Thirty Three

2019

When Becca asked me in 1974 why I was taking the trip, I gave her an answer that made sense to me at the time. I said the trip would be an adventure; an opportunity to see the country especially California; and a challenge.  It was all three.

Hitching across the country was an adventure.  I’m not sure I could have supplied the dictionary definition at the time, but I read now that an adventure is defined as “an unusual and exciting, typically hazardous, experience or activity.” Check that box.   

The trip was also an opportunity to see other parts of the country.  I’d never been west of Ohio. California was the home of relatives and a place that had been hyped in music, films and television as charmingly extraordinary.  I visited my cousins, travelled down the coast of California from San Francisco to Los Angeles, watched both the Giants and Dodgers play in their home stadiums, and toured billed attractions.  I did not get to see a whole lot of middle America beyond what I could spot from the highways, but I did meet many middle Americans and the result of our conversations was a more nuanced view of the land.

The trip certainly was a challenge.  I had to be back for a job at the end of June. Could I hike across starting at the end of May and get back in less than four weeks?  If it looked as if I might not make it back in time, I would be forced to take a train or bus east, but the goal was to avoid that. Navigate the country without a vehicle and make it back and forth on my thumb in less than a month.    

So, the excursion proved to be what I told Becca it would be.   

However, now with close to fifty additional laps around the track, I consider the trip differently.     I see it now as all of the following: a microcosm; foolish; and a moral education.  

During those weeks I encountered kind people as well as selfish meanies just as I have in the half century that followed.  My moods during the period fluctuated like a Sine curve.  Some days I felt elated, other times depressed.  Every day required making decisions that had ramifications.  Do I take this ride, sleep in this place, trust this other person?   Do I spend the finite amount of cash I have on an item today, if I have these many other days over which the sum must last?  Is this choice too risky for the potential benefit?   In a little more than three weeks I experienced the same sorts of things I’ve gone through in the decades since.

I consider the trip now to have been foolish and reckless. Even for those times.  I am glad I went.  I chalk the experience up to a proud accomplishment, but it was dumb.  

My mother smoked. She coughed every morning long and loudly.  Regularly, when Dad heard these hacks, he would turn to me and wave a finger. “If I ever catch you with a cigarette, I’ll break every bone in your body.”  That’s what I think I might say to my children if they were to suggest an expedition of this sort.  I am proud I did it but am not proud that I so naively decided to do it.  

More than anything, what I learned from the journey was that when we choose our paths we face moral decisions. The Rand McNally maps do not help with these, but a highway metaphor is apt. There are a number of ways we can travel.  Different routes.  Sometimes we know, we just know that we need to take a bumpy road because it goes in an appropriate direction. We’ll be jostled and uncomfortable and it can be bruising. But our moral compass directs us that way.  

Yet there are smooth roads going the other way.  Highways that in the short term at least are powerfully enticing.  It is easy to make up reasons why the wrong way is the right way.  Then, when we get to the wrong place it is hell to scramble back to where we made the wrong turn. 

I made it out and back in twenty two days. But I missed a turn.

I knew. Or I should have known.

Thirty Two

 

June 12-14, 1974

My plan was to start the return trip to Buffalo on June 15th.  This would give me three days to tour the sites of Los Angeles and rest my thumb and the rest of my body.   

If there was a positive about the motel embarrassment, it was that I was not far from places in Los Angeles that I’d been told to see.  CBS Television City and the Farmers Market Place, two such sites, were within walking distance of the motel.  

I was still miffed at Steve and, to a lesser extent, his old bohemian cousin.  There is nothing attractive about sensing that others consider you an unwelcome parasite-particularly when you’d been told you would be welcomed.  I’d shake the lingering resentment. I was, however, sufficiently annoyed in the morning to consider charging the breakfast in the motel affiliated diner to the already paid for room.  If I thought it would have been a good clean dig, I would have consumed the most expensive item on the menu, left a big tip, and signed the room number.  I didn’t do it -- not because I am a class act-- but because I thought if I had, it might contribute to any notion that I was a sponge.   I did feel just fine about letting the old bohemian pay for the long distance call I’d made the night before. “Just wanted to check in with Steve” I would have told him if we’d had another encounter. “Wanted to let him know how it all worked out.” 

There was no such encounter.  I took a long hot shower in the room and then made my way to the Farmer’s market, a mile or so away from the motel. Then literally less than five minutes from the Market was Television City.   The CBS tour was cool. I saw the sets of various shows and got a glimpse of the real Lucille Ball who was around the studio preparing for something.  There were gasps among the group on my tour when we saw the star. Very red hair on Lucy.  She smiled and waved at the oohing tourists.  When the group moved on from where she had been standing, I was surprised to hear the tour guide make comments that were thinly disguised jabs about Ball’s eccentricities and demands. 

After the tour I moved on to UCLA which would be home base for the next few days.  The school was only five miles from Television City.   It was finals time at the university and the student services staff had set up a comfort lounge in the campus center for students anxious about exams.  It was a large room where there were chairs, couches, counselors, free donuts and coffee.  In addition to being a refuge for frazzled students the space also welcomed travelers who needed comfort and, even a place to sleep.  Such a lounge would not exist in 2019, but in 1974 it was not unusual.  We had a similar room at the University of Buffalo that welcomed all who needed something approaching a home base.  

On one wall of the lounge was a large map of the United States tacked to a bulletin board.  On it travelers pinned notes indicating that they needed a ride or riders.  You could write your name and destination and whether you were looking for riders or a ride and leave contact information. There was no e-mail then, nor cell phones so you had to either have a local phone number or check the map periodically.  I looked to see if anyone was going to Buffalo or thereabouts. There were far more people looking for rides than there were drivers looking for riders. I didn’t see anything that would work for me and vacillated about whether I would follow-up if I did. Part of the adventure of hiking was to take your chances. Prearranging a ride seemed like a sort of cheating. The issue was moot, however, as no driver was going my way.

I sat in the lounge and took advantage of the coffee.  I met a few others who were passing through.  There was a fellow and his brother from Brooklyn who’d driven all the way from the east and were taking off in a day or two to go up to San Francisco and then Seattle.  These two were really scarfing up the donuts. They’d stopped in Las Vegas on the way west and, between chewing and swallowing, told me tales of their gambling prowess.  I was intrigued. They had a strategy for blackjack which I listened to with amusement. The brothers Brooklyn, as I started to think about them, told tales of the eccentric people they met on the strip.  They asked about my journey and were excited to hear about the characters I’d met. I pulled out the log I had been keeping and regaled them for an hour or so.  Eventually, they left for a motel room in Westwood. It was late by then, so I conked out on a couch among a cluster of other hikers similarly checking out for the night.

The next morning I met Morris the cat.  Morris was the feline star of a series of commercials for 9Lives cat food. I’d decided to take the Universal Studios tour, an attraction that was dubbed a must-see destination by my San Francisco relatives, Maurianne, and even one of the proselytizers in San Luis Obispo.   Meeting Morris was part of the tour. A trainer told several corny jokes while explaining how they did the cat food commercials. In person the cat was docile and cute.  In the commercials, Morris was a finicky cat who wouldn’t eat any other cat food but 9Lives. The real Morris seemed willing to eat almost anything the trainer fed him in order to get Morris to respond for the tourists.  Hmm. I wondered.  Is that how we behave? Get some tasty reward and then perform for whomever it is we encounter.  Respond positively to pleasant stimuli and then do tricks for the benefactors. Become finicky when we don’t get what we need.

I decided to skip the Chinese theater and Hollywood and Vine.  By the time the bus from Universal studios returned to UCLA I was not up for any more touring. I went to the Pauley Pavilion where the great UCLA basketball teams played and got into several pick up basketball games.  It was a thrill to make baskets at the same hoop that Lew Alcindor, by then Kareem Abdul Jabbar, had scored.    One of my teammates was a student named Josh Becker. We got to chatting after our games and I learned he was leaving school the next day for his home north of San Francisco. He said I was welcome to stay in his dorm room that night as opposed to the homeless lounge.  His roommate had already left for home. Josh told me the room was bare as he was all packed up, but at least I would have some privacy and a mattress.  I was a bit skeptical of whether this was an offer without any quid pro quo, but there were none. He took me up to the room which was indeed bare. He said that not only could I sleep in his roommates’ bed, but I’d have the whole room to myself, since he himself would not even be there that night. Becker had a girlfriend and intended to stay with her.   I took him up on the kind offer.  He also said I could stay the next night when it was completely vacant and I did that as well.

I woke up in Josh’s room the morning of the 14th and started my final preparation for hiking east.  I did a wash in the dorm laundry room and my duds were grateful.  I checked my map and identified the most desirable and likely hiking route to Buffalo.  I spent time on the log I’d discussed with the brothers Brooklyn.  I put big stars on the map to indicate where I had stayed up until then. June 14th was day 16 of the journey.  I figured I’d be back at the earliest by June 21st and made notes about mileage goals for each day’s hiking. I reaffirmed my commitment never to hike at night because I thought a different breed of cat picks up riders at night than those who pick up in the daytime.  By one in the afternoon I was all mapped and packed up.

I had some time so I finagled my way into a gated outdoor pool for students.  I’d gotten a hold of the novel, The Andromeda Strain and started reading it by the pool. A scary book that.   There were few people by the pool and I began to think of Morris the cat. I was feeling crabby, finicky and lonely. Lonely comes with the territory of hiking by yourself. The prospect of the looming 3000 miles between the pool and Buffalo, fueled a composite of “what am I doing here and why did I do this."  Like Morris, I needed some stimulus to get me moving and stop being crabby.

