COLUMBIAN HIGH (copr.1988)

    
     Desperation was a twisting, creeping intrusion as it wormed its way into his introspection.  He fought for possession of his internal composure.  His stomach felt empty, even though he'd just eaten four slices of fresh-baked whole wheat bread with peanut butter slathered across their steaming perforations.  Harson's heartbeat throbbed in his temples and the urge to move was a constant prod.
      Pacing from room to room in his apartment, he listened as PINK FLOYD's all-time classic album reverberated from huge speakers.  Like numerous times before, his body contracted when the timorous ticking suddenly changed to tumultuous alarum.  Was he waiting for someone or something to show him the way?  Had he missed the starting gun while ten years passed?  Was he just one day closer to death?  The song's final lines elicited an incensed reply.
      "Well, I have something more to say!" Harson affirmed loudly.  "We'll go find the sun and run in it and lie in it and get hot and sell some pot in it!"
      Marker Boyd was on his way to California from Ohio.  Weeks ago, he'd called Harson to check on the chances of financing a combination layoff and vacation trip behind a marijuana run.  He was told to "bring it on."  Harson indicated he expected remuneration but he was certain the younger man would never guess or care how much a share in the profits would mean.
      Indeed, Harson could scarcely believe he had allowed himself to reach such a stage of foolhardiness: planning to accompany a naive splib up and down the state, dealing reefer to pay the rent.
       Harson Welsey Kelley (acronymically nicknamed HaWK by his grandfather) had first seen Marker Boyd as an infant.  In the Caucasian parish, Marker looked like an inquisitive chimp as he crawled over one parent or other to peer into the surrounding pews.  He wasn't disruptive or noisy but he was obviously searching for something more pointed than the politely indirect stares or meager smiles which he found in the sea of chalky visages.
      The monsignor had suggested the Boyd's return the adoptee to Catholic Charities.  They refused and shortly afterwards, Mrs. Boyd became pregnant with Marker's white brother.
      The residents of the white community of Teatown were used to seeing an occasional black student attending the local private college.  But this one was living in a white house with a white sibling and parents.  In the all-white high school, he stood out even more prominently and pricked the thin skins of prejudice by sporting a wild Afro, driving a large automobile and dating a tall blond, while eschewing serious attention to athletics.  Also, he was purportedly a purveyor of drugs.  Marker Boyd was onstage, in the spotlight and center of attention all the time.  Fifty miles to the north, he would have gone unnoticed, but in Teatown, he was always turning heads.
     Chronologically, economically, intellectually and poetically, Harson and Marker are pathetically distant from one another.  Their only common characteristics are being Ohio natives and being male.  Their main mutual attraction is marijuana and neither has seen the other straight for a long enough period of time to even consider the difference.
     They call each other "Bigtime," a jocular reference to the amount of dealing each was dabbling in when they first became acquainted.  Harson pondered the moniker and considered the $15,000 worth of fronted smoke Marker would be hauling west and reflected on the number of people who would do all manner of vicious things for that amount of loot.
     "He's definitely the 'Bigtime,' now." Harson thought, and this made him feel more insecure about participating in this venture.
     Marker had gotten a ride to Houston, Texas, then procured a drive-a-way, a 1980 Buick Century, to Burlingame, California.  He'd planned to go to San Diego, then head north.  Harson redirected him to San Luis Obispo, California via Phoenix, Arizona.  He was guiding Marker to reach Santa Rosa, California, by the Friday before Super Bowl Sunday.  He gave him the addresses and phone numbers of his sister-in-law in Phoenix and his daughter in San Luis.  He figured to minimize Marker's travel costs, thus earning more of a cut from the drug profits.  Plus, he and his wife were going to a party in Eureka, on Saturday and planned to take Marker and his wares.
     Marker arrived Friday afternoon.  He was wearing a big western Stetson and carrying four suitcases and a large plastic garbage bag.  He expressed his desire to rent a limo and go see where the movie stars live in Hollywood.  He related how cool he'd been, slumped down in the velour seats of the cream-colored Buick, with his shades on, cruising for seventeen hours.
