Ocean Beach
In most of my adventures, nobody has machine guns.
We parted ways with the Morehouse commune in 1974, and moved to San Diego to save up money to join our friends who had migrated to Hawaii; Dick and Carol, and Roger and Bonnie.
We answered an ad in the newspaper that landed us a job running "The Newport Hotel", just two blocks from the beach, centrally located on Newport Avenue, the main drag of the Ocean Beach district, locally referred to as OB.
It had about 30 small hotel rooms on two floors, and had been built in the 1920's as a beach resort when there was just sand dunes out there. Legend was that later on it was known to be a brothel. At times it had been run down, but at this stage it was a reasonably well cared for inexpensive residence hotel, and the tenants were mostly single working people. We took the manager's apartment in the rear of the building because it had a bedroom and a small kitchen.
The best room in the building was the upstairs suite of rooms overlooking the street in the heart of the "Ocean Beach" district through big sliding windows. The room came to be occupied by a young hippy entrepreneur that went by the name "Flower Bob".
Flower Bob had a bunch of flower stands at strategic street corners of gas stations around the city with girls selling flowers to passing motorists or pedestrians. His days were spent shuttling between flower wholesalers and his stands. Most of the stands were wagons or trailers that could be wheeled into position or moved to other locations. They typically had a few shelves and a beach umbrella.
Flower Bob had a big furry dog aptly named Buffalo. Johnny and Buffalo became constant companions whenever he was around the hotel, and sometimes they would take excursions off the reservation. At 2 1/2 years plus, Johnny was learning the rules and found a loophole right away. He had been drilled to never cross a street alone, but when both Patti and I were distracted with our chores, Johnny and Buffalo walked off down toward the beach, Johnny reasoning that he was not crossing the street alone, he was with Buffalo. When we discovered him missing, Patti and I ran along the neighborhood sidewalks and shops until we found him down in the parking lot by the beach, sitting on the hood of a patrol car. The cops who found him bought him an ice cream cone, Johnny was enjoying that, and the loyal Buffalo was waiting there too, all looking like a Norman Rockwell painting.
I had different jobs when we lived there. At first I was a charter bus driver, leaning on my verifiable history while in college with school bus and bus experience, and an appropriate class of driver's license. I was only there for a short time. The last charter I did was to drive a busload of people to the Jai Alai games in heart of Tijuana. It was the first time I had entered the country since I was deported. It was Cinco de Mayo and there was a lot of traffic, many drivers were drunk, and my passengers, too, on the way home. What could go wrong? A lot could, but nothing did.
There was a taxicab operation associated with the bus company. It would offer more hours than the sporadic charter bus work, so for about a month I was a San Diego cab driver. There's a lot of ways for a cab driver to get in trouble, but I didn't. One thing that would seem to happen about once a week, being in San Diego, was that a very nervous and sweaty individual with an attache case, flight bag, or backpack would jump in and want a quick ride to the Mexican border 20 miles south, repeatedly looking out the rear window. They'd jump out at a point where I could turn back without reaching the border, and run to the crossing. I never knew what those trips were about, I can only imagine. It was a good longer fare than an in-town ride, but they seldom left a tip.
We had a friend, Bill Mitchell, from our days in the commune who showed up for a visit in his light plane. Mitch was a close friend of Blackie's, and when we met him, he was a good-looking young man with a good job as a San Francisco Cable Car driver. He had been to our groups and taken our courses, and he was part of our social scene. He bought a new Honda motorcycle.
One day when he was riding slowly along on a city street, a linen truck took an unexpected right turn in front of him. His front wheel hit the truck and he went down. When you own a motorcycle, you are likely to fall over at least once. Most often it's a few scratches, and at the speed he was going, it should have been just that. Honda had designed a trick gas cap for their new model. You could open it with one hand by pushing down on its chrome tab. That would let it pop open but stay attached to the tank. It was a tragic design flaw. Mitch fell forward and came down on the gas cap. It popped open; gas sloshed out and caught fire. His hands and face were immolated. He could have easily died; he didn't, but his face and his fingers were gone.
