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Tube City

Of course, it all started at Cupid's. Your dream of a stand selling nothing but dogs and drinks. And, of course, the dogs would have the top-secret snap of an "All-Meat" casing.  

Tube City was the name of your hot dog stand. The Armageddon of Entrepreneurship would have been too big to fit on the sign. 

Dad, I only know this time in your life by anecdote. I was on my 5-year walkabout. The secret, industrial knowledge of the all-meat casing passed me by.  I never even saw your hot dog stand. I never sampled the wares. 

I wish I could have worked the stand with you. Then I would have seen the low riders beat you for the tab or the wide-bodied Buick lady hammer the slump stone corners of the restaurant as she lurched out of the drive-through lane.  Ah, to celebrate your biggest sales day – when the drunk who crashed into your stand paid $100 cash for a dog and the wall.

Instead, I will never forget our father-and-son meals at Cupids.

Cupid's Hot Dogs are still part of my pilgrimage when I'm back in L.A. The snap may be gone from the "All Meat" casing, and they are finally serving fries, but Cupid's still serves the best dogs I've ever bitten. 

Sure, I enjoyed Nathan's, east coast, spicy, special, a dog lover's delight. I frequented Nathan's stand at Berkeley, but Cupid's wins out head to head, or better yet: dog to dog. Nathan's was like Berkeley, dark, spicy, vaguely dangerous. Cupid's, was like the clean, safe, fantasy of growing up in the San Fernando Valley in the 50's and 60's. 

We'd go to the original Cupid's on Lankershim Blvd.  I imagine cruising North of Lankershim these days, especially late at night, is begging for a gang bullet, but then the frontier wasn't so hostile, and Cupid's was neutral ground. Good things happened there. It was food well worth the moderately long wait in line. 

 Cupid's was always good for a meal, and it was easy to calculate the cost in your head. (I remember being shocked every time the price went up. Not that I ever paid when we went together.)The order was easy to compose; there weren't a lot of choices. No fries, no sides, just dogs. I'd get 2 with chili. You'd get 2 with chili, mustard, relish, onions, the works! Add two cokes and plenty of napkins. 

Stepping up to the window, you see and smell the wonders of Cupid's. The wooden dog racks, 4 scallops of smooth breadboard wood, ready to hold a big order. The counter guy had a flourish to his preparation routine, riding the dogs on tongs through thin air, dipping and pouring the chili with a subdued sense of showmanship. 

The stainless steel bins held the moist, steamed buns. They were perfectly soft, adding a homey, yeast-based smell to the spicy, tangy, slightly damp atmosphere that wafted from the open window. The counterman's fast hands laid out the slightly soggy buns, then he laid down the dogs, adding quick ladles of chili overflowing the bounds of the buns. With a flick, a snap, a twist, the dogs were wrapped in wide white, industrial-strength wax paper. Rack 'em up in a cardboard box. Add the cokes, pay the tab, and off we'd go to a tin metal table under the sparse shade of an L.A. sun-heated awning. 

Epic fast food. First bite, the snap, the spicy hot chili drenched taste, delicious, best dogs in the world. Those all meat casings were a top secret in the restaurant biz, a secret you were determined to discover. 

I guess once the secret was out, the Tube City stand was inevitable. 

Now Tube City is gone, and so are Cupid's all-meat casings. The dogs no longer snap.

Oh to sit with you again, Dad, over a couple of chili dogs and a coke and tell all that's happened since you left.  

At least I know you are now one with everything.

Up Close, They Are Monsters

It was my own fault. I brought it on myself. Serves me right. I started telling spooky campfire tales. I told 'em tall and terrifying, hoping to scare Susan, the young lady I was backpacking with, into my sleeping bag.

The campfire flickered. The small light was a safe place to huddle and tell stories about crazy things that happen in the woods at night. We were camped in a tree-choked gully in the Santa Ynez mountains. Live Oak branches formed a canopy that shut out much of the moonlight. The ground was carpeted with brittle, dry spiny leaves that crunched underfoot. Outside, beyond the light, lurked the beasts of the night.

"Anything could wander into our camp. Some say big cats escaped the Hearst Castle zoo and are still here. Leopards, lions, and bears, the food odors bring 'em in. They take what they want. The cats could eat you. Even a small brown bear can toss a big man like a rag doll. So you better hope you're not between a beast and what it wants."  