 

Becca and I had made a pact that there would be no phone calls while I was gone.  She said, and it made sense, that she did not want to be waiting to hear from me because that could ratchet up her anxiety if she did not hear from me.  By agreeing not to call she would never anticipate a call.  But this sudden surge of disconnect surfaced and I thought she would not mind if I broke our agreement.  I walked toward the homeless lounge where I’d noticed a number of pay phones. 

Becca didn’t mind the call. She oozed warmth and love and said she was relieved to hear from me and anxious to know where I was and if I was alright.  I told her I was fine, but was lonely. She said she missed me. She asked when I would be back and I told her that I was leaving the next day and my best guess was that I could be back as early as the 21st but could be the 22nd or 23rd.  We agreed somewhat reluctantly not to call each other again until I returned, but both said it was good that I had called when I did. It was a gooey conversation. We said we loved each other and I felt better.  Like Morris. I was ready for tricks.  

I almost decided to forego the homeless lounge, but it was right there a few steps from the phone booth. Maybe the brothers Brooklyn would be there eating donuts.   They were not. Nobody except a couple of attendants were. A man and a woman watching the area.  For the heck of it I walked up to the map to see if any drivers were going my way. None were. But I saw a note that made me take a step back. A woman was seeking a ride to Oklahoma City.  With the same pin she’d used to attach her note to the bulletin board, she’d pinned a photo.  I had met this person. I emitted a startled laugh and looked again.   

I went up to the attendants and inquired.

“She got a ride.” Said a young man behind a desk.

“She did?”

“That surprise you?”  

“I guess not.” I said.

“She posted that picture on the bulletin board sometime this morning and sat here for an hour or two.  Then a guy came up to her. They talked. She picked up her pack and left with him. She had a few copies of the picture. Gave me one in case someone asked about riders.”

"Craig here likes to take it out and look at it now and again." said the woman attendant.

Craig snorted. I returned to the bulletin board and stared at the photo.  It was absolutely she. The young woman in the photo was wearing a revealing low cut top.  You could clearly make out the moon and the star tattoo on her right breast.  I removed the pin that was holding the note and photo. I took the picture and flipped it over. There was a phone number and name written on the back. 

I put the photo in my wallet, returned to the dorm room, finished The Andromeda Strain and was spooked. I slept fitfully until I got up about 5. By 530 I was out on the highway with my thumb out.

Thirty One

2019

When I left the Newton Public library with Becca, thoughts were darting this way and that.  She had made points I’d not considered. I was nearly certain who had committed the murder, but she argued credibly that there could be others. 

Besides that, the buzz came back. The embers of a relationship that had gone south as many times as it had been energized, were now reigniting.  After our years in Buffalo—off and on throughout—we’d reconnected in Boston in the late 70s.  I’d heard she moved to Boston, I was visiting a friend, and gave a call.  Two more years of roller coastering before one Thanksgiving we said, nearly at the same time, we’d had it. Now decades later, we spend an afternoon trying to identify a murderer and what surfaces is this other mystery.  How in the world are we attracted to one another?

“It was good to see you.” She said when she got to her car in the parking lot.  I said the same or words to that effect. Once in the car, she rolled the window down. “Let me know when you want to proceed.”  I thought there might be something suggestive about that comment, but she rolled up her window right away and drove out of the lot.

I needed to sort things out.  I shook my head as if to dismiss any surging notions of Becca and me. I drove to a strip mall not far from where Becca and I first met in McDonalds. At one time the mall housed a supermarket and some gas tanks. Both are gone now. The gas tanks replaced with more parking spots in the lot. The supermarket replaced by a Starbucks, go figure, a Staples and an IPARTY store.  An indication of how few people are like me is the number of IParty stores in the greater Boston area. And the size of the outfits.  If everyone partied as I do you couldn’t support one IPARTY store the size of a squash court.  The party places now are as big as a large barn.  I parked in the lot, walked past the Starbucks and IPARTY store toward, and then into, the Staples. I wanted to get a lined pad on which I’d summarize what Becca and I had discussed.  

Staples has those tvs when you enter and exit that capture your image as you come and go. They are used for security, and I am occasionally taken aback—despite their omnipresence—when I see my walking self as I exit and enter.  I bought two lined pads and was leaving Staples with my merchandise.  I checked my unflattering image on the tv screen and was nearly outside at the curb when it registered that there had been someone else in the picture who looked vaguely familiar.  I’d noticed the person in the distance scanning a shelf apparently trying to locate something.  Maybe I would not have noticed him had it not been for what was on my mind, but there had been a connection.

There are two sets of sliding doors when you exit Staples. The first set leads you to a vestibule. It is the same vestibule you’d come into when you enter the store from the curb.  The second set takes the shopper to the curb.  When entering from the curb you’d find yourself in the vestibule, turn right and go through another set of sliders that gets you into the store. 

I was already outside at the curb when I realized who this person was or could be.  Quickly I re-entered the store, arrived in the vestibule, went through the sliding doors to my right, raced around to see if I could find him near the shelves where he had been.  Not there. Then I saw him paying up on a check-out line.  He was walking toward the exit when I squirmed through another lane past confused shoppers and a surprised cashier. I shouted once, and then again. The second time was loud enough for it to sound urgent.  LoMack was already in the vestibule. He stopped and turned back looking through the now closed glass at this barking stranger.  

I’ve been told that I have a very good memory. And I do.  I know this because in comparison to others who forget what I clearly remember, I can see—sometimes glaringly--how good my memory is or how bad is another’s.  We’ll be at a reunion and someone will ask who was the star in the high school play, and I know clearly. Then others marvel at what to me is an easy recollection.  I am called on by friends who can’t remember the name of a dorm director, or the dog who pestered everyone in the campus center.  More than once I have left someone startled when I call out their name and tell them something about an encounter we had years back.

This is essentially what happened when the electronic doors opened and I was in the same space with LoMack for the first time in 40 plus years.  He was all gray, now, some wrinkles, but it was definitely him.  He was looking at me as if to say—“who are you calling me LoMack, and where do I know you from."

“LoMack, right?” I say.

“Yes” he said slowly. “LoMack. Right.”

“Went to Indiana University? Right?”

Again, with some hesitation and anxiety LoMack nodded.

“You don’t remember me.” I said.

“No. No, I don’t think I know you.  And only a handful of people on the planet know about LoMack. Who are you?”

Then I did what I can do. I reeled off information about the guy that he had told me before.  His father was a doctor. He had a sister a couple of years his junior.  His cousin went to the University of Michigan.  He originally was from Marblehead.

This all had a cumulative effect, but he was still not convinced.  “You once had sex with a woman who called you The Killer.”  This did it. Eyeballs wide open.

“Who are you man? You are scaring me.”

“KoZak” remember. “Needles California.”

I’d spent a day and a night with this guy hitchhiking. We had hours of time to talk waiting for a ride. I remember him clearly.

“Kozack.” I said. “We were hitch hiking together and finally got a ride from the guy who backed up down the interstate to pick us up”

“Kozak” He said, slowly- as if gaining a purchase. “Kozack” said LoMack, “Kozak? Zook? Your name is Zook?"

“Zeke”

“Zeke. Ok. Zeke. Right. Zeke would be Kozack.” He smiled.

“Kozack.” I said again.

 He nodded his head slowly, a number of times. “I remember now. That fucking guy was crazy."  

Thirty

June 11, 1974

Jim had to make a stop at work before he could begin his route and drive me to Disneyland. He said it would take a half an hour, tops.  I chatted with Katie over coffee awaiting his return. After some general, “good morning, how did you sleep” schmoozing, Katie sighed. 

“Sorry about last night.” She said “Jeannine can be a bit much.”  

“She was all right.” I lied.  

“No she wasn’t.  She really wasn’t.”  Big inhale.   “Sometimes Jeannine can be, well, embarrassing. I don’t know how we came out of the same spot.”  

“Well, you are different.”

“Thanks. I hope so.”

I made a face, shrugged, and turned my palms up. “It was no big deal,” I said. Katie tilted her head to the left and raised her eyebrows, “C’mon. She was acting like an ass. I don’t know what’s going on with her.  And with Bob. Something is off there.  That stupid tape. So silly.”

The kids were around and every bit as caffeinated as they had been the night before.  They wanted to show me their toys. After I saw what seemed like the entire inventory, I was asked to observe tumbling routines.  I responded with “Wows” at appropriate intervals. They were cute kids, but I could see how they could tire you out. Katie looked exhausted and it wasn’t even 9 in the morning.

Abruptly, the side door opened and Jim plodded in. He did not look happy.  

“I quit.” He said.

Katie was wide eyed. “You quit?”  Her look was a composite of shock, and what now, we’re broke. “What happened, Jimmy.”

Seems as if when Jim got to whatever passed for headquarters, he’d been reprimanded for something or another.  Jim did not take the criticism well.  His boss told him he would be fined. Jim quit.

“No more job,” he said with what he tried to complement with a smile—but it looked like a grimace. The former happy go-lucky truck driver collapsed into a chair and sat there with nobody saying much of anything for a while.  His son came over and said, “Watch this.” And did a somersault.  Jim again forced a smile.

“Hey buddy” he said, “You think you can take your act on the road and make us a living.” 

“Okay Daddy.”

Jim turned to look at me. “Sorry, can’t take you to Disneyland now.” 

Katie, not knowing how to address the situation with Jim and, I imagine, not wanting me around said she would take me next door and talk to Bob. The brother-in-law worked around Disneyland and maybe he could drive me there.  I wasn’t very anxious to run into Jeannine but the possibility that Bob might give me a lift was a relief.  

