Mr. Smith Goes To Washington? (NOT!)

We rarely take formal vacations anymore. When our three boys were younger vacations were planned well in advance and usually involved water slides, go-karts and miniature golf. Now that the kids are no longer living home full time the wife and I find ourselves staying home and doing day trips. For me, that was until my good friend called and asked me to attend his daughter’s wedding. He lives in Dana Point, California.

I grew up always wanting to experience California. Seemed that was where people were having the real fun. No snow, no mosquitoes, no need for double pane windows, windows that could be left wide open, and beaches, miles and miles of sandy beaches with scattered palm trees. I could hear The Beach Boys calling me…

I contemplated Scott’s invite. He was convincing. “We’re both between jobs. You’ve never been to California. You can stay at our house…” How could I refuse?

First I needed a suit. Hey, I’m a plumber by trade. I wear jeans and work boots almost exclusively. Up until my trip to Emerald Square Mall and Men’s Warehouse, I would have been buried that way.  But not now, on my credit card statement is one $250 suit that’s been tailored to my current shape. And yes, “I like the way I look!”

On my next statement there will be some other casual clothes, even dress shorts. I never wear those, until now.

I went online to Expedia.com and shopped airline tickets, a first for me. I settled on a flight out of Green that landed in John Wayne at 2:45 west coast time. Gaining three hours traveling there was unusual. In flight my cell phone adjusted itself. I chose “Zen And The Art Of Motorcycle Maintenance” to read in flight. Originally it was assigned reading in a philosophy class back in 1975 while I was attending Boston University, one of four schools I dabbled in. I knew I hadn’t gotten all that I could out of reading it the first time, so I decided that on my journey across the states through the air I would reread Robert M. Pirsig’s book about his “Chautauqua” on the ground by motorcycle.

The first plane I boarded was what Scott referred to as a “puddle jumper”. It took me to Newark where I was shuttled to another gate to board a much larger jet. On the way to California neither plane was full and so I had a row to myself on each. When not reading Zen, I kept the plastic shutter up, staring out the window like a little kid. It had been 25 years since my last flight.

Although airports are fast places, many travelers have extended periods of time to kill and the airports are ready for them with pricey coffee shops and restaurants. Plenty of grown men and women opted for a McLunch or McDinner depending on their time zone, choosing out of the way gate areas to indulge in their budget fast food choice. I caved, ordered a Filet-O-Fish sandwich and did my best to blend with the rest of the McMunchers…

When I landed in Orange County I called Scott to tell him of my arrival. He was 20 minutes away. He pulled up in his white Mercedes and after loading my suitcase and two carry-ons, we were on the road.

In “Zen And The Art Of Motorcycle Maintenance” Pirsig is on an older motorcycle he maintains himself and talks about the joy of secondary roads, and the quiet that inspires inner peace.

“It was some years ago that my wife and I and our friends first began to catch on to these roads. We took them once in a while for variety or for a shortcut to another main highway, and each time the scenery was grand and we left the road with a feeling of relaxation and enjoyment. We did this time after time before realizing what should have been obvious: these roads are truly different from the main ones. The whole pace of life and personality of the people who live along them are different. They’re not going anywhere. They’re not too busy to be courteous. The hereness and nowness of things is something they know all about. It’s the others, the ones who moved to the cities years ago and their lost offspring, who have all but forgotten it.”

                                                       Pirsig might have enjoyed this view of Dana Point Harbor

In Southern California there are few secondary roads, none that I saw, and mini malls and plazas at every other stop light. I only saw a handful of motorcycles on the road and a dozen or so parked downtown at Laguna Beach. I did see lots of high-end automobiles.

Scott purchased his home for $750,000 more than 10 years ago. It has 5 bedrooms, three bathrooms and a three-car garage. Plenty spacious for him, his wife Carol, their two daughters, one who is getting married and has already moved out, and their four dogs (3 Beagles and 1 Chihuahua). The previous owners recommended a gardener and an experienced housekeeper named Mercedes who comes twice a week.