But my stories didn't scare Susan. 

"These are remote mountains. Not many backpackers up here; it's mainly hunters. Folks get lost forever in these mountains. In 1942 a B24 Liberator disappeared off Big Sur. When hikers found the wreck, the mummified bodies of the airmen were still strapped to their seats. Only the captain's body was missing. Some say he still walks these woods."

Coyotes yipped and barked in the distance. Susan shivered, arms folded, huddling inside her down jacket. She smiled but moved no closer. She wasn't buying my half-baked Jack London/Stephen King routine. Even my most lurid lies about hog wild deep woods crazies failed to move her. Susan was a sophisticated audience. She laughed and rolled her eyes in all the right places. She had a Master's degree in English and seriously appreciated the structure of my stories.

But Susan didn't budge.

I exhausted myself telling yarns. We spread our ground cloths on opposite sides of the dwindling campfire, far enough back to keep sparks off the down sleeping bags. My purple prose failed to lure Susan into even a snuggle. I resigned to sleeping alone.

I watched the galaxies slide above the oak branches, looking for shooting stars and satellites. A breeze blew rustling leaves. "If I told her the one about..."  I drifted into sleep.

Hideous! The monster's foul breath is wet on my face. Hair bristling, the fiend's slavering mouth is stuffed with massive crooked tusks. I can't breathe. The ogre's lethal red eyes radiate fury. This swollen evil creature will destroy me. I'm paralyzed, trapped, suffocating. I try to scream, but I can't hear my voice. I explode.

Suddenly I'm awake. The grotesque face remains in my mind. My fists are clenched, my back is arched, my legs are tensed to run, but I'm frozen in fear.

Nightmare!

I spooked myself. My skin crawls. I look at Susan asleep in her bag. I feel ashamed. The mighty woodsman, the big-time climber, the all-knowing backpacker has scared himself shitless.

But the nightmare gargoyle's grin was so real. I'm ready to fight for my life. Trembling, stabbed by the claw of an adrenal rush, I can't shake it.

Back in my bag, twitching at every breeze-pushed sound, berating myself for a fool, time crawls. I'm scared to look into the darkness, scared not to. My mind plays a litany of reassurances. "The woods are safe; it's people who are dangerous. It was just a dream. The woods are safe." Finally, I fall into a jittery half-sleep and doze until dawn.

Up at first light, I build a fire and warm my back. Then I notice something odd about the ground near my sleeping bag. The dark earth is gouged like it was tossed with a shovel. There are deep tracks in the dirt.

Oh God, it wasn't a nightmare; it was a wild boar!

Domestic hogs escaped the Hearst menagerie at San Simeon in the 30s. Hogs go feral in two generations. Now the whole Santa Ynez range was haunted by giant wild boars, some reaching 800 pounds. They're mean, stubborn, unpredictable, and deadly. Wild swine with razor tusks will charge, slash, and even kill.

I remembered the story of hikers chased up an oak by a wild boar. The beast circled the tree, ramming the trunk and slashing the bark all day and night. The treed hikers were in agony with thirst and cramps. 

Eventually, the damned pig just forgot about it and wandered away.

Closing my eyes, I saw the demonic brute's face drooling over me. 

Why didn't it maul me? Why did it run?

I said nothing to Susan. 

I didn't want her to know I was scared.

Why Did You Run Away?

I booted the kickball as the recess bell rang. It was a great kick. The ball shot through crowds of running kids, eventually clanging against a distant tree lined chain link fence in the far corner of the playground. I ran for it, weaving through the crowds rushing back to class. 

It was cooler in the shadows of the peppercorn trees near the fence.  The the trees whispered and twitched in the wind. Broken branches and crushed peppercorns lay scattered on the ground. 

Looking back the kids drifted off the hot asphalt like steaming water down a drain. My friends disappeared into their hot stuffy classrooms. The last few ran to beat the tardy bell.

I stayed in the far corner, watching it all, sitting on the kick ball, hiding from a gusting San Fernando Valley wind. It was suddenly quiet.  I was alone, away from class. My friends were settling in, sitting up straight, getting out the pencils. 

There was an unlocked gate next to me. I thought how fine it would be to be home, gone from school, free from the hot afternoon classroom. I wanted to walk. Just wander into the breezy afternoon. I opened the gate and began walking. I was too scared to go back and face the questions and consequences. 

