MAGICAL MYSTERY TOUR: PART TWO

The Big Sur Circa 1970

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The further north we got, the weirder things became. It was like Easy Rider. Guys in pickup trucks threw us hard looks.  Waitresses refused us service, saying they were out of anything we attempted to order. Cops pulled us over just to mess with us and my press passes got a thorough workout.

But we survived in style and eventually things started to smooth out as we neared the sanctuary of Big Sur. The Sur has always attracted artists and bohemians and just plain old cranky people who don’t want to be fooled with by outside society.

I’d recently read Jack Kerouac’s magical book about his battle with alcoholism and his personal demons in a small cabin in The Sur and I had this fabulous mental picture of vaulted cliffs, sweet smelling trees and meadows and Kerouac in the mist listening to the hissing seas as if they were a magical orchestra playing just for him.

Back home in Venice, we’d met people down from The Sur and everyone spoke about their experiences there in hushed tones, as if describing the splendors of a grand cathedral. We’d been told that there were several successful communes up in the hills and down in the canyons, where the people enjoyed lives full of pure food and damned good dope. Jay and Jack were also keen on the stories of lightly clothed, gamboling hippie chicks who were supposed to inhabit The Sur like pretty little wood sprites longing for male company.

Imagine us in our red and silver school bus rumbling along the highway, the Pacific on our left, the forested mountains of California on our right, rock and roll on the radio, the sweet smell of marijuana floating through the cabin, exotic visions of The Sur washing through our brains.

The very atmosphere began to shift even before we reached our goal. The air became cooler, sweeter, with just a tang of tannin, like freshly brewed tea. The closer we got, moist forest smells swirled up – fallen leaves and branches turning into mulch, new foliage and blossoms entreating passing insects and birds to come and party hearty. Swap some pollen with me baby?

With the change of atmosphere came a transformation – we were stoked, primed and ready for an adventure of the soul. It might have been a single moment, or several moments, but suddenly we all realized that we had entered The Sur. The bright sunlight turned to forest shadows and we could hear the sea through the trees and canyons, making a lovely, spooky whooooooosshhh - just like Kerouac described in the long poem that closed his book.

I remember clearly that Jack was driving, leaning back with a wide smile gleaming through his beard, taking occasional hits off a joint. He was wearing his favorite white leather cowboy jacket with its long fringes hanging down. And in one single moment Jack went from being your basic science nerd into being a really cool guy. In short, dear reader, Jack was making himself the perfect Guide for the scene that would be our next “happening.”

As we wended our way through The Sur we saw people our age – young people – walking along the  roadside. The guys were bare-chested and wearing jeans; the girls wore colorful dresses, their long hair decorated with summer flowers. They turned and looked at us – marveling at the red and silver bus with the varnished sundeck gracing the roof.

Jack slowed down and stopped beside them. He grasped the handle and opened the doors, your friendly hippie dippy schoolbus driver, with a joint tucked in his bewhiskered lips. Not a word was spoken, but finally one of the girls clambered onto the first step. She looked down the aisle, seeing me, Carol, little Jason, and Jay, who smiled and hoisted his beer.

The girl looked at Jack, incredulous. “We even have our own bus service, now?” she said.

Jack said, “For today, only, Ma’m. Step aboard our Magical Mystery Tour.”

The four young people came aboard and Jack worked the lever that shut the doors and as they found seats for themselves, marveling at our little home on wheels, Jack took off. Our new friends rolled joints and passed them around. Nobody asked any questions, they just sat back and gazed out the windows at the wonders of The Sur – seen from a brand new perspective.

One of the girls finally spoke up: “Far fucking out.”

Indeed.

We drove on. Picking up more people, dropping people off. Then Jack spotted a girl dressed like one of those South American Indians, a black bowler hat perched on her head, a fabulously colorful serape over a long skirt. She had a baby slung over her back papoose style and she was carrying a sack of groceries in one hand and a slender ebony flute in the other. She must’ve walked for miles, because we had yet to have encountered a grocery store.

When she saw us she raised an imperious hand – Stop. Jack obeyed, pulling up beside her and opening the door. She climbed aboard, her face expressionless as she found a seat. She sat the baby beside her and the groceries on the floor. Long, black braided hair flowed from under the bowler hat and the girl’s features were such that she may well have been a real South American Indian.

Jack drove off. Our eyes met in the mirror. We both smiled.

After a few minutes the girl lifted the flute to her lips and started to play.

I was astounded. The notes were so pure, the music so perfect. She played this floaty song that flowed through the bus, gathered at the windshield and flowed back again. To this day I have never heard a more beautiful melody. It was as if our school bus had taken on magical sails and we were blowing down the highway, tacking this way and that, Jack’s gentle hand at the wheel, his grin getting broader and broader until it blazed through his beard… smiling at me in the mirror… nodding… his eyes saying, This, my brother, is a moment to keep close… a sweet memory that we can call up many years from now to make life less bitter.

Then we came upon this spot – a broad, inviting green place leading off the road and Jack took it; gently bending the wheel, bumping off the main road onto a little gravel path that curved this way and that, and became dirt instead of gravel, and bumpy ruts that would have confounded many vehicles, but not our old bus, which was so high off the ground it just jounced over them. Maybe she was still looking out for the kids, high up in some promontory, that she had once been trusted to deliver to school in far off Oneida.

Then the old darling broke out of the trees and we found ourselves at the edge of a wide meadow filled with sweet grass and hundreds of tiny yellow and blue flowers. Beyond the meadow stretched the broad Pacific, sparkling blue under a bright sun. 

The meadow carpeted a craggy peak which rose two hundred feet or more from the sea. Huge waves rolled in from the distant horizon, became frothy, white-bearded giants when they neared the cliff face, where they broke, thundering like enormous kettle drums.

We clambered out of the bus and ran across the meadow, Jason scrambling along on a long tether we’d fixed to a harness, so he couldn’t suddenly decide to play superman and leap off the cliff.

Everyone rolled in the grass and crushed the flowers to their faces, snurfing the perfume as if it was the most exotic dope. Everyone – that is - but our Indian piper queen, who found a comfortable grass hummock for a throne, her solemn silent child perched beside her. She lifted her flute, paused a moment before applying it to her lips, then began to play once more.

