'56 Chevy

’56 Chevy

    

     Doug Jones said good bye to his parents an hour ago and was sitting in his souped up, ‘56 Chevy, awaiting long-time friend Mike Odegard. It was early, the temperature cool, the sun creeping silently, brightly over the Cascade Mountain Range.

     “A perfect day to get the hell out of Dodge,” he thought to himself. He rolled his driver side window down to let the cool morning air enter the car, wondering just how much longer Mike was going to be. He was eager to get going.

     While he sat, Doug thought about the reasons he and Mike were taking a trip that had been months in the planning. The longtime friends had not been getting along lately and this trip was supposed to fix all that. He hoped it would.

Moving his visor from the front window to the side window to help block the rising sun, Doug turned around in his seat, peering through the rear-view window to see if Mike was on his way. He was growing impatient. “This is a hell of a way to start out,” he fumed.

      “Hey, Brother. How ‘bout we get the hell out of here?” said Mike Odegard, smiling broadly as he jerked the passenger door open. “Let’s go!”

     Startled, Doug looked over as his friend pulled the passenger side door closed and said excitedly, “Fuckin A!” He adjusted his seat then turned the key  as the 225 horse power-engine came to life. Moments later they were southbound on Interstate 5, headed for Southern California. 

     “Problems with your mom?” Doug asked, glancing over at Mike, still not happy about the delay.

“Hell, it was my dad that gave me the biggest hug,” he responded. “Big, tough military guy. Guess he’s not so tough after all,” he added, smiling. With the ’56 Chevy comfortably hitting its stride, around seventy miles per hour, they were finally on their way.

The two high school seniors had been friends for two years, but lately both had noticed the tension between them. Neither of them could figure out what the problem was. They just knew there was a problem.

It was spring break 1969, and they were headed for Southern California, their first real trip without family. Excited and a little nervous, they settled into their seats. “Freedom,” they each thought. “Freedom.” They continued south, soon putting Portland in the rear-view mirror.

     “Hey, want to smoke some pot?” Mike asked Doug. They’d “scored,” some marijuana and a bottle of vodka for the trip. The pot from some guy in the University District, the vodka from a fellow in the parking lot of a 45^th Avenue liquor store. Mike and Doug would ask. Someone would always buy.

     Mike reached under the right seat for the small baggie of marijuana and the hand-held water pipe Doug had brought along.

Doug responded. “A little early for that, don’t you think?”

     “Never too early for pot,” Mike said, smiling. 

     With the AM radio blaring the long version of “Inna Gadda da Vita,” Doug smiled and said, “Why not?”

     Traveling at seventy miles per hour, Mike reached over and held the water pipe up to Doug’s lips as he took a long, hard drag.

      “Cough, cough,” Doug choked, waving his hands in the air while pushing the smoke from his eyes. “Jeezus, Mike, you trying to kill us both?” Mike looked at Doug for a long moment and they both burst out laughing. Doug’s concerns about the trip were disappearing fast. He felt good. They were both loaded.

     Mike sat back in his seat and with the warm sunshine pouring in through the windshield, looked out the passenger side window and fell fast asleep.

     Two days into the seven-day trip, things started to unravel. Doug insisted they go to straight to Huntington Beach, their ultimate destination. Mike wanted to stop and visit “Frisco.”

     “Come on, man, ‘Frisco is far-out,” Mike implored. He knew he was going to lose this battle as Doug had slowly taken control of the trip. He knew he had little to say about where they were headed. That didn’t stop Mike from trying.

     “Christ, man, its right over there,” Mike exclaimed as he pointed west towards the Bay Area.

     “Look, we said we were going to Huntington Beach. Let’s go there first and catch ‘Frisco,’ on the way back. We’re passing Sacramento, Huntington Beach by tonight if we haul ass,” Doug said, not so much explaining to Mike as letting him know how things were.

     “Screw it,” Mike thought. As they continued heading south, San Francisco passing off to his right, he turned his head to look out the passenger side window, arms folded across his chest, not happy.

     The problems started about a year ago when Doug, an only child, tall, good looking, smart and an above average athlete, started to wonder about the Viet Nam War and how it would affect him if he were drafted. He was petrified at the thought he might get called for active duty. He’d said more than once he would go to Canada to avoid the draft, much to Mike’s chagrin.

