Lumberjacks

     In the early winter of 1982 Mars and I moved from San Diego to Humboldt County, leaving our hometown to attend Humboldt State University, now Cal Poly Humboldt, located on a hillside in the redwoods high above the college town of Arcata. We were 23 years old.

     Broke and out of work, we traveled the first leg of our journey with one of my roommates, Gary, who'd recently graduated from San Diego State University and was heading back to his hometown of Piedmont in the Bay Area to start a new job in commercial real estate. The trip would influence the trajectory of our lives to the bittersweet end.

     Before leaving, Mars and I dropped by the Salvation Army in Pacific Beach to pick up some rain gear and cold weather clothing. While overzealously rummaging the store we found matching pairs of yellow fisherman's raincoats and brown rubber galoshes, items we thought we'd need to stay dry in the torrential Humboldt Country rain. We thought wrong, wearing the surplus rain gear only a few times. We also picked up two wool beanies, two pairs of cotton gloves, two light polyester jackers, and several cotton and synthetic sweaters, all in decent secondhand condition.

     A few days later, while packing our clothes and belongings into Gary's Subaru Outback, I went into the unlocked bedroom of one of my other roommates, Ron, and took a down-filled, navy-blue vest jacket from his closet. I'm not sure what possessed me to steal the garment. The theft would come back to haunt me years later when I ran into Ron at Diego's disco in PB.

     Drunk and jovial and excited to see him again, I forgot all about swiping his stylish The North Face jacket.

     "Hey! Ronny, is that you?" I guffawed loudly.

     Ron eyed me suspiciously, giving me a hard, standoffish look. He frowned, throwing up his hands and shaking his head at the same time. Six hard words then flew out of his mouth.

     "You took my jacket, you dick."

     "Huh?" I protested in self-defense. "What are you talking about, bro?"

     "Gary told me, asshole," Ron grimaced, his voice loud and accusatory.

     I froze, thinking he might punch me out, and quickly told him how sorry I was. Luckily, Ron's face softened, and with a crooked smirk on his coked out face he told me to forget about it. It was the last time I'd ever see him.

     Mars and I had learned a thing or two from Eddie Haskell, a two-faced teenage scoundrel on the TV sitcom Leave It to Beaver. Eddie had no qualms about being a rascally opportunist. Polite and well-mannered on the outside, but sly and disingenuous on the inside, Eddie was aways looking for the best angle.

     Like Eddie, the Lilly twins were watered-down incorrigible deplorables. Our anger and commitment issues, along with our puzzling propensities for cheating and quitting, had paved our rocky road to the future in stone-cold marshmallows. Sadly, our self-seeking and backsliding behaviors would bedevil us into old age.

     But on with the story. Gary drove all the way from PB to Piedmont with only three stops in between, one at a fast-food restaurant to eat and two at roadside rest stops to pee. We arrived at Gary's parents' house late in the evening.

     Upon arrival, Gary's mom and dad cheerfully welcomed us with warm hospitality. You could see how proud they were of him, particularly his father, and how happy they were to have their handsome son back home again. Gary's mom offered us ham and cheese sandwiches with potato salad but we politely declined and were then invited to crash in one of the guest bedrooms.

     We woke up late the next morning to an empty house, as Gary's parents had already left for their day jobs. Gary made us scrambled eggs with white onions, tomatoes, and Monterey Jack cheese. We wolfed the eggs down with toasted bagels and orange juice. After eating Gary rinsed the dishes and glasses and stacked them neatly into a dishwasher. Then we stepped out onto a side porch to pack a corncob pipe with some of the Mexican weed, known as mota, we'd brought with us from San Diego.

     "So, what do you wanna do today, guys," Gary asked, squinting in the bright morning sunshine on a clear and lovely Bay Area day. Unseen birds chirping in the surrounding trees filled the crisp December air with a cheerful and peaceful tranquility.

     Mars finished packing the pipe and got it started with a yellow BIC lighter. "I guess we're up for just about anything," I said, watching Mars fill his lungs with his first hit of the day. There would be many more to come.

     Mars passed the pipe to Gary, who would be joining us in Cannabisland. "I think we should head into the city, see the sights," Gary offered, taking a long, slow drag of the low-grade ganja. Gary passed the pipe to me and we were off to the races.

     "I can take you guys across the Bay Bridge and then over to the Golden Gate," Gary continued. "We'll go up to Battery Spencer for the view and then swing back to Fisherman's Wharf for lunch."

     Mars and I nodded in agreement. "Sounds like a plan," we echoed in unison. Gary passed the pipe to back me again and I puffed on it like there was no tomorrow.