It was a marvelous song – the song of our brief stay there. Her flute voice tripped here and there, lighting on the meadow, the flowers, the butterflies and bees sipping at the nectar. As she played, her flute swept this way and that, pointing at the things that inspired her – following the flight of a dragonfly across the meadow.

Then the wind grew stronger and the sound of the breaking waves louder and she stopped playing, smiling as she tapped out the mouthpiece. Then she lifted up her child, pressing him close as she raised her poncho, exposing a shapely breast – the nipple stiff and and moist with beads of sweet milk – and then she gave it to the child and he suckled as she rocked back and forth, smiling a fabulous Giocanda smile, humming a tune beneath her breath.

The booming waves and the sharp drop-offs enticed us to the edge of the cliffs and I remember so clearly leaning far out and looking down and down and down to see huge waves coursing through a deep channel cut over a millennium or more. I was astonished at the violence of the motion. Waves, composed of rushing water weighing thousands of tons, poured through the ancient gap -  all boiling and foaming; whooshing and crashing then making a sound like a great vacuum as the massive seas raced out again.

In our pixilated state, Jack stepped forward and said, “Watch.”

He pulled up a thick handful of grass, leaned over the cliff edge so far that we feared for him. With his beard he looked like grand wizard as he waited, and waited, and then just at the right moment… as the seas broke, then raced out again… our wizardly Jack dropped the grass. 

The leaves stayed clumped together, falling and falling – a hundred feet or more. Then the waves came crashing back, smashing against the rocks. And the force of air rushing away to escape the water lifted the grass high, then higher still until the clump broke apart thirty or forty feet above our head. The leaves floated down again, but before they could settle the waves came charging back, hurling them high into the air.

The effect lasted for many minutes and no one said a word for a long, long time, so enchanted were we with watching this miniature perpetual motion machine, the piper’s magical tunes still fresh in our memories. All of us were stupefied by the sheer power of the Pacific. We were witnessing great seas rolling in from shores thousands of miles away. Waves that began all the way in China and came speeding to us, unchecked, to break against the rocky cliffs of The Sur. 

It was a magical place and a magical moment, and if you do not believe me, go there yourself, my brothers and my sisters. Partake of the herb and see what the Pacific brings.

Jack tried the grass thing again and it was just as marvelous as before. We were all quiet for a long time.

Then the same girl said, “Far fucking out.”

Everybody laughed and Jack was the hero of the hour – the grand wizard in white buckskin. And he disappeared with the girl for awhile and when it was time to go he returned, grinning more broadly than before, the girl laughing and tickling his beard.

We spent the night at a small campground, partying with a group of our passengers. There was a nymph for Jay and another for Jack and I had my sweet Irish lass, undisturbed by young Jason, who thankfully slept the whole night through.

The following day, hung over but happy, we set out for Salinas, home of my hero, Nobel laureate John Steinbeck – whose last book, “Travels With Charlie, sat beside me. Salinas was mostly farming country and we were more interested in the fish factories and dock area known as Cannery Row, made famous by Steinbeck in a book with that title, along with its sequel, “Sweet Thursday,” and an unrelated book, set in the same area, titled “Tortilla Flats.”

In the early 70’s Cannery Row hadn’t become the tourist trap it is today and looked much like it did during the time of Steinbeck’s writings – just before and after World War Two. Most of the canneries were idle and there were huge boilers upturned in weed-choked fields, many with people living in them, just as in Steinbeck’s books. There was even a marine biologist (the main character in “Row” and “Thursday” was a biologist named, “Doc”) with a lab at the water’s edge, but nobody was home the day we knocked. Jack and Jay took artsy pictures of the dock area and we had a fish lunch at a diner perched on a rickety dock. Then we put the bus in the gear and headed for San Francisco.

In my youth, I thought Beirut and San Francisco were the two most beautiful cities in the world. Beirut, alas, has been torn apart by years of strife, but San Francisco just seems to get better. She shakes off earthquakes, fires and hard times like the great survivor she is.

We crossed the Golden Gate Bridge, our tires thundering over the iron grates. Looking down you could see the tops of rusty old freighters steaming into the Bay. There was a picnic pause at Golden State Park, where we lunched on things we picked up at food stands along the highway. There were several concerts being staged in different parts of the park – young people dancing and singing, whirling around with flowers in their hair and their heads wreathed with marijuana smoke.

Somebody said we’d just missed a free concert by Joan Baez, who was everybody’s heroine in those days – everybody our age, that is. I had this poster at home, showing Baez standing on the steps of San Francisco City Hall, a whole sea of war protesters at her back while she confronted a phalanx of big-bellied cops with drawn batons and guns at their hips. She had an enigmatic smile on her lips that made you smile in return.

Jack and Jay wanted to try their photographic luck from Coit Tower – a two hundred-foot tower, shaped like a fireman’s nozzle – that sits atop Telegraph Hill. The tower was built during the Depression, both to give people work and to commemorate the bravery of the firemen who fought the enormous blazes that threatened San Francisco after the 1906 earthquake. The interior of the tower, we’d read, was decorated with fabulous murals painted by Depression-era artists as part of FDR’s WPA program. And the view from both the parapets of Telegraph Hills and the tower were said to be magnificent. Since we had arrived on one of San Francisco’s few sunny days, it would be a sin not to take in the view.

But sins past present and future were what we were suddenly contemplating when we turned onto the road leading up Telegraph Hill and Christ was it steep.

Jay was driving and when he saw the hill he said, “Holy shit,” or something equally descriptive. The narrow road climbed at a crazy angle, kind of like the super steep “death hill” at the old wooden roller coaster at Long Beach Pike amusement park. We were all filled with sudden doubt that our trusty bus could make this climb.

Carol said, “Jay, don’t.”

But then some son of a bitch behind us laid down on his horn and then other motorists took up the clarion complaint, honk, honk and fucking honk. I peered out the back and saw a taxi behind us containing a driver with an unpleasant look on his face and several tourists. As I looked he gave me the finger and honked again.

Jay said, “Shit, there’s no place to turn around.” After a brief pause, he said, “Fuck it.” And he downshifted and stomped on the accelerator. It proved to be a mistake of the first order.