In the aftermath, he sued Honda and the linen company for a lot of money and moved off to Crested Butte, Colorado. He bought old buildings and fixed them up and in a few years he had became the mayor, leading an environmental fight against a proposed molybdenum mining operation. A flying enthusiast, he also bought an airplane. That was the plane he came to San Diego in. He took Patti, Johnny and I for a ride to see the San Diego and surroundings from the air. Crossing briefly into Mexican airspace, we cruised over the city of Tijuana, he let Johnny take the control wheel. What's the fun of doing the steering if you're just going to go straight? So Johnny zigged and zagged us over the town for a while, then Mitch took over and flew back across the border.
Nothing bad happened while we were there at the hotel, unless you count this episode. There were sounds of a fight in one room on the ground floor one evening that was spilling out into the hall. My instinct as a Good Samaritan, and the hotel manager, was to break it up. When I rushed in and pushed them apart, I immediately got punched myself. I learned an important lesson that day. When two guys are fighting, it's likely they both want to be fighting, and neither one of them is going to welcome your interruption. It wouldn't be surprising to have them both punch you. Don't interrupt a pair of fighters; they will consider it rude.
Cab drivers get held up a lot and I figured my luck would eventually run out, so I was very happy when I found a job with a real estate broker who was buying houses, doing quick renovations and reselling them. "Flipping houses" is what we call it now. Typically, we'd strip out the carpets and flooring; patch all the walls, repair whatever, replace all the electrical switches and fixtures, new doorknobs, paint the place inside and out, install new carpet and vinyl flooring; and put up a for sale sign. Repeat. This served me well the rest of the time we were in San Diego. By the end of 3 months of working for the house-flipper, we had saved enough to make a bare-bones go of it in Hawaii. So aloha to Ocean Beach. OB.
There you have it, a chapter with no disaster, except the story about Mitch. I got punched is about all, nothing serious. What could go wrong? A lot. But this time nothing did.
Copyright © 2022 John Oliver
All Rights Reserved
mail@unclejohnsweb.com
We answered an ad in the newspaper that landed us a job running "The Newport Hotel", just two blocks from the beach, centrally located on Newport Avenue, the main drag of the Ocean Beach district, locally referred to as OB.
It had about 30 small hotel rooms on two floors, and had been built in the 1920's as a beach resort when there was just sand dunes out there. Legend was that later on it was known to be a brothel. At times it had been run down, but at this stage it was a reasonably well cared for inexpensive residence hotel, and the tenants were mostly single working people. We took the manager's apartment in the rear of the building because it had a bedroom and a small kitchen.
The best room in the building was the upstairs suite of rooms overlooking the street in the heart of the "Ocean Beach" district through big sliding windows. The room came to be occupied by a young hippy entrepreneur that went by the name "Flower Bob".
Flower Bob had a bunch of flower stands at strategic street corners of gas stations around the city with girls selling flowers to passing motorists or pedestrians. His days were spent shuttling between flower wholesalers and his stands. Most of the stands were wagons or trailers that could be wheeled into position or moved to other locations. They typically had a few shelves and a beach umbrella.
Flower Bob had a big furry dog aptly named Buffalo. Johnny and Buffalo became constant companions whenever he was around the hotel, and sometimes they would take excursions off the reservation. At 2 1/2 years plus, Johnny was learning the rules and found a loophole right away. He had been drilled to never cross a street alone, but when both Patti and I were distracted with our chores, Johnny and Buffalo walked off down toward the beach, Johnny reasoning that he was not crossing the street alone, he was with Buffalo. When we discovered him missing, Patti and I ran along the neighborhood sidewalks and shops until we found him down in the parking lot by the beach, sitting on the hood of a patrol car. The cops who found him bought him an ice cream cone, Johnny was enjoying that, and the loyal Buffalo was waiting there too, all looking like a Norman Rockwell painting.
