Chapter 7

Chapter 7

On Monday morning I collected the reports, met with Wayne privately, and set the boys to packing up their gear for our first road trip. Wayne was right. I had placed a greater emphasis on the local waters close to the lodge. It was time to hit the road and get the boys some rowing experience. We decided to float western Montana’s most famous creek, Rock Creek. Then we would push on to Yellowstone Park. I had already made reservations for a back packing trip into Heart Lake. It took us all day to pack. The camping gear had already been inventoried and stored in a shed. Back packs had to be adjusted for each of the boys, and Wayne was in charge of the back packing operation. Our food supplies we would pick up on the way out, and many of our staples we would get from the chef at the lodge. The boys were eager to move beyond their weekend escapade. Finally, we were packed and ready to leave. It was a bit after three o’clock in the afternoon, and we had a two hour drive ahead of us plus a stop in Missoula to buy freeze dried food and supplies at the Sportsman’s Warehouse. We took the large van and loaded all of the gear on the large storage rack on the roof. The two rafts were stacked on top of each other and tied securely to the trailer.

Every boy was impressed with the knowledge that he was responsible for his own fishing equipment and personal items. Prior to our leaving the lodge, Wayne weighed each and every backpack. His weight stipulation was 50-pounds. Marvin, the biggest of the four boys, was allowed to carry 55 pounds when Wayne needed to distribute camping gear. Wayne reminded us that when we added our personal fishing gear and when he distributed the freeze dried food, our packs would quickly add up to 55 to 60 pounds. Wayne wouldn’t say how much he was carrying, but it was obvious to me that my pack had never been weighed and looked and felt a bit shy of 50. I did not protest. The packs were ready and not to be used until we hit the trail.

From Missoula we headed north on Interstate 90 to the Rock Creek turnoff. We stopped at Doug Persico’s Rock Creek Mercantile. I had called ahead and told Doug we would be stocking up on flies and leaders if he would give the boys a quick lesson on nymph fishing. When we arrived, Doug displayed his usual bluntness asking if I had resorted to beating students now that I had retired. Looking at the bruised faces and bodies of the four boys gathered around the counter, I couldn’t help laugh out loud. Doug had the boys sit around his fly tying round table. I had already placed an order of flies for each boy. Doug passed the plastic vials to each boy and had them dump the flies out in front of them.
“I want someone to tell me which of these flies is my number one, year-around favorite pattern,” Doug commanded as he pushed his glasses up on the bridge of his nose. “Anyone have a guess?”
“I only know the names of two of these patterns,” said Marvin.

“No guesses? Well, first of all, let me tell you a little about Rock Creek. Generating legendary hatches, this quintessential stream offers riffles, pools, long runs and deep holes. Best of all, it is the perfect size to wade and cast, especially to rising fish. Except for a fairly brief period in the spring during the spring runoff, the stream can be waded almost anywhere along its 50 odd miles, and it is almost never crowded compared to the more fabled waters of the Yellowstone Park area, which I understand you are heading to next.
You guys have come to Rock Creek because it is renowned as a dry fly stream, but you be missing the best fishing opportunity Rock Creek has to offer if you don’t fish with a nymph as well. Rock Creek nymph fishing exceeds its reputation as a classic dry fly fishery. Nymphing produces consistently bigger fish and greater numbers of fish. Best of all, nymph fishing produces during those times when there is no dry fly fishing. You guys remember that.
Dead drifting a nymph on the bottom and fishing a nymph on or near the surface, either by itself or in tandem with another fly, are the two most productive methods of nymph fishing. Dead drifting simply means figuring out where the fish are holding on the bottom, weighting either the fly or the leader enough to get the fly down to where the fish are, and drifting the fly through the holding water until a fish takes it. Recognizing the take and setting the hook follow. Sounds simple, right? It is, until you consider such questions as, how do you know if you are deep enough, and how do you recognize the take.

The answer to the first question is easy. If you are getting hung up on the bottom and losing an occasional fly, you're deep enough. To answer the second question opens up one of the big debates in fly fishing -- are strike indicators nothing more than bobbers and an open acknowledgment that the fly fisher hasn't mastered his craft?” Doug stared at his pupils waiting for a response. Brad just raised his shoulders and smiled. Doug knew he had four young anglers hanging on every word he said.