We started to climb, but very slowly. The traffic was extremely heavy and frequently everything came to a halt. Each time we stopped the son of a bitch cab driver would lead a blaring chorus of honking horns, as if to hoist the bus through sheer noise power. What’s worse, the hill kept getting steeper and each time we started up again it got harder for the bus to pull its great weight, which included not only its 32-passenger bus self, but the five of us, all our gear and the big sundeck, which was made of solid, stained and varnished wood.

The trick was you had to take your foot off the clutch, move it to the accelerator, and hope you could do it fast enough to move forward, instead of drifting back. This is easily done in a regular, stick shift car. Not so easily done in a very heavy 1940’s era school bus, whose reactions could sometimes be maddeningly slow.

Carol and Jack were screaming at Jay. Jason, being a little kid, was laughing his head off, shouting, “Go, Uncle Jay. Go. Go.”

I moved up behind Jay and I said, very low, “Remember, we have compound low.”

Now, for anyone who drives big vehicles, compound low is a tremendous thing. You go from first, then to compound low. You shift over to these very large gears with enormous sprockets and you use your engine power to drive yourself up over one hopefully very strong sprocket to the next. It isn’t fast and it isn’t pretty, but if the gear teeth don’t break off you can do maybe a quarter mile of an hour up a really, really steep incline.

Jay nodded and took a deep breath. He worked the gear shift – a slender black rod that rose out of the floor in a graceful arc and was topped by a worn black knob.

“Pull up on the emergency brake,” he said.

I pulled up on the emergency – a thick, short lever coming up just beside the driver’s seat. Jay gradually let up on the brake. The bus settled back a few inches, causing more horns to blare, but Jay shook it off.

“It’ll hold,” he said, with forced confidence.

I took a firm grip on the emergency brake and said, “Say when.”

“Give me a second,” Jay said. He did more deep breathing exercises. “Okay, let’s go,” he said, tromping on the accelerator and easing off the foot brake. “Now, you,” he said.

I started letting the emergency brake down. The bus engine howled like a banshee. She strained so hard that she shuddered and shook, but no matter how much gas Jay gave her, she slipped back and back.

Carol and Jack screamed something, I don’t know what, but I pulled up on the emergency brake, stopping the bus’s slow decline. Jay flat-footed the brake and we were holding on with double strength.

“See how I’m doing,” Jay said.

Okay, this was fairly unnecessary. He was doing like shit. But there were so many horns blaring around us, who could think straight? I walked to the back of the bus, ignoring Carol and Jack, who were pretty much in the third stages of panic.

Jason said, “I wanna see, dad.”

Brave lad. I hoisted him up and leaned down to look out the back window.

Fuck.

The rear end of the bus had engulfed the entire front end of the taxi. I was looking straight down through the windshield at this frightened asshole, who was honking his horn and his passengers were screaming and it was pretty much a mess, except the bus was so high off the ground that nobody had been hurt and nothing had been damaged. Not yet, at any rate.

The cabbie couldn’t back up because there was a sea of cars behind him, all bumper to bumper. In my professional opinion we were in a very deep shitter.

Cradling Jason I went back up to Jay and knelt down beside him.

I said, “You are almost against the cab’s window, Jay.”

He said, “Shit.”

Jason shouted, “Uncle Jay said shit… Uncle Jay said shit.”

Jay felt compelled to add, “Fuck.”

I shushed Jason before he could comment.

I said, “You almost had it last time. Just give it the gun, we’ll let off the brakes and we’ll go.”

Jay said, “I’m worried about the brakes.” Meaning, he was thinking about how they’d failed when I was driving back in Santa Barbara.

I said, “We’re using them now. They are holding just fine. But if you’re worried that they’re going let go, man, let’s get the hell out of here. We’re either going to be heroes or goats, Jay. Heroes or goats.”

Jay nodded. He settled back in his seat. I stuffed Jason between a front seat and the padded divider and told him to hold onto something. He held.

I got a grip on the emergency brake.

“Ready?” I said.

“Fucking go,” Jay croaked.

And we went through the same routine. Jay mashing the accelerator to the floor, while letting up on the foot brake, while I eased down on the emergency brake. Once again the bus engine let out a lion’s roar and the old body shook and shuddered, but this time, instead of sliding back, she crept forward.

“God damn,” Jay said. “God damn.”

Slowly, sprocket by sprocket, the bus climbed the hill.

Carol shouted, “You’re off the cab.”

Jack said, “Fuck you, too buddy.” He’d apparently seen the guy give him the finger in the mirror.

Jason yelled, “Hooray, Uncle Jay.”

Hooray, indeed.

Eventually, we made it to the top and parked. The cab driver let his fares out about twenty feet away and started toward the bus just as a shaken Jay was climbing off. I think the cabbie was thinking of making something of it, but Jay – who is the world’s nicest guy – was a rather large young man with a very full black beard recently returned from the harbor at Da Nang and right now he wasn’t feeling very nice, but more like Bluto, Popeye’s cranky sailor friend – and showed it. The cabbie did an about face and got the hell off the hill.

I don’t remember if we toured the tower, or not. We certainly didn’t take any pictures. What I do remember is helping my friends swallow many, many beers and smoke several joints as we gathered the courage to drive back down that damned hill.

Obviously we made it, but my memory skips a big beat here and the next thing I remember we were setting up camp in the redwood forests above San Francisco.

*     *     *

It’s true what they say about the redwoods – you feel as if you are a member of a pygmy tribal group gaping at a race of peaceful giants whose heads are so high above the Earth that no matter how far back you crane your neck, you can’t see the top. There’s also a cathedral quality about the forest, with the slanting rays of the sun becoming so defused that the forest floor is cast in a magical golden light.

At night the trees are so thick with foliage that no light can get through, no matter how starry the skies, or bright the moon. You literally cannot see your hand before your face. And if you switch on a Coleman lantern you only see things quite close to you. It’s as if the darkness is so thick that it can swallow light. You might see your friend’s face – but just the outline, with everything disappearing from the ears back. If you stretch out a walking stick into the dark, the ends of the stick will vanish.

The first evening we were there it was Pagan’s Night Out – all the WICCA groups from far and wide had gathered for some sort of witchy celebration and there were campfires and dancing young people everywhere. Jack and Jay wandered off and found some willing witches to pass the night with. Geesh, these guys were having way better luck than when they were back in LA.

