1/10/23
Newsletter #215
The Crack of Dawn
When I was 16 years old my dad and I got into our first and only fistfight. Up until then my dad used smack or kick me and my sisters, generally when he was drunk, and we just took it. One night he was falling down drunk, which was unusual for him because he was a champ at holding his liquor. That night he decreed, “I’m going to kill you!” Feeling young and virile, full of piss and vinegar, but also seeing his inebriated state, I replied, “Oh, no you’re not.” He charged at me, I stepped out of the way, and he ran headfirst into the brick wall. With blood pouring down his face, he attacked again, and I easily overpowered him. I held him in a headlock until he cooled down. When I let him go, he stated, “Get out of my house and never come back!”
I had two acquaintances from community college, Richard and Ken, who were two years older than me. We had gone to the same high school but hadn’t been friends. At college we mainly just smoked weed together. So, Richard and Ken were planning to hitchhike to Nova Scotia. I drove up to Richard’s house in my ’68 Volkswagen Beetle to find the two of them outside packing their backpacks, just about to leave. I said, “Jump in, I’ll drive.” So, the three of us drove to Nova Scotia. We had three backpacks, Ken had his guitar, and we had at least a hundred 8-track tapes. The soundtrack of that trip for me is Mars Hotel by the Grateful Dead, which Richard wouldn’t stop playing. But at my instance, Dark Side of the Moon, Pink Floyd’s new album, was played a lot.
We drove north to Toronto where I met an old summer camp buddy who scored us a pound of weed. We continued north to Montreal, smoking weed, the Dead singing U.S. Blues, Floyd singing, “Breath, breath in the air, don’t be afraid to care,” and Richard never shutting up for a minute about the terrible oppression we were all under all the time. Ken, meanwhile, was a quiet, handsome, pleasant Japanese American guy who liked to play guitar. Richard was a long-haired freak wearing necklaces of Guatemalan coins who was vehemently, radically political, constantly denouncing our government. Nixon had recently resigned, and Gerald Ford was president. Things seemed like they were improving to me, but if I said so, Richard would make one of two disgusted sounds: he would either snort, or he would whinny like a horse, flapping his lips.
We did indeed make it to Halifax, Nova Scotia, then turned right around and headed home. As we neared the international border between New Brunswick and Maine, we still had an ounce of weed left. We rolled joints, took one puff, then tossed them out the window. We finally poured out the bag. Of course, at the border they didn’t check us at all.
As fate would have it, my elder sister Ricki was getting married (for the first time) that upcoming weekend. When we got to New Hampshire and into the spectacular Adirondack Mountains, where we were going to camp, I called my sister. I explained where I was and the impossibility of me attending her wedding. Ricki said, “If you don’t come to my wedding, I’ll never speak to you again.” Good old understanding Ricki.
As Richard, Ken and I were setting up camp that night, Richard made yet another snide, stupid comment about something. I was holding the pots and pans and responded to Richard’s nonsense by imitating both his snort and whinny. Richard responded by punching me right in the face. Pots and pans went sailing, then clanking to the ground. We wrestled for a minute, then I got him in a headlock and the fight was over. Richard and Ken said that they were going camping without me, and I decided to see if I could make it to Ricki’s wedding, which was in about 60 hours 600 miles away. The only way this plan would work, since I had no money, was that Richard begrudgingly lent me his mother’s gas card, which I was to return to her as soon as I got back.
I decided that it would be quicker to cross the border at Buffalo into Ontario, then down to Windsor and Detroit. I was a filthy bearded hippy in a VW filled with wrappers, piles of dirty clothes, and 8-track tapes everywhere. Unsurprisingly, I was pulled over. The border patrol guys inspected every tape, strip-searched me, found Richard’s mother’s gas card in my wallet, then denied me entrance to Canada.
I then drove south to Cleveland, around Lake Erie, then back up to Detroit. I went directly to my parents’ house, took a shower, put on a coat and tie, then drove to the wedding. I missed the service, but I made the reception. In all modesty, I made a spectacular entrance.
Rumor has it that it will be a sunny day today. Cold but sunny. That’s OK with me.