Growing Up Then and Now

Chapter 12

We all Meet Pirate Jack

     On Sunday, Susie said good bye to us all – especially Huck – and went back home to Montana with Eloise and her volunteers.  Max was now officially back on the bus.  On Monday, we had a fine send-off from our RV friends.  The proprietress told us to come back after L.A. saying, “Skip the east coast for sure – all those parks out there are lousy.”  A good number of the park’s denizens waved good-bye as we pulled out; several saying they would follow our adventures on our newly created blog, “Follow the Rumpkins!”

     As we headed out on Hwy. 101, Sally suggested we stop in Palo Alto even though it was only a few miles down the road.  “Why?”  We asked, “It’s not on the list.”

     “Well, this Pirate Jack – his name for himself – is a big-time venture capital owner having made a lot of money with a Silicon Valley start-up.  His thing with the Pirates is they have this ‘hacker ethic’ – everything on the internet should be free, transparent and available to all.  I think this guy fits in with the Portland crowd you ran into, this rump organizing we seem to find ourselves doing,” spoken ominously – and then cautiously she continued, “and yes, well . . .  

      …  ummm … errrr.  yah, Jack and I ended up doing some kissing – so come on let’s stop!”

     “Sure!” we all said, Patty having told most of us what this fishing trip was really about for Sally.  It was unanimous for a Palo Alto detour. 

     Skip added that he had been back in touch with Jesse up in Portland about Jesse’s idea for doing “rump organizing” on the internet, and mentioned, “Sally has even re-designed our blog, after talking with Pirate Jack about it.”

     Pirate Jack met us at his “office” – the patio deck in front of the Hewlett-Packard building.  A dashing man, slim, short, probably in his mid-50s, he was more dapper than “pirate.”  But with black hair combed back, thick eyebrows and a broad mustache – but for a hook, you had a dashing pirate.  Another sunny 70-degree, early October day, just a few stray clouds.  We all pulled up chairs to a large round table and Jack came out with a thermos of coffee.  “Great to see you all again so soon, that hoot was really fun,” he said, giving Sally a big smile.  “Sally, your friends are on to something.  It’s like what I’ve been helping the Pirate Party set up, a quasi-legislative body or debate society, inviting the whole world to participate.  Am I right?”

     “Well not the whole world, or at least not yet,” Skip responded.  “But yes, the basic idea is to say this is what we would do if we were in charge, create some excitement, and get a whole lot of people participating.  Can we really have meetings on line orderly enough to get something done?  What if eventually we have hundreds of people trying to message all at once?  You know I love your slogan, Jack – ‘harnessing the spirit of imagination.’  Are you willing to help make this work?”

      Jack said he didn’t have all the answers but we could experiment breaking into smaller groups – still on line – and figure out a way to elect representatives from the smaller groups to a higher up tier.

     “Now you’re talking!” Rocky exclaims sarcastically.  “I can’t wait to cast a hundred votes under a hundred different aliases. This idea will never work.”

     “No, give this a chance,” Sally said un-skeptically.  “These guys really think we can set up a whole legislative apparatus, have elections, and vote ideas up or down, on line using computers, without ever having to meet in person.”

     Rocky retorted, “There’s no way I’ll trust that system.  I like the centuries-old Rump-way gathering at a tavern, having a beer or two, and looking each other in the eye.”

     “Well, who cares,” Sally was back with, “it could be fun trying, and Jack, I know already – from staying up with you until sunrise the other night – how passionate you are about using technology to broaden democracy, to achieve public participation on an unprecedented scale.  How you dare to imagine a Pirate, or somebody Pirate-like, actually running for President capturing the imaginations of the Zoomers, plus . . .  plus, I just like the idea of you being part of . . . of us.”

     Whereupon, Jack invited Sally upstairs to see his “other office” and suggested a pub down the road for the rest of us. 

     Closing the office door, showing her the view from his fifth-floor window, they started kissing.  She gently pushed him onto the couch.  Embracing with their clothes on, they both got a good feel for what could happen next.  “They’re going to be missing you,” Jack whispered in her ear.  “Let them,” Sally whispered back.  “I want another lingering kiss.  Next time promise me we won’t have to race through such a sweet place.” 

