Travels With My Son During Holy Week

Personal Journal: March 24, 1989

         

  He sniffled, a 6-year-old missing his mom, for most of the ride out of Los Angeles County. He wanted to turn around, to go home. It went on and off like that through Orange County, too, as we headed south on the San Diego Freeway.

            I looked off to the left in the distance, seeing Mt. Baldy standing 10,068 feet above the suburbs where we lived when he was a baby.  (It was so smoggy his doctor recommended we keep him inside).  Outside the car the towns rolled by, Huntington Beach, Mission Viejo, and finally San Celemente, meaning we were almost to San Diego County at last.

            I was in a state of terminal indecisiveness. Should I roll into town and call Dan, stay at a hotel, sleep in the car in a quiet neighborhood, camp at San Onofre State Beach, what? Only a few days later was I to learn what this was about, that being stressed from too much scheduling, charging at brick walls as a newspaper columnist, inevitably makes for a tough time in an unstructured, free-for-all environment. Only Wednesday did I finally begin to turn human and revel in that freedom. And by then it was nearly time to come home.

            The Circle 8 chain motel in Pacific Beach was full so we went across the street to Sleepy Time Motel. It was $38 a night and the room was disappointing, old, drab, confined. I felt depressed, alone with my son in a strange city.
              The truth is I was worrying about calling old friends Dan, and then Jim, and seeing about staying overnight. We’re not in our 20s any more, where you show up unexpectedly, party way past midnight and crash on the floor. There are families now, protocol. You have to call two weeks ahead and make a time for dinner. It drives me nuts.

            I lugged our stuff upstairs. “Indiana Jones and the Temple of Doom” was on TV. Dillon was gleeful and suddenly so was I.  We watched Indy drink the poison and Lao Che laugh and Shorty drive the getaway car. Their plane crashed and they ended up in a village in India. After the part where the elephant blew water at the actress Willie, we went to 7-Eleven for snacks and wine, which was Gallo, but not a bad Sauvignon Blanc for $3.99.

            I drank it out of the bottle and ate potato chips. Not something we would do at home, but we were two men on an adventure, a most excellent adventure we hoped. We called “mom,” meaning Laura. I don’t remember much because Dillon did all the talking and it made him feel better. I told her the motel was musty and not very good. I felt poor and cheap in a city that was going to cost a fortune, even though we had plenty of money after going to Disneyland with her family. They had gone back to Fresno together and we continued on during a week off school to give her a few days to herself. 
            We laughed through the rest of "Temple of Doom” and then came “The Wizard of Oz.” I fell asleep. Next thing I remembered was Dillon turning off the TV and coming to bed. The show was over.

            Then it was morning and a half-wit, one of the losers who occupied the second floor, looking like Texans maybe, was yelling at his girlfriend or wife, or daughter, I don’t know which. “F you, F this, where the F have you been? You went out and F’d him, didn’t you,” yelling with rage and hurt.

             He told her he was worried about her, how he’d walked the streets at 3 a.m., looking for her, and that’s the last I remember. Trouble in paradise.

          The two of us got up after I read some of William Saroyan’s “The Human Comedy,” and went to Sea World, which was 10 minutes away. We stood in line for 15 minutes, Dillon on my shoulders – heavy now, we won’t be able to do that much longer, alas – and went in and saw the whale show first.  Dillon took 24 pictures of the show, which was fun, and we both felt better, turning into human beings, getting thrilled instead of scheduled for once.

            The whole day was like that, wandering slowly around the place, sitting on the grass, going to the bathrooms, eating popcorn and watching the dolphin show. I called Dan, since Jim was at work, and he was surprised and said why not, come visit tonight. Call me later after I talk with my wife.

            So Dillon and I looked at sharks, ate ice cream and wrestled on a hill outside. Then he played on the slides and swings for a long time with some other kids. I called Dan again and he said they couldn’t have us tonight; how about Wednesday?  We went off to see the “Shamu” show a second time, where I forgot all about Dan.

            We watched kids get soaked and whales jump and enjoyed it immensely. Dillon put his new stuffed Shamu and Baby Shamu through the routines, too. In fact, we spent all day having them fight with his stuffed Roger Rabbit, and throwing them up in the air to do flips. 

  

            When the Shamu show ended we went to the kids’ play area for more fun. We bopped punching bags and ran up and down stairs. I watched him with a smile on my face. My boy having a fine time, being happy. Time of my life and  moments to hold onto. He jumped on the air mattresses, slid down the slides, rolled in the pipes. Then we ran around the Indiana Jones bridges and played video games, got our posters and left Sea World. We got a room this time at the Circle 8 and it was $35, cheaper and newer and I felt even better.

