A Stolen California

Tom looked up at the green and white sign overhead that read: OAKLAND, as he rode with Vern in the Porsche on the long metal bridge. “And the lady across from me asked the stewardess if she could sit up in one of the roomy first class seats,” Tom shouted to Vern. The Porsche was a convertible with the top down. “She said her legs were cramped -- so were mine, there’s not much room in tourist class. “There was hardly anyone up there -- I could see from where I was sitting,” Tom said, watching Vern grin. “What’d the stewardess say?” Vern shouted over the whirring of the tires on the grid metal of the bridge. “She just nodded,” Tom said, as Vern downshifted when they drove up behind a slow pick-up truck ahead. “And when the woman stood up, her husband helping her walk up the aisle way, I moved up behind them, and dropped into the first seat inside the First Class section doorway.” Vern accelerated the Porsche, shifting through the gears, “And the stewardess let you stay there?” “She’d seen me stretching my legs out in the aisle,” Tom shouted. “She knew I was uncomfortable in Economy Class -- or whatever the airline calls it.” “Hey, you got a break,” he shouted. “The best part,” Tom shouted louder because the traffic had thinned out, and Vern was speeding, passing the other cars that appeared ahead, like they were standing still, “was dinner time. “The Economy Class got ham sandwiches and a Coke, and us up forward had roasted chicken with asparagus, and a salad -- and best of all -- white wine in a plastic glass.” They were both smiling when Vern drove down the ramp to get off the bridge. “You live around here?” Tom asked looking at the lights of the houses that shone from the dark hills. “No,” Vern said, “we live in the hills behind Berkeley -- Wildcat Canyon. “The city water reservoir is back there too -- it looks like a lake off to the north of us.” Now that Tom was going to be a house guest, he had a sense of feeling that he should act appreciative; so he toned down how he spoke to Vern. “I missed saying good-bye to you and Bliss,” he said. “You left Detroit in a hurry.” “Yeah,” Vern said quietly, “Bliss missed the baby, and our daughter Shelly -- we even cut short our tour of the Expo in Montreal by two days.” “You can’t blame her,” Tom said. “I guess she felt guilty,” Vern said, driving slower now in the dark streets, “about leaving the kids with a neighbor lady, who has a daughter the same age as our Shelly.” To change the subject, Tom said, “I brought the manuscript of my one-third finished novel -- it’s in my suitcase. “I brought it along,” he said, “so I can work on it out here.” “Things must have been bad in Detroit -- at home?” “The worst of it is I can’t get any writing done back there without causing a ruckus,” Tom said. “Well, maybe your luck will change out here in sunny California -- that’s what you’re out here for, kid.” Tom nodded. “Before we left Detroit,” Vern said, “Bliss and I took a quick ride over to Twelfth Street -- to see how bad the riot damage was.” Tom winced, and was silent. Detroiters did not go to look at the tragic riot scene. It would be the equivalent of putting your hand in a wound. Most Detroiters had seen enough on television, the burning, people looting stores and pushing shopping carts stacked with goods, the police standing, watching, shotguns at the ready, helpless, because of orders not to shoot. Everybody in Detroit knew about the arrival of Federal troops, which meant a curfew enforced with an iron fist, and that it was the non-rioters who suffered. When sniper shots allegedly were fired from a motel on Woodward Avenue near Boston Avenue, the paratroopers fired back with machine guns mounted on Jeeps. People riding busses on Woodward Avenue after the motel shooting, looked up to the second floor window at the pock-marks where five people had died, until a week later, when the city tore the building down. Most Detroiters avoided the part of the city where the riot happened, the neighborhood where storeowners suffered total losses at their businesses. “Just after I graduated from Michigan,” Vern said, as he brought the Porsche to an abrupt stop at a traffic light, jerking Tom forward, “I had a job -- insurance adjusting -- and I lived in an apartment near Twelfth Street. Before I had to go in the army.” “Yeah,” Tom said grinning, “I remember. The company car was that light blue Plymouth -- that looked like a city police car.” They both laughed, as Vern sped away from the traffic light, going through the gears quickly. “My old apartment house on Twelfth looked like it was hit by a bomb,” Vern said, “the insides all burned black, and only part of one wall standing. Some riot, man.” “Well,” Tom said to change the subject, “here you are out in golden -- California.” “Yeah, thanks to the army,” Vern said turning off the street with heavy traffic, onto a road that seemed to skirt the bottom of the hills. “When I was drafted, they sent me out here to Fort Ord -- and put me in finance -- the payroll section. “Bliss was still at home in Detroit -- but she flew out here to see me a couple of times -- until my army service was over.” “That’s when you went to law school at Berkeley,” Tom said. “Bliss told me.” “That’s when Bliss and I got married,” Vern said, “and she moved out here, while I was in law school.” “I remember that summer,” Tom said. “I had a drink with her. I was on leave from the army -- just before I shipped to Germany.” Tom could see Vern did not like any references he made about Bliss, about seeing her alone. “Well,” Tom said, “at least you were lucky enough to walk out of the army -- they carried me out on a stretcher with that damn disease.” “Bliss was really shook up, kiddo,” Vern said slowly, “after we visited you in the army hospital out there in Pennsylvania -- Valley Forge.” “Well,” Tom said as they rode in the darkness now, no street lights, in hills where the houses were more scattered, “President Eisenhower said in a speech -- that it was better to carry a ninety-pound pack for two years in the army, than wear chains -- be a prisoner of some dictator.” “So we all have to serve -- two years.” When Vern turned onto the driveway that ran up to a lighted, spacious, ranch house above, Tom said quietly, “This is plush, man. You hit the jackpot -- right out of Law School.” “Well,” Vern said, “I don’t have a swimming pool -- yet.” He stopped in front of a closed garage door on the level below the house, and turned off the rear engined car. “Bliss is waiting up for us,” he said opening the car door on his side of the car. He paused, and then said, “I’ll fill you in on my law bonanza -- later.” “Aren’t you going to put the car in the garage?” Tom asked. “You don’t leave this gem outside?” “No room,” Vern said getting out of the car, “the Mercedes is in there -- it’s a big car -- four-door.” Tom blinked twice, and when he saw Vern pull the cloth top up on the Porsche, then reach up near the windshield to close the clamp, he did the same on his side of the car. “You got a Mercedes too?” Tom said, shocked by Vern’s wealth. “Yeah,” Vern said locking the Porsche door, “and there’s a motorcycle in there too. I just thought of it. It’s been neglected -- but you can use it to buzz around Berkeley. “It may need a battery -- I’ll check it.” Tom, looking up the steep steps to the house, said, “You got a Mercedes, a Porsche, and a friggin’ motorcycle -- and look at this house. Man, you struck gold out here in California -- how much a year you make?”