CHAPTER SIX- FRIDAY, MARCH 14, 1969
Fallbrook Union High School was letting out. Gary and Roger and I were standing in the big dirt parking lot behind the band room. Johnny Dale, in his daddy’s restored 1957 Chevy Nomad station wagon, two girls in the front seat with him, slowed down, then popped the clutch and spun out directly in front of us. Gary, then Roger, then I flipped the asshole off. I used both hands. “Double eagles,” I said.
The next two cars that passed us got three sets of double eagles.
“Friday, March 14,” I said, writing the date into a page about a third of the way through a red notebook sitting on the hood of a yellow 1968 Super Beetle with two surfboards, side by side on the Aloha racks; my bruised and patched nine-six pintail and a brand-new Hansen ten-two. “Finally enough light after school to go to, at least Oceanside. Gary and Roger bailed.”
“We’re not bailing, Joey; we have dates.” Roger mouthed, “Dates” while running his hand along the rail of the board on the rack on the driver’s side.
“With girls,” Gary added. “Friday night! And besides, where is Doublewide Doug?”
“Doug-L-ass has… art seventh period,” Roger said. I nodded, looked at my watch, wrote something in the notebook.
“Why is it,” Gary asked, running his hand down the rail of the Hansen, “that Dingleberry Doug has a new fucking car and a new fucking surfboard?”
“Why is it, Gary, that Joey is such a whore that he’ll ride with Dipshit Doug?”
“Why is it, Joey, that everyone’s getting shorter boards, but your buddy, Ditchdigger Doug, is going aircraft carrier?”
I looked around the lot. “Because, gentlemen, Doug’s… working, one, and his father’s running irrigation for all the… new ranchettes, two, and three, I’m a whore for the surf, and three, again… gas money.” I stepped back from my friends. Both were wearing Levis, Ked’s boat shoes, J.C. Penny’s white t shirts, and nylon windbreakers. As was I. “Why is it that we all don’t have… matching windbreakers like we’re on the Dork Neck Surf Team?” Both gave me ‘fuck you’ looks. “You guys, with the blonde hair and… people who don’t know better might just believe you surf better than I do.”
“Fine with me, Joey. Gary? You?”
“Yeah. Fine, but… Hey, Joey; here comes your date now!”
Doug, varsity offensive lineman, was on the sidewalk, still a distance away, slow running toward us. He had a couple of notebooks under his right arm, his left arm out and ready to straight arm anyone in his path.
“Joey DeFreines, surf slut.” Gary blew a kiss toward Doug with a big arm movement. Roger put both hands out as if expecting a pass. Doug didn’t see it. Gary’s mom’s Corvair pulled in between us, trailed by its usual puffs of black smoke. Gary’s sister, the Princess, was driving. There was another girl in the front seat, two more in the back. Sophomore girls. Giggling. The Princess peeled out just as Gary went around the back of the car.
“Better remember to put some oil in it, Princess.”
The Princess honked as she cut another car off, pulled out and onto the side road in a cloud of black smoke.
Doug touched his car, leaned against it, breathing heavily. “Made it!” Neither Gary nor Roger acknowledged Doug. He laid a piece of drawing paper onto the hood. “Check this shit out!” It was a drawing, pastels, of cartoonish people and cars on the side a road. A red light was glowing from beyond and below the cars and people. “Pulled over” was written in the same red as a sort of caption.
“Where’d you get that?”
“Well, Roger, someone in my art class wanted me to scotch tape it on…” He pointed toward me. “Jody’s locker.”
“Grant Murdoch.”
“Grant fucking Murdoch.”
“Bingo! It’s from one of the pictures of Jody in the Free Press.”
“Hey, um, Doug-l-as,” Roger said, extending the ‘ass’ part, “Don’t wear that fucking letterman jacket to the beach. Joey wants all the hodads to think he’s from somewhere else.”
“Laguna… specifically,” I said as I rolled up the drawing, using the scotch tape at the corners to secure the roll. “Or San Clemente. Santa Cruz. Just… not… Fallbrook.”
Douglas yanked on the Warrior’s jacket, tossed it, inside-out, onto the hood of his car.
