Synopsis - Chapter 12
November 1967 to March 1968 - Atlanta
Where to start? I am now in the middle of my most troubled period (except maybe for 1991, when I was severely depressed for a year or so and in counselling), although of course at the time I didn't know it. I was recovering from overdosing on speed, in Tucker, living with Mother and Dad, having returned from San Diego with brother George. I don't think George stuck around long and soon headed back to Florida. I got a job in December with a new auto parts store working in the warehouse, in Decatur, I think. We called the manager Uncle Howard. He was pretty easy going and we worked hard for him. I worked with Kenny, who was a little younger than me, stocking and pulling auto parts. He was a true Atlanta redneck, complete with Georgia accent and hot rod car. He was pretty easy to work with too. He would occasionally put parts he needed in the trash and come back after work to claim them. We used to play hide and seek in the warehouse. We once went to Greenville, South Carolina, to see a girl I knew from lifeguarding and her girlfriend. That was a double date disaster. We were all uncomfortable. Kenny's sister kept the books in the office. I bought a 305 Honda Dream with a wrecked front end from a delivery driver for one of our customers for $150. I put it in the basement at Oberlin Court and worked on it for a couple of months. I used to sit on it and dream of the open road. It was black, with knee action front forks, a pressed steel frame, 16" wheels front and back. It had flared fenders front and back and was sometimes called a "Bat Bike", (as in Batman). The rear tire had a checkered whitewall. It had one carburetor and single points. Mother wasn't too happy about it. Dad loved bikes, but was subdued in his enthusiasm for Mother's sake. I got it back on the road and rode it back and forth from Atlanta and the beach and once to the bike races in Daytona. It seems like I drove it to Tampa once too, although I can't remember why. Pop and Erma lived in Homosassa Springs, which was in that general vicinity. I laid it down on the trip to the races at Daytona at Mickler's Landing on A1A. The DOT had installed an island in the middle of old A1A to reroute traffic to the intersection with new A1A since the last time I had been there. I missed the warning sign and slid into the curb at 45 mph. I bounced on my rear, watching the bike slide out in front of me. I was only a little bruised and the bike had a bent foot peg and a broken clutch lever. I took off the front brake lever, turned it upside down, and installed it on the clutch side. I went on to Daytona and had a good time, watching the races from the infield. I rode back to the beach after the race.
I went to Florida just before Christmas to attend an E-3 school at Mayport for the USNR. It was really a pretty good program, if you could take being in the military. You went to a year of meetings, 2 weeks of boot camp, entered 2 years active duty as an E3 with a rate (skill), and had to go to meetings and 2 weeks summer duty in the reserves for 3 more years. It was definitely better than being in the Army and going to Viet Nam. Anyone with connections (George Bush) in those days joined the National Guard. It had the shortest active duty requirement of 6 months, and most guards didn't go to Viet Nam. This was common knowledge. Steve Cissel, brother George, Mike Holtsinger, and I went out to Mayport Navy Base for 10 days of classes. We were supposed to stay Saturday night on the USS English, a destroyer tender we were assigned to, but at someone's urging, we bailed and went home. I thought we might get in trouble for skipping duty, but we didn't. I don't know if they knew we weren't there. It was fairly chaotic. I stayed with Steve downstairs, at the Cissel's house on 2nd Street in Atlantic Beach, during my stay at the beach.
After taking Ann Howie home from a lifeguard Christmas dance, I turned my 57 oval on its right side @ 5th Street on Sherry Drive heading south. I had been drinking and the roads were wet. I actually got out and turned the VW upright by grabbing the top at the rain gutter. I got in and tried to drive off, but it wouldn't start. The AB police arrived shortly thereafter, as did Raymond Dagley with a wrecker. Raymond threw what little was left of my bottle (fifth of Bacardi) into the bushes and the next day counselled me on getting rid of alcohol in the event of an accident. I also had a brand new portable cassette tape player that Mother and Dad had given me for Christmas, in the car, which I never saw again. It was either Vogel or Stucki, or one of the other long time AB cops who wrote up an accident report at the station that night. I remember him asking me how fast I was going. Not being a good liar (I take after Dad in that regard), I said "About 45." He put his pen down, looked at me and said, "Son, it's Christmas Eve. I don't want to put anybody in jail on Christmas Eve. How fast were you going?" I guess I had sobered up some by then and caught his drift. "25," I said, which was the speed limit. He finished the report and gave me a ride to the Cissel's house. (I talked to Adam Vogel today, 10/28/2014, and he told me that his Dad would have been working by himself and wouldn't want to baby sit someone in the jail). Dad (and Mother) were in town, visiting, I guess, and took me to the junkyard off Mayport road the next day to see my car. I intended to get another VW sedan and asked Raymond if I could take the late model tail lights and parking lights off. He said yes and I did. They stayed in Dad's attic and garage for a few years and we finally gave them away. I had a VW van later (1968), a bug much later (1980), "Yerdel", that I bought from Rosemary, and a dune buggy (1992). I never needed the old parts, though.
Dad had just finished putting a new front end on George's VW convertible, which was in the SK Wellman warehouse in Atlanta. George had run into a parked car with it while drinking with a buddy, on Stone Mountain. I think he did this in late 66 or early 67. Since I was car less, I drove the white convertible to work at the auto parts warehouse. I remember driving with the top down while it was snowing, with the Blaupunkt radio blaring. I guess I was trying to get attention. It was a hippy kind of thing to do, too: freak out the straight people. George reclaimed his VW at some point and I was on my 305 Honda.
Unknown to me until January, 1997, my daughter Chris Parker was born to Bonnie Allen on January 15, 1968. Bonnie's Dad arranged for her to marry a local Statesboro, Georgia boy. Mr. Allen was disappointed in Bonnie (who was only 15) and since I was in the military, didn't want to disrupt my life. I was so screwed up at the time, I have no idea what would have happened if I had been held responsible. I had no money, no education, and no trade. It would be 10 years later before I learned a trade and began making a modest living. I would like to publicly apologize to Bonnie. She is a nice person and deserved better.
I left Atlanta for the beach in March of 1968 on my 305 Dream. Dad was in the hospital recovering from a back surgery. I felt bad for leaving town, when I should have stayed around and helped around the house until he got better. I felt compelled to go. (Once again) I had had enough of Atlanta and wanted to get back to the beach.
February 26, 2010
