Growing Up Then and Now

Chapter 20

On Becoming a Caravan

     Indeed, Peaches and Sunshine were following right behind us.  At the Arizona border Peaches pulled up alongside, leaning way over, almost onto Sunshine’s lap, he was shouting out the passenger window, “Look over there!  Look over there!” pointing with his right index finger out Sunshine’s window.  At first, we didn’t know what he’s pointing at.  Then he pulled in front of us and Sunshine started pointing out the window. 

     “It’s an RV Park,” Max said, “they must want to stop here.”   But this was no ordinary RV Park.  It just kept on going and going for three miles to the next exit with hundreds, if not thousands, of RVs.  So, of course, we followed Peaches off the exit ramp.

     Then a big debate.  We were planning on going straight through to Tucson, and though it was mid-afternoon, we weren’t ready to call it a day, so let’s not pay the $80 the guy at the gate wants.  “No,” Steve argued, “this is a must stop.  If we can win over the RV crowd, we can win over America.  Skip would want us to.  Let’s go for it!  Remember how they liked us at that Candlestick Park?  Even if this one is filled with Rednecks, I’m such a great lawyer, winning over juries, watch me, ‘the great persuader’ in action.”

     “No,” Rocky said, “Leave it to me.  The universal language is ‘What is Fun’.”

     Thank goodness (most of us were thinking) no horns honked when we went down a row to the far end of the campgrounds.  We figured we’d do better by starting off hiding the Land Yacht.  Sunshine said, “Ohh, nooo – everybody loves everybody at these places, don’t worry.” 

    So under a clear sky, but surrounded by concrete, nary a tree or a bush or patch of grass in sight, we set up our grill, pulled out the lawn chairs, washed some vegetables, began shish-kabobing, and waited to see what would develop.  Our immediate neighbors did admire our colors and asked what part of Minnesota we were from and how we all knew each other.  We asked which part of Arkansas they were from and where they were heading.  “Hollywood,” they said, “we’ve heard the mansions are fabulous.”  

     Patty asked if they minded being filmed as we talked, “You’re such nice people,” Patty said to them, “and we’re making a movie about how great America is.”  They were flattered to be included. 

     But some other fellow RVers at the park started out not so friendly.  A couple tall guys, looking 30ish, seeming too young to be RVers, with baseball caps on backwards, were walking down the row in our direction.  They could have been twins, both with crew cuts, both holding Budweisers.  “Got any weed we can buy?” one of them asked.

     “Watch out.  They could be narcs,” Peaches said under his breath, grin gone.  We said we didn’t have any. 

     “What?  Hippies without pot?” the other new arrival remarked.

     “Hippies?!” Rocky retorted, looking pretty tough in his jean jacket and aviator glasses, “Grow some fucking hair.  You guys look like rejects from a Hollywood casting call for ‘Back to the ‘50s’.”

     “What the heck, you lookin’ for a fight ol’ man?” the first one said, clenching his fist.    

     “Come on,” the lady from Arkansas said, “either be sociable or move on.”

     “Oh, we can be sociable all right,” the guy said, unclenching his fist.  “What are you guys?  Some kinda travelin’ hippy-political circus act?” 

     “Careful what you say next,” Patty jumped in, pulling her video camera out of her holster.  “We’re making a movie about good guys and bad guys in America.  Which do you want to be?” 

     “So what does it take to be a ‘good guy’?  Do you have to feel the Bern?” one of the indistinguishable two asked, pointing to one of our bumper stickers.  “I’m from Trump country.”

     “You’re kidding me,” Rocky said.  “I’d never have guessed.  Thought for sure if you were old enough to vote in 2020, you’d have been a socialist for Bernie, or at least a fem for Hillary.” 

     That brought a chuckle from the other tall one, “Yeah, my buddy Austin here, a fem! A fem for Hillary.  Ha-ha.”

     Laughing with them, Rocky asked “Wanna couple beers?” popping three Sierra Nevadas.  