Several blocks from school I realized that I didn't really know my way home. All I could do was walk the bus route. Trudging beside busy streets that would eventually lead me to my house.  I walked the whole afternoon away. I looked for the intersections I knew from riding the bus. It was hot and I was very thirsty. The sense of adventure was gone.  

Eventually the long yellow L.A. City School busses began to pass me. Suddenly I realized I was in big trouble. Each time I heard the grunting gears of an oncoming bus I hid behind the Eucalyptus trees that lined the street. Eucalyptus shed piles of thick paper bark around their trucks, it crunched and snapped underfoot. The stringent odor of the trees mixed in the oily bus exhaust each time a bus rumbled by. 

Peeking out I saw my friends on their way home, They were riding easy over the same ground it took so long for me to walk.  I'd be home now if I hadn't bolted. I thought about waiving a bus down for a ride, but I was scared. 

Why did I leave school? I'd be home now if I'd just gone back to class. I’d be bouncing those green leatherette seats, elbowing my buddies or gazing moodily at the traffic and trees. Instead I'm hiding here sinking deeper into big trouble.

Now I realized mom would be wondering where I was. Angry that I hadn't come strait home after getting off the bus. I knew my folks would be mad I was walking home without permission, 

It didn't occur to me that I'd be missed right after recess, that a search would be launched, and terrible phone calls made. The police alerted. 

After the busses passed the walk took forever.  It wasn't so bad when I was ahead of the whole school, questing for home before the herd was let loose. But now I was behind them all, way behind, walking so long it was getting dark. 

The sun set as I stood on the sidewalk in front of my house.  There was a police car in the driveway.  Footsore, hungry, thirsty and worn out, I turned the front door knob and entered the crowded house. The kitchen was full of relatives. I wondered why everyone was here. 

"Dennis! you're safe! Thank God!" The pain, relief and joy in their voices cut through my fatigue and worry. They sounded so scared. Then they were happy to see me. I relaxed, everything would be fine, I wasn't in trouble after all. 

"Where have you been !?" Their relief crested suddenly and a wave of anger broke. Mom and dad shouted simultaneously. "Where have you been, what happened, why....?" 

"Uh, I walked home from school. I just didn't want to stay."

I caught of a couple of well deserved sharp ones on the behind.  In the background a police officer was shaking his head and smiling as he spoke on his radio. Everyone was talking at once. 

My dad had me by the arm," You're never, ever to leave school like this again! Do you understand?" 

My back side hurt as I was hustled into my room. I knew I had it coming. I'd scared them bad. 

The next day at school I was the center of attention in the fourth grade. First thing I had to go to the principal's. He talked at me, while the teacher nodded with a worried smile stuck on her face. I nodded my head a lot and kept silent.  

All the kids gathered around at the first recess. Everybody asked the same questions.

Why'd you do it? Why'd you run away?

The principal, the police, the teachers, the kids, mom and dad, even my little brother John all wanted to know the same thing. 

"Why did you run away?"

How could I make them understand?  I wouldn't admit that I was just scared to be tardy. I couldn't describe the lure of the shade and sound of shaking leaves at the edge of a hot playground. 

How do you tell worried faces that you couldn’t go back inside the airless classroom and just sit still in the second seat in the third row, when the chance to walk away is suddenly there?

I went with the urge to walk away. On impulse, I jumped into an adventure without thinking. 

Eventually the questions stopped.

All I ever said was, “I just didn't feel like going back to class.” 

Winter Solo

Blast after blast, lightning flashed, and thunder exploded over me. Curled fetal into the punk wood of a downed tree, I tasted a tangy smell. My hair shivered with static. Sleet and wind whipped the quaking trees. I rocked and moaned. 

"You go up there alone. You'll die," the ranger said.

But I wanted to rough it, go light, move fast, and find myself in the wilderness. After all, it was a dry March day in Yosemite National Park.

Winter solo. This was a trip of firsts-a two-week trek into the Sierras. Deep into the big snowy, no programmed survival course for me! I'd shot my mouth off about the joys of backcountry isolation for weeks. Now it was too late to run home.

Why was I wet, cold, aching, scared, and waiting to be zap-fried by lightning? Because I wanted to be a mountain man. A wilderness-worn hard guy in an old 60/40. I imagined the Vibram soles of my new climbing boots run down by a thousand miles of mountain passes and peaks. I saw myself on the high route, a sun-bleached beard covering my shirt pockets. My eyes zen-blue cool above a knowing smile. The type of guy with a low Co-op number and endless stories to tell.

