Miracles and Murder, and other true stories

MIRACLES AND MURDER A N D

O T H E R

T R U E u

S T O R I E S

COPYRIGHT 2014 IN THE UNITED STATES OF AMERICA ALL RIGHTS RESERVED. NO PART OF THE CONTENTS OF THIS BOOK MAY BE REPRODUCED WITHOUT THE WRITTEN PERMISSION OF TOM TRUJILLO (REFER TO CHAPTER THIRTEEN, MY AVENGING ANGEL, SIMPLY AS A WARNING—YOUR CHOICE)

15 ESCUELA ROAD, LA SELVA BEACH, CA 95076 831-685-1420. TOMKIM2@COMCAST.NET

COVER AND BOOK DESIGN BY TOM TRUJILLO

NON-FICTION ISBN-13978-1494450007 ISBN-1494450003

••• A •••

TO KIM, STILL CRAZY ABOUT YOU

TO ETHAN, WHO AT THE AGE OF SEVEN, TAUGHT US, “LET’S COOPERATE.” TO MONICA, FOR HER PATIENCE, WAITING FOR DAD.

1. CHAPTER ONE:

CONQUERING THE GRAND CANYON

7. CHAPTER TWO:

THAT’S EEL BACKWARDS

13. CHAPTER THREE: VALLEY GO HOME 25. CHAPTER FOUR: LOVE THY NEIGHBOR 33. CHAPTER FIVE: I THOUGHT YOU WERE RICH 43. CHAPTER SIX: CAMPO 49. CHAPTER SEVEN: HAS YOUR HOUSE TALKED TO YOU? 53. CHAPTER EIGHT: I’LL NEVER SAY THAT AGAIN 57. CHAPTER NINE: MIRACLES 71. CHAPTER TEN: HOW I GAVE UP SMOKING 79. CHAPTER ELEVEN: IS THAT GUY AS GOOD AS HE THINKS HE IS? 83. CHAPTER TWELVE: MY FIRST MURDER 109. CHAPTER THIRTEEN: TEENAGE JESUS 115. CHAPTER FOURTEEN:

MY AVENGING ANGEL

121. CHAPTER FIFTEEN: THE BURIAL 123. CHAPTER SIXTEEN: I LEARNED A NEW WORD 125. CHAPTER SEVENTEEN: GOD’S COUNTRY 127. CHAPTER EIGHTEEN: THE END OF MY CHILDHOOD 133. CHAPTER NINETEEN: WHAT ABOUT THE BUTTERFLIES? 135. CHAPTER TWENTY: NO WONDER I’M CONFUSED 143. CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE: LIFE IS…A DREAM?

CHAPTER ONE

CONQUERING THE GRAND CANYON

I

had avoided air travel for years and was more

me wide-eyed in shock. “I’ll be right back!” she said.

been so terrifying. At twenty-thousand feet we

down the aisle toward the cockpit, all the while

than happy to do so because our last flight had

found ourselves bouncing around dark storm clouds

at three hundred miles per hour. The turbulence knocked us this way and that as wicked blows hit the

I watched her as she crawled on hands and knees

assuring frightened passengers that everything was just fine and to enjoy the flight.

Maybe I had photographed one too many plane

plane from every conceivable angle. Whimpering,

crashes as a Navy photographer during the Vietnam

those were just from me. To make matters worse, I

sky at a high rate of speed can do to a plane, you

yelps and cries were heard after each jolt—and

couldn’t stop the theme song from the plane disaster

film High and the Mighty from playing in my head.

The crew had stopped serving drinks but the flight attendant was still wobbling down the aisle passing

out nuts and potato chips from a basket. When she

got to me the plane lurched upward, made a horrible,

War years. Once you’ve seen what falling from the

might develop a sour opinion of airplanes as being the safest form of travel. After safely landing on

this particular flight, it would be many years and a great air fare to London before I would ever consider getting on one again.

“Why don’t we get in the car and take a road trip

loud “BAM!” then immediately began plummeting

somewhere?” suggested Kim.

attendant was thrown to the floor and looked up at

we should go?”

toward earth, nose first and at a steep angle. The

••• 1 •••

“Sounds like fun,” I replied. “Where do you think

“How about the Grand Canyon!”

Kim’s suggestion of a road trip seemed like a

great idea, especially with our new car. Our previous

cherished car, a Volvo on which we depended for

oozing out of the stalks but figured it was probably some kind of goo that gophers hated—some kind of toxic repellent.

Nature is amazing! I thought. I continued yanking

many years, had developed the bad habit of breaking

and pulling up the forest of poisonous gopher plants,

replacement was a new, four-wheel- drive Subaru

Fortunately, by the time we got to Vegas my arms

down and overheating at a moment’s notice. Its

with a one-hundred-thousand mile guarantee on all parts. It was October in the Southwest deserts and

mountains of the United States, and the AAA travel brochures had promised spectacular fall foliage, set

against the colors of the Kaibab Plateau in Arizona and Southern Utah.

“I’ll make reservations,” I said.

wearing no gloves and in a short sleeve t-shirt. had returned to normal and I had renewed hope of getting to see the Grand Canyon and all the other

weird rock formations and canyons that have been turned into national parks.

Before the Grand Canyon, we were told to visit

in Zion National Park, which is on the way. Zion at

any time of the year is a sight to behold, but in the

“Why?” replied Kim. “Let’s just go.”

I had never been to the Grand Canyon and wanted

to see it at least once before I died. I prayed for weeks

before we left to a God I’m not certain exists. “Please, God, let me see it before I die. I promise, I’ll never ask for anything ever again.”

My first thought of this wish not being granted

occurred as we were driving through the Mojave Desert toward Las Vegas; my arms began turning red and blotchy.

“Shit, I’ve poisoned myself !” I thought.

Earlier in the week I had spent the day pulling

out hundreds of gopher plants that had sprung up

in our yard. I did notice the milky white substance

fall it’s beauty is magnificent. We were fortunate to have a hurricane south of Baja pumping up massive

cumulus clouds that were accompanied by rain and lightning, then followed by rainbows. Everywhere you looked was a National Geographic Magazine

cover, and anyone with the ability to snap a picture turned into Ansel Adams.

One German tourist remarked to us on a hiking

trail that she thought the printer of her guide book

had artificially made the sky bluer. She was astounded that the sky really was cobalt blue! I guessed that

it was the contrast between the red rock cliffs set

against a blue sky that achieved this effect, assisted

also by Zion’s location far away from any large cities

••• 2 •••

and air pollution.

mile stretch of high desert road with no services or

Springdale and a restaurant famous for Grandma’s

I imagined us stuck out on a lifeless desert plateau,

At the park entrance sits the little town of

Bumbleberry Pie! The recipe is apparently a national secret according to the menu. We’re suckers for touristy experiences so we ordered a very good

hamburger followed by a slice of Grandma’s

facilities. The old Volvo came to mind at once, and broken down on the side of the road with steam

shooting out from under the hood as the water pump, an ongoing problem with that car, failed again.

But we weren’t driving the old Volvo; we were in

Bumbleberry Pie. Kim took one bite and said there

our new Subaru. A car that years later, was handed

combination of blueberries and blackberries.

When bought a newer pickup truck, he gave it to

was nothing special about the recipe, it was simply a In case you don’t already know, Utah folks have

a tendency to stare blankly at outsiders—not an unfriendly stare, but not a friendly one either. It’s

as if they’ve never seen outsiders before, and most

certainly they’ve never seen you before around these parts, so what’s the point of getting friendly?

At the checkout stand I mentioned Kim’s

off to our son who drove it all over the Northwest. his grandmother who used it for years around Lake Tahoe. The little car’s demise came one winter when

over twenty feet of snow dumped in Tahoe, and our beloved Subaru, with over three hundred-thousand

miles on the original engine was crushed by the weight of it.

It was a magical little beauty. When I was out

discovery to the cashier. I gleefully laughed that my

car shopping to replace the Volvo, I noticed the it at

With lips pursed and brows furrowed, the poker-

almost certain I saw her lean out slightly, wink at me

wife had figured out their secret recipe.

faced cashier glared at me as I did my best to engage her in a light-hearted, friendly conversation.

“That’s it, right? Blueberries and blackberries?”

She handed me over my change and said stoically,

the end of a long line of cars for sale in the lot. I’m and silently say, “Tom, you should buy me. I promise I’ll never let you down. ”

The barren plateau that was threatening my goal

“Yer doin’ the talkin’.”

of ever seeing the Grand Canyon turned out to be

clenched when I saw the only way to the North Rim

of wildlife—turkeys, red foxes, soaring hawks flying

Studying my map before leaving Zion, my heart

of the Grand Canyon was down a lonely forty-one-

a forty-one-mile long meadow filled with all types overhead, and all this -framed by aspens draped in

••• 3 •••

the fall colors yellow, gold, red and orange. In one

gaping at weird mushroom-shaped rock formations

yellow leaves, were growing out of black lava.

the north rim of the Grand Canyon.

area the white trunks of the Aspen, thick with golden

At the end of the road sits the North Rim Lodge,

and pink cliffs that are all part of the magic that is On our way back to our cabin for a nap, we passed

an art deco, timber and stone fortress. It was built

by a couple of rough-looking, dust-covered wranglers

suffering through the Great Depression and the dust

from guiding tourists on death-defying burro rides

by the incredible WPA craftspeople who, after bowl, completed their carpentry, masonry and mural

painting, and went off to World War II to fight the Nazi’s in Europe and the Japanese in the Pacific.

Of course we hadn’t made a reservation. It was the

who appeared to be heading to the hotel bar, fresh into the heart of the canyon. We literally saw dust flying off their well-worn rustic western wear as they hustled off quickly for a drink or two.

A couple of hours later we woke up, dressed after

last day of the season and how many people would

a warm shower, and walked to the lodge for our very

When we checked in for a room we were told,

room wasn’t quite set up and suggested we enjoy

even be there at this time of the year?

“The hotel itself is completely booked, sir, but we do have some cabins available if you like.”

Solid little WPA cabins were spread around the

woods and we happily accepted the offer. I asked for a seven-thirty dinner reservation.

“Those are all taken, sir. The only slot we have

available is at four o’clock.”

Dinner at four? Oh well, what choice did we

have as there aren’t any other restaurants within one

early dinner. Our host informed us that the dining a cocktail at the bar, located just outside the main entrance. Entering the bar we found a room full of

terrified tourists who were pressed against the walls, giving two very drunk wranglers holding court at the bar a wide berth to operate in.

There was no way to avoid these buckaroos if I

wanted a drink, so I sidled up to the bar and ordered a couple of drinks—one for me, and one for my gal.

One of the dusty wranglers looked over and said,

hundred miles? That still left us plenty of time to

“Howdy partner, what’s your name?”

that dropped a thousand feet or more on each side of

protection and said, “This is my wife, Kim.”

concerend about not falling to you death, you’re

is my partner, Harold. My name’s Dwayne, but my

hike out onto some terrifying trails on rock ridges narrow footpaths. A dangerous hike as while you’re

“Tom,” I said. I pulled Kim closer to me for

••• 4 •••

The wrangler pointed to his buddy and said, “This

mother calls me Shithead.”

didn’t like it very much.”

for the evening’s entertainment. Shithead and his

we parted ways with our new friends. The host led us

ever meet. They were rough around the edges, but

fifteen-foot-high picture window with a breathtaking

Kim and I both let out a laugh, and we settled in

buddy Harold were the sweetest cowboys you could they were talkative, friendly, and funny as hell. We

learned that once the park shut down for winter they

tended to the burros and livestock up on the isolated

plateau, which is where they lived year-round. One of the stories Shithead told us was when he was twelve

A little after four o’clock our name was called and

across the dining hall to a table sitting in front of a

view. Six feet away (on the other side of the window), the cliff dropped three thousand feet down to the

floor of the Grand Canyon floor and the Colorado River.

At five o’clock the sun began to set. As we dined

years old, his job was to round-up the family’s sheep

shadows lengthened and outlined thousands of red,

them down to the winter feeding grounds. He did

cast in shadow. Huge cumulus clouds pouring in from

from the high mountain summer meadows and take this all by himself, a kid with only a herding dog for help and companionship. It would take three weeks then one of his uncles or his dad would come out to check up on him and the sheep.

“Where you folks from?” asked Shithead.

Baja turned bright gold, then orange, red, and finally turned dark purple. For two hours the picture window

we had come to love now only reflected back our own images and the lights of the restaurant interior.

We left the dining hall as the second seating began

“California,” I replied.

Shithead told us he had only been out of Utah

once in his entire life to visit his sister who lived in California.

“Where does she live?” I asked.

He got a sad look on his face as if trying to forget

his experience, and took a moment before answering, “Whittier.”

Kim and I couldn’t help but laugh, “Whittier!?”

orange and gold ridges of cliffs and canyons that were

filtering in. The lobby filled with hungry patrons, happy to be far away from a long day spent perched on a suicidal burro on a death-defying narrow trail cut out of the sides of the canyon walls into the

depths of the Grand Canyon. Then, to an even more

frightening experience spent clinging to the walls of

the hotel bar, terrified by the likes of Harold and his

partner, Dwayne, or as his mother calls him, Shithead.

Shithead scratched his beard stubble and said, “I ••• 5 •••

CHAPTER TWO

THAT’S EEL BACKWARDS

H

aving recommended to my friend and his

One day while we finished up our putts on the

wife visit beautiful Monument Valley, on

third hole, he threw the putter over to his bag, fuming.

call when they returned because I was interested to

so mad. It’s just a game and we only play once a week.

their Southwest vacation. I gave him a

find out if they had as good a time there as we did.

My friend picked up the phone and responded to my

I attempted to calm him down a bit with, “don’t get We can’t expect to play like pros.”

“I’m not mad at the way I’m playing!” he screamed.

question with a snarl, “I couldn’t get out of that shitty,

“I’m pissed off because I’m behaving just like my

raining, and if I never see another pissed off sullen

“Huh?” I have no emotional reference point for

fucking place fast enough! It was freezing cold and Navajo, it won’t be soon enough!”

I guess they didn’t have the same trip we did. This

happens to be the same friend who is known to walk

off a golf course after five or six holes because he’s mad at himself for playing so badly. He does a few things

that keep most average golfers from playing well, such as swinging too fast and lifting the head, but he’s a

great guy and I love surfing with him. But golfing gets under his skin, and apparently so do sullen Navajos.

father does when he plays!”

that one. I don’t think I’ve ever seen my father mad at anything except for the one time when he was called

into the office of Mr. Peter Clensos, boys’ vice principal

of my high school. And he was mad only because the forced appointment took place when he was normally sleeping after his night shift at the bakery. I was

in trouble over a little teenage mischief, but to Mr. Clensos it was a national emergency that required a

full assault on my withering interest in high school.

••• 7 •••

The fact that Mr. Clensos had the wrong Tom Trujillo

I didn’t know you could erase a permanent record.

in his office didn’t stop him from wanting to show

Isn’t that why they call it permanent?

High. Oh I was guilty of some minor infraction to be

art scholarship and was allowed a look at my school

delinquent who was a car thief, or as he liked to say,

Clensos, Boys’ Vice Principal of Benjamin Franklin

my dad just who was in charge at Benjamin Franklin sure, but the school’s other Tom Trujillo was a juvenile “just borrowing them for a little bit.”

Clensos held up my file and read through my

permanent school record. He noted that my C+

average and unsatisfactory marks in cooperation were

a clear indication that I was surely on a path toward a life of crime and deviant behavior. “Boredom with

Later on in the year I was in line to receive an

records. To my surprise, I discovered that Mr. Peter J. High School, had erased all my unsatisfactory marks.

To his credit, Mr. Clensos was a man of his word. I behaved the rest of the year and have been allowed to live a life unencumbered by a tarnished permanent high school record.

My father is the cool in cool. Once when traveling

the school curriculum would be my argument. How many

through Big Sur in the late ’60s, he stopped at a

History, anyway?” But I was completely shamed at

A dozen or so beatniks and hippies were hanging

times does one have to study the same facts about U.S. having put my father into such a position.

In the middle of Clensos’s sermon, my dad

suddenly grabbed the folder and threw it at the vice principal.

“Listen you creep,” my dad threatened, “no one

very hip little artist gallery/coffee house and motel. around a patio playing guitar and in general, being

very groovy. My dad walked over to the manager of the coffee house and asked, “so, what’s there to do for fun around here?”

The bearded, long-haired guy checked out my dad

talks about my son like that! I should take you out to

dressed in his Tony Bennett hip-guy style—pressed

Clensos gasped and back-peddled, putting on his

trimmed hair. After staring at my dad for a few

the street and kick your ass! ”

cowardly phony grin. “Now, now, calm yourself Mr. Trujillo,” he pleaded, “I promise that if Thomas stays

out of trouble for the rest of the year, I will personally erase any unsatisfactory remarks from his permanent school record.”

slacks, dress shirt under a v-neck sweater and neatly

moments the hipster replied, “for you man, probably nothing.”

And this is what “cool” is; my dad wasn’t insulted at

all. Instead he laughed, truly appreciative of the guy’s

sense of humor, even though it was at his expense.

••• 8 •••

I’m like my dad in that respect although my snapping

sheepherders after all, so I knew the lamb was going

going behavior of my father is exactly what one needs

good lamp chop, I asked the waitress, “excuse me, is

point is a little closer to the surface. But the easywhile traveling—enjoy the experience, including lost luggage, lost reservations, or car malfunctions.

to be fresh. Halfway through my fairly ordinary but this lamb locally raised?”

“No, it’s from New Zealand,” she replied.

In Monument Valley, our “no reservations on this

tour,” continued to work in our favor. There is only

Kim exploded in laughter.

“But I thought Navajo’s were sheepherders,” I

one lodge in Monument Valley and you’ve got to

replied, feeling like a true tourist.

in advance. Tour buses take over most of the rooms,

and rugs from the wool. ”

make a reservation at Golding’s Trading Post months

so forget about it unless you’re my wife. We pulled into the parking lot filled with cars and were greeted

“We are,” she answered, “but Diné make blankets And now I know that fact.

That same night we were witness to a spectacular

with the brightly lit neon No Vacancy sign above the

eight hour, non-stop lightning storm hitting the

“Looks like we’ll have to find a room in Kayenta,”

danced across the valley floor as if to strobe lights. At

front office.

I said, referring to the nearest town over twenty-one miles away.

“Maybe someone cancelled,” said Kim. “Now that

we’re here, you should at least check it out.”

I climbed out of the car grumbling to myself about

my pointless walk to the front desk and asked the receptionist. “Is it possible to land a room tonight?”

She looked through the reservation book carefully

and said, “Let me see … hmm .... why, yes,! We just

had a cancellation a few minutes ago and there’s one available. Would you like to reserve it?”

Golding’s also features a great little restaurant

and I was anxious to try a lamb dish. Navajos are

valley. Each flash lit up the massive red mittens that

midnight I went to bed and left Kim at the window, who was awestruck by the storm. I woke up hours later

and found her still at the picture window watching the last of the light show. I crawled out of bed and

joined her there, and was treated to a sunrise whose beauty rivaled that of the lightning. The colors of the

rising sun illuminated the underside of the remaining

clouds that were still shooting out bolts of lightning in all directions. It was a breath-taking grand finale to the evening’s entertainment—a gracious bow from Mother Nature in appreciation to those who stayed up to enjoy the entire night’s performance.

••• 9 •••

After breakfast we traveled around the valley

gawking at the landscape. On a dusty road we found ourselves following a pickup truck full of Navajo teenagers glaring at the tourists with their own version of the Utah Stare, but these kids were a little more intense. I broke the ice when I smiled and

flashed them a hang loose sign. Almost immediately

they burst into friendly smiles and flashed us hang

loose right back. When we pulled onto another road the kids were laughing, flashing the peace sign and waving to us. Showing respect goes a long way.

An hour later we pulled into the parking lot

heart attack someday—you’re so damn ugly!”

I could do nothing but laugh along with them and

massage my chest to kick-start my heart beat again.

There’s not a lot to do in Navajo country, so I guess pulling pranks like ambushing an unsuspecting victim must be a popular pastime.

After we left the market we spotted a Navajo man

hitchhiking and we picked him up. When he jumped

into the back seat, extended his hand to me and said, “Yá’át’ééh!”

“Is that your name?” asked Kim.

of a convenience store and sat in the car for a few

minutes deciding what to buy. I was so preoccupied with the task at hand that I hadn’t noticed the car

that had pulled up right next to us. I opened the door still looking down at the dollar bills in my hand and

thinking about a cold drink and treats. And then I lifted my eyes and gasped when I was greeted by a

Navajo man hanging out the car window only inches

from my face, bobbing his head like a jack-o’-lantern

face, grinning at me with no teeth while wagging his

“No, that means hello in the language of my people.

My name is Lee, that’s Eel backwards.”

Eel pointed to the nice ranch off to our right with

horse corrals, a barn, and a newer pickup truck parked

next to the house. “That is my ranch and that is my new truck,” he explained. “My friends called and want

me to meet them in town to go drinking. My wife said I could go drinking if I wanted, but I would be walking ‘cause that truck is staying at home.”

“You have lots of horses,” I noted.

tongue and grunting loudly, “Blaaatt!”

I almost threw the money in the air and jumped

back against the car in shock. The car full of Navajo men began laughing so hard they had tears running down their cheeks.

“You scared the shit out that guy,” they laughed

to their friend. “Man, you’re going to give someone a

“Over twenty ponies, but not all of them are mine,”

Eel began talking almost non-stop. “ I train them for the Indian cowboys. A lot of the white cowboys

don’t like to compete with us in their rodeos, mostly

because we’re better riders than they are. My friend, Jimmy Whiteshoes, taught me how to do a back flip

dismount from my bucking pony. None of the white

••• 10 •••

cowboys can do that. They want to stay on the pony only until the bell tells them jump off. Their goal is only about winning some money and a trophy.”

The road followed a winding green pasture fed by

a small creek lazily flowing at the base of thousandfoot-high red sandstone monoliths. I looked in the

rear view mirror and noticed that Eel was becoming a little more animated in the back seat.

“When I mount my pony I introduce myself to

him. I say, my name is Lee, that’s Eel backwards. I am the finest rider you will ever have the privilege of

trying to buck off. I am sure you are also a fine athlete and you will also do your best.”

Lee closed his eyes and began chanting the song

he sings to his opponent, the bucking bronco. “Heyya-ya-ya-ya, hey-ya-ya-ya, hey, ya-ya.”

Kim and I looked at each other out of the corner

of our eyes thinking the same thing—a night of the

most spectacular lightning display we had ever seen, a

sunrise to rival any on earth, and now, riding through

Monument Valley with a chanting Navajo in the back seat. You won’t read about that in the AAA travel guide, but you might get lucky like us if you hang

was a very unwilling participant, like me. When Eel wasn’t riding broncos, he was operating a print shop in Gallup, New Mexico. As a graphic designer, this

launched us into printing horror stories and insane clients who demand the world right now, and for pennies. We became great friends during that ride

and he asked us to visit him again next year during the Indian Rodeo in Gallup.

We got to Eel’s destination and I got out of the

car and walked around to the passenger side. Eel

and Kim were already on the street hugging each other goodbye. I extended my hand in friendship but

instead, Eel threw his arms around me and hugged me too.

I looked past Eel’s shoulder and spotted a half

dozen Navajo men standing in front of the liquor store staring at us. They were Eel’s drinking buddies and they had the most confused, dumbfounded looks on their faces at what they were witnessing.

But I knew exactly what they were thinking. I

could clearly see it on the faces. “Why in the hell is Lee hugging those white people?”

loose, then pick up a hitchhiking Navajo who tells you his name is Lee—that’s Eel backwards.

When his song ended, Eel came back to us and we

soon discovered that we had many things in common.

He was drafted during the Vietnam war like me, and

••• 11 •••

“Blaaaatt!”

CHAPTER THREE

VALLEY GO HOME!

T

he sun bursts a ten million degree blast of

A perfect wave is simply pure aesthetics whose sole

six miles a second to warm Earth’s surface

energy determined that instead of crashing in chaos

heat toward Earth at two hundred eighty-

and air. The warm air, weighing less than the cold

air, quickly rises tens of thousands of feet skyward.

Cooler air moves in to replace the rising warm air and

creates wind. The wind passes over water and due to friction creates waves. The factors that affect wave size

and power are wind strength and wind surface area.

Obviously, the stronger the wind the bigger the wave.

Nearing the shallows of the coast the wave becomes

top heavy and pitches over, sometimes rolling gently

purpose seems to be for our enjoyment. What creative onto a rocky shore it would instead, form itself into

an A-frame peak with a perfectly tapered wall that

peels along the reef ? What atoms and cells slammed into one another eons ago and assigned themselves the job of water features and landscaping?

Free to enjoy one of these miracles you begin your

journey by paddling out to the take-off zone.

And then some idiot yells out, “Valley go home!”

When I was a kid growing up surfing in Southern

down the wave face, and at other times slamming

California, it meant the San Fernando Valley, but it

There is no useful purpose for a perfect wave. The

local enough. The locals only attitudes stems from a

violently onto a reef.

offshore breezes that force waves to stand up and form

a hollow tube over a well-formed reef or sandbar do

not feed sea life or add anything to the environment.

actually refers to anywhere local surfers decide is not

response to overcrowding with not enough surf spots

with quality waves to spread out surfing enthusiasts.

But it’s also provincial hicks who harbor these

••• 13 •••

attitudes that have been around for as long as I’ve been

more elusive, but the waves will come to you if you’re

but unless you have the money for an Indonesian

anyway, even in a crowd of other surfers.

surfing. We would all love to surf uncrowded waves, surf trip, it’s a pipe dream realized by the monied set,

patient. Riding waves is basically a solitary experience I doubt the privileged few whose mom and dad

professional surfers, or if you’ve saved your tip money

could afford a beach house appreciated the inland

While reading a guide to surfing Europe, a section

or more to the beach in hopes of getting some waves.

for a once-in-a-lifetime experience.

on Norway came with a warning about hostile locals.

I was shocked; if I was a lonely surfer in Norway,

freezing my butt off with a view of the North Pole, anyone joining me in the water would be a welcome

sight. Having lived and surfed pretty much alone in

surfer who woke up at four a.m. and drove an hour

Long before wave cams and computerized storm

trackers, we showed up and surfed whatever we found.

I can’t ever remember not paddling out, regardless of the conditions.

Once bitten by the surfing bug, many of us gave

Oregon in the mid-seventies, I would have happily

up other sports we grew up with to spend more time

point at Seaside, Oregon was already notorious for

City Championships twenty-seven years in a row and

shared waves with another surfer. Even then, the localism and vandalism. Most who surfed there were

California transplants, having shown up a few years earlier when many surfers in the late sixties and early seventies went hippie. They struck out to find a

more natural setting to ride waves, far away from the

crowded Southern California experience. And then, with their newfound love of nature and surfing in the wild ocean of the northwest, they turned into a bunch of uptight provincials.

in the water. My gymnastics team won the Pasadena

my team was destined to follow suit. Unfortunately, many of us started surfing the previous summer and when the coach ordered us to cut our long surfer hair, we walked. Girls were just beginning to notice

long-haired surfers, and we weren’t about to get crew-

cuts and miss out on all the fun. For the first time in twenty-eight years, my school did not win the City Gymnastics Championship.

The

legendary

surfer

Mickey

Dora

once

Stepping into the ocean is much like Meditation

complained about the crowds of surfers wrecking

away—bills, jobs, and problems all disappear during

a bunch of faceless kooks. I suppose I don’t blame him,

or Yoga, only much better. The world’s troubles melt

a surf session. In a crowded session a blissful state is

his beloved Malibu. In an interview he called us all but the faceless kooks crowding his spot were surfing

••• 14 •••

for the same reasons Mickey Dora surfed—because

made aluminum racks one of the guys from the metal

has a passion for the sport because that’s what it takes

surfer friends had rented a house on the beach in

there’s nothing like it on earth. Every serious surfer to want to learn how to ride waves. It’s such a difficult sport to master, I’m surprised that so many surf spots are crowded.

Every surfer is a story waiting to be told, and every

surfer has a story. Not all of them are directly involved

with riding waves, including mine, which is what this chapter is about.

When I first began surfing everyone hated us—our

girlfriends’ parents of course, but also cops, coaches, pachucos, rednecks, and jocks. Crew-cut jocks in

shop in school helped me make. A couple of older

Newport for peanuts. Back then, tourists didn’t go

to the beach in the winter, so rents were cheap—this

place cost sixty-five bucks a month. I paid ten dollars a month to camp out on the couch or the floor in a sleeping bag. There were no drugs and very little

alcohol to keep us entertained, just the energy of a thousand kids working up a sweat dancing all night at

a surfer stomp, and trying to pick up on cute Orange County girls.

The drive back home on a Sunday evening could

particular seemed to hate us most of all. Maybe it was

get pretty cold, especially in the winter. With the

a teenage phase, but we were also a bit nutty from too

had thick black corduroy coat with a black fur collar. I

our hair and different way of dressing, which was just

much surf stoke. We traveled outside the regimented

the school’s influence, such as organized sporting events and sock hops. We destained the environment

of marching bands and a stadium filled with students

rooting on the team on as they performed on Friday

nights. Our lack of attendance or interest in these events were viewed by the jocks, coaches, and their team spirit cheerleaders as an insult. Our lack of school spirit was even consideered un-American.

It wasn’t that I didn’t enjoy football games, but I

surfboard on the racks I couldn’t put up the top, but I would hunkered down in the car with my collar pulled

up high, the car’s feeble little heater keeping my feet warm. The wind would whip over the windshield and then back in again blowing my long surfer hair

forward and over my face. Just south of Huntington Beach on Pacific Coast Highway, a carload of girls

pulled up next to me. I looked over and was amused

to find four of them hanging out the car windows, waving at me frantically and screaming, “Beatles!”

had other interests. At sixteen I would take off in my

1952 MG-TD with my surfboard tied onto custom••• 15 •••

margaritas, and made it back to our ringside table.

VIRGIN MEXICO

We hit the Mexican border around four o’clock

The naked dancer circled the stage encouraging

house north of Ensenada. This was my first trip to

with her, but there were no takers until she got close

in the afternoon on our way to Dick’s family’s beach

Mexico and I was eagerly looking forward to surfing

anyone with the nerve to get up on stage and dance to our table.

Dick shouted out, “Over here!”

south of the border. We got an early start, planning to meet a half-dozen other friends who would be arriving

She squatted down in front of me and I glanced

later. As soon as we left the border check point at

up into her eyes after a brief detour to other parts of

a parking lot in front of a liquor store and shut off the

English, “Come on cutie, get up here and dance with

Tijuana, Dick pulled his beat-up 1949 Chrysler into

her body. She gave me a big smile and said in perfect

engine.

me!”

Encouraged by my quickly guzzled half-finished

“Get us a case of beer, Tommy.”

“You’re kidding right? I’m only seventeen!”

margarita, I allowed her to pull me out of my seat

Before we got out of Tijuana, Dick pulled off the

cheers as she swung her hips and circled the stage

and lead me to center stage. The crowd erupted in

“No problem,” replied Dick, “this is Mexico!”

main drag and parked the car. “You’re probably still a virgin too, right?”

once more. Then she quickly twirled around me a

couple of times, grabbed me by my hair and shoved my face between her perfumed breasts. It was the best

“Follow me,” he directed.

