"I can go into the park myself. Anyone Anyone can go into the park." can go into the park."

"Not if they don't want to get rolled they can't. You don't know what's up, man. There's places in the Gate that are safe and places that aren't. Me and my friends got a nice place. Real secluded. The cops don't even know about it, so we can just party all the time. Might let you stay there but first I need that double cheese."

"It was a hamburger a minute ago."

"You snooze, you lose. Price is going up all the time. How old are you, anyway?"

"Eighteen."

"Yeah, right, like I'll believe that. You ain't no eighteen. I'm sixteen and you're not any older than me. You from Marin?"

I shook my head. It had been a while since I had spoken to anyone my age. It felt good. It made me less lonely. But I still had my guard up.

"You're a rich kid, though, right? Mr. Alligator?"

I didn't say anything. And suddenly he was all appeal, full of kid hungers, his knees shaking. "Come on on, man. I'm hungry. Okay, forget the double cheese. Just a burger."

"All right."

"Cool. A burger. And fries. You said fries, right? You won't believe this, man, but I got rich parents, too."

So began my time in Golden Gate Park. It turned out my new friend, Matt, wasn't lying about his parents. He was from the Main Line. His father was a divorce lawyer in Philadelphia. Matt was the fourth child, the youngest. Stocky, with a lug's jaw, a throaty, smoke-roughened voice, he had left home to follow the Grateful Dead the summer before but had never stopped. He sold tie-dyed T-shirts at their concerts, and dope or acid when he could. Deep in the park, where he led me, I found his cohorts.

"This is Cal," Matt told them. "He's going to crash here for a while."

"That's cool."

"You an undertaker, man?"

"I thought it was Abe Lincoln at first."

"Nah, these are just Cal's traveling clothes," Matt said. "He's got some others in that suitcase. Right?"

I nodded.

"You want to buy a shirt? I got some shirts."

"All right."

The camp was located in a grove of mimosa trees. The fuzzy red flowers on the branches were like pipe cleaners. Stretching over the dunes were huge evergreen bushes that formed natural huts. They were hollow inside, the soil dry underneath. The bushes kept the wind out and, most of the time, the rain. Inside, there was enough room to sit up. Each bush contained a few sleeping bags; you chose whichever one happened to be empty when you wanted to sleep. Communal ethics applied. Kids were always leaving the camp or showing up. It was equipped with all the stuff they abandoned: a camping stove, a pasta pot, miscellaneous silverware, jelly jar glasses, bedding, and a glow-in-the-dark Frisbee the guys tossed around, sometimes enlisting me to even out the sides. ("Jesus, Gator, you throw like a girl, man.") They were well stocked with gorp, bongs, pipes, vials of amyl nitrate, but understocked on towels, underwear, toothpaste. There was a ditch thirty or so yards distant that we employed as a latrine. The fountain by the aquarium was good for washing oneself, but you had to do it at night to avoid the police.

If one of the guys had a girlfriend there would be a girl around for a while. I stayed away from them, feeling they might guess my secret. I was like an immigrant, putting on airs, who runs into someone from the old country. I didn't want to be found out, so remained tight-lipped. But I would have been laconic in that company in any case. They were all Deadheads, and that was what the talk was. Who saw Jerry on which night. Who had a bootleg of which concert. Matt had flunked out of high school but had an impressive mind when it came to cataloguing Dead trivia. He carried the dates and cities of their tour in his head. He knew the lyrics of every song, when and where the Dead had played it, how many times, and what songs they had played only once. He lived in expectation of certain songs being performed as the faithful await the Messiah. Someday the Dead were going to play "Cosmic Charlie" and Matt Larson wanted to be there to see creation redeemed. He had once met Mountain Girl, Jerry's wife. "She was so fucking cool," he said. "I would fucking love a woman like that. If I found a lady as cool as Mountain Girl, I'd marry her and have kids and all that shit like that."

"Get a job, too?"

"We could follow the tour. Keep our babies in little sacks. Papoose style. And sell weed."

We weren't the only ones living in the park. Occupying some dunes on the other side of the field were homeless guys, with long beards, their faces brown from sun and dirt. They were known to ransack other people's camps, so we never left ours unattended. That was pretty much the only rule we had. Someone always had to stand guard.

