Monday 4 February

I pulled into the marina parking lot last night and parked beside the only other vehicle on the lot. A 1951 Chevy Panel Truck. I recognized the year and model because I used to own one. Back when I was wasting my time in grad school. 1981, was the year. A good year to hang out at wind n sea beach. Cruise the Mexican Restaurant bars. Both in San Diego and Tijuana. Hang out with Wild Nick who never failed to cast a good time spell. I was 28. Soon I’d drop out of school and fly to Europe. Meet my future Ex Wife. A tall blond German who dreamed of being a ballet dancer. I had dreams, too. We got married and the dreams vanished.

Before boarding the train for Europe I sold the truck to my buddy Dick. He promised to pay me when I returned. A year later I got off the plane broke with a brand new wife in tow. Dick was in jail but his mom paid me for the truck.

I should’ve kept the truck and stayed in La Jolla. Never boarded that Jet. I’ve wished that often over the years. You wish you never did a stupid thing…because your life as a result would’ve turned out better. The wish doesn’t depend on the truck. But there it was. The only other car in a very large parking lot.

I used to own a picture of my future ex-wife.

Used to be’s count for Shinola

Look at me. A pathetic old dude tucked into his minivan. Notice the window covering behind my head. That’s the back hatch window. Nobody standing outside can see me. Pretty clever, eh?

Thank god the ordeal of my bad marriage only lasted three years. I wish I had noted in a diary the exact number of days for drama’s sake. “Thank God it’s only been Twelve Hundred days of Hell.” Or “eleven hundred and fifty two days of living hell.” Or “one thousand ninety five pure wrenching horror dog days of hell…”

Tolstoy said, “Happy families are all alike; every unhappy family is unhappy in its own way.”

I might describe in detail the unique and fiercely original nature of my unhappy marriage. I don’t have the energy for the task. It would require a long novel like Anna Karenina. Or a poem like, say, Dante’s Inferno. Projects beyond the range of my meager intellect. Better to leave you with another quote on the subject by a Romantic Poet of renown:

“Hell is a bad Marriage.” Lord Byron

Pretty succinct, eh?

Am I dreaming or am I awake?

What’s nice about stealth camping in my marina parking lot–the same parking lot facing C dock where Scruffy mashes his fenders against the dock ends and the wind howls and the rain splatters the boat’s leaky windows–what’s real nice about this spot for Van Life parking is the quiet. No cars gliding by. Just the rain. Rain pattering the hood of the minivan.

The minivan don’t leak.

Am I dreaming or am I’m awake? A car rolls by behind me. Pauses. Now I’m awake. I’m thinking it’s a cop. He’s gonna get out of the car and shine his light at the window. Then pound on the door.

“Come awake in there…open the door…did you hear me, you pathetic old bum! I said, DID YOU HEAR ME?”

I’m keeping quiet because that’s what the Official Stealth Camper’s Manual says I oughta do. “When you get that knock on your door just keep quiet because by law a cop cannot bust into your locked vehicle.”

And, according to the Official Van Lifer Guidebook, by the same publisher, I believe, what’s important in Van Life, beyond any other quality, is what’s called POSITIVE DENIABILITY. Never let it be known you are actually inside the vehicle. The only exception is when a punk is jacking up your vehicle in order to remove your catalytic converter. Or some other equally dire exigency…

“I’m about to kick your fucking dead old pathetic ass, you hear me, old man?”

“Excuse me?”

“Come out of the car and I might show mercy!”

“Please don’t kill me.”

I’m awake now. It was just a dream. I roll over on my side and try to go back to sleep. But then I hear an engine fire up. I’m tempted to tear back a window cover, see who’s out there. The motor rattles. A sound like that of a 1951 Chevy Panel Truck. Somebody’s pulling away. Now I’m the only car on a very large lonely parking lot.

The Port Captain

This is van lifer hell but I gotta stay positive. I’m checking out different stealth spots, just for the hell of it. Tonight I’m camping on Nevada street, what you might call a stealth camper’s dream street. No restrictions on overnight parking. And the few residents on the end street are all cranks and rebels but otherwise financially solvent…and quiet.

Wooded grove to the right. To the left, a lone apt. building atop a hill. Three locals park their RVs for overnights. A Hispanic family stealth camps in an old truck. They get there after dark and leave at first light. I’m doing the same.

But what do you do while you’re waiting to crash? I stop by the Cruising Club and deliver my buddy Roy a bottle of free booze sample Tequila.

The Sausalito Cruising club is a yacht club on a barge. I used to hang there with one of my ex-girlfriends, a long time member. She’s a Lawyer. 30 percent of the members are Lawyers. Another 30 percent are in Real Estate. Maybe one percent own boats. Members party all week long there. Cheap dinners. Live music. It’s the best damn Yacht club anywhere. Because nobody owns a yacht.

All they do is party!

