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| 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
*****
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