Lumberjacks

     In the early winter of 1982 Mars and I moved from San Diego to Humboldt County. We left 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 at the time, 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. Little did we know that the journey north would change our lives forever.

     Before leaving, Mars and I dropped by the Salvation Army in Pacific Beach to pick up some much needed rain gear and cold weather clothing. We rummaged the store and as luck would have it found matching yellow fisherman's raincoats and matching pairs of brown rubber galoshes, which we thought we'd need to stay dry in the torrential Humboldt Country rain. We also picked up two light polyester jackets, two pairs of wool hats and cloth gloves, and a few thick sweaters, all in good secondhand condition.

     A few days later, while packing our clothes and belongings into Gary's Subaru Outback, I stole a down-filled vest jacket from one of my other roommates, a coke dealer named Ron, who'd left the navy blue garment in the closet of his unlocked bedroom door. I'm not sure what possessed me to do so. Years later, the theft would come back to haunt me when I ran into Ron one night at Diego's disco in PB.

     Drunk and jovial, I got all excited about seeing him again, completely forgetting 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. Eddie, a two-faced teenage scoundrel on the TV sitcom Leave It to Beaver, would have no qualms about stealing down jackets from his roommates. The 1988 American comedy Dirty Rotten Scoundrels also comes to mind. Truth be told, the Lilly twins somehow got hardwired with the reprobate genes of incorrigibility and deplorableness. Throw in our inherited anger and commitment issues, not to mention our puzzling propensities for cheating and quitting, and our rocky road to the future was already paved in stone. Sadly, these self-seeking and backsliding behavior patterns 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 and stretch his legs. We arrived at Gary's parents' house late in the evening. His mom and dad welcomed us warmly and extended plenty of cheerful hospitality during our two night stay. 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 some food so we ate and then crashed in one of the guest bedrooms. We woke up late the next morning to an empty house, as Gary's parents had already gone to 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 Mexican weed, known as mota, we'd brought along for the ride.

     "So, what do you wanna do today, guys," Gary asked, squinting in the bright morning sunshine. It was a clear and lovely Bay Area day, the sound of birds chirping in the surrounding trees filling the crisp December air.

     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 all 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 me and I puffed on it like there was no tomorrow.