Kasher in the Rye: The True Tale of a White Boy from Oakland Who Became a Drug Addict, Criminal, Mental Patient, and Then Turned 16

by Moshe Kasher

There are moments in a life that make you think maybe there’s a thread of meaning through this bumbling little experience. Seconds and inches that peel open the epidermis of the universe to reveal the intricate nervous system of interconnectivity that lies within. Things that make you say, “There might be something to this God thing after all.” Little God moments. My God moment puttered up to me in a 1970 Datsun 510. It was a rusty thing with primer-gray-splotted rough blue paint. A little wagon that looked like it was going to self-destruct into a thousand pieces at any second. It pulled up and stopped right in front of my bus stop. Inside was a hippie angel. I mean this guy looked like a fucking R. Crumb character. A Frank Zappa of a man with dirty curly hair cascading down his shoulders, gray streaks flecking his bushiness, showing his age. Next to him was a man ripped from a Jimi Hendrix concert photo, a withered old hippie wanderer whose leather headband might not have been removed for years. A thousand years, a million. Namaste. Zappa turned his head to me and smiled. A big, white greedy smile. All love. I did my hand like, “Roll down the window.” The Man-Buddha complied. “Hey,” I said. “Hey, brother!” We were brothers. “You guys heading to Rockridge BART?” I knew the answer. “We are now!” Zappa popped the door open and slid his seat forward. “Jump in.” I leapt. Some people just won’t understand these things. I could sense the electric current in the air. Feel the po...