1969: That was going to be the year. You were heading off to different places by next Summer – it was never going to happen again, probably for the rest of your life. All of you together in one place. Friends since sixth grade. Who needed a family? You all had you around. Now the family was breaking up.
You weren’t thinking about that though – you were thinking Big Sur, Monterey and North Beach. Crashing on a floor in Berkeley, eating your weight in Spaghetti – smelling salty air.
Four of you, packed into a Lime Green Plymouth Suburban Station Wagon, heading north. And then if you played your cards right, head back down south and hit the Rose Parade in Pasadena.
It was a great plan – until San Luis Obispo. Flat tire. Normally, not a big deal but there wasn’t a spare and you were just far enough out of town so that one of you had to walk to the nearest gas station and beg for a tire.
Somewhere around dusk a tow truck ambled up and the Plymouth was towed back to town. Tire fixed, sales pitch for a spare and a $150.00 price tag.
Half your allotted budget blown in a little over an hour – dinner meant a box of saltines and a warm can of Pepsi split between the four of you.
It was night – it was dark and you were tired. You thought seriously about the side of the road but remembered one of your pals handed you a fist full of pills to take if you needed “some pep” on the trip. You needed pep. You reached into a paper bag, grabbed about six and popped them in your mouth, washing it down with the last gulp of Pepsi.
And in no time your teeth were grinding like the gears on the Plymouth – you were going to make up for those lost hours at the gas station and you were bent on punching a hole in the sound barrier. Even though the 1956 Plymouth Station Wagon wasn’t crazy about the idea and let you know about it just as you were passing through San Jose.
Death came quickly to the 1956 Plymouth Suburban Station Wagon. You didn’t have it long enough to give it a name. Smoke billowing out from under the hood, everything liquid gushing on to the 101. Highway Patrol and the San Jose Fire Department milling around the lime green carcass and all your earthly possessions tossed on to the pavement.
Squinting eyes and shaking heads. So much for Christmas Vacation – just enough money left for the four of you to take a Greyhound back to L.A. and not holding out a lot of hope for 1970.
It seemed like a good idea at the time. You had all those plans. Nope. Not this life. Maybe next one.
Well, it was memorable -just not the way you intended. The closest you got to San Francisco was KYA on the radio just before the Green Manalishi died.
At least you finally gave it a name.
And in memory of that ill-fated Christmas road-trip, over an hour’s worth of KYA and the Pete McNeil Show, December 23, 1969.