“Oh, and fuck Grant Murdoch,” Gary said as he and Roger turned and headed toward Roger’s stepfather’s Mustang.
…
Doug was driving. I had a book open, paper bag cover with unreadably psychedelic pencil lettering. “Civics” and “Grandview” and “Joey DeFreines.”
“Shit, Jody, I could just cheat off of you.”
“Or… you could… I’ll just give you the… shit I think’ll be on the test.”
“Close your eyes, Jody.” Doug pushed the book back toward my face.
I knew exactly where we were. Three corners west of the little village of Bonsall, the last straightaway before the sharp left and the narrow bridge across the wide valley that held the thin line of the San Luis Rey River. I looked over the book and Doug just in time to see the construction site for a strip mall.
“Building it quick, Jody.”
“Yes. Quick. Doug.
“Um, uh, Jody; you know, my sister… she taught me how to drive. She said, if there’s a truck or something coming… on the bridge… she just closes her eyes.”
“Uh, Doug… no; that’d be… dangerous… Doug. Eyes open. Please.”
We made it across. No vehicles coming our way. A choice had to be made. It was a soft right hand turn and a straightaway or a steep hill. “Which way? Vista or Oceanside?”
“Oceanside’s faster… I think.”
“Faster then, Doug.”
Doug downshifted, made the soft right-hand turn. We were thirty seconds or so along when Doug said, “Um, you know; Gary and Roger call you Joey.” I didn’t look over the Civics book. “Instead of Jody.” I did look over the Civics book. “I’ll call you that if you call me…”
“In the name of world peace,” I said, lowering the book, “I will, in the future, always refer to you as… Dangerous Doug. Okay?”
“And you can tell Gary and Roger that I’m, you know, really good, surfing-wise. Joey.”
I lifted the book back up to my face. “Or… I can give you a dollar for gas… Doug-ie.”
“Oh. No. That’s all right… Jo-ey.”
…
Doug cut off an oncoming pickup truck as he made the thirty-five-degree turn onto the El Camino Real cutoff, southwest, out of the valley. So, no Oceanside. We hit the highway on the other side, merged onto I-5, got off at Tamarack Avenue. High tide. Shorebreak. We didn’t even drop into the lower parking lot. Doug missed the turn for Grandview. So, Beacons. Doug pulled in next to a green-gray VW bus with a white roof.
“Last chance, Doug. Sun’s down in… forty minutes.”
The tide was fairly high but dropping. There were five surfers out, two of them girls. There were four guys in street clothes on the beach. Two were watching, one was standing, one was doing some sort of surf pantomime, a beer bottle in each hand.
“Jerks,” I said.
Doug opened the trunk on the front of his super beetle. I moved to the bluff, wrapping Doug’s extra towel around me. I turned my shortjohn wetsuit back to outside out, peeled off my Levis and boxers, pulled the wetsuit up partway, wrapped the clothes in the towel, pulled the sleeveless suit up the rest of the way. One arm through, I connected the opposite shoulder with a stainless-steel turnbuckle. Custom, from a sailmaker at Oceanside Harbor. The first one, December of 1965, cost fifteen dollars. Christmas present. This one was seventeen-fifty, plus tax. But they were custom, two weeks from measuring to pick up.
Doug unstrapped the boards. I pulled out a cigarette, showed the pack to Doug. He shook his head. I lit the Marlboro with three paper matches. Throwing my clothes into the trunk, I stashed my wallet, cigarettes, and matches in one shoe, stuffed the other shoe inside that one, slid the shoes under my clothes.
“Yes, Jo… Joey; I will lock the car.”
Halfway down the first section of the path, I saw that the two young women surfers, Julia Cole and her friend, were out of the water. The four Jerks had moved halfway across the sand. The pantomiming Jerk, apparently the leader, the Head Jerk, was saying something to his friends I couldn’t quite hear. They all laughed. Loudly.
“Monica,” Head Jerk said. Loudly. He repeated the word, stretching it to, “Mon-ee-ca. We have some be-er, San-ta Mon-e’-ca.”
