Out of Paradise - Ch. 4 - America

Out of Paradise - Ch. 4 - America

Out of Paradise - Ch. 4 - America

My next destination is San Diego to see my grandparents in Pacific Beach before setting off on my mission to the Matterhorn. I bid farewell to my grandmother in Goleta and make my way south down 101 through Santa Barbara and on to Los Angeles. My step-brother, John Balzar, a career journalist with the L. A. Times, acclaimed author of "Yukon Alone" - a compelling account of the Yukon Quest dog sled race across the northern wilderness of Alaska - and future Senior Vice President of Communications with the American Humane Society in Washington, lives somewhere in the maze of towns and suburbs that make up this sprawling metropolis. I manage to locate him and spend the next couple of days recuperating from my bout of headaches, smoking pot, listening to John Denver on the turntable and helping him (my step-brother, not John Denver) shape the kayak he's building from scratch in his garage. 2 days later, fully recuperated and abundantly stoned, with a fresh coat of varnish on his kayak, John drops me at the nearest freeway on ramp heading south toward San Diego. A couple more days are spent with my grandparents in Pacific Beach, the bulk of the time at Tourmaline, a favored surf spot a couple hundred meters down the beach from my grandparents' condominium.  I had managed to recover my brother's surf board out from among the dust covered debris in my grandparents' bulging storeroom and wasn't seen again for the next two days until I was surfed out and anxious to get on with my quest. I bid my grandparents farewell and am back on the road in a general northeasterly direction.

My thumb's out and backpack resting against the guardrail leading onto I15. A few cars pass by and not long afterward up comes another hitcher hitching in the same direction. We're shootin' the shit, trading stories of where we've been and where we're heading as hitchers do when they're hitching in the same direction. Joey Gutierez is his name from Queens, New York. I tell him, "Hey, I'll be passing through New York on my way to Europe." With that, he gives me some names and numbers of his pals in Queens and tells me that they can take care of me and whatever needs I may have while I'm there. We team up and spend the rest of the day together hitching our way back up toward Los Angeles. We split up somewhere on the eastern outskirts of LA, Joey into the heart of the beast itself and me into the belly of America. Evening's coming on and as the yellows and oranges and reds and pinks begin filling the smog layered skies over the eastern outskirts of LA, a red '57 Chevy convertible screeches to the curb, Jimmy Buffet pouring from its 8 track stereo, Elvis incarnate at the wheel, sporting a black leather jacket, a pair of mirrored sunglasses over his eyes, a Marlborough dangling off his lip and a half empty bottle of Jack Daniels between his knees. "Where ya headin'?" he casually slurs, as a good Elvis impersonator does, beckoning me hauntingly in with a curve of his skull and cross bone ringed finger. "East," I say, as I heave my pack up over the topless door and into the back seat littered with empty McDonald's hamburger wrappings, drained Budweiser beer cans, spent packets of Marlborough cigarettes and a Fender Stratocaster enclosed in a battered case covered with rock regalia.

"I'm going as far as Vegas, if you like," he says, chasing his words with a nip of the bottle he takes out from between his knees and passes it to me. "Cool," I say, as I settle myself into the passenger seat, accept his offer and down a hearty slug followed by an audible purge of air to cool my scorched throat. "I'm actually on my way to Europe," I explain as he revs the engine, shifts into first and pulls away from the curb with a sudden jerk, leaving a burning screech of rubber in his aftermath. I return the bottle, thank him with a nod and we tear down I15 in his red '57 Chevy convertible, Jimmy Buffet pouring out of the 8 track stereo, while the once fiery sky dwindles into a twilight haze. Elvis still doesn't remove his mirrored sunglasses. I tell him my plans of spending the upcoming winter skiing the Matterhorn and the following summer cruising the Mediterranean. He nods in approval and tells me he's on his way to a lounge gig at the Silver Slipper Casino about midway up the Las Vegas Strip. He had just spent the last couple of days in an LA courtroom in a custody hearing with his ex-wife and since there was no kid in the car, I didn't press it any further. He passes me what's left of the bottle of Jack and I reciprocate with a joint I retrieve from my jacket pocket. We spend the next couple of hours listening to Jimmy Buffet on the 8 track stereo, smoking joints and Marlborough cigarettes and drinking the last of the bottle of Jack, leaving San Bernardino, Victorville and Barstow in our rear-view mirror, driving up through the Mojave Desert, cool wind in our hair, warm smell of colitis, rising up through the air, when up ahead in the distance, we see a shimmering light -