Unlike homes in New England, the homes in Southern California are very close to one another with as little as six feet on either side, enough room for a driveway around front and a small patio and ten feet of grass around back. The zoning is referred to as “Zero Lot Lines” and you’ll find it where land is at a premium.

What they lack in outdoor space they make up for with a view. Scott’s house had a spectacular view of a valley, fancy rooftops of exquisite homes, and the ocean. It was picture-perfect and Scott told me that if he wanted, he could request that his neighbor remove some runaway growth and several palm trees if he decided to sell, explaining that it was the view that increased home values. I stared out into the bright California sun and taking in the view from his backyard I couldn’t disagree…

Scott and his wife are very laid back, a characteristic I found in many of the people I met in Southern California. Their time tendencies reminded me of Ted Williams’ advice on hitting a baseball “Wait as long as you can and then be quick”. They were nonchalant until they were almost late, and would then rush to time sensitive events. It took some getting used to, but it was an effective strategy, we never missed anything.

While I was at the house Carol’s sister plugged in an iron and just as she placed it on a wrinkled garment the power went out. By this time the majority of the 14+ people staying at the house had already arrived and there were many wrinkled garments that would soon be making there way out of stuffed suitcases. Thinking it was a tripped breaker, we located the outside electrical panel and thought we could reset it. With the wedding only two days away and the rehearsal dinner that evening, Scott was planning to call an electrician. The digital meter was blank and I suggested we look next door at theirs to see if they had power. They didn’t. We originally thought we were responsible and had a good laugh. As it turns out, most of Southern California had lost its power and it had nothing to do with our ironing. I offered to take the blame for bringing bad karma to California from Norton, MA where Irene knocked our power out for four days. They wanted no part of it, I was a guest.

The groom’s family had a house on a beach not far from Scott’s and it was where the rehearsal dinner was held. The back yard was large and the uninterrupted view from the edge of the property line made it worth standing in the hot sun. Although it resembled a post card, the difference was that the actual view was in real time with moving parts- spectacular!

The toasts were meaningful and well spoken. The meal was great and when it got dark candles lit the room. It was actually a nice touch and made the evening more enjoyable. Outside the neighborhood was black and people walked with flashlights through it. When we returned home we lit candles and lanterns and played “Mexican Train” an incredibly addicting game using dominoes, a central hub, and small plastic trains. The object is to be the first to use all your dominoes. I came very close once, but didn’t win. It didn’t matter, the game was incredible fun and we played well beyond the threshold of our daily fatigue. The power came back on at 11:00.

We spent Friday, the day before the wedding, running around doing last minute stuff. Carol did a lot of preparation herself and the hall needed setup. The female relatives helped while Scott demonstrated his skill at avoiding too much heavy lifting. He’s very good.

On Saturday, the day of the wedding, there was more running around. The wedding party left early for pictures and all of the guests, myself included, ran around preparing for the five o’clock wedding. I ironed my white shirt. It looked OK. Although I didn’t receive any compliments, the wrinkle police left me alone.

The wedding ceremony was held at a beautiful church, water side, and it was the perfect length. A Pastor, who had once lived in Southern California, but dissolved his church shortly after combining congregations with another Pastor, flew in from Georgia, his original home, to preside. He had white hair, an overwhelming physical presence, and a voice that was crystal clear and heavily accented. When it was time to kiss the bride to every onlooker’s surprise, the groom slung her down and to the side and the newlyweds showed us how it was done! The recessional was an upbeat remix of the standard “Here comes the bride” and Kristin and Matt and the rest of their wedding party made their way back up the aisle and exited the church with incredible energy.

A local hotel was chosen for the wedding reception. Carol had the hall looking incredible. Each chair was wrapped in material and tied in a bow at the rear. She had chosen all the decorative amenities and set-up most of it herself with the help of close friends and relatives. The atmosphere was festive, the Hors d’Oeuvres hot, the beer cold, the champagne sparkling, and the conversation happy!

I was seated at a round table that included Scott and Carol and Scott’s brother Brett. I recognized him, but he did not recognize me. I shook his hand across the table, holding it long enough to entice his curiosity. When he had obviously drawn an uncomfortable blank, I told him who I was. He smiled wide then. I went on to remind him that the last time we saw each other was in 1973, the day before him, Scott, and Roy, their dad, were planning their return to California after spending five years in Massachusetts.

