1970
In early 1970, a few months before my 17th birthday, my father got me a job at a tire repair shop in Lemoore, California. One of his friends owned the business. It was very hard work. He told me that if I did not get a full scholarship to college, I would probably be a tire repairman my whole life. When school let out that summer, I had finished my junior year. I spent a lot of time sitting in dad's white Chrysler parked in the driveway on Lacey Blvd. That was the same car I drove one night with my brother Bill riding shotgun when we drove up north on Highway 41 to a gas station on the right side before the first stop sign, to steal a bunch of bottles of soda. The machine was outside the building, and was very easy to jimmy and get the bottles out. I turned off the headlights as I cruised up to the soda machine, and didn't see that I had missed the turn-in opening in the curb. The bottom of the car slammed into the concrete and came to a stop. It was tough to maneuver,