It worked out. Bob was indeed driving towards Disneyland and could take me.  I said my goodbyes to the sad Jim, gave Katie a platonic hug, and waved at the children.  They came running to the door wanting to know if I was coming back that night.  Katie answered for me.  And then I was out the door, getting into Bob’s Chevy Impala.

Bob turned out to be decent company.  Not much of a talker at the outset. I offered to pay for gas and he just waved me off.  He asked some questions about my trip.  Where did I start from? How long have I been on the road? But he was just making talk not much interested in the answers. After a pause he started up again.

“That whole thing with Jeannine last night. I don’t know what gets into her.  She knows, she knows nothing like that happened.”

“Never mind. It didn’t bother me.”

“It bothered me.” He said, then wheezed, “Jeannine” as if to say, “what’s with her” and “how did I wind up with her” in a couple of syllables.  He went on to comment that Jim’s kids were just too wild and friendly and maybe Katie and Jim should curtail their exuberance some. “Ah, what do I know.” he said. “We don’t have no kids.”

It was a longer ride to Disneyland than I thought.  I again offered to pay Bob for the gas when we arrived, but he again waved a hand in my direction. “I was going this way anyway.” And then he exited from my life.  

I remember thinking then that this hitch-hiking journey--this life in fact--was like a play.  I had the lead in my play. Bob had the lead in his play. In my play Bob exited from my life. In his play, I exited from his. And then on to the next scene.  No idea of course about what happened in his drama.  If I had to guess, he and Jeannine divorced within a couple of years, Katie and Jeannine still live next door but they barely talk.  Jim and Bob occasionally go out for a beer. Jim confides during one beer meet that he picked up a young girl hiker on the road and now is in big trouble. Bob tries to console but really spends the hour thinking about how Jim manages to get laid all the time. Who knows what actually happened? Bob’s play is only showing in his theatre.  Maybe he doesn’t even take the time to follow the plot line.

In my play the next scene was Disneyland.  I became a kid for a day. Went to a bunch of rides. Spent some time in Fantasyland.  Chatted with Goofy for a stretch.  Had my picture taken with Minnie and Mickey.  Had lunch in a cafeteria with a seven dwarfs’ theme. They had a menu item called the Jumbo Dwarf burger.  The lobotomized waitress did not get it when I commented that this name was a contradiction.  “Ha ha” she said but had no idea to what I was referring. What could the training be like for a job in Disneyland. I passed on the Jumbo Dwarf burger and had the daily special: Fairest Sandwich of Them All.  Tasted pretty much like tuna fish.

***

During the night of my Buffalo going away party--the night when Becca fumed because I intended to employ a laundry bag instead of a backpack--the party host, Steve, made a couple of suggestions. Steve was taken by my wanderlust and, I sensed, a bit jealous of my freedom to embark on this expedition.  He was a medical student and was in what appeared to be, and I think was, a healthy marriage.  But he longed for a life that was more unconventional.  My plans for hitch hiking across the country sounded exciting.   

His first suggestion was to use his backpack instead of my laundry bag. The backpack was pristine. He’d bought it for camping and hiking and he never camped or hiked so he thought that if he couldn’t hitch cross country with me, at least the backpack could. Before I could ask if he was sure, Becca accepted the offer.  The second suggestion was to call his very cool cousin who lived in Los Angeles. This cousin Mike and his wife Sherri were, according to Steve, old bohemians and they would love to put me up and take me around when I got to LA.  

“Are you sure?”  I said.  “I’m a complete stranger to them”

“It will be fine. Absolutely fine.  Mike and Sherri are, he said again, old bohemians. “They’re cool. I’ll call them for you and set it up.”

“I don’t want you to go out of your way, Steve.”

“Happy to do it. Haven’t spoken to Mike in a while anyway.  He’ll be terrific. You’ll love him. He’ll show you around.”

“Well, that would be wonderful if it can happen. But” I repeated. “I’m a complete stranger.” 

The fact was, that I barely knew Steve. He was an acquaintance more than a friend. His wife knew Becca well and we had gone out a few times. I didn’t want to be imposing on this cousin of his.

“Don’t worry about it. I’ll call him tomorrow.”

Before Becca and I left the party and started bickering in the parking lot, Steve scrawled the name and address of his cousin in Los Angeles. “Put this in your wallet” he said.

***

Outside of Disneyland there were a slew of busses that could take visitors here or there. Some were chartered for particular groups, but others were available to anyone headed to various destinations.  I decided to treat myself to a non-hitch-hiking excursion and bought a ticket to a downtown bus station.  I planned to call Steve’s cousin when I got to LA and that is just what I did.  It was a two-hour bus ride from Disneyland so it was early evening when I arrived at the terminal. I found a phone booth and made the call. 

Sherri answered the phone. I explained who I was and while she did not sound unfriendly, her response fell well short of “Welcome! Steve told us all about you.” I wasn’t even sure if she   was certain who I was and what this was about.  Her hesitancy put me off balance, “hey look”, I said. “maybe Steve forgot to contact you. That is fine. I can find some other place to stay.”

“No”, she said, again friendly but reserved. “Mike, my husband, did say something about his cousin contacting him.  Come on over. We’d love to meet you.”  

Sherri did not really sound like she’d love to meet me, but she gave me their address and general directions about how to get to their home by bus.  

“Okay” I said, but felt a bit like a goof.  What I really felt like doing was strangling Steve, but I decided to head on out to La Brea where they lived. Maybe Sherri would talk to Mike and that old bohemian would give her the complete scoop. 

I learned that the public transportation system in Los Angeles, Rapid Transit, is misnamed.  The call to Sherri came from a booth on 5th and Hill in downtown LA.  From there it was supposed to be only about 40 minutes to get to Sherri’s and Mike’s La Brea’s bus stop.  It took over two hours.

It was getting dark when I walked out of the station toward where I was to pick up the bus.  Within moments, I could tell that this was not the safest neighborhood in the world. I looked at a map subsequently and saw this section was called, not inappropriately, Skid Row.  Lots of broken glass, shouting, and stumbling winos.  A fellow came out of what looked like a church and handed me a sandwich in a plastic wrap.  I must have looked like I fit in. 

I arrived at the bus stop and waited and waited for the Rapid Transit. I usually figure I can handle myself but it was dicey near the stop what with the wobbling drunks asking for change, periodic shouting, and occasional sounds of breaking glass.  I felt at risk standing by myself.  After twenty minutes, another man joined me at the stop. This seemed fortunate. This guy was put together. Big fellow, probably 6’ 4” or 6’ 5”, attaché case, three-piece suit.  I figured nobody was going to mess with this guy. And I am sticking with him. He took two steps to the left; I went to the left. Two steps to the right and like a dancer in a chorus line I followed him.  After about five minutes of synchronized pacing, the big fellow looked to his left and right and then down at me.  

“I don’t know about you mister, but I’m scared. I’m getting the hell out of here.” 

And then the big guy, my savior, dashed up the block. 

“Just great” I thought. If this moose is scared what am I doing here.  I raced after the guy. While we were running to the next stop on the line, the big guy kept wheezing “Terrible area. Two dudes were murdered here last week.” 

Wonderful. The moose is panicky. We arrived panting at the next stop on the line in a less depressed area and waited for the bus together. The rapid transit eventually arrived. We boarded. The moose was only going a couple of stops but kept shaking his head, wiping sweat from his brow, saying things like “Whoa that was a close call.”  He got off at his stop and departed my play forever.

I checked the map on the bus and I saw that I still had a good half hour to ride to get to La Brea.   An older man got on the bus with a Dodgers cap.  We talk. He is an ex New Yorker who enjoys the weather in Los Angeles, but confides sotto-voce that LA is just a big hick town.  From some references he makes I think he is a member of the tribe and when I mention I am as well, he becomes chattier. He tells me he was a big Dodger fan in Brooklyn and now follows the Dodgers religiously. Then he confides with a smile, that he brings his own food to the games so he can keep kosher while at the park.  I tell him I went to the game the previous night when the Dodgers lost in extra innings. He waves his hand in disgust and then proceeds to break down the contest in detail and identify several instances when Walter Alston, the manager, “flubbed it.”  Eventually, my pal, the kosher Dodger fan gets off, and I continue on my way to La Brea.

I depart at a La Brea stop and follow the directions Sherri gave me on the phone. I arrive at the old bohemians’ apartment.   This has been a long shlep, and I am eager to say hello to this cool cousin Steve told me about and just kick back. I am more than a bit taken aback by what occurs.

Mike answers the door, but only a crack. He’s kept the chain on the door.  I see a half smiling Sherri in the background holding an infant.  Mike said hello and then informed me that he will take me to a nearby motel.

I am stunned, move on to annoyed, reaching angry in less than a minute 

“A motel?”

“This is our type of hospitality.”

This sounded like baloney to me.  It sounded like he was not too keen about putting up a stranger.  That made sense to me, and it was precisely what I thought might be the case before Steve assured me that his cousin was Joe Cool and would love hanging out.

I don’t like handouts, and never did. I wouldn’t have come all the way to La Brea if I thought it would be an inconvenience.  Mike wanted nothing to do with me, but to seem like he was being a sport he would put me up in a motel.  

I told him I would pay for it, sounding and being miffed. He said, he already had.  He walked me to the place no more than a block away from where he lived. He spoke to the attendant who’d apparently had a conversation with Mike previously. We went into the room and Mike started telling me all the swell things I could do in LA, but I was not listening.  He left and I was fuming.

I call Steve.  I want to tell him how it worked out with the old bohemians.  Steve says, “Well, you know they have a kid now.” 

“Well, why didn’t you tell me that or at least not urge me to contact them. I felt like an intruder.”

“Oh, it’s no big deal.  You have a place to stay.”