I had no backcountry experience. I shipped camping gear for Sierra Designs in South Berkeley. It was just a job. I knew nothing about backpacking or mountaineering. So I decided to teach myself how to use all the equipment I sent out daily. I'd done a few day trips and some trout fishing. I depended on Colin Fletcher's The Complete Walker for the rest to show me the way.  

It was time to pay my dues. I had the best equipment and armchair experience money could buy. I was ready to teach myself how to snow camp. Unfortunately, I was a newbie about to learn the hard way.

After the lightning passed, I trudged into the sleet and snow. My new boots leaked, hammered my toes, and rubbed silver dollar blisters into my heels. Wind-crusted snow collapsed with each step.  I longed for the new Vermont Tubbs snow shoes I left behind to save weight. Wallowing thigh-deep, I exhausted myself to make a few miles a day.

Eventually, I settled into the routine of solo backpacking. Making camp became a ritual: find a spot by a downed tree, spread a ground cloth, rig the tarp and blow up the air mattress. Soon, the throaty blue glowing hiss of the primus 8R flames up a pot of boiling water. Dinner time! Later, I relax with a hot coco warming my cupped hands, wrapped in my down jacket and 60/40 windbreaker. Bone weary and happy, pulling the down bag over my hips, I let my mind go blank and sink into it all.

Back in Berkeley, I resolved my boondocks diet would have a monastic simplicity. I'd catch trout for my protein, wrap them in tinfoil filled with butter and pepper, and set fish in a campfire! But, instead, after a week of frozen lakes and no fishing, I lived on instant oatmeal, M&M peanuts, brown rice, and a nut-rich mix of crunchy granola. I fantasized about prime rib and dark chocolate, green salads, and pitchers of beer.

Setting up camp after another tough day, I pulled out a wet food bag catching the metallic odor of white gas. I couldn't believe it. The stove leaked into the granola, ruining it all. The granola became kindling.

The endless trudging, loneliness, and lack of calories took a toll. The thin brown and green contour lines on the topo map lost meaning. Instead, I depended on blazed trees to mark the trail to my destination, a lake at the base of Buena Vista Peak. I was flailing through the snow a few hundred yards at a time, searching for the next sap­ obscured mark.

Reaching treeline, I dropped my Kelty DB5 pack against a tall pine with a  wide snow-free well that worked as a camp spot. I took a long drink and thought about the lake where I'd fish and finally eat well. Ahead, I saw snow-packed windswept ridges leading up to what I hoped was Buena Vista Peak. So I decided on a quick scout trip up the nearest ridge. Climbing up over crusty snow, I kept my head down, going into the wind. Light snow stung my eyes. Finally, I crested the ridge. Time to get my bearings. Turning in every direction, I see snow, occasional bare rock, distant mountains, and blue sky. No lakes.

After a long rest, I turned, looking for my back trail. Nothing. My footprints were gone under drifting snow. Suddenly it all looked the same; no blazes, cairns, or tracks. The sun was setting. Snow-covered boulders threw scattered shadows. I didn't see the big pine as I looked down the ridge. I turned and turned, trying to get my bearings.

I was alone and lost.

Panic seeped in. Everything I needed to survive was in my pack. Fear clawed me. Which way to go?

Breathe deep-conquer the fear. I sat on a rock and looked up at the slow sunset colors of the sky. I'd read of lost hikers walking in disoriented circles until they drop. Now I knew why it could happen. When you are lost, all directions are the same.

I was way across the line. Everything was dangerous now. Terror lurked nearby. Alone. Death or survival?

I needed a plan. To avoid walking in circles, I imagined the rock I sat on was the center of an ever-growing series of squares. To step out of the maze, I counted my strides, extending the last leg of the square 100 feet before turning right 90 degrees. Scan the ground. Find my tracks. Repeat.

I walked my squared circle for hours, searching for my bootprints. Moonglow helped. Be careful, don't trip, and don't turn an ankle. I kept looking for the pattern that would save me.

Hypothermia! The first signs are violent, uncontrollable shivering. How do you build a snow cave barehanded? Does rubbing frostbite with snow work? How does thinking twist and fade? The feet freeze first, hands numb. I don't feel my ears. My fingers hardly tingle when I slap my hands. 

