Explosion in the Desert (Part 1)

 

It was late afternoon that my father put me on a plane at LAX headed home to Denver. As an immature 20-year-old, I had just experienced a terrible break-up with who I thought was the love of my life. I needed to escape from everything that reminded me of her, thus going home seemed the obvious choice. I had only $150 in my wallet when I arrived, and rather than spend the money on a cab, I hitchhiked from the airport to the city's northern suburbs. Found a phone booth and called my childhood friend. As they say, he always had my back, and was delighted to see me considering it had been two years since we last had spoken.

The time was the early 80's, and the music scene in Denver was a force of nature. For me, the disco scene was a heretic music form, where only hard rock bands like Bad Company, Queen, and Led Zeppelin touched my soul. During this time, rock clubs were numerous, and on any given night, you could hear a live performance, both original with excellent cover bands. As a guitar player, this was “my country.” After getting a factory job loading pallets of rolled tar from an assembly line (managed to get in great shape) four nights a week, I would venture out to see and hear the music.

I had made friends with many of the musicians, and once they heard that I had just left the music Mecca, LA, their response was always, “What? What are you doing here, man? LA is where it's all happening.” My reply was always the same, “I'm just taking a break and visiting friends.” This went on for some months.

Although there were an abundance of pretty girls to meet and date because my heart was “broken,” I'd pass on any proposition from the opposite sex. In hindsight, there were several miss-opportunities for at least a physical exchange and even friendship, but I had had enough of women and shied away. It was only on one particular Saturday night that my vow of celibacy changed without my permission.

John and James were twin brothers that worked with me at the factory. John owned what would now be considered a “hippy” van” with a killer sound system. On that night, we skipped going home and went straight to the pub. A band played Van Halen covers, and we wanted a table close to the action. The beers were flowing, and I was oblivious to my surroundings except for the music. When the night ended, John was too high to take me home, so he parked his van in his driveway and told me to sleep it off on the comfortable mattresses in the back. I was in no shape to argue, thus passed out.

In alcohol and grass-induced sleep, I was awakened by a person forcefully pulling off my jeans. I knew it was a woman in the darkness because of her bare breast swinging above my eyes.

“Who in the hell are you!” I yelled.

She then slapped me across the face and said, “Sit back and enjoy.”

What can you do? When most boys my age can only dream of such an encounter? So I sat back and enjoyed the ride, only contributing to the motion as the encounter continued.

The van must have been rocking with loud animal grunts filling the moonless night, but John or James never woke up. We both fell asleep, and when the sun made its appearance, the woman was gone, leaving only a scarf that smelled of perfume.

I tried to tell the twins of my encounter, and all they could say was “Bullshit.” Then I showed them the scarf, and all they could do was roll their eyes.

After another few months at the tar factory, loading heavy tar packs on pallets from an endless assembly line for minimum wage, I knew a change was needed. Life in Denver had become a routine of rock and roll, beer, and shit work that could barely pay for food, let alone rent.

It was time to go back to California and confront my demons.