“Was That Enough?” – Submission #45

The “Odd Couple” experiment lasted less than a month… thank God. When Chuck, my roomie, moved out of our apartment, I had no choice but to do the same. But where would I go?

Brother Butch, circa 1985

I remember Bill coming to pick me up a day or two after Chuck left. We drove to Butch’s house in Artesia, just a few miles away. Butch is my oldest brother, 10 years my senior. Bill didn’t tell me the specific reason for the visit, but I suspected it had something to do with me and my sudden state of homelessness. I guess if he briefed me on the purpose for the visit and Butch ended up rejecting the idea, that might make Butch look like a bad brother. In reality, he had no real obligation to take me in. He wasn’t a part of the process that brought me to California. He never signed-up for this. Why should he be pushed into a commitment and sacrifice of this magnitude?

I hated that I was so dependent upon others for life’s necessities. But I was still a teenager and a high school student. This uncomfortable process was a part of my journey and it would serve to teach me some valuable lessons in life, particularly the blessing of family and an appreciation for those who sacrifice in order to help you along your path.

We walked into the house and I felt a bit on edge as we greeted Butch and his wife, Ruby. A couple minutes of small-talk ensued and I sat down on the nearest chair. Bill waited for Butch’s eyes to meet his gaze and then silently, motioned with his head for Butch to follow him outside… which he did, as they shut the door behind them.

I barraged Ruby with nervous chatter.  I wondered if she knew what my brothers were talking about. If she did, she didn’t let on.

Ruby and I had always gotten along great. Before dad died, and she and Butch were still dating, Ruby babysat some kids on our street. I would frequently wander over to keep her company and to help her with the kids. I was only 10, but it kick-started our relationship and I was absolutely thrilled when she and Butch got married a couple years later.

After what seemed like hours, but was probably more like 20 or 30 minutes, Butch and Bill came back into the house. I looked at Bill with curious eyes and he said, “Are you ready to go?”

He must have said “No.”

We got into the car and I just looked down… a little frightened and a bit depressed.

“Now where are we going?” I asked Bill

“To get your stuff.”

“Why?”

“To take it to Butch’s house. You’re going to live with them” He said with a sly smile.

RELIEF!

Munson Boys Bob, Bart, Butch, Bill in 1975

Butch and Ruby’s house was very small… less than 1,000 square feet, I’m pretty sure. It had two bedrooms and one bathroom. I would share a bedroom with my 4-year-old nephew and 1-year-old niece. The house didn’t have a hallway. The kid’s (and my) room was right off the living room. Butch and Ruby’s room was right off the kid’s room. Yes, you had to go through the kid’s room to get to their room unless you walked through the kitchen to get to the Jack and Jill bathroom, which led into their room also.

It’s complicated.

Me and Butch in Iowa, a few years ago

The living situation was less than ideal for all of us and I’m sure that was the catalyst for the lengthy discussion between my two older brothers. It seems that maybe my move to California was turning into a burden of unintended consequences for all involved. Nevertheless, I am so thankful for the sacrifice that Butch and Ruby made to accommodate me during that crucial season of my life. It brought me some much-needed stability.

Butch worked at LeFiell for 48 years

Butch was/is the model of stability. He’s lived in the same neighborhood and has been married to the same woman for nearly 50 years. He retired a couple years ago from the job he started right out of high school back in 1967. He worked for one company his entire adult life. He is and always has been my hero.

I got my first job at a taco and hot dog joint called ‘Pup n Taco.’ Or as we called it, ‘Puke n Taco.’ It was a somewhat popular chain fast-food joint. I didn’t get paid much but I managed to save up enough money to buy a 1966 Mustang for $600 dollars.

It was a pretty nice-looking car. Kind of a dark, dusty blue and the body was in great shape but apparently the previous owner had done way too much tinkering with it… trying to modify the engine and transmission… until he ran out of patience and sold it off to some sucker.

The “sucker” (me), soon learned that it would break down on a regular basis. Luckily for me, I was dating a girl whose dad was a mechanic and he spent a lot of time with his head under my Mustang’s hood. His oft repeated refrain was, “You should have let me look at it before you bought it.”

Sage advice but a tad too late.

Aside from all of the periphery issues of living arrangements, part-time jobs, car troubles and high school… much of my focus centered around the pursuit of truth and faith… of God and the Bible… of Christians… of acceptable and unacceptable activities and behavior.

Because I had made the church the center of my activities and the teens in the youth group as my primary companions… was I now a Christian? A believer? A disciple of Jesus? I mean, I think I looked the part and acted the part. I modeled my dress, my conversations, my activities and, most importantly (it seemed), my list of “do’s and don’ts” after those around me. I must be a Christian, right?

If all of that wasn’t good enough to make me a Christian, I still had an ace in the hole. When I was about 7-years-old, I sat in that very church one Sunday morning, a few years before dad died, and listened to Pastor Osborne as he implored folk to come forward and get “saved” at the conclusion of his sermon. I didn’t really understand all of that but a buddy sitting next to me grabbed my arm and said, “Let’s go.” And so we trotted down the aisle to the front of the church.