“That’s not the point, Steve”  

“How’s the back pack holding up” he said.

“Just great.”  I said. Then soon after we hung up.

Steve is out of my play. Another act in this drama. Today the characters included Bob, Jim, Katie, two tumbling tots, Goofy, Mickey and Minnie, a vapid waitress who could not understand why Jumbo and Dwarf do not quite go together, several winos, the missionary with the not fairest in the land sandwich, a frightened linebacker, the kosher Dodger fan, two old bohemians, and Steve.  All exiting right and left. I’m still on stage. 

Onward.

Twenty Nine

April 2019

Becca has made it. By all conventional measures. She lives in a big beautiful home in an affluent suburb.  Her husband is industrious and, I guess, does well enough so that between their two salaries they can afford an attractive neighborhood.  They have healthy kids and judging by social media sleuthing they all appear to be well adjusted.    

Becca’s changed careers a number of times.  She’d been a pediatric psychotherapist in a hospital when last we were romantically involved.  Then she went back to school to earn an MSW and became a social worker and, from what I can gather, a successful one.  But after a spell she changed gears again and went into radio.  She had her own program on a local station where she counseled women who were between relationships and struggling. That too was a successful enterprise. But she gave that up and is now a Human Relations VP in a very large organization.  I have a buddy who works for the same company and he told me that Rebecca—as he called her- did wonders for what had been an HR unit that had been in disarray. 

It is interesting that Becca has jumped around and I have stayed at one job my entire career.  Of the two of us, she is absolutely the straighter arrow. Once she and I were painting a room and I started on one wall and she worked on another.  This was back in graduate school when a landlord would typically tell you that you could paint, and might even spring for the paint, but you were responsible for the painting. Well, there we were one night painting my bedroom.  At one point she turned around, saw my work, and started to laugh.  

“Look at us. Look at the way we paint. It is just like our personalities.”  

I saw what she meant. Her wall was all vertical lines. She had started at one corner of the wall, worked her way down, and then went to a new row to work her way down from that.  Not me. I started in one place and also went down, but then might have gone sideways for a while before starting up.  The result would be the same, but I was not structured in how I went about it. She was.

Yet career wise, she bounced all over taking risks while I stayed put. Could be that I just had found something I liked to do earlier than she did.  Could be that she just had a better grasp on the reality that we had this one life and might as well reinvent ourselves periodically.

When I was an undergraduate, I played a lot of rummy five hundred. I was very good at the game, frustrating opponents by how often I would take risks putting my hand in jeopardy yet somehow managing to be victorious. My plan was simple. Always, always, always, pick up cards when you could make a meld. An opponent might have two cards in her hand and I might have had eight. There could be ten cards on the table.  If I could make a meld, even with a low point card, I’d pick up all ten and take my chances that eventually I would be able to go out with a whole bunch of points.  Rarely did I get burned, and over the course of a game to 500, regularly the strategy would result in a win.

The thing is that in my life I have not done that at all.  I have had the same job as a college professor since I was in my mid 20s. A number of times people suggested I go into business and make some dough.  But I never wanted to risk a job that I liked with tenure.  Completely the opposite of my rummy five hundred philosophy.  

Security is a comfortable thing.  But do you get the same juice out of your life if you stay doing one thing and stay in one place.  Or do you, like Becca did—despite her personality—take risks.  In my head I am an iconoclast—and in action--I have taken steps to identify and work toward ending insidious conventions.  Yet, this thing has lingered and not been addressed. And it did not even nag at me before Las Vegas. I had buried it. And I have this one life. It will run out at some point.  It could run out tomorrow. Several of my contemporaries are dropping-suddenly.  I browse through my college alumni magazine and linger on the News and Notes section to see who is now gone from my era. I read about this one or that one who has died and now cannot address items on their to-do list even if they weren’t aware of what was on their to do list. 

I know this Nevada person is dead.  And I knew who did it. As Becca pointed out in the library, there may not be certainty about who did it, but I knew who did it.   Maybe if I did nothing now some sleuth would eventually find the doer and relay the sad news to the parents.  But maybe not.  And nobody but nobody would ever accuse me of being delinquent for not involving myself now forty years later, except for me. And now, Becca.

Twenty Eight

 

June 1974

From San Luis Obispo to Los Angeles was not easy.  

It took me a spell to walk to the highway ramp. I passed the Taco Bell where I’d been picked up the night before by the proselytizer.  I eyed the tiny house with the sourpuss family, quiet now in the early hours of the morning. And then I stood by the highway with my thumb out for an hour.

Eventually, I was picked up by a couple with a Saint Bernard in a Volkswagen. 

By this time, now over a week into the journey, I had a sense of what cars might stop and which probably would not.  A guarantee no go—was a truck with a camper.  Only once out of the dozens of rides I had did a truck with a camper stop.  I remember her too.  Did not say a single word to me beyond the basic “where are you going” and “here’s where I get off.”  

Single drivers stopped more than those with company. Men more than women. Young more than old.  With commercial trucks you had a shot, like I had with Nelson and would later this day with Jim, and then of course with Mike in a few days. 

Often I knew, before I stuck my thumb out, if there was a reasonable chance that I’d get a lift.

But then there were times when you were offered a lift and it made no sense. Thirty empty cars could go by with a single driver and none would stop.  Then a tiny car packed to the roof, would pull over and rearrange everything to give you a lift. Once near Albany on a different trip, a woman stopped in a car just jammed with her stuff because, she told me later, she was moving. She had to hoist two plants that were sitting on the front seat so I could get in.  I rode with leaves in my face that day for a couple of hours and tried to hold a conversation.

So, I was surprised when this couple in a Volkswagen bug pulled over.  I sat in the back with a dancing Saint Bernard as they chatted about the weather in California and occasionally told this huge dog to settle down. The dog paid no attention.  I was relieved, but again surprised, when the driver pulled over after only one exit, telling me that he hoped he helped having driven me with his slobbering animal about five miles down the road.  

I waited for another hour before an Allied Van line truck pulled over. A handsome smiling fellow told me to “get my ass on in.”  He was going all the way to LA.  This seemed like a godsend. 

It was mid-morning at this point. Jim and I chatted easily. He was easy in general--the kind of fellow who looks and sounds as if he doesn’t have a care in the world and you wonder how happy he can really be.  But he sure seemed to be happy.  Jim was a baseball fan and we talked Dodgers Giants and sports in general, though you could tell he did not know much in the way of particulars, just liked the idea of sports. 

I found out that Jim just did not haul goods, he loaded and delivered them.   He was today stopping in Santa Barbara where he was to unload a family’s furniture and deposit it in their new abode.  

Jim had mentioned his wife and kids a few times in the conversation when, suddenly, a woman’s head popped out from behind a curtain.  This was, I discovered, his wife who had been sleeping in the back.  She too was easy, happy and smiling.  She crawled out from the sleeper and sat in the front with me. It was kind of tight but Katie was tiny; probably no more than a 100 pounds and I guessed 5 2. She was built like a gymnast and told me she’d been one in high school. We three bounced along in that truck while I listened to the good natured and loving back and forth between the two.

Outside of Santa Barbara they made me a deal. I could get off there and be on my way, or I could help them unload the furniture and continue on with them to Anaheim.  Feeling strong and enjoying the company, I chose the latter. We pulled up to a condo in a senior development where we met the Rothsteins who had chosen to retire in Santa Barbara.  It took us close to two hours to get the stuff out of the truck and at the end of the effort I was worried if maybe it had been worth the deal. Katie was, for her size, as strong as a bull and Jim was able to carry heavy objects effortlessly. I was doing okay myself but it was tough and I felt a strain on my back when we finally got back into the truck.  The Rothsteins were nice, wanted us to be gentle with their furniture, and offered us cookies while debating with each other whether this move was a wise one for them.  We left them still discussing the merits of retirement living. 

A half hour later, Jim, Katie and I stopped to eat. We were now about an hour north of the Los Angeles city area. We all got into a heated discussion of the Dodgers versus the Giants in the restaurant. A good natured back and forth about the merits of Jimmy Wynn the toy cannon who played for the Dodgers.  Jim said that the Dodgers were in town and why didn’t we just go on in to see the game.  This seemed a bit odd to me that we would haul a huge Allied Van Lines truck into the parking lot of Chavez Ravine, but that is what we did. We bought us some tickets that were excellent right behind home plate and watched the Dodgers lose in eleven innings before we got back into the truck. 

It was late by now and I was concerned about where I might sleep.  Jim and Katie suggested I come back to their home and sleep on the floor there.  Their home was a little out of my way, but they promised to take me the next morning to Disneyland as it was on Jim’s next day route.  I was beginning to feel a little odd about all this good fortune. It seemed too good to be true. A ride all the way to LA, easy happy company, the Dodger game, and an invite to sleep at their suburban home.  But I thought I was wily enough to extricate myself from something goofy if it came along. I accepted their offer and we wound the truck through the suburbs of LA until very close to midnight when we pulled up in front of their home.  Their kids, they said, were being baby sat by Katie’s sister and brother-in-law who lived right next door. They said they’d pick up the kids and I figured, incorrectly, that we’d be asleep a short while thereafter.

Sleep did not come for a long while.  When we entered their cozy home, Katie went next door to get the kids and Jim offered me a beer.  I was hoping the kids would arrive sleepy and the parents would tuck them in saying good night and sweet dreams as I got ready to collapse on a living room couch.

The kids came in as did Katie’s sister and sad looking brother-in-law.  The kids were bouncy like they had had several chocolate bars.  Nothing approaching sleep. As gregarious as their parents, they wanted to know my life story and whether I liked playing hide and seek.  Jim found this charming and giggled each time the kids asked me a question. The boy was probably around seven and his sister five. They stumbled around the small living room.

