Chapter 2 - Off to California to Get the Money

My first stop was Pep Boys. Manny Moe and Jack always kept a supply of wipers in stock for everything from a 1953 Chevy pickup to a late model Mercedes. This was something good to know in Oregon. I walked in feeling flush. “Give me the finest, most expensive wipers you have for a five year old Honda Accord” I proudly said. The clerk thought about it for a minute, left, and returned with a package with foreign writing. “Here you go, these are made in Holland, and they are the best we have.” I refused to touch them. “Holland?” I said with a sneer, “Holland makes buzzy things that make you see Jerry Garcia in black and white.” I was impressed when the kid said, “But Sir, Jerry always wears black onstage.” He had a sale.

As I was replacing the old wipers with my new Dutch wipers in the parking lot, an only slightly technical task that even I and my ten thumbs could do, I realized I had left my rain slicker in my office. Then I got to thinking what else I had left there. An old copy of Rolling Stone, hmmm what else....not worth considering. I was not going back.

However, I had to be fair to the founder of the company. He had hired me and given me carte blanche to run my department, which paid off for him in spades. He liked me. I never had to tell him to find a priest, and if I got an urgent email from him, I always read it. So I drove to an internet cafe and suffered the indignity of having to pay to use an old computer. My message was cryptic, but he was always saying my messages were cryptic anyway.

“Tony, you may have heard by now that I ran out of the office an hour ago. True. You see I was having eye trouble and could not see staying at work. In fact, I maybe going blind and will never return. I am sure you can find a new manager who does not hate humming products from the Netherlands. And please find my guys a priest, I sort of promised them. Good luck with the latest greatest sequel to last year's best seller. You built an inspiring place to work, for everyone but me. My fault, not yours.”

With that obligation completed, I hit the interstate. In Oregon it is simply called I5. I still call it the San Diego freeway. Seems how people in Oregon and people in California do not have conflicting accents, this was one way the locals knew I was not “one of them.” The fact that I had no webs between my toes would only become apparent if I were barefoot. There is a reason the U of O sports logo is the Ducks.

I decided to not worry about the speed limit. I had a lot of money waiting for me in Sacramento. I did not know if I could get to the lottery office before it closed. I knew I wouldn't make it at 70 MPH, so pushed it to 80. I never did this normally. In Oregon, the state Supreme Court had ruled that a Grateful Dead bumper sticker was “probable cause” for a search of your automobile. I had two. One simply said “There is nothing like a Grateful Dead concert”, but the other was a provoking declaration “CAUTION: I break for hallucinations.” But hey, I could pay a fine, pay a more expensive insurance tab, and what the hell, I would probably have a chauffeur next week anyway.

I checked my ash tray. I still had half a jay left over from my morning drive to work. Every day I smoked half on the way in, half on the way home. I was a good employee. “Not anymore” I snickered. I finished it in three prolific tokes and started fantasizing about what I was gonna do with all that money. I had never allowed myself that fantasy before (well, not much anyway) and it hypnotized me as much as the sinsemilla. Now it was real. I fantasized responsibly.

My fantasies started in the south of France. I saw myself sharing a beach with topless starlets shooing off paparazzi. I thought about the ultimate fly fishing trip in Siberia where you have to wear face masks on the back of your head to keep tigers from attacking you, but the trout weigh 4 or 5 pounds on the average.

I was deep into these fantasies when all of a sudden I heard a siren. “Damn, Smokey.” I ate the roach. I found the can of Ozium and surreptitiously gave the car a couple spurts. Ozium was developed for undertakers to use in the morgue. It wipes out any smell, but if you use too much, it becomes obvious. I had years of experience in dorm rooms. It even worked in my parent’s house, so I knew just how much to douse the old Honda. By now, the siren went back on and I slowed down and pulled over.

In Oregon, the highway patrol wear great uniforms. They had pants with regimental stripes down the side and double pocketed shirts with bright buttons. But their most distinct feature was the ‘Smokey The Bear’ hat. As Smokey came up to my car, he read the bumper stickers. “My little sister is a fan of those guys” he mumbled as he pulled out his ticket book. “Oh yeah? Sis is a Dead Head eh?” I should have just shut up, he was being OK to me, because of his little sister, but he had no idea what I meant by a Dead Head and he was sure it was an insult.

“Where you goin so fast?”

“Siberia.”

“What did you say?”

“Or maybe the south of France” I replied.