“Most of my customers use strike indicators to recognize takes when dead drifting a nymph. Strike indicators are simply something the angler can see under any condition. They are attached to the leader far enough away from the fly so that they can be seen on the surface as the fly drifts on or near the bottom. The strike indicator telegraphs to the fisherman the fact that the nymph is no longer drifting. The angler must then quickly set the hook before the fish spits the fly out. Strike indicators are a valuable aid. I make and sell indicators, and I consider them a valuable source of revenue for the shop, so make sure you stock up on some before you leave.
The other method of nymphing used most often on Rock Creek is fishing a nymph unweighted either as a wet fly on the swing or as a trailer to a dry fly. To fish a nymph on the swing, simply cast across the current and start stripping line slowly in as the fly starts swinging below you. In most cases the fish will hook itself.

A technique that is becoming increasingly popular is to fish an emerger imitation in tandem with a dry fly during the hatches. A section of tippet is attached to the bend of a dry fly hook. The tippet section is from 16 to 18 inches long, and an emerger nymph is attached. The dry is drifted and catches fish in its own right as well as serving as a strike indicator for the trailing nymph. This method is deadly.

Just as there are a number of techniques that work on Rock Creek, there are a number of patterns that seem to work well. Some patterns work well all the time, and some work best during a particular time of year. If I were limited to just one pattern and size of nymph to use on Rock Creek all year long, that pattern would be a size 10 Prince, with or without a bead head. This is it fellows. Pick it up and study it. Remember its name. For some reason known only to the trout, this pattern works any time of year. Other patterns will work better than a Prince at various times, but day in and day out during the entire year, a size 10 Prince will always produce fish.

During the winter the fish are not very active, but when the weather is warm and sunny enough, and there is no slush ice floating down the creek, a dark stonefly dead drifted through the deep holes can produce some big browns. I sell more Kauffman and Brookes' stoneflies in sizes 4 and 6 than all other patterns combined. During the latter part of March, Skwala stoneflies and Western March Browns start to hatch. This is the time to dead drift smaller stone fly patterns for the Skwala and size 14 Pheasant Tails for the March Browns. It is also the time to trail a crippled March Brown emerger behind a dry fly. We have particularly good results sinking a Quigley Cripple in the surface film behind a size 14 Parachute Adams or even a size 10 Skwala Stimulator. For a lot of locals, this time of the year is their favorite. I know that this is my favorite time of year to fish dries on Rock Creek, as long as I can trail the emerging nymph behind them.

Once the Skwala and March Brown hatches are over, we begin the countdown to the Salmon Fly. This hatch is easily the best known in the state, since it occurs in a lot of our major streams. I consider Rock Creek's hatch to be at least as good as any in the state. However, to a dedicated nympher, the hatch itself is less important than the weeks preceding it. During this time there are caddis emerging. Dry attractor patterns are fooling some good trout, but the nymph fisherman knows that the major story is being told on the stream bottom where both the Salmon Fly and Golden Stone nymphs are preparing for their destiny.

Both of these stonefly species hatch on land. When the time is right, the nymphs wiggle out of the water, split their cases, and emerge as adults from the cases and climb onto bushes near the stream banks, which is where they will spend the major part of their adult lives. Prior to this momentous event, the stonefly larva have been moving around the stream bottom. The trout, of course, are not indifferent to this movement since the larva of the various stoneflies is a major part of their diet. As the date for their hatching gets closer, the larvae migrate closer to the stream bank. Finally, on the appointed day, out they come.

Not all stoneflies hatch on the same day. The hatch is progressive. It starts near the mouth of the creek and progresses several miles upstream from where the insects are actually hatching. I dead drift a big black nymph as close to the bank as I can get it. Anyway, I used to fish like that. Since opening a fly shop, my outings during the stonefly season have been few and far between. I have sold a lot of large black nymphs, however. After the stoneflies are done, Rock Creek settles into its summer pattern. The primary hatches are caddis and Pale Morning Duns. This is the premier time to fish emerging nymphs just under the surface, trailing behind a high floating dry. Sparkle Duns and Quigleys work extremely well for PMDs and Sparkle Pupas are devastating in the evenings as caddis imitations. For those anglers who like to fish the bottom, Gold Ribbed Hares Ears, Pheasant Tails and the ever popular Prince, either with or without bead heads, will almost always take fish.