     “And by the way,” the lady from Arkansas said, “no dissing Hillary if you stick around.  Pull up a couple chairs.”

     “What are you guys driving?  Where you parked?”  Sunshine asked. 

     “Next row over,” the one apparently named Austin answered.  “But we were surrounded by Trump-types, so we’re looking for a new space.” 

     “Okay,” Patty said, “our movie is a blend of politics and ‘what is fun.’  So you guys like walking around starting fights for fun?” 

     “Roll your camera, sweetie, and I’ll tell you what fun is.  Call me Tex.  Austin here’s my sidekick.  We’re writing a book about how to meet strangers.  We always start nice, like ‘Hey, that’s a great set of cowboy boots you got on’ (pointing to Patty’s footwear), but Christ, lookin’ for a little smoke wasn’t meant to start a fight.  Just your buddy here, apparently doesn’t like being called a hippie.”

     “Fuck you,” Rocky said with a smile.  “I wasn’t sure you were going to take the Hollywood reject comment as a joke or not.  I could have called you worse.”

     Later that evening Rocky and Steve decided to walk over to the next row.  Nobody knew where Huck was.  Max and Patty stayed back.  The guys who called themselves Tex and Austin were sitting with a half-dozen grown-ups and a half-dozen kids at a couple portable picnic tables set up in an empty parking space.  We were introduced as “the hippies from the next row over, but hey – they know what fun is.” 

     “Grab some beers out of the cooler,” somebody said.

    Rocky got everybody laughing right away, and poked some fun in Tex and Austin’s direction, asking, “So what happens when a bunch of hippies meet a bunch of rednecks?”  That got some chuckles, and then he answered his own question, “I was a Golden Gloves boxer who loved beating the shit out of Rednecks.  Your two goons show up.  Us Hippies picked the fight.  The Rednecks turn into pansies, flash the peace sign.  And, hey, everybody agrees to get stoned.”

     Before we headed back to our row, Steve did get in one defense of liberalism which at least one person seemed to agree with.  “A conservative,” Steve said, “is someone who mostly sees the things that are going good; a liberal is someone who thinks we need to make some changes.”

     “Well then, call me a liberal,” one of them said. 

     The next morning in our concrete Shangri-la, fixing breakfast, we learned what had become of Huck.  Tapping his foot, bobbing his head, he told us Sunshine had corralled him into going for a walk to the soda machines, pushed him gently up against one, came chest to chest, and said, “Wanna make it with me?”  Best way to describe Sunshine – “bubbly” – bubbly in spirit and looks, with no bra.  She was always in short cut-offs, oftentimes shoeless.  Everybody noticed her nice legs.  

     Huck continued, “What about Peaches? I asked her, and guess what she said? – ‘Oh, he’s probably trying to make it with some lady down the row if your friend Patty isn’t available.’” 

      “Just like I suspected,” Patty said, “two no-goods.”

     As we were packing up, Sunshine and Peaches came over and said they’d decided to stick around longer and would maybe catch up with us again in Santa Fe – they would skip Tucson.  We said good-bye to our Arkansas neighbors and promised to send them a video of the movie when it was done – “and by the way, if you stay somewhere where they have the internet, look us up.”   

Chapter 18

Shopping While Black

     Turns out Ken, Max’s ex-brother-in-law, is very connected to the Hollywood political set – sort of an anti-war gigolo getting paid and put up by his Hollywood friends to keep on agitating and escorting.   Currently sharing Rosie O’Donnell’s mansion with her, Ken looked more the part of a gigolo than a protester:  Curly blond hair wound tight, about one inch long, with no discernible part; square jawed, broad shoulders, bulging biceps, a hunk of a man.  Later, at a bar, Huck claims he overheard a woman remark about Ken, “God, I could get off in public looking at him!”  Ken never talked much about the services he provided, just that occasionally he got hired to be someone’s escort at some fancy Hollywood event.