Scott and I had become friends in seventh grade and played on a championship Pop Warner team in 1969. He was the right end and I was the right tackle. We cross-blocked a lot and opened up big holes off-tackle. We became fast friends. My mother had taken us to get our social security numbers so we could get jobs. I let him go first and I only know two social security numbers by heart, his and mine. When I reminded him of this at the wedding he was amazed, but not surprised. He knows my memory well.

It was one winter’s day after we climbed onto the roof of my grandparents ranch style house to retrieve a basketball that had lodged itself behind the backboard, that our lifetime nicknames were secured. Scott and I were about thirteen at the time. Once up on the roof we ran across it, zigzagging our way around, believing that if we fell we would land in piles of snow and not get hurt. We ran around not realizing the racket we were making inside. My grandmother came out yelling, demanding we get off the roof. When we got down she looked at us in disgust and while shaking her head side to side she said “You’re a couple of Crazyboys!” We looked at each other and in that moment we saw the path to our chosen calling- we were Crazyboys! And that would be our name for each other- Crazyboy. Still is-

Roy was inside an empty house waiting to leave for California the following day. He sipped his Black Label from a can and asked Scott to go fill up the tank in Dodge Dart wagon they had and were using to drive cross country. Crazyboy grabbed the keys and I jumped in the front and Brett, who was 4 years our junior, jumped in the back. If there were seatbelts in the vehicle, they were not mandatory and we were not wearing them. We started down the road, which was hilly; it was up in Moosehill in Sharon. Just as we made our way to the bottom of one hill to where the next incline began, Crazyboy raises one eyebrow, an indication that something out of the ordinary is soon to follow. He tells me there’s an overdrive button under the gas pedal and when you hit it, the car flies!

As we began to ascend Crazyboy punches it, hitting the little button, the motor winds and away we went. Problem was that that section of the road was tight and there were concrete barriers on both sides of the narrowest section to prevent wandering off it. At the moment our speed increased a kid by the name of Paul Allen was starting his decent from the other direction. He had a legitimate hot rod and he wasn’t Sunday driving. His left front bumper/fender hit our left front bumper/fender and with his vehicle being larger and heavier, he spun us around. We landed in a slight ditch and at a weird angle just in beyond the concrete barrier. We got jostled around and the first thing we did was check on Brett. He was OK. We got out and checked body parts by stretching a bit while talking to Paul, who escaped unharmed. Paul drove away and we walked back to Crazyboy’s house. We walked in and there was some surprise in Roy’s expression. Crazyboy told him we had been in an accident and that the car was wrecked. Without hesitation, Roy, who we nicknamed Crazyman, asked if we were all OK. When we said that we were, he said “Don’t worry the car can be fixed-”

Crazyman had scored big points with me. I always liked him. At one time I wrote a story titled “The Most Amazing Man I ever Met” and it was about him. He had had an interesting life and told great stories. I could sit and listen for hours and he knew it.

The car went into the body shop and was repaired, not painted. It took three days and Brett and Crazyman stayed in the empty house while Crazyboy stayed at mine. It gave us a few more days to find some trouble before he moved back to California for good.

Over the years we stayed in touch, but at one point it had been a good ten years that we remained out of touch. We reconnected about five years ago and with technology the way it is, we’re in constant communication. He was in Boston on business two summers ago and came to my son Nick’s high school graduation party. It had been 31 years since I had last seen him. He looks a lot like his father with Clint Eastwood mixed in.

We took a ride by his old house in Sharon and the current owner allowed him to go inside. It had been a great house for him and his family back when. I could tell by Crazyboy’s focus he was going back in time; his smiles were sharp edged and connected to memories, you could see it in his eyes.

It was great talking with Brett. He lives in Northern California with his wife and three girls who all came in for the wedding. When you haven’t seen a childhood friend for a long time you search their face for the kid you remember. I saw that kid when I looked at Brett.