I had different jobs when we lived there. At first I was a charter bus driver, leaning on my verifiable history while in college with school bus and bus experience, and an appropriate class of driver's license. I was only there for a short time. The last charter I did was to drive a busload of people to the Jai Alai games in heart of Tijuana. It was the first time I had entered the country since I was deported. It was Cinco de Mayo and there was a lot of traffic, many drivers were drunk, and my passengers, too, on the way home. What could go wrong? A lot could, but nothing did.
There was a taxicab operation associated with the bus company. It would offer more hours than the sporadic charter bus work, so for about a month I was a San Diego cab driver. There's a lot of ways for a cab driver to get in trouble, but I didn't. One thing that would seem to happen about once a week, being in San Diego, was that a very nervous and sweaty individual with an attache case, flight bag, or backpack would jump in and want a quick ride to the Mexican border 20 miles south, repeatedly looking out the rear window. They'd jump out at a point where I could turn back without reaching the border, and run to the crossing. I never knew what those trips were about, I can only imagine. It was a good longer fare than an in-town ride, but they seldom left a tip.
We had a friend, Bill Mitchell, from our days in the commune who showed up for a visit in his light plane. Mitch was a close friend of Blackie's, and when we met him, he was a good-looking young man with a good job as a San Francisco Cable Car driver. He had been to our groups and taken our courses, and he was part of our social scene. He bought a new Honda motorcycle.
One day when he was riding slowly along on a city street, a linen truck took an unexpected right turn in front of him. His front wheel hit the truck and he went down. When you own a motorcycle, you are likely to fall over at least once. Most often it's a few scratches, and at the speed he was going, it should have been just that. Honda had designed a trick gas cap for their new model. You could open it with one hand by pushing down on its chrome tab. That would let it pop open but stay attached to the tank. It was a tragic design flaw. Mitch fell forward and came down on the gas cap. It popped open; gas sloshed out and caught fire. His hands and face were immolated. He could have easily died; he didn't, but his face and his fingers were gone.
In the aftermath, he sued Honda and the linen company for a lot of money and moved off to Crested Butte, Colorado. He bought old buildings and fixed them up and in a few years he had became the mayor, leading an environmental fight against a proposed molybdenum mining operation. A flying enthusiast, he also bought an airplane. That was the plane he came to San Diego in. He took Patti, Johnny and I for a ride to see the San Diego and surroundings from the air. Crossing briefly into Mexican airspace, we cruised over the city of Tijuana, he let Johnny take the control wheel. What's the fun of doing the steering if you're just going to go straight? So Johnny zigged and zagged us over the town for a while, then Mitch took over and flew back across the border.
Nothing bad happened while we were there at the hotel, unless you count this episode. There were sounds of a fight in one room on the ground floor one evening that was spilling out into the hall. My instinct as a Good Samaritan, and the hotel manager, was to break it up. When I rushed in and pushed them apart, I immediately got punched myself. I learned an important lesson that day. When two guys are fighting, it's likely they both want to be fighting, and neither one of them is going to welcome your interruption. It wouldn't be surprising to have them both punch you. Don't interrupt a pair of fighters; they will consider it rude.
Cab drivers get held up a lot and I figured my luck would eventually run out, so I was very happy when I found a job with a real estate broker who was buying houses, doing quick renovations and reselling them. "Flipping houses" is what we call it now. Typically, we'd strip out the carpets and flooring; patch all the walls, repair whatever, replace all the electrical switches and fixtures, new doorknobs, paint the place inside and out, install new carpet and vinyl flooring; and put up a for sale sign. Repeat. This served me well the rest of the time we were in San Diego. By the end of 3 months of working for the house-flipper, we had saved enough to make a bare-bones go of it in Hawaii. So aloha to Ocean Beach. OB.
There you have it, a chapter with no disaster, except the story about Mitch. I got punched is about all, nothing serious. What could go wrong? A lot. But this time nothing did.
Copyright © 2022 John Oliver
All Rights Reserved
mail@unclejohnsweb.com
All Rights Reserved
mail@unclejohnsweb.com