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.