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Writer’s Den
Chapter Twelve
Homeward Bound
Not long after I began waiting for a ride, a car
slowed down, stopping ahead of me on the side of the road. It seemed to good to believe. I had just left the base, and already I had
a ride. At first, as I heard loud music
and laughter from inside the vehicle, I filled with deja vu. Bernie and my experience with the native
Hawaiians in Ewa flashed into my mind.
I paused just long enough for one a young man to get out of the car and
shout, “Are you coming or not?” Trotting
toward a black late model Cadillac, I sized up my situation: these people
weren’t angry Hawaiian men in a ramshackle car; they sounded like young people,
like myself, out for the night in Daddy’s car, which, because it was a Monday,
not the weekend, weren’t anymore serious about school than me. I had seen these types in my own high
school. Many of them were spoiled rich
kids with a devil-may-care attitude.
Though they were my kindred spirits, I shied away from them at parties
or when I saw then carousing in town, and yet I envied those carefree
youths. The guys were wild and the
girls were fast—too wild and fast for me.
Sliding into the front seat, next to a drunken coed, I felt a thrill of
excitement. Oddly enough, I also felt
very stupid for getting into the car.
As soon as the driver (also quite drunk) took off from the curb, my
thrill quickly faded to fear.
“Here,” the girl said, handing me
the bottle, “have a shwig!”
Against my better judgment I raised
the bottle up and was startled by its familiar smell. It wasn’t Canadian Club Scotch, the liquor my dad drank. This was a brand called John Paul Jones,
probably cheap stuff. As the night
before I embarked upon my adventure, it had a nasty, burning flavor as it
gushed down my throat. I made a face,
shook my head, sticking out my tongue.
“Damn,” I lied, “that’s good scotch!”
The girl and her friends—the driver and two couples
crammed in the back seat—giggled at my reaction. “Thas ride,” her voice slurred heavily, “bud I thod you shailors
like beer!”
“How did you know I was a sailor?” I
gave her a troubled look.
“Shimple,” explained the coed, “thad
wuz Alameda bag there—a shailor base.
You thing we’re stubid?”
I was, as in Ewa, in a car with
drunken merrymakers. I also noted, as I
had back in Oahu, a hostile tinge to her voice. The driver, as inebriated as the others, was speeding recklessly
down the road, perhaps for my benefit.
The Hawaiians had also tried to scare me. Unlike my experience with scotch before, the swig I took had hardly
taken effect. The adrenaline was
pumping too fast and furious in my system, I was scared out of my wits, and I
had no intention of getting smashed.
All I wanted to do was get home—in one piece. But already in my journey home I had made a dreadful
mistake.
“You shouldn’t be driving?” I blurted as the car
drifted over into the other lane.
“Yeah Carl, shtay on the road!” a
voice from the back seat blared.
I remember him crossing a bridge,
turning sharply right and speeding down a highway. As the occupants in the
vehicle broke into two camps, I heard names shouted back and forth. Todd, Muriel, Rick, and Ellen, who sat
crammed in the backseat, wanted Carl to slow down. In the front seat Anita (who sat next to me) and Carl, the maniac
driver, didn’t. Most of us begged him
to slow down, but Carl, who sat behind the wheel, had the deciding vote. Soon, it felt as though we were going
hundred miles per hour down the road, and, after a few moments, even his
girlfriend Anita was alarmed at his speed.
He wanted to terrorize me. It
seemed like pure insanity, but I could think of no other motive. Perhaps he had experiences with sailors in
his community as had the residents of Ewa.
If this was the case, it was totally unfair. I wasn’t even out of high school yet, and I was being blamed for
sailors’ behavior. The only satisfaction
I had was that everyone else had turned against Carl, too. The boys pounded on his back and the girls
yanked his hair, but to no avail. Carl,
now on a path of destruction, wasn’t listening. Turning sharply right again, the Cadillac careened around the
corner. Everyone in the car screamed as
he raced he car down a hill at breakneck speed.
“Let me out! Let me out!” I shrieked.
“Ohmagawd!” cried Muriel.
“We’re gonna crash!” shouted Todd.
I pause to remind the reader that there were no seat
belts in 1960. Of course that would
make no difference if the vehicle rolled over and burst into flames. At this point, as we plunged into the night,
everyone lost it, especially Carl’s girl friend Anita, who appeared to have wet
her pants. Slowing down to avoid
hitting a dog crossing the road, Carl swerved around the beast and wound up
plowing through a barbed wire fence. I
looked ahead and, to my amazement, saw the faint sheen of waves ahead. Suddenly the Cadillac was crashing into the
surf. If it had not been for the
headlights, it would be almost pitch dark.
Luckily it was low tide. Mired
in the sand, the vehicle might be slammed with waves at any moment. Jumping out of the car with my duffle bag,
which had sat on my lap for protection, I fled the vehicle, with only my shoes
soaked with salt water.
“Now you did it!” Anita wailed, her
slur almost gone. “You wrecked your dad’s car.
He’ll kill you!”
The other youths, also sobered by
the calamity, piled in on Carl, calling him all sorts of names. I could see a lonely street light up the
hill on which we detoured, but it was down the road a ways. It wasn’t going to be easy. Huffing and puffing, as I charged up the
slope, I prayed for deliverance again.
I wasn’t even sure where I was now.
How would I ever make it home in time if I had such delays? I almost ran into the barbed wire fence, and
was saved by the merest glint of light.
Lifting my leg gingerly over the wire, I emerged intact on the side of
the fence where the Cadillac plowed through. The road ascending the hill was almost totally dark, except for
two pinpoints of light at the top. The
lights grew and grew and became headlights.
A spotlight shot out from the driver’s side of the vehicle. I froze momentarily where I was, wondering
what other horror would befall me now.
I could hear voices behind me, echoing from the beach, and then I broke
into a trot, opting for the strangers ahead.
When the headlights were blindingly
close, I shielded my eyes, and stood my ground. A gruff, baritone voice shouted, “Hey kid, come here!” Walking
cautiously to the source of the voice, which was on the passenger’s side, I
looked in and discovered two men in uniform.
This time, to my relief, they weren’t military. On the door it read ‘California Highway
Patrol.’ I don’t remember ever being so
happy to see the police.
“What’re you doing here kid?” the
officer grumbled. “Didn’t you see the sign on the fence? That’s private property. You’re trespassing. Can I see some ID.”
I handed him my wallet and jingled
my dog tags just for good measure. The
first patrolman mumbled something to the driver, the beam of a flashlight gave
my wallet a brief inspection, and then my wallet was quickly returned.
“All right,” the first patrolman
grunted, “you’re in the navy. What’re
you doing here? Are you lost?”
“Officer,” I began, glancing back into the dark, “I
was hitchhiking, and I was picked up by drunken teenagers, who drove their car
into the surf. Please give me a ride to
the main highway? I gotta get back home
for school.”
“Tell you what sport,” replied the
patrolman behind the wheel, “that’s navy property down there. It’s probably those navy brats on a drunken
spree. Climb in the back. We’ll call the station at Alameda. Let them handle this.”