    "Seventy-five, eighty miles an hour with my stash box as an armrest.  No stops by no cops." he bragged
    As he unloaded the trunk, he answered a query from Harson, "No, that's my dirty clothes and my sleeping bag.  The boo in in the brown suitcase."
     Inside the apartment, Marker opened the unlocked old luggage and presented the various bags of ounces, quarter-pounds and kilos.  He remarked about being able to furnish any size package from the eleven pounds of mostly Colombian pot, then rolled a huge joint from the contents of a sandwich bag.
     The next morning, Harson, his wife Colleen, Marker and his marijuana were all loaded into a rented Fiat and headed north on highway 101. Coleen drove and HaWK rode shotgun.  Marker remarked about having to ride "in the back of the bus," but was glad to be able to kick back and be a passenger after his cross-country trek.
    They stopped at Redway Liquors when Marker suggested more "brewskies."  Colleen and Marker went inside while HaWK searched for a place to take a whiz.  Two smirking locals pointed to the woods across the road.  HaWK ran to where the opposite bank was less steep, leaped and disappeared.  As he stood, urinating, he peered through the trees and brush at the customers in the small shopping strip.  He smiled at the thought of being back in Humboldt County again.  He finished and walked back to the carry-out.
     Marker and Colleen came out with beer and candy.  As soon as they were back in the car, Marker began complaining about the lack of a public toilet.  HaWK directed Colleen to drive to a nearby state park.
    "Is there a restroom here?" Marker grumbled. As the car was parked, HaWk pointed to a huge redwood.
    "Walk to the left side of that tree," he directed.  The trunk was hollowed from a lightning strike and fire, providing a secluded stall with skyscraper ceiling.
     It was nighttime when they passed the idling nuke plant and row of motels and restaurants.  Colleen drove a nostalgic tour passed the Kelley's four previous Eureka Addresses.  The beer blunted her attention and she entered the wrong end of a one-way street.  Even though she turned immediately onto the next side street, a city patrolman turned just behind her and lit her up.  She got out and walked back to the cruiser.  HaWK sat while Marker watched out the hatchback window and did a play-by-play.
     "She's standing beside his Chevy.  He's getting in her shit.  She's copping a plea, showing her license...she's keeping him back there...."
     "Man, just quit watching.  Turn around.  Don't give him any reason to check us out."
     "He does, we're goners."
     "Long goners."
     Minutes passed and Harson had to urinate.  "That's enough, I'm going back and see what's shakin'."
      He got out of the car and the chilled air caused him to shiver.  He scowled as he advanced towards the officer's look of apprehension.  Colleen glanced up nervously as Harson began to question the patrolman.
      "Are you giving her a ticket for such a minor mental lapse?"
      "God damned stupid mistake, lady!"  Harson blurted.  "Is she going to have to drive all the way back up here?  Are you taking her license?  Is this going to cost me a ton of money?"  Harson continued, adding to the uneasiness he detected in the cop's eyes.
     "Oh no, nothing like that, sir.  She'll just have to pay a small fine.  She can mail it in."
     "Well, shit, I guess you have to do your minimum daily requirement.  Sorry to put you through the hassle of doing your duty, chief.  Uh, where can I go to use the john?"
      "Hey," Colleen interrupted.  He'll be finished in a second.  Just wait in the car."
      "She's right, sir, we're nearly finished.  And that traffic...."
      "Alright, I can hold it for a while longer," Harson mumbled as he returned to the Fiat.
       "His wife followed just behind him.  She got into the car and everyone was silent until she turned onto 6th Street.  Then, the inside of the small automobile nearly swelled from the huge breaths of relief which exhaled in a series of primal screams of gleeful release.
     They drove to the address where Raquel "Rocky" Dixon, a former co-worker of Colleen's was having a moving to San Diego party. After a short conversation with the owner of the house, Marker unloaded the suitcase full of pot and lugged it through the crowd and put it into the hostess's bedroom.
