23 Window Deluxe

What date shall I publish? Now or in the past?

My first car was a 1957 Volkswagen Type II, with every possible window, safari split-windsheild, a sun roof, skylights, chrome rails inside the back corner windows intact, in pristine condition. It had been living in the desert near Tucson, sandblasted by desert winds, and rats had completely stripped the upholstery and horsehair down to the metal frame and springs. The interior paneling was pretty much gone, and shortly before I took possession, some kids had ridden through the property on motorbikes and broken half the windows. I really learned HOW to drive in this van, and got my first license at 23.

The interior ceiling had been painted for the previous owners by my cartoonist boyfriend, a cobalt sky of stars and planets and various underground comic characters of the time (1973). Those friends had some connections to, or knew of, local resources where I got nearly everything repaired and replaced for a pittance. I had the bench seat reupholstered with gray “Cadillac” upholstery for $35. I had all the broken windows (thankfully, not the windshield or the skylights) transferred from another van for $45. I found a beautiful English wool Persian-style carpet on the street, and used it to replace the interior paneling.

It was a miraculous thing. The whole creature was a frankenstein: the chassis of a 1969 van that had been rolled while navigating a sharp curve, a 1971 engine, something about 1966 from the front end. The body was found in a field, I don’t know what happened to the undercarriage that was left behind when it was transported onto this frame.

My friends had some shady shade-tree mechanics work on the engine, and it never was right. Apparently the top end was not a match. I spent the spring of 1974 on unemployment and foodstamps, planning for a trip to California. My recently reunited boyfriend and I were leaving Arizona after a 3-year residence for the beautiful, affordable Bay Area, and some friends we had there.

Shortly before our departure he was in an automobile accident in a 1951 Chevrolet pickup- and was suddenly afraid to ride in my van, where there was 1/4″ of sheet metal between you and oncoming traffic. At the last minute, with the van still in the repair “shop”, he suddenly bailed, bought a plane ticket and left me, my cat, and everything I owned, in the little converted garage of a house I had already given notice on.

I spent the next three weeks parked at my friends’ adobe house beyond the edge of town. It was the best time of my life. I had my van, my cat, a bed, books, a little stove, tea, a few clothes, and access to a kitchen and indoor plumbing. There was a view of mountains, the wide desert and distant lights of town, a little vegetable garden, saguaro cactus, sagebrush, ocotillos, bats, owls, peccaries, rabbits, quail: a wildlife refuge far from the impending urban development on the horizon. I left the windows open, and would wake up to birds flitting in and out of the cab, avoiding my cat as she prowled the area.

That van never had a name. I still try to make one up. It had an AM radio, and I installed a cassette tape deck and small tuner and speakers. When it was time to go, I left in the cool of the night and listened to Taj Mahal all the way to California. We would stop on the side of the road for a nap, I would leave the windows open and my cat would come when I called. Somewhere on the road she climbed to the open sunroof and jumped ship at 65 MPH. I never went back to find her.

I pulled into Redondo Beach on the morning of July 4th, and spent the day with my brother and his not-that-soon-to-be wife. We went to see the fireworks, and I fell asleep in the car.

In Oakland I parked and lived in a driveway on Hillegass Avenue where the boyfriend had landed, until we found an apartment in Berkeley, with parking in the back. I kept the van for a while, and kept it up, but the engine was never right, and he talked me into selling it to a friend for a pittance. Said friend painted it yellow. I later heard that it broke down and was abandoned on the road, then sold for $100. That broke me.

We got a new kitten, made some friends, learned to cook. I got a bicycle, went to college, installed an amazing french intensive garden, I’ll come back with that photo– we worked in restaurants, went to see bands and danced at ashkenaz. We fought, my creative spirit stalled, I languished, rudderless. One day he threw a brass ashtray at my head that left an imprint on the wall, and I moved out.

I wish I had stayed in Tucson. It was magical.

But then, I wish I had stayed in Redondo Beach.