            We lugged all our stuff up to the third floor – Room 339 – and called Laura and told her about Sea World. I read The San Diego Tribune and was surprised it wasn’t better than it was. I told Laura we are doing fine and having fun. Dillon was happy. She said she missed us – it was real quiet at home – and we said we missed her.

            Then Dillon jumped on the bed awhile to see how the hotel’s “jumping beds” were. The phone rang. It was the manager. He said people below us were complaining and could we please knock it off. “Sorry,” I said. “Sure.”

            We watched wrestling. Macho Man Randy Savage said the Hulkomaniacs were really pukesters. And Macho Man’s beautiful manager said she wasn’t sure she could support him so Macho Man pretended to choke her, and then other guys in tights and long hair fought each other, all of which we enjoyed very much before turning it off and calling it a fine and excellent day in San Diego.

            In the morning, I read more of “The Human Comedy.” Dillon woke up and watched Quickdraw McGraw and Huckleberry Hound and I called Jim. He was friendly, surprised and said, too bad that he’d just put his own son, about the same age as Dillon, on the plane with his wife to Colorado.

            We made plans to meet him at The Tribune and I felt excited. We walked to Home Savings, where I cashed the traveler’s checks – $100 worth – and then went to Burger King and then to Mission Bay to see about campgrounds. They turned out to be $20 for RV’s and since it’s illegal to sleep in your car in San Diego, we were once again among the temporarily homeless. I began to think how hard it must be finding a place for the night – every night – when you don’t have a home. Tough going.

            We played at the park. I pushed Dillon the swings. He made some friends. It was hot out there. Dillon and his new friends went to look for crabs and found plenty of them. That excited him. We got popcorn and a drink. I had a headache from all the sun and so did he. I read The San Diego Union while we ate.

            We left and got a room then at the Western Shores Hotel - $25 a night. It was OK. We went to Burger King. “Hemorrhaging money,” I thought.  The girl at Burger King gave us two of their kid’s meals, and when I said I had only ordered one, she glared at me and said, “Well, I can hardly hear you over the speaker,” as if it was my fault.

            I had a headache and it was hot in the car and I almost couldn’t find Interstate 5 and I told Dillon we’d leave tomorrow for sure. Panic attack, up until we met Jim at the newspaper. He showed us the glass-walled newsroom, the ancient slow Digital computers, and we went downstairs to his car and got in for a ride to the beach.

            We forgot Dillon’s shorts so we went back to my car and got them. He rode in the back seat and fell asleep. Jim and I caught up. He said San Diego was conservative, filled with people who moved from Texas. The place is beautiful, but it costs too much. He said he and his wife are tired of California and are looking at the Pacific Northwest and New England. They loved living in San Francisco, but it cost so much they had no money. He said they met friends up there in the Haight, people like them who thought like them – which was more than they had done in San Diego in a year. Here, he said, people aren’t very deep and he has a rep as the liberal.

             He thought it was cool that I am a columnist. It’s what he’d love to do most. We talked some newspaper guild politics and what a nightmare it is in Fresno, and  worse at The Oakland Tribune, where he had worked before.  We sat in the car at the beach and drank a beer in the front seat with our shoes off. Compadres.

            Dillon woke up and we went to a little beach cove, which was very pretty. Dillon played for a minute or two with a small girl, half his age, and then we climbed on the rocks, with Dillon proudly being the leader. He and Jim hit it off. We explored a couple of small caves and then we went back up to the park. Dillon changed back into his pants after falling into the surf and soaking himself completely. “Kids,” I said.

            Jim tried to reach a friend of his to join us for dinner, but couldn’t find him. We decided on Mexican food, outvoting Dillon who wanted pizza. We got lost in La Jolla, but what a beautiful drive through it, finding our way out.

            We caught up on everyone we knew at the Palm Springs Desert Sun where we used to work together – without complaining about the place – and filled each other in on what details we knew.

            The restaurant was near the Union-Tribune building and we sat down and talked more about California and its exploding population. Jim thought an earthquake – The Big One – might eventually reverse it, lay waste to a major section of Los Angeles, which people would leave and not rebuild. A strange and terrible vision. 
               I said the Big One would create jobs and a whole new economy in rebuilding. After some time Jim said yes, maybe. He said Mexico City is rebuilding. 

            Mission Valley, he said, was country just 20 years ago. It’s filled now with people and infrastructure and there’s still more steel and glass planned for it. He said in 1912 it rained so much that Mission Valley flooded. There are dams today, but what’s to say it couldn’t happen again, he said.  Crazy place, California, we agreed. I picked up the bill and we left.

