The Adventures of Huckleberry Jim (Cigar Smoke 7-16-08)

You feel like a little nostalgia? You don’t look like a little nostalgia. You look meaner and older and nastier and, yes, uglier. You might consider having those warts removed, huh?

I was just sitting in my home office trying to figure out how to take a tax deduction for sitting here and writing — and I’m going to try it this year. Don’t rat me out, OK? I’ll come to your house. Kick a little ratting-out butt if I have to.

I was just thinking back to when I was six years old. Damn dinosaurs everywhere and saber-tooth tigers. It was rough. OK, I’m not quite that old. Yes, I feel that old. And yes I look that old. And yes, I have clothes that look like they’re made out of tyrannosaurus hides. But I am not that old, dammit.

OK, ready for some geezer talk? Well, Sonny and Sonnyette, I was 6 years old back in 1947. No, that’s not a typo. I guess you enjoy laughing at old people. I’d kick your butts if I could find my damn cane. Anyway, I lived out in San Pedro in this pretty cool place. There was a bunch of these three-unit Army barrack kind of places. They’d build two of these units and there would be a big dirt yard in between. Must have been 30 of these damn little complexes all over.

And there was a shitload of kids out there. There were kids everywhere. I mean, there must have been some serious after-war intercourse being enjoyed after kicking some Nazi butt, baby. Kids everywhere. We loved it, too. Back then parents were completely unevolved and tried (and succeeded) to ignore us, and we liked it like that. In the summertime, we would eat breakfast, get our Sky King rings out of the cereal boxes, and head out into life in Rolling Hills in Lomita, near San Pedro, next to heaven.

The first thing we would always do was meet near the top of this hill. We’d all have our wagons. Mine was the coolest, of course. It had a damn steering wheel! Really. My dad built the thing himself. I was the envy of the neighborhood. I used to fly down that damn hill, steering with my steering wheel, and then, just when I was at top speed, I’d jump off into the ice plant. Man, I can still smell that squished ice plant smell mixed with my bloody knees. Ah, it was so good.

And then after the wagon racing, maybe a bunch of us guys, no girls (we weren’t commies), would go down to our secret raft that we had built out of secret crap. It was like a damn Huck Finn raft, and I didn’t even know who Huck was back then. And we’d float around for hours in this muddy pond and steer with big poles and go around old tires and junk cars that were dumped there.

Couldn’t have been better.

And then maybe we’d go over to the cliffs and we’d have our club initiations. And you’d have to jump off, say, a 12-foot cliff, into some sand, and when you were in mid-air, you’d be pelted by dirt clods and apple cores and half-eaten sandwiches, and boogers, and life was good. One time a guy broke his arm jumping off the cliff, but we made him tell his parents he fell down on the playground, and the parents bought it. Parents were pretty dumb back then. Of course, not as dumb as they are now, but pretty dumb.

Then, after fending for ourselves for lunch, we’d maybe play some marbles in between the houses. God, we had some great marble games. Big-ass circles in the dirt, filled with aggies and steelies and puries and other marble names I’ve forgotten. I still remember nailing some shots and just seeing my shooter sting that sucker out of the circle. And then you’d get down on your knee in the middle of the circle and keep shooting until you missed or your shooter went out of the circle. And you’d turn to your buddy and say, “OK, Fuzz Nuts, it’s your turn.” And Fuzz Nuts would say, “Don’t mind if I do, Butt Brains.”

And then we’d have to go home to eat dinner. And we’d escape as soon as we could and meet up by Sandra Holt’s house. I always liked Sandra Holt. I don’t know why. I didn’t even know what sex was back then. And now that I do know what it is, I’m sure Sandra would never have been involved in something so dirty and icky. I think I liked Sandra because she was a good wagon driver and she didn’t have any teeth. I still find these traits attractive in a woman.

And all of us would just be lying down on the grass in the evening waiting for the trucks to come by. We’d just be eating cherries or something and spitting the pits at each other’s crotches, and then the pickle truck would come by. I’m not making this up. We’d all buy a pickle for a nickel. Big juicy dill suckers. Came in a sheet of wax paper. And man, those were sour. Just made you pucker like you meant it, baby. I’m sure that’s why I grew hair on my chest. Hell, I had hair on my teeth.

And then a bit later a tamale truck would come by. (Even then there were illegal aliens.) I usually wouldn’t buy the tamales but I loved the smell. Just didn’t have the money. I would always save my money for the ice cream truck, which came by right after the tamale truck. Oh yeah, I almost forgot, I would sneak a ride on the running boards of the tamale truck. I still remember the smell.

And then the ice cream truck would come by. Had this funky little horn thing going for it. And the driver would open up the back door/hatch of the truck and the dry-ice steam would waft out and he’d fan it out a little more so he could see the ice cream bars inside. And we’d all buy our ice cream bars and Eskimo Pies and go flop on the cool grass on a summer evening and life was good.

Very very good.

Contact former Pasadena Weekly Publisher Jim Laris at jim.laris@mac.com.