The fear faded; no panic now. Just wrestling with a morbid imagination. Thinking of London's "To Build a Fire, " I didn't have a match or flint. But, hey, this isn't the Yukon. But the Sierras could kill you too. I swore at my arrogant stupidity, shouting, " You wanted this fool! This is the test you sought."

Hours now, keep moving, go all night, find the trail in the morning light. Luckily the moon splashed the snow with blue shadows. Are those my tracks? There it is! Down on my knees, I traced the wind-faded pattern with trembling fingers. Stepped into a waffle pattern in the snow, then another. My tracks! Adrenalin cleared my head. Hope puts things in a new perspective. I was going to be OK. I'd never been in any real danger. I stuffed my fears back into their hole. I felt safer.

I paced the tracks for miles before I allowed myself to worry. Are these my tracks? Am I going toward my pack or away? What if I'm walking in circles?

I found my pack at dawn. Tilted against the tree where I'd left it. Home. Striping off my wet clothes, I crawled into my sleeping bag and collapsed into an instant, dreamless sleep.

That afternoon I shouldered my pack and pushed over the ridge. I eventually found Buena Vista  Lake. It was frozen. No fish for me.

I camped by the lake for a long time. I forgot what I looked like. I didn't recognize my voice when it echoed across the frozen lake. Time is slippery. How many days and nights here? Breaking holes in the ice to watch the water refreeze. I  listened to the wind. Then I looked up and realized I would climb my first mountain.

The next morning at sunup, I broke camp, packed my gear, shouldered my pack, and started up Buena Vista Peak. I'd never climbed before. Kicking back up the ridge with a full pack was challenging. But, for the first time in days, I could see across miles of wild space. Reaching the top woke me up. I took out my map and compass, finally able to orient myself. I found the names of the peaks and planned a route to Ostrander Lake, where there was a winter ski hut. 

I navigated cross country to a ridge above0 Ostrander Lake. The water was open! A small section of water was open just below me. A  howling boot glissade brought me to the open spot. Finally, I could use my fishing gear. I cast a tiny Daredevil spoon over the open pool onto a snow ledge. I teased the lure, so it dropped into the shadows. Sinking like a leaf on the breeze, the lure fell from view. With a hit and wrist flick, the rod shivered and bent. The magic first cast! I reeled the fish and flipped healthy brook trout up on the snow beside me. I cast again and caught another. Hunting for food when you are starving was another new experience. 

I gutted and washed the trout, added butter, wrapped them in tin foil, and waited impatiently. After a diet of brown rice and gas-soaked granola, the anticipation was intense. Opening the sizzling foil, I gently tugged the spines out, briefly warming my hands over the miraculous perfect fillets. Ah, that first bite became a lifetime memory.

I slept well that night in the Ostrander ski hut. The next day I fished the sliver of open water and caught breakfast and lunch. Late afternoon I started back, following a well-blazed trail. 

I got to my beat-up F-10 Land Cruiser at dusk. The engine started on the first try, and I eased out as night fell. Driving warm and in motion, I connected again to the concrete threads that stitch the roadmaps together. It was slow going back. Pushing the F-10 above 40 MPH caused the front end to wobble and shake. So it was a long slow drive through the night. I didn't see anyone on the road. I was still alone. It felt like the world had emptied out while I was lost.

As the sun rose, a few miles from home, I glanced out the driver's side window. I saw my first human in two weeks.

He was a tall black man dressed in a leopard-skin toga. The leather straps of his gladiator sandals wrapped up his calves. He held a full-grown cheetah on a leash. 

I was back in Berkeley again.

 

The Pomegranate Grove

We lived in the San Fernando Valley in Walnut Cove,  a subdivision of ranch-style houses with big front yards. Walnut Cove had a mature tree in front of every house.   The trees were an echo of the grove bulldozed to create the subdivision. At least the planners left enough trees to shade the wide sidewalks. The trees were all grafted between English and White Walnuts. That meant a white trunk, a black body with solid roots, and the best walnuts. They were big branched trees great for climbing.

These piebald nut trees would fill with green speckled pods every spring, then the heat and light of summer would darken and shrivel the pods into a thin black leather. Finally, the pods dried, exposing the wrinkled veined details of a new walnut shell. The ripe walnuts snapped from the husks, and we collected wagons full!