A few minutes later we parted the curtains to a

baptism to Mexico a high-school virgin could wish

Club. We walked into a blast of loud rock ’n’ roll

flawless English. The beautiful naked girl yelled out

hookers. On stage, in the center of all the mayhem

Leaving Tijuana, I had a splitting headache from

wild, crowded Tijuana nightclub called the Chicago

for. When I came up for air, I asked her about her

blaring from overhead speakers, and a bar full of

over the loud music, “I’m from San Diego!”

was the prettiest, completely naked dancing girl one

the margaritas and couldn’t get the taste of perfume

“Get us some drinks!” yelled Dick. I was an old

surf spot known as K-38, and at two a.m., we crashed

on my own. I made my way to the bar, ordered two

It was dark but I could see lines of sets coming in

could imagine.

out of my mouth. We managed to creep down to a

hand at this now having already bought a case of beer

out. At four a.m., I had to piss and got out of the car.

••• 16 •••

from the horizon. I tried to wake Dick but he was in

how much better it was back in the old days, believe

from rising, but it was light enough to see the waves.

today’s short, high-performance boards with leashes,

no mood and just wanted to sleep. The sun was hours From the beach I couldn’t tell how big the waves

were, but as I paddled closer to the peak I realized the

him, it was. If we only had decent wetsuits or rode it would have really been perfect.

Five days and five or ten cases of beer later, Jack

set waves were at least six feet and maybe even more.

piled six guys in to his 1954 Plymouth station wagon.

surfed alone and caught dozens of waves before Dick

surfboards on top, wearing dark Ray-Ban sunglasses

Plus, the surface was oily glass—a surfer’s dream. I finally paddled out. Now it was just the two of us

surfing all by ourselves, and puzzled by the absence of surfers, who should have been on top of a great swell hitting a well-known break.

With the sun just beginning to rise, we finally saw

I rode back with Carl in his beat-up 1953 Chevy, and feeling like we were the two coolest guys on earth. We had scored five days of good waves at San

Miguel, Stacks, 3Ms, K-38, and a trip to Cuatras Casas, a secret spot at the time.

Stuck in traffic on the way home in Tijauna, I

four surfers head down the small cliff and paddle out

noticed the locals laughing at Carl’s car. “Hey, Carl.

were Dick’s brother Jack and three of our friends. We

I took my sunglasses off and discovered the car

to the line-up. As they got closer we saw that they

Check it out, everyone’s laughing at us.”

surfed together without anyone else showing up all

was filled with smoke. The old junker was spewing

onshore wind picking up, only then did other surfers

are not especially known for driving anything much

morning. Finally, with the sun high in the sky, and the begin showing up.

I turned back for a last look as we left the water.

The six to eight-foot glassy waves that I had received

tons of smoke from the tailpipes, and the locals, who better, were totally enjoying the crazy Americanos and their crappy pile of a car.

A few miles north of the border, Carl’s car coughed

four hours earlier had dropped to waist-high. Before

its last gasp, sputtered and died. We ditched it on the

happen a lot, and more than once did I find myself

guys, nine surfboards, and in 1964 they were all over

the days of high tech surf forecasting this used to

surfing world-class waves with nobody or only a few guys out.

Whenever you hear some old surfer whining about

side of the road and piled into Dick’s wagon—nine nine feet long and weighed about twenty pounds.

We stopped at a Jack-in-the-Box in San Diego for

burgers and fries. The guys behind the counter were

••• 17 •••

skin-head, muscle-bound jocks, and they weren’t

really clean up that fucking mess!”

discovered there was no ketchup for my fries. So I

“You better clean that shit up!”

very friendly either. When I picked up my order I went back up to the order window.

He looked to the garbage, and then back to me.

I shoved my middle finger to his face. “Go fuck

yourself asshole!” And took off running to the car.

“What do you want?” the jock snarled.

“Hey you little shit! Get back here!” he yelled.

“Can I get some ketchup?” I asked.

“Ketchup’s ten cents.”

I ran to Jack’s car ready for the escape and jumped

What a dick! Plus, I was out of money and didn’t

in the front seat. Jack was too freaked out to drive,

back and saw the jock snickering with a mocking

couldn’t get the car in gear. I looked behind us to

even have ten cents. As I walked to the table I glanced grin on his face. In the few moments it took me to return to the table, I developed a plan for revenge. If

my friends would pay for my second round of burgers and fries, I’d tell this clown to fuck himself.

“When we’re done, you guys get in the car and

and instead Carl was behind the wheel, and Carl see the monster jock kick open the back door of the Jack-in-the-Box and begin running quickly toward

us, yelling, “get your asses back here and clean that shit up!”

“I can’t get this thing in gear!” yelled Carl.

“Get it in gear!” we all yelled back.

wait for me.” After another round of food we piled a massive trash heap of used burger wrappings and

After what seemed like an eternity, Carl threw the

napkins into the center of the table, we even fluffed

car in gear and lurched out onto the street seconds

until everyone got into the car for the get-away, then

drag me out by my hair. We looked back to throw

it up to make it seem bigger in appearance. I waited strolled up to the order window.

before the jock was able to reach my door handle and him a few insults but instead, and to our horror, he

ran across the parking lot and jumped into his shiny

I casually looked over the menu again.

The jock barked, “What?”

“Oh, nothing,” I smiled. “You know, you’ve got a

really nice, clean little burger joint here.”

“Yeah? That right?”

I looked over to the huge pile of trash on the table

and pointed it out to him. “But you know, you should

new Camaro. He gunned the engine, backed out at a high speed, peeled rubber all the way across the parking lot and began chasing us down the street. At one point we barely made a signal for a right turn and

saw the psycho jock race through a corner gas station

ending up right on our tail. On a wide boulevard with

••• 18 •••

a planted median he finally came up to us on the right,

GO BACK TO NEW YORK!

screaming for us to get back and clean up our mess. It was so ridiculous at this point—we were all hanging out the windows flipping him off, yelling at him to go

fuck himself, and all kind of other things he could do to himself that involved sucking and eating.

I don’t know how much longer we could have kept

up our haranguing the crazy jock before we ran out

of insults, but fortunately Carl spotted a break in the

median. At thirty-five miles per hour, he slammed on the brakes, and sliding sideways, jammed us into the opening—and off we headed in the opposite

direction. We all cranked our heads around to see the

jock violently jerk his Camaro to the left and plow into the medium. He hit the curb so hard that he shot

straight up into the air and came crashing down onto the center divider. His car ended up with the tires off

the ground, rocking back and forth on the gassy knoll in the middle of the road.

Frustrated and furious at our escape, the jock

began pounding and hitting his horn non-stop, proving to be way nuttier than we ever were. Out

of pure adrenaline and joy, Carl joined the jock and honked our horn for the next hundred yards.

Beneath the howls of our laughter, Jack sat quietly,

very concerned. Then he asked, “What if he calls the police on us?”

Having been the recipient of localism, which

I expected in Southern California, I was a bit

disappointed to find myself getting hassled in Santa

Cruz by a local who felt my presence in the water needed to be addressed. I had recently moved into

town from Oregon after a brief stopover in Campo, and there was something about my orange and blue license plates that sent him into a tizzy. At one point while I was riding a wave, he yelled out, “Go back to New York!” Good guess, I thought, as both Oregon

and New York have orange and blue plates. And I was impressed by his knowledge of America’s license plate colors, although Oregon’s plates at the time had more yellow in them than New York’s orange. I also

wondered if there were that many surfers from New York surfing in Santa Cruz who were a problem.

Three years later, my heart leaped with joy while art

directing a surfing magazine. Revenge arrived in the form of a photograph. We were doing an article on

wave etiquette titled, Know the Rules, and out of the files popped a picture of the same guy who had hassled me about being from New York. The photo featured

him dropping in on another surfer and falling off in a very unflattering and spastic sort of position—it was a beauty! What else could I do but use the photo in the article with his name in the caption under it?

••• 19 •••

Shortly after the magazine hit the stands we got an

H E Y, T O M , Y O U W A N T D I S W A V E ?

angry letter from the local wanting to know why we

had published his photo. He complained that he was

We arrived on Oahu and were especially looking

a local surfer and, in fact, a long-time well-respected

forward to checking out Waikiki where Kim lived as

this public humiliation.

car as she would be more familiar with the layout of

regular at Steamer Lane who deserved better than Six months later I found myself in a Santa Cruz

surfboard shop looking for a new board. As I pulled

a board from the rack and began checking it out, I heard a voice come up from behind me.

“Do you need any help?”

I turned around and to my surprise, who should

a twelve-year old. She insisted she drive the rental Waikiki than I would. You should have seen the look on her face as we snaked our way through a gauntlet

of thirty-story skyscrapers lining Kalakaua Avenue

that have been built since she was here as a child. She didn’t recognize a thing.

All the giant buildings aside, the water in Waikiki

be working the surf shop but the same local in the

is still the most beautiful in the islands, and on south

back to New York. I tried not to bring up the photo,

class waves that can rival any of the world’s top surf

photo—the same guy who kindly asked me to go but couldn’t help myself. I mentioned that I saw his picture in the magazine.

“Yeah. I don’t know why they burned me like that!”

he complained.

“I put it in,” I replied. I told him about him hassling

me at the Rivermouth a few years earlier, and felt it

was divine retribution, and kind of a funny miracle

swells the various reefs in Waikiki turn into worldspots. But nowhere on Earth can one paddle out in

aquarium clear water at the foot Diamond Head, and

surf the same waves as the ancient Hawaiian kings and Duke Kahanamoku did. Waikiki should be on every surfer’s list of places that must be surfed at least once in a lifetime.

I grew up staring at a travel poster based on a

when I saw that photo.

famous photograph of the Makaha Bowl. The poster

deserved that. I can be such an asshole.”

on her face, joyfully getting caught in the impact zone

He was cool about it and laughed, “God, I really

featured a woman with flowers in her hair and a smile of a massive, twenty-foot wall of water. In spite of the

car rental folks pleading with me not to surf the West

Side of the island where the locals are famous for not ••• 20 •••

having the Aloha spirit for visiting haole surfers, I

it, a good sized set swung over to where I was sitting

my passion—I just wanted to see the place. When we

problem. As I hit the trough and snapped a bottom

was on a mission and simply had to visit the roots of pulled up, Makaha was head-high perfection under bright blue skies and red lava cliffs, with only a dozen guys in the water enjoying the playful surf.

I straggled across the beach behind Kim and my

son, Ethan, with surfboard under my arm because

and I was able to drop in and ride the wave with no turn, I glanced down the line to find every local in the

water peeking over the top of the wave watching me

surf—and they all had the same curious look on their faces, “Who da guy?”

I paddled back out to my spot, only this time a

they wanted to play on the beach, and one should not

little bit closer to the regular lineup. Soon, another

up the beach toward the red lifeguard stand I could

spot to nail it. As I began paddling, I noticed a young

leave their board on a rental car at Makaha. Looking

see ten of the biggest Hawaiians on the planet all

staring at me. I could almost imagine them asking each other, “Who da guy?”

I sat on the beach for twenty minutes watching

some of the prettiest waves imaginable peel down the point.

beautiful wave approached and I was in the perfect Hawaiian surfer had started paddling for it too. I was in the best position, and under normal circumstances

it was my wave, but he was a local and was looking at

me with pleading eyes, so I stopped paddling. I waved him on and yelled, “You take it!”

The next wave was almost as good and I was able to

“Why don’t you go out?” Kim asked.

grab it. When I finished my ride and pulled out over

“Nonsense,” she said. “The worst that could

to me and said, “Thanks for da wave man, dat was so

“I’ll get my ass kicked if I paddle out!” I replied.

happen is that they’ll ask you to leave the lineup. How many times in your life will you be here and have the

opportunity to surf Makaha? You should at least try.”

the top, the young Hawaiian guy paddled over next

cool! You gave me da wave of da day! Hey, what’s your name? Where you from?”

We paddled back out together to the lineup where

I paddled out and around, as far away from the

he announced to the other locals, “Dis is Tom from

position that there was absolutely no chance of my

he pointed to a number of guys, “Dis my brother Tony,

crew of locals as I safely could. I sat so far out of dropping in on anyone—only the large lava boulders in front of me posed a problem. As luck would have

Santa Cruz. He just gave me da wave of da day!” Then dis my cousin, dis my Uncle Freddie.” For the next

hour, any time a wave would start to line up, the guys

••• 21 •••

in the water would turn to me and ask, “Hey Tom, you want dis wave?”

Sometimes good fortune is simply the result of

dumb luck. I arrived on the North Shore of Hawaii, and realized when I pulled the board off the racks that

I had forgotten my only leash back at the hotel on another board. The idea of swimming over razor sharp

coral, or worse, my loose board hitting a feisty local, was putting a damper on my stoke.

What the hell, the air was warm and the waves

“Dis your board?” he growled.

Oh shit, I’m gonna be dead in a few minutes,

I thought. My board had hit him and now he’s going to beat me to death with it.

“Uh…yeah,” I answered sheepishly.

The big scary local turned the board over and

admired the clean, leash-free deck. He broke into a big, friendly smile, and nodded his approval.

“Dis da fuckin’ way to surf—no kook cord!”

Scary Local handed my board over to me and

were pretty and well-shaped. I would have to hang on

asked, “Hey, where you from? What’s your name?”

old days, I would have to swim after it if

outside he began asking me questions about surfing

right and spotted the biggest, tough-looking, muscle-

meant to be done naked,” he laughed.

to my board if I wiped out, and just like in the good I didn’t. As I got to the water’s edge, I looked off to my bound, tattooed local surfer I could ever imagine.

We paddled back out to the lineup and once

in cold water and uncomfortable wetsuits. “Surfing

We spotted a set of waves coming in and moved

And he didn’t look very friendly either. Paddling

into position for them. We slowed our paddling and

accidentally paddle for anything he’s paddling for. Oh my

water headed toward us and grow in height as it

out I thought, Oh, Jesus, don’t drop in on him, don’t God, don’t even look at him!

A short time later I had forgotten all about the big

scary local. I found a great hollow wave and scored

three or four tube rides before I caught an edge and

watched as a perfectly shaped, tropical blue wall of began to hit the shallower water over the reef. Scary Local turned to me and asked, “You wanna take dis wave, bra?”

wiped out. I dove under a few waves, avoided any

coral, and was almost to the beach, when to my horror

I spotted the big scary local standing in waist deep water…holding my surfboard over his head with one hand.

••• 22 •••

CHAPTER FOUR

LOVE THY NEIGHBOR

W

e are led to believe that God as a

Although, it wouldn’t hurt to show a little more

burning bush gave Moses the Ten

love toward our fellow man, the ones who share this

Moses smashed them. I’ve always wondered why God,

when your neighbor rats you out to the planning

Commandments and in a fit of anger,

the Burning Bush, didn’t turn Moses into a charcoal

briquet—so much for the word of God. Moses told

his tribe not to sweat it, as he could remember them

all, and began to write what he recalled on a napkin.

The most important commandment he wrote was, You shall love God with all your soul, which was quickly followed by, You shall love your neighbor as yourself.

I doubt the creator of the universe, the one with a

zillion eyes and numerous other cool things needed

to keep this place going requires our love, worship or prayers much at all. I think Moses wrote that first

commandment just in case the Burning Bush came

back, and the second one so his tribe wouldn’t beat him to death for destroying the Word of God.

weird experience called life on earth. But what about

department for doing a little repair on your house,

or the guy whose dog barks all night? In many cases, loving God is much easier than loving your next door neighbor.

Fortunately, we had Mr. and Mrs. Upton who

made honoring

neighbors pretty easy. Together

they turned the Thomas Street hilltop neighborhood

into a Garden of Eden with numerous fig, guava, loquat, orange and peach trees. Pathways and ponds

meandered down the hillside past small bungalows and ending in a bamboo jungle. The neighborhood kids were welcome to any of the fruit except the

figs, which were off limits. Both the Upton’s were in their early eighties as I remember, but Mr. Upton

••• 25 •••

still brought out his old wooden ladder to climb the

virtually undeveloped compared to the rest of Los

manicured lawn that sloped down from the street and

like Nob Hill in San Francisco lying unnoticed as the

fig trees and harvest the fruit. They had a perfectly ended at their front porch. Once a day we would roll

or somersault down the lawn and bang on the door,

Angeles, a fact that makes no sense at all. It would be city grew up around it.

There was a dark side to Thomas Street, too–our

yelling, “Candy, candy!” Sweet Mrs. Upton would

next door neighbors, the Parnells. There were six kids

with hard candies and each kid would take a piece.

Years later, I saw a magazine article featuring Mrs.

open the door and hold out a crystal bowl filled This little Eden called Thomas Street also happened

to have the most remarkable views of Los Angeles.

From our front porch we had an unobstructed view

on a clear day of the Island of Catalina, Palos Verdes, Lincoln Heights, Chinatown, the twenty-seven story

in my family at the time, and the Parnells had twelve.

Parnell, who had just given birth to her twenty-third child. In the article she stated this one was going to

be the last one, and all her kids laughed, “She says that every year!”

The Parnells called us, “Nothing but dirty

City Hall, the railroad yards, Elysian Park, and the

Mexicans!” We laughed at that of course, because we

dominated by the black and gold art deco tower of

fact. We rarely wore shoes. Our feet were as tough as

entire skyline of downtown, which at that time was the Richfield Building.

My mother told us kids that the Richfield Building

was brother Tim’s birthday candle, built in honor of

my brother’s birth. We believed almost everything my

parents told us, and was I surprised later on when

the building was torn down, that we had no claim on that building or its destruction. Also part of our view

was the huge, monolithic art deco General Hospital,

were only half-Mexican! But we were dirty, filthy in leather and covered in dirt up to our calves. We had

a thousand acres of barren hills, Baby Jungles, caves, trap-door spiders, roadrunners, king snakes and more

to keep us out of the house from sunrise to sunset.

At the end of the day, my dad’s whistle would echo

throughout the hill top and we’d stop what we were doing and run home for dinner.

Overlooking the neighborhood was Flat Top, home

which to my mind looked like a twenty-story tall,

of Old Man Allen, the neighborhood’s really crazy,

To this day, the Thomas Street hill, five miles east

dead trees, junk cars, and old rusted appliances. It

1935 Ford sedan cemented onto the landscape.

of downtown, has the best views in the city yet is still

scary guy. His house was hidden by giant bamboo, was rumored that he spent twenty years in an insane

••• 26 •••

asylum for killing someone with an axe, but it could

nightmare of a person, which was pretty amazing

got close to his property, Old Man Allen would run

Years later, when my brother Tim got bigger

have been just an old tale told to scare kids. If we

seeing that he was only thirteen.

out of his house and chase us off while brandishing a

and stronger he told me about running into Victor

on fire and curse the firemen while they were putting

Victor—the guy who was always robbing us? I beat

shovel. And once a year he would set one of his cars out the fire.

Weren’t we all shocked then, to find out that some

of Old Man Allen’s kids were in the circus when one

in high school. “Hey, Tommy, remember that creep the shit out of him. I was kicking his ass and he didn’t even know why!”

In summer the high grass turned to straw and

summer day, a flying trapeze appeared up on Flat Top.

we’d flatten cardboard boxes, turning our hill into a

and exploring as we watched the soaring flips of the

stop in time you would sail over a driveway cut into

All the neighborhood kids stopped playing, fighting, acrobats. We cheered them when they pulled off a triple flip, and groaned when they failed. Imagine, a

flying trapeze on a hill overlooking the city, and in

your neighborhood, too. It was so beautiful, even Old Man Allen stopped chasing us off.

If the Thomas Street hill was a Garden of Eden,

then ours had a snake too. Our snake was Victor, who would periodically crawl up from the barrio of Happy

Valley below and rob us. For years he terrorized the hill and we were always on the lookout for any signs

of his approach. Victor was pure evil, with dark skin,

toboggan run. It was a steep slope and if you didn’t

the side of the hill and kill yourself. Someone in the neighborhood bought a refrigerator and the box was big enough for six kids to ride on. The speed we

generated surprised the hell out of us. Most of us bailed before hitting the cliff, but a few hung on and

actually made it over the road and down the other

side before crashing and cart wheeling out of control.

I don’t remember any broken bones, but all of us ended up at the County Emergency Clinic for glass cuts or stitches at one time or another.

We hated the Parnells, although the reasons why

dirty yellow eyes, and he always had a bit of spit

weren’t very clear. They had come out from Oklahoma

any money you would have to beg for your life and

promised land, their car broke down somewhere near

froth at the corner of his mouth. If you didn’t have promise to have it the next time because he would promise to put a knife in your gut if you didn’t. A true

escaping the Dust Bowl and as the reached the

Barstow and they made the last two hundred miles to Los Angeles in a wagon pulled by a horse. Of course

••• 27 •••

it also might have been a story we made up just to

would watch from our yard as the boys would hide

The Parnell kids were as mean as sin but Mrs.

belt looking for them. When she found one, she’d

make them weirder than we already thought.

Parnell was even worse. Mr. Parnell seemed like a nice

guy who never said much, having been silenced by the much more wicked and tougher little woman in his

life. He did love looking at my mother however, who was especially slender, young and pretty. Mrs. Parnell

might have caught him looking once too often and that may have been at the root of our mutual hatred.

Even though they were our sworn enemies, I

did have a sincere crush on one of the middle girls named Baby Doll. She was Shirley Temple pretty

with golden curls and big blue eyes. She didn’t look anything like her freckle-faced, skinny sister who was

and Mrs. Parnell would run around the yard with a

whack the crap out of him for running away and hiding from her, and then she’d drag him to the porch where she would very unskillfully and unevenly shave

his head. The poor kid would be crying for mercy and

Mrs. Parnell would be cussing and cutting. And even though no one had a television in our neighborhood

yet, it was way better than television ever was. But

the best part of it was the completed haircut—the

miserable, chewed up and patchy hair on a head full of bright red electric razor tracks. The boys were so pathetic looking we almost felt sorry for them.

Mr. Parnell brought a pet home one day, a cute little

conveniently named, Sister. I wasn’t familiar with

chick. Maybe it was an anniversary present for the

know that getting friendly with Baby Doll could only

My father worked nights and the four a.m. crowing

the story of Romeo and Juliet, but I knew enough to end up badly.

The Parnell kids never left their own yard except

to steal apricots from our tree. I can’t ever remember

seeing one of them out playing with any of the other kids. They spent most of their free time making mud balls and throwing them at our house. When you

wife—a reminder of the good old days in Oklahoma. each day drove him nuts, because it turned out Mr. Parnell had brought home a rooster, which was not

very good for eating much past a few months old. But the Parnell kids thought he was cute and named the bird Cluckles.

Fortunately, my dad’s misery wouldn’t last too long.

drove up the hill, the first thing you noticed were

Early one morning the excitement coming from next

of our house.

the poor bird out to the chopping block. Cluckles

hundreds of mud splatters covering one entire side Haircutting day at the Parnells was a great joy. We

door woke us up. We watched as Mr. Parnell brought

was pretty calm at this point, but someone forgot to

••• 28 •••

tell Mr. Parnell to hold the chicken’s body during the

told them that actually, their boy should be the one

body of Mr. Cluckles took off running.

whole thing, so the affair ended with a whimper.

execution. When the axe came down, the headless “Get the Chicken!” yelled Mr. Parnell pointing

charged with assault. My parents wanted to forget the The Parnells had finally crossed the line. Tim and

with the neck and head to the loose bird running

I set out looking for revenge and one morning found

all over each other trying to grab it, but the headless

were away on vacation. Unfortunately, we were with

through the yard. The kids were tripping and falling Cluckles somehow managed to bob and weave just as they were about to snag him.

We were laughing so hard we woke up my dad.

He came into our room a little angry from sleep deprivation until we pointed out the action next door. The headless rooster finally ran out of gas and

ourselves crawling into their basement when they

Al Lewis, the neighborhood sociopath. As Tim and I looked around for something to steal or break, Al

opened up the spigot on a barrel of heating oil Mr. Parnell stored in the basement, and let it empty onto the dirt floor.

Nothing was said when they returned home, but

everything quieted down, and we climbed back into

within a short period of time, a For Sale by Owner sign

neighbors. As much as we didn’t care for them, they

up their furniture and belongings and left Thomas

bed laughing and talking about our crazy next door certainly did make life interesting.

One day one of the Parnells older kids began

pounding on the front door, pissed off about something

went up. Within a month the Parnells had packed

Street, heading off I am told, to the green fields of Bakersfield.

The following year, my three year-old brother,

and yelling at my mom in a very threatening manner.

Chris and his friend, Tuffy, constructed a campsite

which was mom territory. She grabbed the kid by the

marshmallows for food, and had collected dry grass

He made the mistake of stepping inside our house, shirt collar, marched him out onto the porch where

he somehow, fell off backwards and onto the ground below. He ran home crying to Mrs. Parnell who

immediately called the police. The Parnells demanded my mother be arrested for assaulting their son, but

after all the statements were made, the detective

in our basement with cardboard boxes as tents, and sticks for the campfire. Later that day as I walked home from the Boy’s Club, my Uncle Bill stopped me on the street and told me, “Tommy, you better get home quick, your house just burned down!”

I knew my uncle was just pulling my leg, and

continued on my way home at a leisurely pace.

••• 29 •••

I headed up Broadway past Louise’s Diner where my

Foster song. It might sound dangerous, but instead,

window to see if she was working. If she was, she’d

framed against the blackened rafters, and listened to

grandmother worked, and took a peek through the sit me down at the counter and bring me a Coke or

lemonade. No such luck today though. A few blocks

there was a tenderness to it as we watched the stars my mother’s pretty voice until we fell asleep.

I am ashamed to admit that for many years, I was

later I ran into my friend Gonzalo, who excitedly told

prejudiced against anything related to cowboys or

seen all the fire trucks!”

western music. After spending two years in Texas with

me that my house had burned down. “You shoulda’ I raced home to find that the fire had burned the

back half of the house and most of the mud balls too.

My parents had been sitting in the living room with Aunt Claudia and Uncle Bill, when Chris ran into

the room in shock, stuttering and unable to get out a word of warning. Soon enough though, they smelled

the smoke and saw the flames, and ran out of the house. It took my parents a few weeks to find another

house but in the meantime there was nowhere else

to go. The fire had damaged the floor and part of the

Oklahoma, even to the point of hating country and a roommate from Oklahoma, I found Oklahomans

were OK. Eventually, I even came to love country

and western music. Listening to Patsy Cline or Ferlin Husky playing on the speakers while drinking a beer

and eating tacos outside Don’s Dog House in Beeville, Texas, I realized that it was the perfect music for the

hot and humid southern atmosphere. I learned that it wasn’t Okies I didn’t like, it was just the Parnells— except for Baby Doll, of course.

roof in the kid’s bedroom at the rear of the house, but

it was still structurally sound. During that time we continued to sleep in the burned-out room—it was

summer in southern California and the nights were balmy. The center of the room was missing, and the

two exterior walls held up what was left of the roof.

The bunk beds got pushed up against the interior walls which left a wide aisle for mom to bring in a

chair and sing us to sleep with, “I dream of Jeannie with the light brown hair,” or some other Stephen

••• 30 •••

CHAPTER FIVE

I THOUGHT YOU WERE RICH!

T

he burning of the Thomas Street house

vato tried to grab a pack of sunflower seeds out of my

Lincoln Heights when it was time to choose

Shocked momentarily, he loosened his grip and I was

proved to be a godsend as I was at the age in

what gang you wanted to be a member of. It was no longer safe to walk the streets alone, and if I was, I

could be found ducking behind bushes, slinking through Thrifty Drugs or the Bi-Rite Market — I

couldn’t even get to the Boys Club anymore without

hand and I snatched it back—after I spit at his face. able to take it and run. As I fled, I heard him scream, “If I ever see you again, you little shit, I’m going to kill you!” It turned out he lived only four doors away from my grandmother.

When Uncle Bill ran into me at the Thrifty Drug

carefully planning every move. Packs of little thugs

Store to tell me about the house burning down, I was

their sole purpose in life seemed to be looking for

area around the library. And when my friend told me

seemed to be popping up on every other block, and

unattached kids such as myself to beat up for being

in their precious, funky, little neighborhood. To those

not aware of my situation, it must have looked almost

hiding out from a group of kids who controlled the

about the fire, I was going home on Broadway, which was neutral territory and five blocks out of my way.

Thankfully, our family settled in the cozy suburb

comical to observe my paranoid movements as I

of Altadena. I would later discover that my father

visit my dad at the bakery.

neighborhoods, but he got lucky with Altadena. The

ducked and dodged my way to the playground or to

My visits to Grandma were also difficult but for

different reasons. About a year earlier, some teenage

was not very good at picking out houses in decent

town featured well-built, roomy homes with large

yards filled with fruit trees, freshly mowed lawns,

••• 33 •••

clean streets, great schools, and the San Gabriel

Pleased with their response, Mrs. Lazarini turned

Mountains in our backyard. The thousand acres of

to me and asked, “¿Como esta usted?”

for the towering five-thousand-foot peaks of Mount

Spanish,” I replied.

open fields on Thomas Street proved to be no match Wilson, Mount Lowe, and the deep canyons of

Millard and Eaton, whose creeks flowed down to

“What did you say? I’m sorry, I don’t speak

“Oh! You speak English!” she exclaimed.

Mrs. Lazarini escorted me to my seat located next

the Devil’s Gate, through Arroyo Seco and into the

to Debbie Rice, an adorable blond with freckles and

the ocean beyond the smog. Within a short period of

plans for a sixth grade engagement that would last

Los Angles River, which occasionally flowed out to

time, my friends from Lincoln Heights disappeared from my life even though we had all promised to write or visit.

On my first day of school in Altadena, the principal

brought me into Mrs. Lazarini’s fourth grade class

and deposited me at the front of the room. The class

took their eyes and attention off Mrs. Lazarini and her lesson, and stared at me blankly, wondering

whether they were going to like me or not. I looked

out over a sea of blonde hair and blue-eyed students, and waited patiently as Mrs. Lazarini completed whatever instructions she was delivering to the no

braces. Debbie looked me over and began making

exactly one day, when after walking her home from school, I refused to kiss her. Geography was the first topic of the day. Mrs. Lazarini was a map freak and

our assignment was to create a fictitious island. We

were told to make it any configuration we wanted, but we had to have roads, mountains and towns. I

was raised on a hilltop, which, almost from birth, gave me an interest in geography. I’ve always felt an overview, or a “lay of the land,” as my daughter likes

to say, is important if one wants to know where one is.

Along with triangles and colored pencils, Mrs.

longer attentive class. Then she turned to me with

Lazarini had provided a compass to draw circles

quickly and announced, “class, today we have a new

what its use was for. I held it up and asked, “Mrs.

a smile and took my papers. She scanned the sheet student. I’d like you all to welcome Thomas Trujillo.

Please repeat that?”

“Welcome

Thomas

cheerfully chimed back.

Tru-he-yo,”

the

class

with. It was sitting on my desk but I had no idea Lazarini, what is this whatchamacalit?”

“What does that mean in Spanish, Tomas?”

An hour later, Mrs. Lazarini walked the aisles, checking up on her student’s progress. She finally

••• 34 •••

reached my table where I was busily coloring in a

blond girl named Sheila Horning. Before turning

designed, and gasped.

a dirty Mexican!”

town square, located in front of a harbor of the city I

“Class! I want everyone to see what Thomas has

created.” She leaned in close to me and I saw her

blue eyes brighten in surprise. She turned to me with a big smile and said, “This is quite beautiful!”

onto her street she yelled out, “That’s because you’re I yelled back, “You’re just saying that because I

have more friends than you do, and I just got here this morning!”

Sheila buried her face in her hands and ran home

Debbie Rice wasn’t surprised. She had already

crying. I felt terrible but that was how we defended

others over to take a look. They rose from their seats

Sheila was only being insecure, but I didn’t know that

seen what I was working on, and proudly invited and began shuffling over toward my desk. “Hurry up now,” goaded Mrs. Lazarini. “Hurry up. We haven’t got all day.”