     Meanwhile, at the pub we were directed to, Rocky – doing his mid-morning “what is fun thing,” – ordered everybody in the bar “Flaming Tennis Shoes,” a concoction where schnapps (using the bottom side of a spoon) is floated – gently – over brandy, and when lit with a match, only the schnapps flames up, so you can toss the brandy straight down while the flames go straight up.  Patty was video-graphing for our blog and caught the guy who yelped trying to sip the drink rather than tossing it straight down.

Chapter 10

A Hint of Trouble Ahead

     Traveling down Interstate 5 from Portland to Sacramento we continued to be blessed with warm shirt-sleeve weather.  The rain had stopped.  We were going to Sacramento to visit Ken Vardaman, Max’s ex- brother-in-law.  Sally, of course, was skeptical about doing this without Max on board.  But, on the phone, back in Boulder with Eloise, Max explained to us why we would really like meeting this guy: “I was in medical school at the U back in the early ‘80s.  Reagan was President.  Contra-gate was going on.  Lisa, later my bride, was selling kisses with a sign, ‘Make Love, Not War,’ at a softball tournament.  It was a benefit raising money for the Nicaraguans battling Reagan’s Contras.  I got back in line for a second kiss, got her number; six months later we got married.  

     “Lisa grew up in California.  She and her brother Ken were big-time anti-war activists in the ‘60s.  Ken’s still big into that.  Just a few years ago I had to bail him out again – protesting something I don’t remember.  He seems to get busted with Hollywood celebs, so he’s well-connected.”

     Ken was expecting us and had heard about our antics to date.  He couldn’t stop exclaiming how excited he was to be in the company of agitators, 60s rebels, intent on stirring up trouble all over the land.  Though some of us tried to downplay the agitators/stirring-up trouble part, Ken convinced us we needed to make the Land Yacht a primed-for-TV-spectacle, “Just add Rainbow Racing Stripes.  This is not Montana.  You guys will be welcome up and down the Coast, and the more trouble you stir-up the more popular you’ll be.”

     Ken lived by himself in a small apartment but had lined up some friends to take in those not sleeping in the Land Yacht – which was in the shop, and not just for racing stripes.  California, we were told, has electric charging stations every 50 miles.  Sally, after being shown the numbers (she was a successful investment advisor after all), was convinced to lay out the bucks to have the Land Yacht retrofitted with a plug-in battery to save money on fuel costs.

     Patty was one of those farmed out to a friend while the Land Yacht was getting its makeover.  Patty was a locally (in Minnesota) famous movie producer.  Patty liked western wear, flannel shirts, a sparkly belt, and cowboy boots.  A short, amply-figured, dark-haired beauty, Patty claimed she got on the bus “because I’d rather live with five guys than one.”  Truth be told, she was between movies and on a quest to find something or someone to become part of her life story.  Patty was good at egging us on to do things we’d never do at home.

     Patty stayed with a movie maker friend of Ken’s who convinced Patty she was in the midst of her next great film and should start videoing everything about the Land Yacht and its adventures for all the world to see:

          “Not just the panoramic views, that’s a given on any road trip,” she told Patty, “but the     chance encounters, a road trip where you get lost, get entangled in unplanned events.  Movie-going Americans are starved for the next great road trip movie, a Thelma & Louise or Easy Rider – a time before Siri was giving directions.  Too many zombies today only doing what they’re told to do.  Think of your RV as seven weirdos doing whatever you want, getting along with everybody – or nobody, traveling across Georgia O’Keeffe’s weirdest landscapes.”      