As the season starts to wind down, the hatches change. Late August brings the Blue-Wing Olive and the beginning of the Giant Orange Caddis. Fishing the olives is pretty much like fishing the PMDs. Small Pheasant Tails do a good job on the bottom, and olive Sparkle Duns in the surface film can be killers. But the real star of the fall on Rock Creek is the big orange caddis. This guy is big with a body almost two inches long. If you want to see the adult, they will be on the water in the evening although not in large numbers. My personal experience with this insect, at least as a dry, has been frustrating. I can count on one hand the number of fish I have taken on dry imitations of this caddis.

A couple of years ago I began experimenting with different nymph patterns to try and imitate the insect. After a lot of false starts, I came up with a size 8 Serendipity. This is perhaps the simplest caddis nymph there is, but it has proved to be absolute dynamite on Rock Creek in the fall. It can be dead drifted on the bottom for big browns or fished as a wet fly to imitate an ovipositing caddis. In either case, we've had a lot of success with the pattern.

The orange caddis stays with us until the snow starts to fly. As soon as the ice and snow start to build up on the banks, both the trout and the anglers seem to go into hibernation. The cycle has been completed, and we are back into the stone fly larva on the bottom we started with. Even if you're a dryfly bigot, remember that there will be times when there is no dry fly fishing. And if you're going to fish and want to catch something other than a cold, you're going to have to go under the surface. And when you do, you will be surprised both by how challenging it is and by how rewarding it is. You got all of that? OK, boys, go get them,” Doug laughed.

The boys were in awe and thanked Doug many times. Scott was saying awesome over and over when he got in the van. I had to subdue their enthusiasm reminding them that by the time we set up camp it would be dark. We headed up the bumpy road seventeen miles to Harry’s Flat Campground. Anticipating a late arrival, we had bought deli sandwiches in Missoula. A campfire came to life, and we all settled around the fire as the creek and the crackling fire focused our auditory sensitivities. After a few minutes of silence, Dan asked, “Patrick, are we going to see any bears on this trip?”
“You mean grizzly?’
“Yeah.”
We will be lucky if we see any brown bears, but we will see bears when we get to Yellowstone,” I replied.
“Wayne gave each of us a pepper spray canister for our back packs. Have you ever had to use pepper spray?” asked Scott.
“Nope,” I replied. “Statistically we have a greater chance of being struck by lightening than being attacked by a griz. I’m far more fearful of moose.”
The boys all started laughing. “No way” said Marvin. “Way,” I said. “I don’t ever want to get close enough to see Moose Drool,” I said looking at Scott with a smile.
“Neither do I,” said Scott, as he reached forward and poked the fire with a stick. The embers flew up around us and momentarily cast some sparks of light.

“You ever had a close encounter with a moose?” asked Wayne.
“Yep, I survived two moose attacks, and I’m here to tell the story. As a matter of fact both incidents happened just up the road by the second Hog Back. My first awareness of just how unpredictable moose could be was when I taught in Jackson, Wyoming, decades ago. One day I had a student walk in late to my first period class with a note from his mother. I had assumed he was a town kid. He wore a baseball hat, a satin jacket promoting a local business and Nike shoes. His attire was not exactly the attire I attributed to a ranch kid. Later I found out that the kids in school with the cowboy attire lived out on five- to-10-acre “spreads” west of town.

The note read: “Dear Mr. Kyne, Bill is late to class this morning because he was trapped under his truck by a mean, tempered cow moose.”

“You're kidding,” I said. “Nah,” this kid drawled. “The worst part was when I dashed out to warm up the truck I forgot to put on my coat. The moose charged, I dove under my truck, and she kept me there for about 20 minutes until my mom came out and shooed it away. I about froze to death.”

That was my first account of moose danger. Then years later right here on Rock Creek, I had a bull moose charge into the creek right after we silently floated past him. He was so close we could have touched him with our rod tips. We were on a slow side channel. He had his head in the water when we came around the corner. I didn’t need to say a word to my clients. They stopped casting and everyone fell silent. We floated by him in frozen silence. We had cleared maybe ten feet when suddenly he charged into the water. Shaking his massive paddles and staring at us, my clients and I concurred that his stopping point would have been right in the middle of my raft had he decided to charge when we were abreast of him. A few years later I experienced my brush-with-death moose experience.