     The next morning, Harson and Marker were talking and toking with Sleet Ware, Rocky's boyfriend.  He was interested in some of the Colombian but would have to wait until the next weekend, after "the eagle squats."  He explained to Marker that he was in the Navy.  The tall, thin, wit condensed his six years of active duty into a humorous routine.  He'd been promoted via a program of "P&A's," which actually stood for "pass and no advance."
      "Ah made thi'd class, that way, and if ah make secont, they gonna have to invent a new word for 'nothin,'" he cackled.
      Sleet's comic honesty had marker and HaWK breaking up in coughing fits of laughter.  Then Sleet invited them to watch the Super Bowl with him, in Fortuna.
      "We're going to have a keg at Picker's place.  You people can follow Rocky and me.  We'll leave about eleven from my crib."
      The sun needed shades, just like the caricature on the city limit sign, when they arrived at the Super Bowl party.  Everybody, except the three from Santa Rosa, was actively assigned to the nearby naval facility.  Some had to leave the keg, numerous joints, and two punch bowls (one Tequila base, one champagne) to go watch for enemy submarines in the Pacific Ocean.
     During the game, HaWK proclaimed the 49er's "a destiny, not a dynasty," while needling a Dallas fan who was rooting for Cincinnati.  HaWK kept calling him Tony Dorsett. Picker made phone calls to inquire about another group of friends who were doing shots of whiskey after every San Francisco first down.  They were incoherent by halftime.
     On the way back to Santa Rosa, that evening, Colleen stopped in Willits for gas.  Harson returned from paying for the self-serve fill-up carrying a large bag of potato chips and a pack of Mickey's wide mouth bottles of malt liquor.  He took over the driving chore and by the time he hit the oujtskirts, he was the only one awake.  As he sped down the Redwood Highway, he drank and ate as a way to actively battle falling asleep.
      Colleen raised her head, squinted over the seat back and asked, "How fast are we going?"
      "It is pegged out," Harson answered impassively.
      A few minutes later, he ran over a dumped load of frozen fish.  The front-wheel drive pulled the auto through with no more loss of control and the same bumping sensation as hitting a row of Botts dots.  However, the smell which stuck to the undercarriage filtered inside and required a stop to allow Colleen to recover from the effect on her queasy stomach.
      The next morning, Harson and Marker said good-byes to Colleen and headed down 101 towards the City by the Bay.  Marker drove and HaWK packed bowls.  They smoked from Marker's stash, using a glass mini-bong.  Sunshine through the windshield added warmth to their glow.  They oth laughed when Marker observed a circular structure with a spinning assembly on top constructed from halves of fifty-five gallon barrels.  Marker pointed to above the highway and proclaimed, "The Jetson's, man, George Jetson's place!"
     Playing the sightseer to the max, Marker had HaWK taking pictures through the front ad side windows.
    "Get the bridge, man, get the bay, get the ocean."
     HaWK continued clicking and cranking, convinced the cheap camera was consuming celluloid.
     Marker wanted to stop at the drive-a-way office to see it they would mail his $100 deposit, so he wouldn't have to return to San Francisco after dropping the car in Burlingame.  When HaWK realized they were going to a Market Street address, he was anxious to see the 49er's parade.  He was carrying a current issue of SPORTS ILLUSTRATED and wanted to get Joe Montana's autograph on the cover.  The station on the radio,KMEL, kept hyping the celebration, but it didn't do justice to the immensity and excitement of the record-size crowd.
      Marker acted reluctant to leave the keys to the car with a parking attendant.  As he handed them over, he said, "You take good care of that white car with the Texas plates, OK?"  The man was too busy to acknowledge with more than a quick smile.
    "Why didn't you just tell him the trunk is full of drugs?" HaWK teased.
    After a brief visit to the agency's office, HaWK and Marker took an elevator to street level.  As they were getting off, three fine brown frames were getting on.  After glances and smiles between the silence, on of the ladies exclaimed, "Wha' chawl name?" before the doors closed.
     Harson was still laughing at Marker's stunned expression when the two men stepped onto the sidewalk and became part of the throb of the parade throng.