The evening went great. Staying at the house had given me an opportunity to meet some people so I had plenty of new acquaintances to talk to. Meandering at out of town weddings is a lot of fun too.

When we left the reception Carol and Scott had both their cars there. Scott had indulged a bit too much and he asked me to drive his Mercedes. He was riding shotgun to insure I didn’t get lost and cruise endlessly around California. Who would want to do that?

Driving in the car it was like old times except we were older Crazyboys, but we have agreed never to become Crazymen. There’s no future in it. It was a while back when our first digits changed from three to four that I expressed my hatred for getting old. Crazyboy agreed, but added “Sure beats the alternative-” As crazy as he is, he is practical.

The Sunday after the wedding was quiet. Scott and Carol took their daughter Kristin and her husband Matt to the airport to leave on their honeymoon and to wish them farewell. Afterwards, there was a tuxedo to return, dogs to pick up, reception halls to clean, and bills to pay. Scott and Carol were pretty busy and exhausted too.

Monday we hung around most of the morning and then mid afternoon we went down to the Dana Point Harbor to do some paddle boarding. Some of the others had gotten there earlier and were out on boards. When Scott and I arrived two boards came back. One was short and wide while the other was narrower, closely resembling a surfboard. I knew nothing about paddle boarding. Crazyboy chose his vessel; the wider board that had foot prints and a slight concave shape. I took the “torpedo” as Scott later referred to it.

Several years ago I got hit by a batted ball pitching in a homerun derby from 46 feet, little league distance. The big toe on my right foot got damaged. Short of fusing it, it became a liability I will have to live with, one that is extremely painful and makes it difficult to balance. I tried to wiggle out of paddleboarding, but Crazyboy wouldn’t let me. “It’s easy!” he said.

We take off and at first I have the board facing the wrong way, fins at the front. After I fall hard several times Crazy tells me to turn the board around. I begin paddling and I’m OK. Then I lose my balance and go derriere-over-teakettle into the salt water. By this time Crazyboy is heading off in another direction, with the wind. It looks easy. I try to get into that wind and current, but I can’t. I’m being blown the other direction and I’m not experienced enough to prevent it. I choose a seated position, knees bent and figure that if I stay low I can cheat the wind and get back on course. Not happening. Here comes a boat. Motorized. Small cruiser. My heart starts to race. Crazyboy is no longer in sight. I paddle with intent to get out of the way of the oncoming boat. I end up in a slip area trying hard not to hit any docked boats. I paddle harder and get myself turned around and heading back in the right direction. Just as I get into the Bay here comes another boat. I’m kneeling on patellas that have been attached to a plumber for 32 years. They’re beginning to hurt. I start to question Crazyboy’s definition of “FUN!” The boat passes and I let out a sigh of relief. Still no Crazyboy in sight. I stay very low to cheat the wind and I’m making progress, but the wake of the passing boat isn’t helping. I begin to feel I can do this! The closer I get to the beach area the more confident I become. Here comes Crazyboy. He’s walking down a long dock that runs parallel to a section of the Harbor. He offers to help. “No way!” I yell “I’m heading in.”

                                                           One of the boats I paddled out of the way of was the County Sheriff's!

I get to the shore and beach the board. I head over to where my housemates are sitting. I’m shaking my head wondering why I was having such a difficult time. Maybe the toe and my difficulty balancing? Then Matt and Jenee’ say “We can’t believe he did that to you.”

“What?” I ask

“Gave you the narrow board and took the wider more stable one for himself.”

“The other one is easier?”

“Oh yeah. Its wider and much more stable.”

“Oh-”

“And when you were having trouble and fighting the wind, he just left you-”

When Kilby returned, another housemate, he said the same thing. Then they all asked me what I had done to Scott in the past to deserve that treatment. I thought for a while and remembered the time Crazyboy had had knee surgery. We were 16 and I forgot and banged him on the knee to get his attention. He jumped for the nearest chandelier. Then there was the time we were on different Rec League basketball teams and he was much taller than me and while in pursuit of a rebound I pulled his shorts down to his ankles, grabbed the ball and dribbled down to the other end for an easy layup. I can still see his angry face, him tripping on his maroon gym shorts hanging down by his ankles while he's yelling “You can’t do that!” I was amply named too. There’s a lot I’m not telling. I earned my stripes…

In the end I really didn’t mind. That was until the next day. We went to the beach to surf. Crazyboy knows his way around a surfboard. I tell him I’m going to watch and take pictures. He says “No, you’re surfing!” I remind him about the big toe, the problem with balance, I’m 55… He insists.