“Any of you guys seen the movie, The Ghost and the Darkness, about two man-eating lions?” Everyone shook their heads. “Well anyway, there is a line when the white hunter says to the young engineer after he has had a close encounter with a lion: ‘You got knocked down. Now you got to stand up and decide what you're going to do about it.’ I got knocked down too, but I don't want a rematch with a moose!

I’m telling you guys, moose will forever intimidate me. Pauline and my sons and I were camped out at the second hogback during Memorial Day weekend. I was fishing alone on an island with Shadow, my black Labrador. When I came to a spot on the creek that was too deep to wade, I pulled myself up on the grass bank and pushed my way through the dense willow thicket. The creek was still to my left as I entered a small opening in the willows. I walked a couple of paces, and suddenly a cow moose struggled up from her bed, scattering dust like a cowpoke spinning a donut with his pickup truck.

I froze. Shadow froze. The moose pawed the ground. I let out a startled whoop and took off running. I saw an opening in the brush and jumped into the creek. I heard the snorts and grunts from the moose directly behind me. At any moment I was expecting a hoof to split me in two. The creek was only a foot deep when I landed. Unlike the kid in the novel Hatchet, the water's depth was not going to help me.

Across the narrow creek I observed a rock cliff with no trees. Down I went on the slippery rocks. I heard a terrible commotion in the brush. I turned around just in time to see the pawing moose chasing Shadow in circles around a thin willow bush. Poor Shadow. Her tail was tucked under her belly, her ears were drooped, and she was running around the willow in a sideways motion with her head turned towards the moose in askance. Shocked silent, she never let out a bark. Finally, the cow charged off, and Shadow meekly joined me on my side in the creek. She had silently stood her ground and saved my life as I ran away.

My sons still don’t believe me, but Shadow and I know. The following year, two anglers barely escaped a charging moose in the same area. Their dog stood his ground and was injured. Later that same summer, a cow moose killed a man as he crossed the street in a small town in the state of Washington.

I don't mess with moose, guys.”
“Is that really true?” asked Scott.
“Remember my campfire rule?” I asked. “Never challenge the veracity of a storyteller. With that, gentlemen, I’m heading for the fart sack. Whoever is the last one up, make sure the fire is completely out. See you in the morning.”

I settled in for the night. As I lay in my sleeping bag I couldn’t help think about Scott. I was glad that I hadn’t sent him home, but he got me to thinking of a boyhood chum, Mike Grady.
When the orange groves went down and the tract homes came up, the pressure on public schools, local churches and other institutions started a growth cycle that still continues in California today. Our local parish church in La Puente could not accommodate the number of Catholic families moving into the area. A new church was built four or five miles away, and after a year the school was built. I met Michael and his brother Steve when my mom encouraged me to be an altar boy. I was in fifth grade and the insurmountable challenge of learning the Latin mass and the all the timing for standing, knelling and ringing bells was so intimidating I had to find a way to sabotage my mother’s future bragging rights. Little did I know that Michael would sabotage my short apprenticeship after two trips to the altar.

As an acolyte my role was easy – mimic the two brothers and try and keep up with the liturgy of the Latin mass printed in the Catholic Missal. The Missal encompassed all the prayers, biblical readings and directions to sit, stand and kneel. Add in the ringing of the bells and the muted responses from the altar boys, and an outsider would marvel how young boys could keep up with such an orchestrated, ritualistic celebration of the holy Mass. Altar boys, bent over in a knelling position of reverence were also bent over to read the directions. One miscue from an altar boy, and shame would fall on his entire family, both past and present. Steven, the older brother by one year, had me stay with him on the right side of the altar towards the outside. Every time I tried to stand up without noticeably lagging, my feet would tangle up in the altar boy’s black robe. I nearly stumbled, and each time Michael would giggle or give me the sneer one gives to a klutz. I was horrified that I would make a spectacular blunder in front of the entire congregation. I was horrified at Michael’s laughing and sneering demeanor. It was blasphemy and could bring eternal damnation.