The brother-in-law wanted to go home. The sister though was grousing about something. The sister Jeannine looked nothing like Katie. She had some weight on her, big floppy tee shirt over her shorts, puffing away on one cigarette after another.  She was upset at Bob because she said he had been cheating on her.

This seemed to be an ongoing argument that Jim and Katie had heard before. Katie did not appear to be amused but Jim laughed each time Jeannine suggested that Bob had been unfaithful.  Jeannine was coarse about it accusing Bob of “playing with that whore’s tits.”  Bob seemed tired either because it was late or because he had heard this many times before. Jim couldn’t stop giggling and repeating now and again “playing with that whore’s tits.”  Finally, Bob exasperated said, “I did not play with no girl’s tits.”  This set Jim off into teary waves.

I was beginning to feel more than a little uncomfortable. I did not know these people and I had the feeling that Jim was showing me off somehow, as if this was a show for my benefit, a show he had seen before. He was behaving like someone who had previously watched a funny bit and wanted to share the laughs with another. 

From the start, but certainly after a short time, I did not find the scene especially humorous. Jeannine kept accusing Bob, Bob sat shaking his head, Jim was giggling like a teenager while the kids oblivious to the adult conversation were showing off themselves, doing cartwheels for my benefit and the assembled.

Finally, Bob said he had had it and left to go to sleep. And Katie went upstairs to put the kids to bed.  But Jim kept drinking beer and Jeannine still was muttering about Bob while smoking cigarettes. Jim right at the tail end of a laugh, said, “Why don’t we play Alan the tape?” 

 “I don’t want to play no stranger no tape.” Said Jeannine

I didn’t want to listen to no tape either. I was exhausted and also this was not a scene that was appealing. I had a sense that this was going to be about sex and while, in the abstract the idea of a California orgy of any sort would have its appeal, it had no appeal with chain smoking obese Jeannine late at night when I was battling to keep my eyes open.  Jim’s giggling was beginning to sound like the laughter of a pervert who got off on some strange doings.  It was now after 1 in the morning and there was no exit for me.  I was going to sleep on this couch in the living room and could not get down to business of nodding off until Jim and Jeannine left for bed.  And here was Jim continuing to egg on Jeannine about some tape.

Despite Jeannine’s protestations that she did not want to “play no tape for no stranger”, she really kind of wanted to, in the same way she got a kick out of saying the word “tits” when her husband was in the room.  

“Alan” Jim said with big anticipatory eyes, “you gotta hear this tape. Jeannine made.”  

“Well,” I said, “if Jeannine doesn’t want to, that’s okay, and besides its late.”

“Oh Jeannine doesn’t mind. Where is that tape?”  So over my continued, “It’s okays, I need to get to sleep” and Jeannine’s milder protestations--which were intermingled with directions to where the tape was in the cabinet-- Jim scrambled, got the cassette and stuck it in a machine.

“You got to hear this” he said. 

It was an audio tape of amateurish porn talk, so amateurish that it was difficult to imagine who would find the tape steamy. Jeannine was playing a character in a story she made up which was close to the real one she had described when Bob was in the room.  The character was talking about a nurse Jeannine and Bob knew, again of course with big tits, who, the character wondered,  her husband wanted to feel up. 

And the character in this truly idiotic, sophomoric and steam-less skit, insisted that the only way her husband would get to feel up the nurse was if he took his pants down so he could see his dick get erect.  Then eventually the narrator in this drama decided to take her shirt off.  

Fortunately, the actual Jeannine sitting in the living room kept her potato sack of a top on. She feigned disinterest in the radio story. “I don’t know why I let you play this, Jim Donaldson.”

Jim was hysterical at every sexual allusion.  Jeannine was shaking her head. Katie came down and said something like, “Oh you’re listening to that tape.”  

“Sit here and listen to this.” said Jim

“I’ve heard it a million times.”  

“He’s gonna suck the nurse’s tits now.”

“I know I’ve heard it.”

This is not erotic and I am getting nervous. Who knew if this was some grand charade hoping to have me get naked and take photos and blackmail. All sorts of wholly unpleasant notions are racing through my head.

Finally, I stood up. “Hey Jim, this is great, but I got to get to sleep. Thanks for the show. Very interesting”

“Just this one part.”

Katie said, “No, Alan’s tired. And so am I.” Jeannine said the same thing but she was clearly disappointed.

“Okay” said Jim.  “Okay.” He got up still laughing. “It gets better, though. It gets even better.” 

“I’ll bet” I said.  

Jeannine hauled herself up and waddled out the side door. Jim and Katie waved good night and I felt very relieved.  

Twenty Seven

2019

Before we left McDonalds, Becca and I agreed to meet in a week at the Newton Public Library.  You can book private rooms at the library to work in groups. The rooms all have a rectangular table, chairs, and electric outlets for laptops and whatever else.  The outside walls are glass so passers-by can see who is in there.  On the door is a list of those who have reserved the room and how much time they have in the space.  

Becca had asked me to scan a copy of the log I’d kept on the trip and send it to her as an attachment.  She said she would look at the log before our following week’s rendezvous.  I asked if she wanted a copy of the map though--even when I asked--I knew that scanning the map would be difficult.  “No” she replied. “I’ll construct one from the log. But bring your copy”.  

I again arrived first for our meet.  There’s a bit of a walkway when you enter the library and then, after about ten yards, you can hang a left into an alcove where there are sitting rooms near vending machines.  I was fetching some coffee and scanning the candy bars when I heard Becca say hello. I turned around and, with some awkwardness, we reprised our McDonalds triangle hug.  It was even less of an embrace this time as Becca was holding a cloth bag in one hand and didn’t get both arms around me.

“You want some coffee?” I said.

“I’m good.  I brought water.”

“Candy bar?”

“Snickers for you?” said Becca “Your favorite as I recall.”

“Crunch is now my default. I’ve matured. Do you want one?”

“No. I brought something. Let’s get going”

I passed on the candy and bought a packet of crackers.  We walked up the stairs not saying much of anything beyond how are you doing, and some nothings about the weather and Boston traffic. When we settled into our private room, Becca pulled a water jug and a snack of something out of her cloth bag placing them both on the table. Then she parked herself in a chair, reached back into the bag to remove her encased laptop and a folded AAA map of the United States.  She unzipped the laptop cover, placed the computer on the table, stashed the cover in the bag, and carefully opened up the map and spread it out on the table.  Very Becca. Orderly and efficient. I took a seat on the other side of the table.

“Okay, Z” she started. “You want me to help. So we are doing this, or starting to do this, my way.”  I made no comment waiting to hear what she meant by her way.

“I made a list from your log and have it on my laptop.  It’s a list of the people you encountered or heard about who could have been the perps.”

“Becca, I know who the perp is.”

“I am not so sure.  We know there is a perp and we know there is a dead kid.  And, yes, who you think the perp is, is more likely than the others, but if you want me to help we’re going to be thorough.  I think going through this methodically will help understand how it went down. And this is the way it is going to be.”

“Does Richard always listen to your orders?”

“Let’s leave Richard out of this.  But to answer your question, he has gotten used to me”

“I bet he has.”

Becca snorted. “You, on the other hand, could never get used to me.”

“And you could never get used to me.”

“You’re right.  I could never get used to a guy who needed a search party every time he was looking for his wallet or watch or keys. Every morning, a scavenger hunt. ‘Hey Becca’” she mimicked “ ‘you see my wallet floating around anywhere.’  I’m trying to dry my hair and I’ve got to go through your junk looking to find something that could—just imagine this—be put in the same place every night.”

“Never mind.”

“Just curious. Do you still need to build in twenty minutes in the morning to hunt for your keys?     Is Linda like that too? Are the two of you careening off the walls-- like tag team wrestlers bouncing against the ropes--in a frenzy looking for your cell phones.”

“You watching much wrestling these days?”  I said. She wasn’t looking at me and didn’t answer. I continued.  “And just curious, are you still bounding out of bed at midnight as if someone under the bed kicked you in the ass because, good God, you had forgotten to floss.”

“Maybe I did that once or twice.”

“That’s because you probably only forgot to floss once or twice.”

There were a few beats of silence.

“I think you should sit on my side of the table so we can go through this together.”

I moved around to the other side.  She opened her laptop and found a document.  She pushed the map toward me so we both had a good view of it. The map had circles at various points and dates written within the circles.  It was similar to the map I had kept at the time and recently unearthed, but Becca’s was neater and newer.

I looked at the neatly marked map and shook my head.  “Some things don’t change.”

“Do you want my help or don’t you?”

“I want your help. But I have to say again that I am nearly certain who did the killing.”

“If you want my help, you’ll have to put up with my stuff.”

“How did we ever get along?” I asked.

“Sex.” Said Becca without looking up from the map.

“It was more than sex,” I said.

“It was more than sex, because there was sex. If there had not been any sex, we would not have gotten along.”

“And the point is?”

“Take away the physical attraction and we would not have been together.  That was the question you asked. ‘How did we get along?’  We got along because then the sex overwhelmed our incompatibility.”

“Anything you haven’t figured out?”

"Can we get started?  I have to be back in a couple of hours”

“Richard gave you two hours?”

“Richard doesn’t know I am here and I would not care if he did.” She paused.  “Let's not fight. I want to do this. I want to work with you on this.”

“Thank you… sincerely.”

“You’re welcome, sincerely." Another pause.  "Now remember we are brainstorming here. Throwing out all possibilities. Some are unlikely. Most are unlikely, but it will help us think it through.”

“Okay.” 

Becca opened a word document and began to scroll through a list of names.

