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, buy I managed to get the car free and we drove home. The car made some pretty bad sounds all the way home. I parked in the driveway, and told Bill that if Dad asked, he was to say that he was driving. I was on probation and was a ward of the court. The judge said if I was ever to come into court again before age 21, he would send me to the California Youth Authority until my 25th birthday.

The next morning when Dad asked, Bill said he had been driving and hit a curb. Bill was 12 or 13, and his feet could not reach the floorboard of the car and he could never have driven it. Dad was not fooled, but Bill stuck to his story, and I escaped certain jailtime.

So, as I sat in that Chrysler thinking about my future as a tire repairman, listening to the Moody Blues' "Tuesday Afternoon" on the car radio, I decided to join the Army and go to Vietnam.