Detours

A portrait of the duck as a young mannish boy.

My college mentor made a point of telling all us graduating theater students that young theater people could have two suit cases and maybe a chair so they could be ready to go anywhere at a moment’s notice. It was good advice I did not take. Instead of going to New York or LA or doing improv in Chicago, I chose to live with my parents and deliver pizzas.

The best thing about delivering pizzas was that I could smoke Camel Lights and read obscure Camus essays for three hours before I drove around the south suburbs with the pizza sleeve and the whole time listen to Grateful Dead bootleg tapes. I’m not sure what the statute of limitations is here, but I might as well get it out of the way,I was probably high. Oh most assuredly high. I know cliche. Stoned delivery guy. For all my protestations to be a singular artist-e, I was in fact, right on brand. I even hack-i-sacked, poorly, especially on acid, like the dirty hippie that I was.

It was perfect, because being a pizza guy had no responsibilities. Since I couldn’t decide whether to take over the New York theater scene or make it big in Hollywood, I figured it was best to get my laundry done by mom and take whippets.

In a society where we are often encouraged to plan our lives since pre-school to get to the next level and not be left behind by the person willing to eat their tongue and work longer for less - I love that I had this approach to achieving my dreams.

When I hid out in Northern Europe many years later, working at a warehouse, I learned that the Swedes, for example, encouraged gap year for high-schoolers before they matriculate in higher learning, because it was generally accepted that young people know fuck all. And can’t be trusted with much. So they might as well surf or ski or live the van life.

Granted, I wasn’t in gap year, but I was always a late bloomer, even if I was an early over achiever. Some of the finest of my profession fucked off for many years. And I was destined to follow in their lazy foot steps. Meandering down many wrong roads that only lead to even more wrong roads that eventually end at some deep chasm.

So yeah, free pizza and tips was a perfect proving ground. I learned more about art and defining my taste in the corner booth of that Aurelio’s as I waited for the bell to ring on a pizza coming out of the kitchen than I did at the finest theater arts school in the country. ¹

I didn’t have a syllabus. I wrote on the back of pizza tickets. I chased deep cuts in early 20th century Russian literature and got Weimer republic German expressionist shit from the library and listened to Desolation Row over and over again. And I played a lot of pool. Some of it for money. And won more than I lost. But didn’t get laid that much because I had no self confidence from being broken inside. I just didn’t know it.

I found a paperback book about Bob Dylan written by a dude who wrote for the Village Voice. My brother gave me the “Invisible Republic” which got into all the folklore imagery and Americana masters that went into making the Basement Tapes. Read in tandem, it introduced me to all the influences my hero had; the delta blues, bluegrass, Carl Sandburg, and then someone tells me to read Studs Terkel and Kilgore Trout, and Hunter S Thompson. And I watched Kubrick movies and all the movies that I could find at Blockbuster that he was influenced by, and of course I eventually stumbled upon the end of the road, the hobo tale of Jack Black called You Can’t Win, tried to get through some Burroughs, till I arrived at the door step of Bukowski.

But it was through Bukowski I was introduced to the idea of life in the city of Angels. I saw the dirty fate and end game of it all and instead of warning me off, it beckoned me west.

I was like, ‘here is a guy to aspire towards.’ He took days at the track to the level of high art, but never at the cost of feeling academic. I had just escaped academia and I needed a prophet besides one you roll up and spark in a Bob Marley poster. And then I read On the Road and got a call from a friend in LA who needed help paying rent and would I want to be a room mate. I was like — this is just like the book I’m reading, man. So I played the Weir / Barlow opus, Cassidy, as loud as I could, packed up the car, and was gone.

When we are young, we feel like explorers of a great unknown. We alone are the first to ever do a thing. Especially a rebellious, stupid thing. Only by looking back do we see our path was not cut by our tracks alone. But had been there all along. By the generation of freaks and zeroes that came before. We all heard the same wild call. Knew the wind that drove all rovers from their homes. And there was usually a girl. Probably a few. And always a dream. Or at least a train whistle.

We drove all night.

I had enlisted my friend who shall remain nameless here. Because he’s got kids now and coaches fuckin’ little league. It didn’t take much enlisting. All I had to do was say Vegas. We didn’t stop till we pulled into the Flamingo hotel. How we got there was a blur. And not just because the Pontiac Grand Am was packed so high that we couldn’t see out the back.

We went to the casino floor before we even went up to the room. And then somehow it was daylight again and we were squinting as we were coming out of a strip club. In between there had been visits to the ATM. A moment when I recalled the code for a credit card cash advance. A buffet and some acid.

And then the sun had somehow came out again, we gathered our bags which we had never really opened and I drove my friend, the Little League coach, to the airport and I continued west on my own, till, about four hours later, I was on the 10 freeway and about to get off at LaBrea.

And that was how I arrived in Hollywood. Like everyone else. FULL OF DELUSIONS SLEEP DEPRIVED AND REALLY NEEDING TO PEE.

(Chekhov in his post-park glow making click bait for people to sign up as paid subscribers).

1. Sorry, NYU we are better. Because we had to learn maths and shit.