“First there’s Nelson, the truck driver who took you to Denver.”  Becca points to two spots on her map. One in Iowa with May 30 written in a circle; the other circle reads May 31st marked in downtown Denver.

“Why Nelson?”

“He travels cross country regularly and picks up hitch-hikers.  Remember what he told you about his ex-wife, and his girlfriend’s kids.”

“Highly unlikely.”

“We’re brainstorming, Z.”

“Then there’s Nelson’s girlfriend.” 

“That’s even more unlikely.”

“Do you know what brainstorming means? The girlfriend had a motive if she was jealous”

“Unlikely.”  

Becca scrolls down the document and I see the next name on her list.

“The record collector?”

Becca points to the map.  “He dropped you off in Grand Junction. There." She presses her finger on where Grand Junction is written on the map.  "And then he picked you up again in Grand Junction.”

“Yeah so?”

“What did the newspaper article say?  The record collector told you he travels around the country collecting records.  Make a lot of sense to you?”

“Not my cup of tea, but people have strange hobbies.”

“He’s on the list of possibilities.  I agree. Not likely. Maybe he is not looking only for records. Who travels around the country looking for 45s?”

“Not you.”

This gets a bit of a laugh out of Becca.  “Got that right.”

“Who’s next?”

She has moved her finger to Salt Lake City where June 1 is marked in red. “Phil.”

“Phil, on the motorcycle?”

“He picked you up on a motorcycle in the middle of the night. Not likely, but he loved motorcycles.”

“Very unlikely.”

“Not impossible.” Said Becca. She continues scrolling through the document. “Then there is Maurianne, Shel, and Barbara.”

“No. No way.”

“They each had a motive.”

“No way.”

“Are you telling me, Barbara did not have a motive?  And Shel? What did Maurianne tell you about Shel?”

“Okay Shel, Barbara maybe. But Maurianne?”

“It’s possible. We are brainstorming. Damn you are so exasperating. You were always so exasperating.”

“Not you.”

“This is how I do things, Mr. Professor who needs an army to find his damn shoes in the morning. One goddamn pair of shoes, a tiny apartment, and hopping around with one shoe on, squawking about the other one.”  Sitting, Becca makes an attempt to imitate someone bouncing up and down on one shoe. Then she makes a big point of resting her finger on Pacifica where June 2nd is written in a circle. 

“Meanwhile.” She continues.  “Break here. Tangent. Did you sleep with her?”

“Maurianne?”

“No, Shel and Phil. Yes Maurianne. Did you sleep with her?”

“No.”

“No?”

“No.” I say this matter of factly. 

“Why not?”

“What do you mean why not?” I said.

 “I mean ‘why not’. You had just travelled all day together. She invites you to stay at her home. She has just separated from her husband.  How come you didn’t sleep with her.”

“I was loyal to my Buffalo girlfriend.”

“Yeah right." A beat.  "Take a look. Are my eyeballs rolling at orbit velocity? Really." Another beat.  "All day long in a car, sharing histories and ‘ho hum why don’t you, stranger, stay in my place tonight.’ Probably had flowers in her hair, asked you about your sign and told you she was an Aquarius. And you did not sleep with her?”

“She did not invite me Becca.”

“Did you put the moves on her at all?”

“No, I did not.”

“Not like you.”

“I only knew her for a day. I am not going to slap the moves on her if she has not made an overture.”

“No overture?”

There had been.  On two occasions after I had come out of the shower that night Maurianne had told me that I did not have to sleep on the couch.  I thought that might have been an invitation, but I disregarded it.

“Look, nothing happened. Maybe something could have, but nothing did.”

“Hmm. Well she is on the list.”

“Fine. Quite a list you’ve got here. My next stop was to my cousins. You think my cousins could have done it?”

“No, I am giving them a pass.”

“You sure?”

“Knowing they are related to you, maybe I should reconsider, but I think they are out.”

“How about my aunt or uncle?”

“Nah they are off the hook.”

“What about my other cousin’s baby? Do you think the infant should be on the list?”

“Look if you want me to help, we are doing this my way. Every possible individual gets on the list.”

“Okay, who is next?”

She scrolls down, “Maurianne’s brother.”

“Maurianne’s brother?”

“You told me what she said about him just before she dropped you off.”

I nodded. She had spoken about her brother at the very end.

Becca continues. “Then I have the three nuts you met the day you left Santa Rosa. The guy who hated Coors. The 32-year-old lover boy with his tools, and the guy in San Luis Obispo who tried to sell God.”

“How do you think these three are possibilities. You think San Luis Obispo went berserk after I stole his peach?”

“Not that. He picked up people just like he picked you up. Fanatics are fanatics in various directions. And the mechanic lothario with the tools that, he told you, could be used for weapons. Maybe he could have finally been rejected by one of the ‘girls’ after a string of others who had previously been ‘good’ to him”

“Okay. What about Coors?”

“Guys who hate, hate. He picks you up and starts railing to a stranger about Coors. Who knows who he is going to be angry with next?”

I sighed. “Look, thanks for doing all this Becca. I do appreciate it. But all these are far-fetched.”

“Under the right conditions anyone can be a murderer”

I pointed at her. “How about you?”

“There are exceptions.”

I pointed to myself.

“Hmm Another possibility.  Maybe I’ll add you to the document.  Look, with the exception of Shel and Barbara all the others are unlikely doers, but not impossible given all we know and the newspaper article. I agree, though, after June 9th, it gets more interesting.”

I paused for a bit. What she had said about anyone being a doer, was something I had been thinking a lot about recently.  

“You’re right.” I said. “We agree on somethings, Anyone can be a murderer, and after June 9th it gets more interesting.”

Twenty Six

 

1974

The last time I had seen my three Santa Rosa cousins they were pipsqueaks, so it was like spending time with a new family during the days I was visiting.  My aunt and uncle treated me like royalty.  Art, one of my cousins, and I drove to the wine country where he, underaged as he was, acted as if he was robbing a bank as we sipped tiny samples. Joe, his older brother, and I drove to where he was taking some summer classes and discussed the fate of the Dodger and Giant rivalry.  We went with Marilyn, the eldest but my junior, to her house—my junior but already a home owner--and joked about our common grandmother, a curmudgeon of no small order.  My grandmother required work and each summer she would travel to California so the east coast siblings could take a break.  Marilyn, Art, and Joe traded grandma stories and wine.  

My favorite was when I’d gone to a party and seen the photo of our grandmother and her second husband on the wall of a co-worker’s home.  I asked how that photo came to exist in this colleague’s house. I found out that the co-worker was the granddaughter of my grandmother’s second husband.  When I revealed that the woman in the photo was my grandmother, I got the stink eye the remaining hours of the night from my colleague and she treated me with reservation for the rest of the time we worked together.

After two days in Santa Rosa, a family friend who commuted into San Francisco drove me in so  I could be a tourist.  I rode the cable cars, went to see the Giants play a day game at old Candlestick Park, went to Chinatown did the whole route.  Near the end of the day, I hitched back towards Santa Rosa stopping at the home of another cousin.  She, her husband, their newborn and I spent two days in Mill Valley. I returned to Santa Rosa on June 7th, saw Art and Joe play for their softball team on that Friday night, and then on Saturday packed up to get back on the road. My Mill Valley cousin and her husband game out on Saturday for a final dinner for me.  It was nourishing in both senses of the word. The visit was a sweet break from truck drivers, electrically charged fences, and peculiar ducks. 

But on Sunday the 9th I was ready to get going again.  The plan was to travel down the coast and see the Pacific Ocean scenery. Spend a few days in Los Angeles and then head back.  Art and my uncle drove me to a spot to start the journey. We hugged our goodbyes, and I took it as a good omen that they weren’t out of the parking lot when I was in a strange car and on my way.

*****

In the morning I had a series of rides.  The first driver had a beef with Coors beer.  He said that the owner was a racist and discriminated against Hispanics.   I told him I would not buy Coors beer and I kept that promise for years.  The second lift, near San Francisco, was from a professor with a heavy British accent.  He was from London and had recently earned a Visiting position at Stanford and was heading that way.  It was more than a bit disconcerting when he said, repeatedly, that he was still having trouble getting used to driving on the right side of the road.   Next, I found myself on a ramp with a fellow who was carrying a toolbox.  He said he was an itinerant car mechanic.  Hitch-hike all over, he told me confidently, and can always get a job “thanks to these” he said pointing to his toolbox.  Tools he said were his ticket to employment wherever he went.  He also commented that, if necessary, they could be used for weapons if I knew what he meant.  The fellow seemed benign to me, but I did wonder about how genuine was the free spirit attitude.   He said he was 32 years old, which seemed ancient to me at the time, and he particularly liked hiking in California because of the girls, a term he used, who were very nice to him, if I knew what he meant.   As if to support his claim, two young women, I’d put them at no more than 20, stopped to pick us both up. He gave me a wink as if to say, “see.”  They, the driver and her buddy, were right out of central casting, smiling and giggling at nearly everything the mechanic said.  They did not seem particularly interested in me.  Romeo, the car mechanic, had told me while we were on the ramp that he and I were heading in the same direction, but when the women got to their exit the mechanic stayed in the car.  When we said our goodbyes, he couldn’t help but whisper, “This is what I am talking about” if I knew what he meant.   

There are three roads that lead to Los Angeles from San Franciso. One is a coastal road, a slow road, route 1—and the road I wanted to travel down since it would reveal the beauty of the coast. Then there is route 101, not as meandering as the coastal route but not the interstate either. And there is route 5, the interstate linking the major cities on the west coast.  When the 32 year old mechanic lothario and I departed, I was south of Santa Cruz at a junction where route 1 and routes 101 intersect.  Two drivers stopped and offered a lift, but in both cases they were headed down 101, and I took a pass. I wanted the scenery. Then a third stopped.

