Burning Through the West Coast

Burning Through the West Coast

Copyright © 2020 by Paul DiSclafani

All rights reserved.

Published by Red Penguin Books

Bellerose Village, New York

Library of Congress Control Number: 202091822

ISBN

Print 978-1-63777-339-0 | Large Print 978-1-63777-637-7

Digital 978-1-952859-54-0

Illustrations by John Colquhoun

No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any electronic or mechanical means, including information storage and retrieval systems, without written permission from the author, except for the use of brief quotations in a book review.

To Friendship and Family

Contents

Introduction

Prologue - The Going Away Party

LOS ANGELES

The Flight to LA

The Bathroom Surprise

The Navigation Specialist

The Plush Horse Inn

The Guy from Tickets Galore!

The NBC Studio Tour

The Ticket Fiasco

SAN DIEGO

It’s Gone …

The Family Reunion

BURBANK

The Second Chance

The Tonight Show

The Rental Car Rematch

ARIZONA

The Great Ice Heist

The Salt River of Death

The Good Guys vs The Tractor Trailer

The Last Day Begins …

The Flood and The Aftermath

Epilogue - Back in the New York Groove

Afterword

Acknowledgments

About the Author

Also by Paul DiSclafani

Cresting the surface like a desperate humpback whale, I snatched another quick breath before being drawn under again.

This was it, I was sure.  

This was how it was going to end.

The rapids were racing around me, grabbing with unseen fingers and preventing me from thinking straight. With nothing to buoy me above the water, I went under again, realizing I had no control over the situation. The water was moving too fast for me to swim against it, and I couldn’t reach the bottom.  

The inflated truck-size innertube that obediently floated me into this mess was now racing solo in the same direction as I was, but just outside of my reach. Right behind it were two other empty tires, presumably having dumped their former occupants as well. 

How did this vacation spiral so out of control? Two weeks ago, we were drinking beer and partying on Long Island, getting ready for a trip out to the West Coast. For my cousin Sal and me, this was going to be our maiden voyage on a plane, unlike Mr. B, who had flown a few times while attending Arizona State. The three of us had planned a West Coast adventure with stops in LA, San Diego, and Arizona. Now I was going belly up in an Arizona River, on the day before we were to head home.

Let’s go tubing, they said. It’s great, and you just float through the river.  We’ll get stoned, bring beers and sandwiches, it’ll be cool...

What could possibly go wrong?

The Big Man had two gin-and-tonics poured and ready to go. The first one disappeared in two gulps, freeing up his left hand, which he promptly deposited in the garbage can full of ice and beer. It emerged, snatching a round bottle of Schmidt’s, like the claw from an arcade game. He was most likely going to be two-fisting all evening.

Someone must have loaded Springsteen’s Darkness on the Edge of Town into the cassette player as the pounding opening drumbeats of Badlands began to scream from the speakers. That got Douglas, my brother Tony, and Mr. B, out into the middle of the yard, pumping their fists and shouting the lyrics slightly off-key. Soon, the Big Man joined them to form a drunken quartet.

It was a hot, sticky Sunday night in August of 1978. Although most Sunday evenings were reserved for tending our wounds from another out-of-control weekend, this party was in full swing. It was our last night before starting a California vacation. My cousin Sal (The Catman), Bruce (Mr. B) and I were flying to Los Angeles in the morning. Not that we ever needed an excuse for partying, but this was as good an excuse as any.

Sal and I had never been on a plane, and to be honest, I was a little nervous about it. Bruce had flown a few times while attending Arizona State University, so he was our local expert.

Trust me, Disco, Mr. B assured me, using a nickname that stuck with me since fourth grade, It’s like riding a bus. I’ve done it a couple of times, and it was very cool. You just strap in, have a few drinks, and before you know it, you’re there!  Then he smiled that mischievous grin that always seemed to get us into trouble.  Somehow, I was still a little skeptical about being strapped into a flying metal tube.