I hung around the Deadheads because I was scared alone. My time on the road made me see the benefits of being in a pack. We had left home for different reasons. They weren't kids I would ever have been friends with in normal circumstances, but for that brief time I made do, because I had nowhere else to go. I was never at ease around them. But they weren't especially cruel. Fights broke out when kids had been drinking, but the ethos was nonviolent. Everyone was reading Siddhartha Siddhartha. An old paperback got passed around the camp. I read it, too. It's one of the things I remember most about that time: Cal, sitting on a rock, reading Hermann Hesse and learning about the Buddha.

"I heard the Buddha dropped acid," said one Head. "That's what his enlightenment was."

"They didn't have acid back then, man."

"No, it was like, you know, a 'shroom."

"I think Jerry's the Buddha, man."

"Yeah!"

"Like when I fucking saw Jerry play that forty-five-minute space jam on 'Truckin' in Santa Fe,' I knew knew he was the Buddha." he was the Buddha."

In all these conversations I took no part. See Cal in the far underhang of the bushes, as all the Deadheads drift off to sleep.

I had run away without thinking what my life would be like. I had fled without having anywhere to run to. Now I was dirty, I was running out of money. Sooner or later I would have to call my parents. But for the first time in my life, I knew that there was nothing they could do to help me. Nothing anyone could do.

Every day I took the band to Ali Baba's and bought them veggie burgers for seventy-five cents each. I opted out on the begging and the dope dealing. Mostly I hung around the mimosa grove, in growing despair. A few times I walked out to the beach to sit by the sea, but after a while I stopped doing that, too. Nature brought no relief. Outside had ended. There was nowhere to go that wouldn't be me.

It was the opposite for my parents. Wherever they went, whatever they did, what greeted them was my absence. After the third week of my vanishing, friends and relatives stopped coming over to Middlesex in such numbers. The house got quieter. The phone didn't ring. Milton called Chapter Eleven, who was now living in the Upper Peninsula, and said, "Your mother's going through a rough period. We still don't know where your sister is. I'm sure your mother would feel a little better if she could see you. Why don't you come down for the weekend?" Milton didn't mention anything about my note. Throughout my time at the Clinic he had kept Chapter Eleven apprised of the situation in only the simplest terms. Chapter Eleven heard the seriousness in Milton's voice and agreed to start coming down on weekends and staying in his old bedroom. Gradually, he learned the details of my condition, reacting to them in a milder way than my parents had, which allowed them, or at least Tessie, to begin to accept the new reality. It was during those weekends that Milton, desperate to cement his restored relationship with his son, urged him once again to go into the family business. "You're not still going with that Meg, are you?"

"No."

"Well, you dropped out of your engineering studies. So what are you doing now? Your mother and I don't have a very clear idea of your life up there in Marquette."

"I work in a bar."

"You work in a bar? Doing what?"

"Short-order cook."

Milton paused only a moment. "What would you rather do, stay behind the grill or run Hercules Hot Dogs someday? You're the one that invented them anyway."

Chapter Eleven did not say yes. But he did not say no. He had once been a science geek, but the sixties had changed that. Under the imperatives of that decade, Chapter Eleven had become a lacto-vegetarian, a Transcendental Meditation student, a chewer of peyote buttons. Once, long ago, he had sawed golf balls in half, trying to find out what was inside; but at some point in his life my brother had become fascinated with the interior of the mind. Convinced of the essential uselessness of formalized education, he had retreated from civilization. Both of us had our moments of getting back to nature, Chapter Eleven in the U.P. and me in my bush in Golden Gate Park. By the time my father made his offer, however, Chapter Eleven had begun to tire of the woods.

"Come on," Milton said, "let's go have a Hercules right now."

"I don't eat meat," Chapter Eleven said. "How can I run the place if I don't eat meat?"

"I've been thinking about putting in salad bars," said Milton. "Lotta people eating a low-fat diet these days."

"Good idea."

"Yeah? You think so? That can be your department, then." Milton elbowed Chapter Eleven, kidding, "We'll start you off as vice president in charge of salad bars."

They drove to the Hercules downtown. It was busy when they arrived. Milton greeted the manager, Gus Zaras. " Yahsou. Yahsou."

Gus looked up and, a second late, began to smile broadly. "Hey there, Milt. How you doing?"

"Fine, fine. I brought the future boss down to see the place." He indicated Chapter Eleven.

"Welcome to the family dynasty," Gus joked, spreading his arms. He laughed too loudly. Seeming to realize this, he stopped. There was an awkward silence. Then Gus asked, "So, Milt, what'll it be?"

"Two with everything. And what do we got that's vegetarian?"

"We got bean soup."

"Okay. Get my kid here a bowl of bean soup."