It was a busted up old car.  The side window was taped to the body of the car. There was a crack in the side window which was addressed with more tape.  Dents along the side.  Could not imagine this car going far, but it stopped.

A man leaned out of the window and thrust a map in my face: “Los Angeles?” he inquired, but he pronounced Los Angeles as if the first two syllables of Angeles sounded like angle or ankle.  Very hard G.  I knew what he was asking though, and told him that he could get to Los Angeles by taking route 101 or route 1.  In the car were four men who looked like they had not shaved or showered for a long time.  Did not look like tourists.  I said again that he could go to Los Angeles by taking route 1, but they probably wanted 101.

Out again came the map and the inquiry, “Los Ankeless?”  Again I tried to explain that there were two routes and one was far longer than the other.  It did not work. I discovered that the person with whom I was conversing was the most fluent in English of the four riders and his entire repertoire seemed to consist of saying, asking actually, Los Ankleless?  Finally, I hopped in the car and told them to follow route 1 as that would eventually get them to Los Ankleless.

In no time I was in a tight car and without a means for communicating. The five of us tried hard, but it did not look like we were going to have any vibrant discourse.  Then I thought of something that made me feel more optimistic. I’d studied Spanish in high school and was a decent student scoring high in the 90s on a statewide examination. I figured this would be a decent opportunity to dust off my Spanish literacy and speak to these four men who were travelling in a rustbucket all the way to Mexico City.

Problem was that I could not remember much outside of conversations that I had been required to memorize. Memorizing conversations was the language pedagogy of my secondary school era.  On the basis of a story about, for example, going to the library, you would learn vocabulary words for reading, books, dictionaries, librarians, desks and related terms.  Another conversation we had to memorize was about a visit from an aunt. The result was we learned the words for train, plane, bus, uncles, aunts, cousins, brothers and sisters.   

But these conversations did not seem to help much as I was not in the library and my companions were not my aunts, uncles, cousins, and not in a train, plane or bus.  To make conversation or to attempt to, I asked them about how many cousins they had; do they like books; have they ever been on an airplane; do they have a sister who has a dictionary; how old were their brothers and cousins? It was goofy but it was frustrating sitting with these men and not being able to talk. They responded to my peculiar inquiries warily but-- I could tell from the tone of side conversations--that they were beginning to think I was a strange duck. 

I sold them on this notion when I did a very foolish thing. Fighting to remember my high school Spanish, I recalled a conversation I had to memorize about the school cafeteria. This one taught us how to say bread, butter, water, cook, milk, fork, potatoes, meatballs, and spaghetti.  A word that had gotten a particular charge out of we 16-year-olds, was the word for meatballs, albondigas.  One of the lines in the conversation from, “At the Cafeteria” was Donde estan las albondigas.  Where are the meatballs?  

I knew it was crazy to ask these guys where the meatballs were, but I had been driving for a couple of hours without conversation and had a case of giddies and exasperation which joined forces to make me not care. So, somewhere between Santa Cruz and Carmel, I asked four Mexican men in a beat up Buick that could not pass inspection if you bribed the attendant; I asked these men who had gotten weary and concerned about me--the fellow they picked up who wanted to know if their aunt prefers to drive to work or take the train, and if they took out Don Quixote from the library when they were twelve; I asked knowing ahead of time that this was trouble—Donde estan las albondigas?

Albondigas?  shouted the driver.  And then came spewing forth a torrent of Spanish words that were exchanged like rapid fire among the four of them. While the lone word I could make out with any regularity was “albondigas” I knew the gist of their discourse was this: we have picked up a crazy person.

Shortly thereafter, even though they were going all the way to Los Ankeles I begged out of the car.  When I departed I began to strike up a conversation with anyone who passed by just to be able to exchange thoughts.  Take away the ability to communicate, I think the sanest among us can become a little crazy.

*****

It was late afternoon when I extended my thumb again.  I got a few rides along the coast. I was dropped off my the Hearst castle and considered going up a hill where tourist busses were chugging regularly to see the sight, but passed. Eventually,  I arrived in San Luis Obispo.  There I stood on a ramp for a long time waiting to go further south.  It was very close to dark and my rule about not hiking at night was looming like a mother waving a finger at me saying, “You promised.”

There were several houses near the ramp to the highway. One was the tiniest house I’d ever seen. Almost something out of a comic book.  And little people came out of this house. A mother, father, too tiny kids.  The father did not look like a happy man and one could imagine why since he was living in what was not much larger than the kind of cardboard boxes that refrigerators come in.  There were several entrances and exits and each time the father acted more grumpy than he had previously.  It would surprise me if this house is still standing.  I thought this is not a healthy situation.  This tiny house with this angry man. Not good.

I gave up on the exit and walked back toward the town. I’d seen some fast-food restaurants on the way in.  I was hungry and thought I’d ask someone in one of the establishments where the university was as I knew there was a state college at San Luis Obispo.  

I’d not been in a Taco Bell before, but there's one which appeared to be popular and populated. Now Taco Bells  are all over the east, but then the chain was a west coast phenomenon.  I walked in, got in queue, and looked up at the menu. Not much was familiar.  I figured, “It’s called Taco Bell, I’ll get a Taco.”  

Behind me on the line was a guy about 6 feet tall. He was blonde and thin and had an easy-going posture going for him.  Looked like he could play some basketball.  He noticed my backpack.

“Hiking?”

“Yes. On my way to LA.”

“Got a ways to go at night.”

“I’m done for the day. I don’t like to hike at night.”

“Where you staying?”

“Looking for the university.  I know that hikers sometimes use the couches at night.”

“Probably not the safest place.” Says the blonde stranger. Still easy going, relaxed like he is listening to some soft jazz in his head.  Has an I’m at peace serene face.  But I sense there is an edge of some sort that I can’t place.

“Look” he says. “We live close to the university. You can stay with me. There’s a couch in the living room.”

I hesitate. It’s the 70s, but still I wonder if this is not one of those too good to be true situations.

“I don’t want to put you out.”

“No problem. Tell you what. Come back with me. Take a look. If you’re uncomfortable, we’re a short walk from the school.”

I figure I can take this guy if I need to. He’s thin. I played some basketball and football and can handle myself.  Guy looks like whatever road he’s taking to find peace is one that has not had a stop for self defense. And I have no place to stay.

“Sure. Okay. If you’re sure I am not putting you out. Why don’t I come by and see if it will work.”

He nods his head, sure.  I am on alert but feeling okay about the situation even if it turns out to be dicey.

The Taco Bell is a short drive from his house. It’s an apartment really, part of a multi-family dwelling. He takes me in. There is a living room, small kitchen, looks like a couple of bedrooms off the living room and one off the kitchen.  Out comes a fellow from the kitchen. He too has that I’ve found peace looks about him. We’re introduced and he says something to the blonde guy which puts the scene into focus.

“Studying the Bible, Johnny.  Reading Luke.  Be good to talk about Luke at Bible class tomorrow.”

“Luke is special” says Johnny

So, I got it and get it more as the conversation goes on. These two and a third roommate who I have not met are into Jesus. Seriously. There is Bible stuff all over the house. Not crucifixes though I do see a monster one through an open doorway in the living room.  But Bibles, and magazines, and pamphlets--all Christ this and that. I figure I can ride this out. Let them talk about Jesus. I’m tired. It’s been a long day what with albondigas, the 32 year old lover boy mechanic, the Brit who can’t stay on the correct side of the road and Mr. Don't Buy Coors. I’ll sleep on the couch and be gone in the a.m.

We sit around a table with our tacos, but the blonde Johnny guy has to say a prayer first.  I am not a rude guest, but I don’t partake. He asks me about religion. I’m a member of the tribe and I see this conversation going nowhere but to proselytizing.  About the last thing I want to do is to get into a debate with a Jesus freak about the merits of Judaism.  I dodge the question and tell Blondie it is time for me to sack out. 

“Fair enough” he says. “but listen to some good rock music first.” 

Okay, let’s change the subject. He puts on the record but it is no rock music I’ve ever heard of. He tells me it is Jesus rock. And the bible studier chimes in and says that he really likes this tune or that.  

In comes roommate number three. He is weary having just come back from some work at the church. Doing the lord’s work can sometimes be taxing it appears. There is some issue of contention at the church about who is supposed to clean the bathrooms after church.  Blondie assures him that everything is minor if you trust in Jesus.  Seems like a tough sell to the guy who has had to scrub the toilets, but after a spell in an easy chair that had lost a lot of its stuffing, the third fellow has his mind back on the prize.

All I want to do is go to sleep, but these guys want to talk Jesus and it is their living room.  I figure that maybe I should go to the university as I am tired and they want to talk. Blondie will have nothing of it and says he will just be a few more minutes before he needs to go to bed. But in those few minutes he goes for the hard sell. The other two are less into it, say goodnight and drift into their rooms, but Blondie does not want to go to bed until he gets some commitment from me that I’ll read “some of the literature” they have and maybe consider taking Jesus in.  I’ll say pretty much anything to get this guy to go to sleep and let me have the couch. So I say sure, I’ll read a pamphlet or two. Blondie nods his head at that and puts a packet together for me. Then he makes a mistake that makes Blondie a lot less benign. He starts in on Jesus’s last few days and starts blaming the Jews for the son of God’s demise.  And he starts saying Jew with more than a dollop of derision.

Now I don’t like Blondie very much. And I tell him I have to go to sleep. I tell him Jews are not responsible for Jesus’s death.  Now Blondie does not like me very much. But as he begins to get heated, he remembers that he has Jesus, and works on being relaxed.  “Jesus loves you, Red.”