All my neighborhood pals, Dave DeCamp, Judy Corn, and her sister Sharon, David Olsen, and even the evil and weird Reynolds would gather bag fulls of walnuts. We'd crack the shells with our teeth and extract the brain like walnut meat. Occasionally a nut with bitter dark fibers and spider webs made you shiver. But most of the time, we plucked the delicious light brown nuts from the shell almost whole. You could always find a snack in Walnut Cove during the late spring and summer.  

Two big valley streets bordered Walnut Cove. Balboa Blvd and Nordhoff are major commuter roads with fast-moving traffic. Crossing these dangerous streets was forbidden. The valley was quickly filling up with sub-divisions. But Walnut Cove was still surrounded by groves—oranges to the north, acres of pomegranates to the south, and walnuts to the east. West across Balboa was bulldozed into weedless, treeless lots sliced by new black top ribbons of asphalt. The hammering of a new sub-division came next.

We could get into the orange groves without crossing the big streets, which meant their allure was minimal. The oranges were usually small, green, and bitter. Besides, the farmer hated kids and was always on the prowl. The pomegranate groves on the other side of Nordhoff Blvd seemed the most mysterious, remote, and irresistible.

Even though I wasn't supposed to cross the street, I planned a raid on the pomegranates with Judy Corn. Judy lived down the block. She was part of a Jack Mormon clan that seemed to have no trouble playing cards and drinking coffee. I'd go to Judy's house to watch American Bandstand with Dave DeCamp and Judy's older sister Sharon. I was the youngest of the group and always got fidgety waiting for the program to end so we could go out and play. The older kids, especially Sharon and Dave, who must have been at least 13, were fascinated by the dancing couples on the screen. It was boring but neat to be included with the older kids.    

Judy was bored too, but she wouldn't admit that around her big sister.  Judy was a hot-tempered tomboy and one of the toughest kids on the block. I fought her once, and she won. Judy hit me ten times as I struggled to wrestle her arms down. She was hard to hold. Her muscles were as big as mine. I told myself I held back during the fight because she was a girl. You weren't supposed to hit girls. But she punched harder than any boy in the neighborhood except Arty  Guftason, the worst bully on the block. I liked Judy, but I was afraid of her. Her punches really hurt.

Judy wasn't supposed to cross the street either, but she dared me, and I couldn't back down from a dare. Besides, I wanted to get some pomegranates. We waited a long time for a break in the traffic, then sprinted across the street, through the gully over the wire fence, and into the forbidden groves. A faded no-trespassing sign hung on the wire fence made me feel like we were on the verge of getting caught.   There was probably a farmer meaner than the guy at the orange grove just waiting to grab us. 

We went far into the grove between the neat rows of trees, disappearing into the mysteries of this banned place. The traffic noise on Balboa faded. The trees were planted in rows, a tractor-width apart. The leaves created a canopy that cooled the hot valley sun. It was hot enough to soften the asphalt at the edges of the street, but it was shady and secret here. Dust swirled, suspended in shafts of sunlight that cut through the leaves. We were alone. It was better here than either of us had hoped.

The trees clustered in odd-shaped fruit, a pomegranate's skin is a bumpy alien terrain, and pods like pale purple wasps nests hung heavy from the burdened limbs.    The overripe ones had fallen to the ground and lay half-hidden in the tall grass. These were insect-laden universes, purple, blood-colored clusters swarming with ants where the skin had split. The air smelled rich with growing things, backed by a cloying scent of decay. The skin color told you which pomegranates were ready to be eaten. A baseball-sized pomegranate with a pale purple exterior,  firm to the touch, wasn't ready yet. We wanted the dimpled and swollen, almost violet fruit, bigger than your fist; the ones just a bit soft to the touch were ready to burst with scarlet seeds and sweet juice.

We jumped up to steal the fruit, snatching them from the low limbs. But the best ones were out of reach. Pomegranate trees are hard to climb, and none of the branches are low enough. With my hands, I made a step cradle to boost Judy into the tree. She was surprisingly heavy, and it hurt my hands and shoulders as she climbed over me. Out of reach, She laughed and teased me, bombing me with dozens of pomegranates. I chucked back rotten, ground-softened, ant-covered missiles but never hit her.