“He’s a better artist than Terry Green,” I heard

one of the kids whisper. I didn’t know who Terry

ourselves in Lincoln Heights; we went for the kill.

— we hadn’t studied psychology yet. I apologized to her the next day, and she told me she was sorry for

calling me a dirty name, and yes, she was just acting a little jealous and insecure.

I had been called a dirty Mexican many times

Green was until I noticed a boy with a red-flushed

by Sister and Jimmy Parnell, so poor Sheila was

showed up, the best artist in class. It was true, I was a

and already a pro at taking care of myself, which

face, embarrassed by the comparison and before I good little artist and I loved maps. After lunch I was given a box full of Valentine’s Day cards, handmade

by my classmates. It was Valentine’s Day, February 14th, 1957.

That same day, three new friends and I walked

home after school, laughing and joking about Mrs. Lazarini and her inability to remember that I couldn’t

speak Spanish. Every five minutes she would speak to me in Spanish and I would have to tell her that

I only spoke English. Walking behind us was a tall,

hurling insults at a brick wall. I was nine years old began on my first day in kindergarten. A week before school began, I was introduced to my teacher and classroom and shown my seat at the small table I would be occupying. On opening day, I showed up

and sat where I had been instructed to sit only seven days earlier. The teacher read the roll call and when

each name was called the child raised his or her

hand. When she finished, she asked if anyone hadn’t had their name called. I looked around the room feeling a bit embarrassed, and raised my hand.

••• 35 •••

“What is your name, son?” she asked.

you are!”

“I don’t see your name on the roll sheet. You must

of what a kindergarten teacher should look like.

I was dumbfounded. This was the classroom,

into a tight bun, and had a nice round figure to hug

“Tom Trujillo.” I replied. be in Miss Salmon’s class.”

and that was the kindergarten teacher I had been

introduced to only one week earlier. She took me

by the hand and led me out the door of the class, down the exterior stairs, and out of the building. She

Mrs. Salmon was a children’s book illustration

She wore wire rim glasses, had her grey hair pulled you with. I had walked the gauntlet of the ghost

town playground and was rewarded with the best kindergarten teacher one could imagine.

Five years after I entered Mrs. Lazarini’s fourth

pointed to the opposite side of the L-shaped school

grade class, I found myself as a ninth grade senior at

“Miss Salmon’s class is the last classroom at the

of the inner circle of the most popular guys and girls

to a room at least one hundred yards away.

end of the building. You can’t miss it.” And with that, she went back to her class and left me to fend for myself. I was five years old and it was my first

day of school. Luckily, I was knowledgeable about geography. I set my sights on the supposed class location and marched across the ghost town of the

Charles Elliot Junior High School. I was a member on campus, and a gymnastic star until becoming a

surfer, which was much more cool. At our graduation

assembly, where they hand out sports letters and

academic achievements, I was awarded the title of “Best Artist.”

We all looked forward to graduation and could

empty playground. About halfway across I stopped

hardly wait for summer to begin, which would start

the schoolyard compared to the chatter of students in

held in the pool house of the Gilbert’s Pasadena

for a moment of reflection, fascinated by the quiet of

the brightly lit classrooms as they began a new year of school. I listened as the teachers instructed their

students to settle down, and within a few moments, all became eerily quiet.

When I walked through her door and told her

where I had come from, Mrs. Salmon almost cried.

“You walked here all by yourself ? What a brave boy

off with an invitation to Charlene Gilbert’s party mansion. After graduation, invitations began to roll in for beach parties in Newport where a few of my friend’s parents owned sailboats and yachts. The day

after Charlene’s party, we strapped our surfboards

onto Mr. Gunther’s sailboat that he was towing to

the harbor, and got dropped off at Huntington Beach to surf all day. I had a decent surfboard, parents with

••• 36 •••

cars who had promised to take us to the beach, and a

“Sorry, Tommy,” replied Dad. “ There’s an opening

phone number from a cute girl named Barbara that I

at the Atomic Testing Grounds, and we’re moving to

Two weeks later, my parents announced they

We piled into Dad’s 1951 Pontiac — six kids and

got at Charlene’s party. The future was looking good.

Las Vegas.”

were selling the house and divorcing. My mother

some of our clothes. Everything else we left behind,

the meantime, the kids would be staying with Dad

with Mom. As we drove off, I looked out the back

would be going off on her own for a while, and in

at his new rental in East Los Angeles. In case you didn’t already know, the East L.A. barrio is a death sentence for a teenage surfer. When we finally moved

in I stayed in the house, afraid to venture out. The one time I did go out was with my dad on a trip to

the market. While waiting for him, I spotted a kid I

went to elementary school with in Lincoln Heights and approached him.

“Hey, Raymond! It’s me, Tom Trujillo!”

Raymond turned around and shoved me to the

ground. “Fucking surfer!” he yelled, and stomped off

including Annie, the youngest who would be staying

window of the car to Mom, standing in the street in front of the house, waving goodbye to her children

and her now ex-husband. When we came to a curve

in the road she vanished from view for the next six months.

The task of emptying the house and storing

our material goods fell onto Mom’s shoulders, but

seeing her sad face as we waved goodbye, I knew

the chances of her going through the remains of the failed marriage probably wouldn’t be happening.

As it turned out, she and Annie got into her

in a huff.

car and drove off shortly after we did. Most likely,

getting a fake address from a friend so I could attend

bicycles, toys, television, record player, radio, and

I went back to hiding out and made plans for

high school in Pasadena. It would be a long bus ride, but the alternative reality of being beaten daily by

chicano gangbangers would make the effort worth it.

Fortunately, my dad sat us all down one evening and told us that he’d found a new job and we’d be moving within a week.

“Are we going back to Altadena?”

a cleaning crew emptied the house and took the surfboard to a second hand store or the Salvation

Army. The rest? Birth certificates, photos, drawings and awards, most likely went to the dump.

A truly sad story, as is any divorce involving

children. But then, something unexpected happened.

Thrown together in an empty house in East L.A., my

fellow siblings and I became the best of friends. With ••• 37 •••

parents scrambling for new lives, we could no longer

stuff like Time Out, by Dave Bruebeck, or Coming

depend on them for security and emotional support.

Home Baby, by Herbie Mann, but by the time we

experience brought us closer together than we had

was thoroughly enjoying Zoot Sims, John Coltrane,

Instead, our disrupted lives and our confused, mutual ever been before, and has stayed that way ever since.

We landed at Aunt Claudia and Uncle Bill’s

moved back to Los Angeles four months later, I

Miles Davis, and many other progressive jazz artists.

Just as I began making friends again at my new

house in Las Vegas for what was supposed to be a

high school, we left without warning when my dad

us. The day he showed up for work, the company

any loss of seniority or pay. While driving down

temporary stay until Dad found a suitable house for announced there had been defense cutbacks and

they were being forced to lay off a large number of workers, my dad included. We extended our stay at Aunt Claudia and Uncle Bill’s house.

Uncle Bill was a musician who played in bands

backing up such shows such as the Follies Bergere at the Tropicana, Lido de Paris at the Stardust, or Tony Bennett at the Flamingo. One of the perks was that

was offered his old job back in Los Angeles without York Boulevard in Highland Park toward our new

house, I glumly stared out the car window at the old

business district featuring at least one bar per block, and snapped. I had been a patient and well-behaved teenage son, but I was thoroughly sick of moving around and yelled at my dad, “Where in the hell are we now!?”

Dad had found a small, hillside frame house

Uncle Bill would take us to the one of the hotels he

with a couple of bedrooms for six kids. The house

all day. He worked four nights a week and slept late,

in two days because he was running out of money

was playing at, and we could hang out at the pool

usually waking up in time for lunch, so we learned to be quiet or play outside — and outside in the

100 degree desert heat was not an option for me.

I spent my mornings reading and when Uncle Bill woke up, I spent many afternoons lying on his deep

shag carpet in the air-conditioned house listening

to his enormous collection of jazz records. He first introduced me to the more accessible and melodic

was purchased and furnished with hand-me-downs

and he needed to get back to work. The day we moved in, my brother Tim leaned against the dining room wall and his arm fell through a thin layer of

wallboard. After that, we fondly called this place, “The cardboard house.”

With no friends to hang out with, I found a job

with a crew of pimply-faced boys, going door-to-

door selling subscriptions to the Herald-Examiner,

••• 38 •••

the afternoon paper. We traveled throughout the

entourage. Apparently, I was not the first solicitor in

knocked on every door in Southern California from

In spite of all the odd neighborhoods I walked

city, and on Saturdays out into other counties. I’ve

this park to get punked.

Hollywood to Rialto and Cucamonga. I worked

alone in, I never felt afraid of where I was working.

Saturday. For every order I made, I was paid a dollar.

Park who growled, “What are you doing my barrio?”

three hours a day after school and six hours on Do you know how many sales you can make in three

Only once was I threatened by a young vato in Echo I was way past hiding out from the neighborhood

hours in the right neighborhood and six hours on

punks from my childhood. “I’m working, ” I replied,

week, and this was in 1963, when most kids worked a

for a month?”

Saturday? I was averaging sixty to eighty dollars a

dollar an hour. There were some weeks when I made

more money than my father who had a full-time job.

Once I began canvassing the neighborhoods, I

realized that our cardboard house wasn’t the worst

place to have ended up. I walked into some funky

“do you know anyone who wants to buy the paper “That sounds like a dumb job,” replied the vato.

“I get a dollar for every order I get, and I get about

four or five orders an hour.”

“No shit? How do I get this job?”

It wasn’t always the sales pitch that closed the

barrios and seedy, rundown trailer parks in Gardena,

deal. Once sold a subscription to a young guy who

trailers were home to as many as four or five kids

trumpeter playing on his record player — this guy

Sunland, and Colton. Many of the small, cramped

who would follow me from trailer to trailer and stand

off to the side watching me as I worked. In one park, the kids led me to a trailer where they guaranteed I could sell a subscription. I knocked on the door and

waited. Shortly, an ancient, alcoholic floozy, wearing

said he would take the paper if I could name the had no idea where I had just spent the summer, and what I did during those hot Las Vegas days. On his

turntable was Horace Silver, with Carmel Jones on trumpet, playing Song for My Father.

There are thousands of ancient apartment

a filthy shear nightgown and an exposed grey breast,

buildings in Los Angeles. Most of them feature dark

hell out of here!” and slammed it in my face, angry

kitchens so that the whole place ends up smelling like

violently opened her door, and screamed, “Get the

that I had woken from her drunken stupor. A chorus of hoots and laughter erupted from my mischievous

hallways and smell of years of cooking in non-vented

a mix of sweaty work clothes and stale cabbage. In one of those apartments, an attractive, dark-skinned

••• 39 •••

Latina opened the door after hearing my knock. She

her stomach, then lower. She stepped off to the side

breast spilling out over the decorative ruffles, and a

“Well … I’m not sure, honey. Come inside and tell

was wearing a low-cut top with an ample amount of

of the entry and motioned for me to come in.

tight-fitting, gauzy, translucent skirt.

me a little more about your … paper?”

and I would like to tell to you about the benefits of

hoping someone might open a door, or stagger up

She stepped close to me and leaned on the door

and break the spell of this episode of the Tales from

“Good afternoon, ma’am, my name is Tom Trujillo

receiving The Herald-Examiner.“

jam while exhaling a long, slow breath. As she

listened, she moved her hips slowly then began

rubbing the area just under her breasts suggestively.

When I finished my pitch, she answered in a deep

I looked up and down the empty hallway for relief,

the stairway — someone please come to my rescue

The Crypt. I looked past the woman once again to the man who remained frozen in his chair. He still hadn’t moved a muscle, he didn’t even blink his eyes.

“May … maybe I should ask your husband. ” I

sultry voice, “Oh … oh … I don’t know … what was

stuttered. “Maybe he’d be interested in reading the

“Uh …” I answered nervously. “I’m trying to build

The woman took a bored glance over her shoulder

that you said?”

sports section or the great editorials?”

up your local paperboy’s route. If you could simply

and stared at the man for a few seconds. Then she

only have to take the paper for a month, as a trial to

“Oh, I don’t think he’d be interested in that, he’s deaf

subscribe to the paper, it would be a great help. You see if you like it.”

I looked beyond her to inside the dark little

turned back to me with a wicked smile and said, and blind.”

I miraculously found myself on the sidewalk in

apartment and saw a man sitting on a wooden chair

a state of shock, waiting for my body to catch up to

expression on his face. He was so creepy and the hair

down two flights of stairs before I slammed into

was staring off into space with a blank, slack-jawed

on the back of my neck began to prickle. He was completely ignoring what was taking place at the doorway only a few feet away.

The beautiful sexy woman continued to rub her

breasts, and soon her hands began creeping toward

me. I heard myself running down the hallway and

myself out on the street. I don’t know if they were actors doing creepy improvisation at my expense, but

there was no way I was going inside that apartment to end up getting chopped into little pieces by the bloodthirsty, deaf and blind husband. But, I’ll bet

••• 40 •••

they were very impressed with my ability to vanish

Halfway through his date on the night of the

into thin air right before their eyes.

party, my Dad asked his companion if she wouldn’t

things and the stash of money I had hiding in my

was worried I might all alone and in need of a little

With my new found wealth I was able to afford

closet was begging to be spent. I began by buying

a new surfboard, then the latest clothing styles, and finally, was ready for some wheels. I found an ad for

a 1952 MG-TD in perfect condition, and paid cash

mind swinging by the house to check up on me. He pep talk once my five new friends had abandoned me after the six-pack of beer I furnished had been slugged down.

A mile from the house, Dad turned to his date

for it.

and mentioned he had never noticed so many cars

my fellow sales crew. Sitting alone at lunch one day,

house, he observed an army of teenagers walking up

I still didn’t know anyone at my new school except

a guy sat down in front of me and asked, “Do you surf ?”

“Yeah,” I replied.

parked on the street at night. Six blocks from the the hill in the direction of our house—many of them

carrying cases of beer on their shoulders. Once he arrived in front of the house, he slowed down as a

“You got a board?”

He wanted to check me out to see if I was telling

policeman was in the street directing traffic.

Dad rolled down his window and looked at the

the truth, so we drove up to my house. When he got

crowd spilling out of the house and milling about on

you were rich?”

a live surf band blasting into the neighborhood.

out of the car he looked around and said, “I thought “I am,” I replied. “It’s my dad who’s broke.”

My new friend introduced me to all his friends

and a few months later, I asked my dad if I could throw a party. I promised him I would clean up any mess, and let the neighbors know.

the front lawn. He heard loud, rocking music from Worried about the noise, he glanced over to our

neighbors who were sitting on lawn chairs in their front yards, eating dinner off of paper plates and enjoying the scene.

“Keep it moving, ” ordered the policeman.

“I think that’s great you’ve met some kids. I’ve got

a date that night, so the place is yours.”

I’m sure he was thinking, How many kids does he

even know? We just moved in a few months ago.

My father’s date asked, “Do you want to stop?”

Dad took a deep breath and laughed, “I think I

can stop worrying about him now.”

••• 41 •••

Ed Roberts

CHAPTER SIX

CAMPO

K

im and her sisters inherited the little

many as two hundred Italian prisoners of war were

rural country sixty miles east of San

Haan in Riverside County. They worked in hospital

town of Campo, California, located in

Diego known as the Mountain Empire. At certain

times of the year it is an incredibly beautiful region, dotted with creeks, natural meadows, horse ranches, odd rock formations and three-hundred year-old

black oak trees. The Campo my wife inherited

wasn’t really a town but an ex-military base known as Camp Lockett. Camp Lockett’s site was chosen for a horse cavalry camp as far back as 1878, when

sixteen troopers of the US Cavalry bivouacked there

for several months. At that time it took a week to get to San Diego, and the choicest parcels of bottom land sold for five dollars an acre.

With mechanization and departure of the

cavalry, the camp was converted for use as Mitchell

Convalescent Hospital during World War II. As

assigned to Camp Lockett from the larger Camp

services, mess halls, warehouses, shops, and on the

roads and grounds. The stockade in which they were housed never had a locked gate, and none ever tried to escape. Campo residents describe the Italian POWs as being cheerful—singing as they went out on their work parties just feeling lucky to

be alive. Loaned out to the locals for their skilled masonry work, their hand-cut rock used for walls

and pathways can still be found throughout the area.

Many nearby ranch houses feature spectacular rock

fireplaces and foundations, and the high-school pool includes a stone amphitheater and rock walkways— all made by the Italian inmates.

My father-in-law, Ed Roberts, bought Campo at

auction and turned it into a factory town. He was one

••• 43 •••

of the first Maquiladoras. This was during a period

effects of many strokes, Ed was unable to handle

day workers from the nearby town of Tecate, Mexico.

to care for her aging father. We sold our house in

of guest worker permits, and his concept was to hire

His clothing company, Roberts Manufacturing,

was most famous for designing the Poodle Skirt, Toreador Pants, and Short-Shorts. Ed turned the

warehouse buildings into his manufacturing plant, with other smaller outbuildings used for button-

making equipment, looms, and design studios. For a few years, he successfully supplied the world with his

Campo any longer and Kim decided it was time Oregon—lush, green, Oregon—packed up our

belongings and began our journey south in the middle of a California summer. Three days and two thousand miles later, I parked the large moving truck

and looked around at my new home—hot, dry, dusty, Campo.

Wondering if we might have made a mistake

original fashion designs made in Campo. To house

coming here, that question was soon answered when

story barracks buildings into thirty-five very roomy

eyes screwed on lopsided came up to the truck and

his American workers, Ed fixed up the many twoColonial-style apartments. They featured hardwood

floors, double-hung bay windows, modern appliances and central heating.

a dirt-covered, ratty little seven year-old kid with his yelled, “We don’t want you to change our town! We like it this way!”

Ed had been sick for almost a year, and had a

In 1956, Ed retired and shut the factory down.

property manager running his apartments for him.

his rental units and horse breeding. He introduced

moved all her friends in, the landscaping had turned

For the next thirty years, he lived off income from the Morgan Horse to California and created a

championship line of offspring from his stud, Blackman. Blackman and His Seven Sons used to perform in the ring at Knott’s Berry Farm. The

music would start and Blackman and His Seven Sons would all begin to Rumba. Years after retiring

from performing, whenever Blackman heard the right music he would spontaneously begin dancing.

At the age of eighty-seven and suffering from the

By the time we got there the property manager had to dust, windows were broken or missing, abandoned cars littered the property, and nobody had paid rent

for at least six months. In one unit there was a

motorcycle gang who used the apartment for laying low in between crimes and having an isolated spot

to party in. The major ailment afflicting most the

tenants, which allowed them to collect disability

checks, was sciatica and pain in the lower back.

Suffering from lower back pain myself from years

••• 44 •••

of surfing, I can tell you, a little stretching now and

then does miracles. To put it simply, Campo had turned into a ghetto.

her, “I thought you were gonna be a bitch but you’re not. You’re actually pretty cool.”

After the party people began cooperating with

The first business to take care of was to get rid

us except for one particular tenant, the one with

start paying their rent. Although I offered them the

paid her rent in over eight months and I couldn’t

of the so-called property manager and get people to

choice of eviction or paying an additional twenty-

five dollars a month extra to make up the back rent, most of them moved out immediately. Many kicked

holes in the walls and left behind some interesting comments about our sexual habits, and urinated or spray painted on the interior walls.

One evening while we were sitting on Ed’s front

porch enjoying the view of a billion stars that are a

the motorcycle gang in her living room. She hadn’t

find her anywhere to give her a notice to vacate. The

motorcycle gang fortunately left quietly to party

elsewhere. I found out that after they left, a gang war

broke out in San Diego when a rival member was blown off his motorcycle by a shotgun blast. At his

funeral, a hand grenade sailed into the crowd killing two more people.

I discovered our deadbeat’s mother lived in the

nightly occurrence in Campo, a few local folks, out

area and was able to mail her a thirty-day notice

couple of rifle shots toward the house and yelled out,

apartment and stored the goods in one of the old

enjoying the night air just like we were, fired off a “Fuck the Roberts!”

Ethan and I left for a few days to take care of

unfinished business in Oregon. While we were gone, one of the tenants invited Kim to a little party they

to vacate. Thirty-one days later, I emptied her factory buildings. The following day, the missing

tenant drove up to the house with a girl friend and demanded, “I want my god damn furniture!”

“You haven’t paid rent in eight months,” I

were throwing. My wife is apparently much braver

explained calmly and carefully. She kicked at the

to face such a hostile group. When she entered

and said, “Go get Big Red!”

than I am, as I wouldn’t have dared show up alone the apartment, the entire room went dead quiet.

dirt, cussed me some more, then turned to her friend Twenty minutes later, her friend returned with

Kim looked around at the dumbfounded looks and

Big Red. He was at least six foot-seven inches tall,

A few hours later, one of the female guests told

beard, and of course, he was really pissed off at us.

cheerfully announced, “Hi! How’s everyone doing?”

covered in tattoos, had long red hair, a wild red

••• 45 •••

His voice had that quavering sound to it that one

Big Red agreed and I got the keys to the old

gets just before snapping and throwing a punch. For

factory. On the walk over, I asked him, “If you don’t

voice and demeanor as cool as I possibly could under

“Well,” he said, “they charged me with seventeen

safety’s sake I tried to calm this giant by keeping my

mind me asking, what did they bust you for?”

the circumstances.

counts of assault and battery, and two counts of

“Look,” I said, “no one is trying to rip you off. But

your friend over there hasn’t paid her rent in over

murder. But I beat the murder rap.”

I don’t think Big Red heard me gasp. We made

eight months. I’m sorry man, but we just can’t afford

it to the warehouse where five or six of his gang

Big Red took a deep breath and it appeared to

moving their friend’s furniture into a van they offered

pay us all the back rent she owes,” I said, “ but maybe

were downright friendly which made me even more

an offer.”

gang about my size who was the one I kept an eye

could tell she still wanted him to beat me to death, so

kick me in the face, it would be him. But Big Red

back and gave me his best deadly glare.

any further incident. I locked up the warehouse and

that.”

members were waiting for us. While cheerfully

me that he was calming down a bit. “I know she can’t

me a beer, which I gladly accepted, and in fact, they

we can come to some kind of agreement. Make me

nervous. There was a rough-looking little dude in the

Big Red turned to his girlfriend for advice, but I

on. I thought to myself that if anyone was going to

he wasn’t going to get any help from her. He turned

and his motorcycle gang packed up and left without

walked back to Ed’s house where a relieved Kim and

“How about two hundred bucks?”

“That’s great!” I happily agreed. Big Red and I

shook hands. “Can I give you a hundred today and the rest next week?” he asked. “I’m goin’ into the joint in two days and I’m gonna need some cash.”

It sounded like a dodge to me. “How about you

Ethan anxiously waited for me.

“I can’t believe you calmed that monster down

and we all didn’t get beaten to death,” said Kim.

I laughed, “I can’t believe I got two hundred

bucks out of a murderer!”

take everything today except the refrigerator? The refrigerator was a brand new, top-of-the-line double door. When you get me the other hundred, we’ll give her the refrigerator.”

••• 46 •••

CHAPTER SEVEN

HAS YOUR HOUSE TALKED TO YOU?

I

used

to

think

psychic

phenomena

or

top-to-bottom with his collection others discarded

events occurred that gave me the chills. One

numerous shelves or stuffed into hundreds of boxes

clairvoyance was pure fiction. However, certain

happened in the house we now live in when we were

looking for a place after being flooded out from our previous house. When I did a walk-through with the owner’s brother, Bill, I couldn’t stop thinking about my Uncle Garren. I found this particularly odd in

that I almost never thought of my Uncle Garren, and the house didn’t look anything like his did either. But

items. The flotsam and jetsam was piled high onto that filled his rooms from floor to ceiling. To get to the kitchen, the only open space available, one had to navigate through narrow passageways honeycombing the house. After my knock, my mother opened the

front door and whispered, “Don’t say anything about his stuff, he’s kind of sensitive about it.”

Walking through my future home which was

I couldn’t get him out of my mind.

completely vacant, Bill and I browsed through one

and one of the gentlest and sweetest of all people.

filled with…Uncle Garren. Suddenly Bill turned to

Uncle Garren is my grandfather’s younger brother

He moved to San Francisco when I was a child, and except for the occasional family gathering, I hadn’t seen him in years. Then one day I stopped by his house to see my mother who was visiting her

favorite uncle. And what a house it was—filled,

empty room after another. Still, my thoughts were me and said, “I don’t think I’ve ever seen the place empty before. My brother, Charlie, is a pack rat. This place was stuffed full of everything imaginable. He

collected string by rolling it into a ball, and had an

even bigger ball of string that he said was too short

••• 49 •••

to save.”

Charlie was just like my Uncle Garren. What I

had been picking up on were the ghostly remains

of what was for many years the life of this house.

I have been a firm believer in psychic energy and

“What?” I exclaimed. “You’ve made me go on a

three hundred and fifty mile round trip drive and

now we’re not going to see anything? Bullshit, we’re going in!”

We drove around the property in shock. After ten

extrasensory perception ever since.

years of the family’s efforts to fix the place up with new

a few years later and moved to the mountains of

had returned to its former unkempt condition of old

Charlie was a hermit who sold his home to us

Northern California. When signing the escrow papers, Bill laughed that Charlie had replaced all his

old stuff with a house full of animals. Birds, squirrels

paint, remodeled interiors, and landscaping, Campo abandoned cars, destroyed landscaping, and broken windows.

Turning into the driveway of Kim’s father’s house

and raccoons now shared Charlie’s house with him.

the atmosphere turned thick with a dark, unfriendly

I’ve never doubted that for a moment. Nothing

family after his death, now stood alone on a barren

“He’s a bit like Saint Francis,” said Bill.

ever seems to die in our yard unless I dig it up. Bushes,

plants and hedges grow at a ridiculously robust pace, and we never give them much water either. I’m not complaining, I’m just pointing it out.

A few years after Kim and her sisters sold Campo,

vibration. Ed’s house that had been cared for by the

patch of dirt, completely gutted, hollowed out and empty. I thought I heard the house yell at us to get

out! Its bleak condition was so overwhelmingly sad that both Kim and I freaked out.

“Don’ t stop!” cried Kim (which was the last thing

we were in Los Angeles visiting family. Kim asked if

I was planning on doing at this moment). I hit the

out the old town. It was a day long drive, but Campo

possibly manage. With the tires spinning in the dirt,

we could take a drive down to San Diego and check

had been good to us and helped us buy our house in Santa Cruz, so why not?

“It’ll be fun,” said Kim.

A mile from Campo, Kim picked up on a strange

vibe. She grabbed my arm and pleaded, “Keep going!

I don’t want to go in!”

gas peddle and made the quickest U-turn I could

we high-tailed it out of Campo in a cloud of dust and vowed never to go back again.

T

••• 50 •••

wo years after moving to Santa Cruz, Kim and I found a cottage in a quaint creekside setting. We soon discovered our neighbors

Campo, California.“We don’t want you to change our town!” Photo: Tom Trujillo

CHAPTER EIGHT

I’LL NEVER SAY THAT AGAIN were the sweetest people imaginable—Bob and

team, the hated Dallas Cowboys. We had a living-

Kerley. We had regular dinner parties at each other’s

cheering and moaning depending on the game’s ebb

Alice, Mrs. Gresham, Dick and June Barnes, and Joe

homes, especially if one of us was having a birthday.

Coincidentally, Mrs. Gresham and her husband, who had died a few years earlier, built many of the

buildings that Kim’s dad had fixed up as apartments

at Camp Lockett in Campo. Their children even attended the same elementary school as Kim, and

we thought it extra funny that we had just moved to

room full of friends crowded around the television, and flow. We grilled steaks and drank beer while rooting our underdogs on to victory. And victory finally came, made famous by the last second catch of a Joe Montana pass to Dwight Clark in the end

zone. To this day the event is still referred to in the football world as The Catch.

With the game over and the last of our friends

Santa Cruz from Gresham, Oregon. From our back

gone, I got a fire going in the fireplace. Kim fluffed

to their spawning grounds, and in the evenings deer

a few moments enjoying the glow of the fire and

deck we would watch the steelhead swim upstream

would walk down the creek eating whatever it is deer eat and drinking from the clear water—all of this was only three blocks to the beach and ocean.

After years of being the worst football team in

the NFL, the San Francisco 49ers found themselves

in the playoffs against the league’s most dominant

up the pillows on the couch and we sat quietly for

the afterglow of the game. We hugged and looked

out the window to see the first of a few raindrops beginning to fall.

“You know,” I said to Kim, “I don’t think I’ve ever

been more comfortable in my entire life.”

••• 53 •••

The next morning we awoke to a non-stop

downpour of historic proportions. I got out of bed

the rain finally stopped. And when he did get back

gentle creek had swollen over its banks and was in

feet of mud.

and looked out the window to find that our once the back yard tugging at our lawn furniture. Within

into his restaurant, he had to clean out almost three

Little did I know when I woke up that morning

minutes the blue plastic tarp covering our recently

that the rain wouldn’t be stopping until late in the

logs into the river, never getting a chance to burn hot

four hours, and that was at the coast. Upstream

purchased cord of firewood lifted up to release the in our cozy fireplace. The neighbors met in our living

room to discuss a course of action. We pleaded with the old folks against any heroics or stubbornness as

they insisted on riding the flood out. The neighbors lobbying for Run Away! won the argument and we began rounding up our stuff.

As we were in the process of moving valuables

out of the house and into the van, a surfer I knew stopped by and asked us if he could be of any help.

“I think we’re okay,” I replied. “I’m pretty sure the

evening. Over seventeen inches fell in twentyin the mountains, thirty-six inches poured down

in the same period, and all of it headed down our creek to visit the neighborhood. By four o’clock in

the afternoon, we watched from the safety of the opposite bank, a raging one hundred-foot wide

torrent of water carrying huge redwood logs down river. And then, just before darkness fell, we watched

our house get swallowed up by our friendly creek and go under water.

It’s in these moments that you realize what is

rain will stop pretty soon, don’t you think?”

important and what is not. During this storm,

minute downpour—buckets of rain as they say—and

falling trees, but we were alive and safe, and all of our

During a typical rainstorm, there’s always a five

then it’s over. This downpour never ended. It was buckets of rain for twelve hours non-stop.

I called my brother who owned a delicatessen and

had a pickup truck. “Pat, we’re getting flooded out.

Could I borrow your truck?” I asked.

“Sure,” he said. “Wait a minute, water is coming in

the restaurant! Oh shit, I’m getting flooded!”

Over six feet of water ended up in his eatery when

thirty-five people were killed by mud slides and stuff could easily be replaced.

The next morning we got a first look at what was

left of our neighborhood and it looked like a bomb

had exploded. Mrs. Gresham’s house had snapped in half during the night, which fortunately acted

as a buffer­and kept our house from falling into

the creek. As it was, our house was hanging off the embankment with the creek flowing under our back

••• 54 •••

bedroom, threatening to fall into the water unless

the government’s attempt to steal our houses from

seventeenth century corner cupboard was at the far

The debris was carried out to the beach and sea by

we propped it up. To make matters worse, Kim’s

us because of the disaster.

end of the bedroom full of mud soaked blankets,

our swollen creek—hot water heaters, septic tanks,

News reporters flooded into the disaster zone

silt, flooring, my pile of logs, and deposited itself

which only added to its weight.

that was once our quiet neighborhood. While we

rummaged through the mud attempting to rescue anything left of value, they helped us by asking

pertinent questions and taking pictures. We became a tourist spot with hundreds of gawkers desiring a

peek at the carnage. It didn’t bother me like it did a few other neighbors until our antique farming sickle

was stolen from the side of our house as a souvenir.