Tossing my duffle bag in first, I slid in, heaving a sigh of
relief. The Marine Lieutenant in Ewa
and Harry’s wife in Honolulu had rescued me.
Now two more good Samaritans had crossed my path. The officer behind the wheel made a call
over his radio to the shore patrol headquarters at Alameda. Without further delay, he did a u-turn on
the road and drove back up the hill to the highway, turning right, which I
hoped was heading south. On the way,
the two patrolmen said very little.
Before they drove a ways down the road and dropped me off, however, I
tried engaging them in conversation.
The first officer I had talked to looked back at me and shook his
head.
“What are navy brats?” I broke the silence. “Are
they servicemen’s kids from Alameda Naval Air Station?”
“They’re the children of officers,” he
clarified curtly, “high-ranking men.
Most enlisted men’s kids don’t act like that!”
“That was awful.” I shuddered. “I thought we were
going to crash.”
“You did crash,” he replied. “You’re lucky
the car didn’t roll over and catch fire!”
“Yeah,” I
said, I reflecting upon my close calls. “I’ve been lucky so far.”
“You’re damn lucky, boy,” he scolded. “You
shouldn’t be hitch-hiking. You’re
fortunate we picked you up. Next time
you might get mugged, maybe killed.”
“Yeah,” I mentally shrugged, “but I have to
hitchhike. It’s the only way I can get
home.”
“We understand that,” the driver nodded with
understanding, “I did it myself in the army, but it’s still dangerous. Rule number one: look at the car and see
whose inside. If the car’s filled with
people, it’s probably joy riders or hell-raisers. Rule number two: look in at the driver, himself: does he or she
look sober, and is the driver acting strange.
You don’t want to get picked up by a psycho or queer. Rule number three: When you’re picked up by
someone you thought you could trust and they start acting weird, tell them you
need to make a restroom stop. Don’t
piss them off. Make sure it’s at a gas
station or at least a well-lit area.
Rule number four: Avoid hot rods and low-riders. There’s two reasons to avoid such cars. Hot rods drive too fast; you might get some
smart aleck showing off to this girlfriend.
Often a low rider is filled with Mexicans. During the war in Oakland, I remember the Zoot Suit riots. Servicemen hitchhiking were killed by
gangs. This happened all over the
country. It’s starting up again in
these parts, only they have names, like the Desperados and the Vigilantes. Some folks hate servicemen, especially
sailors. If you see a hot rod or low
rider turn, pull in your thumb, and get off the road!”
“All right officer.” I rolled my eyes.
When they finally dropped me in a well-lit portion
of Alameda County, I was even more nervous than before. I thanked the patrolmen and promised to be careful. I never really considered such factors as
the number of people in a car, what they looked like, how they acted, or
whether the vehicle pulling over was a low rider or hot rod. As the highway patrol drove away, I looked
with greater dread at the road ahead. I
would try to remember everything I was told, but what if someone picked me up
that didn’t send up a red flag, as the officer suggested, and all of sudden
they went berserk. We servicemen were
at the mercy of drivers when picked up.
I didn’t realize until my experiences at Ewa and then Alameda how much
some people hated us. It dawned on me
that the patrolmen could have added another rule: don’t hitchhike alone. I remember seeing servicemen, two or more,
trying to hitch a ride. This, of course,
might discourage some motorists, but I would take advantage of this situation
whenever I could.
******
After the patrolman’s lecture, I felt
vulnerable. Bernie and I had been
careless that first night on the beach when we climbed into a car full of
drunken Hawaiians. Tonight, as if I
hadn’t learned a listen, I climbed into a car of drunken teens. But as far as I was concerned, I was a
civilian again. No one had to know I
was in the navy. Unfortunately, I
carried one item of navy issue that might give me away. If it hadn’t been for my duffle bag, I could
fool them. The letters USN were
stenciled on the strap, a dead giveaway.
Somehow I would try to hide this acronym.
Though I had been dropped off between a gas station
and motel, there were only a few cars on the road and no other pedestrians
about. It occurred to me, as I stood on
this lonely stretch of road, that I might be waiting a long time for a
ride. It was late at night. It was nearly four hundred miles from my
hometown and I had to be in class at 8 am Monday morning. My perfect attendance award now seemed like
a futile dream…. And then once again, after a semi truck, Greyhound bus, and
two automobiles passed by, a small sports car pulled suddenly off the
road. It seemed to come out of
nowhere. My mind had been dulled by
lack of sleep and the long wait by the highway, so I was startled out of my
wits. The last time I saw an MG was in
my high school parking lot, a sports car owned by one of the rich kids at my
school. It was so tiny no more than two
average sized teens could fit inside. I
pondered how I might fit into such a small vehicle with my duffle bag,
hesitating as I bent down and looked into the car. After a moment of deliberation, I realized it was a woman
driving. At a glance she was an
attractive blond in flashy clothes. A
pungent perfume filled my nostrils, the kind of scent worn by fast girls at
school. Judging by the patrolman’s
rules, this seemed like a good sign. He
hadn’t mentioned a female driver. She
was alone in the car, she wasn’t driving a hot rod or low rider, and I didn’t
smell alcohol when I shoved my duffle bag behind the cramped seats, and
squeezed into the car. What I failed to
note yet, however, was the voice. That
gave me a jolt.
“I’m Noel Bridger,” I chimed, offering my hand.
“Steve Wade,” he replied, giving me a firm
handshake.”
“Oh dear me,” I muttered in shock. “…. Masquerade
party, right?” I was flabbergasted. Not
knowing what else to say, I chattered nervously. “Halloween is my favorite holiday—I
love to dress up. Last time I went as
Zorro. Rusty, my best friend, went in
drag.”
“No-no!” He chortled in a masculine voice. “Like
sailors and soldiers, I wear a uniform.
These are my work clothes. I’m a
female impersonator at Finocchio’s in San Francisco.”
“Really?” I replied stupidly. ‘I saw the
cartoon. Is this one is a musical? Is Geppetto in it too?”
Chattering in embarrassment a moment about how much
I loved Pinocchio, it gradually dawned on me that was behaving like an ass.
“You don’t understand Noel,” he said patiently.
“It’s Finocchio, not Pinocchio, and
Finocchio isn’t a cartoon. I’m
not in a musical. This is what I do for
a living. Along with several other
players, I perform in drag. Some of us
are comedians, some dance, and others sing.
I do magic and illusion. Instead
of having a female assistant in a sexy dress, one of the players in a tuxedo
assists me.”
This was
utterly strange to me. I showed my
ignorance again by giggling hysterically.
The patrol had warned me of drivers exhibiting weird behavior. I wasn’t sure if that included female
impersonators, but I had been caught off guard. Each time I opened my mouth, that proverbial foot filled it. I wanted to say something clever, but I was
embarrassed. So, instead, I said
something even more stupid than before.