Eventually, we called a truce. We stacked pomegranates in pyramids like lumpy cannon balls on the fruit-littered battlefield. We lay back in the grass, gorging ourselves, splitting open the sweet fruit, peeling back the tough fibrous skin, devouring the thick scarlet seeds, biting into massive clusters, chewing the pulp, and swallowing the juice. The crimson drippings ran down our chins and stained our t-shirts. We ate only the thickest seed clusters. After a  few mouthfuls and we'd be left with the difficult part of the fruit. We tossed the half-eaten carcasses aside, took a fresh pomegranate from the pile, and began again.

We spent the late afternoon eating, talking, watching the sky through the trees, and reveling in the special secret of the place. It was exciting to spend time with a girl, even if she was a tomboy. It got late quickly. The sky darkened, and the shadows grew. We had to get home. All around us were pomegranates' split, smashed, and broken remains. We ruined more than we ate. When I looked at empty husks and wasted fruit, I felt uneasy. If the farmer caught us now, he'd be right to be mad. Suddenly I felt guilty. We used a fine place poorly. It was a hopeless mess. Turning away, we ran from the grove.

I came slinking into the house. My conscience is hurting. I'd disobeyed, crossed the street, thieved the pomegranates worse, and wasted as much as I'd eaten. My face and hands were stained in juice and guilt. 

Mom's radar was on maximum. It was dusk, too late to get home. She was waiting for me. My furtive slump-shouldered skulk towards my room tipped her off. She took one look at me and knew something was wrong.

"Dennis, what is it?" was all she needed to say. 

"I, uh, I ... crossed the street .... took pomegranates.... stole them, I guess."

My story tumbled out, sneaking away with Judy, the shame of wasting the farmer's pomegranates. I had to confess. It was a relief to own up.

Surprisingly, Mom wasn't upset with me. Instead, she had a smile on her face as she nodded and told me not to cross the street again.

I never returned to the pomegranate grove. I never took another of the farmer's pomegranates, even when Judy brought me an extra. I'd lost my taste for pomegranates, and the ones bought at the store weren't the same.

Saab Stories - The Nautilus

I bought my first car in 1968. It was a jet-black 1960 Saab 93. It had 3 port holes on each side of the hood and suicide doors that flipped open like clam shells, ready to catch the wind.

I bought the Saab for $300 from an Australian in Culver City, California. The Aussie talked out of the side of his mouth (he'd been shark scarred somewhere off the Barrier Reef and asymmetrically stitched back together).

"She's a sweet potato, mate."

I believed him and laid down every dime I had. I bought a Saab solely on the strength of a bit part the car played in Richard Farina's ultra-hip novel, Been Down So Long It Looks Like Up To Me.

This narrowed my choices for my first car to a Saab or a Citroen 2CV. I was into the reverse status of obscure foreign cars. The 2CV looked (and drove) like a corrugated trash can on wheels; the Saab was like a bastard child of a Porsche and a VW Bug. 

This Saab was sleek, black, and mysterious. She had portholes on each side of the hood that earned her a nickname: The Nautilus. Finally, I had a car that was  "way cool?" long before the term was coined.

The Nautilus had a pull-chain activated grill flap that sealed up the engine compartment for sub-zero Swedish driving. After a cruise on an LA freeway, the heater could bring the red metal dashboard up to egg-frying temperatures. Revving produced a mad popcorn-like pinging set of 2-stroke explosions punctuated by gouts of blue smoke. Take your foot off the pedal, and freewheeling delivered a cliff dive every time you crested a hill.

What a great car.

Eighteen hours after I bought The Nautilus, the engine seized. My girlfriend drove it to the beach. There it died; it would 2-stroke no more. The lady swore she had mixed the oil in with the gas. But the engine seized anyway 

Less than a day into my first car, I started what would become a lifetime of Saab stories.

The Nautilus was towed to Lindqvist Motors in Culver City. A new engine would be $300, thank-you-very-much. Exactly what I'd paid the Aussie for the beautiful sleek hunk of immobile Swedish metal.

The Nautilus sat in Ingvar Lindqvist's back lot for three months (no doubt Ingvar was away rallying his Saab through Baja). I worked as a car jockey at Lou Ehlers Casa de Cadillac on Wilshire Blvd to earn bail money. I slipped 100's of Detroit blimps in and out of mechanic's stalls to save the money for a rebuilt engine that would drive me north to Berkeley, California, in the summer of '68.

Eventually, The Nautilus lived again. I took advantage of the fold down the rear seat to turn The Nautilus into a spud-shaped truck. I packed all my worldly goods into the car, using every cubic inch of storage space to make the move north. I must have looked like the hippy version of the clown car act when I unloaded my Saab at my first apartment in South Berkeley.