    Marker kept vacillating between fear of San Francisco's "big city" rep and his desire to get in front of a TV camera.  He was turning his head in all directions, calling Harson's attention to all the different foxes.
     "Look, man, if I have to look at all the ones you like and still look at all the ones I like, I'd need  a swivel in my neck.  Just check 'em out, don't check with me, OK?"   
     They reversed directions twice, because they weren't familiar enough with the area to tell from which direction the parade would approach.  Finally, they settle d on a spot at 5th and Market.  The parking lot was within sight and a TV crew was close by, elevated on a crane platform.
     The entire intersection was soon crowded.  People were yelling from vehicles which were creeping by.  The sidewalk soon filled and people spilled into the street.  Traffic was just a stop-and start line snaking along. A young boy stood beside Harson and stated quietly, "San Francisco should be like this every day."
      One overzealous teenager leaned out of a car window to his shirtless waist and raked his lungs with a shout, "I'll never fucking watch fucking baseball again!"  Strike disillusioned fans cheered him on.
     A well-dressed couple was perched atop two adjoining phone booths, preparing to toast the team with a bottle of champagne.  Near the scheduled time for the NFL Champions to appear, the man began to loosen the stopper.  His final thumb nudge freed the plastic top with a pop.  It sailed into the far lane of traffic and bounced off the side of a car.  A few observers cheered, but one older man was not amused.  Some of the bubbly had splashed down onto him and he retaliated by shaking a tall can of beer above his head and spewing the brew upwards.  The revelers were surprised and the boyfriend pleaded forgiveness but the beer tosser continued to try to shower the two with the suds.  This irked the man into tipping the bottle and spilling more wine onto the spoilsport. The girlfriend was showing some concern at the intensity the innocent battle was gaining as the unruly man kept trying to douse the pair.  Finally, a thumb was held over the top, the bottle was shaken and a full spray of fizzing flow was directed directly, drenching the lout with all but an inch or two of the contents.  The beer can was thrown and it sailed between the man and woman.  As the enraged man cussed, the meager tastes were chugged after shoulder shrugs of resignation by the two celebrants.
     The KMEL van came by and the camel braying recording blared from external speakers.  Harson initiated a hearty, slapping handshake with the smiling radio rep and said, "Keep on fuckin' rockin' the fuckin' Bay!"
    The disc jockey shouted, "Yeaaahhh!"
     Marker positioned himself beneath the TV platform and kept trying to get the attention of one female reporter by taking her picture.  Harson was nearby, holding a clip board with the SI issue attached, showing it to a friendly stranger.
     "Hey, wait a minute," he responded, "That isn't TIME or NEWSWEEK?"
     "It's SPORTS ILLUSTRATED, " Harson pointed, Did you say NEWSWEEK?"
     "Yeah, Joe's on both covers, TIME and NEWSWEEK."
     "Wow, Man, that is three covers.  Joe scored a hat trick before the game even started.  And he beat the SI jinx, too?  Now that's a bad motherfucker, right there."
      "You ain't said shit, my man."
     Minutes later, Marker spoke of leaving and Harson pleaded, "Come on, man, you've got the best reason in the history of the Bay Area to miss an appointment.  This is the biggest day in San Francisco.  You are in The City at it's partying height.  We can....     "At five-thirty, that big white-bucks Buick will be delivered or the FBI will be on my trail.  You can stay in the street or you can sit on the seat.  If you want to sit, the seat splits in three minutes."
     Marker turned to take one last picture of the TV lady and moved to leave.  Harson considered waiting for Joe but at 4:15 he was looking at the balloons around the courthouse from a Bayshore Freeway vantage.
     "I'll be back next year," he was thinking, "With my lady and two bottle of champagne."
     Harson told Marker he could call his cousin in Sunnyvale and see if someone would drive up and get them after the car was delivered.  His mother was visiting her niece and Harson's youngest sister was there, beginning a 20-day leave from the Air Force.
      When they drove into Burlingame, Harson tried to convince Marker to unload the car before turning it in.  When they pulled off Broderick into the parking lot, Harson was hot.
      "Man, these people don't give a damn about you.  You give them this 'chine and that's it.  We'll have to haul all of this shit to someplace."