“Wow!” I exclaimed, scratching my head. “That’s
fantastic. Really it is. I’ve never known a female impersonator. You have great courage, Steve. There’s a boy at school who’s queer. His name’s Harland Biggs. His parents are the richest people in
town. He gets straight A’s, but is
always getting teased. Those guys are
really mean. Once, on campus, they gave
him a wedgie, and I saw him get pantsed during gym—”
“Hold on, young man,” Steve interrupted. “I’m not a
homosexual. It’s my work. I have a wife and daughter. I like women just like you.”
“Whoa, that’s incredible.” I sighed with relief.
“Your wife doesn’t mind? She must
really be cool. You must get a lot of
money doing that. I bet you’re
good. Someday, when I’m in San
Francisco, I’ll visit Finnochio’s.”
“Humph! Are
you twenty-one years old?” He looked over and smiled. “You have to be
twenty-one to enter a nightclub in California.”
“No, I’m eighteen,” I
shrugged. “In Hawaii I could buy liquor.
Here in California I’m just a kid.”
“What were you doing in Hawaii?” he asked with
surprise. “Is that where you’ve been?”
“It’s a long story,” I began, stifling a yawn.
I was tempted to tell him what happened, but then,
remembering Captain Hayden’s warning, bit my lip and gave him an ambiguous
summary of my trip. I admitted that I
was on navy business, but failed to mention I was a reservist and recruit, who,
in league with Bernie Suarez, broke military and federal laws. I left out the most interesting elements of
the story, such as our close call in Ewa and being chased by the shore patrol
at Waikiki Beach, also downplaying our flights to Alameda and Barber’s
Point. I didn’t want Steve to think I
was a fool. And though I mentioned our
visit to Honolulu, playing up its bright lights and swarm of sailors and
tourists, most of my recollections were when it was night on the beach and
Bernie and I were thoroughly drunk.
Rather than admit I was so stupid, I played up the spectacular
silhouette of Diamond Head in the moonlight and the sheen of lunar light on the
surf. My favorite part, the ride in the
nose cone of a P2V, would have complicated my story too much, but I did tell
him about our harrowing experience with six drunken teenagers and my rescue by
the highway patrol.
Soon after relating my abbreviated account, Steve
lapsed into moody silence. After he
turned on the car radio, we listened to classical music. He had a long drive home, he explained. I had no idea how far that might take me on
my own journey; I was just thankful I was making progress. Each mile got me closer to my
destination. I was so drowsy now the
music and quiet lulled me into slumber.
I awakened suddenly after being shaken gently awake. Steve announced that we were in Santa Cruz,
where his family lived. I glanced at my
watch and realized it was only midnight.
I was disappointed he hadn’t taken me further, but I had eight hours to
reach my goal. I thanked this good
Samaritan and promised to visit Finnochio’s when I turned twenty-one.
******
Perhaps on purpose after seeing my sleepy face,
Steve let me off beside a Denny’s restaurant in his town, where I bought a cup
of coffee. It was nice to sit down in a
booth and be served, even for a short time.
The waitress, a plump, sour-faced, middle-age lady with graying hair and
a gap between her two front teeth, was just the sort of person I would expect
to be waiting on me this late at night.
There seemed to be no one else in the restaurant, except an old man
eating a piece of pie nearby and, across the room, a huge fat man chowing down
on a plateful of food. Inspired by the
old man, I ordered a slice of apple pie, devouring it within moments when it
was set down. Though she was in a bad
mood, I was cheerful to the waitress, and placed a quarter on the table before
I left. Today that would be considered
insulting to a waitress, but for a twenty-five-cent cup of coffee and fifty
cent piece of pie in 1960 that wasn’t bad.
I still had over eight dollars left from my original sum.
As I strolled down the highway, with my duffle bag
slung over my shoulder, I felt rejuvenated.
A simple cup of coffee and piece of pie had done the trick. I had been fortunate being picked up by a
kindly female impersonator. After only
a short while of strolling south and seeing vehicle after vehicle pass me by, I
looked up from the sidewalk and saw another car pulling over. My luck seemed to have changed since Steve
picked me up. Already, another good
Samaritan had appeared.
Recalling the motorists the patrolman warned me to
avoid, I looked into the Mercedes Benz and discovered an attractive woman
behind the wheel. I wondered why
someone like her would pick up a hitchhiker.
She acted normal at first and didn’t appear to be drunk, and yet almost
immediately, with me trapped in the car, her personality began to change.
“My name’s Noel Bridger,” I offered my hand.
“Dotty Simms,” she snorted, her hands still
clutching the wheel.
“How far are you going?” I blurted, glancing again
at my watch.
“A ways,” she replied evasively. “Where you headed?”
“Whittier.” I piped cheerily. “That’s my hometown.”
“Never heard of it.” She snarled. “What’s in your
bag?”
“My uniform and gear.” I gave it a pat. “I was in
Hawaii over the weekend. I gotta get
back to school.”
“How old are you?” She frowned.
“…Eighteen.” I answered hesitantly.
Considering her looks, I might
have told her I was twenty-one, but she wouldn’t have believed me. I couldn’t fool a wily female like her. In fact, everyone I had met so far thought
Bernie and I were a couple of wet-behind-the-ears kids. For a few more moments we lapsed into
silence. My head dropped lower and
lower as I began to doze. She hadn’t
answered my question on how far she was going.
Until she began talking to herself, I had hoped it would be quite a
ways.
“That no good son of a bitch!” Dotty muttered.
“Huh? Excuse
me?” I jerked awake.
“Men are all the same!” she heaved a pent-up sigh
“Well,” I thought quickly, “technically, I’m still a
teenager, so I don’t count.”
“You got the hardware, don’t ya?” she replied
accusingly. “You eighteen year olds are in your prime. After that, it’s down hill. I know sonny; I got a kid like you. He got his girlfriend pregnant. He ain’t the only one either. My old man got his girlfriend pregnant too. Pow!
I’m suddenly a grandma, aunt, and mother.” “Can you beat that?” she slammed the steering wheel.
“Hey, calm down!” I bolted in my seat.
Feeling the vehicle accelerate and the back of my neck
bang the seat, I realized she had floored it.
As I had before in Alameda with those drunken kids, I panicked, begging
her to let me out of the car, but she continued to rant and rave about her no
good husband and shiftless son.
“He never loved me,” she wailed. “He married me for
my money, my knockers, and my ass. He’s
no good. None of them are.”
Money, knockers, and ass might sound like good
qualifications to many guys, but this woman had seen better days. She was, upon closer inspection, hard-looking. Her face was plastered with too much makeup
and her fragrance was a pungent perfume I had smelled on loose girls as
school. Far more important than these
idle observations was her behavior and the fact she was driving too fast. When it appeared that she was set on a
suicidal course of action, I could scarcely understand her ramblings because my
heart was beating so fast. Then
suddenly, when her Mercedes had reached its limit of speed, a siren sounded in
the distance. I looked back hopefully
through the back window. Once more the
arm of the law I had feared in Hawaii was coming to my rescue. I realized, of course, that this discovery
would mean nothing if we crashed and burned.