I cruised California reveling in the" What is that?" looks of middle-class America. I'd silently freewheel down on a Rambler wagon and fly by a black blur shrouded in two-stroke smoke. I drove the Natulus from Berkeley to L.A. and back a dozen times, averaging about 40 miles to the gallon.               

I could fill a dry gas tank with 96-octane Supreme for $2.97. Often attendants would refuse to add two-stroke oil during a fill-up. 

"You put oil in the gas, and she'll blow, buddy. I ain't doing it!"

I'd tilt that blue and white Saab oil can into the gas tank, trying not to dribble down the fender while the attendant and his buddies scratched their heads and pointed at the weird machine.  

The Nautilus really was way cool.

Well after midnight, on a return run from L.A., I found the outside of the freewheeling envelope. After a long climb, I was coasting the Grapevine on Highway 99, freewheeling and flying low on a long cruise to Bakersfield. The speed jumped quickly - 70, 80, 90, I tried the brakes, but they weren't serious about stopping me. Besides, I was trying to stretch the miles per gallon.  

With the speedometer bumping a hundred, I began to worry about the tires. I felt like a skater on thin rickety blades. By now, the brakes were useless. 

I had only myself to blame as I'd pointedly ignored the advice of the manual about locking the free wheel " ...to utilize the braking action of the engine when going down steep mountain grades... " 

Stiff-armed, I pointed the 93 at the fast lane and held on.

Suddenly the tiny rearview mirror lit up with the blinding high beams of a 16-wheeler charging down on top of me. The trucker was on his own freewheeling breakaway.                                  

The truck blew at 140 mph, belching eye-watering clouds of burning brake lining. The big truck's backwash blew me across three lanes. I wrestled The Nautilus back into the fast lane and rolled on.               

I finally coasted down to safe speeds on the flats. I didn't have any trouble staying awake that night. I Bet I averaged 50 miles per gallon that run too.

I was a mechanical ignoramus depending on the Berkeley Saab agency to get me going when I broke down.   Finances dictated a fix it when it stops approach. Other than a set of brakes and a slipping fan belt that sidelined me near Big Sur at 3 a.m. The Nautilus treated me well. 

I cringe now when I remember that due to the insidious effects of 

"Flower Power," the Saab acquired an Indian bedspread headliner. It was a green and tan paisley that also adorned the door panels.

A young arrogance, a heavy foot, and the call of Saab's rally heritage finally did the Nautilus in. 

Idling a stoplight in Oakland, I glanced over at a blue-haired pensioner in a highly polished  Plymouth Valiant four-door sedan. She eyed me nervously. Obviously, she wanted to drag.

When the light changed, I revved the 2-stroke, blasted a cloud of blue smoke, and popped the clutch. The front tires chirped and stuttered. The Nautilus surged forward, lurched violently, and rolled to a metal-clattering halt in the intersection. A broken right front axle clanked hideously from down below. I was stranded and humiliated in the middle of the road. The Valiant, without so much as a glance from the driver, drove past me.

I was broke. A busted axle meant a dead Saab. I remember pushing dejectedly on the door jam. The open wing of the suicide door threatened to scoop me up as we gathered speed down the hill. I jumped in for a last miserable freewheel onto a residential side street. 

I was too broke to rescue it. 

So my first car, a jet-black 1960 Saab 93 with portholes on the hood, gathered dust, weeds, and bird droppings until it was tagged, towed, and totaled in an Emeryville car crusher.

I didn't know it then, but I was permanently hooked on Saabs. This first experience set the pattern for the rest of my automotive life. I tried to kick the Saab habit with Corvairs and VW's, Rovers, and Jaguars. Then I'd relapse, buy an old two-stroke or a couple of V4s, find a dead Saab in a field, and toe it home. I even bought a 900 EMS at a car auction. It burst into electrical flames the day I bought it). 

For years Volvo's were the best Methadone. I drove more sensible Swedish for years! 

Then my willpower collapsed last summer, and I bought a 1971 Saab 96 V4 (Desert Sand, rally rigged). I couldn't pass it by.

While zipping through the midwinter Tahoe slush, I thought of the tell-tale two-stroke ring and pop of The Nautilus. 

Another slippery slope

I still miss that car.