The idea of passing through Sacramento and getting to San Francisco was enticing, but I owed the California capital a visit, if for no other reason than a couple of dives that needed to see my shadow once more.
I stepped out of the boxcar with an idea that would save taxpayers copiously. I autographed the Union Pacific as I would any other, in addition, I assigned this one: “Boxcar 1” In my administration, I will eliminate unnecessary travel in Air Force 1. All regional travel will be in a retrofitted boxcar which will be dubbed, Boxcar 1. The savings in jet fuel should be enough to fund the construction of a couple/three schools. I do not want to be chauffeured about like an elected monarch.
I stepped into one of my favorite dives of all time, Old Tavern Bar. When I use to linger in Cali, I often would frequent this place. The smell of piss, mold and vinegar immediately attacked me. With a smile, I ponied up to the bar, ordered a Tall Blonde and watched a Tomcat trudge across the bar top with a mouse clenched in its mouth.
The late morning over fifty crowd dominated the scene. I sat back, sipped my blonde, feeling my taste buds come alive with the feel of pilsner. I closed my eyes for a moment, recalling memories of the OT.
“Robert?” a gravelly voice mumbled.
I spun on the bar stool and looked up into a bearded face. The bags under the eyes and the gray in his hair and beard more pronounced than I remember. I greeted my old friend: “Hey, hey, it’s Mr. Freeze!” His grip, still viselike, engulfed and crushed my hand, the strength of a steelworker still present. I caught the bartender’s attention and ordered up two shots.
“No shit,” Mr. Freeze laughed when I told him of my quest. “I always knew you were your own man, but ain’t this a bit extreme?”
“Can’t do any worse than what’s running against me.” I winced as I repeated the comment I despise the most.
We slammed the shots and reminisced. “You still chasing the ghost of Janice?” he asked.
“She was a good lady.”
About then, a tall brunette with tired eyes and an energetic stride stormed into the bar, ponied up next to us, threw a fifty on the bar, ordered a double vodka and grapefruit for herself and a round for the bar. “Kip, my pants back there?” As he handed a pair of black leather pants over the bar, the brunette turned to us and said, “I left ‘em here last night.” She slammed her drink down, left a twenty-dollar tip on the bar and stormed out the door.
I turned to Mr. Freeze and said, “In another time, I would have married that lady.”
“And be divorced a week later.”
“But what a week it would be.”
Twenty minutes later, I was riding on the back of Mr. Freeze’s Harley on the way to Lodi. It is rumored that even though CCR sang about her, John Foggerty never stepped foot within the city. If you ask me, creating such an image without firsthand knowledge is a sign of a great artist. On Sacramento Street, Mr. Freeze pulled the bike to a rest in front of Jack’s Back. We stepped inside and I bought my old friend a drink and used his connections to stump. During lulls in conversation, I turned my attention to the TV and the scenes of Hurricane Ike’s wrath and the train wreck outside of Los Angles.
The tone of the day was set. With visits to Rio Vista, Fairfield, Cordelia, Benica, and Berkeley, I took advantage of Mr. Freeze’s continued popularity and scored numerous pledged votes. I even ran into a couple of long, lost acquaintances. Even though our faces and bodies have aged, we still relate to each other with the spirit of irresponsible young adults, more bent on raising hell and having a good time than conforming. As always, our age betrays us and life experience kicks in and the conversation turns to politics.
Time is a wonderful thing, in the sense of seeing the evolution of an individual whose main concern once was scoring a dime bag who now fretted about the leanings of the Supreme Court.
In the Festoon Saloon, an old friend of Mr. Freeze’s, Teresa, known by many as Mother Teresa, the patron saint of drunken bikers, instructed us that we would be crashing at her house or on the freeway, and the freeway isn’t an option. Being under the influence of stumping juice, I wasn’t one to argue, I was tickled to have a place to crash.
Upon Mother Teresa’s couch, I attended to my responsibilities and sent my dispatch to Alberton before resting for my return to the city by the bay.
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