“Please stop!” I screamed. “You can’t outrun the
police. Pull over and let me out!”
“Oh, why do I keep making the same mistakes?” She
groaned, gnashing her teeth. “My life is one big pile of shit!”
This is it, I told myself. I would pay for my folly.
I thought about my misspent youth, regretting I ever met Bernie Suarez. Closing my eyes tightly, I prayed
feverishly. I remember uttering the
Lord’s Prayer and my childhood prayer (Now I lay me down to sleep…) and then
bawling loudly as we flew down the road.
I was certain she would careen off one of the cliffs south of Santa Cruz
and I would die a horrible death, until in gradual increments the car
decelerated, the siren was right behind us, and the woman pulled finally off
the road. Jumping out the Mercedes with
my duffle bag, I shouted angrily, “That woman’s crazy! She’s out of her mind!”
Two officers emerged from the vehicle. One highway patrolman, with his gun drawn,
ordered her to get out of her Mercedes.
The other patrolman told me to calm down and move away from the
car. Soon a second patrol car arrived
on the scene. Quickly, as I stood by
the first car, Dotty was handcuffed, and shoved in back. I moved nervously over to the second
car, wondering if I would be arrested
too.
“I’m US Navy,” I called out anxiously. “I just want
to get home.”
One of the officers from the second group nodded and
pointed to his vehicle. “Get in kid. We’ll take you to the next town.”
I looked up at heaven dramatically. “Oh, thank you! Thank you!” I cried
deliriously.
Without a backward glance, clutching my duffle bag,
I scrambled into the backseat. As the
two highway patrolman slid into the front seat, my gratitude exploded in a
flood of words. Both men glanced back
with mirth, as the patrol car took off, and shook their heads.
“Got yourself a live one, eh kid?” the driver snickered,
looking into his rearview mirror.
“She was nuts!” I shuddered. “You men saved my
life. You’re not the first. It seems like somebody’s always there to
save me!”
“Well, think of us as your guardian angels!” the second patrol
exclaimed.
Once again, I was rescued by the highway patrol. It does seem, as I look back, that there was
someone there at every turn to pull me out of a jam. When we reached Watsonville, I was ready for another stretch of
road. Considering all my rescuers, it
seemed that the Good Lord was watching over me, and yet my optimism began to
wane as I waited by the road. There
were even less vehicles on the highway at this late hour, most of them semi
trucks with drivers who seemed to ignore hitchhikers. At first the area where I had been dropped off seemed to fit the
criteria for a good place to hitch a ride.
It was well lit with street lamps and hillside homes, and it was
surrounded by trees I could run into in case I had to escape, but it was also
quite dead. Though the street lamps
provided ample light, the storefronts were dark. Not so much as a dog or cat was about. Glancing at my watch after a while, I discovered to my dismay
that it was now 2 am, which meant I had six hours to get to school and save my
perfect attendance. Fatigue, the long
hours of travel, and apparent futility of it all swept over me suddenly.
“Why do I even care?” I shook my fist at the sky.
From the nearby hills echoes resounded: “Why do I even care? Why do
I even care?”
“Because I’m stupid!” I shouted back angrily. “I’m an underachiever, a
slacker. Why am I killing myself? I’m not going to make it. There’s not enough time!”
“Because I’m stupid!” came my echo “I’m an underachiever, a slacker. Why am I killing myself? I’m no going to make it. There’s not enough time!”
On and on the echoes boomed
from hill to hill and through the sleeping town. In fitful
distraction I began singing Little Richard’s Tutti Frutti at the top of my
lungs. This time the echoes were louder
as they bounced eerily through the landscape and town. Suddenly an old man appeared that moment in
his pajamas and robe, shaking his cane and cursing fitfully under his breath.
“Young man!
Are you drunk?” he exploded. “Do you know what time it is? It’s 2 am.
Stop that racket at once or I’ll call the police!”
“I’m sorry,” I said glumly. “I lost it a moment. I just want to get home. Don’t call the police. I’m just so very tired.”
He squinted nearsightedly at me a moment, his rage
softening to a scowl. Coming close
enough to study the strap on my duffle bag, he shook his head. “A sailor,
eh? You don’t look old enough to be in
the navy. You’re just a kid. I was in the Great War, just a kid,
myself—army though. I killed me a few
Krauts!” “Well, I need my rest, sonny.”
He smiled wearily, his voice fading in the night. “…. I hope you get a ride
soon, but it don’t look likely in this neck of the woods. The only ones coming through here this late
are truckers. Because it’s downhill,
they’re usually driving pretty fast…”
On that note, the old man disappeared into the
shadows whence he had come, still muttering to himself. Standing there in this barren town those
moments made me feel as if I was the last soul on earth. In spite of my pie, I was still hungry. I wanted to lie down in some nook and sleep
until dawn. But I was on a
mission. “I gotta get a ride!” I
muttered deliriously. “I gotta be on time!”
After an indeterminate period of time in which I
seemed to be sleeping on my feet, I was rudely shaken awake. Upon hearing the roar of an engine and loud
hiss of hydraulic brakes, I looked out to see a semi-truck looming on the
road.
“Hop in kid!” a voice bellowed. “Make it quick!”
With my duffle bag in my grip, I ran happily to the truck,
handed the bag up to the driver, and then climbed up the ladder into the
cab. Usually large trucks with trailers
traveled great distances, so I expected to gain time to meet my goal. In fact, however, he drove only to King City
where he had to unload his trailer.
Though he was a friendly fellow, he smoked constantly and played
contemporary jazz on his radio. In
spite of his cheerful banter, this combination wore on me after awhile. I opened my window a crack and pretended to
like his music, but the truth was it was like a form of torture. I had experimented with smoking myself, but
he smoked cigarillos, which were much stronger and smellier than
cigarettes.
As a typical redneck, his subject was sex. He told me a few crude jokes and then related
a series of one-night stands he had with women. I had never heard such nasty stories. His vocabulary was worse than the sailors I overheard at Alameda
and Barber’s Point. When we reached the
middle of King City, he turned left on a side street, let me off on the corner,
and swung his truck and its cargo onto a ramp where a crew waited to unload his
goods. Before dropping me off he gave
me an apple he had been saving for a snack and wished me luck. I would need it. It was, I noted on my watch, 3:00 am. I had only five hours to meet my goal. After watching the men unload his trailer a moment, feeling
detached and numb with exhaustion, I ambled down the highway until reaching the
crest of a hill. Looking down at this
sleepy town, I admired its inhabitants as they snuggled safely in their
beds. Now, as I scanned up and down
the highway, the road seemed totally barren of traffic. Who on earth would be awake and driving at
this hour?
******
My pessimism was understandable. I had only five hours to reach my house and
then run madly to class. There was no
time to stop at an all night diner for a sandwich and cup of coffee. I had to keep moving even it meant I would
walk some of the. When I was walking, I
was doing all I could to make my deadline. I might not meet it, but at least I tried. That train of though gave me bitter comfort,
as I trekked south. For just a moment
as I reached the outskirts of this community, I stopped at a bus stop, hoping
one ran this late. I had eight dollars
and some change left. That should get
me pretty far, I reasoned, as I sat down.