     "Be right back," Marker said, as he got out of the car and walked to the front office of the building.
     Two minutes later, he was back.  An attractive little blond followed, carrying the drive-away papers.  She looked at the car as if she were seeing her first one and said, "Looks OK to me."  The she left.
     Marker came to the passenger side and talked to Harson, "Come on, man, this chick and another lady are waiting, keeping the office open so you can call your kin in Sunny...whatever that town is called.  Come on!"
     An astonished Harson followed.  After instructions from the older woman, Harson dialed the number, using the company switchboard.  His kid sister, Margie, answered.  She told Harson she would get a cousin, Joleen, to drive to Burlingame and pick the two up.  After copying the Burlingame address, she asked Harson who was with him?
     "Uh, Marker Boyd, from Teatown, you remember him, can we crash there, tonight?"
     "Well, I'm sure you can.  Why not?"
     Harson thanked her, then cradled the phone.  While he had been talking, Marker had asked the ladies if he could keep the keys to the Buick, so he and Harson could wait untl their ride arrives before removing their luggage?  Harson was even further amazed when they agreed, closed the office and left.
     The two men sat in the car and smoked marijuana.  Across the street was a bakery.  The smell of fresh-baked brownies filled the air and they exchanged estimates  of the number of dozens they could each consume if allowed to exercise their munchies urges.
      Shortly after dark, Margie and Joleen arrived.  HaWK felt himself wishing the two lean ad limber ladies were not his relatives.  On the other hand, the girls were probably attracted to Marker's innocent eyes, well-trimmed beard and meticulously picked hair, so they were likely wishing HaWK wasn't related to them. But after cramming belongings and bodies into Joleen's VW station wagon, there was barely room to move.
     HaWK alluded to Marker's "working" vacation, partly to explain his own desperate plight, i.e., associating with a dealer to earn money.  He was looking for proof that blood is thicker than water.  Perhaps one of his genes links would offer or suggest assistance.
     When they reached their destination, HaWK leaned to Marker and whispered, "Don't mention drugs inside.  Nothing."
     Marker hissed, "Be serious, man."
     The reception given Harson and Marker was genuinely warm, although the hostess, cousin Scoop, left immediately for a pizza date she said couldn't wait.  She was eight years older than Harson and seemed to regard him as sort of an intruder from her hillbilly past.  She had come to California as a Navy dependent and considered Harson as more akin to a dust bowl Okie, because he sold his home, in Ohio, and headed west to check out California.
     Two years before, when Scoop first realized Harson wasn't just visiting, she had been uneasy.  She had come to California, conquered it and was covetously content.  She countered Harson's intensity by assuming a superior posture.
     That evening, Harson was explaining Marker's unique family and Scoop showed a snapshot of a white couple's adopted black baby.  The picture had been handily displayed on a living room shelf, so Harson wondered if Margie had briefed Scoop beforehand.
     Harson's mother's younger sister, from Palo Alto, was also there when the two traveler's arrived   She hadn't seen her nephew since many years before his move to California.  Harson considered her to be more worldly than any of his other relatives and he respected her grace, vitality and natural beauty.  But he was disappointed when he detected a hint of patronizing.
     Mrs. Kelley had prepared a sumptuous meal of chicken and home-made noodles.  The non-commercial pasta was a first for Marker and his kudos were truly inspired by his watery taste buds.  He was on his little boy best behavior and Harson could sense that his mother was surely deciding this black buddy was probably being misled by her older, slicker son.
     After the feast, while everybody was sitting in the living room, Harson suggested Marker light a bowl.  Marker was sitting next to Mom Kelley.  His eyes expanded and his mouth opened.  He was speechless. Harson never even smiled.
     "Come on, man, what's the holdup?  You out of dope or what?  Let's party."
     "But you said...." Marker began while trying to get to his feet from the confines of an overstuffed sofa.
     "Oh, it's alright, my Mom's cool.  She probably won;t toke up, though.  You don't get high anymore, do you Mom?"
