0887842259- The English Major by Unknown

Author:Unknown
Language: eng
Format: epub
Published: 2012-09-12T01:54:14+00:00

CALIFORNIA III

I reached Sausalito at 4:00 p.m. figuring that I’d call Rob-

ert and then have a quick hamburger because Robert never

has dinner until eight in the evening by which time I’d be

half-batty with hunger. In between stints of driving I had

been walking beaches and had forgotten lunch within the

thrall of the sea. My longest hike had been at Point Reyes

where I had watched a group of evidently young seals

keeping an eye on me. I had dozed against a boulder dur-

ing which time they had approached quite close. I said,

“Hello” softly, wondering if seal thinking and dreaming

wouldn’t be totally absorbed in the oceanic rhythms I

found to be so soothing. I had read that sharks eat seals but

that wouldn’t be all that bad compared to a prolonged stay

in an oncology ward.

I had just pulled off the freeway in Sausalito and was

near the former home of my boyhood hero Jack London

when Ron died. Ron is the private name of my

thirteen-year-old Ford Taurus with just short of two

hundred and fifty thousand miles on it. The actual Ron was

a high school friend who died when his tractor (a John

Deere) tipped over backward on top of him while he was

pulling a stump. Ron was impetuous and had a heavy foot

on the gas. He couldn’t wait to graduate from high school

and join the marines. He wanted to go to Vietnam and fight

for our “freedom.’’ By naming my Taurus after Ron I was

honoring his hopelessly swaggering memory. At his funeral

at the Methodist church Ron’s uncle, also named Ron and

an ex-marine, said that Ron would have made a great

marine whatever that might mean.

Anyway, I coasted into a parking lot with a smoking

Ron. Luckily a Mexican fellow was sitting on a phone

truck drinking coffee and trotted over with a fire

extinguisher. When I popped the hood the smoke billowed

out. I had blown a head gasket covering the whole engine

with oil. The wiring had begun to burn an d the Mexican

hosed the engine down with foam before the flames could

reach the carburetor which would have started a gas fire.

“Your car is shitcanned,” the Mexican said. There was

the name “Fred” on his shirt pocket.

“Thanks, Fred. I think my car has gone to heaven.”

He laughed and walked back to his truck. This Fred

made me think of Vivian’s Fred but only for moments. I

called Robert with the bad news and he said, “Good rid-

dance” to Ron’s demise, and then told me to walk a few

blocks down the street to the No Name Bar. Robert had a

scheduled conference call with “Glitzville” and would send

someone to pick me up.

At the bar I had a whiskey and a wonderful ham and

swiss sandwich. One thing that has gone wrong in America

is the general acceptance of bad ham. The bartender wasn’t

busy and we talked about Jack London. He was curious

about my strange accent and then said Jack London was

still real popular in Russia. I told him I had once started a

campfire under a snow-laden fir tree and sure enough the

snow fell off and doused the fire. It was a literary experi-

ment.

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