After the redwoods, we made it as far as Gold’s Beach, where there was an abundance of fabulous driftwood that our artist friends back in Venice would have loved to get their hands on. We struggled with a few large pieces, but eventually gave it up, remembering how overloaded the bus was when we had attempted Coit Hill. No sense loading her down more.

We headed home, not stopping as often, because we had stretched our vacation time to the limits. Even so, we were feeling pretty relaxed – our minds stuffed with lovely images and new ideas and a damned good feeling about our g-g-generation – when we passed over the Ventura County line into Los Angeles County.

I was heading for the Venice Exit and smoking a joint when there was a loud “thunk.” Accompanying that “thunk” was a sudden loss of all forward power. The bus was drifting, slowing, slowing, but no matter how much gas I gave her, the engine revved but the bus did not respond. Cars honked and screeched around us, barely avoiding rear end collisions. Good thing for them, because we wouldn’t have felt it, but they certainly would.

Finally, I coaxed the bus over and thanked the gods above the brakes were still working. I drifted to a stop on the shoulder of the freeway – cars and big damned trucks were speeding by us at a tremendous rate.

We exchanged curses with the Fates and Jack and Jay crawled under the bus to see what was up. They quickly found the problem. One of the front brackets that held the drive train in place had broken. The part of the transmission that met the engine had come loose and was now drooping almost to the road.

The drive train is a very large and very important part of any motor vehicle. It is even bigger, and no less important, on a large vehicle like a school bus. It took the three of us at least an hour and a half of greasy heavy lifting to get it set back in place. We were covered with oil and our hands and knuckles were bleeding. We had no welding equipment to fix the bracket – nor money to call for help of that sort – so we tied the drive train to the undercarriage with several old coat hangars.

We set off – praying. But neither the prayers or coat hangars helped because after about a mile it happened again. I found some old yellow, plastic boat rope. We used that. Fortunately, I had yards of the stuff because the rope tended to get caught up and spin itself into oblivion.

We were on our last five feet of yellow plastic rope when we reached home. I coasted into a parking spot in front of our apartment. Tasha jumped up at the living room window and barked glad greetings. Roger, who had been taking care of the place in our absence, opened the door and came out. He had a six pack of beer in one hand and was waving a fat joint at us with another.

It had been a wondrous trip, but damn I was glad to be back in Venice.

NEXT: CHANGES

*****

NEW:
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THE EMPIRE DAY 2013 
COMMEMORATIVE EDITION

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FREEDOM BIRD: THE SUMMER OF LOVE

During the Vietnam war, GIs who managed to survive their tour of duty were flown home in chartered airliners, which they called “Freedom Birds.” This is the story of three young men – from  wildly different backgrounds – who meet on such a plane and make a pact to spend three days together in San Francisco. Their goal: to spend every cent of  their mustering out money in a party of  a lifetime. And they’ll get more than they bargained for: because when they land, it is July 1967 – in a time that would come to be known as “The Summer Of Love.” A place and time where each young man will have to confront the ghosts who followed them home from the jungles of Vietnam and contemplate a future none of them had imagined. 

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ALL THREE STEN OMNIBUS EDITIONS NOW ON TAP

The entire 8-novel landmark science fiction series is now being presented in three three giant omnibus editions from Orbit Books.  The First - BATTLECRY - features the first three books in the series: Sten #1; Sten #2 -The Wolf Worlds; and Sten #3, The Court Of A Thousand Suns. Next: JUGGERNAUT, which features Sten #4, Fleet Of The Damned; Sten #5, Revenge Of The Damned; and Sten #6, The Return Of The Emperor. Finally, there's DEATHMATCH, which contains Sten #6, Vortex; and Sten #7, End Of Empire. Click on the highlighted titles to buy the books. Plus, if you are a resident of The United Kingdom, you can download Kindle versions of the Omnibus editions. Which is one clot of a deal!

Here's the Kindle link for BATTLECRY

Here's the Kindle link for JUGGERNAUT

Here's the Kindle link for DEATHMATCH

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HERE ARE ALL EIGHT AMERICAN EDITIONS OF STEN 

YOU CAN BUY THE TRADE PAPERBACKS, E-BOOKS AND AUDIO BOOKS BY CLICKING ON THE STEN PAGE!

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THE STEN COOKBOOK & KILGOUR JOKEBOOK

Two new companion editions to the international best-selling Sten series. In the first, learn the Emperor's most closely held  cooking secrets. In the other, Sten unleashes his shaggy-dog joke cracking sidekick, Alex Kilgour. Both available as trade paperbacks or in all major e-book flavors. Click here to tickle your funny bone or sizzle your palate.  

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TALES OF THE BLUE MEANIE

Venice Boardwalk Circa 1969

In the depths of the Sixties and The Days Of Rage, a young newsman, accompanied by his pregnant wife and orphaned teenage brother, creates a Paradise of sorts in a sprawling Venice Beach community of apartments, populated by students, artists, budding scientists and engineers lifeguards, poets, bikers with  a few junkies thrown in for good measure. The inhabitants come to call the place “Pepperland,” after the Beatles movie, “Yellow Submarine.” Threatening this paradise is  "The Blue Meanie,"  a crazy giant of a man so frightening that he eventually even scares himself. Here's where to buy the book. 

*****

STEN #1 NOW IN SPANISH! 

Diaspar Magazine - the best SF magazine in South America - is publishing the first novel in the Sten series in four 

episodes. Part One and Part Two appeared in back-to-back issues. And now Part Three has hit the virtual book stands.  Stay tuned, for the grand conclusion. Meanwhile, here are the links to the first three parts. Remember, it's free!

Link To Part One 

Link To Part Two

Link To Part Three

Coming soon: Part Four,
The Grand Finale 

THE MAGICAL MYSTERY TOUR

Allan And The Bus Down Mexico Way

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*****

Meanwhile, back to the fabulous red and silver school bus, Dodge engine, circa 1949, label on the dash: Oneida, New York. With Steve comfortably ensconced in the Cat Lady’s newly cleaned and sweet-smelling apartment, we could get busy fixing up the old darling in time for our vacation.