After that, Dickie Barnes blocked the street with

his truck and a shotgun, and that put an end to sightseers, reporters and looters.

The county government aided the neighborhood

by immediately condemning all the houses. They

patio furniture, fireplaces, millions of cubic feet of just offshore, creating a toxic waste site for the next

six months. It took months for us to clean off our

mud-covered papers, photos, drawings, dishes, and

a number of trips to the dump to bury items that didn’t survive such as Ethan’s incredible comic book

collection, which I forgot to take before we fled the rising water. The goldfish also got left behind but got to experience what it’s like riding out a flood, with raging water trying to twist and push the house off its foundation. He must have also heard the phone

ringing numerous times as my family members called to find out if we were okay.

It was a great learning experience, and what

had wanted our neighborhood for years to build a

I learned was—don’t live on a creek or a river,

of The Nicene Marks located just upstream from us.

comfortable I have ever been!”

pathway from the ocean to connect with the Forest

Fortunately we surrounded our county supervisor

and never…ever say out loud, “This is the most

and demanded a temporary permit to allow us access

to our homes to collect personal goods. This permit, as interpreted by Mrs. Gresham, allowed her to hire half the bulldozers in the county to push the creek

back to its original location, and thereby thwarted ••• 55 •••

Trust me, this is what I know.

CHAPTER NINE

miracles

M

y mom had sent me to the Pantry

move down the dry creek bed. I glanced over my

of staying on the street I took the

Turning back I discovered a tall metal pole just in

Market to get some milk, and instead

more adventurous shortcut through a narrow ravine and woody barranca below property that featured a

huge, mean and ugly cross bred Doberman/pitbull watchdog. The property was surrounded by a high

chain-link fence and if anyone paused too long

on the street in front of the house, the dog would race across the lawn, hit the fence and go dog crazy nuts. As kids it was fun to sort of torture the dog by

shoulder to find the dog gaining ground quickly. front of me, and once I got to it, I climbed to the top at a blistering speed. And just in time too, as the

creature reached the pole only seconds behind me.

The crazy dog began jumping up to get me, barking and teeth snapping, trying to bite my legs off. For a second it looked liked the damn thing was going to climb the pole.

Shortly, the dog’s owner appeared above the creek

lingering too long and watch him in action.

bed and called off the attack with a loud whistle. I

when I heard a rustling sound coming from the

quickly hustled back up the hill, very proud of

I was about halfway through the small canyon

bushes above. I turned around and to my horror

I saw the devil dog charging down the hill out to get me, snarling and its huge, sharp teeth bared for

action. I took off on a run as fast as my legs could

watched from my perch as his obedient watchdog himself for a job well-done.

“Are you all right?” the owner asked. I nodded yes,

but he must have known I was terrified.

••• 57 •••

“Sorry, kid, I hope my dog didn’t scare you.”

I thought that to be an understatement—I was

not be an actual miracle—that we survived however,

I stayed up on that pole for another five minutes until

cave hidden in the brush of the Baby Jungle, a woody

terrified. Even after the owner and his killer dog left, I felt certain the dog was back in the compound, safely behind the fence. Then I slid down the pole and made my way to the store.

Ten years later, I was telling this story to a friend

and all of a sudden it hit me, where did that pole come

from and why did it happen to be right there when I

was a miracle. It happened when we discovered a area wedged into a small hillside canyon. The hills are

honeycombed with artesian springs that travel for

miles and some have formed cisterns and caves. One enterprising gentleman tapped into this resource and began bottling Indian Head Pure Springs Water.

I was in the lead being the smallest, with Tim and

needed it? What was a metal pole doing in the middle

our friend Dodie following. We weren’t planning on

shortcut many times before and had never noticed

look. We slowly made our way into the cave feeling

of a creek bed anyway? I had used that particular a tall metal pole in the creek bed. What’s odd is

that I had never thought of it as being a miracle. In fact, I hadn’t thought about the event at all. Maybe

that’s how miracles work—we simply don’t notice

them most of the time. I named this occurrence: The Miracle of the Pole.

One day I noticed waves from a large swell and

a high tide moving upstream in our creek, while at the same time, the creek was flowing quickly

downstream to the ocean. I wondered, how is that

possible? I know it’s an every day occurrence simply

going too far into the cave, we just wanted a little

the sides and ceiling as guides. We occasionally glanced behind us to see the light at the entrance getting smaller and smaller as we made our way

farther into the cave. There was an ancient, primitive attraction to the damp odor of the rock. We found it

fascinating that the grass we used for grass fights and sliding cardboard boxes on, dripped water from the

end of their roots and carved out this underground

cave. The matches we had didn’t produce much light but enough to allow us to see where we were going.

The cave’s small opening in the hillside hid the

explained by biologists or physics experts, but it’s a

size of the tunnel which eventually grew to where we

for granted but happen a million times a day right in

Maybe I shouldn’t have taken my next step in the

bit of a miracle also. Just one of the many we take front of our eyes.

By Vatican standards the following event might

could walk upright. Then my match went out.

dark, because, before I could light another match, the ground disappeared under my feet and I found

••• 58 •••

myself tumbling through space. I didn’t have time to think about my soon-to-be-approaching death as I

have made it past the hole were never found.

hit the damp bottom of the hole quickly with a thud, and before I could catch my breath, Tim and Dodie

It was in the Summer of 1966 that Roger, Robert

landed on top of me. After a few seconds of crying

and I found ourselves in the middle of the Mojave

about how we were going to get out. We were trapped

Corvair Monza. Earlier that morning Roger had

and gasping, we calmed down and started worrying a half mile inside the cave, and no one knew we were

there. I dropped the matches when I hit bottom but found them again. Unfortunately they were wet and

wouldn’t light. The blackness itself was suffocating.

We began grabbing and feeling around for a tree

M I R A C L E O F T H E F A N B E LT

Desert with a snapped fan belt in Roger’s 1964

shaken me awake and urged me to pack up my stuff

quickly. We were skipping out on the back rent from

the mobile home that he and Robert had been living in for the past few months.

The house was located along the banks of the

root or an outcropping—anything to grip on to and

Colorado River in Parker, Arizona, and they had a

about five feet up. Somebody before us had dug in

the boat docks for free rent of the mobile home and

climb out. Then we found an indentation in the wall some hand holds to climb out with, which is what we did too.

Stumbling out of the cave entrance we laughed

with joy as the smoggy Los Angeles air greeted us

and we knew we were going to live. We fell to the ground laughing and crying at the same time, our faces smeared with dirt and tears.

It was miraculous that somebody had dug in some

hand holds. And it was miraculous that the hole was

only ten feet deep and not fifty feet deep. Plus, it was fortunate that the hole kept us from going any

farther. A few years later the cave entrance would be closed up permanently when two kids who must

deal worked out with the owner—they would repair

a decent salary. I had been there only a few days and our work schedule consisted of an hour or two in the

early morning before the heat got too intense, then the rest of the day waterskiing and drinking at some

floating bar. The owner pleaded with us to put in a little more time on the job, but Roger and Robert had decided to escape instead, without asking me

what I thought about their plan. Hell, I was having fun and wanted to stay, plus I would have liked to have gotten paid too.

Stopping at a local diner for breakfast, we were

welcomed by a sourpuss of a waitress who threw our breakfast plates down hard on the table, then quickly

••• 59 •••

apologized.

with golf courses or casinos lining the Colorado

tossed into jail yesterday.”

their planned communities, cable TV and cell

“Sorry I’m being such a bitch. My old man got “Sorry about that. What did he do?” we asked.

“The dumb shit tried to skip out on his rent! They

found him and threw him in the Parker Jail!”

An incredulous gasp emitted from the table

followed by the rounding up of jackets and asking

River. The explosion of Boomer-era retirees and

phones were still a number of years in the future. In 1966, the only thing in the desert was the desert, and a lonely stretch of two-lane blacktop disappearing into the never-ending horizon.

It was right there in the middle of this desolate

the waitress to please get us the bill quickly. “We’re

landscape when Roger’s Corvair decided to snap

The Parker Jail is clearly visible from the highway

Nevada, and there was not much left of Searchlight

in a hurry if you don’t mind.”

on the way into town—a squat, cinder block, one-

story sweatbox, unprotected from the summer sun.

another fan belt. We were fifty miles from Searchlight, as the last casino had shut down ten years earlier.

“God damn it!” yelled Roger as he got out and

The very thought of ending up in that hellhole had

slammed the car door. “We’re screwed! I don’t have

as possible.

come along shortly and we could get a new belt in

us peeling out of town and out of Arizona as quickly About thirty miles from the Davis Dam,Roger’s

car quietly came to a halt. The fan belt on his aircooled Corvair snapped.

another belt!” Robert thought a car or truck would Searchlight. “Robert,” I said, “it’s a ghost town.”

“Someone will pass eventually,” I said confidently.

I lay down on the road and asked Roger to warn

“No problem,” boasted Roger, “I’ve got a spare.”

me if anything approached. Ten minutes later, with

got the car going again. At the first roadside store we

the car offered. Three hours later, not one vehicle had

We worked up a sweat changing the belts, and

came to we loaded up with a case of beer for the long drive ahead of us. With the top down and cold beer

in hand, we set off toward Las Vegas with no plan, and in my case, no money.

my blood boiling, I got up and sat in what little shade

crossed our path in either direction, and the case of beer we purchased earlier was almost gone. We were

no longer buzzed, but we were becoming dehydrated.

The Mojave Desert in 1966 was nothing like it

is today. There weren’t any retirement communities ••• 60 •••

“Maybe we should start walking,” said Robert.

“Robert, there’s nowhere to walk to.”

Five hours later the silhouette of a car, wobbling

and shimmering in the heat waves of the imaginary

new one and it was a perfect match. Roger popped

Within a few minutes a two-tone, purple and

and pulled out the broken belt. We all watched as

lake in the distant mirage, headed our way.

gold 1954 Oldsmobile with the biggest and shiniest

chrome grill ever made in America pulled off the road and onto the shoulder. The door opened slowly

the hood of the Corvair’s rear engine compartment Roger easily slipped the new belt over the generator

and pulley, then tightened it with a crescent wrench.

“I think you’re tightening it too much,” said the

and out stepped a cowboy wearing a shiny silver

cowboy. He took the wrench from Roger’ hands and

his cowboy hat, methodically placed it on his head,

times to exhale smoke from his cigarette.

western style shirt. He reached back into his car for then tugged it down just a bit more for a secure fit.

“Howdy, boys. Y’all in trouble?”

Roger gave him the complete rundown of our

situation, the breaking of the two fan belts, and being stuck out on this highway in the middle of the

desert all afternoon. Thankfully, he left out the part about skipping out on the rent.

“Could you give us a lift to a town so we can look

for a Corvair fan belt?” asked Roger.

The cowboy reached into his shirt pocket for a

pack of cigarettes, tapped one out and brought it to his lips. A silver lighter flicked open and he lit his

cigarette. Then, he turned away and walked back to

made the proper adjustments, pausing two or three In a few minutes the Corvair was running and

ready to go. We had been saved from dying of

dehydration and heat stroke thanks to the cowboy

in the silver shirt and white hat. He got into his car after we thanked him over and over, tipped his hat

with a smile and sped off, headed back out onto the highway to search for more stranded victims.

All the way to Las Vegas we kept asking ourselves,

“What in the hell was a cowboy in an old Oldsmobile

doing with a fan belt that fit a 1965 Corvair Monza?”

We all agreed this was truly a miraculous event

and named it: The Miracle of the Fan Belt.

his Olds. He lifted the lid of the trunk, rummaged

around for a few seconds, then slammed it shut.

When he stood back from the car we saw the object he was holding in his hand—a brand new fan belt.

“This might work,” he said.

The cowboy compared the old broken belt to his

Randy’s family owned a large cattle ranch in

southeast Texas. Located on the ranch was the original old town which, in the old west days, had

been a stagecoach stop, complete with a hotel, a barn and blacksmith shop, a store and a few houses. The

••• 61 •••

THE MIRACLE OF THE FENCE

town was abandoned when the train bypassed it and another town grew up closer and more convenient to the train depot.

were too, influenced by the hippies in Austin and California—possession of peyote buttons became illegal almost overnight.

The ranch had been in the middle of

many

The family had preserved the town and at some

battles between the Spanish, who stole the land

The fact that few people knew of its existence, and

American newcomers, who called themselves Texans

point the state of Texas named it an historical site. that it was on private property meant that no one

ever came out to visit. Randy’s family, realizing that

their son was a stoned-out hippie and would never be a cowboy, had made him the head caretaker of the old town.

Randy kept the old town neat and tidy and he

hired friends to help out with repairs and painting and, as no one was looking, got high and whistled

while he worked. Peyote grew wild all over the ranch

from the Native Americans, and European and and thought all the land north of the Rio Grande River should belong to them. They took it from the

Spanish who were now called Mexicans. The Texans, led by Sam Houston and others, eventually chased the Mexican troops back across the Rio Grande to Mexico, and to this day most Texan’s consider it their holy duty to keep the Mexicans from ever crossing the river again.

In the middle of Randy’s history lesson we

with some buttons as large as basketballs—which

spotted a wild, mother havelina and her young

involved some kind of psychedelic experience.

We began the chant from Lord of the Flies, “Kill the

meant that a visit to the ranch for work or play Randy walked us out of town to the highest point

on the ranch, which overlooked the rolling hills and forests once owned by Mexico, and began his

talk about the history of the family rancho. From

our vantage point we could see peyote growing everywhere, and at that time in Texas, enjoying peyote was still legal. Authorities learned that not

only were Native Americans harvesting peyote for their religious ceremonies, but their own kids

piglets strolling through the thigh-high dry grass. pig, kill the pig, kill the pig and make him dead.”

We didn’t know what the hell we were doing—we were just having fun. Unfortunately the mother

havelina didn’t think much of our humor, and as she had her children to protect, began her attack. We stopped cold. We could hear the grass rustling as

she mounted her charge, grunting as she zigzagged through the grass.

••• 62 •••

“Where is she?” we asked each other in panic.

The sound of crunching and crushing, and the

“We don’t have any chain link fences out there.”

sight of dust clouds rising up from the grass coming

closer gave me no time to think like a warrior. Plus, I

was high as a kite and wasn’t quite certain if I might

It’s not only me who has benefitted from

be hallucinating—run away!!

miracles, coincidences, or other odd occurrences. I’ve

through the grass and stumbled over rocks and

trip down the Big Sur coast we got waylaid because

I turned and ran as fast as I could. I scrambled

gopher holes, but she was gaining ground quickly. I

looked around for a tree but they were too far away.

She would most certainly catch me before I got to

them anyway. I looked ahead and spotted a chain link fence less than fifty feet away. Her heavy breathing

and snorting was just behind me now—so close that when I leapt over the fence she slam-butted my trailing leg and flipped me over to the ground on

the other side. I lay on the ground gasping for air as

the enraged, crazy wild pig charged the fence a few

witnessed such events happen to others too. On a of a half-mile wide landslide on Highway One, T H E A C M E B U S H C O M PA N Y

which caused most of the road to fall into the ocean.

The construction crews were working on opening up a lane and promised all the stranded drivers that

they’d be able to get us through in an hour. We were

more than halfway to San Simeon, so to turn around would mean three or four more hours of driving in the wrong direction just to get to where we already were.

It was the spring of 1969 and we were in no hurry.

times, just inches from my face then she turned back

We filled the hash pipe and took a spot overlooking

A few months later as we were enjoying tacos

the rocks more than five hundred feet straight down

to fetch her piglets.

and beer at Don’s Doghouse in Beeville, I told the story about the wild pig attack and my near-death experience out at the ranch. I got to the part where

I was thankful to be alive and it was fortunate that I was able to jump over the chain link fence, which definitely saved my life. Randy stopped me and asked, “What chain link fence?”

“The one I jumped over!” I said.

the ocean and watched the large waves crashing into below us. I looked south about a hundred yards and

spotted four guys repelling up and down the cliffs

with all the right gear—they looked like real pros, too.

Shortly, a beat-up older American car pulled over

and a bunch of scroungy looking teenagers got out

a little too loudly. I checked them out and thought

they looked like they were loaded on some kind of •••63•••

opiates or downers.

dropped some acid and I think it’s kicking in.”

cliff. The wind picked up and a song started playing

loaded on reds, my friends and I on hashish, and the

by, all the wind has gone by, now you and I are going

a well-trained, disciplined, Search and Rescue Team,

I went back to my meditation on the edge of the

in my head by Richard Farina—all the world has gone by…when a loud voice interrupted the chorus.

“Hey man. Have you got a rope?”

In spite of our varied altered states—the teenagers

climbers blazing on acid, we all worked together as

and pulled the girl off the cliff and back up to the safety of level ground.

I snapped out of my trance. “What?”

It was one of the loaded scroungy teens, and he

was in a panic. He asked me again. “Have you got a rope? Dude, this chick just fell off the cliff !”

“Jesus Christ!” I took off and ran the thirty yards to

where the other teens were lying on their stomachs,

I’m certain the girl’s topic of conversation in the

months or years to follow was just how lucky she had

been to have grabbed onto that bush—that single solitary bush, which just happened to be there when the she needed it.

peering over the edge. What they were looking at, and I kid you not, was a young teenage girl hanging

After two years in Oregon, Kim and I relocated

onto a small bush, the only bush or shrubbery of

to Santa Cruz. We had once dreamed of living in

nothing—only five hundred feet of cliff and then the

San Francisco years earlier. After two years in rainy

any kind poking out of the dirt cliff. Below her was

rocks and ocean below. The scene reminded me of a

Roadrunner cartoon with Wiley Coyote. She stared

at me eyes wide open in shock, and quietly cried, “Help me.”

I turned and ran to the cliff climbers.

“There’s a girl who’s fallen over the cliff and is

barely hanging onto a bush. We’ve got to save her.”

The climbers quickly began pulling up their rope

from over the cliff.

“Oh shit,” one of the climbers moaned. “We

Santa Cruz after driving through it on our way to Oregon, we felt we had finally found the spot in MIRACLE OF THE FLIGHT MAGAZINE

which to spend the rest of our lives. Not an isolated

provincial outpost, but home of the ultra-lefty, University of California Slugs, and all the residual benefits of a university town such as great public

radio, restaurants, and well-read neighbors. Plus, it is a surf town with dozens of great spots. I only

mention this as proof that we planned carefully about our new home.

••• 64 •••

Two months after moving to Santa Cruz and

surfing nearly every day, looking for a job became

can march into my office anytime they want with a

made off selling our Oregon house pretty quickly

“I agree,” I said. “And you know, that goes both

a priority. We were going through the money we

problem that you should be handling.”

and, unfortunately, as pretty and nice as Santa Cruz

ways. If you have a problem, you come straight to

of dropping off applications and taking interviews,

the staff nervous and taking time away from their

is, there aren’t many jobs to be found. After a month

I found a job as an art director thirty miles to the south in the town of Salinas. The job paid well and

me. I don’t want you in the art department making work to answer your questions.”

With his own words and his worship of the

the art department was staffed with four talented

chain-of-command, he banished himself from the

were down to eighty-nine dollars in the checking

the bottleneck in the system, and changed the way

graphic designers. The day I started my new job, we account.

I walked into a real mess. When I arrived, everyone

was working from eight a.m. until eight p.m. almost every day. The previous art director hadn’t a clue about running an efficient art department, and shoved this

ineptitude onto the artists who worked like dogs to

art department. Within a few weeks, I discovered

jobs were scheduled and how the art department

functioned. Within a short period of time, everyone

was leaving work at four-thirty p.m., and the salesmen were happy to be getting all their jobs delivered on time.

The owner was one of those people who, having

get designs and printed material out to the sixteen

started a business, considered himself an authority

The owner would plant himself in the art

the slightest ability or education as a designer, but he

salesmen canvassing Northern California.

department when schedules got tight and intimidate the staff. I discovered that he was a big fan of the

military chain-of-command, where orders flow from

the top to the bottom, and complaints from the bottom to the top.

“If an artist has an issue, they go directly to you,

Tom, and as you see fit, you may bring it to my attention. I don’t want any artists thinking they

on all things. I wouldn’t have minded if this guy had

hadn’t any—he was an accountant. And even though

clients were writing letters of praise about our work, he still held on to strong opinions about how our designs could be improved. On a flight to see a new

client, I was forced to listen to him rattle on about how white space doesn’t sell anything.

“People want facts and information. The page

should be filled top-to-bottom with information

••• 65 •••

relevant to the buyer, who can then determine if the

a clue that might tell him just what in the hell I was

This is really going to be a long flight, I said to myself.

“This full-page ad right here, with your father’s

product meets his or her needs…blah, blah, blah.”

talking about.“What ad? Where?”

I had a flight magazine on my lap and was thumbing

god damn picture right in the middle of it.”

droning on and on in the background. And then it

his own father buried deep in an avalanche of

through the pages, barely listening to his voice happened…The Miracle of the Flight Magazine.

I gasped. Staring at me on the left hand page of

the magazine was the most hideous ad I’ve ever seen

He stopped, stunned at being unable to recognize

headlines and subheads, and massive amounts of text.

“Jesus,” I said, “you didn’t even recognize your

in an otherwise slickly produced magazine. It was a

own father in the middle of all that crap. What does

seminars, and smack-dab in the middle of this mess

with information?”

full page advertisement selling business courses and was my boss’s father. His father was well-known for

his correspondence courses and advertised heavily

in many journals and business magazines. His full-

that tell you about your theory on filling up the page

He went silent for the rest of the trip and never

mentioned white space to me ever again.

color photograph sat in the middle of the ad, which

was stuffed, top-to-bottom and side-to-side, with

In 1968, Hurricane Beulah put my 1963 MGB

text of all shapes and sizes. There was no white space

under three feet of water. As the car dried out I walked

white space anywhere separating body copy from

the process. I had gained weight because every meal

anywhere for the viewer’s eyes to rest. There was no

subheads, bullets, testimonials, or reply information.

I couldn’t take my eyes off of this horrible layout and very expensive advertisement.

“You mean like this?” I said.

in the Navy was an all-you-can-eat affair and we had

a great cook. After my friend Bill told me to get my fat ass into the car, I decided it was time to lose the

chub. I came up with my Navy Diet, and lost twenty THE BEAM OF LIGHT

“Like what?” he blinked out of his rant.

“Like this ad here.” I held the magazine up to his

face. “This ad right here.”

or hitchhiked everywhere and lost a lot of pounds in

He scanned the two pages in panic, searching for

pounds in one month. The Navy Diet consisted of

eliminating bread, starches and meat at every meal, then, once during the week, I would go into town

and treat myself to the most flavorful and largest

••• 66 •••

burger ever invented—the “WHATABURGER!”

they needed it. The first time I met them, I was

Valley to visit my friends, Shirley and Richard Fox.

friend who lived next door. John ran out of propane

One afternoon, I hitchhiked out to Blueberry

The Fox’s and their two children lived in a brightly painted school bus plopped down in a field ten miles

from the city limits. Richard had owned a successful

sign painting business at one time but shut it down

when he got a calling to go out and spread the word.

going to fry up a large steak at John’s house, my gas and asked Richard if we could use their stove.

The Fox’s were short on food and were only going to have a baked potato for dinner until I showed up and offered to share my huge slab of steak.

Richard turned to Shirley and laughed, “Look

They bought the bus and began traveling around the

what the good Lord has provided us!”

to any who would listen. Richard had painted the

intense and had gotten weirdly spiritual. Shirley

the ceiling of the bus in a nice cursive script

sheet of paper from a Bible and began reading, “I

country, painting signs and talking love and peace names of new friends they had met along the way, on

“We’ll have to put your name up there, Tom, if

Richard can find some room,” said Shirley.

“Might have to sell the bus when I can’t fit in any

more names,” laughed Richard.

Shirley told me that Richard had been asked to

leave as many churches as he was invited to preach

The evening’s discussion at the Fox’s had been

burst into tears after Richard pulled out a loose have seen the great fish of the sea struggling against

the nets and the hooks, displaying characteristics that look much like courage and tenacity. How do

we decide that only we have the holy spark and the fish does not?”

I was impressed that Jesus thought that way, until

in. He didn’t always keep to the Bible, and in the

Richard told me that it had been written by a Greek

were churches everywhere in Texas, sometimes two

When Richard finished his reading, he looked at

South they like you to stick to the Bible. But there

philosopher five hundred years earlier.

or three in a town with population of only three

me with a big smile and I wondered to myself what

listeners, it would take Richard a lifetime to run out

worse, ask him to leave?

hundred or less. With an endless supply of faithful of places to speak in.

They lived by the seat of their pants, but good

things always seemed to happen to them just when

kind of church would not listen to him speak, or

The hours had passed quickly and it was near

midnight when I finally stood up to leave. I begged off

Richard’s offer to drive me into town as I could easily

••• 67 •••

hitchhike back to town as I had done a half-dozen

every heartbeat, every blink of an eye and an infinite

dark and moonless night and not one car showed up.

for billions of years. Then again, maybe I just have a

times before. Instead, I found myself walking on a Fortunately, there are no aggressive predators in this

part of Texas—not much to hurt you except for the

accidental run-in with an armadillo or a rattlesnake warming itself on the warm asphalt.

As I stumbled through the dark, about a mile

into my hike, a very odd and remarkable occurrence

happened. A beam of light encircled me—following me as I walked. I looked up into the light for the

source, but instead only saw white doves flying in and out of the beam. I had no explanation for what I

number of other activities, twenty-four hours a day

limited imagination. But something found the time

to send me a beam of light when I needed it most, and I’ll take that for what it’s worth. Now, whenever

some Mississippi swamp rat announces that he was abducted by aliens via a beam of light, I think I know

what he’s talking about. And I wonder why this happened to me in the middle of nowhere instead of on a busy street in Los Angeles, where hundreds of witnesses could testify on my behalf ?

was witnessing and could only give in to thoroughly

enjoying the moment—walking backwards, and even breaking out into laughter at one point. But I

still thought, well, this is pretty good—very impressive, but…ah…is this the best you can do?

I’m pretty certain the beam of light didn’t last

more than a minute, but I was amazed to find my challenge, is this the best you can do? answered when

I turned around and began walking forward again.

The first lights at the edge of town were less than one hundred yards away. I have no idea how I ended

up almost ten miles from the last place I remember being before the beam surrounded me.

Maybe the universe is far too complex for one

being to have created everything in it—to supervise

••• 68 •••

What is it we’re not supposed to know?

••• 50 •••

CHAPTER TEN

HOW I GAVE UP SMOKING (THANK YOU LAKE WOBEGON)

I

used to love smoking. Nothing felt more

really want one but give up smoking when you find

when you could sit out on the front porch and

the huge Loma Prieta earthquake, even though I had

satisfying than a cigarette after a nice big meal

meditate while watching the stars. During some of these meditations I would have many profound

thoughts too—like why were cigarettes the length

they were? Had the tobacco companies done a survey

asking men how long after sex were they ready for an encore? Seriously, had they figured out that

yourself craving one. And I genuinely craved one after stopped smoking a year earlier. I found out later that

cigarette sales had skyrocketed after the earthquake, with many people who didn’t even smoke racing out

to get a pack of smokes, and emptying the shelves for a week.

It seemed that everyone used to smoke. When

after having sex, most men are ready in about five

I was in Navy boot camp, we had a certain time

time it takes to smoke a cigarette. I know that once

Restaurants, airplanes and bars all allowed cigarettes.

minutes, which happens to be exactly the length of I stopped smoking, I’d have sex and immediately fall asleep.

I was never a heavy smoker, and my wife tells

me that I smoked so infrequently that she barely remembers me as much of a smoker at all. But I always had a pack of cigarettes somewhere when

I wanted one. And maybe that’s the secret to not

becoming addicted to smoking—smoke when you

during the evening when the smoking lamp was lit.

Even though cigarette companies were under

attack from health experts spreading the word that cigarettes were the leading cause of cancer, that message got buried because smoking was just so cool, and the coolest people smoked.

What good was a stiff drink if it wasn’t

accompanied by a cigarette? And a smoke was not only great after a pleasurable experience, but they

••• 71•••

were a comfort in times of stress. I remember seeing

to be a lot more cheerful than I remembered, and

accidentally walked into the teacher’s lounge. She

from this happiness. I’m sure she was still a smoker

my American history teacher puffing away after I was leaning back on a leather chair, exhaling a long stream of smoke from her smiling lips, looking

hopefully her American history classes benefitted too. I could hear it in her voice.

For many years I told the story of how my friend

relaxed and satisfied. A female teacher sitting in

Greg was the person responsible for getting me to

Had I known more about the ways of the world, I

Montana in a panic. He was on his way out from

front of her screamed at me to, “Get out!”

wouldn’t have been so surprised then when I ran into

the smoking teacher a few years after graduation.

We got along pretty well because her husband was an artist, and she took some interest in me after I

earned a few blue ribbons at a city-wide art exhibit.

But she was a terrible teacher, prone to fits of anger,

give up smoking cigarettes. Greg called us from Minnesota for a visit and had decided to camp out in Glacier National Park. On his second night in the wilderness he awoke to find a bear pulling on his sleeping bag, literally trying to pull him out of his tent to eat him.

The next day as he broke camp, another camper

and yelling at the slightest infraction in her very

showed up to take over his spot. Greg told the new

“Tom! It’s so nice to see you again! How are you?”

doctor from Bozeman, laughed. The doctor said that

unhappy and depressing classroom. she greeted.

Then she introduced the woman she was walking

arm-in-arm with. “This is my wife, Carol!”

She saw my bewilderment, then chimed in, “I

must apologize. I was so miserable when I taught you. I hope it didn’t show too much.”

Didn’t show too much? I hated her class and

barely got out of there with a C, and only because

camper about the bear incident, and the camper, a

there were thousands of grizzlies in the park, but from

his experience a grizzly attack was a rare occurrence, and hardly anyone ever got injured or killed. The

bears were only after your food, he confidently told Greg, so it was important to keep it far away from your tent and sealed up tight. That night the bear came back and killed the doctor.

Greg was getting ready to board his plane to

she liked my art. I should talk to Mr. Clensos and get

Portland when he heard the news and it really shook

the husband and the unhappy marriage, she seemed

more to tell us once we picked him up.

my permanent record changed again. Having ditched

him up. He called and said he was okay and had a lot

••• 72 •••

I first met Greg in high school after he nearly got

were camping out in the Boundary Waters? What if

rude comments to girls as they left the local sock

“I guess this bear experience has sent you into

me killed one night by leaning on my car and making

one tried to attack us out there?”

hop dance. One of the girls who was very put out

a state of shock, right? I mean, you seem kind of

she told Moose that it was Greg who had insulted

Greg snapped out of his bear story trance. “What?

happened to be big Moose Gardner’s girlfriend, and

wigged-out,” I interrupted.

her. I showed up to a party a week after the sock hop

Oh no, that’s not all of it. I’ve got to tell you what

girlfirend-insulter’s car pull up in front of the house,

It turned out that after many years of living a

crime in my red MG-TD, and Moose, seeing the

happened to me!”

stormed out of the party to find out if my name was

lonely existence after leaving Los Angeles to work at

came to my rescue and vouched for my character

finally met his soul mate, a fellow NPR reporter.

Greg so he could beat the shit out of me. My friends

and my whereabouts on the night of the sock hop incident.

Grabbing his backpack from baggage claim, Greg

jumped into my van hyperventilating about his near-

National Public Radio in St. Paul, Minnesota, Greg

Firing up another cigarette, Greg told me about the past year of dating the woman he had planned to spend the rest of his life with.