Hey, I had to snap out of it. This was particularly good sinsemilla from my buddy Hammer and it made conversations with people with an attitude a bit difficult. I took a deep breath and thought about asparagus, anything other than Smokey and how stoned I was.

He asked for my license and registration, of course. This is where I normally skated out of tickets. You see, when I was 25 I changed my name. I had carefully chosen a very hip name, for a very hip person, me. When I went into the DMV in California to change my driver’s license, the very unhip old lady behind the counter told me I needed a middle name. I argued that I did not, that I knew the law and she should just give me a license with my new hippy name and let me be so she can help the 23 people in line behind me before the day was over. She folded her arms across an enormous bosom and refused to issue me a license without a middle name. Her reason was that any old hippy could choose the same name as I did and then who knew what hell would break loose. Well, I was pretty loaded at the time so I just blurted out 'Bozo'. I meant it more as an insult to her reasoning powers than a choice for a middle name, but that is what she typed in.

This scene with Smokies had been played out before, I was ready for it. He looked at the license, choked a bit, held back an obviously politically incorrect statement and merely asked if this was my current address. My first thought was “not much longer” but I simply said “Yessir.”

“I have to run your license for wants and warrants, I'll be right back.”

I knew what he was doing. He got back in the Smokey mobile and handed the license to his partner. They started laughing, and got on the radio. I read lips well enough to see him say “That's right, B-O-Z-O .”

After he and his partner settled down from the morning’s biggest laugh, Smokey returned to me and said “Bozo, I mean sir, there are no warrants out for you, and I for one can't give a clown a ticket. Slow down and have fun in Siberia.”
Sometimes the lights are all shining on meeee!

Out of respect for Smokey with the Dead Head for a sister, I put the cruise control at 70 and continued south. My only two problems now were that I would not get to the lottery office by 5, and I was out of pot.

The rest of the drive was not boring however. My responsible fantasies kept me entertained. They included buying a minor league baseball team. I would hire the Grateful Dead to sing the National Anthem at every game and allow people to smoke pot in the stands. Maybe I would buy the Tahitian island next to Marlon Brando and go over once a week to watch The Godfather with him. Maybe I would buy a small town in the Sierra Mountains, kick all the locals out and make it the biggest commune in history, with me the sheriff of course. Sheriff Bozo, yeah that's it!

I pulled into Sacramento at about 5:15. I realized the money would still be there in the morning. I found another internet cafe, with yet another outdated computer, and printed out my winning ticket. The website always asked if I wanted to cash the winnings or buy more tickets with it. I thought about buying 130 million more tickets, for about one second.

I stayed at the most expensive hotel in Sacramento, which my credit card luckily covered. I intended to pay it off the next day, along with all of the others anyway.

I walked into the Lottery office Tuesday morning, and presented my winning ticket. The place went crazy “You were the only winner! You get the entire 130 million. What will you do with it?”

I was expecting that someone else, or probably more than one, would be sharing this prize with me, and I was shocked to find out it was all mine.

“So how soon can I have the money?”

“Where do you want it sent?” the clerk asked.

“I was thinking of just getting cash, can you do that?”

Of course they could not and I gave them my bank account info.

“There is the matter of Federal taxes you know” said the manager as he led me into his office.

The manager, although hardly dressed better than the clerk, at least had no tattoos. His Sears
suit needed dry cleaning. He had the appearance of a divorced man who had given up trying to make the cover of GQ.

“Ahh, how much?” I asked him. When I said ‘ahh’ I drew it out almost like a dentist would while you are sitting in his chair of pain. I had not allowed the reality of the taxman into my fantasies. Sharing my whimsy with the feds just never played into the daydreams.

“About 35%” he said.

I did some quick calculations. That much money would buy about a thousand smart bombs, or build two dozen schools. What would the feds do with it? Buy bombs of course, but there was nothing I could do about that. The fed's cut left me with a figure I was still excited about. Mr. Brando, here I come.

“We need to see your ID please.” Two days in a row with the Bozo act. I handed him my driver’s license and my passport. I always had my passport in my car in case I wanted to boogie like quick, just a weird quirk of mine. He took a look at the license and then at me. “Bozo?”

I got indignant and said “It is an old family name. It is an Italian Jewish name. My Grandfather escaped the holocaust and came to America to be an organ grinder. His monkey's name was Bozo too.”

The manager in the crumpled grey suit apologized. I was on a roll.

The bank transfer had to wait for the bank to open. Meanwhile, the Lottery people wanted me to give interviews to the press. I thought about it awhile and figured what the heck.

