“Excuse me, sir. You can’t sell those in here.”
“I’m staying in the hotel, man,” the hippie argued. “It’s not like I’m not paying to be here.”
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The rumor was that the police weren’t allowing anyone to camp overnight in the Soldier Field parking lot for the Dead concerts. So the Deadheads had packed up their belongings, grabbed their Birkenstocks, and spurted out onto Michigan Avenue, looking for someplace to stay. They wound up in that bastion of hippiedom, that most alternative of campgrounds, that 60s paradise of peace and love–the Chicago Hilton and Towers. They had hit the mainstream. Even Channel Two had taken time out from its busy schedule of interviewing mass murderers to talk to Deadheads at Soldier Field for the evening news.
There were Deadheads in the convention halls, Deadheads at the reception desk, Deadheads tipping porters who toted their luggage and their coolers, Deadheads using apricot soap in the tile-floored bathrooms.
“No view.” The other shook his head. “They said they can’t guarantee a view.”
“I hate grouper.”
“Hey,” said the violet man. “I didn’t want to put another 180 bucks on your credit card, guy.”