     "Well, I wondered when you were going to start that stuff.  No, why I never did smoke it...only when you kids talked me into it"
     "Don't worry, Mom, Marker's a dealer, not a pusher."
     "Man, you crazy, you know?" Marker admonished, while crossing the room to get his paraphernalia.
     "Why, yes, he's as crazy as he can be.  Didn't you know that before you set out on the road with him?"  Mrs. Kelley queried Marker.
      Marker was soon marvelling in the experience of smoking pot in the presence of older generations.  He said he couldn't wait to tell his mother about it.  After a couple rounds of the small glass bong, he began joking about driving cross-country with the suitcase full of ganja.  He ruffled HaWK's feathers a tad by his casual references to the possibilities of getting busted, but HaWK said nothing.
  - "I'll be back next year," he was thinking, "with my lady and two bottles of champagne. / Harson told Marker he would call his cousin in Sunnyvale and see if someone would drive up and get them after the car was delivered. His mother was visiting her niece and Harson's youngest sister was there, beginning a 20-day leave from the Air Force. / When they drove into Burlingame, Harson tried to convince Marker to unload the car before turning it in. When they pulled off Broderick into the parking lot, Harson was hot. "Man, these people don't give one damn about you. You give them this 'chine and that's it. We'll have to walk all of this shit to someplace." / "Be right back," Marker said, as he got out of the car and walked to the front office of the building. / Two minutes later, he was back. An attractive little blond followed, carrying the drive-away papers. She looked at the car as if she was seeing her first one and said, "Looks OK, to me." Then she left. / Marker came to the passenger side and talked to Harson. "Come on, man, this chick and another lady are waiting, keeping the office open so you can call your kin in Sunny...whatever that town is called. Come on!" p.15 An astonished Harson followed. After instructions from the older woman, Harson dialed the number, using the company switchboard. His kid sister, Margie, answered. She told Harson she would get a cousin, Joleen, to drive to Burlingame and pick them up. After copying the address, she asked who Harson was with? "Uh, Marker Boyd, from Teatown, you remember him. Can we crash there tonight?" "Well, I'm sure you can. Why not?" / Harson thanked her, then cradled the phone. While he had been talking, Marker had asked the ladies if he could keep the keys to the Buick, so he and Harson could wait until their ride arrived before removing their luggage. Harson was further amazed when they agreed, closed the office and left. / The two men sat in the car and smoked some marijuana. Across the street was a commercial bakery. The smell of fresh-baked brownies filled the air and they exchanged estimates of the number of dozens they could each consume if allowed to exercise the urge of their munchies. / Shortly after dark, Margie and Joleen arrived. HaWK felt himself wishing the two lean and limber ladies were not his relatives. The girls were probably attracted to Marker's innocent eyes, well-trimmed beard and meticulously picked hair, so they were likely wishing HaWK wasn't related to them. But after cramming belongings and bodies into Joleen's VW station wagon there was barely room to move. p.16 - HaWK alluded to Marker's "working vacation," partly to explain his own desperate plight, i.e., associating with a dealer to earn some money. / When they reached their destination, HaWK leaned to Marker and whispered, "Don't mention drugs...nothing." "Be serious, man," Marker hissed. / Inside, the reception given HaWK and Marker was genuinely warm, although the hostess, cousin Scoop, left immediately for a pizza date that couldn't wait. / She was eight years older than HaWK and seemed to regard him as sort of an intruder from her hillbilly past. She had come to California as a Navy dependant and considered HaWK as more akin to a dust bowl Okie, because he'd sold his home, in Ohio, and headed west to check out California. / Two years before, when Scoop first realized Harson wasn't just visiting, she'd been uneasy. She had come to California, conquered it and was covetously content. She countered Harson's intensity by assuming a superior posture. / That evening, Harson was explaining Marker's unique family and Scoop showed a snapshot of a white couple's adopted black baby. The picture had been handily displayed on a living room shelf, so Harson wondered if Margie had briefed Scoop beforehand. p.17 - Harson's mother's