     Ken thought maybe we could get some buy-in and publicity from the celebrity crowd for our Rumpkins idea – imitating the politics of colonial Virginia but on the internet instead of in a tavern. Sally contacted Pirate Jack who said he’d get his company to move on the idea of a test run of a first Rump “legislative” session.   Skip contacted Jesse to get the Portland Pirate/Yang Gang to coordinate with Pirate Jack about how to do voting and have debates on line. Rocky, using his John Birch credentials, went in search of the local Libertarian Party to see if they had any interest in getting their platform into the discussion.  Steve checked-in with the local Lawyers Guild chapter to see what political issues were hot. 

     Turns-out, no one was much interested in our Rumpkins organizing idea.  We did read in the paper that California seceding from the union was a hot topic.  The head of the Mexican-American Defense Fund was quoted, saying:

 “Today, more Californians trace their roots to places south of the border than to the time of the Pilgrims.  And we love being Americans, but if folks in D.C. keep saying we’re not wanted, well, that’s why the secessionist movement is so strong in California.”   

     We decided to propose the idea of California seceding from the Union as the focus for our test Rump session, and invited anyone looking at our blog to submit other ideas.  

    Meanwhile, Rocky, Huck and Huck’s local musician buddy organized a Thursday–through–Friday–night pub crawl for all of us and our L.A. friends.  We put the “itinerary” on our blog site and brought the Land Yacht out of storage to make the rounds.  Our Thursday stop was a daytime visit to a bar called Mom’s Place in Santa Monica, right by the beach, kind of a combination artsy – biker bar.  Some of us checked out the beckoning beach under a blazing sun.  Inside the bar, drinking margaritas, Patty’s Sacramento friend suggested, “Why not add graffiti art to the Land Yacht?  You know, buy some removable paint – invite passers-by to do their thing.  It will sure help the movie.”

     A bit later, Patty called from the Nordstrom’s Department Store over on 2nd Street where she and her friend had driven the Land Yacht to buy some paint.  “The cops have detained our friend and accused her of shoplifting!  It’s a case of shopping while Black.  Steve, you got to get over here – it’s just a four-block walk.” 

     Arriving on the scene Steve asked the cops if anybody was being arrested.  Patty’s friend had shown the cop a receipt for all the Nordstrom’s merchandise, and the issue now was lack of a driver’s license.  “Okay,” Steve said, “here’s my driver’s license.  I’ll drive.  Everybody, let’s go.”

     “Not so fast, Bub,” one of the cops said.  “You been drinking?” 

     “Officer, the answer is yes – one drink – but we’re done answering questions.  You’ve got no right to detain us without probable cause a crime has been committed.  I happen to be a lawyer.”

     “That so?  Well, you can shove that lawyer license up your ass.  One drink, where?”

     “Look Officer, no need for us to continue the conversation.  You’re in the wrong on this.  I told you, only one drink.  There’s no shoplifting beef.  It’s illegal and immoral to profile Blacks.  If you think I’m drunk, arrest me as I drive away.”

     The street was crowded with cars and buses and throngs of shoppers.  Meanwhile, Patty had turned her camera on and the whole scene had attracted a dozen or more onlookers.  “You can turn that fuckin’ camera off lady.  Get out of here.  Get out of Santa Monica.  Every step you take, every bar you make, I’ll be following you.”

     “Come on, let’s go,” Steve said.

      “Not just yet,” Patty said.  “Any onlookers want to comment on what you just saw?”

      Patty’s friend started it off saying it’s not the first time she’s been accused of “shopping while Black.”

      “Saw where they didn’t ask for citizenship papers,” a Mexican looking bystander remarked.  “I’ve been asked for mine just because my name ends in ‘e-z’.”

     Steve got on camera saying we were making a movie – a movie about journeying across the country – and how different the journey would be if we all happened to be Black instead of white.  “Might as well be Black, what with that rig you’re travelin’ in, all hippied-up,” somebody in back shouted.     

     The itinerary on our blog had our last bar-hopping stop being Dirty Nick’s in East L.A. where Huck’s musician friends were playing.  By now, our Nordstrom’s video had gone viral, and a flash mob thing developed.  It seemed half of L.A. was following our blog to see when we’d get busted, or what we were going to do next.  We were careful to have a designated driver.