Monica, her head down, pushed past the Head Jerk, looked the other three Jerks off. The Head Jerk, walking backwards toward the bluff in front of Julia Cole, stopped at the bottom of the trail. Julia Cole stopped; her face very close to the Jerk’s. Monica, three steps up the trail, stopped and looked back. Head Jerk stepped aside.
“Juuu-li-a. Juuuu-lee-ya; you are so cold. Soooo coooold. Ju’-li-a cold.”
Doug and I, boards under our arms, made the turn at the trail’s upper switchback.
“What you think, boys; Monica’a ass, or Juuu-lie’s?” The Head Jerk increased the volume. If any of the boys responded, it was more like growling or laughing than with any discernible words. “Brrrrrrrr. Water’s got to be as cold as you, Juu-lie. And now, I’m wondering, if you’ve got anything on under that wetsuit. I saw… skin.”
More laughter. One of the three other members of the Jerk Crew said, “Come on, dude; cool it.”
Head Jerk moved both beer bottles to his left hand and shot his right hand out. Pleased that the subordinate Jerk crew member flinched, Head Jerk said, “And don’t fuckin’ call me dude… dude.” He started up the trail. His cohorts hung back, possibly because they saw me, looking quite displeased, and the much bigger Doug, behind me, also displeased.
Monica and I met at the lower switchback. I stopped. Doug stopped. I stood my board up, holding it with my left hand, and moved to the uphill side. Doug did the same. Monica nodded, quickly, but looked down as she passed. Julia Cole had an expression as much determined as pissed-off. Defiant. Looking at me, she didn’t seem to adjust her expression one way or the other. I did notice the chrome turnbuckle on one side of her wetsuit was undone and her bare shoulder was exposed. Skin. She noticed I noticed. Another asshole. Another jerk. Her lower lip seemed to pull in, her upper lip seemed to curl. Disappointment. Or anger. Julia blinked. I didn’t. I couldn’t.
Julia Cole passed me and then Doug. “Joey’ll get ‘em,” Doug said. No response.
I may have been replaying Julia Cole’s expression for the third or fourth time when Head Jerk approached the tight angle at the switchback. I may have missed the first few words he kind of spit at me. I did catch, ‘fuckin’ retard.’ It was in the form of a question.
I replayed his words. “What’s the deal, asshole? Huh? You some sort of fuckin’ retard?”
“Possibly, Dude,” I said. “I do believe, Dude, you owe Julia Cole and Monica… don’t know her last name… a sincere apology.”
“You do,” Doug said. “Jerk.” Doug looked at me. I mouthed, “dude.” He said, “Dude.”
Dude looked past me and at Dangerous Doug in his new O’Neill wetsuit, his custom Hansen leaning against his left shoulder, his spotless white towel over his right shoulder.
“Okay.” Dude looked back down the trail. His cohorts hadn’t moved. “Come on. We have us a fuckin’ farm boy and some sort of retard Gook.”
“Oh, no. Jody; Dude there called you a Gook.”
“Common mistake.”
“Step aside, fuckers!” Neither Doug nor I moved.
“Jody,” Dude said, leaning in way too close to my face. “Girl’s name. Well. Fuck Monica! Fuck Julie fuckin’ Cole. And… fuck you, Jo-dee… And your fat-ass friend.”
“Oh. I’m sorry, Joey. The Jody thing. And… I don’t think Dude is gonna apologize.”
“I wish he would.” I extended my right arm out, my palm toward the Head Jerk. I allowed my board to fall against the bank.
Doug pushed the tail of his board into the decomposed sandstone, laid his board down, carefully, uphill, against the scrub and ice plant on the bluff. He wrapped his towel around his neck and pointed at each member of the Jerk Squad, now partway up the lower portion of the trail. “Devil Dog, assholes! Come on up and help out your friend here. Dude. But, warning, Joey’s a, for real, fucking, by-God, Devil Dog!”
Devil Dog didn’t register with Dude. He looked up the bluff for a moment. I would describe his expression as a sneer. Holding the two beer bottles by the necks, he smashed them against each other. The open one shattered, the remaining beer running down his arm. He held the raw edges up against the palm of my right hand. He was smiling. “Gook!”