“You know, ” said Greg, “I’ve always been unlucky

death experience with the bear while lighting up one

in the romance department.”

way through his story. My throat began to swell and

had a pretty serious crush on Kathy. She was a high-

a second or two wasn’t an option because it was a

teenage boys, myself included. Once, when Kathy

godawful cigarette after another, chain-smoking his

ache, and opening the van window for more than typical Oregon winter day—freezing cold and raining.

Non-stop, Greg rattled on, “I can’t believe just

how close I came to being eaten. I mean the bear

and I were fighting over the sleeping bag! And, oh,

oh my God, the poor doctor—a really neat guy too.

That could have been me! Hey, remember when we

I didn’t know that, but I did remember that Greg

school friend who was adored by dozens of smitten and I were at a Mexican restaurant having dinner, one of her puppy-love followers came in and spotted us. He was so upset that he ran over and grabbed the

hot sauce off our table, and downed the entire bottle

in one gulp. We sat back, shocked and amused, and

waited for the results. He stood motionless for a few

seconds, then his face started turning bright red. He

••• 73 •••

looked around for a glass of water and reached over

the right time to propose marriage and bought a

pulled it away. He tried to get to Kathy’s water, but

mood felt right, he asked her to marry him.

to grab mine—oh no, the show is just starting, and I

now it was too late as the chili sauce stepped up its

heat. He started to gag as if he was going to puke, then ran out of the restaurant screaming.

Greg told me that one of the things he and his

lover had covertly enjoyed was observing their office

ring. He took her out to a nice dinner, and when the “I’m really sorry, Greg. I can’t marry you.”

Greg was shocked. He said this unexpected

response took him totally by surprise. He pushed back his tears and asked her, “Why not?”

I pulled into our driveway just in time. I couldn’t

Asshole. According to Greg, Asshole was a self-

take the smoke one second longer. “Please Greg,

witty, funny and intellectual cool guy. But to Greg

killing me. Maybe we could wait on the story so Kim

centered egomaniac, and thought of himself as a and his girlfriend, Asshole was full of hot air, and not very funny at all.

For over a year, Greg and his girlfriend rolled

their eyes and guffawed every time the Asshole launched into one of his long, boring stories about

his weird childhood experiences and all his relatives

who were wonderful characters and lived by some funny sounding lake north of the city. That sounds like good stuff to me. I’d write about that.

“He’s boring, long-winded, and clueless to other’s

responses. He constantly begs for attention,” Greg complained.

My throat was getting seriously raw and beginning

to close up, and it hurt like hell. But we were getting

close to home and if I could just get a mug of hot tea once we got there, I’d be okay.

Finally, after a year of dating, Greg thought it was

you’ve got to put out that cigarette! My throat is can hear it too.”

All I wanted to do was get some hot tea and

honey, and lie down. “I think I’m getting the flu.

If you’re going to smoke, you’re gonna have to go outside and do it.”

Greg was cool and took no offense We got him

settled in the guest bedroom, I got my tea, and we returned to his story.

“So, after a year of dating and making plans she

turned you down? What happened?” I asked.

“She told me she couldn’t marry me because a

few months earlier she had started dating the office Asshole.”

“What? The guy the two of you made fun of for

the past year?”

“Yeah, the guy we made fun of. I couldn’t believe

it! She told me that he really wasn’t such a bad guy,

••• 74 •••

and once you got to know him, he was actually very funny and charming.”

“But we hate him!” cried Greg.

“I never actually hated him,” she said.” I was just

going along with you because it was kind of fun. I’m really sorry, but I think I’m falling for him.”

Greg reached for another cigarette, then looked

over to me apologetically and put the cigarette back

the clock struck midnight. Earlier in 1989, I had made a video for my niece Sophia, who was due to

be born in a few weeks. I joked about various uncles and aunties, and improvised a tall tale about her

grandparents—lost in an avalanche looking for their

deaf and blind lap dog who was always running off in the middle of winter blizzard.

On a roll in front of the camera, I made fun of

in the pack. “She told me that she and Asshole were

myself too. I told the true story of when I was a

out at the lake, and that she was so sorry, but hoped

After floating around the board for a few minutes,

going to spend that weekend at his family’s house I would have a great camping trip and visit with my friends out in Oregon.”

After Greg left and I recovered from the worst

flu I’ve ever had, I discovered that I couldn’t stand

kid and asked the Ouija Board, “When will I die?” the planchette landed firmly on the number 89. For many years, I believed that I was going to live to be eighty-nine years-old.

I gave this information much importance, because

smoking or the smell of cigarettes anymore.

earlier I had asked the Ouija Board if I would make

in a room with a chain smoker for at least two hours

under my hands first went to Yes, then to No, then

Anyone who wants to quit smoking, lock yourself

when you’re coming down with the flu. Trust me, you’ll never want to smoke again. Unlike those who

go through a program or use a patch, then bore everyone with how many days, weeks, or months it’s been since they last had a cigarette. My technique

eliminates all that. I almost guarantee that you will

not give smoking, or when you stopped smoking, another second of your life.

Although, I do remember the last cigarette I ever

smoked. It was January 1st, 1990, one second after

my Little League team. I watched as the planchette back to Yes again. What happened in the following

month was that I made the team, then I got dropped

from the team to the minors, and then I got called

back up again. In the video, I joked that what the Ouija Board really meant was that I would die in

’89…1989. For the entire year of 1989, I lived in fear, unnerved by my foretold death. Would it be cancer?

A heart attack? A car crash?

On New Year’s Eve of 1989, I found myself at

a party with my brother Matt. As the clock struck

••• 75 •••

midnight, I knew that it would not be 1989 that

“Remember when you came out to visit us, when

would kill me.

you almost got killed by a bear in Montana? You

Bro! Hey, you wanna smoke?”

marriage proposal to run off with the office Asshole?

Matt gave me a hug and said, “Happy New Year, It was 1990! “Hell, yes, I’ll have a smoke!”

A few years ago we traveled to Minneapolis to

attend our niece’s wedding. We hadn’t seen Greg in over thirty years, so I called him to see if we could

meet up for dinner—have a laugh about hair loss

told us about your girlfriend turning down your Remember? You were a nervous wreck and chainsmoking, and I was getting a flu with a horrible sore

throat. I don’t know if I ever told you this, but I was never able to smoke again after that.”

“That’s funny. No, I didn’t know. What girlfriend

and other maladies we’ve suffered over the passing

was that?”

politically very ultra-conservative, and he and I

you did, we forgot it. She was a girl you worked with

having fun with other topics.

with the office Asshole.”

of time. It turned out that my old friend had become argued almost the entire visit when we weren’t The day before the wedding we were scheduled

“I don’t think you ever mentioned her name, or if

at NPR. You dated her for over a year and she ran off

“Oh yeah. That must have been Margaret. That’s

to meet for a bridal lunch at a very trendy rooftop

when she ran off with Garrison Keillor.”

my family, “They are way more lefty than I am.”

Garrison Keillor is well-known for his numerous books

getting to know my new Minnesota relatives,

Radio’s Prairie Home Companion. His split from

restaurant. I begged Greg not to talk politics with

An hour into the gathering, after a few drinks and

I heard my sister yell across the table, “Fuck you!”

I turned to Greg who was sitting across the

table and found him looking at me with a slightly embarrassed, but mischievous grin.

and folk tales of Lake Wobegon, and National Public Margaret was a very public and ugly affair when after

years of being together, although never married, he ran off with their Danish au pair.

“I warned you!” I laughed.

Later on I thanked him for being the person

responsible for getting me to give up cigarettes.

“How was that?’” he asked.

••• 76 •••

••• 58 •••

Not the Summer of Love. 1975: Squeaky Fromme being led away by the Secret Service.

Photo: Tom Trujillo

CHAPTER ELEVEN

IS THAT GUY AS GOOD AS HE THINKS HE IS?

W

e stopped in Sacramento after a long

savers put in. He returned with crooked studs and

way to my new job and a new home

that was the best they could do.

day’s drive from Los Angeles on our

in Portland, Oregon. It was a tough drive. The

said the machine shop told him they were sorry, but “They won’t give me your money back, but they

Central Valley in August is brutal, made even worse

offered to redo them,” said Albert.

conditioning except for the constant hot air blowing

trust them, and if this is the best they can do, they’ll

on the side of the head. You get out of the car after

I know what to do with damaged equipment:

when your vehicle is a Volkswagon van with no air in from the open window hitting you in the ear and

“Why would I give them a second chance? I don’t

only make it worse the next time.”

a few hours with the worst comb-over imaginable,

photograph it. That’s what I did for two years in

van was loaded down with Kim, Ethan, myself, my

money back from defense contractors. I got out

and a new part somewhere over your left ear. The

mother, step-dad and youngest brother Matt—plus all our luggage.

The drive could have been even worse, but my

engine was as powerful an engine as one could put in

a VW van. A month earlier, my friend Albert took my piston heads to a machine shop to have case-

the Navy, and that’s how the government gets its my camera and took photos of the machine shop’s

shoddy workmanship. Then I walked the evidence in to their shop and told them I was going to the

Better Business Bureau, and then to a lawyer with my photos as evidence. I promised to sue them, and poor-mouth them for years to any who asked.

••• 79 •••

“Mr. Trujillo, there’s no reason we can’t settle this

the State Capitol building. Our waitress told us that

“You can let my mechanic take the engine to

we might get a view of him as he was planning a walk

amicably. What can we do to satisfy you?”

someone who can do this job properly,” I said. “And, you’ll pay whatever it costs to repair the damage you’ve already done!”

They agreed and Albert took my engine to an

outfit that specialized in racing engines. Two weeks

President Gerald Ford was staying at the hotel, and

across the street to visit the governor. By the time we

finished breakfast, a large crowd had gathered across the street. Kim and I joined the throng of well-

wishers and I aimed my camera at the hotel entrance.

We watched as the door to the hotel opened

later, Albert installed into my van what mechanics

and a small detail of Secret Service agents stepped

sailed over the Tejon Pass north of L.A. going sixty-

surrounding area for possible trouble. They carefully

call a blueprint engine. It was so powerful that we

five miles an hour, and as I’ve stated earlier, we were fully loaded with boxes, bodies and luggage.

The van began sputtering and missing just

outside of Sacramento and we went looking for a VW mechanic. The guy we found fortunately dropped what he was doing and gave my car a quick inspection.

“I think your fan belt isn’t beefy enough for all

your new power. It’s all stretched out,” mused the

mechanic. “You’re gonna have to leave it overnight, but I’ll have it ready for you by noon tomorrow.”

We located a nice hotel along the banks of the

tree-lined Sacramento River, and after a refreshing shower, we embraced the warm, humid climate that is Sacramento in the summertime.

The following morning we headed downtown for

breakfast at the Senator Hotel, across the street from

out. They stopped at the sidewalk and scanned the checked out the crowd through their dark sunglasses, then motioned for the president to follow them across the street. There was one particular Secret

Service guy who really caught our eye. He was handsome, had a powerful physique, a thick head of blond hair, and a great tan. This guy was leading the parade and strutted out into the street like he

owned the place—and when I say strutted, I mean alpha-male, top-dog strutted. He must have been a

great agent to have landed the job of guarding the President, but we wondered just how good was he?

Kim and I nudged each other and smirked, “Look

at that guy. He sure thinks he’s hot-shit.

I wonder if he’s as good as he thinks he is.”

President Ford’s entourage passed by quickly,

smiling and waving to the appreciative crowd. After many dark years of the Nixon presidency, Gerald

••• 80 •••

Ford seemed almost harmless, especially

after

hippies everywhere, and who pretty much shut the

bombings, wiretaps and a general paranoia at the

happiness. Apparently, Squeaky broke out of the

Watergate, the Pentagon Papers, illegal Cambodian highest levels of government.

Just as we were beginning to turn away and head

back to the hotel, the crowd spooked and a cloud of dust rose up about fifty feet away from us. Men

and women began running in all directions, crying

in shock or fear, while others were simply getting pushed along by the fleeing stampede.

I had my camera and something had just

happened—have I mentioned my Navy training yet?

Kim and I took off running toward the excitement and got to the scene just in time to see two agents

forcefully shove a woman up against a tree and hold

door on the four-year experiment of love, peace and crowd as President Ford approached, pulled out an

old six-shooter, aimed it at the President, and pulled

the trigger. While Squeaky was doing all that, the

tan and handsome strutting Secret Service agent spotted her, and stepped in front of the President to take the bullet while simultaneously reaching into

the gun’s chamber and blocking the firing pin. Then he wrestled the gun away from Squeaky and threw

her to the ground. According to the policeman, the

only injury in the attempted assassination was to the agent’s hand.

Kim and I were stunned into silence for a

her there. President Ford had already been hustled

moment. We turned to each other and at the same

was over fairly quickly. I began taking pictures of the

thinks he is!”

off to the safety of the Capitol building—the action

thin, red-haired woman leaning against the tree with

time exclaimed, “Wow, that guy is as good as he

her head bowed and hands cuffed behind her back.

And then I captured another shot of her being led

away for a long stay in prison for trying to murder the president of the United States.

A Capitol policeman standing nearby told

us how the event unfolded. We learned that the

woman’s name was Squeaky Fromme, a follower of the Charles Manson family­ —you know, the friendly folks who drove a stake into the heart of

••• 81 •••

••• 63 •••

C H A P T E R T W E LV E

MY FIRST MURDER

I

don’t think it had any long lasting affects on

was slow and I wasn’t. After a few yards, he briefly

adult, but then, I really wouldn’t have any way

him quickly.

me or damaged the way I turned out as an

of knowing, would I?

glanced over his shoulder and found me gaining on

At the end of the street, Hancock Avenue intersects

It all started around noon when I found myself

with Broadway, a major four-lane boulevard. I knew

was there that I heard a call for help. A neighborhood

corner and I’d make up a lot of ground at that point.

walking down Hancock Avenue toward Broadway. It kid named Johnny was crying, and I also heard the voice of another cursing and yelling at him. I turned

into his yard, located behind tall bushes and found a much bigger kid hitting four year-old Johnny. Johnny

he would have to slow down to make the turn at the

Then I could chase him down, and hopefully punch him a few more times before getting Johnny’s gun back.

I don’t know what the big kid was thinking,

was getting dragged across the yard while clinging

but without slowing down or even looking, he ran

big kid. I charged across the yard and shoved the

couldn’t even get out a warning call for him to stop.

to his toy gun and being punched repeatedly by the big kid off Johnny and hit him on the side of his head. The big kid rolled over a couple of times, then

took off running down Hancock Avenue, and he had Johnny’s toy gun. He had a good lead on me, but he

straight out onto Broadway. It happened so fast I The screeching of the car’s tires and the impact of car

against the small body melded into one action, and in that brief moment, I realized that life was going to end for the big kid. Other drivers watching from

••• 83 •••

their cars may have attempted to cry out a warning,

Broadway. Oh, dear God, the poor little guy didn’t

collision and impact of car and child was already set

“What was he thinking?” I heard one of them say,

too, trying to halt this unstoppable event. But the

stand a chance!”

in motion.

and I thought the very same thing to myself. What

chrome smacked the big kid with a loud “THUNK!”

right turn on Broadway. Was I such a terrifying threat

The driver’s big American car made of steel and

The impact sent him sailing through space, tumbling

upside down and right side up for about fifty feet.

Then he hit the pavement with a “splat” and an

“OOMPH!” The world froze for a moment. The

poor driver jumped out his car in a state of shock, crying tearfully as he ran to the boy now lying in the street in a broken heap.

was he thinking? I know I was planning on making a as an eight year-old boy standing four-foot-eleven

inches tall, that death by car was a better choice than putting up a little fight and maybe getting hit once or twice? Was the toy gun so precious, that to possess it he would dash out onto a busy street and die with it?

Maybe I had seen one too many James Cagney or

“The kid ran right out into the street!” he yelled to

Edgar G. Robinson movies where they proclaimed,

Other drivers got out of their cars and ran to

gonna fink on nobody!” And I wasn’t about to rat

no one in particular.

the boy, hoping that he might still be alive or they

could be of some assistance. Within a few minutes

dozens of others were milling about on the sidewalk, all mumbling and talking about the accident. People came out of their houses after hearing the screeching

“Nuts to you warden, I ain’t no dirty rat! I ain’t

out myself. I imagined that if I opened my mouth they would give me the electric chair in Sing-Sing or the gas chamber like they did to Susan Hayward in I Want to Live!

I was a kid, but I knew what morals were. I was

of tires and the dull thud of the impact. I found

eight years old and in Catholic school. I knew the

adults wondered to each other why this kid had run

them by a ruler to the hand or a pencil poked into

myself surrounded by legs and belts as the crowd of out onto the street.

I soon became worried that someone would turn

to me and point accusingly, “That’s the murderer!

He’s the one who chased the poor kid out onto

Ten Commandments by heart, having memorized my head. Thou shalt not kill is a very important

commandment, the one sin I’ve always believed to be the worst thing any human could do, even though it was only number six on the list. Even honoring

••• 84 •••

thy mother and father came before thou shalt not

how the little kid that was me decided that the big

mom and dad, especially if they’re good parents. But

reprisal, and it had ended his life. I didn’t want to go

kill, an important rule of course, one should love

it has always surprised me that mom and dad came before killing. And the punishment for

kid had simply made a bad decision out of fear of to prison, and even though I could have answered

killing meant eternal damnation and

agony in hell, which we used to joke might be better than spending another day in Sister Mary Petruccio’s third

grade class getting poked in the head by her pencil. She would stand over you

during cursive writing class and tap the lead of her pencil repeatedly into your

skull until you began making the correct letter form at the correct angle. It’s no

wonder that as soon as I left her class and Catholic school, I began writing with a backhand slant like a left-handed writer.

As an adult I do cursive and printing

at the same time, depending on the

word or the letter. But Sister Mary Petruccio must have had some effect on

me, because I ended up with a technical

degree in commercial lettering. I also taught a

all the questions the adults were asking about how

students got poked in the head either.

back up Hancock Avenue. I looked back once to see

college course on the art of lettering, and none of my But I kept my mouth shut. I’ve often wondered

this could have happened, I turned away and walked

if I was being followed but instead, only saw Johnny’s

••• 85 •••

toy gun lying in the street.

healthy ones to boot camp and then off to war.

around school on crutches and wearing a cast that

exam, I was asked what color my eyes were.

Two months later, I saw the big kid hobbling

ran up his entire left side, from his toes to just under

his armpits. I was relieved that I was no longer a killer and on the FBI’s Most Wanted List. Now I could play freely throughout the neighborhood without

looking over my shoulder for G-Men out searching

At one of the many inspection stations at my “Hazel,” I replied.

Without looking up, the military medical clerk

snarled, “Trujillo? They’re brown.”

“They’re hazel,” I repeated.

The clerk looked up and glared at me with disgust,

for the child killer. Apparently, the big kid’s memory

“Viet Cong don’t give a shit what color your eyes

it was me who was chasing him before the accident.

The country wanted boys who had clean criminal

took a big hit too, because he didn’t remember that

are.”

I was especially relieved not to have actually killed

backgrounds and no health issues. Some of the really

hopping around on crutches with his entire left side

always fighting, were not allowed to serve as the

him, but the boy who I saw on the school playground, in a cast was an idiot and a cowardly bully who would probably not survive for too long in this world.

If life is as unpredictable and strange as I believe

it to be, in my mind I’ve considered the idea that I

might have actually saved the kid’s life. In 1965, ten years after the accident, all of us of that generation faced the dark cloud of the Selective Service draft

and the Vietnam War. Eighteen year-old boys from

bad guys I knew, the ones who were in gangs and Army considered them morally unfit for military

service. My childhood friends and I who never or

rarely fought were dropped into Vietnamese jungles, drove ammunition trucks down isolated mountain

roads supplying front line troops, or manned machine guns in low-flying helicopters. Many of them never came home.

After I got out of the service, I paid a visit to

all over the country were required to take physical

my friend Timmy, who was finishing up advanced

enough to be trained to fight in Vietnam. In Los

I saw him. One could almost see a dark cloud

examinations to determine whether they were able

Angeles, a thousand boys a day took their physical exams in a thirteen-story building. Parked out front of the building was a line of buses waiting to take the

military training at Fort Ord. I was shocked when

around him, and he had already decided he wasn’t going to make it out alive. I wondered how could his

commanding officers not see his state of mind? He

••• 86 •••

wasn’t going to be an effective soldier. Why would

big kid. “That’s where bolts were put in to attach the

I begged Timmy to be positive. I told him not to

“Do you think this injury has affected your ability

our country waste a young human life like this?

give up as a lot of guys were making it back­. He was

killed of course. He died within a week after getting to Vietnam, shot while exiting a helicopter during a

femur to my hip. I was in a cast for six months.” to carry a gun and kill Charlie?”

“What?”

“I’m just kidding. Don’t start crying,” laughs the

firefight in an open field.

doctor. “Did this injury affect your ability to engage

state as Timmy did, unlucky enough to have gotten

or running?”

Maybe the bully big kid found himself in a similar

drafted. I imagine him in the middle of an attack

in any strenuous physical activities, such as jumping “Oh, yeah. I haven’t been able to run since the

by seasoned Viet Cong troops. He hasn’t fired his

accident. I brought a doctor’s report and x-rays for

belly, crying in panic while frantically digging a deep

down and picks up a manila folder on the floor.

weapon to drive the enemy back, instead, he’s on his

hole with his helmet as bullets begin ripping into tree trunks and young bodies.

The more likely scenario is that we find the big

kid at the draft physical with his pants dropped to

you to look at.” Then the big kid slowly reaches The doctor quickly scans the x-ray and the report.

“Okay then. Your draft board will be notified of your physical status.”

The big kid stands mute, not quite certain what

the floor, standing almost naked in a large room

has just occurred. The doctor moves on to the next

getting poked and prodded by Selective Service

the doctor turns back to the big kid who is staring

filled with dozens of other nearly naked young men doctors. One after another, the doctor, looking for a

hernia, grabs their nut-sack and asks them to cough.

Eventually the doctor comes to the big kid. He grabs the big kid’s balls, but just before asking the big kid

to cough, he notices four large scars at the top of his left thigh near his hip bone.

“What are these?” asks the doctor.

“I got hit by a car when I was a kid,” replies the

young man. Before grabbing hold of this guy’s balls, blankly off into space. His pants and shorts are still around his ankles.

“You can pull up you shorts and go home now,”

says the doctor. “You’re physically unfit for military duty. Useless bastard, you’re 4-F.”

My own draft board experience didn’t turn out

as successfully as the big kid’s. I too found myself

with my shorts and pants dropped to the floor with a

••• 87 •••

Selective Service doctor holding my balls and asking

tore South Central Los Angeles apart, most blaming

seconds, then the doctor continued on to the next

that time, Sam Yorty, blamed the riots on outside

me to cough. My hernia examination took only a few guy. Entering the last station, I was asked if I was

ever a member of any organization that called for the overthrow of the government of the United States or the Constitution.

it on police brutality. The Mayor of Los Angeles at agitators, specifically the communists. Many scoffed

at Yorty’s paranoid remarks, but, as insane as it sounds, he wasn’t too far off the mark.

Months before the riots, Watts found itself in

I wasn’t a card-carrying communist but my

the middle of a labor issue. Workers at various car

International Communist Party located in a

wash union through the efforts of Grant’s mentor,

friend Grant was. He was a member of the Worker’s

bookstore in Watts. Throughout high school Grant

would give me socialist reading material and beautiful

four-color magazines from Red China. They were all propaganda, of course, promoting Chairman Mao

and the people’s revolution against capitalism and imperialism. Jingoism aside, these were very wellwritten, and were not as self-promoting as one might

assume. In one article, they touted the importance of the garbage collector, whose work was the most

washes had become organized and had formed a car

Michael Lasky, the head of the Communist Party.

The union was in the midst of a strike—they carried placards out front of the car washes demanding fair treatment, and verbally hassled scabs who crossed

picket lines. More than once, the Los Angeles

Police showed up and began pushing people around, essentially becoming the strong-arm goons of management.

The strikers’ and the cops’ tempers and hostilities

important work of all and should be honored. Many

toward one another were at an all-time high, when

educate the Chinese masses about social behavior

a young African-American man for a minor traffic

of these books and magazines were designed to and morals. Much of what was written intrigued me

and were ideas that I took to heart. I wasn’t a fullblown communist, but after a few years of reading

about it, I certainly approved of agrarian reform and socialism.

Three years earlier the Watts riots erupted and

one day, a couple of cops stopped a car driven by violation near his home. A small crowd of local residents, including the driver’s mother, came out

to check out the action, then grew quickly in size.

The locals got angrier and louder until the cops felt

the situation had become dangerous. They called in for backup and within a short time a dozen police

••• 88 •••

cars showed up. As soon as the newly arrived cops

the draft or the war. I passed my draft physical

around, the shit hit the fan and the Watts Riots

and nothing ever had been. I didn’t have asthma,

got out of their cars and started shoving people

began. It spread from an isolated scuffle at a corner

in a residential neighborhood, to five square miles

of burning buildings and dozens of deaths. Were

the communists to blame as Mayor Yorty claimed?

They were at the center of an ugly labor dispute that acted as tinder for a people feeling stepped on by the

with flying colors. Nothing was wrong with me tuberculosis, hepatitis, poor eyesight or anything that might have given me a 4-F classification.

I went home that afternoon and cried into the

phone to my buddy Danny about my eventual trip to Southeast Asia or Canada.

“There’s an opening at the Naval Reserve Center,”

wealthy who were backed by the muscle of the Los

he said. “You better get up there soon because those

Michael Lasky, the radical communist who used

The Naval Reserve? That’s kind of a cop-out,

Angeles Police Department.

slots fill up fast.”

to hang out in front of L.A. City College recruiting

although two years in the Navy would be better than

International Party would later turn out to be an

man. I have done brave things—like when we were

susceptible young men and women into the Worker’s agent provocateur and a stoolie for the FBI. In reality, it wasn’t the communists who started the Watts Riots, but our own Federal Bureau of Investigation.

“Have you ever been a member of any group or

organization calling for the overthrow of the United States?” the draft board worker asked again.

“Yes I have,” I replied. “I am a member of the

Worker’s International Communist-Reactionary Party of Los Angeles.”

The draft worker stared at me in disgust. “Too

going to Vietnam. Let me be clear, I am not a brave

caught in the middle of a near shoot-out between L.A. cops and a carload of gangbangers. I pushed

Kim and baby Ethan to the floor of the van and

covered them with my body, ready to take a bullet.

That was brave, huh? And I was against the war. I

had even suffered a good punch to the mouth after a lively anti-war discussion with a Vietnam vet, one of the first Marines who went to Vietnam before anyone even knew there was a war.

And so one evening, I found myself with a Navy

bad buddy, you’re gonna hate killing your little

uniform on at the U.S. Naval Reserve Training

It became apparent that I wasn’t going to escape

low point in my life. I attended two meetings and

communist friends in Vietnam now, aren’t ya?”

Facility in Pasadena, California. I knew this was a

••• 89 •••

then stopped going all together. A few months later

women in charge of sending America’s finest young

ordering me to report to his office or face accelerated

a sweet little lady asked me if she could be of some

I received a letter from the Reserve Commander induction into the Armed Forces.

I showed up as requested, and he wasn’t all that

happy to see me. After yelling at me for close to ten minutes, I interrupted him and told him that I was

men off to war. I stood at the counter patiently until assistance. I told her calmly about the incident at my Reserve Center and my Commander threatening to send me to Vietnam on the next boat out.

I took a deep breath then blurted out, “It is you

smoking a lot of pot and taking LSD, and shouldn’t

people who are responsible for the deaths and

“What!!” he screamed. “You son-of-a-bitch! I’ll be

send your children and others children off to this

be in the Navy anymore.

informing your draft board for accelerated induction into the God damn Army. Do you understand me?

You’ll be shipped off to Vietnam next week if I have anything to say about it. Now get the hell out of my

injuries of thousands of young men! How can you horrible war? I blame all you! And if I make it back

from this war alive, I will make it my duty to hunt down every one of you!”

It wasn’t my proudest moment, but I was in a rage

office!”

and not thinking clearly. I thought these women

ticked the guy off even more. Out on the sidewalk in

person what a bunch of fucking assholes they were

I got up and forgot to salute him goodbye, which

front of his office, he opened his window and began yelling at me once again. I shouldn’t have laughed

should have at least one young man tell them in for “only doing their job.”

I went into hiding. For the next ten months I

but he looked so ridiculous—literally hanging

surfed every day and worked on a cartoon strip for a

I might have even flipped him off, but then again,

house after smoking a joint, I heard a knock at the

out his window screaming bloody murder. I think maybe I only wanted to. I can’t remember the exact

details, but I remember a few reservists on their way

to a meeting, laughing their asses off at us yelling at

each other. So, maybe I did get in a few choice words.

The following day I showed up at my Selective

Service office, a large room filled with twenty or thirty

surfing publication. Then one day, as I was cleaning front door. I turned off the vacuum and merrily

opened the door to discover two Navy Shore Patrol Officers standing on the front porch.

“Are you Tom Trujillo?” they asked.

I was stunned. I couldn’t open my mouth. Why is

the Navy here? Shouldn’t these guys be FBI or Army

••• 90 •••

Military Police?

“We have orders for you to report for active duty.

We could arrest you right now if we wanted, but if

you promise to show up at the Naval Training Center in San Diego on the date indicated, we’ll let you get your affairs in order.”

trouble, but all I saw was some guy turning purple and yelling in my direction.

I looked around to see if there was anyone near

me. “Who, me?” I pantomimed.

“Yeah, God damn it, YOU!”

I began to casually walk toward him when he

“Do you promise to show up?”

yelled again, “Double-time you fucking squirrel!”

I signed some official papers and they gave me

until we came to my check-in area. I don’t think I

a Greyhound bus to the Recruit Naval Training

thank him as I quickly figured out that this would

“Yeah,” I replied. Shit, they got me.

a packet of Navy forms and a one-way ticket on Center in San Diego. After the Shore Patrol left I flopped onto the couch and cried.

I called my friend Roger and told him my bad

news. “Roger, they found me. I’m supposed to report for active duty in two weeks.”

“Bummer. Sounds like you need a surf trip. I was

He ended up chasing me half way across the base

could have found it without his help. And I didn’t not be a good place to be a smart-ass.

Four months later, and after graduating from boot

camp, I arrived at the Naval Base that would be my home for the next eighteen months: Chase Field Naval Auxiliary Air Base, Beeville, Texas.

We got our orders at the end of boot camp—my

just packing for Mexico. You wanna go?”

boot camp surfer buddy got Long Beach Naval Air

to boot camp. I hadn’t shaved in two weeks and

my orders and frowned.

Two weeks later I got dropped off at the entrance

the long hair I had been growing since escaping

Station and another friend got Hawaii. I looked at

All the Texans in my company began laughing

the Navy Reserve hung to my shoulders. I walked

at me for having to go to Texas, and even worse,

beautiful, with Spanish architecture, and surrounded

unison, “you’re gonna hate it! That’s the meanest

carefree through the camp, which is really quite by perfectly manicured lawns, mature oaks, and

eucalyptus. During my stroll, I heard some guy in the background yelling obscenities at some poor recruit. I looked around to see who might be in such

Beeville. “Oh my God, Trujillo,” they howled in

redneck county in Texas! You better not tell anybody you’re a hippie…or a Mexican!”

