Heading South

On my way from Sacramento to Big Sur, with my new 6 disc (yeah, only 6, bummer) CD player blazing out Dicks Picks, I realized that I had actually bought a pretty good vehicle. It was as if GM had built a hybrid between an armored vehicle (which it first was of course) and a first class cabin on Thai airlines. No stewardess, but maybe I could hire one in the future. Another thing about a Humvee, it is intimidating as all hell. People tend to get out of your way. I had the volume on the stereo set at ten, looking for eleven. I kept thinking ahead to the drive up Plaskett Ridge Road to Hammer's house. All the years I had visited him I never had a rig built for that damn road. Now, I had a rig built for any road, anywhere, any time.

I got to Carmel about noon. I always stopped there to buy groceries for my visit, mostly beer. I decided to find an internet cafe. Not only am I addicted to email, I also thought that it would be cruel if I did not actually create the email address I had given to the TV interviewers. Internet cafes do not abound in affluent townships where there is no University. Carmel was no exception. It is also an old town with narrow streets. Navigating the Humvee became a bummer. I finally saw a sign that advertised EMAIL, and now had to find a place to park this beast. Two blocks away was a park-by-the-hour lot. I drove in and was met by an old man with a Giants hat. I'm a dodger fan, but I needed to park somewhere.

“How much?” I asked him.
He glanced at my Dodger T with disdain.
“Two bucks an hour, except for Dodger fans, then it is 5.”
I decided to play with him. “No man, how much for the lot, the whole thing, black top, white lines, all of it. (I had not thought of anything monochromatic for a while) I own the Dodgers and I need some more parking spaces at the stadium. Gonna pick this one up and move it to LA you see.”

He looked at me as only a Giant fan can look at a Dodger fan and said, “Just put this LA gas hog over there, pay me when you leave.”

The internet cafe in Carmel had pretty decent computers. Luckily, the email address Gimmee.gimmee@yahoo.com was still available, and I signed up. I was looking forward to the types of requests I was sure to get. I checked my personal and company email. They were all marked urgent, so I deleted the bunch without reading a single one. Tony had not written me, so I knew I was an ex-employee. Ah gee.

Next door was a music shop. They not only had CD's but they also had guitars. I asked the kid behind the counter if they had a 1950's era Gibson 12 string, just to hassle him.

“You bet. It used to be owned by some British rocker who lived here, I don’t recognize his name, he was before my time.”

Now I was committed. He pulled out the beautiful relic. I recognized it as the same guitar I heard played at the pot grower’s competition when I was a judge. It came with a letter from Graham Nash giving its entire provenance.

“Hey kid” I said “Are you trying to tell me you never heard of Graham Nash?”

“Did he play with the Stones or the Beatles?” he wondered aloud. I asked him if he knew what the Chinese characters tattooed on his arm meant. When he shrugged, I told him they meant during homosexual acts, I am the woman.

This guitar would make a great present for Hammer. So I quick ran out to the Humvee and pulled some more money out of my rapidly shrinking bag. I went back to the store, bought the guitar and twenty more CD's. This did not faze the youngster at all, this was Carmel, and people blew money here like there was no tomorrow all the time. That was no fun. But I did notice his worried glances at his tattoo and I could imagine him wondering if I really knew Chinese. As I walked out the door I said “Ching shaw wongsha” and winked. I have no idea what that meant if anything, but he started staring at his arm again.

I decided that only having about ten grand left in my trash bags made me feel poor. Maybe I needed a priest. Nah, what I really needed was to find another branch of my bank.

I stopped first at a Banana Republic outlet for some decent clothing. (Attention reader, in literature this is called foreshadowing.) Then I stopped and bought a nice book bag at a Woolworth. I walked down to the bank, looking affluent enough, carrying a guitar and still wearing Birkys. I looked very Carmel.

An efficient teller, who of course had no idea who I was, helped me. I handed her my updated bank book and my ID. She was not impressed by the balance in my account. I decided that Carmel was no fun at all.

My request for 50 grand in cash was met with as much interest as a comment on the weather. She probably figured I was going out to dinner. She looked at my ID once more just to be sure she had read it correctly. With a smirk she showed it to her manager. “Bozo?” Again. I had to come up with something new just to entertain myself.

“Look, my mother was sort of a prude, and the only time she would lay down with my father was after a great laugh. He turned her on to Bozo the clown on TV, I was conceived and in homage my father gave me the name.”

He looked at me and replied, “Sorry I asked.” Finally some fun in Carmel.

The money filled the book bag and all the pockets of my Banana Republic Adventure-wear pants. I left the bank humming Bali Hai.

As I walked back to the lot to confront the Giant fan I started some calculations. Let me see, I have spent the best part of 150 grand today...how long will my money last at this rate? Maybe I DID need a priest.

I made one more stop. I saw a Stub-hub outlet. I knew they sold tickets to all the sporting events. I walked in and asked if I could get seats at Dodger Stadium for the World Series. Sure I could. I bought two seats for game 4. When I got back to the parking lot, I paid the Giant fan and then handed him the envelope with the ducats. “Here you go dude. You will never live long enough to see the Giants in the World Series, so have fun at Dodger Stadium. Lose the hat.”