     Mike had a different view of Viet Nam and the draft. He saw it through the eyes of his father, a twenty-two-year veteran of World War Two and Korea. He figured he would serve if called. Did he like it? Hell no, he didn’t like it. No one did. But, he would go.

     Turns out, Mike was not like Doug in a lot of ways. He was not tall, was slightly overweight and not particularly good looking. He was smart but lazy. He loved playing football and rarely did homework. It was a wonder he and Doug were friends consdiering the number of differences between them. And yet they were. For now.

    

    

They continued south, talking as they drove. They talked about girls, friends that were not really friends, about their parents and about the hottest girl in school, Carman Staley. Both young men exclaimed proudly, “they wouldn’t kick her out of bed for eating crackers.” This statement coming even though neither of them had ever come close to taking a girl to bed. They talked about graduation, which was coming soon, and whether they would go to college or get jobs. They spoke as if there were no war, no draft, no dying and killing. Yet, they both knew the subject was hanging in the air, like a cloud pregnant with rain, ready to burst down on them at any minute.

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     The closer they got to Huntington Beach, the more the sun shined. Led Zeppelin played loud and clear on the radio as they pulled in to the Huntington Beach beachfront parking lot, the car pointed west, facing the ocean. The sun was setting as they sat in the car, listening to the music, using the small pipe to smoke.

     “Think I’ll head to that bar up the beach,” Doug said as he slipped on his motorcycle boots. He fancied himself a biker and the bar he spoke of looked like a biker bar. There were at least a dozen Harley motorcycles out front. He got in the car and left, driving the mile or so to the bar.

     “Not me,” said Mike, thinking what Doug was doing was dumb and more than a little unsafe. Despite his concerns, Mike wasn’t going to try to stop him. He needed a break. There had been tension building between them and he needed to be alone. “I’m going to take my sister’s portable record player and pass out on the beach.” He grabbed his sleeping bag, the bright pink record player and walked to a spot about twenty feet from the water’s edge. He soon fell asleep.

    “What in the…,” Mike thought as he awoke, a light flashing in his eyes.

    “You can’t be here, son,” a voice said. “Got any ID?”

     Mike, startled, crawled out of his sleeping bag, checking his watch. It was 3AM. As he looked up, he found he was face to face with a Huntington Beach policeman. “Uh, hi,” Mike said, shaking off the sleep, reaching for his wallet.

     Doug, tired, walked out of the biker bar and headed for the ’56 Chevy.

     “Get your hands up and don’t move!” came a powerful voice from behind him.

     He started to turn to the sound. “Don’t you move, asshole,” came another, louder command. Doug got the message and froze.

     Mike finished telling the police officer his story.

     “Look son, you better find your friend. He’s probably up there, near those lights,” said the officer, pointing in the direction Doug had headed six hours earlier.

     “A decent guy,” Mike thought. Just then, the officer’s radio crackled.

     “Rob, you there?” a voice came over the walkie-talkie hooked on the policeman’s belt.

     Unhooking the device, the officer brought the device to his mouth, pressed the button and spoke. “Go ahead, John,” he responded.

     “Do you have a kid down there named Mike?” he asked.

     “Standing right here,” Rob answered.

     “Leave him there and get down here. I have the other idiot with me,” John requested, obviously, the boss.

     “On my way,” Rob said.

     “How about a lift?” Mike asked, considering how far he’d have to walk.

     “Nope,” was all the officer said as he closed the door and sped away.

     “So much for a decent guy,” MIke thought. He started walking, sleeping bag over his left shoulder, record player dangling from in his right hand. He was cursing Doug with every step.

     “I didn’t do anything, goddammit,” Doug cried out. He was handcuffed and bent over, face down on the hood of the “56 Chevy. “What’s this all about,” Doug asked.

     “Shut up, dipshit,” John commanded. “We’ve been watching you all night. We know you’re here to pick up drugs and take them north. We’ve had enough of you assholes using Huntington Beach as a transfer station.” Doug was petrified. They were searching the car.

     “Is this it? This stupid water pipe? What the hell is going on here?” John shouted, slamming the pipe to the ground.

     “I tried to tell you. We drove down from Seattle. We’re high school seniors. We aren’t moving dope anywhere,” said Doug, still in handcuffs, still face down against the hood. There was no sign of the pot or the vodka. “They must have missed them.” “Thank God,” Doug thought.