My buddy and I got separated as some man took me in a back room, sat me down, read me some Bible verses. He asked me if I understood what those verses were telling me and even though I didn’t understand… I nodded in affirmation. He then had me repeat a prayer. At the end of this activity, he declared that I was now a “child of God” and bound for heaven. Cool!

So… I had that. But was that enough?

"The Odd Couple" - Submission #44

If I do the math, I can figure out that Janet (Bill’s wife), became pregnant with their first child in early October of 1975, about a month after I had moved in with them.

I’m not sure when they actually made the big announcement. It was probably in November or December. I was excited to hear the news. It never occurred to me, at least early on, that this news would have any dramatic effect on me and my situation. But eventually, it did.

As I have mentioned earlier, Bill made next to nothing working for the church. They had to meticulously budget in order to make ends meet. As an example of their poverty, I never… ever… remember Bill filling his car up with gas. It was always putting in a dollar’s worth at a time… two dollars if he was awash with cash. But never more than that.

The financial impact of having a child would be significant and Bill had to plan accordingly. And so, before I had completed my junior year, Bill and Janet sat me down… and gave me the news that would jolt my world. The bottom line? I would not be living with them any longer.

Janet’s grandmother, they called her “Gummy,” owned a house in Chino, California… about 45 minutes away from our apartment in Norwalk. She also owned a house in Oklahoma and split time between the two states. As a way to help Bill and Janet save money, Gummy offered them the opportunity to live in the Chino house… rent free.

They accepted her offer. And now… they had to break the news to me.

I felt shocked and devastated by the news. I had been so happy and content since moving in with them in September and now, it felt like the rug was being pulled out from under me. I was bewildered and lost. I know that Bill felt horrible about doing it, but it really made sense for his family.

Obviously, Bill wasn’t going to throw me out on the streets. He had developed a plan prior to breaking the news to me. The problem was… it was a horrible plan.

A “down on his luck” guy had started attending our church. His name was Chuck Beard. Chuck was a scruffy looking character… probably 40ish, always wearing the same clothes. I was pretty sure that he didn’t own a razor or a toothbrush and if you found yourself downwind from him, it was obvious that he didn’t have much access to soap or a shower. But he seemed nice enough.

Apparently, Chuck was looking for a place to live. He worked part time doing odd jobs and couldn’t afford a place on his own… so… you guessed it… Chuck was going to be my new roomie. What??? Uh… yeah…. The odd couple.

Chuck and I moved into a different apartment complex, around the corner from where I had been living. No TV. No phone. I paid rent with the social security check I got from my dad’s passing away.

Oh… and how did I get to school now, you ask? That’s a great question and I thank you for asking.

Before Bill and Janet headed for Chino, they had secured my transportation. An old, girls’ bicycle, previously own by Janet’s younger sister, Donna. It was old, it was rusty, and it was butt ugly.

As ugly as the bike was… I couldn’t leave it outside or it would get stolen within minutes. It was a bad neighborhood. So, the bike was stored in the cramped living room of our upstairs apartment. Every morning, I would ride that bike three miles to school, steering with one hand and holding a stack of books and notebooks in my other hand. I rode the busy streets of Norwalk and Cerritos, through heavy Mexican gang area on Norwalk Blvd and 166^th Street… peddling as fast as my feet could go.

I missed school frequently and would write my own excuse, forging Bill’s signature at the bottom. At some point, the school administration noticed the forgeries and requested a meeting with Bill, who was my legal guardian. I don’t remember the outcome of that meeting, but I know that I quit missing school after.

I spent my evenings listening to the Dodger games on a little radio as I stared out the front window. It was my only source of entertainment. Chuck and I never spoke to each other beyond any necessary communication. On occasion, Bill would stop by the apartment and I would be so happy. I craved his company so badly that I would always try and think of ways to get him to stay just a few minutes longer. Every time he left, I would be consumed with sadness.

Chuck and I were approaching the one-month mark in our apartment together and rent was due. I remember riding the bike home after school, I think it might have been the last day of the school year, because I was earlier than normal. I carried the bike up the stairs, stuck my apartment key into the locked door and pushed it open. Chuck was on the living room floor with a bed-sheet spread out in front of him. The few belongings that he owned… a couple dirty shirts, some silverware, a couple pots and pans… hobo stuff…  were on the sheet and he was pulling up the four corners, making a knapsack of sorts.

Chuck was caught off-guard and he stammered and stumbled over his words. Obviously, his plan was to be long gone by the time I got home. Finally, these words came tumbling out of his mouth, “I can’t afford to live here anymore.”

I stood in stunned silence as he quickly strode by me and out the door with his bed-sheet of earthly possessions slung over his shoulder… the sound of his pots clanking in rhythm with his steps. Chuck was gone but his body odor lingered.

Thanks for the memories, Chuck.

I put the kick-stand down on the bike and sat down on the couch. I looked up toward the ceiling, as though speaking to God and said, “Now what?”