A great deal of the work had been already done to turn the 32-passenger bus into a pretty decent recreational vehicle. Someone had ripped out all but the side seats, which they’d converted into pullouts that created an enormous California king-size bed for me and Carol. Jack and Jay, who were going to accompany us,  planned to camp out – sheltering under the bus if it rained.

On one side we had a mini-kitchen, complete with fridge, stove top, sink and drain. Across from it was a small dining area, consisting of a table bolted to the frame, long bench seats on either side. There was a panel mounted beneath the window that controlled the music and radio. The dining area was just behind the driver’s seat, meaning whoever was driving wouldn’t be left out and we could pass things forward to keep him happy.

In the very back, where the Emergency Exit was, we constructed a large play area for Jason, who was about three years old at the time. It was kind of like a super playpen, with netting on every side, but it also had snaps and buckles so he couldn’t be hurled around in a dangerous manner if we had to stop fast. We made other improvements, including a double battery system, plus speakers throughout. The radio had also been exchanged, courtesy of Jay the electronic king, for a double-throw-down FM system.

Carol scored some old Madras bedspreads from a used clothing place and sewed curtains for the windows, which was quite a job, as you can imagine in 32-passenger school bus. She even made some for the very long windshield and we devised a cunning pulley system to open and close the front curtains. Posters were tacked here and there, including movie posters from Butch Cassidy And The Sundance Kid, Midnight Cowboy and the Beatle’s Album Cover – Sergeant Pepper’s Lonely Hearts Club Band.

There were overhead storage racks running down both sides of the bus, with crumbling sliding doors made of some kind of cheap poster board kind of material. We replaced those with netting and bungie cords and when it was all loaded up it reminded me of Toad’s Gypsy cart in Wind And The Willows. Very cool, very cozy. To complete the WTW fantasy I hung strings of figs and dried sausages and garlic from the netting.

Meanwhile, Jay, who was a helluva amateur carpenter, was busy building a large sundeck that covered the entire top of the bus. It had wooden spoke-supported railings so it was quite airy and open. He also built a wooden ladder, mounted flush to the side of the bus that made it easy to climb up to the sundeck.

To finish things off, Jack and Jay also went through the engine, replacing everything that seemed to need replacing. We even went to the expense of having the brakes re-done at a truck garage so we’d be assured of being able to stop that lumbering beast.

Meanwhile, we mapped our journey. The idea was to pick our way north going as far we could in a vehicle whose top speed was 45 miles an hour.  Wherever possible, we’d stick to Route 1 since it was all mainly rural highway, whereas 101 was all freeway, with cars and semis whizzing past us at many miles an hour.

Obviously, we intended to camp out, perhaps tarrying a day or two at places of interest that we stumbled upon. The Redwood Forests were a must on our agenda, as were The Big Sur, San Francisco and the desolate beach towns above that beautiful city. We’d heard many a tale from young, long-haired travelers about the magic of those lands. We were also warned that all along the way we would surely face some uncomfortable “Easy Rider” moments from the local populace and police who would gaze upon our red and silver bus with suspicion.

I made certain my police press identification cards were totally up to date and arranged properly in my wallet. To get to my driver’s license I’d have to flip – slowly – past my California Highway Patrol card, with my picture and fingerprints, then on to the Los Angeles County Sheriff’s shield, then on to the Los Angeles Police Department Press ID.

Finally, the big day arrived. Everybody from Pepperland gathered to cheer us on. The Mad Bomber even let off a few blasting caps, while Kerry and Richard and the mini-band played a few numbers. Nancy and little Brendon were waving good by as Roger came running up with an oily cardboard box. He pounded on the door and presented us with a box of bus parts we’d forgotten in the carport. We almost said, nah, never mind. I mean, our bus was pristine and the box was so dirty, but in the end we grabbed the box and took off.

A few minutes later we were bumping off an entrance road onto the San Diego Freeway – heading north -  and somebody turned on the radio, flipped the dial, and the song that was playing – I kid thee not - was this: “… If you’re going to San Francisco/ Be sure to wear some flowers in your hair;/If you’re going to San Francisco,/ You’re gonna meet some gentle people there…”

Naturally, Carol was wearing daisies in her long blonde hair and we all cheered her and applauded and she turned a happy shade of scarlet.

Our first goal was the Santa Barbara Mission, about three hours from Los Angeles by car, maybe a full day via hippie school bus, considering it was the trial run.

The first part of the journey took us over the low-sloping hills of the Santa Monica Mountains. The climb is long, but not too steep, and so we had a chance to test out the gears and the engine, keeping a close listen to the movements of that old Dodge flathead. She churned like a dream and once we got used to the gearing we got her moving smoothly without too much trouble or gear grinding. Finally, we reached the top and were contemplating the other side. All went well at first, then, before I knew it we were curving around a hill and we suddenly found ourselves facing straight down. Not directly so, but in a series of curves that went down and down and down.

I’d driven that route before in a 1964 Ford Ranchero. I was whooping it up with a buddy – my future writing partner, Chris Bunch - hauling butt at 100 mph plus. Of course, we had two hundred-pound sacks of cement in the bed of the Ranchero to keep its back wheels on the road, so that experience did not equate with running down the mountain in a 32-passenger school bus.

There’s an old song that I think Arlo Guthrie sang back in those days and it went like this: “Well, I was comin’ down the mountain/ at ninety miles an hour/ when the chain on my motorcycle broke;/ Well I landed in the grass/ with the sprocket in my pocket/ and the throttle clear down my… throat.”

So that was me driving that school bus down the mountain. Although I managed not to wreck us, by the time I coaxed her into Oxnard I definitely felt like I had something very much like a throttle stuck in my throat.

We found a little Mexican food dive where you could score 12 tacos for a dollar and a cardboard painter’s bucket of refried beans with lots of melted cheese for 75 cents and we parked next to a cow pasture feeling like royalty as we washed down that delicious repast with many, many beers. Jason burned off energy racing around the pasture, chasing butterflies, which, for reasons too gross to mention here, like to hang out at cow pastures. He was all too happy to climb into his padded playpen for a nap while we took off for Santa Barbara.