"You got it."

Milton and Chapter Eleven chose stools and waited to be served. After another long silence, Milton said, "You know how many of these places your old man owns right now?"

"How many?" said Chapter Eleven.

"Sixty-six. Got eight in Florida."

That was as far as the hard sell went. Milton ate his Hercules hot dogs in silence. He knew perfectly well why Gus was acting so overfriendly. It was because he was thinking what everyone thinks when a girl disappears. He was thinking the worst. There were moments when Milton did, too. He didn't admit it to anyone. He didn't admit it to himself. But whenever Tessie spoke about the umbilical cord, when she claimed that she could still feel me out there somewhere, Milton found himself wanting to believe her.

One Sunday as Tessie left for church, Milton handed her a large bill. "Light a candle for Callie. Get a bunch." He shrugged. "Couldn't hurt."

But after she was gone he shook his head. "What's the matter with me? Lighting candles! Christ!" He was furious at himself for giving in to such superstition. He vowed again that he would find me; he would get me back. Somehow or other. A chance would come his way, and when it did, Milton Stephanides wouldn't miss it.

The Dead came to Berkeley. Matt and the other kids trooped off to the concert. I was given the job to look after the camp.

It is midnight in the mimosa grove. I awaken, hearing noises. Lights are moving through the bushes. Voices are murmuring. The leaves over my head turn white and I can see the scaffolding of branches. Light speckles the ground, my body, my face. In the next second a flashlight comes blazing through the opening in my lair.

The men are on me at once. One shines his flashlight in my face as the other jumps onto my chest, pinning my arms.

"Rise and shine," says the one with the flashlight.

It is two homeless guys from the dunes opposite. While the one sits on top of me, the other begins searching the camp.

"What kind of goodies you little fuckers got in here?"

"Look at him," says the other. "Little fucker's gonna shit his pants."

I squeeze my legs together, the girlish fears still operating in me.

They are looking for drugs mainly. The one with the flashlight shakes out the sleeping bags and searches my suitcase. After a while he comes back and gets down on one knee.

"Where are all your friends, man? They go off and leave you all alone?"

He has begun to go through my pockets. Soon he finds my wallet and empties it. As he does, my school ID falls out. He shines the flashlight on it.

"What's this? Your girlfriend?"

He stares at the photo, grinning. "Your girlfriend like to suck cock? I bet she does." He picks up the ID and holds it over the front of his pants, thrusting his hips. "Oh yeah, she does!"

"Let me see that," says the one on top of me.

The guy with the flashlight tosses the ID onto my chest. The guy pinning me lowers his face close to mine and says in a deep voice, "Don't you move, motherfucker." He lets go of my arms and picks up the ID.

I can see his face now. Grizzled beard, bad teeth, nose askew, showing septum. He contemplates the snapshot. "Skinny bitch." He looks from me to the ID and his expression changes.

"It's a chick!"

"Quick on the uptake, man. I always say that about you."

"No, I mean him him." He is pointing down at me. "It's her! He's a she." He holds up the ID for the other one to see. The flashlight is again trained on Calliope in her blazer and blouse.

At length the kneeling man grins. "You holding out on us? Huh? You got the goods stashed away under those pants? Hold her," he orders. The man astride me pins my arms again while the other one undoes my belt.

I tried to fight them off. I squirmed and kicked. But they were too strong. They got my pants down to my knees. The one aimed the flashlight and then sprang away.

"Jesus Christ!"

"What?"

"Fuck!"

"What?"

"It's a fucking freak."

"What?"

"I'm gonna puke, man. Look!"

No sooner had the other one done so than he let go of me as though I were contaminated. He stood up, enraged. By silent agreement, they then began to kick me. As they did, they uttered curses. The one who had pinned me drove his toe into my side. I grabbed his leg and hung on.

"Let go of me, you fucking freak!"

The other one was kicking me in the head. He did it three or four times before I blacked out.

When I came to, everything was quiet. I had the impression they had gone. Then somebody chuckled. "Cross swords," a voice said. The twin yellow streams, scintillant, intersected, soaking me.

"Crawl back into the hole you came out of, freak."

They left me there.

It was still dark out when I found the public fountain by the aquarium and bathed in it. I didn't seem to be bleeding anywhere. My right eye was swollen shut. My side hurt if I took a deep breath. I had my dad's Samsonite with me. I had seventy-five cents to my name. I wished more than anything that I could call home. Instead, I called Bob Presto. He said he would be right over to pick me up.

Hermaphroditus