French memories

work in progress. I decided not to edit out my notes

 

"Don’t let the sun go down on you one more day in my house." Dad spit the words at me as we looked out over a dimming landscape from the balcony of his apartment on Riverside Drive in Tulsa. It was 6:15pm and I had approximately 20 minutes to move.

This was about the time ATM technology was catching on, with kiosks springing up in supermarket parking lots all over town. The machines were personified in print ads and on TV as a voluptuous blonde named Stella. "Hi, I’m Stella, your Insta-tella", she drawled in a weary, been-there-honey voice. I slept in the kiosk in the Safeway parking lot not far from Dad’s house for awhile. I would tell people I was living with Stella whenever the question would come up. This lasted until the police shooed me off.

After that, I camped in a field near the apartment my cousin shared with a family friend. Nancy took Lynn in at his mom’s request. We had been hanging out together and got the boot around the same time.

Nancy didn’t like me so I would have to wait every morning until she left for work, then I’d hang out all day with Lynn, listening to the white album and smoking enormous amounts of pot. Obviously, that couldn’t last and I decided to do what I’d been wanting since discovering the freedom that was hitchhiking. I’d always wanted to see the ocean and California was the Promised Land.

I first thumbed out with a $100 bill in my pocket and $23. The $100 bill was a talisman I had determined I wouldn’t spend easily. I met up with another kid who taught me one of my earliest lessons in hobo life and absconded with my $$ cause I had no sense. I turned around in Whittier and headed back to what I knew in Tulsa.

I was gone about 3 weeks but it seemed like a lifetime. On my return, I found my trip had emboldened my anxious cousins, so much so that 13 year-old Christian left shortly thereafter, his 14 year-old girlfriend and a bag of her stuffed animals in tow.

Christian called about 3 weeks later, bragging about his beachfront pad. "You gotta see this place, it’s awesome. Waves come right up to the door." 2 weeks later his brothers Lynn and Tony headed out and I followed shortly thereafter.

There were a few adventures. I worked at truck stops and gas stations along the way. I sat out a storm under a bridge in Texas and got stuck in a blizzard in the mountains of New Mexico in May. I met nice people, strange people, some wonderful, some dangerous. I look back in amazement at some of the scenes I naively walked into and thank God for His protection.

I was traveling south on Pacific Coast Highway when I caught a ride in Newport Beach and was dropped off at the north end of Main Beach. Laguna was incredible; I walked from the corner along the sidewalk when the beach just seemed to become before me.

It was a beautiful, sunny day and people were everywhere. Babies were chasing birds and it was an all-around Kodak day. I found the people with backpacks, gathered around a couple of palm trees at the north end of the boardwalk. " Hey Joey, you made it. Hey you guys, this is my cousin." Christian began introducing me to people as if he’d been living there his whole life.

"This is my cousin Joey, this is Gypsy, Angelo, Big Jim…" the names came at me faster than I could comprehend. These were the homeless, euphemistically known as the palm tree people because of the palms where they loitered. I was 18 and loitering was something at which I excelled.

 

We were seated under the afore-mentioned palms, backpacks and bedrolls under every arse made the group obvious from a distance; I quickly noticed we were part of the local color. Tour guides would point out the wildly dressed hippies who had homes they could carry.

The boardwalk stretched down the beach about 2½ blocks to the Hotel Laguna at the south end. The sand and the ocean beautiful and incredible before me had me imagining myself standing on a dotted line on God’s map, at the edge of the world.

I spent a few minutes contemplating my place in the universe; great beauty does that to you. These reveries can’t last however, as there was spangin’ to do. Spangin- an amalgam of the words spare and change. It’s a verb now, apparent in its meaning.

From that first day I got to know Laguna. It was still a small town, Mayberry-by-the-Sea some called it. Summer was crowded but the crowds left by Labor Day. Tourism is year-round now.

I met Gypsy that day; she was 15 and pissed. She looked older than anyone there. She’s been a great friend for 25 years- she’s so much younger now. She was with Angelo, an older man of 20 who was known as the hippie who always wore the same pants. He crunched when he walked.

Big Jim was there, probably early 20’s, close to my age but much larger- hence the name. He was intimidating but time has caught up to him.

Al Bal was there, a 5’ 6" ball of fire with a sulfurous ego. Incredibly talented performer, he was manic/depressive before it was cool. If he didn’t kill himself, he probably goaded someone into it. I only say this because he’s not famous; he would be if he were alive.

One night shortly after my arrival, we had a party on the north end of Main Beach. On the sand, we had a big fire, back in the days when you could get a permit for such things- no longer allowed.

Big Jim, Roman, and a few others had absconded with several bottles from the grocery store, and there was beer and Chateau Alberto, a kicky little blend of grapes sold at Albertson’s grocery $2.99 for a 1-gallon jug. Nasty shite, but it shook the shakes off. We all sat around, passing bottles and spliff. The fire was continually fed from scraps along the shore, the moon was out, the waves were warm and there was camaraderie.