After watching for a while I put on the wetsuit. I’m ready. I take a board and this time it looks like all the others. I Velcro the leash around my right ankle and head into the surf.

Its more difficult paddling out through the surf than I imagined. Crazyboy prods me along by telling me I’m not paddling hard enough, “One hand at a time” he says. I’m in the impact zone, the point at which the swell is breaking most heavily and frequently, and can’t get out. I keep getting hit by crashing waves which are sending me back towards the shoreline. Crazyboy yells at me to hurry up and paddle harder. I make it beyond the impact zone and I’m out into calmer waters. Crazyboy instructs me on how to sit up on the board, and although I’m content to lie across it, I sit up. He looks at me and says “Now you’re a surfer!” Less than a minute later I flip under the board and lose my surfer pose. Now I’m ready to jump a wave and head in. Crazyboy yells and I do not listen! It takes me a few waves, but I get in. I convince myself I had fun and I’m done having fun. I no longer hear The Beach Boys calling me…

Crazyboy comes in out of the surf and says he got to go get Jenna, his 15 year old daughter. We had gone to a high school volleyball game to watch her play. She’s very good. Scott says she’ll have to grow five or so inches to be a force. Jenna has done commercials and music videos. One night Jenee’ and Matt wanted Sushi. I’m not a fan. I went and sat in between Jenna and Jenee’. Jenna told me to try the soup, that the tofu was really good. I swallowed it, but I didn’t like it, at all. In fact, I didn’t like any of the food at the Sushi Bar. Some of it was sent around in little wooden boats being moved by a current of water in a small trough running around inside the bar top. The idea is to entice patrons into eating and it wasn’t working on me. It was making me both sick and dizzy at the same time. When the shrimp cruised by with their eyes still intact I told Jenee’ and Jenna I couldn’t eat anything that was looking back at me. Funny thing is I meant it!

Scott left the beach with Carol and called an hour later to say he and Carol had errands to run and wouldn’t be back until 4:30 to pick us up. I hung out with Kilby, Stephanie and their three children, the oldest being five years old. Kilby is an auto mechanic so we had a lot of knuckle-busting to talk about. I enjoyed his conversation, but had neglected to put on sunscreen. By 5:00 when Crazyboy and Carol returned I was sunburned.

Crazyboy and I carried the boards back to Carol’s pickup truck, rinsing them off before we loaded them and Scott tied them down. It was on the way home that Crazyboy started in on me. He said “You weren’t paddling hard enough. Just like yesterday on the paddle board. You have to paddle hard!” I said that I was.

“You are the first person I know who got into trouble in ‘Baby Bay’, that’s what we call it.”

“Hey” I said “Everyone was asking me why you gave me the narrow board and then just hung me out to dry!”

“Hang you out to dry? Carol’s mother can paddleboard!”

“She can?”

“Well no, but girls can. Stephanie did it in a dress!”

He was getting vicious. I retaliated “You know what? I’m changing your name from Crazyboy to Hangmeout2dryBOY!”

“That’s too long!” he snaps

“No. It actually flows very well. Like an Avril Lavigne song. Hangmeout2dryBOY!”

“I’m taking you to the gym. We’re going to put on the gloves. Boxing. Muay Thai. Let’s go and settle this!”

I agreed. I knew he wouldn’t. Although he has been doing mixed martial arts for a while, he tore his rotator cuff and when he left to do errands he went home to ice it down. All I would have to do is survive long enough for his arm to droop and bang, I would have my way!

Carol saw this was heating up. Crazyboy didn’t like “Hangmeout2dryBOY” at all. It infuriated him. He wouldn’t let go. Kept bringing up “Baby Bay” and Stephanie’s dress. I just kept responding with “Hangmeout2dryBOY!” We were acting childish, but in a strange way it was enjoyable.