With a last name like DiSclafani, I was given the nickname of Disco in the fourth grade by my friend Billy Cody, who wanted no part of pronouncing that monstrosity, and it has stuck ever since.  

The party was kicking into high gear, and I was trying to score with one of the girls we invited. We spent many weekends following a cover band called Thrills and met several pretty girls along the way. But as usual, I couldn’t make contact and continued to strike out. Instead, I grabbed one of the cheap five-for-a-dollar Phillie Blunt cigars that were sitting loose on the table and ambled over to the other side of the yard, where Peach and his girlfriend were rolling a joint.

Can I borrow your torch? I asked.

Sure thing, my brother, Peach said as he handed me the lighter. Pull up a chair and join us.

Peach was the lead guitarist in Thrills, and this was a rare night off for the band.  Long Island had become a hotbed for cover bands in the late ‘70s, and Thrills was one of the best. They were more than a cover band, sprinkling a few of their originals into each set. You could say they were a cover band with a twist. We became close friends with the guys in the group through our mutual love of music.  

I jammed my arm into the ice-filled garbage can and swirled it around until I encountered something substantial. This was our version of Beer Roulette. You never knew what beer you were going to come up with, but you were forced to drink your selection. I hit the jackpot with a Heineken and sat down to share a joint and some deep thoughts with Peach and Stephanie. Biting off the back end of the cigar and spitting it into the grass like a sailor in a black and white movie, I lit the other end of the stick before returning the lighter to Peach.

Disco, you ever been on a plane? Peach asked, while lighting up the poorly rolled joint and inhaling deeply.  

No, I stammered, But, um, how bad can it be?  

Oh man, he said, passing the joint my way, Flying is great! It’s the takeoffs and landings that’ll kill ya!

Thanks, that was very comforting, I said cynically, handing it back to him for his turn.

What are you guys doing for hooch out there? he said, referring to the joint we were sharing.

Nothing, man. We’ll have plenty of weed when we get to Arizona and stay with those guys, I said, knowing what a complete burn we had planned. Who knows, maybe we’ll find someone in a park or something and cop a joint or two. They’re supposed to be very laid back, friendly people, right?

Man, that’s a drag, he said, taking another hit from the joint. Might as well enjoy this tonight, right! 

Soon, a sweaty Mr. B joined our little group to partake in the pause that refreshes. Where’s the Catman? he asked, while grabbing a fresh joint from the pocket of his Hawaiian shirt.

I haven’t seen him in a while, I said, pointing up at the window to his room on the upper floor. The party was at his mother’s split level, and his bedroom was way up at the top. He’s probably up there.

My cousin Sal earned the nickname Catman because he was so smooth with the ladies. He would appear and disappear while we were out partying, just like the Cheshire Cat from Alice in Wonderland, including that sly smile on his face.

Our conversation with Peach started to drift into different types of guitars and playing styles, as Mr. B and Peach began comparing notes. Mr. B was a musician in his own right, once playing bass in a band during his high school years. He still played a mean guitar on the side and had developed a special musician kinship with Peach. But once they started talking about chords and different types of guitars, that went right over my head.

I met Bruce in high school while in the A Capella Choir. How we ever became friends, I’ll never know. We were total opposites. I was a loner and a nerdish kind of kid, while he was an outgoing, loud maniac. I guess opposites attract, right?

We maintained a genuinely symbiotic relationship over the years. Bruce was the yin to my yang, like Lennon and McCartney. He had a knack for bringing me right up to a line I never would have considered crossing on my own. Sometimes we stepped over it, sometimes I’d talk him out of it. Either way, it was always an adventure.

Although Bruce shared his name with our favorite performer, Bruce Springsteen, I always got the impression that he was somehow embarrassed by how his name sounded when people addressed him. In the late ‘70s, the name Bruce had a bit of a gay connotation to it. We called him Mr. Bruce at one point, later shortening it to Mr. B. Although Springsteen succeeded in making the name Bruce cool again, Mr. B kind of stuck as his moniker.

