Abio 20: Prestigious degree and a bus to Modesto Benicia Herald April 28 2024

For Sunday April 28, 2024 Drummer Column, Gibbs, 1,354 words

College and Pennsylvania were behind me. I graduated on Saturday, caught a bus on Wednesday, and moved to California. Today’s episode marks the crossover – the end of Pennsylvania memoirs, and the beginning of California memoirs.

Expect a more mature me now, because, of course, I’m all grown up, and I’ve learned all my lessons, and I have an English diploma.

Stories need hooks to live, just like fishermen. The hooks for my PA Survival Years were these questions, “What kept an intelligent rural hick disinterested in college? What turned him around in those three years after high school?

The hooks for the California memoirs will be these: “Who do I think I am now? What influenced me to get here? Did I ever get published with my Berkeley return address?

My last day on Penn State campus, I was feeling so happy, I cut into my counselor’s office and said, “I might want to stick around and get my Master’s Degree.”

He was not elated. “Are you crazy?” he asked me. “Get out of here with your BA. Find a job that uses it where you could get a raise if you had a master’s degree. Then come back.” That’s what I did.

The Main Campus graduation ceremony would be enormous, include thousands of students, parents, kids, parking jams, bus routes, plastic chairs and sun. I did not want to put my country mama through all that. So, I arranged to graduate back at little DuBois Campus in my solo maroon robe with 100 yellow-robed associate-degree students. Mom got a good seat right up front.

The Bus ride to Modesto 1978:

I hugged my ma at the Greyhound station, and boarded a bus to Modesto. Folks asked questions about why I was moving to California. I answered with my usual excuses. Better weather. More natural wonders. Greater opportunities. That satisfied people, and I never had to tell the truth:

I wanted a cool return address for my manuscripts. I’d convinced myself that any submissions mailed from Rural Delivery 1, Boone’s Mountain, PA would go straight in the dumpster. My goal was a Berkeley address, but Modesto would do for now.

Friends asked me, “Where are you staying in Modesto?”

I replied, “I’m staying with Alan and Cheryl.”

Friends were taken aback. “Are you serious? You’re staying with your ex- and her husband?”

I said, “Hey, it’s California. Anything goes out there.”

I’m thankful that no one outright asked, “Steve. How are you going to put that English degree to use?” I didn’t have an answer for that one. Truth is I just went to college to learn stuff and enrich my life. If I could have majored in electives, I would have.

So, our bus was passing under the 630-foot-tall Gateway to the West Arch in St. Louis. I was sitting with a girl relocating from rural Jersey. The bus stopped for lunch beyond the arch. This girl and I agreed to have lunch together, and took a walk to find food. Just around the corner was an ornate and colorful bar and grill, covered in art and murals. It was before noon and the place was practically empty. The girl and I sat at the bar and ordered burgers and beer. Nice place. We were beyond the gateway. Cheers!

Then this man came over to sit beside me and the girl to strike up conversation, He was young, sleeveless and strong, bleached blond hair, a few tattoos. We exchanged names. He was from St. Louis. Where you two from? Where you going? Why you going? That sort of chat. Then he asked if we were married. No, we informed him that we were just bus companions.

He was married, he told us, and asked if we wanted to see a picture of his wife? Sure. Why not. He took out his wallet and flipped it to a photograph of a large, hairy, shirtless man with a thick beard, eye shadow, and ear-rings. I was waiting for him to flip one more time, but no. I think her name was Charlene.

“Do you folks know what kind of a bar you are in?”

“I’ll take a wild guess. A gay bar.”

“That’s right,” he said, proudly, at the Gateway to the West. “Get used to it.”

“Will do,” we said. “Good burgers.”

The moment I got off the Greyhound in Modesto, one smell hit me strong. Not grapes. Not tacos. Exhaust fumes. Thick, nasty, everywhere, and I smelled them for days, until I adjusted.

Living with Alan and Cheryl was awkward. Neither of them trusted me to be alone with the other. They had nothing to fear, but fear itself. I had no interest in seducing Cheryl, and she didn’t have any dirty little secrets that I could whisper to Alan. Still, the three of us went together everywhere, to get groceries, gas, hardware. “One pack of chewing gum please.”

We were all overjoyed when I found a studio that would accept a half-month’s rent while I job searched.

Something I never learned in college – how to write a resume and apply for a professional occupation. I went to the county unemployment office and filled out their form. In a few days, I got called to begin work for AT&T as an “O” operator. My English degree might help me now. The next day I was in training, learning Spanish phrases to use on the phone, like “Twenty-five cents for three minutes,” “No answer. Try back later,” and “Where’s your mama?” All day, little kids, would call the Operator to say, “Bueno. Bueno. Bueno. Bueno.” I would say, “Donde esta tu mama?” Then they would run and get their mother and I would tell mama that her kid was playing on the phone.

My Modesto studio was one room with a kitchen and bath, one of six identical studios in this rectangular building beside Taco Bell on J Street. Landlord gave the tour. The living room was large. Nice view of Taco Bell. Only question, where is the bed?

“It’s a Murphy Bed,” said the landlord. “You pull it down from the wall.” He demonstrated. Down came a roomy double-size bed with pillows and sheets and blanket that filled the living room. The bed easily folded back into the closet wall. Cool.

I signed the lease and gave him all but $10. I used half the money to buy a 10-lb bag of potatoes and squeeze butter, and I stole salt and pepper packets from restaurants. At home, I’d eat a raw potato as a meal. Once I got my job, each day I would carry a raw potato to work to microwave, with salt and pepper. I wrote my name on the butter and stored it in the office refrigerator.

First day of work, I noticed something unique – the workroom was three guys and 60 women. Everyone got a station like Lily Tomlin’s with a wall of lights and sockets and wired jacks that could plug into anything that lit up. Towns were color coded. Residents got only one socket. Payphones got two sockets. The second socket was for a special jack that let us give back money, like to poor, Mexican farmworkers trying to call home at 3 a.m. to a town in Mexico that has only one phone. “Go wake up Lolita. Use my donkey.” Those poor guys paid the phone company for a lot of wait time.

My studio was barren. No electricity for a month. No plates, silverware, pots, pans, nothing, not even a towel to dry off after lounging in the bathtub to escape the heat and reading Moby Dick again by the Taco Bell light.

At last, I posted a help note on the public billboard at work and 60 women helped furnish my apartment. Stuff was arriving in boxloads – pots, pans, silverware, plates, cups, glasses, pillows, pillowcases, quilts, dishcloths. It was amazing. A few women helped me transport my bounty and then stayed and put things away.