Loon - Jack McLean [27]
The stream became a torrent by summer.
As the days grew longer, the desert heat grew more oppressive. The news from back East was of record snow and cold, and the Boston Strangler, who held the region in a horrifying grip of terror. The news from the opposite direction was all Vietnam—escalating troop deployments and skyrocketing casualties. It was beginning to become, as author David Halberstam described in his dispatches from the front, a “quagmire.”
In early March, I accepted the invitation of a barracks mate to spend a weekend with his family in Bakersfleld. It was an incredible thirty-six hours that was like no weekend home from Andover ever was. This was the first time I had visited the home of a fellow marine and gotten a glimpse into his other life. No question, we came from different places. Several times over the following days, the words from Hank Aplington’s letter after my enlistment rang in my ears.
The Corps has its fair share of no-goods who may be easy to gravitate to. Unfortunately, they and their friends usually end up in trouble. Take care to avoid them.
There was no question that I should have avoided Steve.
Bakersfleld wasn’t exactly the trendy Sunset Strip of Los Angeles, but it wasn’t Barstow either. Steve had a big, old, only-in-California heap of a Chrysler that he drove with pure abandon. He was fuming mad when we left the base that Friday afternoon, since he’d had his locker pried open and seventy dollars was missing. He was determined to get it back. Steve felt that the world owed him seventy dollars.
The trip was marked by a harrowing introduction to the Tehachapi Pass in pea soup fog. Steve was doing sixty miles per hour through the switchbacks, blasting the radio, and drinking a beer. I would have felt more secure walking into a barrage of incoming without a helmet or flak jacket. Coming down the west side of the pass, we caught the first sight of the sprawl that was Bakersfield—as unappealing in appearance as any place I’d seen. It did not improve as we got closer.
We spent the weekend hanging out with Steve’s friends. “Hanging out” was a new concept for me. We had had little free time during the previous seven months, but even before then it had been a luxury I’d rarely been permitted. Time at Andover was tightly structured, and to my mother, idle hands really were the devil’s workshop.
But that Saturday, hanging out, Steve and his friends talked about cars and girls—each with a level of familiarity that left me dumbstruck. It all seemed so free and open, so California. One of his friends talked about how he had gotten some new mag wheels for his GTO early the previous Sunday morning. He had simply backed his truck through the plate glass window of the display floor, thrown the wheels into the truck, and driven off.
“Why would anyone ever pay for mag wheels?” he asked no one in particular. Then, turning a glance in my direction, he said, “Jack, you need some mag wheels? I’ll get you some. No shit. I’ll get you some—come back with Steve next weekend and I’ll have ’em here waiting for you. Right here.”
“Ah, gee. Well, thanks. Yeah, thanks, but I mean, I don’t have a car,” I replied, or perhaps stammered.
“Bummer. Hey, I’ll get ’em anyway and then you can sell them to someone back on base—get a couple hundred bucks—more than you can make in a month.”
“No, thanks. I don’t think they’d fit in my locker.”
My feeble attempt at humor was lost on this group.
That night Steve and I drove into L.A. It was my first visit. We hung out looking for a party and then cruised the Sunset Strip in his big old car. It was sort of cool to be there, but I really didn’t get it. I had a lot to learn about hanging out and cruising. Late in the evening, Steve stopped across from a liquor store and ran in to get some cigarettes while I waited in the car. Two minutes later, he came running out, jumped