“Red?”

“Red hair.”

I worked in the borscht belt one summer and the steward called me Red.  Don’t know if he was color blind. My hair is dark brown.

“Looks brown to me.”

“Jesus loves you, Red.” He says. There’s a little bit of a dig in there.  I let it pass, mostly.

“Jesus loves everyone” I say. “or else he couldn’t be much of a Jesus.”

Blondie can’t debate the logic, but he knows this is a dig.

“Jesus loves you.” He says through something like gritted teeth.

“Good night” I say.

Blondie shuts off the lights.

I sleep fitfully on the couch and wake up very early. There’s a peach in the fruit bowl.  I take it.

“Jesus loves me.” I say to myself. And begin the walk back to the highway.

Ne'er do wells

I’m finished now, for a while at least, with what I’ll call my Roth trilogy.  I read the mammoth biography by Blake Bailey, then reread Roth’s controversial, Portnoy’s Complaint, and just completed the memoir by his biographer called The Splendid Things We Planned.

And I am very glad that I read these in this sequence or I might not have read the biography at all.

If you read my blog, you know that I thought the Roth biography was a very good one. Dispassionate, well written, and it allowed the reader to form an opinion of Roth without framing his life to reflect the biographer’s agenda.  I came away not liking Philip Roth a whole lot, but feeling as if I knew him.

Shortly after the book was published, Bailey came under a great deal of criticism. The minor criticism was that he had glossed over what critics believed was Roth’s misogyny.  The major criticism came from people who know or knew Bailey and claimed he, Bailey, was a sexual predator.  I read somewhere that a woman said she had been raped by him. Others contended that he wooed his students when he was a teacher priming them for sexual activity after they graduated. The number of critics grew. The publisher decided to stop selling the book.  In recent days another publisher has agreed to distribute the biography.

I typically, and I think healthily, like to suspend judgment of individuals until the evidence is complete. Bailey has emphatically denied the charges against him.  Before screaming “son of a bitch” I like to make sure an alleged perp is a perp. Besides I think one has to be careful about making a distinction between an author and an author’s book.  From what I understand Picasso was no saint and neither was Einstein. Shall we burn all of the former’s paintings, and purge all of Einstein’s scientific contributions.  Mozart, judging by the portrayal in Amadeus, was immature and not averse to acting out his sexual urges.  Should we stop listening to Mozart?

Regardless of my thoughts on whether Bailey’s biography of Roth should be banished (I do not think so) I wanted to read Bailey’s own memoir and find out more about an author who has written several acclaimed biographies and has been recently so pilloried. 

The Splendid Things We Planned is about Bailey’s family, but centers on Blake’s older brother Scott.  I did not like the memoir.  I thought the book was inaccurately (and annoyingly) titled, pretentiously written, and depicts Bailey himself unattractively.  Had I read this book first I might not have wanted to read the Roth biography because I would have thought it too would be pretentiously written (it was not) and I would have been inclined to wonder if the author was capable of maturely writing about Roth dispassionately.

Blake’s only brother, Scott, was the ne’er do well of ne’er do wells. The cream of the crop of selfish, inconsiderate, crude, irresponsible behavior.  Think of the most irresponsible string of behavior that your parents had to endure.  Multiply by 50, and there is Scott.  Not exaggerating. Repeatedly drove drunk and wrecked his cars. Could not hold a job. Dropped out of every school his parents tried to get him into.  Called his mother, who despite it all supported him, the vilest of names.  Did not destroy his parents’ marriage—though he did not help their relationship—but he aimed to destroy his father’s second marriage.  Just a bad egg.  

The title of the book is a lyric from the song “Yesterday When We Were Young”. The song refers to the various foolish things we all do when young which makes it difficult for us to realize our dreams down the road.  We all who shoot straight with ourselves can identify. But Scott is in a different category. He did not wistfully look at his life and muse about how things might have been different. His life was a serial calamity.  So the title does not work and, to me at least, suggests that Scott is in the category of all who do foolish things.  He is not. I hope and believe he is in a league with very few members.

As opposed to the Roth biography, this memoir uses a slew of highfalutin vocabulary words which are just unnecessary and, it seems to me, intended to show off. I have a decent set of words in my reservoir, and good Lord, I had to stop every few pages in this book to look up this and that. And when I looked up the unfamiliar words, I often found that the word just did not fit the context.  And sometimes the words were used incorrectly.  It was interesting that Bailey refers, a number of times, to the Fred Exley book, A Fan’s Notes. I loved A Fan’s Notes—Exley also uses sophisticated language, but most of the time in his case, the words—when you look them up seem to fit.  (As an aside, A Fan’s Notes is a good example of a book that, if you published on the basis of an author’s behavior and character, would never have seen daylight). 

Compared to his brother, Blake Bailey is a saint.  But compared to Scott the most miserable wretch you know is not so bad. To be fair to the author, he does not gloss over his own immature behavior.  He is, absolutely, a better person—even when he was irresponsible as he was—than was Scott.  But I just didn’t like the guy.  He took too long to stop being a nogoodnik himself. Sure, it must have been very difficult to be Scott’s brother, but Bailey the younger, did his fair share of taking and quitting jobs, drinking excessively, creating havoc for his father, and just being irresponsible. 

After I read the Roth biography I kind of liked Bailey, certainly respected him for writing such a long book with detail that was not, except in just a few sections, too much.  I was impressed with how familiar he was with all of Roth’s work, not just superficially either.  But the young adult judging from the memoir was not the kind of guy I would want to befriend.  

Do I recommend The Splendid Things We Planned?  Not if you are vacillating about whether to start a family.  Maybe if you want to read about how someone, the brother Scott, can selfishly destroy or at least severely damage the lives of others.  And maybe if you want to get a better sense of the author of the Roth biography.

Up in the Air

 Strange day yesterday.  Went to see the nurse practitioner who works with my doctor. (My doc is so popular that it is difficult to get an appointment with her unless you are a Kennedy).

This nurse practitioner fellow seemed very knowledgeable however. I'd scheduled the appointment before last Friday's stress test indicated that i needed a more sophisticated one. At the meeting, I asked the nurse to take a look at the results to let me know where the problems might be. He responded but used terms for my heart that I did not understand. When I asked for a digest he nutshelled it for me by saying something like--"look you'll find out what is going on when you take the hoo-hah stress test." He did not say hoo hah, but I got it.

Then Donna drove me to the airport. I'm not sure this trip will prove to be the balm.  I'd planned it weeks ago. To put the high beams on my anxiety the flight was two hours late so I sat in the jammed room as I received e-mails from the airline telling me that now the take off would be at time x, then y, then z which varied from the information coming from the beleaguered gate attendant who was forced to repeatedly and diplomatically respond to the same questions from irritated passengers.

Meanwhile my head regarding my ticker is moving about like a car radio scanning for stations landing on: it's fine; it's kaddish; don't worry about it;  it couldn't be bad or the doc would not have let me go on this trip;  I hope to hell there is booze on the flight; I am in great shape.  The scanning seemed to rest on "it's kaddish" for longer periods than the other stations.  

The nurse had said the results of the initial test could prove to be a false positive. Afterwards, I wrote to the cardiologist asking if while I was away I should cut down on my 5 miles a day walking regimen. He said that there was no need to curtail my exercising. I had also asked him if I should go back to taking a preemptive medicine. He said that too was not necessary. So, I should relax.

But once we took off I thought of the metaphor of being up in the air.  For most of my life I have gone along thinking nothing bad is going to happen to me.  I thought of a college buddy who had this remarkable not to worry attitude about everything.  Immediately afterwards, of course, what rocketed to my consciousness was that I read his obituary ten years ago in the Globe.  A lover once told me that the problem with me (she actually could identify several problems with me) was that I thought I would live forever. Guilty as charged. But I am beginning to reconsider.

The flight was bumpy--another metaphor. Got to talking to the guy sitting next to me who was playing this complicated game on his phone. He tried to explain it to me and about half way through the explanation I wanted to beg him to stop but I did not want to be impolite.  There was a line at the rental car but eventually I got the car and got here in no time. Problem is anytime I feel a twitch in my arm--which could be because I raced after and yanked my unnecessarily stuffed suitcase off the carousel before it zipped past me and before barreling into an octogenarian who was looking over my head for his luggage.  Then I hauled the unnecessarily stuffed suitcase up the rental car shuttle bus whose steps, it seemed, were designed to challenge Olympic hurdlers.  Huge first step helped along by the driver whose counsel and wisdom consisted of "watch your step." The first step from the ground to the bus was a Neil Armstrong giant leap for mankind.  And I lugged the suitcase up those stairs, and then lugged it down too. So maybe that accounts for the stress in my arm.

Fortunately I'd left a couple of cold 16 ounce beers in the refrigerator.  I knocked one back moments after I lugged the unnecessarily packed suitcase into the condo and turned on the tv.  I must have conked out as I awakened hours later with the can in front of me and a rerun of Dragnet on the tube. Just the facts.

Well only a week now for the doc to tell me I am fine and stop lugging suitcases and garbage cans and laundry around to avoid feeling strain in my left arm.  The nurse practitioner told me the worst thing for me would be waiting for the test and not letting bad thoughts get into my head.  Not sure it was worth the absurd co-pay (and why am I paying both an upper and lower appendage for insurance if every visit requires a not insignificant ka ching) to get this sage advice, but he is right.  Just up in the air for a week before I can become reckless again.  I think the first thing I will do after getting the kosher next week is hit an all you can eat rib joint and indulge, washing it all down with a beer and a shot.