Explosion in the Desert (Part 2 of 3.)

When the object of one's love rejects you, combined with a 'self-constructed romanticism' in mind and unrelenting, raging hormones, the effects of this rejection can be devastating. Going back to California in a futile attempt to “win back” this love, in hindsight, was a terrible idea. But I needed to try.

In the rush to escape my heart-break emotions, I went back to Denver, leaving my car with my father. The “out-of-sight-out-of-mind” theory might work for some folks, but in my case only made the yearning worse. My car was in California, and this was a perfect excuse to return to the state.

Piling rolls of tar on a pallet from an assembly line eight hours a day allowed me enough money to fly back to Orange County and retrieve my vehicle. The problem was my sister had just flown into town and had left her car with my father as well. To bring both back home, I needed a partner to help with this endeavor.

Tom Faraday lived in an upper-class neighborhood with his parents. We met in high school but never really became close friends. Then, one night in a bar listening to a live band that played Led Zeppelin covers, we met, and I asked him if he wanted to fly with me across the country and drive one of the vehicles back. Because he came from a somewhat wealthy family, the airfare wasn't a problem. The strange thing about Tom, despite coming from a well-to-do family, had never left the state of Colorado. So this was a big deal for Tom, and he was excited.

After a two and a half hour flight, we landed in LAX at around ten in the evening. Out of pure luck, we managed to meet two international travelers from the UK. Sharing a cab to Hollywood, where we were dropped off on Sunset Boulevard.

I finally found a somewhat reputable motel right on Sunset. For one night, the cost was $25 and a color TV with faulty reception. Once we entered the room, it smelled of urine and stale alcohol. Tom wasn't happy and wanted to find a better motel. I told him that was out of the question because of the time and the potential danger in that part of the Strip.

While we were unpacking what little luggage we had, a small rock hit the window. We were on the second floor. Pulling open the curtains, a group of about a dozen sex workers was screaming at us to come out and give them some business. I said, “Look, Tom, we have some company.” Turning around, Tom was behind the bed shaking and as white as a sheet. I couldn't believe it.

“What's wrong, man?”

“What are we going to do? Will they try to get in?”

Over the years I've realized that you really never know someone until you have experienced some kind of conflict together. For all intents and purposes, here was a grown man scared out of his wits over a group of desperate prostitutes heckling two men for a little paid action.

“No, they're not going to break in and kill us.” I said.

“How do you know?”

“Jesus Tom. Pull up, man.”

It was then I opened the window and yelled, “Sorry ladies, we're not interested.”

A few of the girls were not happy with this response a threw more small rocks that fortunately missed the window. Some of them yelled a few obscenities, flipped me off, and slowly began to disperse. Tom was still behind the bed in pure fear. I told him they were gone and not to worry. These girls could spot an easy 'mark' at a dead run. Later, Tom claimed he did not sleep the entire night.

Upon checking out of the motel the next morning, I discovered that the place could be rented by the hour. No wonder they were mad, I thought. This was their turf.

Back in the day, hitchhiking was common and practiced often. We managed to get a ride from a young hippy dude, who took us all the way north on the 405 to Irvine, where my father was living at the time.

My father was not happy to see me. One for coming back so soon and two, dropping out of college – but that's another story. He was generally a very generous man. We stayed with him for two nights and went out to dinner to some swanky restaurants with live entertainment.

I called the “love of my life,” and she basically said to me, as cordially as possible, to F-off and never call her again. So much for the romantic reunion, I had created in my mind.

On the morning of the third day, my father handed me $100, saying that this should be enough gas on your trip. I asked, “For both cars?” He smiled and merely said, “Good Luck.”

We headed east towards the Rocky Mountains with barely enough money for fuel in my early 70s Trans Am and my sister's old MG.

Half way to Denver, disaster struck in the most unusual of places.