younger sister, from Palo Alto, was also there when the two travelers arrived. She hadn't seen her nephew since many years before his move to California. Harson considered her to be more worldly than any of his other relatives and he respected her grace, vitality and natural beauty. He was disappointed when he detected a hint of patronizing from her. / Mrs. Kelley had prepared a sumptuous meal of chicken and home-made noodles. The noncommercial pasta was a first for Marker and his kudos were truly inspired by his swollen taste buds. He was on his little-boy best behavior and Harson could sense that his mother was surely deciding this black buddy was probably being misled by her older, slicker son. / After the feast, while everybody was sitting in the living room, Harson suggested that Marker fire a bowl. Marker was sitting next to Mom Kelley. His eyes expanded and his mouth opened. He was speechless. Harson never smiled. "Come on, man, what's the holdup? You out of dope or what? Let's party." / "But you said..." Marker began while trying to free his feet from the confines of an overstuffed sofa. / "Oh, it's alright, my Mom's cool. She probably won't toke up, though. You don't get high anymore, do you Mom?" / "Well, I wondered when you were going to start that stuff. No, why I never did smoke it, only when you kids talked me into it." p.18 - "Don't worry, Mom, Marker's a dealer, not a pusher." / "Man, you crazy, you know?" Marker admonished, while crossing the room to get his paraphernalia. / "Why, yes, he's as crazy as can be. Didn't you know that before you set out on the road with him?" Mrs. Kelley queried Marker. / Marker was soon marveling in the experience of smoking pot in the presence of older generations. He said he couldn't wait to tell his mother about it. After a couple rounds of the glass bong, he began joking about driving cross-country from Texas with the suitcase full of "ganjah." He ruffled HaWK's feathers a tad by his casual reference to the possibilities of getting busted. "Stash tin on the console, 75, 85 miles per hour, no stops by no cops." /
      The next morning, Marker and HaWK were standing around after breakfast drinking coffee and planning their day. Marker had already made three phone calls trying to arrange another drive-away to continue south. Mrs.Kelley was up and spending time in the kitchen but stepped into the TV room and said, "Are you two at it, again?"
      "That's right, have to find a ride to keep this trip going, Mrs. Kelley."
      "Well, you're free, white and twenty-one."
      HaWK put his right arm around Marker's shoulders and said to his mother, "Uh, Mom, if you haven't noticed, Mark is white."
      With no hesitation, she said, "Well, he's white to me."
      Shrugging away, Marker looked at HaWK and said, "Yeah, I'm white to her, you got a problem with that?"
      Before noon, Marker had a drive-away to San Diego. Joleen and Margie drove him to pick it up. It was an old Mercury Zepher station wagon going to the California Auto Dealers Exchange in Anaheim. Marker worked out a deal to drive it to San Diego, pick up another ride, drive both to Anaheim, drop the Mercury and continue with the other vehicle back to San Jose.
     HaWK rode shotgun and Sgt. Marge took the back seat. Harson's Aunt B. gave him the address and directions to her two son's home in Encino. They were musicians and may be customers for Marker's wares. The undisciplined buzz inside the vehicle was rubbing Margie hard very early in the trip. At one point, Marker alluded to a cop in his review. With the beer and grass scent, the passengers froze for directions from the driver.
       "Is he still back there?" HaWK queried.
      After a perfunctory glance in the mirror, Marker said, "Nah, he's gone."
      HaWK exploded, "You motherfucker! You been lettin' us stew as a motherfucking joke? Ya fuckin' asshole!"
      By the time they arrived at Harson's daughter's place in San Luis Obispo, the friction was abrasive. The daughter's roommate were barely tolerating Marker and HaWK. One was an effeminate male and the other was a mannish female. Nobody was into Marge's Air Force persona. But they went to a nice restaurant and the nearby beach, afterwards, was the best.
      Later, they were back on the road and Marker stopped for gas within blocks of the Hartsook address. He walked up to a cop customer and started asking direction. HaWK bristled and Marge just rolled her eyes.
     The cousins never answered the door. Didn't matter to Marge. She said she'd wait until they arrived and was sitting on the porch reading a novel as the two dudes headed south to San Diego.