            Jim said he’d been to Tijuana once, and it was dingy and weird, but it felt great, really something, to be in a place where structures of America didn’t matter. Our whole way of life didn't count. I’d never thought of that before. It’s been a long time since I’ve felt that myself, more than 10 years now  since living in West Africa where the same was true.
            We got back to the Union-Tribune building and he said we should call the next day and maybe we could meet again. But I said I didn’t know what we were doing and it was probably doubtful. Too bad his son wasn’t there, he said. He would have liked Dillon. 
            He told us about his son and Dillon asked questions: “Does your boy like….? Jim said his boy likes Superman, being a pirate and being a cowboy. He likes guns, but they are so far keeping him away from guns.

            It was a refreshing and interesting and enjoyable visit. We drove back to the hotel and walked again to 7-Eleven for a bottle of wine and candy Nerds for Dillon. We came back to our room – Number 9 – and called Laura, who was missing us, but enjoying herself immensely.

            Dillon told her all about playing and seeing “Dad’s friend,” and I told her we had had a nice time. She laughed that we’d found a cheaper hotel every night, and then the call was over. We watched “Murder, She Wrote,” and I read The Los Angeles Times, all about the election in El Salvador, and then there was a good Vietnam movie and we watched it to the end and went to bed again.

          I woke up at eight o’clock and finished the Saroyan book about war-time Fresno and it wasn’t as good as I thought it would be, but still fairly rich with meaning about ordinary people. I bought a copy of The Union and read it while Dillon watched Quickdraw McGraw and Huckleberry Hound again.

            The people next door got into a big fight. She was yelling at him and crying and it sounded like a real mess, and I was glad it was him and not me.

            Dan was out of the office when I called. A “news emergency,” said the woman who answered the phone with a kind of overblown drama. Dillon and I filled the car with gas after he had a candy bar for breakfast. (Okay, it’s your special day again) And then we headed downtown.

            We parked near the post office and went into the city library where he took us to the second floor in the elevator and immediately had to go to the bathroom. In the bathroom there was a homeless guy talking to himself about proposals to ban guns. He looked at himself in the mirror and said he knew who that guy was, finally. It felt laced with potential for violence so we got out of there.

            In the kids’ room Dillon played in a little house with a couple of younger kids. I took him to the newspaper room for awhile, where I found, to my surprise, The Anchorage Times. A delight to read the headlines and see that Bob L. is their man in Juneau now. The Times continues to survive, filled with Associated Press stories – it must have almost nothing for a staff – but looking pretty good, really. 
            The Anchorage Times alumni, I’m sure, could fill a convention center. I read The Cleveland Plain Dealer and The Miami Herald, too, and didn’t feel much intimidated. I could work for either one now.

            We left the library. I tried to reach Dan again, but he was still out so we drove to the Embarcadero. We bought hot dogs and wrestled on the grass. We played King Kong (Dillon) vs. Godzilla (me), Mommy King Kong vs. Godzilla and Baby King Kong vs. Godzilla and Dillon won all three.

            It was about 1 p.m. so we drove to Balboa Park and stopped for cash at Great Western Bank. Those ATM’s are such a dream. Dillon threw a fit when I wouldn’t let him pocket a $20 bill. He said he was going to leave and I said goodbye. We made up. At Balboa Park, I read The Los Angeles Herald-Examiner, taking in a story about Operation Rescue’s big abortion sit-in in Los Angeles for the weekend.

            Dillon played on the swings and a rocket-like playground, where there were other kids. Soon we had an imaginary spaceship and a real-life Star Trek adventure. A kid named Dan was the first captain and a pretty little girl was second captain. Dillon was the navigator and I was Spock. Other kids were guards and we fought off aliens, blew up, landed on Jupiter after tense going through the planetary rings.

            This went on for an hour and then we went to the museum and found Dan on the phone. He gave us directions and we played some more. I met the second captain’s grandpa and then a man visiting San Diego from Wisconsin. He asked if I had any regrets leaving the Midwest for California, and I said, “Some,” meaning not the weather, but the prices and the exploding population.

            We left the park and said goodbye to San Diego on a pretty route out of town, which took us to Miramar Naval Air Station. We circled back on 15N and found a parking lot near the base entrance and watched the boys from Top Gun come back home from a day of mock fighting. Dillon got a royal bang out of that. We said who each one of them were – Maverick, Slider, Hollywood, Ice Man – and laughed when one made a pass and didn’t land.

            “Maverick, land your plane,” we yelled, quoting the movie as he started his second pass. “That’s not your plane. That’s the taxpayers’ plane.”

            About a dozen more came in – Dillon told Dan it was 20 an hour later – and then we took off again for Rancho Bernardo and Dan’s house, which at first sight, seemed a part of one of those California subdivisions glued to the side of a hill. It looked much better when we got inside the project and saw how what a nice house he has.