     Skip was also farmed out to one of Ken’s friends, a guy named Gordy.  At the time Skip had no idea how fateful Gordy would be to the Rumpkins’ future. On departing Sacramento, he didn’t even know Gordy’s last name. It wasn’t until we were on the East Coast, months later, that Skip told us that the guy he was staying with, Gordy, was once a fugitive from justice and had done serious time for being part of a revolutionary gang known as the SLA.  Although Rocky was clued in early, Skip was correct in his assessment that any connection of the Land Yacht to the SLA might scare off some of us from any further “trouble-making.”  Even Skip might have called the whole rest of the trip off – if he knew then how much the SLA, and Gordy, were going to become part of his future. 

Instead, we motored on toward our unexpected confrontation with terrorism.      Leaving Sacramento, Ken gave us the names of his Hollywood connections, and the videographer Patty had stayed with said she’d join us once we got to L.A., “Go get some good footage,” she said firmly.

Chapter 8

On the Road Stoned

     Back in rainy Seattle, Steve, our lawyer, had finagled his way onto his friend’s couch a second night, had said his good-byes to her, and was meeting us at the neighborhood Starbucks, alone.  His friend had absolutely no interest in being observed in the presence of such a motley crew as she perceived us to be, despite Steve’s assertions that we were upstanding citizens consisting of one lawyer, one doctor, one politician, a musician, a movie maker, and a rich investment counselor (not mentioning our gambler).

     Our next stop was supposed to be Sacramento, California, where Max had told us his ex-brother-in-law was looking forward to our visit.  Just minutes out of Seattle, Susie popped out of her seat in back, winked at Huck, and said, “Okay, time to get stoned. Who’s good at rolling joints?”  Huck, our musician, was quick with his hand up.  Susie gave him the rolling papers and the bag of marijuana she’d gotten at the farm.  Huck rolled a fat one.  Not everyone took a hit.  Not Steve who was driving.  Not Sally, our businesswoman. Patty, our movie producer, pouted her lips around the lit end of the joint and showed us how she used to give Huck “shotgun kisses” with Huck taking the unlit end in his mouth and Patty blowing softly.  “Your turn next,” Huck says to Susie.

     Rocky, our card-playing, what-is-fun guy, said the first time he got stoned he was listening to the Chambers Brothers singing “Time,” and asked Huck to get out his guitar, “I bet you don’t even know the first chord.”  Huck said he remembered the song but not the lyrics, this time breaking into Dylan’s “Like a Rolling Stone.”  This started a sing-a-long.

     Skip, our baseball playing politician, sang part of his all-time favorite song “Paradise by the Dashboard Light,” a Meatloaf song: “Stop right now, I’ve got to know right now.  Will you love me?  Will you love me forever?  Will you make me your wife?  I’ve got to know right now! . . . and now I’m praying for the end of time so I can eeennnddd my time with youuu,” explaining that his favorite part was Yankee’s announcer Phil Rizzuto describing how the guy got around the bases, the steal of second, sliding into third, and the play at home. 

     Steve seemed to be getting a contact high: “Did you see that sign back there?  ‘Welcome to Oregon – Where Everybody Is High’?”  And then, tugging at his moustache, “Check out that car next to us.  Is that a lion in the back seat?”  [It was just a fat old guy snoozing with almost foot-wide whiskers.]

     Rocky said, “That’s it.  You’re done driving.”

     After crossing into Oregon, on Interstate 5 with the rain abating, Skip suggested a stop in Portland.  “Even though we don’t know anyone in particular to visit, let’s look up some local political types.  I’ve heard the Yang Gang has started a chapter of the Forward Party here.”  Susie seconded the notion.  Sally offered to pop for a room at the Sheraton, if anyone else (meaning just the females) wanted to take a breather from the bus, take an actually-hot shower, and get a good night’s rest. 

     The shower in the camper worked just fine, but you had to be quick before the hot water ran out.  And although the camper was advertised as sleeping seven comfortably, that was a stretch and privacy was out of the question.  But, amazingly, nobody, not even Sally, had grown irritable – and already we’d been twelve days on the road.  In fact, smoking that pot together going down Interstate 5 had gotten everybody so laughing, so smiling, so joyous singing songs and telling stories.  So carefree.  We were enjoying the trip, feeling like we were all hygge in a wonderful, mixed-up world.