With my duffle bag on my lap as a pillow, I lay my head down and fell
asleep. I don’t know how long I had
slept. A fleeting dream played in my
head those moments. I was back at Alameda
Naval Air Station, but this time I was being hauled off in chains. In the background Bernie was yelling, “It’s
all his fault. He did it!” I found myself suddenly in a dark unfriendly
jail cell. Bristly chinned men leered
like jackals at me as if they had just been tossed fresh meat. Someone shouted into my dream, “Hey, you
want a ride.” After hearing the other
meaning of that expression at school, I screamed to my tormentors, “No, no, I
want to go home!” I awakened on my
duffle bag, hearing those same words, “Hey, you want a ride?” and looking up,
saw a Ford Bel Air idling on the curb.
I couldn’t see the diver yet, but the voice, though high pitched and
lilting, sounded like a man’s.
Instinctively now, I glanced at my watch. Relieved that I had only lost fifteen minutes, I tossed my gear
in back and slid into the front seat.
“Where you going sailor?” he asked immediately. “I’m
going as far as Santa Barbara. I could
drop you off there.”
“Super!” I exclaimed. “I might just make it now.”
“Where you heading?” he became inquisitive. “Are you
on leave?”
“I live in Whittier,” I explained wearily. “I must
get home on time.”
“My-my,” he giggled, “you are in a hurry.”
A twinge of déjà vu fell over me suddenly as I
studied the man. Was he on the patrolman’s
list? I wondered. He’s certainly gave
me the creeps. Though he was almost
bald, his face reminded me of Bernie.
Like Bernie, he grinned too much, and there was a girlish lilt to his
voice. As there had been in Bernie’s
uncle’s house, a red flag went up in my mind.
I was certain I could defend myself if he turned out to be a predator,
but I was still trapped if he went berserk like Carl, the teenage driver, or
Dotty, the demented blond, who picked me up in Santa Cruz. Because I was desperate now, I decided to be
as polite as possible until reaching the dropping off point. What could he do to me, I reasoned, as long
as he was driving the car? I introduced
myself as simply Noel. His name was
Chuck. His limp handshake raised
another flag in my mind. He asked far
too many questions for my state of mind: Where was I from? What did I do in the navy? Did I play football or baseball? Why was I in such a hurry to get home? I answered all his questions vaguely,
especially the last one. Remembering Captain
Hayden’s warning again, I explained why I had traveled to Hawaii too. To satisfy his curiosity, I related Bernie’s
original version of us having to meet our squadron, leaving the impression that
I was, in fact, on leave now. I bragged
about my life on the USS Hornet, which, ironically, would be my ship one
day. At the time, I knew nothing about
aircraft carriers and relied on information my instructor gave me at Los
Alamitos Naval Air Station. The answer
to his question why I was in a hurry to get home, however, I couldn’t explain
very well. A sailor on leave wouldn’t
be worried about perfect attendance. “I
just have to!” I shrugged. It was an
outright lie—all of it, but what did it matter, I thought, staring vacantly out
the window. I would never see this man
again.
“My goodness.” He clasped his hands. “You’re a busy
fellow!”
“Yeah,” I murmured drowsily, “an old salt!”
“But you don’t look old enough to have done all
that,” he eyed me slyly.
“Please,” I groaned, “I’m so tired. Can I take a little nap.”
“Of course,” he nodded amiably, “I’ll awaken you
when w reach our destination.”
“Yes, yes,” I nodded impatiently, “in Santa
Barbara. Thanks for the ride Chuck.”
I was relieved he hadn’t tried anything funny. I slept for over an hour, awakening with a
jolt as the car stopped at a light.
When I glanced at my watch, it read four fifteen. I looked up to see a cityscape, similar to
Santa Cruz. I had made another
milestone in my journey: Santa Barbara.
Abruptly, though, as I awakened fully and remembered where I was at, I
realized we were turning onto a side street.
One more red flag shot up in my head when Chuck stopped and, while I was
still half asleep, popped the question.
“Oh my god!” I recoiled, reaching to grab my duffle
bag and scrambling out his car. “Get away from you foul thing!”
I remembered that line from a horror movie. It had been leveled at vampire then, but in
my mind Chuck was worse. As I was
waking up, he had taken advantage of me.
As in the case of Bernie, I had suspected Chuck was strange, but wasn’t
sure of his motives. I would never have
made an issue of his peculiarities had he left me alone. Charging angrily toward the highway, I put
distance between Chuck and myself. I
was a short ways from the corner when I glanced back and saw the Chevrolet Bel
Air racing toward me. Just in the knick
of time, as he sped past, I dodged onto someone’s yard. Shouting obscenities at me, as he drove over
the lawn and knocked down a picket fence, I saw lights appear in the resident’s
windows and heard voices inside, but stood there trembling until the vehicle
was out of sight. Quickly then, before
they emerged from their house, I ran to the corner, looked both ways, and, so I
would facing traffic instead of being ambushed from behind, ran back across the
street. Fearful that Chuck would come
back to terrorize me, I stood there a moment, keeping a vigil of both the north
and south directions of the highway.
From this point on, until I felt safe, I would be jumpy each time I saw
a car in the distance.
Finally, when it seemed prudent, I crossed the
street to begin hitchhiking again. I
must have walked over a mile that hour before another vehicle appeared on the
horizon. Darting into an alley and
peeking around the corner, I waited until I could discern the make and model of
the car. There were a lot of Bel Airs
on the road, even white ones like Chuck’s.
When it was close enough, I was greatly relief to see a blue Ford
Fairlane. Had the driver seen me
peeking around the corner? I wondered
then, trotting out with duffle bag in tow.
As I approached the Ford, three Marines in uniform emerged from the
front and back seat. I remember
thinking earlier how safe it would be to hitchhike with other sailors, but I
hadn’t considered the prospects of thumbing a ride with Marines. The motorist, who must have lived in Santa
Barbara, drove on, leaving the three Marines on the curb, only a few yards from
where I stood.
“Hello, my names Noel Bridger.” I stuck out my hand.
There was no response.
“I live in Whittier, California.” I announced
cheerily. “Where do you guys live?”
Again there was no response.
The three men walked passed me as if I wasn’t even
there. They were in surly moods. I followed several feet behind them. After listening to them talk back and forth,
I was able to attach the correct name to each Marine. The hefty fellow with dark piercing eyes was called Doug, the
tall, buck-toothed, freckly-faced fellow was Dick, and the short guy with
glasses was Bill. I gathered from their
conversation, why I was so unwelcome.
With me added to their group, there would now be four men for a motorist
to pick up. It seemed logical to me to
slow down and let them walk ahead of me for another mile, in order to grab the
first good Samaritan. In fact, I
reasoned, I had the advantage on the highway.