     Dirty Nick’s is in a shopping mall.  By 10 p.m. all the stores were closed, just the bar open, but the parking lot was full of cars, and a bunch of honking started up as we pulled in.  Some folks clamored to get on the bus, others wanted to help paint it, some just wanted to be movie stars.  Once we had the Land Yacht locked, and managed to get inside, the place was packed and Patty had the camera on live-streaming.  An older woman, saying her name was “Wenderful” got in front of Patty’s camera and told us about doing a strip tease with Bo Belinsky and Dean Chance (former Los Angeles Angels baseball pitchers – known for being playboy-types) on the top of Dirty Nick’s bar back in 1964, and then flashed her 75-year-old boobs for the camera. The crowd cheered for more.  We decided it was time to go, but folks were definitely now following us.

Chapter 16

Dodgers Going to the World Series?

     We found the back road that we couldn’t find the night before.  And good thing we’d waited ‘til daylight.  It was treacherous!  On occasion just dirt or gravel.  Hundred-and-twenty-degree hairpin curves.  Up-hill and down.  Was this really the way to Muir Beach?

 When we arrived at Rick’s place, he told us that when we left – heading south – we could take the paved road US 101, but coming from the north he had given us the most direct, scenic, albeit slow route.  “Glad you waited ‘til daybreak,” he said, inviting us to set up camp in his orange grove, among the apricot, pecan, and macadamia nut trees.  “Those craggy ledges are dangerous at night and beautiful in the daytime.” 

     Rick looked like the baseball player he was, a strapping six-footer with huge hands, and a tanned body that looked good in shorts.   After some introductions, Rick suggested we head into town.  Skip and a couple of us got in his Ford 150 and the rest followed in the Land Yacht. 

     Avila Beach might be the most beautiful, unheralded beach in the entire State of California.  It’s south-facing, looking out to the sea towards Santa Monica and L.A.  The mid-day sun was blazing down as we took up benches on the boardwalk.  Rick said if any of us were early risers there’s always a beautiful sunrise over the jagged peaks to the left; and to the right, “. . . see that ledge in the distance, if you walk down the beach at sunset you’ll see it’s almost like Lands End – any of you ever been there? – with water flowing under the ledge and the sun sets right there at certain times of the year.” 

     The town of Muir Beach (if you’d call it a town – it’s really just a two-block stretch of shops) was mostly quiet with just a few strollers and shoppers.  There were a half-dozen people hanging out by the coffee shop, so we went there, and started telling ex-major leaguer Rick about our trip so far.  He said he preferred the quiet and solitude of his nursery.  When Rick and Skip started talking baseball, most of us decided to head back and maybe get in a nap.  Before we left, Rick did tell a good baseball story:

     “So the Dodgers always have a Fan Appreciation Night at the end of the year – you know how the Dodgers got their name?  Before they moved to L.A. they were the Brooklyn Dodgers – kids had to dodge street cars to play ball.  At any rate, one of my Dodger teammates, Stony we called him, was the pitchman for Midas Muffler, and was at the microphone, on the mound, after the game to pull the winning ticket from his hat to see which fan won the car – I think it was a Chevy Camero that year – and the guy who won comes out of the stands to get the keys, and says to Stony with 50,000 fans listening, ‘Guess you know where I’ll take it when it needs a new muffler, right Stony?’  And Stony goes, ‘huhh?’ ”

     “That’s ballplayers for you,” Patty said.

     We spent a quiet night at Rick’s.  He had a good video collection.  Some of us enjoyed re-watching Jack Morris pitch his 10-inning 7^th-game shutout over Atlanta to win the 1991 World Series.  When we left for L.A. the next morning, Rick said he could get tickets if the Dodgers made it to the World Series, all of us blithely unawares of a conversation in Vancouver concerning a plot to blow–up that Dodgers ballpark.