While standing on the porch of Chase Field’s

administration building sweating in the stifling heat

••• A ••• ••• 91 •••

and ninety percent humidity, I was beginning to

as I was walking back to the photo lab from dinner

My luck changed quickly when the photo lab

equipment just as the emergency truck pulled up to

think they might have been right.

needed a replacement for the idiot who pissed off

the Chief and got booted out of the air conditioned lab and into the scullery washing dishes. I didn’t

know much about photography at the time having

only taken a photography class in high school, but I had a few credits of college art classes and the Navy deemed that sufficient enough to be trainable.

for my overnight watch. I ran to the lab to get my get me. We were racing through brush toward the

crash, when suddenly, a bruised and blackened pilot

with a shredded flight suit, shot out of the bushes and raced passed us, obviously in a state of shock. We were a mile from the crash.

“What the hell was that?” asked the driver.

I hung out the window and watched the pilot as

After three or four months of twelve hour a day

he made his way far away from the crash. I laughed

room technician and Navy Photographer. The Navy

That evening the crash investigator met with

training, I started becoming a real first-class dark

and said, “I think that was the pilot!”

needed documentation on everything happening on

me to go over photos, to assign text and diagrams

helicopters, photographing damaged equipment,

FAA. I learned that on a sharp approach and at

the base. I was shooting aerial shots hanging out of stolen property, car accidents after Friday nights at

the Enlisted Men’s Club—fortunately only one fatal, and numerous public relations photos. One day I photographed two guys for a pot bust—and that’s when I met my best friends for the next year.

Chase Field was the first stop in a Navy pilot’s

training program. Months of classes and simulated

flights were followed by actual flight time with an

instructor. The final step to getting your wings was a number of solo flights completed without killing yourself. Not all of those were successful.

On one occasion I saw the plane fall from the sky

to each photo for the Navy bureaucrats and the

approximately one hundred seventy-five feet in

altitude, the jet’s nose dipped down unexpectedly, probably due to pilot error. The young pilot’s reaction

was to hit the ejection button and get out of the falling

aircraft. According to the diagrams I placed on the photos, he had punched out through the canopy and sailed close to two hundred feet through the air. His

chute barely opened and he hit the ground right in front of the burning and exploding aircraft, which

was still tumbling and tearing up the ground fifty

feet behind the poor pilot…and that was when he started running.

••• 92 •••

Southeast Texas in 1967 was still battling its

history. I used to joke that they had never stopped fighting at the Alamo, and it wasn’t too far from

the truth. Every small town in southeast Texas had

an area called Mexican Town. You knew you were entering Mexican Town when the pavement ended

and turned into dirt roads, and the houses got a lot smaller and poorer-looking.

Before I got to Texas, I never thought of myself

as anything other than a typical Californian. I got called a dirty Mexican once by some skinny white

girl when I first moved to lily-white Altadena, and I got called a pinche patty by some low-rider chicano

to attend the Friday night dances at the Enlisted

Men’s Club. Some pretty good bands played there, and eventually I got to meet a lot of cute Latinas from town. They introduced me to their brothers and

cousins and eventually I was invited to some of their parties. At the base dances, Latinos got to hang out

with local white kids and through these integrated

social events, came to realize the attitudes they had grown up with were bullshit. Their parents knew

this too, which is why they tried to keep their kids away from the base. It didn’t work, and only served to arouse their kids’ curiosity to find out what all the fuss was about.

I hadn’t realized anyone was paying attention to

while visiting my grandmother in East L.A. But

who I was hanging out with, until one day at lunch.

ignorant. And whatever poverty and oppression the

fucking dead.” And it seemed like the voice was

they were only calling me that because they were

Tejanos were experiencing in Beeville, black citizens were so far down the social and economic ladder that they were almost invisible.

On a trip out to photograph a new runway ten

miles from the base, we came across a poor rural

I heard a voice in the background rumble, “You’re directed at me. I looked up from my plate to see

some huge beast of a guy at another table pointing

his finger at me. Once again he said, “You’re fucking dead.”

I was puzzled. I had never seen this guy before, so

community inhabited entirely by black farmers. The

I walked over to find out what reason he might have

I had ever witnessed before. It was so depressing, I

“Hey, I don’t even know you, man. Why are you

level of down-trodden poverty was beyond anything let out a gasp. It literally took my breath away

Many of the Beeville locals, including Latinos

for wanting me dead.

threatening me?” I asked.

from Mexican Town, were allowed onto the base •••93 •••

“You’re fucking dead,” he said coldly.

Okay, I thought, not a very deep vocabulary, but it

appears that I’m fucking dead. I discovered this guy

know who Patrick was at the time except that I had

friends, and so I asked Bobby if he knew anything

I finally did meet Patrick, I discovered that he was

was in the same squadron as some of my New York about this big guy.

“Some guy threatening you, Tommy?” asked

heard he was the toughest guy on the base. When about my size and didn’t look at all like a bad dude.

The whites ran the town but they didn’t dare

Bobby from New York. “Let me find out what’s up—

go into Mexican Town, and that included law

Two days later at dinner, I looked up from my

was a Latino cop. At one party I attended, a fight

don’t worry about it.”

plate to find the big guy standing in front of me with a couple of welts on his face and a swollen lip.

Yipes! I grabbed my weapons, the salad fork and

butter knife to defend myself with.

“Sorry man,” he apologized. “One of my friends

enforcement. The only cop patrolling Mexican Town broke out and the party-crashers were chased out of

the house and into the street. After a few kicks and punches, and being called chicken-shit maricones, the

crashers were able to jump into their car and escape.

I asked a local guy standing next to me what was

got jumped in town by a bunch of Mexicans and a

going on and he told me that the guys were fucking

fucking ear off ! Anyway, we thought it was you.”

of Refugio.

sailor who hangs out with them. The sailor bit his

I had a reputation for hanging out with Mexicans?

I guess racists keep a tally or something. It turned out

wetbacks from the nearby small ranching community “So? We’ve all got brown skin, right?” I asked.

“Fuck those farmers,” he replied. “They got their

I knew his friend, too. Buck would sit in on drums

own parties they can go to.”

Baker for an hour while the band was taking a break.

Town was an independent barrio, much like the

his ear off before threatening me.

territory every couple of blocks. In Texas it was every

at the Enlisted Men’s club and sound like Ginger Big guy should have asked Buck if it was me who bit

Apparently, Bobby told his friend Patrick about

my predicament. Patrick strolled into the big guy’s room while he was in bed and punched him in the

face a few times. He told the big guy if he did me

any harm, he’d come back and kill him. I didn’t even

Texas was totally Balkanized. Every Mexican

barrios of L.A. where I grew up, with a different gang

Mexican Town. Don’t cross that imaginary border—

you’ll get a beating or worse. No wonder the whites were able to keep themselves in power even though they were vastly outnumbered.

••• 94 •••

Laredo, Mexico, was just a few hours away from

took a step back in time to the days of revolution

districts in North America, a walled-in compound

the walls featured Pancho surrounded by his well-

Beeville and featured one of the great red light

formally called Zona de Tolerancia, and informally

called Boy’s Town. The red-light district was created

by General John J. Pershing while chasing Pancho Villa around Northern Mexico. Seeking to keep his

troops’ morale high he created La Zona for the boys

who were desperately in need of a little hot spot to get their mojos working again.

By the time I got there, the walled-in La Zona

and Pancho Villa. Many of the photographs on armed troops of brave and slightly loco men and women enjoying the same food we were, relaxing

after chasing Pershing and his gringo’s back across

the Rio Grande to the United States. Nothing much had changed since Villa’s days at the Cadillac Bar, even the food being served was cooked by the descendants of the original owners.

Unlike previous visits to Laredo, which were

behind the main gate consisted of restaurants, small

reasonably sane, one particular trip went far

and two insanely cool nightclubs: The Marabu and

introducing us to Gary, a new arrival to the base.

single-room studios for independent prostitutes, El Papagayo catered to a young crowd with rocking bands and a huge dance floor. The girls who worked

there were young and pretty, and just as happy to dance with you as take you into one of their garden

court rooms. Sixty years after the Mexican-American War, Boy’s Town was still happily servicing American troops.

After a weekend in Laredo, the road back to the

base started at The Cadillac Bar and Restaurant.

As soon as you sat down, pots of refried beans, rice, tortillas and chiles began filling the table. Above

beyond the norm. It started with my friend Danny

Gary had a good car and said that on our next trip to Laredo he would like to drive. When we crossed

the border and sailed past Boy’s Town, and then past the outskirts of town heading south into the

countryside, we all yelled out in unison, “Where in the hell are we going?”

Gary didn’t miss a beat and said, “I’ve got a

connection down here who’s a friend of my brother

in San Diego. It’ll be cool. He’s known these guys for years. Nothing to worry about.”

Ten miles south of Laredo we turned onto a dirt

the serape draped entrance, a neon sign spelled out

road and headed up to a walled-in pueblo at the foot

the brightly colored serape curtain and entered, you

smiling man and we drove slowly into the courtyard.

in cursive script: The Cadillac Bar. Once you parted

of a hill. The gate was opened for us by a friendly,

••• 95 •••

A half-dozen men milled about on the grounds, and

Once we made it safely past the International

a dozen other desperados were sitting or squatting

Bridge check point—just four sailors coming back

What the hell are we doing here, Gary?

relief. A few miles down the road, we pulled over and

on the compound’s high wall staring down at us.

Gary greeted one of the guys in Spanish and

walked him to the trunk of his car. He opened it, pulled out a blanket and laid it on the ground. Next, he took out two Navy seabags and casually dumped

the contents onto the blanket—boxes of ammunition, dozens of rifles and almost as many handguns.

After inspecting the weapons, Gary’s connection

signaled to a few hombres nearby to take the arsenal away. Then he whistled and three guys came hustling

out of the house with a half dozen kilos of pot

from a day in La Zona, we all breathed a sigh of took a small pinch from one of the kilos and rolled a

joint. Danny started the engine and pulled out onto

the road. We were in a great mood having survived and passed Gary the joint in honor of being the man

of the hour. We watched as he blew out a thick cloud

of smoke and at the same time, Danny reached over and turned on the radio. Like the soundtrack to a

movie, the opening lines of Born to Be Wild, blasted from the speakers.

“Get your motor runnin’…head out on the highway!

wrapped in dark green plastic. They placed them

Lookin’ for adventure, and whatever comes our way!”

Gary’s blanket.

in-a-lifetime and a stupidly ridiculous, dangerous

breathing, and had my mantra going…we’re all going

broke into the chorus and began singing at the top

in the car’s trunk and covered the contraband with I was cool. I kept my hands in my pockets, calm

to die…we’re all going to die.

Even if we survived this we could still get a

thousand years in a Mexican prison if we’re stopped

With the sun setting on the horizon and a once-

adventure behind us in the rear view mirror, we of our lungs while passing the joint around the car, “Born to be wild…aye…aye…aye…ild!’

My next trip to Laredo was without Gary’s kind

and searched at the border.

of drama, until ten miles into the U.S. when my

little restaurant on the road back into town, which

flat tire. He pulled out the spare but it was flat also.

The Mexican connection told us about a great

we did not stop at. He enthusiastically shook all our hands with a big friendly smile and wished us “Buena suerte! Hasta la vista!”

friend’s car wobbled off the side of the road with a We decided that he should hitchhike back to Nuevo

Laredo, the much uglier American border town and

get a new tire, and I would hitchhike in the other

••• 96 •••

direction back to Beeville. I had only a few hours

cattle ranch. There was nothing out there but desert

the photo lab, and missing a watch comes with dire

invasion and the Pancho Villa fighting was about

to get back to the base for an overnight watch in consequences.

Soon a large American car pulled over and

stopped. I stuck my head in the open window and

was greeted by a burly, cigarette-smoking gentleman

wearing slacks, a short sleeve white shirt, and grinning at me with a big smile.

“Where ya headed?” he asked.

and scrub brush, and I wondered what the American

if this was all they were after. Except for the Rio Grande River, it’s a pretty useless patch of earth— all mesquite and peyote, and I doubt we invaded Mexico for an endless supply of peyote.

Larry interrupted my musing. “Say, you ever seen

my face before?” he asked.

I studied him for a minute and replied, “No, can’t

“Beeville,” I replied.

“God damn! It’s your lucky day, that’s where I’m

say as I have.”

He took out his wallet from his back pocket and

headed too.”

tossed it to me onto the tuck-and-roll, bench-style

pleasantries about Laredo and Boy’s Town.

Rainey? Neshoba County, Mississippi?”

I jumped in the car and we exchanged a few “What’s yer name, son?” he drawled out in a thick

southern accent while exhaling a long stream of smoke from his cigarette.

“Tom. What’s yours?”

“My friends call me Larry. Say, you’ve got a

California accent!”

“It sounds to me like you’re the one with an

accent,” I joked.

He let out a smoker’s wheezy laugh, “You got that

right! One hundred percent pure Dixie, too!”

The car fell silent for a few miles as we zoomed

across the arid, mesquite covered plains of the

famous King Ranch, known as the world’s largest

seat. “Have you ever heard of Sheriff Lawrence I picked up his wallet and stared at the

identification card for a minute. Then, my heart jumped into my throat as I remembered where I had

seen his face before. “Jesus. I saw you on the cover of Life magazine a few years ago.”

He smirked, “Remember the caption?”

I thought for a moment but I couldn’t take my eyes

off this guy’s Deputy Sheriff ’s ID card. “Something about more Red Man?”

“That’s it! How ’bout some more Red Man!”

I remembered the ugly photo. Larry had his feet

up on the courtroom bannister and was having

a good ol’ time of it with his other Ku Klux Klan

••• 97 •••

buddies—on trial for torturing and murdering

three civil rights workers. The case was famous and

their cousins, friends, and sympathizers, found them all not guilty.

sickened the entire country.

Oh, lucky me! How did something as insignificant “I never knew what that meant,” I said.

as a flat tire put me in this car, riding through the

Three years earlier, civil rights activists James

infamous, violent, racist murderer?

“Red Man! That’s my chewin’ tobacco!”

Chaney, Andrew Goodman, and Michael Schwerner

left Meridian, Mississippi, to investigate a church

arid plains of Southeast Texas with America’s most I asked, “Didn’t they convict you guys?”

“Oh, hell no,” he said. “But I did get six months

burning in the eastern part of the state. The Ku Klux

probation for knocking the shit out of that Stokely

had allowed it to be used as a place for voting rights

standing in the middle of the street blocking traffic.

Klan had burned the church because its minister activists to organize and to recruit. After the three

had gone into Neshoba County to investigate, they were stopped and arrested by Neshoba deputy Sheriff

Carmichael character with a bat. Damn fool is I asked him to move it and he started givin’ me a bunch of lip…so I smacked him.”

I took a quick look at his large, steel-drivin’ man’s

Cecil Price. After initially arresting them, Price freed

forearms and imagined that he didn’t need a bat to

them as they were leaving town. Rainey then turned

Stokely Carmichael for having the guts to stand up

them and informed Lawrence Rainey who captured them over to his fellow Klansmen.

Rainey and his KKK friends took the activists

hurt anyone, and I became an instant admirer of to him, especially in Rainey’s home town.

For the next sixty miles I listened to this psycho-

to a remote area where they were beaten and shot

sociopath tell me all about states rights, segregation

tortured even worse than his other two friends. After

this guy out with my side of the conversation and

to death. Chaney, being black, was taken aside and several weeks of searching, and after recovering

more than a dozen bodies not belonging to the missing civil rights workers, FBI authorities finally

found them buried under an earthen dam. Several

Klansmen, including my driver, Larry, were arrested

and tried for the brutal killings. The jury, made up of

and race relations. I wish I could say that I straightened

my opinions about loving your fellow man, but his ignorance went beyond skin deep. I came to realize

though, just how brave those early civil rights workers were, along with the courageous civil rights

activists. Those college kids dove deep into the heart of Dixie to help people of color under siege. They put

••• 99•••

their beliefs on the line, and Larry and his buddies

California, and that the community I was raised in

I changed the subject and asked him, “Are you

together without any trouble at all, and that I had

had killed them.

still working as a sheriff ?”

“Not after all that publicity I got from the Feds,”

was totally integrated—everyone worked and lived friends of all races and religions.

He was actually stunned. I thought for a moment

he said. “After all that shit, I couldn’t get a job doin’

I might have actually caused him a bit of rethinking

“So, what are you doing nowadays if you don’t

laughed and said, “Damn! I don’t know how you can

nothin’ for nobody.” mind me asking?”

He removed a business card from his wallet and

his hatred. That, or he was going to slug me. Then he stand it!”

Arriving in Beeville, I begged off his offer to drive

handed to me proudly. “I was a security guard, but

me another ten miles outside of town to drop me off

for the growers.”

and personable guy, and I’m sure that if you weren’t

these days I’m workin’ as a management consultant “You mean like a lawyer?” I asked.

He laughed, “I should be a lawyer with all the

legal shit I’ve had to go through.”

Larry lit another cigarette and let out a long

stream of smoke. “I break up strikes and shit like that. We work with the local farmers, and sometimes

at the base entrance. Lawrence Rainey was a friendly black, Mexican, a hippie, or a liberal civil-rights Jewish activist, Sheriff Lawrence Rainey might even

be your buddy. Like many folks in Beeville, as long

as you agreed with every idiotic thing they believed in, there’d be no trouble.

On a quiet Saturday morning six months later, I

you’ve got to knock some heads together if that’s

received an emergency phone call as I was standing

braceros are nothin’ but trouble.”

had been found in the woods just outside of town

whats called for. Shit, these fuckin’ wetbacks and Lawrence Rainey was still a vicious, dangerous

killer who was on the payroll as a hired thug. I told Lawrence that I didn’t understand the South at all.

“Wouldn’t it be easier to govern people if they

were well paid and happier?”

I told him about how different we were out in

watch in the photo lab. The caller told me that a body and that it might be a sailor. They requested I take

a Navy vehicle to the courthouse where I would be

met by the local Texas Ranger. The Ranger assigned to Beeville was legendary and had a reputation for

being a mean bastard. If one looked closely at his old-fashioned six shooter, which would be a serious

••• 100 •••

mistake, one would find sixteen small notches

twenty feet up. Wire was wrapped numerous times

killing—legally, of course. One guy he had killed

two feet to the noose. It was empty.

on the wooden handle—each one represented a was shot while trying to escape, even though he was

around the branch and then it dropped down about Below the noose the police were looking at a

handcuffed to a steel support pole in a nightclub.

crumpled body lying in a fetal position. The body

here,” I said while looking around at all the rifles and

through the neck and it had fallen to the ground.

“This is a pretty well-equipped car you’ve got

shotguns clipped in to various gun racks as we sped off to the location of the body.

The Ranger cast a cold glance in my direction. “Is

that right? How many police cars have you been in anyway?”

Something was off about this guy, and he was

itching to make me feel even more uncomfortable.

“My grandfather is a Lieutenant in the Los

Angeles Police Department. He was even acting

Chief of Police at one time. So, to answer your question, I’ve been in lots of cop cars.”

had been hanging for so long that the wire had cut I began taking pictures of the scene—the cops

standing over a partially decomposed body of a man, and a very powerful shot of the tree branch with the

wire noose. I moved in for close-ups of the body.

He had long dark hair and his clothing was dirty and loosely wrapped around his withered body. The

Beeville cop told me the details of the discovery— two young girls had found the body while riding their horses through a remote area on the ranch.

“Could be a sailor. That’s why we called you.”

“We’re pretty sure he’s not a local,” chimed in

That shut him up. After that, we drove on in

the Texas Ranger. “Make sure you get me those

road, passed the open gate of a cattle ranch and

I took a few more shots of the surrounding area,

silence for five miles or so, then turned onto a dirt drove for another mile until we came upon a cluster of Beeville cops, police cars and an ambulance.

“Get your gear and follow me.”

I followed the Ranger into the woods for a bit

photographs you’re taking.”

then stood back and looked up at the noose again.

The Texas Ranger came up next to me and a

glanced up at the noose. “Yep, looks like a suicide.”

Any idiot could clearly see this was not a suicide.

until we came to a clearing. I noticed two horses tied

How was he able to tie a wire around a branch and

noose dangling down from a heavy branch about

air? Where was the ladder he would have needed?

up to a tree nearby, then a large oak tree with a wire

wrap the noose around his neck twenty feet up in the

•••101 •••

My reaction was to laugh, “There’s no way in hell

this guy could have committed suicide? How’d he

Ranger knows something.”

“We’ll look into it, but unless it’s a sailor, there’s

even get up there?”

not much we can do. I’ll see if anyone’s missing,”

ought to just take the fuckin’ pictures and let me do

much hope of anyone doing anything.

The Ranger turned red and snapped, “Maybe you

the police work.”

replied Lieutenant O’Neill. I left his office without A month later I sat down for breakfast at a

I put my eye up to the viewfinder and heard him

restaurant in town. I knew the waitress Yolanda, a

I knew I was on some very dangerous ground

I looked up and smiled at her and was surprised

mumble, “Fuckin’ asshole.”

here, much more threatening than anything I had felt with my buddy, Larry Rainey.

“Fine with me, you’re the professional,” I replied.

“Anything else?”

The Ranger stomped off in a huff and pretty much

stayed that way until he dropped me off back in town a couple of hours later.

“I’ll get the photos to you in a couple of days,” I

said. He drove off without a word.

girl from Mexican Town I met at one of our dances. when she tossed a menu onto the table and carelessly slammed my water glass down.

“What’s wrong with you?” I asked.

“Sorry. I’m just so sick of this place. Do you know

how much money I make? Thirty-five cents an hour.”

“Jesus, Yolanda, the minimum wage is a dollar-

fifty. How can they get away with this?”

“What am I supposed to do?” she asked.

“You guys do all the work in this town, and you

Back at the photo lab I processed the film and

outnumber the whites five to one. Maybe you should

captions this time to type out on the paper strip and

Yolanda grew serious and shushed me. She looked

printed up the depressing photos. There were no

form a union or get organized somehow.”

burn on to the print.

around nervously. “Don’t say stuff like that around

Intelligence Officer, I mentioned that the local

and we know they killed him.”

Delivering them to Lieutenant O’Neill, the Naval

Ranger had called this a suicide. He shook his head in disgust and gave me a “whatayagonnado?”

“It could be a sailor like they said. But someone

lynched this guy, that’s for certain,” I said. “And, that

here. There was a guy in town trying to organize us “What? Who killed him?”

“The ranchers and farmers. They hire goons to

push us around…you know…” whispered Yolanda.

••• 102 •••

Oh yeah, I think I did know. I’m pretty certain

I had recently photographed the organizer’s murder

themselves into La Union, demanding better

management consultant and known KKK murderer,

control the strikers, wealthy farm owners had called

scene. Although I didn’t have any actual proof, Lawrence Rainey, just happened to be driving around

Southeast Texas at the same time of the lynching.

What a coincidence!

The Ranger knew the body lying beneath the

wire noose wasn’t a suicide. He hated the fact that the body had been discovered in the first place, and

hated me the minute he met me because I was going to take photographs of his murder scene.

working conditions in the melon fields. Unable to

in for reinforcements. Beeville obliged by sending

in dozens of Texas Rangers, including the Ranger I drove out with to the murder scene, and violently put

down the strike. Even by Texas standards, the attack was so brutal that the governor was forced to bring in the State Police to protect the farm workers.

What I experienced and witnessed during that

Lucky for me the Texas Ranger didn’t know that

period were the last gasps of Texas-style feudalism

had recently picked me up hitchhiking. I felt

itself and Chase Field Naval Air Station helped

his cohort, the disgraced Sheriff from Mississippi, sickened as I imagined the murdered victim suffering at the hands of his killers. After being abducted and hustled off to a remote section of the local ranch

where he was most likely beaten—the wire noose was probably wrapped around his neck while he was

being held down on the ground. His final moments of life must have been pure terror.

“Please don’t say anything,” pleaded Yolanda. “You

and class warfare. It turned out the Vietnam War bring about much needed change to the once isolated

ranching community. During the war, Beeville was overrun with thousands of young men from

throughout the country. We smothered the town’s

ability to hold back the flood of newcomers who

brought with them new influences never experienced before in such numbers by previous generations.

The Navy changed the town economically by

don’t know these people, they’ll kill you too.”

hiring locals of all races to work on the base, and

crying, “God, I hate this place.”

happened there was no going back, even after the

She turned away and marched back to the kitchen Beeville was everything my boot-camp buddies

had said it would be and more. A few months before my arrival in Texas, farm workers had organized

all at the same rate of pay and benefits. Once that war ended and the base was decommissioned.

Soon after my restaurant conversation with

Yolanda, I was called off active duty. The elections

••• 103 •••

of 1968 were approaching and President Johnson

“This is government property,” remarked the

needed to show Americans that the war was being

SP, holding up my photo of six police officers and

home. It was all bullshit of course, but I was more

a large tree with a wire noose dropping down from a

won and the time had come to bring the troops

than happy to be a part of the reduction and got off of active duty six months earlier than I was expecting to serve.

I told my friend Nancy of my good fortune, but

failed to notice that she wasn’t sharing in my joy.

She dropped her head and asked, “You’re not going to leave me here, are you?”

I was so thrilled about getting out early, I hadn’t

thought about her feelings on the subject. She had brought up a good point. We were more than just good friends, and I couldn’t leave her here—she

a Texas Ranger hovering over a body at the base of

large branch. He laid the photo off to the side. Next, he lifted up a great crystal-clear photograph of the Blue Angels flying twenty feet above the runway in tight formation. I shot it with a special camera

and super high-speed film, and although they were

going four hundred miles an hour, every rivet on the jet was in perfect focus, and you could clearly

read the pilot’s name painted on the fuselage. After

remarking what a cool photograph it was, he placed it in the government property pile.

“You know, I’d like to have something in my

hated Beeville even more than I did.

portfolio so I can get a job back home.”

don’t know what I’m going to do once I get there.”

gave it back to me. “Okay, but you have to promise

“I barely have enough money to get home, and I “I don’t care,” she said. “Please take me with you.

Get me out of this town! I’ll figure something out, I promise.”

The SP officer thought about it for a minute and

me you won’t sell it.”

“I promise,” I lied.

One might assume that two years as a Navy

On the morning of my leaving, I checked in with

photographer would prepare me for working in any

separation papers and files. The check-out should

The best job offer came from the Los Angeles

the Shore Patrol at the base gate to show them my have been a five minute quick look at my orders, but

instead turned into a two hour, thorough search of

my personal belongings, which included a few boxes of photographs I had taken during my stint.

number of positions in journalism or advertising.

County Coroner wanting to interview me for Coroner’s Photographer. It paid very well with great

benefits, but the job description required me to be

on-call, and be prepared to work nights. I pictured

••• 104 •••

myself spending evenings photographing the worst

Vietnam War casualty.

Texas murder was enough for me.

help me find a good job with a magazine,” I replied.

of human behavior and the gruesome results. One I declined the job.

“That’s a great example of photojournalism. It’ll The SP placed the photo in the government

“What’s this?” the SP asked.

This time, the photo really was government

property pile, “Sorry. Navy property.”

Finally, I was able to drive out of the base gates a

property, but it was so haunting that I didn’t want

free man, and headed into town to pick up Nancy.

fatality I had to shoot. The pilot had lost power on

porch with two small bags at her feet and holding her

to part with it. It was of a student pilot and the first

approach and had ejected himself away from the jet.

Like the running pilot, this guy was strapped in to his seat and flew through the air for a couple of hundred

feet with his chute barely open. Unlike the running

pilot, this pilot’s impact with the ground was so great

From a block away I could see her sitting on the front

head in her hands. I almost laughed as she looked so

sad and pathetic. She brightened up upon hearing the engine and ran to the car. “I thought you ditched me!” she cried.

After a long day’s drive across Texas, we arrived

that it ripped him from his seat and he tumbled end

in Las Cruces, New Mexico and got a motel room.

small tree and broke his neck.

papers and files to the Naval Reserve Center in Seal

over end for a fifty yards until he smacked into a When I got to the crash site, I found the pilot on

the ground far away from the wreckage in what yoga

calls a child’s pose. His broken neck had turned his head around, which was now facing skyward as if looking at the gray, overcast sky.

I remember working all night printing up this and

dozens of other photos for the crash officer, and was

depressed for a week. I couldn’t stop thinking about him and how proud his parents must have been of

their son, a Navy combat pilot. And now, there he was, lying dead on a lonely patch of Texas–another

My instructions were to deliver the separation Beach when I got home. But, they weren’t in a sealed

folder. I laid the papers out on the bed and began reading what the Navy had to say about me. The first few pages were pretty typical—blood type, highest

rank earned, etc. Then I came to correspondence

from the Naval Reserve Center Commander to my Selective Service Board asking that I be processed

for immediate induction into the armed forces.

That request was followed by a deluge of paperwork

from my draft board ladies which said they couldn’t process the request until form SEP-706-99876 was

•••105 •••

submitted, or whatever, and then a few more rounds of communications and stalling, and requests for carbon copies and duplicates of everything.

through each line then paused, slightly confused. He read the line once more.

“It says here that you’re RE-4.”

The Commander must have finally given up after

“What does that mean?” I answered.

getting the run-around, and ordered that I be placed

on active duty. There was paperwork instructing the

“It means you must have fucked up pretty bad.”

“No, not at all,” I said. “I’m here because I was

Shore Patrol to find me and get me to the Recruit

called off active duty, honorably discharged.”

possible.

you have any arrests or problems attending Reserve

ladies had worked out in my favor. Keeping me in the

went to.

Naval Training Center in San Diego as soon as

It appears my threats to the Selective Service

Navy, with less of a chance of being sent to Vietnam,

“What about before you went on active duty? Did

meetings? Oh…yes, those Reserve meetings I never “What RE-4 means is that you’re not eligible to

I might not come back and hunt them down as I had

attend Naval Reserve meetings or to re-enlist in the

When I got home and reported to the Seal Beach

“Oh my God. Really?” I exclaimed, maybe a bit

promised.

United States Navy.”

Naval Reserve Center, I was still expecting to be

too gleefully. “This is great!”

fulfill my two year commitment. I had grown up a

wait until you’ve been out in civilian life for a few

on cooperating this time around to get Veteran’s

gonna be shit out of luck.”

forced to attend six months of Reserve meetings to lot in the past year and a half, and I was planning benefits such as the G.I. Bill.

“Hey! Don’t get too happy about this buddy. Just

months. You’ll be begging to get back in, and you’re

Leaving the Seal Beach Naval Base, I was

Still, it was fall of 1968, and I was back home

absolutely free from the threat of dying while

the Navy and wanted my life back. I was impatient

for me down Main Street or banners thanking me

with a cute girlfriend. I had experienced enough of to make up for lost time and like most returning

veterans, I just wanted to party for at least as long as I was in the military. I sat quietly as the clerk looked

through my separation papers. He carefully read

wearing a military uniform. There were no parades for my service to the country. I had made it home safely and that was good enough. We celebrated my

homecoming by going to see 2001–A Space Odyssey, and immediately fell asleep.

••• 106 •••

Contrary to the Naval Reserve clerk’s prediction,

up popped the front page, and what a surprise it

have that RE-4 on my permanent record, I could re-

Beeville, what would be the odds that on my first

I haven’t spent one second thinking that if I didn’t enlist in the military.

Did I stay in Texas seeking justice for the unknown

civil rights martyr who was obviously killed by the wealthy white landowners and their goons? No, I did

not. I made one final stop after leaving Chase Field Naval Air Base, and that was to pick up Nancy, and

was. Out of all the years that had passed since I left

visit in forty-five years, I would read the headline in large, bold print about my favorite hamburger and the secret ingredient to my Navy Diet:

“GOING OUT OF BUSINESS! WHATABURGER! TO CLOSE ITS DOORS TODAY.”

drive almost non-stop until we were safely out of the state of Texas.