The anxiety and stress slowly played on my nerves. I couldn’t wait for the priest to announce, “Go the Mass is ended.” Bent over desperately trying to keep up with the English translation, I was slow to straighten up, and I felt a stinging slash of water climb up the side of my face. Dumbstruck, I looked at Steve, but he was concentrating on the Mass and his responses to the priest. I realized it was he who was the sole altar boy. Michael was no more than a balance point on the other side of the altar. An act so grave as to warrant excommunication, Michael fired another salvo from his squirt gun. This time he targeted the sole of the priest, as he genuflected in front of us. If God didn’t strike me dead, my mother would if she ever discovered the shenanigans that her son was involved in two steps below Father Mckayee. Steve had seen the wet shoe and gave a fierce look to his brother. Michael quickly concealed his weapon. My nerves were shot. I began silently shaking my entire torso from suppressed laughter. The mea culpa pounding of the chest followed, and my mortal sin begged for forgiveness. My pleas of “my fault, my own fault" and the hollow thunder of my fist striking my chest rose above all the other sinners in the church. My mother took notice. The next Sunday she positioned herself close to the altar and studied my every move. She was so horrified with my behavior that she never told my father, and I never served on the altar of God again, but I did serve up some real hell with Michael in the years ahead.

Some time during my seventh grade year, I resigned myself to making false confessions for the rest of my life. At this tender age I doubted the existence of a Catholic God. Adolescent discovery of masturbation in a Catholic school during the 1950’s combined a conspiracy of ignorance, half-truths and sheer wonderment in total isolation. None of my friends nor I had been prepared for the demons unleashed in our bodies. It wasn’t until years later, with the publication of Portnoy’s Complaint that I realized that I had not somehow found myself befriending a unique collection of misfits and perverts, of which I included myself. Almost weekly and sometimes daily a male classmate would come to school bragging that he had beat-off successfully for the first time or had had a wet dream, which we would later find out was free of sin. Later, my problem was similar to Portnoy’s complaint. I couldn’t wait for fairy tail, I needed to relieve the pressure as soon as I got home from school.

Each night I would count my pubic hairs and masturbate without success. On one of our adventures to the pump house with five or six kids, someone shouted beat-off time and everyone dropped their shorts and started whacking off to a cacophony of pounding flesh. Someone yelled out that he was first, and everyone pounded harder for second place. All I would have got that day was a participation ribbon. It was humiliating not being able to cum. Someone told me it was because I was blond. After months of uneventful attempts, the angels in heaven trumpeted my success with a delirious moment of pleasure. It was all we talked about. When the nuns or girls weren’t looking, we would cup our hand and simulate a Jack-Off. The gesture had no real meaning. It contained no hidden message. It was merely the celebration of carnal knowledge.

One day I was riding my bicycle with three or four friends. Michael spoke up, “Are you guys confessing how many times you Jack-Off between confessions?”
“What the hell are you talking about,” I said.
“Beating off is a Mortal Sin,” said Michael.
“Eternal damnation! If you die with a Mortal Sin on your soul, you go straight to hell. Neither God nor Saint Peter will listen to a sinner with a Mortal Sin. I slammed on my hand brakes and came to a skidding stop while the others shot past me. They gradually came to a stop. All except Michael were in shock. “Why would you tell the priest?” I asked.
“I heard it was a sin,” said Michael. “So I asked the Priest.”
“What did you say?” said one of the other boys.
“I told you I confessed my sins to the priest,” reiterated Michael.
“No, I mean what did you call it. Did you say, ‘Father I have Jacked-Off 20 times since my last confession?”
“No, my brother told me that he had just heard from some older altar boys that you have to confess to touching yourself impurely.”
Did you go to Father O’Brien or Father McKayee?” I asked.
Michael rolled his eyes, “I went to Father O’Brien, of course.
“Is it a Venial Sin or a Mortal Sin?” asked Larry.

“He didn’t say exactly. He said it was a grievance against God that was unforgivable,” replied Michael.
“Mortal Sin,” we muttered in unison. The worst part of confession is vowing to resist the sin again. I knew in my heart that I could not make that commitment to Father O’Brien let alone God. I was horrified to find myself in a fall from grace, and I was horrified that the Virgin Mary, Mother of God, may have witnessed my disgraceful acts of impurity. From that day forward the word spread through our class, and shame descended upon us just as the Israelites must have experienced when Moses bestowed his wrath and the Ten Commandments on his people. No one mentioned their personal habits again. No mention was ever made of the pump house revelry. Later Michael told me he just confessed to impure thoughts and kept his acts to himself. Unlike Michael I confessed every week and agonized over my failure to curb my wanton appetite. My lewd and lascivious acts of impurity would torment me until I reached my late teens.

