Don't Let the Truth Get In the Way of a Good Story
I was born at a very early age, which was very common back then. Pretty much everyone in our family has one eye bigger than the other; to such an extent that if Picasso did our family portrait, we’d look normal.
Speaking of Picasso, part of me was French. Which part, I have not a clue except that one cousin of mine said that the French are assholes. This cousin was not on the asshole part of the family tree, but he did quote my henchman Frenchman by the name of Gustave Flaubert:
“To be stupid, selfish, and have good health are three requirements for happiness, though if stupidity is lacking, all is lost.”
Me being French, I worked on perfecting the stupid part of his advice, and it was off to the races. Stupidity was not lacking. No sir, not on my watch. At a very early age - somewhere between my birth and today - I was stupid enough to run away with the circus. But then they made me give it back. Probably had something to do about my French connection.
My childhood was also hampered by my speech impediment. I could not pwonounce my awes. Whenever I screwed up, I exclaimed to my parents “NOBODY’S POOFECT.” They thought it was cute.
I lived on the streets. Mostly Rushford and Lashburn, the meanest streets in Whittier. The 1950’s was a time when families had so many kids their parents couldn’t count them.
We kids owned the street until well after dark. We had no fancy toys, we entertained ourselves mostly with rocks and sticks. We had no phones, or computers, or even video games, so you can see how we had a lot of time on our hands. What hobbies we had were pretty lame - we had stamp collections and coin collections. All you could do is look at them.
But on the other hand, we had electric guitars. We could raise the roof off the garage, providing us the joy of irritating old fogeys who could have turned off their hearing aids if they really wanted to. The House of the Rising Sun was the only song we knew, but that was enough.
Well, that’s about it for my autobiography. Oh wait, there’s more.
Servite High School served us to smoke weed and High was our middle name. The late 60’s was the end of a decade. We were smack in the middle of the end of that decade, and then had to face the beginning of the beginning decade. They called it the 70’s. Thanks to Mr. Speas, we did the math ourselves without the help of Mr. Speas, who wasn’t a big help if you ask my opinion, though you probably won’t. Good on you, I’ve got more autobiography coming. But I have to warn you, it’s not an “auto” biography about cars, if that’s what’s hanging you up in traffic. You’ll have to have a good, long look in your back mirror, but I got to say it’s not your best-looking angle.
English was more my cup of tea time, all about Anglos and Saxons and Jutes (Oh My!). The thing about language is that if you’re dumb, nobody will notice. I’ve never pretended because for languages, being mute is moot since my ship will never sail from the barn anyhow.
Which is to say I like my mixed metaphors, shaken, on the rocks, and with a pinch of salt. A big pinch of a little salt goes a long way, or say they say. And who is to say? Nobody I know.
But it wasn’t all for lost as far as Servite, just wait to see what happened at college. USC (Unspectacular Scatterbrained Clods) stood for football games more than stand and deliver in the classroom.
The first thing I learned as a learned guy was that unless you made a move on that girl during the first week of the semester, some guy would bring home the bacon as opposed to me who got toasted. I made it my pejorative to strike up (or often out) a conversation, any conversation south of the weather, if you catch my drift.
One fine morning during philosophy class in Mudd Hall (gringo for adobe), I spied an empty seat between two hot tamales, you know (or don’t) that spicy goes nicely, but a two-some is rude sometimes as what this untimely time appeared to be heading. So I did the right thing and the right stuff and landed my booty between the two tutti-frutties.
Hmm. Huera vs Morena. Fair-skinned vs. dark skin.
I was cross-eyed at first glances. I looked to the left, then to the right, and when I went left it was right. Which is to say she had the right to not be left, since she was the right one. Which could have proved my point - had it not been pointless.
Long short story short, I got the girl, but that was only the beginning. One day, I don’t remember the date, she told me she was not a dating type, but rather a marrying type. She said she would give me sufficient time to think it over, but within a nonspecific time to think and give me an answer: yay or nay.
So I decided to chew on that, not having the choice of having to choose one of either of the two choices too frivolously. But clearly it became clear - we were novios.
Sooner than later (to wit, 4 years plus, so that was later) we marked up from novios status to wedded man and wife, and the rest is history.
Not in the sort of a history book story, more like more than half a century of a love story story. Just as we promised to be one for both, and both for one, we did good.
Some writers write “Don’t let the truth get in the way of a good story.” Better than that, the truth is a good story, when a good story is the truth.
The end?
Of course not.
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