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Chapter
2
"Beeep!
Beeep!"
It
had all started two days earlier when I observed the Major removing my
second row metal frame bench seat. He replaced it with a similar seat,
but one in which the upholstery extended all the way to the floor
providing an enclosure around the base of the seat. I had sensed
immediately that the seat was designed to smuggle someone or something.
Now we were headed westward and back home after spending the day in the
Eastern Sector. My heart was pounding as we approached the Wall.
Crunched "inside" my new seat was the highest-ranking
Intelligence Officer in the Soviet East German government. Months of
planning his defection now came down to a routine inspection at the
border-crossing checkpoint. As my Major exited and stood next to me, the
border guards began a careful visual inspection. I sensed they were
unusually suspicious, and I noticed one guard in particular kept looking
at my new seat -- as if he sensed something was awry but he was not sure
what. I had to act quickly. "Beeeep! Beeeep!"
"Stop noise!" one of the guards said in English. But no one knew how
to do it. Unlike most cars there was no hood to raise to access my horn.
As my
shrill cry continued to pierce the otherwise tranquil evening, the head guard
said something in German that I think loosely translated meant, "Get that
(censored) thing out of here!" And so my Major quickly climbed back inside
and we sped across the border. My blaring horn penetrated the quiet of the
night as we drove on to West Berlin, our island of freedom.
"I
can't believe that horn went off when it did," my clandestine passenger
sighed as he emerged from his hiding place. "I owe this car my life.
Do
you think it somehow knew to blow its horn?" After a deliberate pause my
Major responded, "I'm not sure, but the Free World owes this car a debt
it will probably never know or appreciate." As he spoke my Major softly
patted my dash and whispered, "I think you did know, didn't you?"
I
felt a magnificent inner glow. I had met the first crisis of my young life and
passed the test with flying, albeit "loud" colors.
Chapter
3
Flower
Power
In late
1966 my life took an exciting turn. My Major was transferred back to the
United States and I came along. However soon after my arrival I was sold.
A
pleasant young man named Gordy bought me and immediately crammed his life's
belongings inside. The next day we were headed west to San Francisco.
An
aspiring artist, Gordy had heard all about a new counter-culture of dropouts
known by the more general term "Hippies". We immediately rented an
apartment in the Haight-Ashbury District. It was now 1967 and we were fully
immersed in the Summer of Love. I was the envy of all the other cars because I
was already the recognized automotive icon of the Flower Power movement.
Everyone longed for a VW bus like myself. And yes, Gordy did paint flowers all
over my sides as well as one lone flower on my dash.
Living in Haight-Ashbury was a communal way of life. People often lived as
extended families and most thought of themselves as one with the emerging
counter-culture. Among those with whom we shared our communal way of life
were members of a musical group who lived in the same building as Gordy
and myself at 710 Ashbury Street. The Grateful Dead scorned commercialism
and focused on their music, much of it derived from their own psychedelic
experiences. There was a spirit of family that prevailed throughout
Haight-Ashbury, where I was shared transportation and in almost constant
use by members of our extended family. Many a night with Jerry Garcia at
my wheel, I drove the Dead to the Avalon Ballroom or to the Fillmore
Auditorium where the music they and others played soon became known as the
San Francisco Sound.
Life
was "far out" until one fateful day in 1968. Gordy had been
drafted for service in Vietnam, but as a matter of conscience had decided
to flee to Canada. "I have to sell you", he tearfully explained,
"but I promise we will be together again when this crazy war is
over." I was heart-broken but I knew he spoke the truth. Someday,
somewhere, somehow we would be together again -- I was sure of it.
Chapter
4
My
Secret
My
new owner lived in Washington, DC, and for reasons that will become
apparent, all I can really divulge is that he worked for the government.
The first thing my new owner did was repaint me to remove the flowers from
my sides. He definitely did not identify with "Flower Children",
although he did leave the special flower Gordy had painted on my dash.
I
became his daily-driver back and forth to work. Life was remarkably
uneventful -- actually kind of boring. I was well treated although my
owner was somewhat aloof and we really had no personal relationship the
way Gordy and I had. Life in Washington, DC was quite stiff compared to
what I had known in California. The years passed, and then late one
evening in 1972, just past midnight, my owner unexpectedly emerged from
his home and we drove off. He had a solemn look on his face and I felt the
tension mounting. I could sense another nighttime adventure lay ahead.