            Dan welcomed us and his wife came downstairs a few minutes later. We made small talk awhile and decided to order a pizza. Dillon played with their salad spinner-shooter and jumped off the fourth step of the stairwell and helped Dan’s wife make the lettuce. He was being a gentleman.

            Dan was surprised I am a columnist and told me he’d seen a picture of me on the picket line in the Guild newsletter.

            He said he thought writing would be easier when he got back into after seven years of being an editor – and after seven months he was still working to get it right. I said I was scared silly when I went back to it after two years of being an editor.

            He showed me the house – the 50-cent tour – and we spent a lot of time talking about the universal headaches of Southern California housing costs and traffic. They paid $140,000 for their piece of paradise. Dan said some of the last houses built around them were going for $200,000 plus.

            He said he had resumes going out soon to The San Diego Union and The Tribune and the Los Angeles Times San Diego edition. The North County is exploding, he said, and he's in position to land work at the bigger papers. I hope he succeeds.

            His wife was six months pregnant so there was lots of talk of what’s to come.

            We talked about the old, old days, how we had come to know each other in 1976 working for competing Fort Wayne newspapers, how an 5.5 earthquake struck Fresno while I was on the phone to him in Vallejo, and how I called him once when I got the new job at The Desert Sun in Palm Springs and asked, “What does a city editor do?

            We had salad, pizza and ice cream and they offered us a place to sleep, but I was antsy and undecided and so we decided to leave around 9:30 p.m. They said, “See you in another five years,” which is probably true.

            I said, “good luck” to Dan’s wife and we went outside,  where she said they lived in Donna Reed country.

            We got to the car and Dillon remembered that he had to go to the bathroom and so we came back in as Dan came out the door to give us the last two slices of pizza.

            Dillon went to the bathroom and we left them, going to a phone booth to call Laura. Dillon was a little sniffly and talked with her quite awhile about “Dad’s friend” again, and all that we’d done during the day. I talked with her awhile and said we were off in search of a campsite and would most likely be home the next day, but not in time for his baseball practice.

            Then we sped west on Freway 78 through Escondido and into Carlsbad, where there was no room at the beach so I ventured another half hour north to San Onofre State Beach and its parking lot campground, where we arrived at 11 p.m., shoved our stuff in the front seat and crawled in the back of the Subaru wagon for a night of sleep. I laid awake for awhile, feeling good and thankful.

            The next morning, Holy Thursday, we got up at 8:30 and took off for home. It cost $12 to camp at San Onofre and after we’d paid it we were northbound on I-5. The office complexes and expensive housing of Orange County flew by, and the traffic jams cropped up every five minutes and then dissipated. 
             We ate a McDonald’s breakfast in Commerce and Dillon, being extremely nice, gave me part of his Egg McMuffin. We drove north through Los Angeles County, the smog pit, with its weird light and unattractive freeway scenery. Such an overrated place, sometimes. 
              We got gas in the San Fernando Valley and headed up the Grapevine, figuring out the whale show we were going to have this summer in our back yard. Laura will take tickets and perform with the whales. Dillon will be the whale trainer and the microphone man and I will set up chairs for the children and sell popcorn and cokes. We did that all the way to the rest area at Tejon Pass, where we talked about “Indiana Jones and the Temple of Doom.”

            North of Bakersfield we took Highway 65 along the east side of the San Joaquin Valley instead of Highway 99, which was a pleasant surprise, rolling along the Sierra foothills past oil wells, vineyards, citrus groves and pastureland.

            It dawned on me that I was mistaken when I once wrote that the Valley was not like California. It is, in fact, early California. The Valley is what California was like in the 1930's,  orange trees and sunshine and not all that many people.

            The towns drifted by while Dillon slept – Terra Bella, Ducor, Porterville, Lindsay, Exeter and finally Visalia – and then the 45-minute run for home.
            Dillon woke up and we watched Highway 99 towns go by, Kingsburg, Selma, Fowler, each one smaller than the one before. Dillon said he wouldn’t want to live in any of them because they’re too small and there’s nothing to do but watch TV in them because they don’t have any movie theaters.

            He said he wants to live in a big town such as Fresno, and wouldn’t you know it, but there we were, coming in, the dorky skyline on the left and the Tulare Street off-ramp on the right. It was good to be on lovely, historic Huntington Boulevard, coming home because if you have to go home to Fresno from the world of high-priced housing and excessive traffic, it’s good that home is on a street as nice as this one.

            Laura, naturally, was happy to see us, as we were to see her. She broke out the champagne and we sat in the back yard with our pets and watched our son swing on his rope, a kid happy to be back on the solid ground of home. He told her about the plans for our whale show this summer. She laughed.  It will be another fabulous adventure, indeed.