I own a yacht. I mean, I did. Roy owns a yacht. He lives on his forty foot catamaran docked behind the club. The Board Of Directors, a pack of old drunken Attorneys and Realtors, made Roy the Port Captain because he fixes stuff…not just things, but situations. He knows how to keep secrets among the membership. When there’s an emergency they can count on Roy to be discreet. He won’t take a paycheck but they let him keep his boat behind the club for free. That in itself is worth more than a paycheck. Another benefit of Port Captain is he’s in charge of the Cruising club hull, a vast cavern of space with nooks and crannies for storing junk. He’s got the run of the place. Free storage is a commodity these days.

Anyway, I deliver Roy some free booze and he gives me a tour of the bilge. He shows me where the old frame down there has rotted away.

That’s his dog, Willie Boy.

Roy says, “We’re gonna tear out these rotted beams and make more storage.”

“For what?”

“I don’t know.”

Roy will find something to store there.

The Bilge is maybe three thousand square feet and full of all kinds of interesting junk.

“You gonna do the work on the beams?” I ask Roy.

“Me? No way. I’m the Port Captain. The Maintenance man will do the work.”

The Cruising Club Board Of Directors hired a maintenance man so that Roy would not be obliged to do any maintenance around the club. They would rather have him around to fix other things. Roy is a man who possesses that rare quality: an apparent effortless ability to make himself indispensable.

“Hey Roy,” I ask him at one point during the tour, “you ever been married?”

“Oh, hell no,” he says.

Roy is about my age. “How’d you manage that?”

“I don’t know. Nobody ever asked me.”

“Yeah?”

“I almost got married once. But she married another guy.”

“Oh, yeah?“

“She divorced him and got married again and divorced him too.”

“Wow, you kept up with her?”

“The last guy she married died. After that she moved to Bridgeport Connecticut. Works at a cookie shop.”

“Wow. You ever think of visiting her?”

“I’d rather sail back to Mexico.”

Another quality of Roy’s: common sense.

A phone call

I’m just getting tucked in at my stealth spot near the mouth of Nevada street. The rain has yet to fall but soon we will be in a downpour. And it’ll rain all night. Fine by me. Rain on the roof of the van will put me to sleep. I take a big slug of free booze sample wine. Sequoya Grove. A very expensive Cabernet. Just one slug, in case that dream cop returns. Then, just as I’m about to nod off, my phone rings. It’s Ronnie.

Hey Ronnie!” I manage to shout…but not too loud. I’m not quite as eager to greet Ronnie as energetically as usual in light of my current location. “How you doing?”

“Oh, I’m fine. How’re you doing?”

“Fine. You on the boat?”

“Yeah.”

“How’s those leaks?”

“Oh, they’re fine.”

“That’s fine.”

“I was wondering,” he says, “how you make this toaster oven work.”

“Huh?”

“The toaster oven. The timer works. But it won’t get hot.”

I want to say, you disturbed my pathetic van life over a fucking toaster oven? What the hell’s the matter with you? I thought you knew how to fix things! Instead I say, “Is it plugged in?”

“Of course it’s plugged in.”

“Try wiggling the plug.”

“Wow! It’s getting warm. That did it.”

“Anything else I can help you with?”

“Oh, no. I’m fine.”

“Getting used to the rain?”

“Oh, no. I mean, I won’t be on the boat after tonight. I’m starting school tomorrow for my new job. A buddy of mine owns a pad in Sacramento. He says I can stay there while I do training.”

I’m thinking the bastard is leaving again after only a couple days and I could stay on the boat. I could be on a comfortable leaky boat instead of this water tight van life hell. I’m thinking I’ll just sneak back on the boat soon as he leaves. But my “Maturity” takes hold of me. Scruffy is Ronnie’s boat now. He paid me my money. I’m done. Leave him and his property alone. And then, just as I’m about to say good luck and farewell yet another thought strikes me.

“Hey, Ronnie,” I say before hanging up. “Where are you parked?”

“Me?”

“Do you by chance drive an old Panel Truck, a 1951 Chevy?”

“It’s a 52.”

“And last night you were parked beside a silver mini-van.”

“Yeah, I think so…yeah…you’re right, I was.”

“That was me.”

“No shit. What were you doing down here?”

“Oh, just out for a walk.”

“In the rain?”

“I like to walk in the rain. It has a certain dream quality to it.”

He chuckles. “Yeah.”

“Listen Ronnie. How’s it going between you and your wife?”

“Oh, we’re fine.”

“But you’re up here and she’s staying down south.”

“For now. We’re working things out.”

“Don’t work too hard at it.”

“What?”

“Nothing. You take care of yourself, you hear?“

“You too.”

I hang up. Just as the rain begins to fall. I’m feeling pretty good, tucked into this minivan. Now I’m thinking about Ronnie. He’s a mama’s boy, for sure. But I’m fond of him.

He’s kind of like a son to me.