shortly after that, Goddard pulled the plug and the troupe returned to Vermont.
I stayed in San Francisco for a while longer, working as a bicycle messenger and publishing a cheap literary magazine that I sold on the street. After a while I realized if I didn’t return to college soon I might never go back.
I came home and applied to NYU. I was informed that my college grades were too low for admission; but I was offered a chance for an interview.
Incredibly, my interviewer yawned through the report of my theatrical adventures and fledgling publishing career; but he perked up when I mentioned I had worked at Macy’s under an assumed name. A mountaineer friend managed the Macys warehouse sale on weekends, and when he opted to go climbing I would take his nametag and run the show. The admissions office judged this to be a good indicator of academic potential; so, by September I was a student again, my theatrical career forever behind me on the streets of San Francisco.