Al Bal was small in stature but very dynamic. He came running back to the fire with a 2"x 4"x 5’ piece of plywood and threw it across the fire. [The fire sparked and spit while Al let go with an incredible rendition of "Fire Down Below". It only sounds cliché; the guy was a showman].

Al leapt onto the board and brought his hand down hard on the strings, letting out a howl as he exploded into song, the energy bursting out of him and lashing the crowd. People were thumping makeshift bongos. A crowd began to gather, but this did not hinder the to and fro of joints, everyone was sharing and laughing. It was a truly wonderful time, and the people who claim to have been present far exceeds the actual number, kinda like Woodstock.

Wino Jimmy was there, and his name says it all. Wino Jimmy introduced me to Chateau Alberto, the aforementioned beverage, as he was a connoisseur of cheap highs. Jimmy had a unique way of turning a phrase, for example -Albertson’s grocery was built in the Mission style in favor here- Jimmy referred to it as "that funny kinda blue kinda store," the police station was "that funny kinda cop kinda shop", etc. This lent a strange hippie formality to the simplest communication. He was bright and fun to talk to when sober, but this was seldom. He was scrawny, shriveled, skin like the seat of a ‘spensive car. Long sun-bleached hair with a beard and Fu Manchu ‘stache, always in a nice Hawaiian shirt and flip-flops. He looked like the good life to the tourists who bought his drinks and listened to his tales about life in "this funny kinda arty kinda town." He knew better, we all knew better.

Al played for awhile; we did see the cops but the weed was consumed and bottles disposed of at that point. It was a good night, a good time. I forgot for awhile my utter lack and completely enjoyed my present riches. Until the Man showed up again and scattered the crowd.

The sand sparkles at night, the waves are silver and scatter life, food is dispersed and Jaws swims right offshore. Respecting the ocean means not swimming at night- unless you’re really drunk.

I kicked along the boardwalk, contemplating life underneath it, until dawn. I rolled my sleeping bag out on the sand; careful to lie fully dressed on top of it, hoping to avoid a sleeping on the beach citation.

A person learns to sleep at high alert when homeless. Every breath is an adventure.

Laguna is filled with beautiful people with lots of money. I always tell people that I live there because if you can’t be rich, live by them. It’s comfortable and that translates down to the transients. Spanging is always best when and where you can tap into noblesse oblige, the guilt of the truly wealthy.

"Hey, Mister, can you spare some change? A quarter would help, I need a cuppa coffee". It was a beautiful day and I had just lost my last quarter in a video game. I was determined not to give up- I would save the Princess.

"Here", he says, "Don’t say you never met a generous Jew" as he hands me a dollar bill.

"Oh yeah," I said, with as much acid as I could muster "Have you seen the price of a cuppa coffee now?" He walked away looking like he just couldn’t do anything right. I went back to the video game; the Princess still eludes me.

 

Sunrise always opened my eyes; I remember soft ambers, and other times waking to bright, blinding rays, depending on the orientation of the shoreline. Coffee gottagettacuppacoffee

One fine morning I had a cup and was enjoying the beginning of the day. The sun was just beginning its ascent and the sky was still that purple-pink glow of twilight.

I was walking from the beach to my job at the bus stop diner when I saw a man walk up and step into the Goodwill box, located in the parking lot of Acord’s Market. He was tall and scraggly, in that conformist non-conformist way- or is it the other way around? I digress.

It was all very quick; he caught the corner of my eye going in, and I sat across the street with my coffee to watch this play out. He stepped out in splendor, in a seemingly tailor-made 3-piece suit. He went on his way and I went to work. I later found out his name was Rick and he was on his way to court. This was how I learned where to shop.

People in Laguna throw away some interesting stuff. The most interesting clothes I would grab from the GWill box and sell to the local vintage clothing stores, which would then sell them for way too much to tourists.

I learned how to beg, borrow, and steal well enough, but always found it easier to hold a job. I worked at the aforementioned diner, at the local 5&10-cent store, ran a video arcade, among other things. When I worked at the cinema, I would let friends in, and anyone with a doobie.

 

12/8/14

 

I worked because I did not share the faith in noblesse oblige that so many of my compatriots relied upon. I enjoyed regular meals and hoped to move back indoors one day.

I was able to eat every Monday through Friday, breakfast and lunch at the Our Place Café.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Author's Note

edited 8/13/08, 12/8/14 continued
removed redundancy, or at least the most egregious
editors welcome here

Reviews

[Hedra Helix]

Damn I admire you.

flowing, kept my attention, and admiration the entire way, each turning phrase/idea.
I fully enjoyed it.
your notes
-where it says problematic' of the beach i disagree, its a clean picture.
-redundant, yeah, axe it, you can.
-expand on the party a bit, yes.

I would adore to publish this too if you edit it. (and would let me?) I would love to have this on my shelf, wouldnt you?
Great share of adventure, singular, identifiable, so well written, colorfilled, complete, funny and poignant.
Dope my friend.

[Hedra Helix]

yay! I just reread my review, taken in context you message makes perfect sense, are you down for an edit? I could touch it lightly send it to you and go from there?

YAY! awesome! Stupendous!!!