Chapter 12

XII.

Outlined against a California backdrop

The Mojave Desert lined each side of the car, as we raced down expanses of land chartered by wagon wheel operators to Charles Manson’s followers and now three hungover travelers. I’m adding about two or three hours to my trip by stopping in L.A. to drop Eric and Marisa off.

When my car first reached the California border, I had mixed emotions. I hadn’t pictured the desert view I was seeing; where were the palm trees? Now my trip was almost complete. I set out for California about two weeks previous, and now I was there. A new start, a new life. I didn’t want my past to be ending though. The future was so open-ended, it scared the shit out of me.

I got the two of them dropped off at their hotel and we said our goodbyes. I don’t know if I ever could thank them enough for the company that they provided on the way. Of all the people in the world to make such a long voyage with, I counted my blessing that I got to do it with two friends that were long overdue for a visit. Regardless of where we end up in this life, I don’t think the trip from Joliet to L.A. will ever be forgotten.

The Massachusetts license plate on my car allowed me to drive ignorantly around Anaheim until I found the freeway, Rt. 5, south to San Diego. I wondered what people around me were thinking when they saw the old Mass plates. Was this person coming out to be a star? Just visiting? What an asshole! Once I found a clear path going south, the butterflies hit me hard. I would be at my new home in less than two hours. I called Brian.

I met Brian Dean the first day we stepped onto campus at the eastern university we both attended. He was hard to miss the first day of orientation in our group of twenty or so incoming freshmen, about 6’3 wild blonde hair, with an ostentatious laugh constantly bellowing from his stomach.

My older brother was also currently a student at the same university a couple years ahead of me. I had the convenience of already knowing a few people from coming up to visit him in the previous couple years, so I was coming into school with an outward brazenness of being a big man on campus, but with an inner sense of fear, knowing I had gone into high school the same way, finding it hard to make friends my own age.

From the onset, it seemed like Brian had already made a number of friends, all consumed with something I was yet to know about. When getting to know everyone in the group, he was always the loudest and most outgoing person. When bragging of my television show I hosted in high school, he was the first to respond. When we finally got a chance to talk one on one, I think we both realized we were going to be fast friends. We engaged in a conversation about college football, something I was passionate about, and something I would find out later is just one of the things he is as enthusiastic about as I am.

We stayed friends throughout college. I guess I can’t even say “friend” because it really wouldn’t do justice to how close we were. We lived next door, across the hall, or in the same apartment all four years of college. We shared the same interests, same work ethic, and same ideals. If one of us wanted to skip class, go out to the bars downtown, or some combination of things that would not exactly benefit our academic integrity, we found it pretty easy to convince the other to do the same. At the same time, we were both dedicated and intelligent enough to be amongst those with the highest GPA’s in our apartment, so we got along, too, by knowing we were the smarter ones of the group. At least that’s how we saw it.

When graduation came in the spring of 2004, it was hard to say goodbye to people that I had grown so close to. Mostly everyone else would be sticking around the east coast, a close enough drive for me to visit with friends. Brian was the only one was going far away, back home to San Diego. We had talked about visits, and jokingly about moving out there to be roommates again.

Eventually I conceded.

The weather and the prospect of the world’s prettiest women provided most of the allure towards southern California. Brian did a good job of sensationalizing his hometown throughout college, and the simple idea of living in an area ripe with palm trees was enough for me to grow an ignorant fascination about San Diego. One of my lifelong rules is that a person can only complain about one type of weather. In New England, or any of the other northern cold states, I would surmise, there are people who complain regardless if the weather is too cold or too hot. I feel this way of living is wrong. Pick the type of weather you like the least and complain about that. If you’re a winter person, then you should have to sign through city hall your weather affiliation. Just like you register with your political party, you must identify with a certain season. For me, I’d be a summer person. Though it gets outrageously humid and unbearable at times in Massachusetts during the summer months, I try my best to follow the rule. In the winter time, however, I have all the right in the world to express my disgust for the falling snow and temperatures, just as I have the right to denounce anything the Democratic Party says. Moving to San Diego, where the average temperature for the year is in the mid-70’s, would be a perfect solution to my winter-hating ways, though I’d still have to tolerate the California liberals.

Pulling into the driveway of Brian’s apartment complex was overwhelming. The rush of emotion was overpowering. In fact, the place was so much like I had imagined it to be that I felt as if I had been there before. The entrance was surrounded by palm trees, which in turn branched off to circle the pool and Jacuzzi area. About 50 yards in, there Brian stood, to the left, standing on his back porch, a place where we would spend countless hours laughing, joking, cussing, and smoking. He hopped over the fence towards my car. My friend with whom I had embraced good bye and good luck to on the other side of the country almost two weeks ago was standing in front of me, outlined against a California backdrop.

Reality had set in. I had been living out of my car, and relief came when I realized I could unpack for good. This wasn’t a vacation. This wasn’t a temporary stay. By arriving on Shoreline Drive in University Town Center, my move to the west coast was complete. Brian showed me around my new home, including the place I was to sleep, which was a pullout couch, but I cared very little about where I was to spend my nights. There were people to meet, and places to see, but switching the arrangement of the verbs in that statement would do it more justice.

#

When my stuff was unloaded, we hopped in Brian’s car to go have a couple of brews. By Brian’s explanation, I deserved one, and I didn’t disagree with him. We smoked a joint and headed off to a bar where we’d eventually spend incalculable happy hours. My recollection of the night is foggy, not because we were too intoxicated, but because I began ascending the crest of a memorable wave in my life that night. My adventures in California would involve unique serendipity and stress, happy hours and heartache.