I just hoped that Chuck wouldn’t return and attempt once more to run me
down. I was light-headed with fatigue. Upon seeing another bench on the sidewalk, I
sat down to wait. I tried to be
positive now. Surely, in this larger
town, there must be early risers. It
occurred to me that I might even catch a bus at this hour. After looking back at the bus schedule
posted by the bench, I discovered that the first bus didn’t arrive until 5:30
am. “What’s wrong with your people?” I
shouted out loud. “Even in Whittier, that Quaker town, the buses run around the
clock!” As I sat cursing my fate, I saw
a vehicle emerge from a cross street and head south.
“Oh shit!” I yelped, jumping up and dashing up the street. Fearful that Chuck was coming back for
another try, I ran into the alley I had hidden in before. Watching with wide unblinking eyes, as the
vehicle approached, I waited until I could see it clearly. A pink Buick Century four door now drove
slowly down the highway. Heaving a huge
sigh, I emerged with my duffle bag, not sure what the motorist had in
mind. Why was the car driving so
slowly? Was he or she drunk? I wondered.
I had learned by experience to be on guard when an automobile pulled
over. I recalled the patrolman’s
warning about suspicious behavior. Not
everyone was a good Samaritan. During
the wee hours, crazed, angry, or drunk motorists prowled the highway. This time, as I looked into the vehicle, I
saw another woman—this one young, perhaps in her twenties. Wordlessly, with a mere smile, she beckoned
me in. In the shadow of the vehicle the
details were vague, but as I scooted in, I was greeted with an attractive girl
with short, frosted hair, wearing casual slacks and blouse. Another red flag, that was perhaps of
smaller size than the last, surfaced in my mind that moment. I was aware that servicemen were often
picked up by loose women, and this is exactly what was happening now. I couldn’t help being tempted by this
lady. Like Chuck, she was going to pop
the question. I remember introducing
myself, shaking her hand, and learning that her name was Candy Cane (obviously
a fictitious name). I was so excited I
could scarcely talk. Working against my
adolescent hormones were the V.D. films shown to eighth graders at East
Whittier Junior High and the warnings I heard from Chief Crump in my recruit
class.
“Do you want to go to my place?” she finally asked.
“Huh?” My eyes popped wide. “Really?”
“Yes,” she purred. “It’s just up the street a
ways. Afterwards, I’ll take you to the
next town.”
Upon closer inspection, she wore far too much
makeup, her perfume was a stinky musk scent, and there was a haunted look in
her gaze. Despite her exterior and
smell, her voice belied her appearance.
If my eyes were closed, she would have reminded me of my first crush:
Maryanne Benson. Unfortunately,
however, my eyes weren’t closed—this woman was very likely a prostitute or
nymphomaniac. I had to make up my mind
very soon, before she took me home.
What changed everything and saved me from doing
something foolish, was the appearance down the road of the three Marines. I would have mixed feelings about this for
years to come, but that moment I was glad to see those men. Immediately, as I suspected, her green eyes
lit up as she spotted the men. In
civilian dress with a duffle bag with USN stenciled on the strap I was no match
for men in uniforms, especially Marines.
Pulling over ahead of them, she waited with bated breath, panting like
my pet dog. Though delivered from
foolishness, I felt diminished as the Marines piled in with their duffle
bags. To allow room for all our gear, I
was forced next to her thigh. My hand
fell on her knee, as she invited the Marines over to her place. I would remember this as one of those
‘what-could-have-been’ episodes. There
was hardly any discussion now, as she raced down the boulevard. She meant business. The Marines meant business. I wanted out of the car. As she began turning wheel, I called out in
a croaking voice, “This is my stop.
Please let me out!”
As I reached back to grab my duffle bag, she shook
her head in surprise. “Do you live in this neighborhood? I don’t remember a Noel Bridger. Did you just move in?”
“Yes-yes,” I stammered. “I live across the street. We—my wife and I—just moved in. Thanks for the ride, Candy. You folks have a good time.”
Dick, the Marine sitting beside me, climbed out to
facilitate my escape, muttering, “You’re loss sailor boy. This is a hot one!”
“Wear protection,” I replied artlessly. “You don’t want Gonorrhea!”
Frowning severely at me, he climbed back in the
front seat and, without further delay, he and his friends were transported to
Candy’s house down the street. Swiftly,
I put distance between this temptation and myself. I should have felt relieved then, but I knew that time was
running out. Even the short delay
caused by Candy, had robbed me of valuable time. In order to arrive in time, I would need a good Samaritan to take
me straight to my destination.
Clutching my face and groaning, I moved sluggishly down the highway.
“Why Lord?” I shouted to the sky. “Am I a bad
person? Why did I listen to that
yo-yo? Look what it got me. Why do I care about perfect attendance? I’m an underachiever and slacker. My parents are always saying that. Why do I care about one stupid,
insignificant award?”
But it was it wasn’t stupid and it wasn’t
insignificant. It was the only thing I
had to show for four years of high school.
In spite of the blame I heaped on Bernie that hour, I knew much of it
was my fault. In the first place, I
didn’t have to go. No one twisted my
arm. Bernie might have talked me into
it, but I could have stopped in my tracks before ever climbing into a
plane. It was me who got Bernie drunk
at Ewa and Waikiki. In a way I
corrupted him by plying him with booze.
On the other hand, Bernie might have gotten us over there, but it was me
who got us back. I told the truth to
the FBI and Captain Hayden, and Bernie had lied, but these facts meant little
in the end. We were an embarrassment to
the government and navy. As I continued
my trek through Santa Barbara, I began giggling uncontrollably. I was on a fool’s errand now. If my perfect attendance were really an issue,
my escapade would prove costly. The
absurdity and hopelessness of it swept over me like a large jolt of
scotch. I couldn’t stop laughing,
swaying like a drunk until I arrived at another bus stop bench. Collapsing momentarily in uncontrolled
mirth, the light-headedness gradually wore off. I just sat there for a while staring into space, stifling the
urge to bawl. In the east, I saw that
dreaded first light, which signaled the advance of dawn. Burying my face in the duffle bag on my lap,
I uttered a muffled scream, rose up shakily, and trudged on. I didn’t bother sticking out my thumb. I hadn’t seen a car for a half hour.
I must have
presented a forlorn and dejected picture to the motorist approaching me that
moment. A late model dodge station wagon
now pulled off the road. I could
scarcely believe it. The driver didn’t
have to wait long for me to slide into the back seat. Greeting me with cheery smiles were a middle-aged man and woman,
with a little Chihuahua yapping between them.
“Hi, I’m Noel Bridger!” I piped happily. The man behind the wheel introduced himself as Horace
Fairbanks. His wife Helen held her
little dog tightly so he wouldn’t jump on me, but soon it had broken free and
began running wildly inside the car. As
the station wagon took off, Horace asked me where I was headed. When I told him I lived in Whittier, he
informed me that we were next-door neighbors.
I whooped with joy when I learned that they lived in nearby La Habra.