We calmed. Returned to his house and unloaded the boards. After showering we both did our best to let it go. I’m sure Carol talked to him or he would have never let up.

We went out for dinner that evening which was my last night in Dana Point and Kilby and Stephanie’s too. We did not bring up the surfing or paddleboarding.  We did talk sports, which is like talking religion. Nothing good happens, especially between dueling friends. We were talking about sports where one player makes a big difference. Kilby was saying (he lives in Cleveland, Ohio) that Lebron James departure proved that in basketball one player makes the team. I argued that Celtic basketball involves 7-8 players and that in baseball the pitcher impacts the team more. Same as the quarterback in football. Let the games begin! The argument was on. Really, it was a continuation of the earlier battle between the two Crazyboys.

Crazyboy said a quarterback is only as good as his blocking. I said there’s a lot more to it than that. Great Quarterbacks have quick releases, can step up in the pocket or scramble to get away from the rush and still do their job. Then the focus shifted to “you have to win as a quarterback to be considered good” I sighted Dan Marino. Everyone was looking for an open lane. This conversation should have taken place standing at the bar where such conversations normally occur.

Then Crazyboy brings up Archie Manning, saying how great he was and that if he had had blocking he could have won the big one. I say “Archie Manning’s two sons have had more success in the NFL than he ever had. I researched it; his career stats are not very impressive. In fact, his career won-lost is the worst in the history of the NFL!”

“That’s because he had no blocking!” Crazyboy yelps

“No blocking? Fran Tarkenton scrambled his way to success and Mike Vick is doing the same!”

We go back and forth each time getting louder and angrier. I know it’s not about football, it's still about paddleboarding…

Crazyboy finally takes charge the only way he can. He declares me the winner and says “He came all the way from Massachusetts we have to let him win one.” That statement was doubled edged. He was declaring himself the winner of the paddle board argument. I stopped. He paid for the dinner.

We calmed and left the restaurant. We turned in early. No Mexican Train. We needed to leave Dana Point for John Wayne by 9:00 AM. In the morning we were all very cordial. Kilby and his family drove in Kristin’s Jeep and Scott and Carol were in the Ford pick-up truck with me in the back. The conversation was mostly about what still had to be done to complete the wedding. I was reduced to listening. Carol said the bakery had charged her $1,200 to “cut the cake” and she felt it was a rip-off.  I couldn’t help but ask “Just to cut the cake or does that include the cake?”

“Just to cut it into slices. He says he normally gets $8 a slice, but charged us only $5 a slice.”

“I would have cut it for you.” I jokingly say “I could have saved you at least $300!”

Scott went on that Southern Californian weddings in general can get pretty expensive. “They charged me $450 for a keg of Heineken that cost $85 at the package store. And it had a third left, but I couldn’t take it home.” Crazyboy likes his beer.

We arrived at the airport in plenty of time. We unloaded the truck and said our goodbyes. Scott was quick to tell Kilby he and his family were welcome back and that when they came back, they would go fishing like Kilby had wanted to do.

Crazyboy and I shook hands. I thanked him and Carol for the invite and then they were gone.

All I had to do was check my baggage and board my plane. Orange County to Chicago. Chicago to Providence. There the 1998 Mercury Villager with 208,650 miles would be waiting at the Airport Valet where after I successfully swiped my credit card, I would drive it back to Norton, MA.

I’m glad I went to Dana Point and got to see my good friend Crazyboy and his family. He’s got a great life, a great family and a fine son in-law.

I jump on Route 95 North and soon I’m getting off and onto route 495 South. Once off the major highways I’m comfortably traveling on familiar secondary roads near my home.

“I’m happy to be riding back into this country. It is a kind of nowhere, famous for nothing at all and has an appeal because of just that.” – Zen And The Art Of Motorcycle Maintenance

When I pulled into my driveway in Norton I knew I was home.

VINCENT LEVINE is a free-lance writer and can be reached at: vincent.levine@rocketmail.com