Any
fear I might have felt was overshadowed by a sense of keen excitement.
After driving a short distance we entered an underground parking garage.
We circled down and parked, the sole vehicle in the otherwise deserted
structure. A few minutes later I heard the ominous sound of another car
approaching. It parked next to us and a young man got out. His first words
were, "I like your wheels. I've always wanted a VW bus." But the
compliment and the ensuing small talk were short-lived. During the next
hour what I heard was "ear-burning" to say the least. Our
clandestine meeting ended with an agreement to hold further nocturnal
trysts -- which we did over a period of months. The meetings were
generally about 2:00 a.m. -- and always in a different deserted parking
garage. I quickly became aware that I was a silent witness to history.
If
you haven't guessed by now, the young man we met was a Washington Post
reporter named Bob Woodward and my owner, whose anonymity I have always
respected, soon became known to the world as Watergate's Deep Throat.
Now,
as I recount my life's story, perhaps the time has come to divulge Deep
Throat's identity to the world. Who was Deep Throat? "Beep Beeep".
There! I just shared my secret with you.
Chapter
5
Oranges,
Chickens and Dirt
Life
after my Major, D.T. and especially my beloved Gordy became nothing more
than a series of "short-term affairs" with a variety of very
forgettable owners. My condition deteriorated as each succeeding owner
seemed less interested in me as a transporter of people, and more
interested in my capacity to haul all manner of cargo. I experienced not
only wear and tear on my body, but an even greater toll on my spirit.
The
next dozen or so years I crisscrossed the country many times. I hauled
oranges in Orlando, chickens in Chattanooga and dirt in Dubuque. Dents,
rust, scrapes -- all were painful. But even worse was neglect.
My once
fine motor no longer purred, but rather gasped for each breath as it
labored on year after endless year.
It
was during this very bleak period of my life that I experienced yet
another nighttime adventure worthy of note. I was in the Pacific Northwest
serving as a carryall for a rather odd hermit who lived in a crudely built
tar papered cabin situated high on the side of a mountain peak. One May
night in 1980 at about 3:00 a.m. the stillness of the night was shattered
by the sound of my reclusive owner approaching. He had with him his two
disrespectful dogs, who constantly chewed on what was left of my
upholstery at every opportunity. "Let's go," the old man said in
a nervous tone. "Now!" Both dogs were visibly edgy.
"My
dogs know something," he muttered. "I don't know what they know,
but they know." Although I didn't understand why, he drove me hard
the rest of the night and at daybreak the next morning we arrived in
Portland. As we listened to my radio we learned that Mount St. Helens had
blown its top, forever erasing any trace of that ramshackle cabin. And
while I still hate what those dogs did to my upholstery, somehow I think I
have found it in my heart to forgive them.
Throughout the eighties I labored on. Every year I acquired new dings and
scars and ever-spreading rust. I often thought of Gordy and the prestige I
had enjoyed among the Flower Children. But those fantastic days and nights
in San Francisco seemed a lifetime away -- and the reality was, they were.
Chapter
6
The
Next Five Centuries
The
decade of the nineties felt like a bottomless whirlpool. I was being drawn
further and further down with no hope of escape. Passed from owner to
owner, each seemed worse than the last. In 1992 I was sold to man in Iowa
who used me as a weekend fishing car. He would drive me to a little
cardboard shack he had jury-rigged on the banks of an isolated section of
the Mississippi River. It was a shack not unlike the shack the Mount St. Helens hermit
had lived in. Aside from the unpleasantness of being a depository for his
slimy fish, I rationalized that life could be worse. Soon it was.
The
summer of 1993 brought with it the
"once-every-five-hundred-years" Great Mississippi River Flood.
In a panic to save his other property, my owner left me abandoned along
the river. I was not swept away, but the river did carve a new course and
the land on which I sat was transformed into a tiny island no more than
fifty feet square. I was marooned.
Years passed and my only glimpse of civilization was the endless parade of
barges that navigate up and down the Mighty Miss -- and that was only eye
contact. I was alone with my thoughts, remembering another island -- West
Berlin; recalling my ringside seat to the downfall of a Presidency; and of
course re-living life in Haight-Ashbury with Gordy. I was resigned to
spending eternity, or least the next five centuries, alone and forgotten
forever on a miniscule island with no name.