Because I was so young, Horace and Helen cautioned
me about the dangers of hitchhiking, a warning I heard earlier from the highway
patrol. When I explained to them that I
couldn’t afford a bus ticket home, they found this unacceptable. I should never be hitchhiking in the first
place, they both agreed. What would my
parents say? Why would I travel without
sufficient funds? What possible reason
did a kid like me have for hitching rides, especially late at night? Didn’t I know there were all sorts of
predators and deviants on the road?
Though their criticism was irksome, I agreed wearily with them, yet
avoided telling them my story. I just
didn’t have the energy. What I did talk
about was my high school. Perhaps it
was because of my meeting with the principle, who told me I would get a perfect
attendance award if I didn’t miss any school.
Perhaps it was the sheer effort I made in getting home in time that
drove me on. But it seemed, with this
goal in mind, my four years of high school suddenly meant something. I bragged to them about my drama class and
the plays I performed in at school. I
also boasted about our football team, which had been almost undefeated this
year, my tennis letter, my membership in the Thespians club, and I reminisced
about the many school dances and events throughout my high school years.
Suddenly, I was once more a kid. Today I would be a high school student
again, not a naval recruit or felon nor a footsore traveler of the world, just
Noel Bridger—nothing more. The
difficulties I had with my family and making it through the last months of
school no longer mattered. I would be
home, safe from trouble and the dangers of the road.
******
Horace Fairbanks turned out to be a pastor and his
wife a professor of theology at Biola College.
After chatting with me about his church in La Habra, he asked me if I
was saved, and was pleased to hear I attended a Baptist church like
himself. That was not completely true,
of course; I had been attending, without success, Maryanne Benson’s Methodist
Church to score points with her. But I
had been baptized in the Baptist church near my house; so, all things
considered, I must be saved. When they
returned to the original discussion, I listened contritely to their admonitions
about the dangers of hitchhiking for a teenager like me. The conflict of my still being in high school
and the fact I was doing such a dangerous thing made it even more difficult for
them to digest when I admitted finally that I was in the navy. My duffle bag had been a dead giveaway. When the subject of the stenciled letters on
the strap was brought up I had as story ready.
I simply told them that I was in a special program for high school
seniors eighteen years old, and I had been on a weekend cruise with my squadron
at Alameda. They nodded thoughtfully at
my story. Though they still insisted
that I take public transformation, they appeared to accept it at face
valuable. I wondered, as we approached
my house, whether they were just being polite.
I wouldn’t have believed my story.
I was hungry and exhausted from my odyssey. During our long talks, the Fairbanks’
Chihuaha, Scooter, continued to frolick inside the car, becoming a great
nuisance to me, but serving the important function of keeping me awake during
our trip. He was constantly jumping on
each of our laps and nipping playfully at our hands, and, at one point, as the
pastor lectured me on the evils of drink and unprotected sex, peed on the
floor. Reverend Fairbanks and his wife
Helen seemed oblivious to his rowdy behavior.
Though I was growing tired of the pastor and his wife’s inquisitiveness
and unasked for advice, and their unruly dog, I felt indebted to them for their
kindness. What did it matter what they
said or the fact I had to smell dog urine during my ride; I was safe and secure
in their car, and I was going to arrive at my first class on time.
Thanking Horace and Helen profusely as they dropped
me off in front of my house, I promised to visit their church when I had a
chance (a chance, I confess, that never came.)
Giving Scooter a pat, before I grabbed my duffle bag, I dashed toward my
house without a backward glance. There
was no time to waste. It was seven
fifteen, as I walked through the backyard gate, found the key under the porch,
and unlocked the door. I had tried
being quiet after opening the gate.
Unfortunately, Toby, our dog, had been awakened by the commotion. Letting out a sleepy bark, he charged up to
me, jumped up and down excitedly, and then scampered into the house. Roused from slumber, my mom called sleepily
from her room, “Noel is that you? How
was your weekend? Did you have a good
time?” “It was great Mom!” I piped,
dropping my duffle bag onto the floor.
For untold miles I had carried that baggage. I was now free of it at last.
My dad had already left for work.
The kitchen was a mess, but I made myself a hasty breakfast of a peanut
butter and jelly sandwich, grabbing a coke from the refrigerator to wash it
down. After throwing on some clean
clothes as I wolfed down my sandwich, I sprinkled on some of dad’s cologne to
camouflage the fact I hadn’t taken a shower, and then charged out the front
door.
I would have to walk, even run to school, but I knew
I would make it now. Here I was, I
thought, on the road to perfect attendance and I still had eight dollars in my
pocket. I was totally exhausted now,
and yet I felt a burst of energy after my coke and sandwich. I ran, then walked a ways when I was spent,
and, during the final lap, when I had reached the campus, dashed frantically
down the hall. When I found my locker,
I pulled out a textbook and notebook, slammed the door shut, and continued
running down the hall. My first class,
which happened to be English Literature, had what most students thought was a
cranky teacher. Her name, Misses
Crabtree was fitting enough, but Misses Crabtree looked in every way like a
mean, ornery crone. This morning,
however, she became one of those special people in my life. With barely a minute left until the tardy
bell rang I sailed into class, sweating profusely, breathing like a rail
pounder, and plopping down in my designated seat just in time for the
bell. I remembered that moment that my
term paper on Moby Dick would be due Thursday, and I had a math exam the
following day. After my insane weekend,
however, and amazing trek home I was light-headed with relief. While calling role, Misses Crabtree, paused
to ask me if I was drunk or high on drugs.
When I answered no, she asked me if I might be ill and did I want to see
the school nurse. I stifled hysterical
giggles that moment but insisted that I was merely tired, at which time she
walked over, felt my forehead, and insisted I be excused from class. It was then, against my better judgement
that I told the teacher and classes why I was sweating and acting strange: I
ran all the way from home to be on time.
“You see Misses Crabtree,” I gathered my thoughts.
“I found out from the principle I had a perfect attendance record—me of all
people would be getting an award. The
last award I got was the Order of the Arrow in Boy Scouts. I got home just in time to grab a sandwich,
get dressed, and make it to my first class.”
“Got home from where?” She frowned. “You look like you’ve been
partying all night.”
“No ma’am,” I shook my head, “that wasn’t it at
all.”
At that point, it spelled out in a flow of words
that mesmerized my teacher and the class.
Doing exactly what the FBI and Captain Hayden had told me not to do, I
told them the entire story, beginning with Bernie’s harebrained scheme, through
the hops from Los Alamitos to Alameda and Alameda to Barber’s Point, to the
point when we were arrested by the FBI and interrogated, and then, because we
were an embarrassment to the navy and government, that moment when I was
expelled from the base. I explained to
them that there would be no record of my involvement but that Bernie, because
he lied to the FBI, would be drummed out with a section 8. Adding the important episode when I was
picked up several times while hitchhiking by drunken teens, a female
impersonator, deranged women, and queer, until being driven home by a minister
and his wife, I sat there out of breath, realizing I had taken up almost the
entire hour.
