Confessions of an Unapologetic Hippie – HUNGA DUNGA

Introducing Phil Polizatto, newest friend and contributor to Worldwide Hippies. Writer, novelist and real “cool” guy. Phil’s new novel, HUNGA DUNGA is a real treat for the mind and the soul.

“Polizatto is an unapologetic hippie and Hunga Dunga is his homage to hippiedom. He does an amazing job of showing us things through a new set of eyes and writing erotic scenes that are very hot and at the same time have a real innocence about them. Hunga Dunga is outrageous and very, very funny!” –BottomLine Magazine

Here is a excerpt (hopefully just the first) from HUNGA DUNGA:

August, 1969

When they sped away, Peter and I dropped our packs to the ground and surveyed the area. We were just on the far side of Lovelock. Nothing to the west but empty road. Same to the east. But directly across the road was a dilapidated cafe. The setting sun brought out the red of the earth and swirls of dust on the fallow fields and the dripping rust of nails that stained the pillars on the porch of the cafe.

Peter stuck his thumb out into the dry, warm air. For which invisible car I don’t know. I bent over my pack looking for the dried fruit we’d been rationed in Sparks, spied the weed instead, and hid it behind a fence post while we waited for a ride.

When I stood up and turned around I saw an old man step out of the cafe. He creakily stretched up to grab a pillar with each hand and leaned over the porch to spit. His enormous stomach sagged forward with the gravity and spilled over the top button of his pants. Each time he spit his distended belly shook. He stared at us intently with disgust. Then he sat back in an old rocker, his eyes never leaving us.

We saw an old jalopy of a pickup coming up the road from the west. A likely vehicle, I forced myself to think positively. As it got closer, I guessed it was a ‘49 Ford. My hopes picked up. Yes, yes, yes! You are ours! But when it passed it was filled with young, scruffy cowboys who hooted and jeered at us. Three in the cab. Two in the bed. As it got smaller I could make out one of the guys in the back giving us the finger. Oh well.

The old man chuckled as he rocked.

A blotch of a vehicle in the distance coming from the other direction got bigger. When it was a block away, I recognized it as the same jalopy that had just passed. This time it was going a little faster.

Suddenly we found ourselves dodging beer cans, garbage, and a few small rocks. I was never any good at dodge ball in grade school, being skinny my only advantage. I deftly avoided some rotten fruit, but my shoulder smarted when a beer can caught the bone of my shoulder and Peter was bleeding slightly where a rock caught him on his chin.

We looked at each other. We couldn’t deny the panic in each other’s faces. I looked to the old man for help, pleas for mercy in my eyes. Who else was there to look to? But he just laughed. The jalopy had pulled over about 50 yards down the road and all five of the young men were scavenging around the truck.

“They’re reloading!” Peter announced in fear. “What are we gonna do?”

“Call the cops! Please!” I yelled to the old man on the porch. “Please, call them!”

“Go fuck yourselves!” he screamed back, and spit off some of the drool hanging from his chaw-filled mouth.

Two of the guys reached into the back of the pickup near the tailgate. One of them pulled out some tire chains. The other a tire iron. Then all five of them walked slowly down the road toward us, taking their time as if they knew there was nowhere we could run or hide and wanted to savor every moment of our fear.

I was so electric I could hardly think. I felt like someone shot me up with speed and I was rushing. Part of me couldn’t believe this was really happening, that these guys would really do something serious. But as they got closer I could see in their faces they were going to go through with it. They were going to really mess us up. The momentum was too strong, the peer pressure was too great for any one of them to say out loud that this really wasn’t fair or right, and to stop what they had started.

Peter was shaking. Literally. An epilepsy of fear was taking over his body and making it useless.

“Maintain, buddy. Maintain,” I said encouragingly, though the words sounded ridiculous even to me.

Both of us knew neither of us would put up much of a fight. We could leave the packs behind and make a run for it. But where to? The guy with the chains started swinging them in a circle. The old man across the street laughed harder and louder as they got closer. I tried desperately to change my fear into anger. If I could just get angry enough, I’d at least go down scrapping. But it wasn’t working. It didn’t have to.

Out of nowhere appeared a brand new, shiny black, ‘69 Jeep. Top down and black roll bars catching the oranges and reds of the sunset, it swooped down on us and screeched to a halt on the shoulder of the road, directly in front of us. A thirtyish, but boyish looking man kept the clutch engaged while revving the engine.

“Jump in! And I mean now!” he yelled.

I threw my pack in the back, abandoning my precious weed behind the fence post.

Peter just stood there, still in shock, and asked plaintively, “How far are you going?”

The five guys were now running as fast as they could toward us.

“For chrissakes jump the fuck in, Peter!” I said shoving him into the front seat. I grabbed his pack and jumped into the back. The driver released the clutch and we squealed onto the highway just as tire chains came slapping down hard on the rear of the car, leaving a nice big scratch between the two ‘E’s of ‘JEEP’. The five guys getting smaller continued to yell and hurl rocks that would never reach us. The old man had risen to his feet and had his fist in the air. So much for peace on earth. But let’s hear it for magic!

About the Author:
Phil Polizatto attended the School of Foreign Service at Georgetown University in Washington, D.C. Before devoting his full time to writing novels, he was a feature writer for the overseas division of UPI, a copywriter for CBS, and an award-winning corporate film producer. He wrote the score, lyrics and book for the musical, Pokin’ Around! and immortalized the songs of Cowboy Bob in the unforgettable CD, Cowboy Bob: The Morbid Years. Mr. Polizatto is a published poet and a regular contributor to a variety of popular arts and literary journals. Hunga Dunga is his first published novel. He resides in the Pacific Northwest.

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For a copy of HUNGA DUNGA