The media arrived a half hour later. The lottery people had filled me full of strong coffee and I was ready. At least I thought I was. The print press people were jumping around with their pencils scratching at notebooks. The TV people, all three of local Sacramento channels, each had their own klieg lights and their own bleach blondes, two female, one male, shoving microphones in my face.

Of course the first question asked was “What will you do with all that money?”

I knew this would be the first question so I decided to put a spin on it that would surprise them and make the six o'clock news.

“I am going to give it all away. I don't need much, and there are so many who think they need a lot. So I will look for the greediest, least deserving people who write me at the following email (I made one up) and give it to the people with the most depraved ideas submitted. That's all folks; I have charitable work to do. Thank you.”

They had their quote, I’d given them what they wanted, flair and absurdity.

An hour later the transfer of the money to my account was complete. The IRS was paid and I was ridiculously wealthy. I drove away in my Accord. It had been a damn good car, but now, now, what would I drive? I stopped at a branch of my bank and went up to the teller and simply said “I would like to make a withdrawal. Here is my name and account number.”

“Certainly sir. How much?”

“100 thousand dollars please. Cash”

I felt like Clyde Barrow the way she looked at me and ran off for the manager. He took the info and looked at my account, and started to sweat. “Ah, yes sir, are you sure you want that in cash?”

“You bet, and a big trash bag to carry it in.”

It is amazing the service you get when you have obscene amounts of money. They even double bagged my cash. I tossed it over my shoulder like Santa Clause and walked away humming a song from South Pacific.

I looked down the street, and as fate would have it, there was a Humvee dealer. I always thought those were ridiculous vehicles and used too much gas. I believed they were a cause of global warming. Now, I just wanted one. I could live in the mountains and hell with the rising ocean. Money, wow, makes you think different.

I walked into the dealership, took a look at the floor model. The sole salesman was ignoring me. I was in the same clothes I had worn to my office 24 hours earlier, a Dodger T and Birkenstocks.

“Hey, are you a salesman?”

“Yup.”

“Will you answer a few questions for me?”

“I am kind of busy right now” he said, hiding his copy of Maxim.

“Listen up. I am interested in a Humvee, but not a stripped down model like this.” I knew it wasn't a stripped down model, but I decided to challenge him on as many fronts as possible.

“What makes you think you can afford one?”

I guess he thought I had all my worldly possessions in the garbage bag. After all I was looking sort of grungy. So, I walked over to his desk and emptied the bag full of hundred dollar bills on his desk.

“I'll give you ten minutes to get a fully loaded black Humvee in front of me. Then I will count off the full sticker price to you. 11 minutes from now I leave for the Land Rover dealership.”

I do not believe I have ever seen a crew of overweight old men move so fast. Cheap shoes squeaked across the floor. Shirt tails flew out from strained belts. 7 minutes later a beautiful black Humvee was parked in front of me.

“Is this fully loaded?”

“Everything sir.”

“CD changer?”

“You bet, six disc changer!”

“Only six?”

“Well we could install a bigger one.”

“In two minutes? I'm in a hurry you see; this money is burning a hole in my pocket.”

They were befuddled and starting to think I was not for real. They looked at the money, decided it was not counterfeit and got real nice to me.

I decided to give them a break and make their day. I told them the poor excuse for a CD changer would work out ok for me. I counted off the amount on the sticker and a hundred apiece for their trouble. Maybe they could buy bigger belts now.

The main guy, who was younger than the rest and seemed like a competent business man, started filling out the paperwork and blanched at my middle name.

“Bozo?” he asked.

I told them that when I was born I had a bright red nose and my father could not decide between Rudolph and Bozo, and my mother decided it would be Bozo. “Got a problem with that?” I asked. “No sir, we will done in a minute, we will have you some license plates from DMV within an hour.”

I gave them my mother's address in Los Angeles for registration purposes. She always threw away my mail anyway, so I used it a lot when I did not care about any communications.

I walked down the street and found a head shop. I got the same two bumper stickers, a box of rolling papers and a new can of Ozium.

When I returned I stuck the stickers proudly on the back of my new Humvee and handed the keys and registration papers for the Accord to a kid in the garage.

“She is yours now son, her name is Bertha. Treat her well. If you notice a funny smell, sorta like burning rope, there is Ozium under the seat.”

With a considerably lighter bag, I drove away in the Humvee, found a music store, filled up the six disc changer, and decided that by the end of the day I would have to see Hammer and get some stash.