The Road to Nowhere

The year: 1990

As an 18 year old, I had still not yet decided who I wanted to be, and spent much of my time exploring my options. Which did not always lead me to make the smartest choices...but that's what life experiences are for right? 

I started working at Zia Records in Phoenix when I was 17, obtaining one of the highest sought jobs for cool people in Phoenix. Honestly, it was one of the best jobs I have ever had in my life, giving me total freedom to express myself as I deemed necessary.

With this freedom, I decided it was time for a change. I traded in my mini mini-skirts, 4 inch spike heels and Aquanet addiction in for granny dresses, combat boots, a mohawk and liberty spikes. My music tastes morphed from Motley Crue, Bon Jovi and Ratt to the Dead Kennedys, Sex Pistols and Crass. 


My transformation could not have come at a better time. Saddam Hussein was preparing to invade Kuwait and the US was about to become involved, leading to the first peace march rally around the capital in Phoenix since the Vietnam war. Besides, who marches on the capital in mini-skirts and spike heels?  Combat boots were much more conducive to marching and holding "NO BLOOD FOR OIL" signs. Granted, at that point I had absolutely NO idea what was going on. I just chanted along, following the crowd. We could have been demonstrating for freedom to pee in public for all I knew! But I had fun because I was expressing myself.

Soon after our rally around the capital, my mom went on vacation for a week and asked me to 'car-sit' for her. Her primary instructions were #1: don't wreck it and #2: don't let it get stolen. She didn't say no roadtrips... and what a perfect opportunity to show my new fellow ruffians what a cool friend they had! And, I must say, although a 1981 Buick LeSabre is quite the boat, it is a much more comfortable road trip vehicle than my 1977 powder blue Pinto.

Now before I get into the actual journey, you need to have a mental image of us. Me: mohawk braided into corn-rows, combat boots, ripped jeans and t shirt. Damon: spiky black hair, studded and chained belts and dog collar around his neck, pierced nose & lip. Brady: blue hair, pierced ears, nose, tongue, lip (this was before piercing was so the norm). We all had the same dignified anti-society friendly look...

Our journey began at midnight, after I got off work from a 12 hour shift at Zia's. The 5 of us crammed our leather studded bodies into the grandma boat I choose to sleep the first portion of the trip, since I had worked a 12 hour day and was exhausted. Sometime in the wee hours of darkness I was rudely awakened and told to drive. In my numb sleep induced stupor, I climbed behind the wheel and took over. The odor or marijuana floated about the car, but I did not indulge...I was already numb from not enough sleep. Besides, me driving stoned was not a fun ride.

Sometime in the middle of the night, I came across a little convenience store in po-dunk California. I exited the highway to purchase some desperately needed java and we all climbed out like clowns from a circus car. We went inside and I proceeded to the coffee machine. As I was transforming my coffee into something tolerable, I felt some tension in the air. I turned around right as the old man running the store was saying "Y'all need to get on outta here, we don't like your kind round these parts". Yes. He said that. "What? I just want some coffee!" I said. He proceeded to inform us that our "kind" wasn't permitted in his store and we would have to leave or he would call the cops. Wow. He said that too. 

So we left. me... without my coffee.

The journey continues...my eyes now so tired and grainy that every street light along the deserted LA highway looks like giant yellow orbs floating in my face. Or maybe that was the secondhand pot smoke floating around the car. Hard to tell now. Anyways, I am zoning on music and city lights when I finally tune in to the hysterical giggling in the car. The guys are trying to get me to pull over, saying that there's a cop chasing me! "Yeah right. You guys are stoned out of your mind!" I look in the rearview mirror and I see no flashing lights chasing me. Granted, the back window is full of giant potato chip bags, but if there had been a cop I am sure I would see the lights in my mirrors and hear sirens wailing. 


After a few miles I was able to make out through their hysterical laughter that they were serious. Oh. No. I still saw nothing, but I decided I should go ahead and pull to the side to check things out. As I was rolling down my window to look outside and see what was going on, this figure appeared at my window. He startled me and I jumped, which must have instigated the police officer to begin banging his GUN on my window and shouting "GET YOUR HANDS WHERE I CAN SEE THEM!" Bewildered, I put my shaking hands on the steering wheel. He then tells me to get out of the car slowly...I did as he asked, only because I couldn't wrap my head around how I was going to get out of the car slowly without taking my hands off the steering wheel and getting shot!


 He took me to the front of the car and shined his light 2 inches from my face and screamed at me for not stopping and driving 90 mph down the freeway. He thought we were in a high speed chase! I told him that I didn't see him, but he didn't believe me. He started screaming "YOU'RE ON DRUGS! TELL ME THE TRUTH! YOU'RE ON DRUGS!" I repeatedly told him I wasn't...maybe it was the tears that persuaded him to move on to the others in the car.


It was now time for the clown crawl out of the car so the rest of the crew can be searched, as well as the boat. At this point, I was sitting on the curb trying to figure out how I was going to get out of this mess. Or more like how am I going to tell my mom that I am in an LA jail and her car has been impounded. See, I knew they were smoking pot in the car and the last thing I knew, the pipe was resting comfortably underneath the chips in the back window.  Yeah...oops. Better yet, one of the guys had a hit of acid in his cigarette cellophane and a sheet of bad acid in the car!


I watch as he searches them each one by one...saving acid boy for last. I watch as he takes the cellophane off of the cigarette pack and closely inspects the tobacco clinging to the edges. And I watch as he lets it go and it floats away in the California breeze. Then he moves on to the car, which he inspects...even moving the potato chips around. And found nothing. Surreal.