I’d progressed no more than a few miles when a CHP car shot past me going the other way. I had a bad feeling and looked in the mirror and sure enough the cop car was bumping across the grass divider to follow me. He didn’t put on his light, but settled back to give us a look over. I warned Carol to make sure the dope was put away and to stash any empty beer cans in the trash bin under the sink. I knew I hadn’t broken any laws. I mean, I couldn’t have violated the speed limit if I wanted to. Also, we’d put in brand new brake lights and turn signals. The license plate was cool and up to date as was my license. For a change, I had no unpaid traffic tickets hanging over my head so I was cool with that, too.

“Is he still there?” Carol asked, wisely refraining from drawing attention by looking back.

I glanced in the mirror just as the cop hit the bubble gum machine and the revolving red light went on. He gave us a brief blast of his siren, in case I was asleep or something. Gingerly, I found a nice wide space next to the road and pulled over.

“What’d you do?” Carol asked, assuming I’d broken some law.

“Committed the misdemeanor of being under the age of thirty while driving a red and silver hippie school bus,” I said, watching in the mirror as the highway patrolman slowly got out of his car, hitched up his gunbelt and did a John Wayne pigeon-toed walk to the bus.

I waited until he was at the entrance, then pulled the handle and the doors swung open, much to the surprise of our piggy friend, who must have thought that the bus was some kind “Dr. No” vehicle of destruction in disguise.

“What seems to be the trouble, officer?” I asked, as politely as I could.

He didn’t speak for a long moment, looking me and the bus over, then catching sight of Carol, who was quite fetching in her embroidered jeans and sun top. His sunglasses hid his expression, but I’m sure his eyes widened. Carol was a nicely endowed young woman.

The cop pointed upward, “You’ve got some guys riding on top of the bus,” he said.

“Yessir,” I said. “That’s our new sundeck. We checked with CHP headquarters before we built it make sure we were legal.”

He adjusted his sunglasses. “That so.”

“Yessir,” I said. After a moment, I added, “Anything else I can help you with officer?”

He ignored me for the nonce calling up to Jack and Jay. “You boys want to come on down from there?”

Jack and Jay obeyed. Jay wore that grand salesman’s smile, but Jack was glowering – he hated being told what to do, especially by anyone in authority.

The cop turned his attention back to me. “Let’s see your license and registration, pal,” he said.

I didn’t like the “pal” business, but I buried my feelings and found the registration. While I got out my wallet, he looked it over. Then he suddenly stepped into the bus, ignoring my proffered ID.

“Let’s see what you’ve got here,” he said.

Jack muttered something but Jay gave him an elbow to shut him up. The cop strolled down the aisle, unnecessarily brushing against Carol. He looked at an ashtray, stirring the contents with a pen, checking for roaches, no doubt. (Roaches were joint butts, not insects.)

He indicated the refrigerator. “What’ve you got in there?”

“Just food and stuff,” Carol said, swinging the door open. There were veggies, lunch meat, eggs, cheese, and about a half a six pack of beer.

The cop stared hard at the beer, then shrugged. “Guess it’s okay,” he said. Then, generously, “This is more like one of the recreational vehicles, I suppose.”

“Yessir,” I said. “We checked on that too.”

He gave me a look. “You did, did you?”

I nodded. “I wanted to be sure we abided by the law, officer,” I said, a bit of sarcasm leaking through.

He spotted the playpen, with the sleeping Jason. “What do we have here?” he asked, starting toward it.

Carol moved in front of him. “Don’t you dare wake him,” she said, her Irish temper on the rise.

The cop looked like he was going to make something of it, but the tone was that of all mothers protecting their young. His instinct for male self preservation cut in and he wisely turned away. Although he was purposely heavy footed when he tromped off the bus.

“Let’s see that license,” he told me.

I opened my wallet, slowly flipping over my various cop ID’s, including the one from the highway patrol.

“How’d you get that?” he said, indicating the CHP press pass.

“From the commander of the LA Division,” I said. I indicated the man’s signature at the bottom – next to my thumbprint. “I’m a newspaper reporter. The Santa Monica Outlook.” This set him back on his heels. “I’m doing a story about our vacation on this converted school bus.” I indicated Jay. “He’s my photographer.”

“Is that so?” the cop said.

“Yessir,” I replied. “Now, if there’s nothing else, we’d like to get on the road.”

The chippie was torn. On one hand he was sure we were lawbreakers. On the other, he didn’t dare test my press credentials. Then he glanced over at the ladder that led up to the sundeck.

“Hang on a minute,” he said.

The piggy went back to his car, got out a tape measure and ran it under the bus. He took his time about it, measuring the width of the bus, being sure to include the ladder, which protruded a few inches from the side.

Finally, he nodded. “Thought so,” he said. “The bus is too wide with the ladder bolted on.”

I frowned. “How much is too wide?” I asked.

“Inch and a quarter,” he replied with great satisfaction.

I sighed. “Thank you for pointing that out officer,” I said. “We’ll unbolt it at the next rest stop.”

The cop shook his head. “Nope,” he said. “Can’t let you drive like that.” He gave it a long pause, tipping his sunglasses up. A little shit-eating grin on his face. “Remove it now,” he ordered.

I was astounded. Cars were whizzing by us at 65 mph plus. It was not a safe place to be.

“Here?” I said.

He nodded. “Yep.”

Jack growled obscenities and the cop turned to see if he’d maybe found a bigger chink in our armor, but Jay shut Jack up and gave the chippie his brightest smile.

“No problem at all officer,” he said. “I have my tools on board.”

He grabbed Jack by the arm and pushed him onto the bus, cutting off any more trouble from that quarter. Then he got out his ratchet set and began unbolting the ladder. The cop remained there watching for a long time. Then he got into his car and did some paperwork, tarrying for a full half hour until Jay was done and we had lashed the ladder to the side of the sundeck.

Then, without another word, the cop drove away, spinning his wheels to kick some dust into our faces.

“What an asshole,” Jack said.

No one disagreed.

We continued onward, passing a joint around to restore our good humor, being careful to keep some windows open to whisk away the tell-tale scent. After a time even Jack was cracking jokes – mostly science-based. I still remember one of them after all these years: “Johnny was a little boy,/ but Johnny is no more;/ For what Johnny thought was H20… was H2S04.” For those of you who have forgotten your high school chemistry, the joke is that little Johnny mistook sulfuric acid for water. Ha, ha.