     Staring at the ground, John said quietly, “Un-cuff him.” He knew he had mistaken the two boys for something much worse and looked like a fool.

     “Son,” he said, “get in your car, find your buddy and get the hell out of here,”  quiet snickers coming from the other officers who had been standing around.

     “Yes sir,” Doug replied as he stood up, rubbing his wrists. He got in his car and drove away, headed towards the spot where he’d left Mike hours ago.

As he was getting closer to the lighted area, Mike saw a car speed away from that area. Mike wondered if that was Doug’s car. It was moving too fast for him to be sure.

Not knowing where Doug was, Mike decided to stand under a lamppost on the corner, about fifty yards from the biker bar, hoping Doug would come by soon. Setting his sleeping bag on the ground while shifting the record player to his opposite hand, Mike leaned against the lamppost and waited.

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     “Hey, kid,” a voice came from the darkness just beyond the light. Mike couldn’t see so he looked harder, squinting. He started getting a picture of who the voice belonged to. It was terrifying.

     “Hey, kid, you not hear me?” the voice asked, a more sinister tone this time. Mike was scared, his heart racing. As the voice came closer, he saw that there was not just one but eight grown men coming toward him. They were the dirtiest, meanest looking men he had ever laid eyes on. As one of them turned, Mike’s knees grew weak. Across the back of his leather jacket were the words, “Hells Angels, California.”

     “What’s that in your hand, kid?” the voice asked. “I said, what the fuck is that in your hand?”

     “It’s a record player,” Mike responded, mouth dry. He started to hand it to the big man.

     “Hey, man. Don’t hand that thing to me. Besides, it’s my crazy friend here that wants it,” he said, pointing to a wild eyed, shorter man next to him. “He’d sooner shoot you than leave without that radio. Understand?” Mike nodded and started to hand the radio over.

     “Take it. I don’t want any trouble,” Mike said. The big man laughed, loudly, freakishly.  “Please, take it,” Mike offered, hand shaking.

“Go ahead, little guy, take it,” the big man ordered. The shorter man took the radio, smiling with brackish teeth. He was mumbling incoherently.

“This guy is messed up,” Mike thought. 

     “Sonofabitch!” Doug shouted to himself as he stared at the rear tire of the ’56 Chevy, buried two feet deep in the sand. He had driven out on to the beach looking for Mike and was hopelessly stuck. “Where in the hell is Mike?” he thought, angrily. “This is his goddamn fault!”

     At what seemed the exact moment Mike handed the radio to the little man, Huntington Beach cops came from every direction, shouting, guns raised. The guns were pointed directly at Mike and the Hell’s Angels.

     “Don’t any of you move,” yelled John, the head cop.  As the police drew closer, surrounding the group, Mike stood in the middle, hands high in the air.

“Put your hands down, son,” John said. The rest of you step back.” The Hell’s Angels backed up a few steps. “Where’d you get the radio, buddy,” John, asked the little man. He already knew the answer. The little man looked up at the leader and said nothing. “Give me the radio,” John commanded, his left hand held out.

       As John took the radio, the little guy, handing it to him with his left hand, swung mightily with his right, catching John on the top of his head with a glancing blow, knocking his hat to the ground. John, saw it coming and ducked. While grabbing the radio with his right hand, he swung with his left, hitting the little guy square on the jaw, knocking him out. As he fell into the arms of the big guy, John, along with what appeared to be every cop in Huntington Beach, pulled out his gun, cocked the hammer and pointed. Mike stood there, heart pounding.

      “Jeezus,” he thought. “This is bad!”

     “Kid, take this thing and get the hell out of here.” John said, handing him the record player. “Your buddy is down the beach a mile or so. Get him and get out of Huntington Beach,” John ordered, picking up his hat. The guns were still trained on the Hell’s Angels. Mike took the radio, grabbed his sleeping bag and headed back down the beach, damned glad to be out of there.

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     As the ’56 Chevy came into Mike’s view, the sun was coming up. Mike could see that it was stuck. Doug was sitting in the sand, back against the front bumper, looking out at the ocean.