“Now class,” Misses Crabtree announced, shifting to
the podium, “that’s what I call a storyline.
Like the authors of Catcher in the Rye by J. D. Salinger and Adventures
of a Young Man by Ernest Hemingway this young man has a vivid imagination, but
he did it all in one weekend instead of years or months.” “In fact Mister
Bridges,” she looked down at me sternly, “this will be your theme for your
semester story. I want all of you to
write a story about an important event in your life.”
The class groaned.
I felt a spit ball bounce off my head.
What have I done? I asked myself, gazing around the room. I had, to use a trite phrase, let the cat
out of the bag. Now I had a roomful of
resentful students to contend with for the remainder of the semester. Despite my misgivings, however, I was deeply
moved. It would be the only time I
heard her compliment a student in her class.
Out of all her students, she had singled me ut. I felt honored by Miss Crabtree’s
regard. For a moment my voice was
caught in my throat.
“…So you believe me?” I grinned foolishly at her. “I
scarcely believe it myself.”
“Mister Bridger, walk with me.” She crooked a finger
and exited into the breezeway outside of her class.
As the class murmured angrily amongst themselves,
she led me down a ways, turned to me slyly and looked me squarely in the eyes.
“I don’t believe you young man, and it’s best that I and no one else believes
you either. You’ve always struck me as
an imaginative student. Would you
prefer that I think you are a felon instead?”
“No ma’am!” I gasped.
“You may not know it Mister Bridger, but my husband
is a navy man, himself. He’s a captain
on an aircraft carrier—the USS Kearsarge.
He’ll retire soon, but he’s very strict about regulations. You appeared to have broken them all.”
“Are you angry with me?” I asked in a stunned voice.
“They let me go. It’s as if I had
broken no laws.”
“But you did!” She smiled wryly. “The important
matter is that they warned you not to tell.
What would happen if they found out that you spelled the beans, eh? That J. Edgar Hoover is a sly fellow. You don’t want to upset him!”
“No, of course not,” I heaved a sigh. “Does this
mean you don’t want me to write about my weekend?”
“Oh yes,” she nodded, “but skip over the controversial parts and use
fake names. It must be condensed to
twenty pages. In spite of your apparent
exhaustion, you told your story well.
Someday, after many years, when the principles in the story are dead and
gone, this might make a fine novel, but as fiction…. You must use fictional
characters in your story, of course.
Your paper, which you might entitle, “My Weekend of Insanity,” will
likewise be fiction. I will grade it,
probably giving you an A if you do it properly, and return it after making a
copy for myself. After that, keep this
story to yourself. You and your crazy
friend did something that most young men only dream of doing: you broke the law
and got away with it, you went to an exotic island without paying a dime, and,
most of all, you survived it no worse for wear. But you still broke the law!”
“I’m confused,” I wrinkled my nose. “You just said
you don’t believe me. You sound like
you believe me now.”
“No,” she corrected gently, “I meant for the
record I don’t believe you. I don’t
believe anyone, especially in your condition, can make up such a tale.” “Now go
to the your second period class, try to stay awake, and don’t tell anyone that
silly story again!”
“They probably won’t believe me anyhow.” I smiled
sadly.
“Noel,” she patted my head, “you’re eighteen years
old and a high school student. You flew
on military transports and fooled the navy and all you got was a slap on the
wrist. What it that old navy adage my
husband might say? Don’t rock the
boat!”
******
Bud, that old salt Bernie and I met on our hop to
Barber’s Point, had said, “Let sleeping dogs lie,” which means the same
thing. I had taken his advice and kept
my secret about Bernie’s parents from him.
That was easy enough. What
Misses Crabtree was asking me to do, however, was much more difficult. Though I should feel foolish for stumbling
through our misadventures, I was still proud of our achievement. After all I had gone through, including
coping with Bernie Suarez, I felt that I had bragging rights. Misses Crabtree cloaked it as fiction for the
class’s benefit, and yet it had inspired the old gal. I saw it in her eyes and heard it in her voice. Thanks to me, the entire class had to write
an essay on an important event in their life, and yet mine would be labeled
fiction. That gleam in her eye told me
she was pleased with my spirit. I was
being encouraged to use my imagination, which my teacher praised, to write a
story about our caper in Hawaii. I knew
she was right. I had been warned by the
navy and FBI not to talk about our adventure…. Until one day in the future when
I felt comfortable enough to expand my story into a novel, I decided to take
her advice. I at least had the
satisfaction to know that she believed me.
The question was, ‘would anyone else?’
I had no idea that many of the important places in
Bernie and my journey would no longer exist one day. Los Alamitos Naval Air Station is now called the Joint Forces
Training Base. Except for USS Hornet
Museum located in Alameda, its base was closed during President Clinton’s
administration, as was the naval air base at Barber’s Point. In a special place tucked in the back of
mind I let my paper about my caper sit, and then one day, while cleaning up my
study, I found the story I had written in my English Literature class. Misses Crabtree, who would be in her
hundreds today, was likely dead, as were Captain Hayden, the FBI agents who
interrogated us, and anyone else who could point the finger at Bernie and
me. We were safe now. The sailors and marines we encountered,
including the kindly lieutenant, who rescued us in Ewa and the sailor’s wife
who drove us back to the base, had vanished forever from our lives. Sadly enough, I don’t know what happened to
Bernie either. Once, after my active
duty from 1960 to 1962, I was at one of my weekly reserve meetings at Los
Alamitos and learned from a high school classmate and neighbor of Bernie, who
happened to be in our recruit class, that my onetime travel companion had moved
away. From one other reservist, who was
also a classmate, it was also rumored that he had a breakdown and was committed
to an asylum. According to the first
informant, who was a weekend warrior like myself, Bernie moved with Constance
his mother back to Hawaii were she had spent her childhood. Reflecting upon my long ago adventure and
the impact it must have had on Bernie’s life, I would rather believe he moved
than lost his mind, but I would never know.
I wrote a lot of stuff that is still buried in my filing cabinet and
stored in my computer, but the story I wrote for Misses Crabtree inspired me to
make one more try.
Call me a late bloomer if you wish. I’m an old man now, and this is an old
story. Considering the threat of
terrorism at home and abroad and the many conflicts in our world, I doubt very
much if the FBI, navy, or Homeland Security care very much about my book. Even now, when I tell the story of how two
high school teenagers managed such a caper, I get skeptical looks. Today, because of the rules and restrictions
in military air travel and the general climate of suspicion after 9/11 and the
years following which have seen conflict and war, such a feat would be
impossible and unbelievable. Yet we
managed to pull it off, as Bernie mischievously put it. From the moment we stepped on our first
naval plane until the night I left Alameda Naval Air Station on my own, it had
been an insane adventure. Later, during
active duty, I would travel around the Pacific Ocean in my aircraft carrier,
the USS Hornet. I would experience
stormy seas and freewheeling exploits on land, and almost wind up in the brig….
But nothing can compare with that first, madcap adventure—my Hawaiian escapade.
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