After finishing the Heineken, I had to pee badly.

The downstairs bathroom just off the garage was occupied, so I stumbled up the stairs to use the one in the main house. Curiously, I noticed my friend Joe in the kitchen, staring into the open refrigerator freezer. He was rifling through the neatly wrapped items.

Ah, here it is, he triumphantly exclaimed as I approached him to ask what he was doing.

He was dripping wet and naked except for a blue bath towel wrapped around his waist.

Don’t worry, he told me confidently, displaying his prize in one hand and holding the towel in place with the other, As soon as I find a frying pan, I’m making steak!

Sure, why not?

Not wanting to know the answer as to why he was wearing a bath towel, or the reason why he felt the need to take a shower at 12:37 am, I continued up the stairs to the other bathroom. It was just outside the steps leading up to the Catman’s currently occupied bedroom. Sitting on the first step was a pretty blonde girl I didn’t recognize.

Since the bathroom door was closed, I asked her if she was waiting to use it.  Oh no, she answered politely in a wispy voice, I’m waiting for Sal, then pointed over her shoulder to the closed door behind her.

How nice.

Just then, the bathroom door swung open, and another pretty girl, this one a brunette with smeared mascara, stumbled out and sat down next to the blonde. I wondered if the Catman was giving out numbers like a supermarket deli, and they were waiting for him to call, Next!

By now, Douglas, my brother Tony, and Matty were setting up shots of Jack Daniels and topping them off with Peppermint Schnapps. It’s a drink we concocted hanging out at a local bar in Massapequa, Jocelyn’s. We called it a Snowshoe. The Schnapps added a layer of smoothness to the Jack, while increasing the potency.

Here, here! Douglas slurred through half-slit eyes while holding up his shot glass and spilling half of it on his shirt. To the boys going to California!

And to all you assholes for not going with us! answered Mr. B as we all laughed and drank.

Just then, Joe stuck his still wet head out the kitchen window and was brandishing a spatula. Anyone want a piece of steak?

We were legends in our own minds here on the East Coast. A hard-partying group of young New Yorkers in our early ‘20s ready to bring the party to the West Coast in the summer of 1978.  

In reality, we were about to be three very hung-over young adults wishing we did not have a going-away party the night before we boarded a six-hour flight to Los Angeles…

LOS ANGELES

Why did we drink so heavily last night? 

I didn’t sleep much when I got home from the party. Actually, I’m not quite sure when I crawled in my door. The last thing I remembered was it being about 2 am and enjoying the steak Joe had prepared way more than I should have. I can only imagine my Uncle Mario reaching into the freezer later in the week and asking Aunt Jean where the hell that steak was.

The alarm sprang to life way too early for my brain to process. Thank goodness I was already packed with just a few odds and ends to stuff into the bag. Our flight was leaving from JFK at 11 am, and my father insisted we get going by 9. Living on Long Island for most of my life, I knew all about the traffic on a Monday morning. With JFK about a 40-minute drive, he wasn’t taking any chances.  

You better eat something, my mother warned as she was scrambling eggs for my father. I took one look at the sloppy, runny concoction on my father’s plate and said, No, thanks, popping two bagel slices into the toaster instead.

Like most Long Island families, we had fresh bagels every other Sunday. My mother always sliced the remaining fresh bagels lengthwise into three pieces, creating two ends and a middle. These were still available in the freezer for a quick breakfast. Apparently, I wasn’t the only member of this household who preferred using any two end pieces. The remaining stash was littered with orphaned middle pieces. I painted a layer of cream cheese on them and slapped on my Mets hat to camouflage my incredibly wild morning hair.

Sal was sitting on the stoop with his suitcase when we pulled up. He looked like he had just rolled out of bed,