Sometimes I wonder how I am still alive. There must be a guardian angel that only does half its work. It doesn’t keep me from getting in trouble for doing stupid things, but so far it has successfully prevented my early demise. I think it has done a good job and I keep it busy. The next few incidents seem to be unrelated, but they form part of a progression of experiences from which I took much learning about human nature, mine and other’s.
Halfway down the block from Cushing Street Bar on Meyer Avenue to the right, there is the Black Elks Club. Very inconspicuous. I didn’t even know it was there or that it was ever used.
One evening I was driving south in my old light green Dodge pick-up truck, small six-cylinder engine showing its age, when I saw that the street in front of me was blocked by a bigger pick-up truck parked smack in the middle of the street facing south, smoke coming out the tailpipes. A line of cars, parked along the right lane with another along the other side, didn’t leave space for me to get through. Approaching slowly to see what was going on, I saw the street was void of people. The Black Elks Club building was fully lit and noisy, but the doors were closed. The truck in front of me was empty on the driver’s side, but the back of a head was visible on the passenger’s side.
I got close, not knowing whose car it may be, and flashed my headlights. Nothing happened. Someone may had gone inside quickly to call for a rider and would be coming right back, so I sat there and waited a while. Still nothing happened. After a while I blew my horn, but the head in the passenger side didn’t even turn around. I honked again. Again, nothing happened. My patience was reaching its limit. Most of the time, I am a reasonably patient guy, but some things do bother me. I thought it was a bit impertinent and very stupid to leave a car running in the middle of a road, when moving it slightly to left or to the right would have caused no blockage.
I gave one last warning honk. Nothing happened. I moved my truck up to the fender of the big truck and gave it a little push. But there was no reaction at all. It didn’t move. I tried again with a little more power, but nothing happened. Frustrated, I floored the gas pedal and let the clutch out. White smoke from burning rubber began to engulf me all around. My wheels were spinning. The screeching noise was horrific. My truck was shaking like a wet dog. The smoke was so dense I could no longer see the truck in front of me. Nothing! It didn’t even move an inch.
Through the dissipating smoke I saw an avalanche of men pouring out the doors of the Black Elks Club, all coming at me. I quickly rammed my gear into reverse and high-tailed it out of there in a hurry. Three days later, while parked at the Free Clinic not far from there, my pick-up truck was stolen. I never saw it again. I learned a lesson that I still remember to this day, don’t pick a battle unless you know you can win it.
Oregon for A Second Truck - GMC 4x4
I took a short break from the Clinic and hitchhiked back to Oregon. My friend Steve, the logger, helped me get another pickup truck. This time it was a large dark green GMC 4x4 pick-up truck with big knobby tires.
I had learned two lessons thus far; firstly, it is not effective to deal with a knucklehead by being a knucklehead. The world has bigger issues than stupid pissing contests. Secondly, always be as prepared as you can, pick your battles carefully and build your power and strength up every chance you get. There will always be someone stronger than you but try to be ahead of the game. This time I got a bigger and meaner truck just in case I would find myself in times of trouble again.