"We can haul this out of here on my uncle's boat," I heard a
voice say. Aroused from a deep sleep, I realized that two young men were
on the island and talking about me. "This is exactly what I have been
looking for to make into a beach Cruiser." Beach Cruiser?!
We were in
Iowa and I didn't get the beach reference -- but I certainly didn't care.
I was about to be rescued from total oblivion and I wasn't about to
question what kind of Cruiser I was being called. He could have called me
a farm Cruiser, a desert Cruiser or even a swamp Cruiser -- but I have to
admit the adjective beach certainly did have a nice ring to it!
Chapter
7
Curtains
It
turned out Michael had spotted me while working on one of the many grain
barges that regularly passed my little island. A thrifty young man with
mechanical ability, Michael soon had my engine humming again. "I've
been saving my money so I can move to Hawaii and check out the surfing
scene," he explained. "You're going with me and you're going to
be my home as well as my wheels. I'm on a tight budget so I hope you'll
understand that I can't do anything about all your dings and rust."
Understand? You bet! Mechanically he had me running better than ever, and
I had a life again. Cosmetics were of absolutely no concern to me.
In a
few short weeks we were in Hawaii. We immediately headed for Oahu's North
Shore where Michael found work at a surfboard shop. He removed my back
seats and replaced them with a hand-built bed. He also hung curtains in my
windows and outfitted me with cooking utensils. But most importantly, he
added a surfboard rack to my roof. Longboards, short boards, windsurfing
boards, bodyboards -- I was adorned with nearly every style and brand of board made. Nights and nearly every moment of free time during the day were spent at
the beach. Mokuleia to Kaaawa; Waimanalo to Sandy Beach; Waianae to Makaha;
the entire leeward coast -- we soon knew every beach and its wave patterns
by heart.
Life
on Oahu was magnificent. I was now living on my third island, which was
definitely "charmed". Then one day Michael received a job offer
in Australia that was simply too good to refuse. Taking me along was
impractical, which I understood. Knowing I would be easy to sell, Michael
placed a For Sale sign in my window and parked me along the main highway
across from Sunset Beach. Many a young surfer stared at me longingly.
After all, I was the ultimate "in" transportation. And with my
own bed and "kitchen" I doubled as a beach pad on wheels. However it was when by pure chance a mature fifty-something man stopped to
look at me that my life took a most incredulous turn.
Chapter
8
"Hey
there, pal."
"Hey there, Pal. How have you been?" The voice was hauntingly
familiar. "I'd recognize that flower on your dash anywhere, seeing as
how I painted it thirty years ago." It was Gordy! He continued,
"Consider yourself sold. I'd gladly pay ten times what this sign says
-- all I have dreamed of for all these years is finding you again."
Me too! I was completely overcome with emotion. From a rational point of
view I had long ago given up ever seeing Gordy again. But in my heart the
candle of hope had continued to burn, often flickering but never going
out. "It's a good thing I painted that flower on your dash or I never
would have recognized you," Gordy mused.
I
soon learned Gordy was now a highly successful artist living in a million
dollar home on Maui. "I only have a three-car garage so you and the
Corvette and the Lexus can share it. The SUV will have to start staying
outside." Gordy emphasized to me that he felt my scarred and rusty
appearance exuded the character of my life -- that it was art -- and that
he wasn't going to change a thing about me. And that was just fine with
me. Although he is a very wealthy man, Gordy treasures strolling Maui's
many beaches in cut-offs. No one would ever guess his wealth and status,
especially when he is behind the wheel of my battered and bruised body.
Now
life is filled with joy. I especially relish camping on the beach with
Gordy. Young surfers drool and lust for me, but my life will be with Gordy
for all eternity. I have had a number of nighttime adventures, and I have
also lived on several "islands". But no adventure and no island
can compare with the peaceful nights I now spend with Gordy in Paradise.
Happiness is a soft tropical breeze, a warm friendly campfire and the
sounds of the Grateful Dead resonating from my cassette player. We often
reminisce late into the night. But my greatest happiness comes when Gordy
climbs into my bed and I hold him while he sleeps contentedly. I fight off
sleep, not wanting to lose the moment. But soon I too doze in sublime
contentment.
-- The End --
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