"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?”

"Temporary Reprieve" - Submission #39

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!

"Back to Iowa?" Submission #1

Southern California...1992

My work had sent me on four or five trips across the country during the second half of 1992 and the first half of 1993. I was assigned the task of managing our product distribution using the services of a number of private warehouses around the fruited plain.

Our warehouse in Atlanta began to have some issues with our inventory accuracy, among other things, so I was dispatched to the site to perform a physical inventory of our product. As long as I was making this trip, I was told to add a couple other of our warehouses to my trip itinerary... Pottsville, Pennsylvania and Rock Island, Illinois.

The problems at our Atlanta warehouse proved to be significant enough that we were forced to part ways. I was in charge of finding another distribution partner in the southeastern portion of the United States. This project led to numerous trips over the period of a year and visits to Georgia, Alabama, Tennessee and South Carolina.

For most of these trips, I would leave out of Long Beach on a Friday and stop in Iowa for the weekend to visit my mom and my sister, Barb. It was during those visits that Barb began to ask me if I'd ever consider moving back to Iowa.

Iowa... hmmmm. Would I ever move back? For the most part, my boyhood experience in the Hawkeye state was NOT a pleasant one.

***

Virgil LaVoy Munson - My dad

I was born in Iowa in January 5th, 1959. That same year, dad packed up the family and moved us to the Los Angeles area of California in pursuit of a job opportunity.

Southern California...1969

It was April 22nd, 1969 when my dad died of cancer. I guess that I was the only member of the family that was shocked by his death. I was barely 10 years old and had never experienced anyone in a fight with a serious disease. I mean, I knew cancer was worse than a cold or the flu but I had obviously underestimated how much worse it really was.

I'm the small guy and the rest are my siblings... circa 1963

There were five of us kids. I was the baby of the family... by far.

Bill was the closest to me in age at seven years my senior. He was finishing up his junior year at Artesia High School when dad passed away. Bob was 18. Butch was 19 and was serving in the Army. Barb was 22 and living at home after separating from her husband of nearly four years. My cousin, Bruce, was also living in our home after the passing of his mom months earlier. Bruce was 13.

This is me in about 1968

The night before his death was pretty scary. I recall a flurry of activity as he had apparently taken a turn for the worse. Different members of the family were scurrying in and out of his bedroom with panic written on their faces while my mom was on the phone frantically begging for someone to send an ambulance and screaming, "My husband is dying!!"

I remember sitting at the kitchen table... trying to listen, trying to understand, trying to pray.

When I couldn't take anymore, I grabbed Bruce and said, "Let's get outta here."

We walked around the block. I don't remember what we talked about or even if we talked at all. I was just hoping that everything would be back to normal when we got back. I hoped that mom and Bill would be sitting at the table playing Yahtzee, as the often did. I wanted to see Bob laying on the couch, reading the latest issue of his "Archie" comic book. I hoped against hope that dad would be on the road to recovery so that we could continue to cultivate that father and son relationship that it seems we had just begun.

Those desires were dashed as we rounded the corner and saw the flashing red lights and a small crowd of neighbors gathered on the sidewalk in front of our house. I rushed through the front door just as the emergency workers wheeled my dad through the living room. I heard him groan and a member of the emergency crew said, "Take it easy old-timer.'

"Old-timer? Old-timer?" Heck, my dad had just turned 46 the week before. He wasn't an "old-timer!" Virgil LaVoy Munson was a decorated soldier from World War II! He was a strong man! But, of course, all they saw was a shell of a man's man whose body had been ravaged by this insidious disease... cancer