     “Who the hell drives a car out on to the beach?” Mike wondered, tired and in a very foul mood. “Hey shit for brains,” he shouted at Doug as he got closer. Doug looked at Mike. Neither of them was smiling.

     “Where have you been?” Doug asked. “I’ve been here for two friggin hours.

     “What the hell happened here?” Mike asked, examining the car.

     “I came out here looking for you, dumbass,” Doug shot back, sarcastically.

     “Nobody, repeat, nobody drives a friggin car out onto a beach! You’re calling me a dumbass?” Mike yelled. He knew this was just getting started.

    

     “Listen, you started this whole thing by going to that goddamn biker bar,” Mike shouted over the sound of the ocean waves. “Mr. Big Friggin biker boy. What the hell were you thinking?”

     “That biker bar was harmless. Just a bunch of dudes from the “Angels,” getting messed up and listening to music,” Doug retorted. “Hell, it was no big deal.”

     “No big deal?” Mike responded, getting madder by the minute. “The ‘Angels,’ as you so affectionately call them, just threatened my life. There’s nothing harmless about them’! Damn, you can be dumb sometimes.”

      “What is really bothering you?” Doug asked, realizing there was more to Mike’s anger than just this night. “You’ve been acting like this the whole trip.”

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     Mike, quickly calculating how much money he had to get home if this got much worse, decided to go for it.

     “I’ll tell you what’s bugging me. I have had it up to here with your goddamn controlling bullshit. I am sick or it. And, to be honest, I am tired of you constantly talking about how you’re heading for Canada if you get drafted, you gutless piece of crap! What the hell is that? I have a dad and a brother, one on active duty, one retired. You know damn well I don’t hold with draft dodgers!” Mike said, his finger pointing at Doug’s chest.

     Doug, flabbergasted, came back. Both young men were standing in front of the car, tires still buried in the sand. Mike’s sleeping bag and record player were on the ground next to him. Fists were clenched.

     “What the hell are you talking about? You hate that damn war as much as I do. From the way you talk, I would have thought you’d be headed to Canada ten steps ahead of me.”

     “I would never do that and you know it,” Mike yelled. “I may hate that stupid war, but if I get drafted I will go and fight. I will do it for one big reason, Doug. I can’t live with myself if I don’t.

     “I don’t want to die, Mike,” Doug said, not shouting this time. “I just don’t want to die.”

     “There are worse things than dying, Doug,” Mike replied.

     “Let’s knock this shit off, get a tow truck to pull us out of this mess and go home,” Mike offered, stiffly.

     “Screw you, Doug,” Mike said, picking up his bag and record player.

     “Screw you, Mike,” Doug replied, determined to get the last word.

    

     As they drove north, the two boys talked little. Doug did most of the driving. Mike looked out the window or slept, only driving when needed. There were few words between them. Both young me deep in thought, stubborn to a fault.

******************************************************************************************

     “Thanks,” Mike said as he got the last of his things out of the car, feeling horrible and not knowing how to get out from under the weight of it all. Doug, looked at him for a moment, wanting to say something, anything. He turned his head to the front, stepped on the gas and was gone.

Six months later

      Graduation came and went. The draft lottery was held, numbers were selected. Mike got a very high number, meaning he was no longer in jeopardy of being drafted. 

     Doug got a very low draft number, was drafted, went into the Army in July of 1969, was sent to Viet Nam and three months later, was dead.

      Mike, soon to start college and feeling good about how his life was going, decided to call Doug to reconnect. It was October, 1969.

     “Hello, Mrs. Smith?” Doug asked as a woman answered the phone, her voice weak, almost unrecognizable. He could tell something was wrong. “This is Mike Odegard,” he offered. I was wondering if I could talk with Doug. It’s been awhile and I thought I would give him a call.”

     There was a silence on the other end that seemed to last forever.

     “Mikes dead, Doug. He died in Viet Nam. He died a hero. Please don’t call here again,” she replied.

She hung up.

Mike was devastated. He recalled the conversation the two friends had months before, about the draft and the war. “Why did he go?” Mike thought, tears coming. Then he remembered the words he’d said to Doug during that terrible fight, words he would live with for the rest of his life.

     “There are worse things than dying,” he’d said.

     He now knew. Doug’s family knew.

     There were, indeed, worse things than dying.

No works cited. This one was all me.

Tim Meldahl