A few years ago, I would begin to write my second

screenplay titled, Bee City Ascension. The story is

about three young hippies in 1967, who travel to Texas to turn-on rednecks with pot and LSD to keep

them from volunteering for Vietnam. One of them

becomes involved with the local Tejanos in a labor strike, and I suspect you can guess what happens to him.

I hadn’t been to Texas since leaving in 1968, so

I did a Google search on Beeville to get a feel for the place once again. I discovered articles about the

closing of Chase Field and the state turning it into a prison, data regarding Beeville’s location, pictures of the courthouse with an old fighter jet parked out on the lawn, and news of a new oil field nearby.

The local newspaper, The Beeville Bee-Picayune,

featured an online version. I clicked on the link and

••• 107 •••

CHAPTER THIRTEEN

TEENAGE JESUS

W

hat kind of response was I expecting

anyway? When my Teenage Jesus website finally got designed and

was up and running, I was expecting thousands of

requests from parents and kids racing to buy my

poster of Jesus, The Teenage Years. I thought this could

The following is a small sampling of what I received: You wanted comments? You got comments. I think your picture is nothing short of blasphemy.

I raised two sons to honor and revere Jesus without any such tripe. Maybe the problem with children who don’t honor God properly, is really a parent problem.

end up as popular as the very famous and successful

Randy

envisioned my PayPal account soaring into the tens

was this one from Tabitha:

Farrah Fawcett poster of the seventies, and I

Out of the hundreds of responders my favorite one

of thousands of dollars. Couldn’t this poster work as a

It was not to long ago that I was a hard-to-raise teenager. As I look upon this poster I want to cry and throw up. This portrays Jesus as a sexual being. And the chick with her tit showing.......now what’s up with that?

Disgusting. Disgraceful. In this photo it looks as if Jesus is a big time player. Like he is about to take her home and hit it from the back. His shirt open with a t a t t o o ?

Come on. I can’t even begin to understand who and why someone would ever portray Jesus in such a manner. I love hip hop, reggae R&B, Rock and many other forms of

bridge between parents and their teenagers—a little understanding between the two worlds? Well, that

was my marketing philosophy anyway. But I didn’t have a clue about how crazy the religious fervor

that has taken over our country in the past twenty years or so has become. I discovered not everyone

appreciated a little levity when it came to the subject

of Jesus either. On the website, I invited comments.

••• 109 •••

art that relay the message of Jesus Christ and I consider myself open. But my God and WOE UNTO YOU !!! I am so fearful for you it’s no joke. I am sure you have heard something of this before and I can’t believe you still have it on-line for viewing. I have seen wholesome teenage believers and I tell you they look nothing like the guy in this poster. It doesn’t matter what “Your” views are it’s what the Bible says, find some proof that Jesus could have possibly looked or acted like a male gigolo. You all should be ashamed of yourselves and repent and preach another message through art. He sure looks very happy standing next to a woman with her tit showing........wonder what would happen when they left that scene.......oh no God forbid pre-marital sex? Would you want that for your son?

Unbelievable !!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!

I promise to buy One thousand copies if you provide me with some biblical scriptural proof that permits you to do something like this. You have my word, One -thousand-copies.WWJD ?

Tabitha Jones

As much as I would have liked Tabitha to have

purchased a thousand posters, it would have meant looking through the Bible once again, and after years

of that nonsense, I was all tapped out on the Bible.

I don’t understand why the young woman in the painting pissed her off so much, as it clearly states

anyway.

Tabitha missed the point of my painting: the

phase when teenagers are faced with a host of pressures, from the changes of puberty to questions

about who they are and where they fit, especially in the case of Jesus, when dozens of children were

killed in Bethlehem because of his birth. That’s a huge burden to be saddled with and might explain why there wasn’t much written about him during those years.

At about the age of ten or twelve, the child

begins to realize that mom and dad don’t control the universe. Dad is neither the strongest man on

earth nor the richest, he’s just a carpenter. And mom

doesn’t have time for her little angel anymore because

she’s pregnant with her fourth child. It is also the time the child begins to place more importance on friends than family. From twelve years on, the child is missing in action, disappearing altogether from the written history of the family—pretty much like

the story of Jesus in the Bible. And that’s my theory of why there is no record of Jesus in the Bible from

the ages of twelve to twenty-eight, the so-called missing years.

Many Christians will confidently boast that Jesus

in the Bible that Jesus consorted with whores and

was studying in a monastery during the missing

she would have sent me the twenty-thousand bucks

find anything in the Bible about Jesus performing

thieves. I haven’t heard back from her, but I doubt

years, preparing for his ministry. Although you won’t

••• 110 •••

miracles at eight or ten years of age, your Sunday

kissing Teenage Jesus for good luck before heading

Jesus the child that are a complete fabrication. I

friends stood in front of the painting, admiring the

school teacher will make up all kinds of stories about argue, using their own words, that there are things

God strongly dislikes—a lying tongue, a false witness

who breathes out lies, and one who sows discord among brothers just to name a few.

Others have yelled at me over the phone that

out to school or play. On another occasion, two girl handsome young Jesus.

“What do you girls think of our Teenage Jesus?”

asked Tina.

The older girl swooned then said, “I’d do him.”

I struggled with the concept of a teenage Jesus

everyone knows Jesus was in India! I’ve read that he

when I began sketching. What should he look like?

merchant. Folks in Bristol believe he spent a winter

with olive skin and black hair. And he would be

was in Britain helping his uncle Joseph, a wealthy

there loading his ships with lead to take back to the Romans for their plumbing. Bristol is also where the Crusaders first searched for the Holy Grail.

For certain, my Jesus would be dark, Middle-Eastern

strong, built like a brick shit-house after years of doing carpentry.

I discovered that Mary’s uncle, Joseph of

It’s a useless conversation, and that’s not why I

Arimathea, was a Provincial Roman Senator and

by my son, simple as that. Our little angels, the ones

council in ancient Jerusalem. I had been taught

painted Teenage Jesus in the first place. I was inspired who only want you to let them help you in the worst way—to sweep or make cookies—they disappear as

teenagers. Then a miracle occurs if you’re lucky, and they return to you around the age of twenty-eight. In fact, many of them are saints.

I sold the painting to my friends Brad and Tina,

and was happy to see them spend a small fortune on the frame. They have two daughters who attended

a Catholic high school. One day while cleaning, Tina noticed lipstick marks on the protective glass of the painting. It turned out that the girls had been

a ranking member of the Sanhedrin, the supreme

that Jesus and his family were poor carpenters, but when wealth such as Joseph’s was so close at hand, I

realized that I had been hoodwinked by my Catholic school upbringing once again. Even if they weren’t

wealthy, they were at least middle-class. There was a building boom going on in Israel at the time—even

the most inept craftsman would have been raking in money.

My Teenage Jesus became a confident eighteen

year-old with a purse full of cash from his contracting

work. There was a housing boom in the Holy Land,

••• 111 •••

and a smart, experienced carpenter with connections

thought so much about Jesus in my entire life. With

when he became a powerful teacher with a dozen

one would think I should at least have an honorary

would take advantage of those conditions. Later on, apostles and hundreds of disciples, it could have easily originated from his experiences supervising crews

all the time and research I’ve put into Teenage Jesus, degree in divinity studies.

Recently, a conservative talk show host woke up

of masons, plumbers, landscapers, and construction

in the middle of the night with the idea of writing

this period of his life, my theory is as good as any

instructed him to do it while he was asleep. I wish

crews. As there is no information on Jesus during others.

My life with Teenage Jesus took a new turn when a

friend introduced me to his new girlfriend who was a film producer. I showed her a print of the Teenage Jesus painting and she fell silent for a few moments

a book about Jesus. He announced that God had I could say the same for my inspiration, but God

doesn’t like liars. Plus, the talk show host’s revelation

doesn’t sound any better than mine. At least I was awake when I got my instructions.

During my research, I discovered through

while she studied the image.

astrological and astronomical information that a

“This would make a great movie!”

the old city of Jerusalem around the time of the birth

“Where did you get this idea from?” she asked.

She encouraged me to write a brief synopsis,

maybe two or three pages at most, and not to worry

about the story because the painting itself would sell the script. I emailed her a few pages and after reading

them, she told me that I should write more—try a

thirty-five page treatment, as my storytelling was pretty good. The thirty-five page treatment then turned into a screenplay.

Ten years later, I still haven’t sold the screenplay

bright star did appear in the skies above Israel and of Jesus. This particular event occurred on April 17th, 6 BCE, inspiring, we’re told, the Three Wise Men to strike out in search of the New King of Israel who

might be located somewhere around the village of

Bethlehem. I thought this was particularly notable in that April 17th happens to be my son’s birthday—

the person in my life responsible for inspiring me to

paint and write about Teenage Jesus in the first place.

and I’ve written and re-written at least five, onehundred page scripts with different story lines and

plots about the teenage years of Jesus. I’ve never ••• 112 •••

CHAPTER FOURTEEN

MY AVENGING ANGEL

T

he painting for this chapter was my

inflatons are created. It is these inflatons who carry all

of times. They proclaim that soon the Sixth

How odd, I just painted that. It also sounded a lot

response to those who warn us of the end

Angel will appear to destroy the earth and carry them

and their brethren off to heaven, naked as they were

the DNA needed for the creation of a new universe.” like the creation of a new being.

The Rapture now took on a new meaning, much

born. It was the naked part that caught my fancy. I

different than my original concept. The painting now

their underwear and garter belts falling from their

opening, the phallic cloud erupting at the climax of

imagined Ted Cruz, Rush Limbaugh and others with bodies as they floated skyward into the wings of the

angel. The pink naked bodies and underwear ended up looking too silly, and I replaced them with fluidlike, dark entities who might be sweeping up sinners and non-believers under the mushroom cloud.

became an erotic message with the spreading wings

orgasm, and the inflatons looking a lot like sperm.

Maybe I should put the naked pink bodies back in, only this time as little baby angels in heaven, waiting to be born.

Speaking of angels and heaven. A friend ran into

The day I completed the painting, a friend

me at the store and cheerfully wished me a, “Happy

I found a brief article on inflatons. It stated that,

I jumped in enthusiastically and asked her if

dropped off an Atlantic Monthly magazine, where “Astrophysicists have determined that just prior to the Big Bang, dark fluid-like substances known as

Easter, Tom! This is my favorite holiday.”

she knew that the Christian celebration of the resurrection, which we call Easter, had originated

••• 115 •••

with the Anglo cultures of ancient Europeans.

underworld might be creeping up through cracks

all over the world!” I exclaimed. “The winter solstice

used to enjoy my talks with the Jehovah’s Witnesses

“These celebrations of spring and winter happen

celebrations by the ancient pagans were replaced

when Christianity decided the birth of Christ would be in December. A lot of our Christmas traditions come from all over the place.

“That is interesting, Tom. But, tell me about

in the earth or living under a volcano is ludicrous. I

who periodically knocked on our front door for a chat. One morning a group of Witnesses appeared on my front porch dressed in their Sunday best…or was it Saturday?

“Greetings, brother,” a sweet middle-aged female

Easter again?”

Witness said. “You know, many are blaming God for

dawn, is resurrected every year at the spring equinox.

But you know, God isn’t to blame for those tragedies.

“Well,” I began, “Eostre, the pagan’s goddess of

It was the time pagans celebrated the rebirth of life, when plants and crops would begin their life cycle once again. That’s where the Easter bunny came

the terrible earthquake and tsunami in Indonesia.

He did not do that.”

“I know,” I answered.

She quickly interrupted me before I could tell

from also—Eostre’s earthly manifestation is that of

her about plate tectonics, the north-south trending

and spread them around the countryside. When the

Indo-Australian Plate.

a rabbit, and it was the rabbit who took Eostre’s eggs monks began bringing Christianity to the pagans,

fracture zones, and the strike-slip motion of the “It was Satan,” she stated matter-of-factly.

they piggy-backed the existing holiday with the resurrection of Jesus occurring at the same time as

“I don’t believe in Satan,” I said.

They recoiled in horror. It was as if I had thrown

Eostre’s resurrection—spring. Isn’t that interesting?”

a bucket of water on the Wicked Witch of the East.

Easter,” once more, then continued her shopping.

off my porch. I shut the door and stood in the living

She smiled politely and wished me, “Happy Two weeks later, the same friend bumped into

Kim on the street and remarked, “I had no idea that Tom was a communist.”

Then there’s the subject of Satan, a great topic

for horror movies, but to truly believe that the

I’m certain I saw them melt, turn dark and slither

room trying to grasp what I had just witnessed.

Maybe it was a hallucination or an acid flashback, but that was really weird…and maybe I should reconsider my attitude about Satan. The good thing is, they never returned to pester me anymore.

••• 116 •••

Like the conservative talk-show host, I had a

dream with God in it too. God was an intense bright

protector, but was my Avenging Angel also.

When I began my career as a graphic artist I made

light with bearded face. It was a pleasant sunny day, and

some costly, amateurish mistakes such as not getting

on top of a green grassy hill under a tree. I couldn’t help

designs I created got printed or the signs I painted

we passed the time with small talk and light conversation

myself, and asked him the following question: “What is the purpose of life?” God smiled all-knowingly, and

answered my question, which I now suspect was a prank.

What He said astonished me in its simplicity. I

thought, no wonder man hasn’t been able to figure it out. We’ve been thinking calculus, when in reality, it’s

a deposit before beginning the work. Sometimes the

went up on the walls, and my invoice would get

ignored, the checks would bounce, or they’d pull a

stop-payment on me. Once I got the lame story that the IRS was investigating them and they couldn’t pay me.

These rip-offs hurt us financially and emotionally,

even more simple than one plus one equals two! I knew

then we started noticing strange and odd coincidences

up, I would be able to remember what God had told

out of business, got fired from their jobs, and in the

I was dreaming, and told myself that when I woke

me. It was so simple after all, who wouldn’t be able to remember it?

I awoke immediately and I almost got it out…I

was so very close. But no matter how hard I tried, I

couldn’t remember what God had told me. It was on

the tip of my tongue, but that’s as far as it got. And

occurring—clients who screwed me over soon went worse case, one business burned to the ground. At

parties Kim would laugh at all this and tell everyone

jokingly, “don’t mess with Tom—he’s got a serious Guardian Angel protecting him.” For many years it

was a story we would tell at dinner parties for laughs.

Then one day while surfing, I had a run-in with

that’s where the secret to the universe has remained

a first-class asshole and very territorial surfer with

One of the beliefs I still carry with me no matter

of the water, and I fought back. It was truly an ugly

ever since…right on the tip of my tongue.

how hard I try to distance myself from Catholic school is the concept of a Guardian Angel, whom I

a pack of thuggish friends who tried to run me out experience that I hope to never repeat.

Weeks after the incident I couldn’t shake the

credit with coming to my aid more than once. But it

incident. My stomach was in a knot and I prayed that

discovered that my Guardian Angel wasn’t only my

or maybe his girlfriend or wife would leave him

wasn’t until Kim and I began our relationship that I

a tire would fall off his car while he was driving—

••• 117 •••

for another woman—something to fit the crime.

Eventually I calmed down and fortunately, I never ran into him again.

Two years later, Kim and I were invited to a

Christmas party thrown by one of my clients. It was a

“Oh yeah, or he used to. At one time he was a

big time surfer—he used to be one of the dominant surfers out at the Lane.”

“Is he sick or something?” I asked.

“It’s really sad. On a surf trip he got really ill and

big affair and the company had rented the Cocoanut

they had to fly him back home. It turned out he had

friends with lots of champagne, gobs of delicious

My double-take must have sent a signal to Kim,

Grove Ballroom. They supplied their employees and

appetizers, and up on stage was a rocking band playing a lot of Beatle music.

While we were talking to Al, my contact at the

cutaneous lymphoma—incurable skin cancer.”

because when I turned to her with a tight grimace on my face, she was staring at me in shock.

She grabbed my arm tightly and gasped, “Tom!”

company, he suddenly turned away to greet a thin, emaciated-looking guy walking arm-in-arm with his

“What? I didn’t do anything!”

“You had better have a talk with that Angel of

wife or girlfriend. Al gave the thin guy a big hug and

yours,” Kim ordered.

it dawned on me that the wife or girlfriend wasn’t

Dying over possessing waves is a ridiculous way to

I took another look and realized that this withered

poor guy suffered enough already? But in my heart,

wished him a Merry Christmas. As I looked closer, just walking with the guy, she was holding him up. poor soul was the angry local I had the run-in with

two years earlier. He didn’t recognize me of course.

Our beef was long forgotten—hell, I was most likely only one of hundreds of guys he had screamed at and butted heads with in the water.

I went home and prayed for the angry local.

go. I begged my Angel to please back off. Hadn’t the

I knew my prayers would probably go unanswered.

My curse had been set in motion, and there’s no

turning back once that happens. It was already too late to save him.

After a few moments of small talk, the angry local

and his partner strolled off. Al quietly followed them with his eyes until the crowd enveloped them and they were gone.

“Hey Al,” I asked. “Does that guy surf ?”

••• 118 •••

CHAPTER FIFTEEN

MY FIRST FUNERAL

T

ears flowed from my eyes onto the small

bugs, or any other food that could be regurgitated

offering my deepest and most sincere

Tim and I had raced up to Skip’s house upon

mound of dirt at my knee as I prayed,

and shoved into their hungry mouths.

apologies to the bird for taking its life. It was a

learning that his mom had bought him a new

it back, I would. I had placed wildflowers under a

hearted, lovable lady and a child spoiler. She called

thoughtless act of stupidity and if I could only take crudely made stick cross on the mound just a few

yards from where the pigeon had spiraled from its perch, dead before it hit the ground. The ceremony was brief, but only because Tim and Skip couldn’t stop laughing at me as I mourned.

My victim’s only crime was to be in the wrong place

at the wrong time, sitting on a tree branch, resting in the sun. Maybe it had been watching the three boys

thirty feet below playing with the chubby boy’s new

toy. The boys were chattering, unintelligible to the

bird, but sounding much like young squabs waiting

for a meal as mom and dad searched for fruit, worms,

archery set for his birthday. Skip’s mom was a warmher chubby little boy, Skippy. Skip’s mom insisted

he play an instrument and bought him a gorgeous accordion—against his will of course, because Skip

wanted to be James Dean, Elvis, or some other juvenile delinquent. His mom forced him to practice

almost daily and occasionally give performances at

the Accordion Academy, or wherever it is kids are forced to play, Lady of Spain, or Three Coins in The Fountain.

We first met Skip when he rode his bicycle with

goose-neck riser handlebars and red streamers over to our school, looking for the toughest kid at Edison

••• 121 •••

Elementary. He boasted to us that he’d already been

do think like we do. Was he laughing to himself as

punk school. He was now the toughest kid at the

dropping it twice already to the ground? Maybe

kicked out of Edison, which in his opinion was a

much larger, Roosevelt Elementary, and was itching

for a fight to establish his reputation in two schools

that he was a bad little dude. Skip didn’t have to look

any further as Tim was the toughest kid at Edison.

My brother told Skip to get off his bike so he could

he watched me fumble with the bow and the arrow, he looked away briefly, instinctively reacting to a large shadow flying overhead. Or possibly, he was

distracted by the older boys, laughing and teasing me as I struggled.

Eventually, I did manage to slip the arrow’s

pound his fat ass. Skip looked Tim over for a second

nock onto the string and pulled back on the bow

was the end of that showdown.

concentrating, my face turning red from the strain.

and then extended his hand in friendship—and that

The archery set came with a beautiful wood bow,

with all my might—my mouth clenched tightly, I’ve never understood why the pigeon didn’t see

cardboard targets and a quiver full of arrows sharp

the arrow as it left the bow and headed straight

dad had even purchased a bale of hay to mount the

have saved his life.

enough to deeply pierce through the target. Skip’s target onto.

While Tim and Skip set up the target, I grabbed

toward him. A head bob to the right or left might Do pigeons play chicken?

All grief and tears aside, it was an incredible shot

the bow and took an arrow out of the canvas quiver.

only an expert archer might be capable of. Although,

I looked up and spotted my target sitting on a

whimpered out an, “oh, no!” And despite the fact that

Then I looked around for something to shoot at.

branch thirty feet up in a tree. “Tim! Skip! Watch this! I’m gonna shoot that pigeon right through the middle of his neck!”

Of course I knew there was no chance in hell I

would be able to do such a thing—I had never even

once I saw the trajectory of the arrow’s path and I reached out to try and stop it. I could only watch

in horror as it sailed right to where I promised the Sheriff of Nottingham it would hit—clean through the middle of the pigeon’s neck.

used a bow and arrow before.

I’ve often wondered what the pigeon might have

been thinking about at the time of its death—if they

••• 122 •••

CHAPTER SIXTEEN

I LEARNED A NEW WORD

T

im and I had spent the past year delivering

Fritos. We could have turned into roly-poly, fat kids,

am, gulped down a bowl of cereal and a hot

pounds of newspapers strapped onto our handlebars,

the morning newspaper. We woke at four

chocolate, then peddled our bikes to the newspaper shack. There, we folded our papers, secured them

quickly with rubber bands, stuffed them into canvas

bags hanging off our handlebars, and headed off

but bicycling five miles every morning with thirty

then evenings spent walking the neighborhood

collecting from our customers took care of any weight issues.

The amount of money spent on treats was nothing

on our route. We did this seven days a week, then

compared to what we spent on records. At night

money from our customers. And you’d be surprised

by our grandfather until we fell asleep. The next

spent a few evenings during the month collecting

how many adults will screw over a hard-working kid out of three bucks just to get a free newspaper for a month.

I don’t know what our hourly wage was, but we

had money, lots of money. Some of it we spent on

treats while collecting—Cokes, Twinkies, fruit pies, and occasionally, an entire barbecue chicken from the Pantry Market, accompanied by a giant bag of

we’d listen to the hits on a homemade radio built

day we would race out to buy the records and play

them on our record player, also built by grandpa.

Our collection of 45 RPM records climbed into the hundreds and filled our bedroom. We learned the lyrics and melodies to hundreds of songs, and knew the names of every recording artist.

I have friends who laugh at me for not only

knowing the names of artists and lyrics to rock and

••• 123•••

R&B tunes, but I can sing along with the background

to destroy. By the time she was done and left the

Meanwhile, our laundry was not getting done and

n-roll collections ever amassed by paperboys. The

singers and know the horn arrangements too.

chores were being ignored. Old socks and dirty jeans

filled the floor. My mother, who rarely yelled at us, must have asked us to clean our room one too many

room, she had destroyed one of the greatest rock-

pile of broken records covered the floor at least five inches deep.

I pushed aside the pile lying before me with my

times. One day, while we were lounging around

foot, and there, hidden under all the rubble, was

room screaming, “This place looks and smells like a

carnage. I picked it up and read the title: Ain’t that a

listening to music, she snapped and burst into our pig-pen. You two clean this mess up now, or else!”

“Or else what?” taunted brother Tim.

one single record that had managed to escape the Shame, by Fats Domino.

How weird is that? I thought. I was only eleven,

“Or else I’ll break every one of your stupid records

and didn’t yet have a word for what I was seeing, but

Tim sat up from his place on the top bunk, eye

Year’s later, the Loma Prieta earthquake would

if you don’t get this room cleaned up!”

I knew there must be one.

to eye with mom. I could tell she wanted to smack

rip through Santa Cruz, damaging thousands of

a thing.

our house once the shaking stopped, we walked

him, even though it wasn’t in her nature to do such “So?” jeered Tim. “I’ll just go steal some more.”

buildings and killing dozens of people. Inspecting

through rooms of broken glass and found our large

Mom blinked in shock. “What did you say?”

I couldn’t believe my older brother was carelessly

treading on such a dangerous, thin line.

“Go ahead and do it,” replied Tim. “I don’t care.”

With that last remark, my mother went completely

mad. She picked up a handful of records, threw them to the ground and stomped them to bits and pieces.

bookcase, filled with hundreds of books, had been

left undamaged and intact. Only one book had managed to sail off the shelf.

We looked down at the book lying on the floor ten

feet from the bookcase and read the title: Something Happened, by Joseph Heller.

“Break some more,” goaded Tim.

For the next twenty minutes, over and over, she

stomped and broke records until there were none left

••• 124 •••

“Well, that’s ironic,” said Kim.

CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

GOD’S COUNTRY

W

e dropped off Nancy’s friend at the

of floating above the clouds. After starting the car, I

fight in Vietnam. After a tearful

waiting for the heater to warm up and spent a few

San Antonio airport, on his way to

goodbye, Bradley’s girlfriend Marsha refused to

attend a concert we were going to in Austin later

that evening, and instead, took a sad bus ride back home alone to Beeville.

Late into the night, I couldn’t keep awake any

longer on the long return drive to town. After an

wrapped my arms around the steering wheel while minutes gazing in wonder at this enchanting yet

haunting landscape. I began to drive as slowly as possible. I aplogized to the fog for disturbing it, but it parted gracefully, allowing us to pass through—no apology necessary.

I soon became aware of a large dark object moving

immaginary a buffalo ran across the highway, I

quickly through the woods in my periphery. Without

to crash out. Nancy climbed into the back seat and

and the size of a sleek thoroughbred horse made a

admitted defeat and pulled onto a remote back road

wrapped herself in a jacket as a blanket, and I stretched across the front seat of the car, uncomfortable as hell with my jacket as a pillow.

I awoke before dawn half-frozen, and found us

enveloped in a low fog hugging the ground. The low mist gave the small hills and large oaks the appearance

warning, a jet-black deer with a massive set of antlers

right turn and leapt over the road barely fifteen feet in front of me in a single bounce. I slammed on the brakes and watched his journey across a long meadow

jumping from cloud to cloud, bounding fifteen feet

with each leap until he eventually disappeared into the woods beyond.

••• 125 •••

CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

THE END OF MY CHILDHOOD

M

om and dad raised seven children

drive up his winding road for thirty minutes to get

marriage. They both remarried and

he told me that he had another stomach episode and

and divorced after seventeen years of

had another child with their new spouse. Out of all

the crazy, dangerous activity from the original seven, there hadn’t been one broken bone among us. And

to his mountain-top home. Greeting me at the door, didn’t know if he should go to the game as the pains were usually followed by a fever.

I thought, god damn it. He could have at least called

then, half-brother Matt broke his neck surfing at the

me and told me this before I drove all the way up here.

of accidents, mostly in cars. As for me, I didn’t even

I took a deep breath to calm myself and made a

age of sixteen, and my half-sister Angela had a string get a cavity until I was twenty, which I attributed to stress from being in the military.

This golden age of healthy siblings ended when,

at the age of fifty-seven, my brother Patrick, walked

into the hospital and died. He had been suffering for

months with a pain in his stomach, which he was told might be the flu or a gall bladder issue, but he and his doctors didn’t take it too seriously. Only two weeks earlier, I had taken him to a baseball game.

On the day of the baseball game, I made the long

Before I could say anything I would later regret, beeline to the kitchen sink for water. I didn’t want

him to see me being so uncaring about his pain. I

took a big gulp of water and counted to five or six.

I turned around and saw Pat parked on a chair with

his small red suitcase sitting on the floor next to him, packed for our overnight stay in San Francisco. He

hadn’t noticed my anger, but I wish I had known something was seriously wrong with him. Looking

at him, the only thought that came to my mind was … vulnerable.

••• 127 •••

“How do you feel now?” I asked.

“Fine,” he said. “But I’m worried about the fever

showing up, which it usually does following the stomach pain.”

“How about if we go, and if you start feeling shitty,

I’ll turn around? Hell, it’s only a baseball game.”

We had the best drive ever. We played music all

the way to San Francisco and talked almost nonstop. We met my son Ethan at his house, then took the BART as close as we could to the ballpark.

My first clue that something more serious was

going on other than the flu was when Pat asked how far we had to walk.

“About six blocks,” I answered. Pat balked at the

short walk, which struck me as odd — he was an incredible athlete, much better than me at almost

every sport except surfing, and only that because I

street after the game at the same time, and we found

ourselves being pushed along to the BART station without any alternative escape routes. I kept tabs on Pat’s endurance, but he was happily talking about the game and double-timing right along with the

rest of us. Two miles later, we ended up at Union

Square looking for something to eat. After dinner, we walked another mile until all of us wanted a cab ride to Ethan’s house.

My son’s wife, Tiffany, laid out two blow-up beds

for us, a large double, and the other a twin. I told Patrick to sleep on the double and I took the smaller

one. We didn’t flip for the bigger bed as we might have done in the past, or I could have claimed the

bigger bed as it was my son’s house and I did the driving. Plus, I’m older.

I didn’t hesitate for a second and said, “You take

surfed twice as much as he did.

it.” I don’t know why I did so either, except now

“Taxi!” A cab immediately pulled over and took us

got the more comfortable and larger bed, and had a

He hadn’t been feeling well earlier, so I yelled out,

the short distance to the ballpark.

The game was boring as hell. It was a pitcher’s

duel with three runs scored between both teams, but

that he’s gone, it gives me great comfort to know he trouble-free, great night’s sleep. Strange how it’s the little things you remember.

A week later, Pat called to tell us he was canceling

my brother was a serious Giants fan and he had a

out on my sister’s birthday party in Southern

but I would much rather have seen more hitting,

speaking in a low, breathy, gravely tone.

great time cheering the home team. The Giants won, home runs, and base stealing.

California. He was barely able to get the words out ,

Thirty-five thousand fans streamed out onto the ••• 128 •••

“What’s wrong with your voice?” asked Kim. “Nothing,” answered Pat.

“No, there’s something different going on.”

Concerned, Kim told me we had to find out just

how sick he had become. We headed up to Pat’s

house to find him barely able to get out of his lounge chair, and according to his girlfriend, he had stopped

the drive home from our first visit to the hospital, my

mom fretted that her son was in the last stages of life, suffering from terminal anxiety. I was pretty certain she was wrong and she was just being dramatic.

At the same time, my son was scheduled to leave

eating. Pat finally admitted to us that the doctors

on vacation and mentioned canceling it.

in his colon.

worked hard all year and you need a vacation. It’s not

had discovered a four centimeter malignant tumor “Why me?” he wondered aloud, stunned that life

didn’t seem to care about his many accomplishments.

“Don’t cancel your trip, Ethan,” I said, “You’ve

like Pat’s going to die next week.”

How wrong I was. At the hospital we waited for

“Tell everyone I’m okay. I don’t want anyone to

a good word but only saw Pat getting worse. In the

He told us he had a colonoscopy scheduled for

Pat was hovering near death. She thought she’d be

worry and wreck Terese’s birthday party.”

the following week, and we promised when we got

back we’d do all we could to help him with doctor’s appointments, shopping, or cooking. But Pat had more than a single four centimeter tumor in his colon — he had five more, much larger tumors that

waiting room, Terese said she couldn’t believe that the first kid to go. Her older sister Cathy said she

always thought it was her to be the first of us kids to die. I nodded in agreement and said I thought she would be the first one, too.

“Thanks Tom!” cried Cathy.

he failed to mention to us, and those had spread to his liver.

On the way home from Terese’s party, Kim and

I were informed that Pat had shown up for his colonoscopy and collapsed in the lobby. He was now in ICU with renal kidney failure. We were all

“Hey, you said it.”

Pat had stage four colon cancer that was spreading

quickly throughout his entire system, and one week

after showing up at the hospital for a colonoscopy he died.