"Culture Shock" - Submission #43

From day one in California, I immersed myself in a new lifestyle. Gone were the vices of weed, cigarettes and alcohol. Gone were the days of self-medicating to escape the painful realities of my life. I no longer wanted to suffer through life, I wanted to embrace life... a new life... and drink it in.

As I started to attend church, much about me was in stark contrast to who I was just months earlier when I attended that church service with my brother. My appearance was quite different. My hair was much shorter. My wardrobe now fit in with the other “church goers.” My attitude and countenance now reflected a teen, eager to learn, as opposed to one that couldn’t wait to escape a sanctuary of individuals so different than myself.

I was in the midst of turning over a new leaf... which was a good and noble exercise. A concerted effort to execute a complete makeover of my attitude, inclinations, habits, thoughts and actions. But even though the church setting and living with a preacher served as a backdrop, my early acts and evidences of transformation were not the result of a religious experience or a confrontation with God. The changes in me were the result of my overwhelming desire to live a life that had zero resemblance to the life I had lived up to this point. This distinction was lost on me at that time. It was also not understood by those observing my changes play out.

More on that later.

My arrival didn’t give me much time to prepare for the start of my junior year of high school. I lived within the boundaries where students were assigned to attend Excelsior High School in Norwalk. This was a very old high school and one that would end up getting closed down a few years later. As a point of interest, after it closed down, it became the movie set for “Grease 2” and a number of other TV shows and movies.

Of one thing, I was certain... I did not want to attend Excelsior High School, a school well known for its frequent gang activity. This truly frightened me and caused me to lose sleep.

Frankly, no school in the area was exempt from some sort of gang infestation but some had better track records than others. One such school was Richard Gahr High School in Cerritos. Gahr was known to be pretty racially balanced with minimal gang issues. Luckily for me, my brother, Butch, lived within the Gahr boundaries. So... I “borrowed” his address and enrolled at Gahr.

Despite the fact that attending Gahr ended up being a good choice, the first few weeks of school was an exercise in massive culture shock. I had attended California schools from Kindergarten through the 4th grade but that was a long time ago in “kid years.” My formative years, ages 10 through 16, were spent in small town Iowa. I went from attending a lily-white high school in the Midwest, with less than 200 students to a racially diverse high school in Los Angeles County with over two-thousand students.

Almost everything about school was different in California. There were no inside hallways… every passageway was outside. Our lockers were outside. Most everyone ate lunch outside in the area known as the “Quad.” For the most part, the various races stuck together during lunch period… blacks with blacks, Mexicans with Mexicans, Asians with Asians and whites with whites. Unwritten rules… I guess. I normally sat alone during those early days.

Many students fell into specific categories or cliques that seemed to have their own peculiar dress codes and languages… like the “Stoners,” the “Surfers,” the “Cholos,” the “Preps,” and, of course, like most every high school in America… the “Jocks” and the “Nerds.”

As for me, my style was pretty simple... all the basic colors of corduroy pants
and black wallaby shoes.

Gahr High School was relatively close to where I had attended elementary school before dad died and we moved to Iowa. So, it was interesting to come across some kids that I knew but hadn’t seen in more than six years… like, Chet Beatty, Bobby Hernandez, Mike Green, Paul Pugh, James Felton and Ted Walton… these are a few of the names that pop into my head as I type away. Regardless of that past connection, there was no re-connection with any of them during my next two years of high school. Chet Beatty and I ended up at the same church about 15 years after graduation and are still friends and in contact today… but he’s the only one from that group.

To say that I was anxious, intimidated and lost... was a substantial understatement. I watched the clock in each class incessantly, trying to will it to move more quickly. The best part of each day, for me, was hearing the dismissal bell in French class and walking out to see Bill’s turquoise, 1971 Malibu, waiting at the curb to pick me up.

Slowly but surely, over the course of my junior year at Gahr, things began to get more comfortable as the culture shock started to melt away. I got used to my surroundings and formed a few casual friendships. But even through the tough parts of my move and acclimation to my new surroundings … I never… ever… regretted moving to California.

My fondest memories of that time period of my life was living with Bill and Janet in that cramped little apartment across the street from our church. Janet would cook a full meal every night and all three of us would sit around the dining table, talking about our day. I couldn’t tell you the last time I had sat down for a family meal prior to that point.

Bill had a big aquarium with some really cool looking fish and it wasn’t long before I got a 10 gallon starter tank for my bedroom. Bill and I would go to the pet store on Pioneer Blvd about once a week to buy supplies, new fish or just to look around. That was always a highlight.

We really got into UCLA basketball too. It was
interesting to watch the team in their first season without coaching legend, John Wooden.

Every night, at 10:30PM, we would laugh our way through black and white reruns of The Honeymooners with Jackie Gleason and Art Carney. And then throughout the week, Bill and I would find situations where we would quote Gleason and do our best to imitate his bombastic voice… “To the moon, Alice!”

Life was good. Life couldn’t get much better.

And then… a bombshell.

To be continued…