Promotion to high school launched most of my closest friends to three different public high schools. It was difficult fitting in at a new high school where students had been with each other throughout the junior high years. We would have our parents drive us to a central location where we all met. I was hanging around Michael a lot in ninth grade. He had become an accomplished thief. He was always pulling treats out of his pocket and sharing them. One time a bunch of us fellows were playing ball at an elementary school. We had taken a break in the shade by the picnic tables outside the cafeteria. We were tired and hungry. Suddenly Michael spoke up and asked how many wanted an ice cream. No one even responded. Michael stood up, walked over to a trash can and pulled out two pop-cycle sticks. In about ten seconds, he had slid back the dead bolt on the door, entered the cafeteria and helped himself to cups of ice cream. We were in awe of his brazen acts of criminal behavior and lavished him with praise.

We began sending him into stores to steal candy and other treats. By the time we were juniors, Michael was sent in to the 24 Hour Grocery stores to steal bottles of wine and hard liquor. He became a legend, however, when we sent him into a grocery store at the beach. He came out with a package of baloney, cheese, mustard and a slightly crushed loaf of bread. My insight into Michael took place in ninth grade. Sadly for me and Michael I never acted on it.

We were walking past a Lucky Market in West Covina when Michael announced he was going inside to get something. Whereas in the past, I stayed outside, this time I followed him in and separated myself from him. I watched him. He was nonchalant and deft in his slight of hand, and he always walked through the check-out line purchasing a small item while making conversation with the sales clerk. On impulse, I decided to steal a package of candy. I had not shop lifted since second grade when my mother marched me back to the 5 & Dime store in Bishop and solemnly announced to the store manager that her son was a thief and he had a statement to make. I nervously glanced around me and then went to a different check out line than the one Michael selected. As he approached the door, he waited up for me. We no sooner cleared the door when we looked up to see two male employees waiting for us. The manager walked up behind us, placed his hands on my shoulders and told us we would need to go back inside to his office.

I was shaking in fear. Instead of taking us to an office, the manager escorted us to the stock room. Next to a stack of pallets, a couple of folding chairs were pulled up where someone had taken a break. We were told to sit down. The manager walked up close to us.
“We have two witnesses that you stole merchandise from this store,” he said.
I confessed instantly.
“You boys have got yourselves in a lot of trouble coming into my store and stealing,” he said. “We have a no nonsense policy when it comes to shop lifters. Now, you can either hand over the merchandize, or I will search you with this employee as a witness.”
I almost bolted from my chair standing up and fishing the package of Butter Scotch candies from my pocket. On cue Michael stood up and started emptying his pockets of food items and candy that he had stuffed in his pockets and down the front of his pants. Amazingly, he also had a package of Twinkies under his long sleeve shirt and tucked up in his arm pit. Michael said nothing. I did all the talking.

“I swear to you that I haven’t stolen anything since second grade. Please, I’ll do anything if you don’t contact the police today or call my mother today.” I pulled out my high school identify card. “I’ll leave this card with you. Today is Sunday. I’ll be back here tomorrow right after school. I’ll do any clean up work that you ask me to do. I’m not asking that you let us off, just delay calling the police for one day.”

At this point I had tears welling up in my eyes. The manager and his assistant looked at me and then at each other. Michael had sat down to watch the action, and neither of the two men paid any attention to him. After a long pause, the manager left and returned with two index cards. He took our names, addresses and phone numbers. He listed the items that we had shop lifted, and then we were asked to sign the card.

“Alright. Because it is Mother’s Day, I am going to let you off the hook, but if I ever see you in this store again, with or without your parents, I am going to call the police,” the manager said.
“Thank you, sir. Thank you very much,” I blubbered. “I would like to make it up to you by coming back tomorrow and cleaning up your parking lot or whatever other chore you might have.”
“You missed the point, son. I don’t ever want to see you on this property again. You may leave through that side door,” he sternly advised.

