So it's been a while since I've checked in with Home for Now. That's mainly cause I've been home most of these past months.
But recently things have changed. . .so much in fact that I haven't been able to keep up with them and - what's worse - keep my patient readers aware of them.
So let's go back a ways, shall we, and get back into this slowly.
Some months back, I was bemoaning the fate of a raw food rambler who was so affected by the nasty "cleaning" chemicals they use in motel rooms that he spent half his motel nights in his rental car, cramped, numb, and uncomfortable, but at least able to breath. Yes, if I put a towel roll behind my lower back another one behind my neck, I could more or less sleep peacefully in a seated position in my rental sedan. But this was hardly ideal.
What's that, you say? Rental sedan? What happened, you might be asking, to your beloved Jeep (Sally, as CoKo used to call her)? Well that's a sad story - and a digression - but I think I can wrap it altogether for nice continuity - let's see.
Sally was essentially donated to CoKo who needed wheels to get around Los Angeles. I had mostly given Sally up for dead at this point- having reached around 200k miles, I was well satisfied with her life performance. But CoKo was able to make use of her in Sally's sunset years with only the occasional breakdown. Then there was the stall out on Sepulveda pass on the 405 - that was rough. And then there were several more near misses that made it clear that Sally's time was nigh.
But CoKo insisted that Sally had another life left in her and if we could just figure out why she would just stop working in the middle of the road some time, she would live another 50,000 years (car years). So on one trip out to Los Angeles, I brought her around to different mechanics to see what could be done. Many hundreds of dollars later, the mystery was unsolved, and I was, myself, stuck in more than one place while Sally refused to run.
We got her as far as CoKo's suburban driveway where she could rest largely undisturbed, as long as Sally and CoKo would muster the will to move across the street every once in a while to baffle the wily development board and keep her from being towed. After we landed her on her side street, I got myself a rental car and took to the road. Somehow believing I would never see Sally again, I cleaned her mostly out and moved the essentials to storage. Then I headed north.
There were lovely days of camping all over the Golden State. From San Diego county to Shasta county, I began to fall in love with the less well trodden corners of California and even found myself shunning my sleeping mat and lying directly on the California dirt to make my bed in. It was a marvelous and beautifully contemplative trip.
Sally wasn't much on my mind at the time (by the way, when I asked CoKo why she was so sure my Jeep was a girl, she told me only a girl would work this hard. I didn't argue.). But when I got to the hot springs outside Weed, CA near Mt. Shasta, I was giving the woman at the counter my money when she paused to take a phone call. "Jack?" she said, "The Car Whisperer. . .? Fantastic." My ears perked up, of course. A car whisperer? But of course! That was what I needed. Why didn't I think of that sooner? I was in California, after all, land of pet-psychics and God knows what else. Why settle for a mechanic when I could just get someone to ask my car itself what was wrong?
Well I called Jack some time later (530.859.8937, if you're interested), and while our connection was bad and eventually died, I did make out that it seemed like it just might be time for Sally to move on.
I had to agree with him somewhat, but endings are never easy. After all, animate or not, I'd probably spent more time with Sally than with any other single "person" in the preceding 6 or 7 years, so it would be a sad, if understandable, loss.
Eventually I got back to New York, releasing the whole stream of thought from my mind. And then one day I got the call. . .Sally had gone missing. 'Run off?' I thought, 'Stolen?' But these seemed hardly likely, what with her not starting and everything. Also, it is usually part of my anti-theft stratagem to keep my vehicles in sufficient disarray that most criminals would likely deem it not worth the effort.
No, Sally had been towed. Not by the development board, but by the fuzz. Expired registration stickers. A fair charge, since she had not been home to be reregistered in several years, but somehow I thought that California's finest only looked after their own and not their visitors' registration.
Wrong.
The fees were astonishing. $300 towing fee. $30 per day parking fee. After 45 days they would simply repo the vehicle and send me a bill. All for poor little Sally, whose bluebook value was probably just over $200. But what was I to do? I couldn't take her back, since she wouldn't start (plus I was in New York). I didn't want to wait for her parking bill to add up, so the only option was to "sell" the car to her kidnappers for the cost of the parking and towing fees. Not much of a deal for me, but it would save me the heartbreak of having to abandon Sally of my own volition.
So I red-eyed out to California (really just a morning flight, but my eyes were pretty red) and took care of business. Jet-lagged and sleepless, I cleaned out the remains of my belongings and turned Sally over to the ghetto-towing company in Santa Clarita county, and that was that.
Now while I was out on one of those trips, I was driving around with CoKo and her boyfriend, Al. Al is himself a policeman, and was a big help in fighting one of my (admittedly, many) speeding traffic tickets.
While we were driving along I spotted what I believed might be my next vehicle- a hi-top Ford Econoline Conversion Van. This would be the ideal fix for my rambling and allergic ways, giving me the freedom of the open road and the freedom from the slow death of chemical poisoning by Motel 6 and company.
Al looked over at the sturdy van and said, "Oh, you mean the van that all the rapists use." Not realizing this tidbit of cop trivia, I mulled it over for a second and then declared, "Yup, that kind."
And that would be that. Having spent some time in Hamburg, in their notorious red light district, I was well acquainted with the infamous "Reeperbahn," the forbidden street allowed only for men and whores. No women or children were allowed down this street - presumably for their own good.
I was there with my friend Matt some years ago, and after taking in a quick strip show, we headed back for wholesomer ground elsewhere.
Anyway, while saddened to be associated with violent criminals, I wasn't nearly so upset to be associated with a cultural landmark of people who would only be criminals in America - and non-violent ones at that. So my future van would be known as the "Raper Van," a lovely homophone to its German inspiration. Raper Van also has the added perk of being able to be shortened to RV, which is exactly what my little econoline is.
After much wrangling, some false leads, and many miles of searching, I bought my little RV. I'm very happy with her and am adjusting to a nightlife with a comforter on top and a muffler underneath. Once it sinks in just how free you really are in your RV, you wonder if you'll ever go back to immovable homes. I've been on the road just over a month now, and I'm honestly not sure I'll ever go back. . . Raper Vahn. That's right. D