I urged my friends to resume their idyllic sunbathing atop the roof and to hell with the cop. They took the last of the beer up with them and I resumed driving, keeping my eye open for a cut rate gas station because the fuel needle was starting to nudge toward the bottom. Then I spotted a big 25X25 sign just up ahead. Meaning 25 cents for a gallon of gas and 25 cents for a pack of smokes.

Since I was already in the right lane – read the slow lane – I didn’t have to make any adjustments. But as I came up on the exit I saw that after leaving the freeway, the exit presented a pretty sharp curve. No problem, I was only going about 45 to start with. I bumped off onto the exit, then gently tapped my brakes to slow further.

Nothing happened.

By nothing, I mean when I tapped there was no resistance in the broad brake pedal.

I pushed a little harder, but carefully. I mean, those were pretty damn good brakes we just had installed and I didn’t want to hurl Carol and Jason, much less my two buddies on the roof, off into space and unforgiving obstacles.

Shit!

Still nothing.

My heart in my throat, I slammed my foot all the way to the floor and realized that brakes were not on the menu at this exact moment.

I was coming into the curve now and I was downshifting like a son of a bitch. I got into the extreme apex of the curve and I somehow managed to steer the bus through it, but it was like turning an old beat up sailing vessel, the bus was so heavy and it was leaning over on one side. Carol shrieked… I think. Jason cheered… I think.

Our carefully stowed supplies crashed through their restraints, raining on our heads and the floor. I couldn’t imagine what was going on up on sundeck and all I could think of is that if I didn’t get through this I would kill my wife, my child and two of my three best friends in the world.

Now we were sailing through the rest of the curve and I prayed to God on high that there would be no traffic and I was suddenly on a straightaway, downshifting, downshifting, adjusting the steering, and then slowly… slowly… lifting up on the parking brake. Shit, I thought. If I pulled too hard, Jack and Jay would come off – making strawberries all over the road.

The bus finally came to a shuddering stop. My heart was racing, practically ripping through my chest. I turned and saw that Carol and Jason were okay. I whipped open the door and plunged outside just in time to see Jay and Jack hopping off the roof, onto the hood, then onto the ground.

They were both whiter than the snows of Mount Kilimanjaro.

“Is everybody okay?” Jack said.

I nodded. “The brakes,” I croaked.

“No shit,” said Jay.

They both slapped me on the back.

“That was great driving, Cole,” Jack said.

“I left my camera in the bus,” Jay complained. “That would’ve been fabulous with my new motor drive.” He laughed. “Who am I kidding? I was scared out of my fucking mind.”

We looked around. Up ahead was the gas station I mentioned earlier. After we all steadied our nerves with a little smoke, Jack and Jay crawled under the bus and soon located the source of our problems. Something to do with the master cylinder. Also the brake lines were shot.

As it happened, that greasy cardboard box that Roger had run out with just before we left contained one master cylinder.

I whistled in amazement. “It’s enough to make you want to sign up with Billy Graham,” I said.

But there was still the problem with the brake lines. Jack and Jay hiked over to the gas station and found out that they couldn’t help us with anything except brake fluid. But the Yellow Pages could. They located a truck joint that carried the parts we needed in a town a few miles away. Someone, I don’t remember if it was Jack or Jay, had the foresight to cart along a bicycle, which was strapped to the back of the bus. That someone then proceeded to pedal to that town to procure new brake lines. The bike’s tire went out on the way there, or the way back, I don’t remember which.

I do remember that they were grateful to the extreme when they returned to cold beers – purchased at the gas station – and burgers fresh off the grill that I’d assembled next to the cow pasture fence. A curious old bossie had taken up residence next to the fence, observing us as we chowed down on one of her cousins.

We felt no guilt whatsoever.

The following day, after making the repairs, we reached our first goal, which was the Santa Barbara Mission. This was a beautiful old adobe church and seminary that dated back in its earliest form to maybe 1786. We spread out our food in the rose garden, hoping to catch the afternoon bells later in the day. I’d prepared a picnic of barbecued chicken, potato salad, deviled eggs and even some biscuits baked over the charcoals. Biscuits with butter and honey, strawberry jam and the smell of roses. There could be nothing better.

After gorging ourselves we laid back, passed around a joint and gazed upon the idyllic scene. Jack said, wasn’t it interesting that the old mission we were looking at was named for Saint Barbara, the patron saint of artillerymen.

“Father Sierra led a whole contingent of Spanish army bastards across California,” Jack said, “subduing the Indians with cannons.”

I thought that was a pretty cool observation and after taking another toke and a swig of sangria, I noted that the legend of Saint Barbara – a beautiful woman who was imprisoned in a tower by her father while he was away at war – was surely the same as the Grimm’s fairy tale Rapunzel, of the let down your hair, Rapunzel, fame.

Jack said maybe not. After all, the reason Barbara became the patron saint of artillery – besides her incredible piety – was that a lightning bolt killed her father in retribution shortly after he had cut off her head. Well, said I, in some pre-Grimm versions of the Rapunzel legend – the exact same thing happens… Oh, wait… maybe not. I’ll check on it next time I go to the library. (We didn’t have Google in those barbaric times).

At the end of the picnic Jason insisted on being let loose. He raced away, hooting and hollering, his baby’s voice echoing joyously across the green lawn.

And he ran face first into a rose bush.

It took us many long minutes to extract him from the thorns. Although he was a brave little boy, he immediately broke out in a rash and started gasping for breath. He’d been bitten by so many rose thorns that their venom was overwhelming his little system. We raced him to an emergency room, where he was treated for a very scary allergic reaction. At his age, being pierced by so many rose thorns was poisonous. It was a long night, an agonizing night.

I think mentioned before that Carol and I had already lost two children – both prematurely born. They suffered, they gasped for life and we had witnessed their deaths as they breathed their last in incubators.

In other words, Jason was our three-year-old golden child. We thought of him as our last chance to wipe away some ugly memories. And as we watched him pitifully gasping for breath through a hospital respirator, you can well imagine our feelings.

