Last Saturday almost did me in. So said Eliza Doolittle in My Fair Lady moons ago. And so it was with me as I went from a prince to a pauper in one sunny Sunflower day. As always, I rode the number one down the coast to retrieve my state teachers check. And the ride to San Clemente costs me not a farthing.
I boarded the coastal number one bus at about seven forty. Inside slept two homeless ones wrapped in several layers of blankets. It helps to ward off the rain and wind. Blankets and supplies filled their overflowing bags -- especially the large black trash bag that contained cans and bottles. One was a five hundred pound lady whose shoes needed resoling.
To the south the sun played peekaboo with the large pines. It felt great to visit my La La Land world up the coast. Football fields of white and yellow flowers smiled my way as the bus made a left towards the Newport Transit Station and Corona Del Mar. One lady spoke to the bus driver and left the bus to buy something from a Taco truck.
In the meantime, about twenty domestics climbed aboard. I felt happy to be perched in the back of the bus and listen in to the beehive of Spanish chatter. It felt like a Mexican Fiesta on the bus and I felt at home, although I had hoped that the domestic would share some of her burrito with me.
The bus backtracked and continued south on P.C.H. The majority of riders staffed restaurants or hotels. The domestics held mirrors to their faces to make sure their makeup or eyeliners looked perfect. One plucked a few eye lashes out. The reflected sun's rays bounced off some ocean rocks just below the cliffs. An early volleyball game was in progress on the grassy knoll. The number one bus now entered the city of Dana Point.
Dana Point recognized the name of Henry Dana who wrote Two Years Before the Mast. The Ship Pilgrim sailed out of Boston and navigated around Cape Horn. the shoe of South America and continued up the coast. The ships would trade for hides, and spices before returning to Boston.
Like me, Dana needed to keep his sanity during idle times, so he kept a daily log of his experiences. A Harvard graduate, he thought a boat trip for a year or two would restore the sight of hs eyes -- and it did. He wrote about the California coastline in the early nineteenth century. (a bust of Dana can be seen at Dana Point.)
The bus made a short detour and advanced to the 405 freeway and continued its charge through the spacious homes and golf course of San Juan Capistrano. A sea of green grass and Rosemary and Daffodil flowers greeted me. We passed the D,M.V. and a Ralph's shopping area before my stop came up at Pico. Another patron got off and took his time extracting two bikes from the front rack. He also had a tool kit. (A Seven Eleven is to the side of this stop.)
It felt great to make it to the Metro Link Station and my second leg to Carlsbad. The train, if on time, would stop there and get me to Oceanside. At the corner coffee shop I warmed my palate for a one dollar and ninety cent coffee, with enough room for cream. Bikers, even older than me, stopped for a rest. Their leg muscles swelled with pride and their bodies didn't have any fat.
This time, I paid the four dollars for the trip to Oceanside. I didn't wish to be too greedy. I sat by the window and looked over the ocean. San Clemente has trucked up sand as most of theirs had eroded to the sea. An Asian took a seat opposite and in front of me. He looked me over and smiled. I took up a seat in front of him on the east side of the train.
"Name is Conrad...Make sure you when you die you cremate your remains." The little thin man repeated this several times."
"Why?"
"You body will decompose anyway and this way you can visit your love one insside a mausoleum and place a flower or gift inside the her box."
"When did your wife die?"
"Three years ago. I visit her in Westminster every day. She was Caucasian."
"What are you."
"Am Japanese. Family came to Huntington Beach in 1923. They were farmers and owned several acres here. Trucks would load the produce and take them to stores in downtown Los Angeles."
"What happened to their agriculture business?"
"We were related to a camp beside the Colorado River when the war broke out. My two older brothers did serve in Europe. My family did get their farm back after the war."
Oceanside was coming up, so I said "good-by" to my little friend and departed to the bus transit station I needed to wait about 15 minutes for the 101 Breeze bus, but knew in a matter of one hour I would have my retirement check in hand.
Now in Carlsbad, I walked across Roosevelt to my P.O. Box. I removed my key and noticed that the box was empty. I took a double-take and my body shook with pain.
I knew that my mail probably was waiting for me so I stood in line. I rather heavy set man took ages to look for my mail from 1241. Why it took him about ten minutes. He returned and handed me a envelope.
"We returned all the mail to sender."
So I knew I was in big big trouble. No longer could I think. My mind, like my body, dried up. How could I live without any money? Would I be on the street again?
My mind felt like an overheated chicken. I had to get back to Huntington Beach, and luckily this time I had about thirty dollars on me.
I took the 101 going to La Jolla and when I got off, I noticed that my bus had passed on by. I was late taking the Metro-Link bus as it left on time so I decided to take the El Camino bus or the 395. One problem, it stopped in Camp Pendleton and went no further.
It was three o'clock by then so I bought a ticket to Santa Ana. I had forgotten that the 560 bus did not run on weekends so I continued on to Fullerton.
I can't remember feeling so scared crazy. A man rushed inside and told me that a #35 bus could take me to Beach. I scampered outside and the bus driver pointed to the number 47, two streets north.
"This bus does go to Newport and P.C.H."
It was going on four forty five. I entered not knowing that the bus would take a circuitous route through Santa Ana, Anaheim, and several other cities before landing me on the P.C. H. at just passed six at night.
The #47 stopped across from a Jack-in-the-Box and I jumped out and ran across the highway for the bus stop. It was pitch black now and cold, too cold for this 77 year old to be huddled outside.
A young couple who had driven on the bus joined me. They were lucky to cuddle and ward if the bitter cold with the warmth of love. Their youthful plumbing made sure the ice cold night would not hinder their affair.
At six forty, a young man wearing only shorts and matching top entered the bus stop. I knew the bus must now be coming. It felt great to sit inside a warm bus. At Beach, I jumped out and waited for the good-old 29 to return me.
After buying two tacos for a dollar and change at a Jack in the Box I got home and collapsed.
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