Obviously... I didn't do it. I
didn't harm myself. Partly because I didn't have the guts to go through with
it. But mostly because I had received a reprieve of sorts. I had decided to throw
a Hail Mary and ask my mom if I could go out to California for part of the
summer. You know, spend some much needed bonding time with my three brothers... chill
out at Huntington Beach... maybe attend church a little... try to find
myself.
After days
of psyching myself up, I presented my case with passion, emotion and yes, even
a few tears. I was desperate. It paid off.
To my
utter amazement... she agreed. Miracle! I was heading to California! Far away
from my patchwork, dysfunctional family and toxic home life. Far away from the
hostility of those whom had once been my friends. Far away from the small,
Midwestern town that seemingly did not like me anymore... if it ever did at
all.
"One
month," mom told me. A one-month vacation in California.
There were
a couple negative aspects to taking this trip.
One... I'd
have to miss my sophomore year of baseball, as the Iowa high school baseball
season took place in the summer. Under normal circumstances, this would have
been a deal breaker. Miss a baseball season? Are you kidding me? But during
this season of my life... yes, I would gladly miss a baseball season for this
great escape.
Two... the
plane tickets purchased included a return trip. The escape would be temporary.
The thought of this depressed me... so I tried not to think about it.
As the
final days of my sophomore year counted down, I kept quiet about my pending
trip to the golden state. I'm not sure why. You'd think that I would be
shouting it from the mountain tops. Maybe I thought talking about it would jinx
it. Or maybe I thought revealing my plans would result in a stronger urgency
for those who wanted to do me harm. Or maybe... I just thought that nobody
would care.
I don't
remember the exact date, but it was in the month of June... 1975... when I flew
into LA. My brother Bill (the preacher) picked me up at the airport. He seemed
genuinely excited to see me as he rattled off all that we could do while I was
there.
As it
turned out, I spent very little time with Bill while I was there... which was
ironic given the events that would unfold in the months to come. More on that
later.
I chose to
stay with my brother, Bob, first. I'm not sure exactly how that choice was made
but I'm certain it had something to do with his plentiful stash of cannabis,
pipes, rolling papers, hash oil and other related paraphernalia. In my
massively misguided thinking, these were key components to my summer
"escape."
Bob lived
in the Orange County community of Los Alamitos. The small, 2-bedroom house he
rented was crammed onto a small piece of property that held two houses... One
in the front and one in the back with a shared driveway. Bob lived in the
front. He had no garage and a front yard about the size of a postage stamp. A
chain link fence enclosed the property.
Bob worked
the swing shift at his job and wasn't home when we arrived. His live-in
girlfriend, Ginny, greeted us cheerfully at the door. Ginny was a pretty, dark
skinned Latina with long, thick black hair and an ever-present smile. She was
cheerful and had such a servant spirit about her that it was almost
uncomfortable at times. Very Stepford wife-ish.
Ginny was
a waitress at a local restaurant that Bob frequented... the "Casa
Castillo," an upscale Mexican restaurant in a busy strip mall on Seal
Beach Boulevard. That's where they met.
Ginny was
a recent divorcee with two children who lived with their father. Within a month
of their meeting, they moved in together.
After a
bit, Bill left and I spent the afternoon and evening getting to know Ginny
better. Being 16 and somewhat socially awkward, I was pretty uncomfortable
despite Ginny's efforts to make me feel at home. She made me the best tacos
ever, followed by these huge chocolate chip cookies, fresh from the oven.
Man... she could cook!
Bob and Ginny had only one car
between them... a Volkswagen Beetle. Bob's shift ended at 11PM and so we hopped
into the bug to go pick him up at about 10:30.
LeFiell Manufacturing Company had played an important role in the Munson family over the years. My mom worked
there briefly in the early 1960's. My dad was a machinist at LeFiell up until
he was stricken with cancer in 1968. My brother, Butch, got a job there right
after graduating high school in 1967 and would retire from LeFiell some 48
years later. Bob followed the family tradition, working at the plant for 27
years... until he was let go after testing positive for marijuana somewhere
around the year 2000.
Bob came
strolling out with a stream of employees promptly at 11, empty lunchbox in
hand. Ginny hopped out of the car and jumped in the back seat. Bob settled in
the driver's seat, slugged me in the arm and pulled out of the parking lot.
We briefly
engaged in some small talk before Bob pulled a hard pack of Marlboros out of
his shirt pocket. He flipped it open and thumbed through the content before
pulling out a tightly rolled joint.
"Here
we go!" I thought.
Driving
south on Bloomfield Boulevard toward Los Al, Bob lit the joint and took a long
drag... and then held the smoke in his lungs for as long as he could before
slowly exhaling. He handed the joint to me. I followed suit.
Ginny held
up her hand and shook her head "no," and so Bob and I passed the
joint back and forth until it was almost completely consumed. Bob opened the
ashtray, retrieved a roach clip and clamped it to the end of the joint. I
finished it off.
Within
seconds, I was higher than a kite. I had been smoking pot for a couple years at
this point but I had never felt such an intense high as that June evening in
Southern California. I felt like I was floating inside the car... like an
astronaut floating inside his space capsule.
"What
the hell is this stuff?" I asked incredulously.
He told me
the name of it. Said it was grown in the deep south of Mexico. It was known for
its potency.
Um...
yeah.
As if that
wasn't enough... we got home and Bob rolled an "oiler." He put some marijuana
on a saucer and used a toothpick to mix in some drops of a dark liquid from a
small vile. Hash oil. He mixed it together... almost like a stir fry... and
then rolled it into a joint using his Zig Zag brand papers.
We hit the
"oiler" until it was gone... and then I was... gone. Waaaaaaay gone!
Bob had me
lay back in his big, yellow bean bag chair and close my eyes. He put some
headphones on my ears and cranked up the sound as Lynyrd Skynyrd's
"Freebird" blasted my eardrums. The
feeling of floating was quickly replaced with the sensation of spinning. I lay
there for a minute or so... hoping that the spinning would slow down... or
stop. It didn't.
When I
couldn't take it anymore, I quickly sat up, threw the headphones off and threw
open my eyes. Bob and Ginny were sitting on the couch... but I couldn't focus
my eyes on them because they were vibrating rapidly, up and down.
I felt
sick to my stomach and I knew I was about to hurl. I got up and dashed toward
the front door, stumbling and falling before I reached for the doorknob. Bob
ran ahead and opened the door as I groped my way past him.
On my
hands and knees, I vomited violently into the flower bed. I'm not certain but
I'm pretty sure that partially digested tacos and cookies didn't make a very
good plant food.
Bob sat
next to me with his hand on my back. Every time I threw up, he'd say,
"Alright man... get it all out. You're okay. Now you'll feel better."
A vomiting coach of sorts.
I stayed
on my hands and knees for about 10 minutes... until I was certain that I was
done. Eventually, I looked up at Bob and started laughing hysterically and
asked, "What's for dinner? I'm starved!"
Wow! If
that first night was any indication of what was to come that summer of '75, and
it was... this was most certainly going to be a wild ride.
Welcome to
California!