I closed my eyes. I imagined an eleven-year-old kid, sneering at me. My opponent. He had padded fabric head gear and a heavy pad on his body, a padded pugil stick in his hands. He was sneering. Other voices were cheering. I could hear myself crying. Big sobs, inhaling between each one. My father’s voice said, “Eyes open, Jody! Open!” The kid in the head gear, still sneering, was about to hit me again, this time with the right-hand end of the stick. I could also see Head Jerk, his beer bottle weapon pulled back. My father’s voice screamed, “Get in there! Jody!” I did. I saw my pugil stick connect, saw the opponent fall back. His sneer gone.
As was Dude’s.
Both beer bottles were on the path, both now broken. It would be a moment before Dude reached for his nose; before the blood started flowing from there and his upper lip. It would be another few moments before the other three Jerks turned and ran.
“Devil Dog,” Dangerous Doug said.
“Devil Pup,” I said, keeping my eyes on my opponent. “Marines, Dude… may I call you Dude?” There were tears in his eyes, blood seeping between his fingers. “Or… your name? No? Well, Devil pups, Dude; it’s kind of like… summer camp with hand-to-hand combat.”
Doug pulled his towel from his shoulders and handed it to Dude. “Apology, then?” The Head Jerk, Dude, fluffy towel to his face, nodded. “Not to us.” He nodded again. “Promise?” Third nod. “Okay.”
“And, if you would, pick up the glass. Dangerous. Huh, Doug?”
“Dangerous,” Doug said. “Keep the towel. Souvenir.”
When we got to the beach, Dude was still at the same spot, placing pieces of broken glass into Doug’s towel. The other three Jerks were partway up the bluff, climbing through the patches of ice plant.
“You going to cry, Joey?”
“I thought about it.” I looked up at the parking lot. There was a flash off a window on the VW bus. An open door. Julia Cole was behind the passenger side door. It was too far away. I couldn’t see her expression. I could remember hers from earlier.
“We surfing, or what, Jody?”
“I thought, Dangerous Doug… you said you’d call me Joey.”
“We surfing, or what… Joey?”
…
I left my shoes on the porch, stacked my books on the side table in the foyer. My mother was on the couch, listening to some blues record. Seventy-eight rpm. The photo of her husband was leaned up against the console. She may have been looking at it as the record ended and another one dropped onto the turn table. “South Pacific,” original Broadway cast.
She got up, adjusted the record speed, and walked into the kitchen. I followed. “Doug. Who are his… people?” She turned off the oven and pulled out a foil covered plate, set it on the cast iron trivet on the kitchen table. “Would you like milk?”
“I’ll get it. Doug’s father has the irrigation company. Football player. That Doug.”
“Irrigation. Football. Doug. You and he… you are… friends, now?”
“Now? Yeah. Surf friends. It’s kind of… different.”
“Still, it is nice that you have… friends.”
“It’s just… it’s not me. Surfing’s cool. I surf.” My mother gave me a look I had to answer with, “Yes, mother; friends are… nice to have.” She nodded and walked through the formal dining room and into the living room.
Freddy ran into the kitchen from the hallway, half pushed me against the counter. “She called,” he said. “The reporter. Asked for you… after I told her mom wasn’t here.”
“Lee Ransom?”
“Yeah. Her. Mom was here. Outside, grooming Tallulah.”
“Okay.”
“I told her…” Freddy switched to a whisper. “I told her what you told me to say.” I nodded, tried to push past my brother. He put a hand to my chest. “She asked what kind of car mom drives.” I did one of those ‘and?’ kind of shrugs. “She said she asked one of the detectives, and he pointed to a different car than the one someone else had pointed to… not the Volvo.”
“Which one?”
“Which car?”
“Which detective?”
“Boys!” I looked around Freddy. Our mother was in the dining room. I couldn’t tell from her expression how much she had heard. I had to assume too much.
MEANWHILE, in the real world, I’m cruising around (still cautiously) in my still super secret stealth surf rig, alternator purring properly, new gas filter and fuel additive added (thanks George Takamoto and Stephen R. Davis), waiting for the new hubcaps Trish ordered, and waiting for some waves, even on the coast, somewhere over knee high.
REMEMBER, new content on Sundays.
“Swamis” and revisions to the original work are protected by copyright, all rights reserved by the author.