When all was said and done, I ended up with a speeding ticket. The pot stayed safely tucked away among the lays and we were out one bad hit of acid. And I never got my coffee.

I have to admit, I don't remember a whole lot about that week in San Francisco. It's like a convoluted dream that randomly finds its way to the forefront, but only in bits and pieces. But the harder I try to put the pieces in some semblance of order, the further in to a Hunter S. Thompson novel I fall. Scary huh? So if you find yourself lost, don't feel alone. So am I. Don't say I didn't warn you…


To recap the trip so far, myself and the hooligan parade have "borrowed" my mother's car for a poorly planned road trip from Phoenix to San Francisco, been exiled from the only convenience store for miles by a man who obviously has 3 first names, participated unknowingly in a high speed chase across metropolis LA, been held at gunpoint by a very upset highway patrolman, and have miraculously been searched without being seized. From here things get a bit sketchy…

We arrived in San Francisco and the streets were just littered with anti-war paraphernalia…and trash. Everywhere I looked there were Mohawks of multiple colors, piercings, tattoos, studs and dog collars adorning kids of all ages. Now you have to remember, this was 1990. Multiple piercings and rainbow hair dye were still considered 'alternative'. Granted, the motley crew I arrived with fit in perfectly…but I was still not used to seeing such a plethora of punks in one area! And inside, I am still the little scared pig-tailed mary-jane wearing girl, afraid of my own shadow. With a Mohawk. 

As you know, San Francisco is planted on lots and lots of hills. We found the only parking spot on Market St, which was the major punk hangout. We ignored the parking meter and set out to conquer the town…or be conquered by it. Never mind the 20-some parking tickets that ended up on Mom's car over the week. That car ended up being a haven for us throughout the week. I believe I slept in it a few times…

The Squat House:

Somehow we ended up with an extra kid hanging with us. She led us to this abandoned building where she was currently squatting. Yes, I said squatting. Now this building wasn't a little one room shack. It was at one time a large multi-story office complex that had been condemned. The front windows on street level were boarded up with graffiti covered plywood. We had to sneak in through the back alley.


You would think being an abandoned building that anyone would be able to enter, but there was some sort of unwritten law of squatters. The girl we were with was in with the inhabitants, so we were good to go. Inside, the only light source was candles or pinholes of light through the plywood windows. The rooms were partitioned off with old sheets and curtains, and abandoned furniture was put to good use. Some sections of the building were curtained off with 5 gallon buckets for bathrooms. The smell…we won't talk about the smell. 

I know we spent some time there, but I don't know how much. It must have been blocked out by the terrifying experience I had there. The girl that we were hanging with had a German shepherd, who I chose to spend my time with. These kids were nice, and most of them were runaways so we had a lot in common, but this was totally different from anything I was used to. And I am still trying to play the cool kid for these guys that dragged me here. (Twisted my arm).

So we are all hanging out in our little curtained off section when something in the air changed. I mean, it was a tangible feeling, hair standing up on the back of your neck feeling…way before anyone yelled "COPS!" But when they did, we took off. I don't think I truly realized until that point that squatting was illegal. I mean, I knew it was frowned upon…but a raid?! Really?!

 Well I'm not one to stand and argue, and when everyone scattered, I followed my group. My heart is beating so loudly in my ears that I can't even hear anything around me. Our nearest exit happened to be the stairs, so up we went. Now I am not sure exactly where we thought we were going to hide in this enormous 4 story shell of a building with 4 of us and a dog, but there wasn't much time to think or discuss. Only to run. So we ended up on the roof of this building with no way out. None of the nearby buildings are close enough to jump to, and there wasn't an occasional clothesline or 2x6 laying around to use for a getaway bridge. There was, however, a tiny little storage shack of some sort on the roof. With no other options, we all squeezed into the little booth. Dog and all. And it just so happened that the cops doing the raid had a dog as well. Once again, the feeling of doom washes over me. We all hold our breath, the girl holding the dog's mouth closed. We hear the metal door to the roof creak open. Pinholes of light shine through the roof. And disappear. The door creaks again, and they're gone. Really? We must have stayed in that little shed for at least an hour before we ventured out. We escaped the building through the alley and never looked back. Free again!

The rest of the time in San Francisco was interesting, although not nearly as story worthy. My "friends" took me to the infamous Haight Ashbury St where people smoked joints openly on the streets. One of the guys with us tried to sell his bunk sheet of acid and landed himself in jail for the week, but that isn't my story to tell. I dyed my hair Alpine Green and traded in my braids for liberty spikes. We panhandled on the streets for money for booze, cigarettes and food. I rode the trolley. I visited the San Francisco Art Institute, which was full of amazing artists. Instead of inspiring me, it made me doubt myself and give up my dreams of becoming an artist. I went with the others and pretended to be a teen runaway so I could get food from a shelter. I rode the trolley. I went to a hard core punk show in Oakland and got to play in a true mosh pit. I visited Aquarius indie record store and spent the day listening to records and tapes. Yes tapes…

Somehow, we made it home a week later. It was one hell of a week, but looking back I realize just how much it changed my life. I realized that while being a punk was fun for a minute, it was not what I really wanted to be. I was just not comfortable in that lifestyle. I actually like solid walls and running water. I like having a job and not panhandling for money to eat. And I particularly don't like being chased by cops every time I turn around. Soon after this trip, I stood up for myself and quit letting these guys use me. For anything. (They had moved everything in to my house and taken over, all so I could be one of them) I kicked them out and continued my search. I didn't know what I wanted to be, but this wasn't it. So I joined the army. Yes, the army. Which is a whole different story...