On the day they were going to unplug him, I

hoping this was some kind of a misdiagnosis. I still

hugged him and held him close. I told him how

doctors explained to us about high-calcium levels in

him. My heart physically ached from seeing him

couldn’t believe that my brother was deathly ill. The

his blood, which happens when you’re anemic. On

much I loved him and that I was really going to miss

like this, when just as I was about to really let my

••• 129 •••

grief cut loose, the social worker called out to me

blasted loud and repeatedly, echoing throughout the

pointing to a hospital form that needed filling out.

this point,that I snapped and turned to the car. “Shut

from the hallway. She was tapping on her clipboard, What form could possibly be so important that she

couldn’t wait five minutes for me to say goodbye to

parking structure. I was so angry and frustrated at the FUCK UP!”

To my amazement, the horn stopped immediately

my younger brother, the chubby, red-faced baby that

and I truly sensed the poor Nissan Altima apologize

My grief got shoved aside and the social worker

walking nearby was also confused and astounded

I taught to sit up?

got her forms filled out. I left Pat’s room and ran into

my stepdad who told me brother Tim needed to be picked up at the airport.

I patted myself down for the car keys and found

nothing. I returned to Pat’s room and looked under

the tables and chairs and came up empty. As I left, I patted his feet and watched as my sisters lovingly

for being so rude in my time of sadness. A man that I could shut off a car alarm by simply yelling

at it. I knew it was another miracle, but I was way too pissed off about my darling brother dying to give

a shit about miracles. How about life, that’s a good miracle.

After Pat’s passing, I was assigned the task of

wiping his fevered arms and forehead with a cool

handling the end of life decisions. Those many hoops

footsteps to the cafeteria and the outdoor lounge,

after a death, when one is emotionally the least able

towel. I searched the waiting room, retraced my checked the hospital’s lost and found located in

a far corner of the basement, hidden in a maze of

corridors. I walked out to the parking structure, hoping that maybe I had left the keys in the car. They

weren’t there, either. I felt like my tears couldn’t be

held in check much longer, but I had to try because I still needed to locate my god damn keys and pick up

we’re forced to jump through, before, during and

to do so. We were forced to rush the final farewell

so the organ donor workers could harvest his cornea (which went to a very grateful woman), ordering

the death certificates, hassling with life insurance, writing the obituary, funeral arrangements, and so much more.

A week after Pat’s death, I called the crematorium

Tim at the airport.

to ask when they would be ready for me to pick up

alarm went off as I hurried past. The obnoxious horn

the secretary. “He is being cremated as we speak.”

As I was making my way back to the hospital, a car

my brother’s ashes. “What a coincidence,” replied

••• 130 •••

Talk about getting kicked in the gut. That’s it

then, no more Pat. Nothing spiritual about this — ashes to ashes.

thought … or words: of course your brother will think of you. I’m surprised you don’t already know this.

This beautiful creature waited until it was certain

Nearly a month had past since I had taken Pat to

I clearly understood the ways of the world, then sank

out at my local beach to clear my head. I found a

as it caught up with the other two waiting for their

the baseball game when I was finally able to paddle spot to myself a few hundred yards away from the

nearest surfer, and thought about my brother. I knew

that I would never stop thinking about him, but I also wondered, now that he was no longer here and wherever he might be, would he ever think of me?

Will you think of me?

Those were my thoughts when I spotted three

dolphins swimming toward me in procession — two

below the surface and slowly swam away. I watched friend a few yards away. Then all continued on their journey.

What had been held in check for weeks now

escaped in one gasping breath and I began to sob

uncontrollably. I was in the ocean, the same water

that Pat and I had often shared with my hands cupped over my face and bawling like a baby.

dolphins side-by-side with a much larger dolphin

trailing behind. They were moving very slowly just

under the surface, and I sensed a kind of reverence for me as they approached. The two lead dolphins

dropped below the surface and passed directly under me and my board. The last dolphin which was one of

the largest dolphins I had ever seen up close, came within five feet of me and stopped. It tilted its head

and stared at me for what seemed to be five to ten

seconds. I was so stunned I stopped breathing for a moment. I don’t know what this behavior meant or

why the dolphin stopped, but I sensed that it was concerned about my emotional well-being. Then, I

felt it transmit to me via some kind of telepathy this ••• 131 •••

And, without any further interruptions.

CHAPTER NINETEEN

WHAT ABOUT THE BUTTERFLIES?

E

than and I sat on the front porch telling tall

and immortality. In fact, the ancient Greek word

overhead when a moth flew by, fluttering

of Mexico, monarch butterflies are said to carry the

tales on a clear night, gazing out to the stars

haphazardly with no particular flight pattern in mind, and seemingly no particular purpose either.

“Ethan, did you know that moths are the souls of

the recently departed?”

Ethan waited for my follow up.

“They’re basically ghosts,” I said. “That’s why

they’re always flying toward a bright light, and when you smack one, they turn to dust!”

“Pretty good, dad! I’ll bet there are tribes in the

Amazon who actually believe in that, too.”

I was making it up, of course. But there are

plenty of people who believe in butterfly myths and

legends, and most are related to the topic of death.

To the ancient Greeks, the transformation of a

for butterfly means “soul” or “mind.” In certain areas spirits of dead ancestors.

The Aztecs believed that butterflies were in charge

of taking warrior’s souls to heaven who died in battle or were sacrificed.

Two days after the 9-11 terrorist attack on the

World Trade Center, I was on the phone with my

daughter Monica. She lives in Connecticut, a short distance from New York City and Ground Zero, and where hundreds of her neighbors were victims of that

attack. Suddenly Monica gasped, “Oh my God! I’m looking out the window and you can’t believe what

I’m seeing! There are thousands of huge butterflies flying around everywhere!”

butterfly was a metaphor of the soul’s resurrection ••• 133 •••

“Is that unusual?” I asked.

“Dad, I’ve never seen anything like it!”

CHAPTER TWENTY

NO WONDER I’M CONFUSED

W

hy is it that every time we have to fill

Sol or something along those lines.

our race. How about American — isn’t

instructions to seek treasure elsewhere. “Try El

different categories to place our X on: White, Black,

Those in power thought that if there was one

out a form of some sort, we’re asked

that what we call ourselves? They give us a half dozen

My ancestors arrived in New Spain with

Norte!” they were instructed.

Hispanic, Asian, Native American, and “Other,”

Teotehuacan, there’s probably dozens of others

this information helps with medical information,

vast country. After two years of traveling throughout

which is now my race of choice. I realize a lot of but does an employment application really need to know my race?

As for my people, the ones whose genes make me

who I am, many were Americans long before the Spanish discovered them during the second wave

of conquistadores in the mid-sixteenth century. The first group of conquerors who fought to capture the

Aztec capital of Teotehuacan had already looted the

Aztec cities of their treasures. Those men then sailed

back to Spain and built vacation castles in Costa del

hidden within the mountains and canyons of this

the deserts of Northern Mexico, they arrived at the foothills of the continental spine presently known

as the Rocky Mountains. Here they discovered a heavenly land filled with forests of aspen and

pine for fire and lodging. This land was bountiful, with food for the taking — beavers, deer, bear, and streams filled with fat trout. The priests named these mountains, Sangre de Cristo.

The two-year walk into the wilderness produced

no cities of gold, and in fact, no cities at all. The

••• 135 •••

indigenous people they met along the way proved to

the Sun how much the Christian God loved them,

taken along as porters and guides. The Indios learned

His love, He sacrificed his only son for them.

be friendly and helpful, and complained little once the language of the Spanish quickly, although the

more than they could possibly imagine. And to prove No longer would the Indios be forced to sacrifice

same could not be said of the Spanish who were only

their Sacred Hearts on the altar of Montezuma.

hands on, such as gold or silver.

to honor his sacrifice, to worship the Sacred Heart of

interested in whatever riches they could get their The priests traveling with the Spanish discovered

their captives to be open-minded regarding the

creator of the universe, or at least they showed some

Those days were over. The new God only asked them

Jesus, the son of God who died for them. That and a few simple commandments.

Finally, deep in the Sangre de Christo mountains,

interest when the priests described the Christian

the weary Spanish finally discovered the treasure

the new God sounded much better than the God

wearing silver bracelets and belts. Although the

God as a loving and forgiving one. To the Indios, of the Sun, who required many sacrifices to appease his volatile nature. They had been invaded many times by the warriors of Montezuma who captured

men, women and children and took them away to be devoured by the Sun God and Montezuma.

they had been seeking when they found local Indios

Indios knew the silver to be valuable but they had

kept it a secret because of the Aztecs, who for years, had enslaved many in the south to work in their silver mines.

The Spanish, along with a small group of workers,

It made no difference to the Indios which God

began digging into the mountains in search of silver.

died they went to God in Heaven, either the new

birthplace and home back in Spain. Given land

ruled the world. They believed that when they

God’s heaven or the old God’s heaven. It made no difference, the Sun was Heaven.

As it turned out, the real treasure in this country,

at least for the priests, was found in the people

themselves, who worshipped the heart of God even

more than the priests did. It was a quick and simple

conversion once it was explained to the Children of

They named the area Trujillo, in honor of their

grants from the King, new settlers became wealthy raising sheep. The Martinez branch of the family

owned the largest sheep ranch in the west, and made a fortune furnishing U.S. Soldiers with wool for uniforms used in the Civil War and all the other

wars America was engaged in as it gobbled up land under the guise of Manifest Destiny.

••• 136 •••

With their wealth they built roads, churches and

the hands of new conquistadores flooding in from

Indios grew the population tenfold. For the soldiers

Coal was now the latest treasure to be mined,

schools, and marriages between the Spanish and the

the east coast.

from Trujillo who were now free from the Inquisition

fueling the railroads and factories of the industrial

their Jewish faith without fear of persecution. They

the Sun and the Spanish, their choice was to move

in Spain, and isolated as they were, they returned to

were the descendants of Jews and Moors who swept across Northern Africa and Southern Spain many

years earlier. Even though they had protected the

priests preaching the Gospel of Christ to the Indios, it was Allah and Jehovah who they worshipped.

In the mid-nineteenth century the Spanish lost

most of the New World in the Mexican-American

revolution. For the descendants of the Children of elsewhere or work in the coal mines, much like they

had done years earlier in the silver mines, but now

as employees and for slave wages. They were the original settlers, but now they were only a defeated

nation — turned into second-class citizens in their own country.

In 1921, a silent movie theater came to the nearby

War. Original land grants were invalidated and land

town of Trinidad. Nightly, the theater filled with

for the railroads being built throughout the west.

the images of Rudolf Valentino, Dolores del Rio, and

was sold or given to wealthy American industrialists Cattle ranchers from Texas and Kansas, looking to

expand their grazing territories destroyed the sheep

industry with the assistance of the U.S. Cavalry, ironically wearing uniforms made with wool from the Martinez family, . The final blow to the Spaniard’s

movie lovers of all ages who sat in the dark watching others flicker across the screen. The moving pictures

came to life courtesy of Salas Charlie Trujillo, an expert projectionist, hand-cranking each reel with perfect timing.

Thanks to a sunny, warm climate, the film industry

wealth came in the late nineteenth century with the

was booming in Southern California. With plenty of

The long trip from Spain, the two year march

or empty lots only a mile or two from downtown. It

collapse of the silver market.

across the New world, and two centuries of good living ended pretty quickly for the Trujillo and Martinez families. In a brief thirty-year period, they saw their land, silver mines, and their wealth fall into

open space, studios popped up on nearby farm land was a huge economic boom to the struggling little

city of Los Angeles as the new industry needed workers. Thousands of Americans left their farms or homes, boarded trains or buses, and headed west.

••• 137 •••

Charlie boarded a train for Los Angeles to join his

boys, Chuck and Bill, enough money to sail through

to, promising to return once he landed on his feet.

from the insurance company, but when it did arrive,

two brothers and left behind the girl he was engaged

When he arrived in Los Angeles he discovered there

were very few theaters and even fewer openings for a projectionist, but there were plenty of other jobs

available. He soon landed a job at a uniform laundry

the hard times. It took over a year to get the money

the little family bought new clothes, ate at the very fancy Clifton’s Cafeteria in downtown, and take a train trip to visit family in Colorado.

Years later, I would watch a remake of Pennies

service and returned to Trinidad to retrieve his future

from Heaven and leave the theater in a dark mood,

in his absence.

become so sad. I later found out that my dad hated

bride. Unfortunately, she had married another man It wasn’t long before Charlie met a beautiful girl

with thick black hair, a sultry voice, and dark eyes at a

local dance. Her name was Eloysa (Elsie) Martinez, the daughter of a sheep rancher, and an incredible

ballroom dancer anxious to get out of Trinidad.

deeply depressed, and unable to figure out why I had that movie because it reminded him of not being able

to attend his father’s funeral. I guess life experiences might also get embedded on those genes.

The Hallgren’s had worked the same farm on the

She was sixteen and he was twenty-one, and with

Island of Gotland, Sweden for over four hundred

train for Los Angeles.

along with his brother and sister, to leave the family

her mother’s permission they married and boarded a My grandmother Elsie liked to say, “Charlie

couldn’t marry the girl he loved, so he married me

instead.” After a late night poker game ten years later, Charlie was killed in a head-on car crash when his friend fell asleep at the wheel. My father was

seven years-old and the family thought he was too young to attend his father’s funeral. An Aunt took

him to the theater and they saw Pennies from Heaven.

It was in the midst of the Great Depression, but

his life insurance policy allowed Elsie and her two

years. A ten year drought forced Ludwig Hallgren

farm and emigrate to the United States. They

first entered through Canada with the help of the

Lutheran Church, who then took them to Linsborg, Kansas, for protection from anti-Swedish Midwest

farmers. Ludwig was too foreign a name for the immigration officials, so they officially changed Karl’s name to … Elmer.

There was a common feeling among the Swedish

immigrants expressed in the word, hemlangtan,

meaning longing for home. As Elmer viewed his

••• 138 •••

new home, the flat, never-ending Kansas prairie, and

On a train trip from visiting relatives, Elmer and

how it contrasted with his homeland of pine and

Elsie Hallgren’s beautiful daughter Mildred, met

streams of Gotland, he might have wondered if he

lengthy journey across the Pacific Ocean. Desmond

spruce woods, colorful meadows, and the birch-lined had made a mistake in leaving Sweden.

Relief from the monotonous flat landscape of

the plains came when Elmer became a fireman on the railroad. Daily he would travel west into the

mountains of Colorado, passing under ten-thousand

foot snow covered peaks, steep canyons, and rushing turbulent rivers. One of their stops were in the small mining towns of Trinidad and Durango to pick up cars filled with coal.

Elmer eventually met and married a young girls, a

a handsome young sailor returning home after a

Rea was a descendant of French Huguenots who were forced to flee France centuries earlier due

to Catholic persecution. Considerable numbers

of Huguenots migrated to the British Colonies,

especially to the Carolinas, Virginia, Pennsylvania,

and New York. Their talents in the arts, sciences, and industry were so respected that it was generally

felt that their exile was a substantial loss to French society.

Desmond Rea joined the Navy as a young man

Daughter of the American Revolution named Elsie

and stated that once he saw the Pacific Ocean,

who had unsuccessfully fought for Bonny Prince

would never to return to his home state of Nebraska,

Tannehill. She was a descendant of Scottish exiles Charles to restore him to the throne of England. In

1689, they were freed from an Irish prison and sent

vowed that once he packed up his belongings, he which he never did.

Des and Millie married and produced two

to Maryland to create a new colony for the English

daughters right off the bat, and much later on a

way west and finally settle in Kansas.

forties and fifties of Los Angeles, a period when cops

out of the wilderness. The family would wend their It was in Kansas as a child where Elsie remembers

being visited by her mother’s cousin Belle Star, a famous bank robbing outlaw. According to my great-grandmother, Belle was always dressed in the latest Paris fashions, and was usually accompanied by a very handsome boyfriend.

son. Des would become a policeman in the thirties, would periodically round up newly arrived gangsters

from the east and provide them a free train ticket out of town. The cops gave them a choice — either

they take the train back to where they came from, or

find themselves as a story in the L.A. Times about a

suicide of a recent arrival from the east, who ended

••• 139 •••

his life by jumping off the Main Street Bridge.

and diverse gene pool, collided with one another in

with it came drugs, gambling, and all types of vice

and Millie’s house in Lincoln Heights, one of the

It was also the heyday of the movie industry, and

crime. It was my grandfather who would receive the call to investigate a possible murder victim found in an empty lot. The body was that of a Hollywood

the bedroom of a small cottage, located behind Des original neighborhoods in Los Angeles.

Robyn was almost eighteen and Chuck nineteen,

starlet, and the murder case would become known as

when she would give birth to their second child who

Desmond was also a brilliant electrician. In his

call at work that his wife was going into labor and

the Black Dahlia Murder.

spare time, when he wasn’t electrocuting himself during one of his experiments, he built radios for and

record players for his grand kids. He turned his piano

into an electric organ, and even though a television were a rare sight, Des built one using an exposed

they would name, Tommy. My dad picked up the was at the hospital. He told his supervisor he needed to leave immediately, that the baby was due at any

moment and his father-in-law would be picking him up soon.

“Why do you need to be there?” laughed his

radar tube for the screen. Neighbors would stop in

supervisor. “You’re not a doctor!”

wait for the one or two television programs to begin

Hospital with time to spare. Grandmothers Millie

Millie and Desmond’s oldest daughter Robyn, fell

first child, Timmy. At the hospital they were met by

and stare at the greenish test pattern for hours and broadcasting — Howdy-Doody or Milton Berle.

in love with Chuck Trujillo, a boy she had known

in the neighborhood since grammar school. They became romantically involved after a double-date set

up by her sister. Robyn was movie-star pretty, as was

Dad and Des made it to the Queen of Angels

and Elsie stayed behind and took care of the couple’s

Catholic nuns who prayed for God to watch over

Robyn, and for her to safely deliver a healthy, good Catholic child.

Robyn was wheeled into the delivery room by the

Chuck. He was a popular student body president,

nurses and was met by Doctor McDevitt, Robyn’s

of the Swing Era won the Harry James trophy as the

would also be delivering a baby girl named Kim to

lead trumpeter in the band, and in 1945, at the height best trumpeter in the Los Angeles School district.

In 1946, on a warm summer evening, an ancient

obstetrician. Two months later, Doctor McDevitt

Jean and Ed Roberts at the same hospital. Twentytwo years later, these two babies would meet at a

••• 140 •••

party and fall in love. As of this writing, it appears that they will be spending the rest of their lives together.

After an eternity of floating in space, my opium

dream ended quickly. The business of a billion or more cells making more cells, was now moved by

an unseen force, massaging and pushing and forcing me head first into a strange new world. I was caught by two soft hands who held me up and introduced me to cold air. A bright lightning bolt light hit me

hard, which might have blinded me had my eyes not

been closed. Finally, I was greeted by a crowd of well-

wishers, who cheered and congratulated me on my arrival.

“It’s a boy!” announced Doctor McDevitt.

A nurse standing nearby turned her head to check

the time of birth. She looked at the clock on the wall, and noted out loud while recording the details in her

book, “Trujillo … baby boy … March fourteenth … three fourteen a.m.”

Doctor McDevitt shook his head and glanced up

to the clock. “3:14–3:14? … That’s interesting.”

••• 141 •••

C H A P T E R T W E N T Y- O N E

LIFE IS … A DREAM? “row, row, row your boat, gently down the stream,

merrily, merrily, merrily, merrily, life is but a dream…”

L

ife isn’t a dream as far as I know. Dreams

— sights, sounds, smells and information, and those

the tune did stick in my head and I haven’t

use ten percent of our brain, we need the rest of it for

don’t hurt like burns and paper cuts do. But

been able to shake it since. It’s a good mantra to live by, at least the merrily and gently parts. As I had just

need to be archived. It’s probably the reason we only warehousing.

While we sleep, the mind, now free from daily

finished reading Siddhartha by Hermann Hesse,

activities has a few moments to race about and

deserved. However, I was surprised to discover such

instantly upon demand. I don’t know if the brain

I might have assigned it more perceptive than it wisdom in a simple nursery song.

There are many theories about why we dream, and

even more about the meaning of dreams. There are

universities all over the world with dream labs working

file everything properly so that it can be retrieved uses the Dewey decimal system, or puts everything in alphabetical order, but whatever occurs up there seems to work pretty well most of the time.

When it comes to interpreting dreams, there are a

overtime to discover true function of dreams. So far,

multitude of ways of looking at things. My favorites

reported that dreaming has no adaptive function.

folks, dreams are sources of knowledge and channels

no one seems to know for certain, but they have

My own theory is that everything that makes us who we are needs to be stored somewhere. Every waking

second, we’re inundated with billions of experiences

come from primitive or ancient cultures. To those of communication between multiple worlds, which

is way more interesting and insightful than the scientists’ version.

••• 143 •••

And then there is Zolar, author of Zolar’s Dream

staring at the ceiling. I thought, What in the hell was

my old roommate, who felt Zolar’s book to be a great

I didn’t think that was possible. I had heard that if

Encyclopedia. His book was a constant companion of resource and spiritual guide.

that all about? I had just been killed in a dream.

you were killed in a dream, you died. That morning, I told my roommate my dream and he immediately

I have a dream:

I find myself walking cautiously through dense jungle,

my eyes darting to the left and right seeking out an enemy

who might be lurking behind any one of the huge trees

went to Zolar’s Dream Encyclopedia, flipping through the pages until he found the section on being killed in a dream.

And this is what Zolar had to say about my death:

or thick bushes in my view. Suddenly a massive blast

You will go mad.

myself being blown through the air before landing hard

if you ask me. Someone poor innocent being, more

When I clear my head, I am lying on my back, stunned

to heart, and fearing madness, find a nearby bridge.

followed immediately by a powerful concussion. I feel back on earth — I have just stepped on a land mine. and in shock, but not in as much shock as my fellow soldiers who are standing over me, staring in disbelief. I

lift my head and look over to my arms — they are gone.

Then I look down at my legs which were also blown off. I turn to one of the guys and beg him to finish me off.

“Kill me!” I demanded.

He slowly lifts his automatic rifle to firing position

and places it against my head. We looked into each other’s

eyes and I blink, yes. Then he pulls the trigger and I feel another strong concussion and everything goes black.

I opened my eyes and sat up and inspected my

arms and legs which were thankfully still there. I let out a deep breath and fell back onto the pillow

Well, that was a pretty irresponsible interpretation

impressionable than myself might take that advice I ignored Zolar’s wisdom and told my roommate to find another dream guru.

I reflected on the dream and the feeling of being

blown up, then shot in the head. It wasn’t much different than the time I got sucker-punched by an ex-Vietnam Vet I used to work with while arguing

about the stupid war. The noise and concussion of

stepping on a land mine in my dream felt very much

like getting slugged in the mouth while being awake.

The Vet and I had argued about the war and he

must have left the argument dissatisfied. At a party

a month later, he blind-sided me with a solid punch.

I stumbled sideways a couple of steps and thought, Am I in a bowling alley? What was that noise? The

••• 144 •••

good part is that I held onto my glass of wine and

what to expect next ­— I could see the panic in his

A few months after the cold-cocking incident, I

miles an hour with him hanging on for dear life?

discovered I didn’t have a glass jaw.

was driving on a busy street when in my periphery

I saw a blurred figure racing out of a neighborhood bar. I slammed on the brakes when I realized that

this idiot was not going to be turning at the sidewalk, but instead would be running out into the street on a

collision course with my car. As it was, he still ended up splayed out on top of my hood, no more than a foot from the windshield. And what a surprise to be

eyes. Was I going to race down the street at fifty That would have been fun. Instead I motioned for

him to get off my car and watched as he slowly slid

of the hood and made his way back to the safety of the sidewalk. He glanced back to be certain that I wasn’t going to change my mind and run him over. I

knew then that I’d never get blind-sided by this guy ever again.

The angry Vet was simply another bully running

staring at the angry Vietnam Vet now lying across

for his life. In this case however, I hoped that he

surprised look on his face, which made me laugh like

path that he was heading, and get some counseling

the hood of my car. He saw me and had the most hell. I don’t know what shocked him more — almost getting killed or discovering it was me behind the

wheel, the same guy he had recently slugged in the

would use this experience to reconsider the downhill

for his post traumatic stress, or whatever it was that was making him such a mess.

Life is miraculous, and maybe that’s why many

mouth at a party.

believe that the kingdom of heaven is within, which

angry Vet blind-sided with a punch to the mouth

take it with us when we die. Another view is that

I suspect there was a guy in the bar who the

that didn’t have a glass jaw either. And after getting kicked in the groin and thrown to the floor, followed by a couple more kicks to the ribs, which is what I did to him after he blind-sided me, angry Vet must

have run out of the bar and into the street for safety.

But there we were, face-to-face; him on my hood,

and me behind the wheel. I gunned the motor a

couple of times just for the hell of it. He didn’t know

is a great thing to hope for, especially if we get to

we create our own reality, much like in a dream —

everything that happens to us, either good or bad, is our creation. With poles appearing in dry creek beds, and beams of light popping up in the middle

of nowhere when I needed them, I can’t argue with

that concept. It’s true that we might create our own reality, but what happens when our version of reality slams into another’s?

••• 145 •••

“A couple of thousand feet?”

One day when I was picking up a printing job in

town, I spotted a bumper sticker a fellow bliss-ninney

had slapped onto the trunk of their car. The sticker

read: Life is your dream, therefore everything in it is okay.

I know this is bad, but I couldn’t help myself. I took

out a black marker (non-permanent), and wrote: You mean like writing on your car?

Not long after my brother Patrick’s death, he paid

me a visit in a dream, or maybe it was me who was

visiting him. Either way, when a departed loved one

shows up in your dream, it’s one of life’s happiest

moments. They always look so young and healthy, almost better than when they were living.

I have a another dream:

I glance off to my left and find myself flying next to

my brother, twenty-feet off the ground. He looks over

Following his lead, we bank hard to the right and sail

off the cliff and out over the ocean, two-thousand feet below us.

I make a sincere effort to recall the details of a

powerful or memorable dream almost before I wake

up. I concluded that my brother was in a beautiful, heavenly place, and I opened my eyes with a sense of

joy and relief at where he might be and what he might be up to.

A few days later, I told Pat’s girlfriend about my

dream and she almost fainted.

“Did you say that the city was full of palms?” she

cried. “That was Patrick’s dream! He always wanted to own a wholesale palm nursery.”

I did not know that. To me, he was a great musician.

and gives me a big smile. His hair is long and is being

He took his guitar everywhere, and spent his nights

boulevard at a high rate of speed. To our left are hundreds

wanted to write a hit song or sell a million recordings.

blown back as we sail up an extremely steep, palm-lined of bright white apartments piled on top of one another, haphazardly stacked in all directions. To the right is a manicured palm forest in perfect geometric shaped rows on a gently sloping hillside, stopping only when they reach

the edge of a cliff. All of this is overlooking a deep blue ocean far below.

“How high are the cliffs?” I ask.

“How high do you want them?” replies Patrick.

practicing or playing with various bands. I thought he

But, he was also a landscaper, and he loved his plants.

His ridge-top yard was filled with fruit trees, plants, flowers and exotic succulents, and he could tell you the botanical names for all of them.

His dream must have come true then. Apparently,

it’s not only that life is what you make of it, but apparently the afterlife is, too.

••• 146 •••

HERESY: JESUS, THE TEENAGE YEARS

overing love in difficult times. A nineteen a building contractor and fighting the n love with a young woman named Mary, to escape Roman soldiers after a riot. In his family’s flight to Egypt and leaving the erod’s troops. Two thousand years later, onal battles in Iraq. Disillusioned with the ences, he lays down his weapon after an America’s involvement in the Middle East, e had his family been killed by invaders.

TOM TRUJILLO

Four couples discover love in difficult times in four intersecting stories separated by 2,000 years.

An artist creates a controversial painting titled “Jesus, The Teenage Years,” that offends a group of radical Christian Evangelicals who set out to destroy the art. The failed attack results in more publicity and fame for the artist, and the group decides to kill the artist. The second unsuccessful attempt results in a life changing miracle that ends the assassin’s relationship with her radical pastor.

Nineteen year-old Jesus is working as a building contractor in the seaport town of Joppa. Troubled over the deaths of twenty-five children because of his birth, he has abandoned the church, his energy JESUS, THE TEENAGE YEARS now being directed to fight the Roman occupation with his friend Judas and others.

On a job site, he meets and falls in love with a young woman named Mary, and after a brief period of time they marry. Escaping Roman soldiers after a riot they travel to the source of Jesus’ pain.

A L O V E S T O R Y In Bethlehem, Jesus learns the truth behind his family’s flight to Egypt, and leaving the innocent children to be massacred by Herod’s troops.

Tim is a young Marine fighting his own battles in Iraq, disillusioned with the pointless invasion and its tragic consequences. One day he lays down his weapon after a horrific event involving the death of innocent civilians, asking himself, “what would Jesus have done had his family been killed by invaders?” Home from the war he falls in love with Mimi after rescuing her from an ex-boyfriend’s attack at a beach party.

After a night of drinking, Evan, Mimi’s ex-boyfriend ends up sleeping in his car, and is startled awake when a young woman slams into it. Holly Quinn was on a mission to assassinate the artist who painted "Teenage Jesus,” but was chased off when his powerful guardian angel attacked her and threw her down the hill. The two troubled young people discover that they share much in common: Evan’s addiction to alcohol, and Holly’s religious extremism, a substitute to alcoholism.

HERESY

TOM TRUJILLO

ing inspired by his teenage son and titles s featured in an exhibit, it riles up a group estroy the art. When that fails and only e group makes plans to assassinate him. nging event that ends the assassin’s quest or.

HERESY: JESUS, THE TEENAGE YEARS

FICTION

beaten and lynched after a labor strike.

s to avenge his death on the man who Mescalito and a 150 year-old Mexican

n motion an intricate series of seemingly

ppies leave San Francisco during the

Texas to counsel young men to fight the

hat they discover is another war being

—the war on brown skin. Life unfolds, and the man in the tree receives the

.

THE FOOT SOLDIER

gins when a labor organizer for Tejano

THE FOOT SOLDIER

TOM TRUJILLO FICTION

f

T H E B AT T L E AT A L A M O - C O L A

TOM TRUJILLO

THE FOOT SOLDIER The Summer of Love and meets Mississippi Burning and the Vietnam War in a small town in Texas. What could possibly go wrong?

The magical mystery tour begins when a labor organizer for Tejano and Mexican farm workers is beaten and lynched after a labor strike. Alone and forgotten, from the noose the man in the tree vows to avenge his death. With the aid of Mescalito and an ancient Mexican cowboy spirit, his prayers set in motion an intricate series of encounters, beginning when two hippies leave San Francisco during the Summer of Love. Their is was to travel to Texas to counsel young men to fight the draft and the Vietnam War, but what they discover is another war being waged in their own country—the war on brown skin. Life unfolds, plans change, and the man in the tree receives the revenge he had been praying for.

I couldn't put this book down. It's such an accurate depiction of an amazing period of American history. It's funny, full of love and compassion. It's terrifying, and it's an incredible read for anyone, whether you were living at that time or not.

Terese Kristensen

ABOUT THE AUTHOR

Tom Trujillo is an artist and writer living in Central California with his wife of many years, and are the parents of two adult children and two grandchildren.

Miracles and Murder is Tom’s first book.

Tom has spent his professional life working as an illustrator and graphic

designer. His work has been featured in magazines, advertising, package design, exhibits and trade shows, and architectural graphics.

His paintings have been exhibited in group art shows, Santa Cruz County Open

Studios, and a one-man exhibit at the Museum of Art & History of Santa Cruz.

Many of his painting are in private collections.

PHOTOGRAPH OF TOM BY KIM TRUJILLO AFTER THE BIRTH OF THEIR SON IN 1970