We walked out of the dimly lit store room, and blinked at the brightness of the day. I walked without saying a word wondering if I had a patron saint that was looking over me.
“Jesus Christ, that was brilliant. Man, I’m calling you Daddy Cool. You really snowed that son-of-a-bitch with that act,” said Michael.
“What the FUCK are you talking about, you stupid moron. I wasn’t acting. What the hell would your mother have said if that manager had called the cops or your parents?”
Michael mocked his mother in a falsetto voice. “Michael, how could you. Of all days. I am so disappointed in you….”
“Disappointed? Disappointed? You’re an idiot. I walked straight ahead without Michael.

By our senior year not only was Michael stealing booze for the small group that still hung together, but he was drinking and acting recklessly. His criminality had reached new heights. In as much as possible I tried avoiding him. Most of us had our own cars. I had a ’39 Chevy two-door sedan with a V-8 Plymouth under the hood with three deuce carburetors. One weekend I was so broke that I couldn’t afford gas, which was running 23-cents a gallon, the same as a McDonald hamburger. The entire group was meeting up at a party. Michael volunteered to pick me up at my house after dinner. Michael’s parents had bought Michael an old four-door Dodge sedan. It was a beater and a joke among all the guys. In two years of driving, he had smashed and dented the car to the point that a junk yard wouldn’t take it. I had begun drinking in my senior year. Previous to that I was always the designated driver, although the term or concept was not part of the public’s consciousness in those days. On this Friday night I was too drunk to drive Michael’s car to my house. Michael acted with his usual loud and obnoxious laugh. He was tall and built like an athlete. He had wavy blond hair and a square jaw like Dick Tracy. But anyone who met him recognized immediately that he was a reckless fool and scared of his own shadow. However, he was not scared of the police, of disappointing or shaming his parents or fearful of the consequences that ultimately come with criminal behavior.

On the way home Michael detoured through a quiet subdivision. Turing around on a dead-end cul-de-sac, he suddenly turned off his head lights, revved up the small six cylinder engine, and roared down the street running over garbage cans and knocking down mail boxes. Intoxicated after an evening of drinking wine and beer, I laughed uproariously while I bounced off the dash and the door. We roared around the corner, sped up a street and whipped around the corner onto Turnbow Canyon Road. Michael drifted across to the opposing lane of traffic with his head lights still off. Sobriety comes fast to a drunk when he faces death. Ahead of us was an approaching vehicle. Undeterred, Michael pushed the petal to the metal and the old Dodge jumped to life. I screamed and attempted to wrestle the steering wheel from Michael, but in the process we almost crashed against the high concrete curbing that was in place for flash floods. The approaching vehicle had closed the gap between us. I was like a deer in the head lights frozen with fear when Michael suddenly turned on his head lights.

The approaching car suddenly swerved out of control careening from one side of the road to the other. Michael stayed the course on the wrong side of the road and the wrong side of life. Before I could recover, he forced two more cars off the road. With that, it was all over. Michael turned off the road, pulled over and began laughing hysterically. I thought about taking him out with one good punch to his temple. Instead I kicked open the door, called him a dumb shit and walked home. Before the year was over Michael had stolen a man’s wallet right out of the pants which were hanging next to him. The man and his family had spread sleeping bags out on the sand at a Salton Sea campground. It was spring break and five of us were camped next to the family. We had been drinking for two days courtesy of Michael. Prior to this planned trip, Michael had stored up over thirty bottles of wine and whiskey that he had shop lifted over a period of months.

A month or two later I joined him and two other friends on a store scam he had bought from some other criminal. When I found out what they were up to I refused to join them and took a walk around the block in a wealthy merchant section of Pasadena. Michael and two other of my friends came back to the car loaded with expensive clothes. He had forged a note purportedly from a wealthy matron of Pasadena. In her note she said that these young men were her nephews and they could buy whatever they wanted and have it charged to her account. A month before graduation Michael and I and another friend were shopping. Michael pulled out a stolen credit card, the one he had stolen from the man out at the Salton Sea campground. I told Michael that I didn’t want any part of his criminal schemes and took another walk. This time the police arrived. I walked home, and Michael and another one of my friends went to jail. In less than a year, I had a Top Secret clearance in the army and a record free of any criminal behavior. Following my discharge from the army I joined the El Monte Police Department. Michael ended up in prison for armed robbery. For years I attempted to track Michael down and make amends for encouraging him to steal as a young man. Did he reform? Is he alive or is he an old man sitting in a jail cell or curled up in a card board box under a bridge?