Parrothead Ramblings

I’ve never been one to do things the easy way. I mean, why bother researching and studying a topic or activity, when it’s more fun to just jump in with both feet? There is no account for “impulsiveness” at the Bank of Bad Habits. Case in point: When I was a sixteen-year-old yute growing up in Roswell, NM, I became knowledgeable of the little-known factoid that trying to make good with the opposite sex requires a certain amount of loose cash. I didn’t have any. So I did what any self-respecting teen would do: Tried to con it out of my Dad. “Hey, Dad. I was just thinking. I could like y’know maybe y’know cut the grass and y’know clean the patio for like $5.00 if that’s cool.” With his usual warm and compassionate manner, Dad responded, “Sure you could. You could also drag your skinny little ass out there and do it because you’re thankful for the clothes on your back and the roof over your head and the food you eat. Hell, you should be paying me for the privilege of cleaning my goddamn patio.” Failing in that endeavor, I hit up Mom. “Ask your father,” she says. Shit.

So I set out on a singular mission: to find a job that required a minimal amount of effort, in a climate controlled environment, for a large sum of money, paid daily, with Friday and Saturday off, and for a boss who would buy me beer and let me use his car. It didn’t take long to lower those standards to minimum wage at a job I could walk to, for a boss who wouldn’t beat me.

That’s where Primm Drug Store comes in. Back in ’72 it was one of the last of the old-school drug stores, privately-owned and operated, the kind that delivered prescriptions right to your door and had a soda fountain in the back. The owner, Mr. Primm was a white-haired no-nonsense pharmacist with a startling resemblance to Doc Emmett Brown. The interview was conducted as he busily packaged up prescriptions for delivery, hardly even looking up at me. “You got a license?” “Yes, sir.” “You one of those potheads?” No, sir.” “You’re hired. Be back here at 2:00 tomorrow. You’re gonna deliver prescriptions.”

Man, was that easy! Smiling so big I could eat a banana sideways, I headed for the door. “Just a minute,” Mr. Primm shouts to my back. I turned around. “You know how to drive a stick-shift?” Damn! Busted! I barely knew how to drive an automatic. That’s when Crime Dog impulsiveness took over. Hell, I had like 18 hours to learn. “Sure.” I replied. He nodded his head and went back to his work.

The next day, having done zero homework on the art of shifting a car, I reported for duty. I was barely through the door when Mr. Primm handed me a box of prescriptions and some car keys. “Car is right out there. Don’t run in to anything.” I headed outside. And there it was: a rattletrap ’65 VW Beetle. “No problem,” I assured myself. “How hard can it be? Clutch, shift, clutch shift. I’m all over it.” I didn’t know this was Satan’s car. Climbing in, I noticed the shift pattern was painted on to the ashtray. Piece of cake! I turned the key. My head snapped back as the damned thing lurched forward over the sidewalk, nearly crashing into the wall of the store before I had the sense to hit the brake. OK, lesson learned. Push in the clutch when starting. Got it.

But it was there, at that moment, on a sidewalk one millimeter from the brick wall of Primm Drug Store, that I learned how hard it is to put a ’65 VW Beetle into reverse. Grind. Grind Griiiiiiind! “Shit!” Grind. Stall. Griiiiiiind! Stall. “Fuck!” Surrendering, I put the car in neutral and hopped out. No problem, it’s a little car. I’ll just push the bastard off the sidewalk and be on my way. Pushing was the easy part. Catching the son of a bitch as it dropped off the curb and a gravity storm took over was another matter. The car rolled down the sloping parking lot, inexorably rolling toward Union Avenue and its afternoon traffic, with me in hot pursuit. It was comedy relief time for the other drivers, who stopped and swerved to avoid that stupid driverless Volkswagen and me. I caught up with it about halfway across Union, grabbed the bumper, and dug in with my sneakers, bringing it a stuttering stop out in the middle of the street. I hopped in like I knew just what the hell I was doing. And fired it up. And pushed in the clutch. And put it in gear. And released the clutch. And fought back tears of pain when my nose whacked the steering wheel. Turns out I didn’t have a firm grasp on the ol’ clutch/gas relationship. After lurching to a halt a dozen or so times, I finally got back out and pushed the thing as best I could back up that sloping parking lot. It’s easy if you get a good running start. I almost reached the top of the slope before I ran out of steam and could go no further. Then it hit me: How in Clapton’s name do I let go? No sweat. I have some room to work with here. I’m fast. I can let go, run and jump in as it starts to roll back, and hit the brake. Voila! Releasing the car, I moved cat-like to the open door, but. I misunderestimated the speed and ended up grabbing the door frame and digging in my heels again to try and stop it. There I was. An Eric Foreman look-alike. White knuckles on the door. Feet dug in. Body at a roughly thirty-degree angle to the ground. And losing my grip fast. A nice older gentleman came out of the store about that time, saw my plight, and held that incorrigible car for me so I could climb in and put on the emergency brake. He looked at me like I just dropped out of the Milky Way. “Dumbass” was all he said as he ambled off to his own car.

But I had the last laugh. I ground the gears on that virtually indestructible little automobile until I learned how to shift it, and then treated it like any other teenager would treat a car he didn’t own. Like shit. Took me a week of parking on slopes or pushing it backwards before I finally figured out “reverse,” though. Damned Germans.
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