Chapter Thirty-One: Livin' on the Beach

A Beach is a place where a man can feel He's the only soul in the world that's real...


The Strand

You know all those TV shows and movies that portray California beaches as cool places where surfers rides the waves, pretty girls walk in skimpy suits and the sunsets blow your mind? I'm here to tell you...it's all true. From the first day we plopped our stuff on the floor at 228 Rossmore Drive on Sliver Strand Beach I felt right at home. I had been living in the Golden State for less than three months and I was just getting acclimated to the weather and culture. A big thing: no humidity! The East Coast was always so humid, or cold, or hot & humid, or wet & humid. I would come home from work some evenings, step out of the car and take a huge lungful of sweet, salty ocean breeze. All my tension just melted away each time I did it. I could hear the waves crashing from my downstairs pad. The place was sort of a townhouse duplex and I had what would have been the master bedroom just inside the front door. Upstairs was the living room, kitchen and Joe & Ginger's room. We had a picture window that afforded a lovely view of the street and the hills above the Ventura and Oxnard area.

The neighbors were a motley collection of beach bums and lower income proles like Ginger, Joe and me. Seems funny now that we lived in relative comfort on the beach at such affordable rents. The local businesses were not much more than Mom & Pops type places. Three of them stand out:

Ray's Tacos

Ray operated this fantastic taco place that sold a full menu from his tiny bodega. He was the only employee and he knew everyone in the neighborhood. My fondest memory of his place was Friday evenings, after the workin' week was done. I would pick up a six pack and get one of Ray's Super Burritos. Eat one of those monsters (about $3 each) and you would be full until lunch the next day. I checked the local map and sadly, Ray's is gone. I think I might still have just a sliver of spicy chicken wedged back in a molar somewhere, though.

The Breakers

This was a biker bar, but I had no idea it was the first few times I went in. There was a sign out front that said "No Colors". How terribly racist! And they didn't even spell it right. Nothing but angry-looking guys sitting around drinking and playing pool. Now and then there would be live music that didn't sound like Steppenwolf, but not often enough. I told Joe about the sign and he explained that the bar didn't want bikers wearing their clan colors to avoid fights. Oh. Well, there were nothing but white guys there anyway so what was the difference?

The Corner Store

Beer. Milk. Bread. But mostly beer.

Beach Daze

I loved getting up in the morning and walking on the beach. The breeze through my hair, the sight of the Channel Islands off in the distance. I felt like I was living in a dream. Just after we moved in I did two things to make the place mine: I got two cats and planted a row of pot in the sandy little strip outside my door. Both nearly got us booted out and/or arrested. Our landlady came by just a day after I got my first cat and left a nasty note on the counter: "You have a CAT! This is a VIOLATION of your RENTAL AGREEMENT! Get rid of it or you will be EVICTED!". I stared at the note for a few minutes, anger rising in me like hot lava. That slimy old bag used a passkey and just waltzed right into our house while we were gone to "look around a bit". I stalked down to the rental office and tossed the note on her desk.


Faramir and Gandalf

"First of all, lady, I was just feeding a neighborhood stray, not keeping a cat." (Yeah, another lie...) "And secondly, what the hell were you doing entering our house without notice? It says right on the agreement that you will not enter and will respect our privacy. If I find out you've been in there again like that I'll call the cops and have you arrested for trespassing! Got it?"

"I didn't mean to....I was only....sputter...."

Didn't matter what she wanted to say. I was already gone. Righteous anger can be so very cool when you're also in the right. (Mostly)

I got home from work one afternoon and I was no sooner in the door than Joe told me he had to yank up all my pretty pot plants out back. Seems our neighbors had gotten busted by undercover cops that day and when one of them looked out their window he saw the tiny green sprouts waving in the breeze. One of the busted neighbors used his precious phone call to warn Joe. We never saw them again but it was a stand up thing to do.

I dated a nice girl I met while working at the stationery store. Her Dad was a doctor, which turned out to be fortuitous for me one night. I had gotten tired of humping stock at the place and decided on a change of work scenery. I answered an ad in the Ventura Gazette for a photo lab tech and got the job without much trouble. I was back in the "soup" again and feeling pretty good about it. The place was called Jaffe's Camera, and my job was to pick up film at the three locations, bring it back to the lab and process the stuff. The end result was a semi-finished order. Here was my routine:

Load up the lab car, an old Impala, with completed orders.
Drive like hell to the main store, the Buenaventura Mall store and the Esplanade store delivering and picking up.
Back to the lab.
Sort all film by size: 35mm, 126 Instamatic, 110 Instamatic and Special Orders
Rack up the film on plastic trays, putting a small numbered sticker on each one that was matched to one on the order bag.
Splice together like film sizes (in complete darkness) onto reels.
Feed the film into a processing machine for developing.
Collect the film and manually print each negative on an antique called a "Kodak 5S Printer".
Pull the printed paper out of the machine (in complete darkness) and feed it into a paper processor.
Stack up the processed paper rolls for inspection and packaging the next day.
Mix all chemistry needed to keep the levels up.
Sweep the floor.
Clean the machine racks.

I was a lucky guy. This was a shift-oriented job, not hourly. I was full time, and as long as I got all my tasks done well and completely I could leave and be paid for 8 hours. Of course when things went south that also meant I made no overtime. And things did go that way from time to time. Machines would break down, Christmas was a nightmare. One night I was wrapping up my shift and I noticed I was nearly out of gas. I had no cash and no other way to get home. What to do? I remembered that I had just filled the gas tank in the Impala that day, so there was mondo gas in that beast. I scrounged around in the lab until I found a 4-foot length of rubber hose. I backed my Ford up to the Impala, opened the two feeders and stuck the hose into the Beast. I remembered Greg Jorgensen telling me that the best way to siphon was to first blow a lungful of air into the feeder tank to create back pressure, then suck the gas out to get it flowing. I did so, hearing the Impala's tank creaking with the pressure. Then I sucked on the hose and gasoline came rushing out like a fire hose, gushing into my stomach and lungs. I staggered back, my vision blurry with the fumes, spitting out the residual fuel in my mouth. Oh, shit, what the hell have I done?

I made my way back into the lab and started drinking water. I thought I remembered that in case of gas poisoning you shouldn't puke, just dilute it. I cleaned up all the damning evidence and called the girl I'd been dating. She was confused about why I needed to talk to her Dad but after I explained he came on the line.

"Get to the hospital," he said. "Now."

With the tiny bit of gas I had gotten into my tank I drove to Ventura General and got checked in. I spent three days on a liquid diet and oxygen while the stuff worked it's way out of my system. While I was in the ER the guy in the cubicle next to me was freaking out on PCP, threatening to kill everyone in the place. Nice. Glad the cops and their shiny guns were there, too. On Day Two I sneaked down to the Visitor's Lounge and smoked a cigarette. My doctor walked by, then came back a moment later, motioning me to follow him back to my room. He put an X-Ray on the light box.

"See that little shadow there at the bottom of your left lung? That's where the gas fumes burned a spot. Consider it a chink in your armor. If you keep smoking, that little spot will get bigger and bigger until it kills you. End of story."

He strode out, leaving me to ponder my fate. I went home and life returned to normal. I still smoked, but every time I lit up I could "feel" the smoke going straight to that spot. Finally, on October 24, 1979, I stood at my bathroom mirror and watched myself smoke my very last cigarette. I put it in the toilet, flushed it away and never looked back. It was tough as hell but I thank that doctor for giving me the kick in the ass I needed.

Chapter 32: Torn Between Two Lovers, Feelin' Like a Fool....