Perversely, I thought about my youth on the island of Cyprus where the practice at the time was to delay baptisms until was a child a year old. The reason for this was the tragic infant mortality rate in those days. For the first time it bothered me that we hadn’t had Jason baptized. At 26 I was pretty much an agnostic. But that was intellectual pride, not Irish superstition. What if he died? What if I were wrong? What if I was forcing my agnostic opinions on the eternal, everlasting soul of my one and only child?

When I was a kid the nuns said that an un-baptized child would be doomed to Limbo until Judgment Day. I was never sure what Limbo was, but I certainly wanted better for my son. He was bound for Heaven all the way. Just tell me who to pay, who to bribe. I was a newsman, did Saint Peter want some good ink? Some well-written heavenly propaganda? I’d do it, man. Float my son’s soul to heaven, on the accumulated bubbles of journalistic misdeeds.

When I asked the doctor about getting a priest he frowned, and said, “There’s no cause for panic, Mr. Cole. The boy is coming along nicely.”

But I demanded priestly assistance, got the page number for the priest on duty and the poor priest – not much older than me – came down to see what the matter was.

After conferring with the doctors he came to me and said, “Your son’s in no danger, Mr. Cole. I wouldn’t advise giving him the sacrament of Extreme Unction.” This is the buttering of the toes sacrament the Church provides to dying Catholics.

I said, “I’m relieved to hear that father. But that’s not why I called you. You see, we never had my son baptized…” My voice trailed off.

Like I said, he was a young priest, about my age, and he just looked me in the eye then nodded. I think it was a nod of understanding, but never mind that. He took us into Jason’s room, and he was lying there so helpless I was scared spitless. The young priest got out his kit, spreading a cloth with embroidered edges over Jason’s chest and getting out his oils and holy water and so on and so forth, just like a doctor’s bag, except it was a priest’s. I knew from my Catechism that there were sacred objects in that little black satchel meant to turn the young priest’s actions into some kind of holy magic.

Long story short, the priest very nicely absolved my three-year old son of all the sins of the past, including Adam’s, and did the water sprinkling and the praying over and so on and so forth. Mind you, I think it is bullshit now and I certainly thought it was bullshit then, but no way was I taking a chance with my little boy.

It gave me comfort.

Go figure.

I was just an Irish kid in Gethsemane, you know?

Anyway, the little sucker survived nicely and Jack and Jay kicked in on the hospital bill so we were able to continue along on our great bus adventure, somewhat chastened, but without permanent injury.

NEXT: THE MAGICAL MYSTERY TOUR: PART 2

*****

NEW:
GET YOUR STEN ON WITH
THE EMPIRE DAY 2013 
COMMEMORATIVE EDITION

Click here for the Paperback
Click here for the Kindle version

*****
FREEDOM BIRD: THE SUMMER OF LOVE

During the Vietnam war, GIs who managed to survive their tour of duty were flown home in chartered airliners, which they called “Freedom Birds.” This is the story of three young men – from  wildly different backgrounds – who meet on such a plane and make a pact to spend three days together in San Francisco. Their goal: to spend every cent of  their mustering out money in a party of  a lifetime. And they’ll get more than they bargained for: because when they land, it is July 1967 – in a time that would come to be known as “The Summer Of Love.” A place and time where each young man will have to confront the ghosts who followed them home from the jungles of Vietnam and contemplate a future none of them had imagined. 

Click here for the paperback.

Click here for the Kindle version

Click here for the Nook Book version

Click here for all e-book flavors

*****

ALL THREE STEN OMNIBUS EDITIONS NOW ON TAP

The entire 8-novel landmark science fiction series is now being presented in three three giant omnibus editions from Orbit Books.  The First - BATTLECRY - features the first three books in the series: Sten #1; Sten #2 -The Wolf Worlds; and Sten #3, The Court Of A Thousand Suns. Next: JUGGERNAUT, which features Sten #4, Fleet Of The Damned; Sten #5, Revenge Of The Damned; and Sten #6, The Return Of The Emperor. Finally, there's DEATHMATCH, which contains Sten #6, Vortex; and Sten #7, End Of Empire. Click on the highlighted titles to buy the books. Plus, if you are a resident of The United Kingdom, you can download Kindle versions of the Omnibus editions. Which is one clot of a deal!

Here's the Kindle link for BATTLECRY

Here's the Kindle link for JUGGERNAUT

Here's the Kindle link for DEATHMATCH

*****

HERE ARE ALL EIGHT AMERICAN EDITIONS OF STEN 

YOU CAN BUY THE TRADE PAPERBACKS, E-BOOKS AND AUDIO BOOKS BY CLICKING ON THE STEN PAGE!

*****
THE STEN COOKBOOK & KILGOUR JOKEBOOK

Two new companion editions to the international best-selling Sten series. In the first, learn the Emperor's most closely held  cooking secrets. In the other, Sten unleashes his shaggy-dog joke cracking sidekick, Alex Kilgour. Both available as trade paperbacks or in all major e-book flavors. Click here to tickle your funny bone or sizzle your palate.  

*****

IT'S A BOOK!

THE COMPLETE HOLLYWOOD MISADVENTURES! 

HERE'S WHERE YOU BUY IT

TRADE PAPERBACK.  

KINDLE. 

NOOK BOOK. 

ALL E-BOOK FLAVORS.  

*****

TALES OF THE BLUE MEANIE

Venice Boardwalk Circa 1969

In the depths of the Sixties and The Days Of Rage, a young newsman, accompanied by his pregnant wife and orphaned teenage brother, creates a Paradise of sorts in a sprawling Venice Beach community of apartments, populated by students, artists, budding scientists and engineers lifeguards, poets, bikers with  a few junkies thrown in for good measure. The inhabitants come to call the place “Pepperland,” after the Beatles movie, “Yellow Submarine.” Threatening this paradise is  "The Blue Meanie,"  a crazy giant of a man so frightening that he eventually even scares himself. Here's where to buy the book. 

*****

STEN #1 NOW IN SPANISH! 

Diaspar Magazine - the best SF magazine in South America - is publishing the first novel in the Sten series in four 

episodes. Part One and Part Two appeared in back-to-back issues. And now Part Three has hit the virtual book stands.  Stay tuned, for the grand conclusion. Meanwhile, here are the links to the first three parts. Remember, it's free!

Link To Part One 

Link To Part Two

Link To Part Three

Coming soon: Part Four,
The Grand Finale