Those last few weeks before Air Force OTS, I was usually on cruise control. I might see a movie at one of the malls, or just putter around the house before I had to leave for Santa Fe Springs and my security guard job at Accuride. Whereas there had been a guard in the back of the facility and at the front while the strike dragged on, and I was usually stationed in the front; now that the strike was over, the company only paid for one guard, and we were given an old pickup truck to drive around the site, over dirt and black top, not that there was anything to guard against, the workers having all gone back to work. It was on one early evening that I saw a missile launched from Vandenberg break apart in the sun-streaked skies to the West, not knowing what would await me.
One afternoon, after I had turned off of Firestone Blvd. and was headed toward the Accuride plant, I noticed something unusual on the painted white line in the center of the road, between the single lane in each direction. I slowed the new Camaro down to a stop--fortunately nobody was behind me. I opened the door, reached out, and grabbed the tiny gray kitten that somehow had perilously gotten itself out there without being killed but had stopped. I scooped it up and set it on the passenger's seat. It was so very young, and even today I cannot imagine where it could have come from and how it had managed to wander that far. (A woman who lived across from the plant was always having her dogs dig their way out and wander out onto the road. I had to open that gate, corral them and lead them back to her house. She began to accuse me of luring them out, but she soon found the hole they had dug. And her small dog was hit by a passing car. I thought he was dead, but he fortunately got up and walked off the road.)
I could not keep the kitten I had just rescued. The parakeets were all gone or deceased, but I had a long drive ahead to San Antonio, Texas, in a couple of weeks. And my mom was not a pet person. She would not have taken care of it. When I arrived at Accuride and parked the car, I went into the office and mentioned what had happened to a woman who answered the outside lines and transferred calls with the sexiest voice I had ever heard in person or over the phone. She didn't even try to make her voice sound so alluring; it just came naturally to her. She was always sympathetic.
She explained that her husband would kill her if she brought home another pet, but she promised to let the local shelter know to come and pick up the little one which they did not too long after she called. I always hoped it was adopted and found a loving home that appreciated a sweet little soul that had managed to make it this far in life and survived.
But my own friends were either gone or going. Daylin Butler was in Michigan at the University. Darryl Butler was about to graduate from the University of Riverside and moved to Indiana for graduate school at that University. Mike had gotten married and moved to the valley. Dennis Madura had gotten married though he and his wife lived in South Gate. Dave Moore was in the Air Force, though I would lose complete contact with him by 1974. Pat Byrne was still in New York, flying routes to Europe for TWA. I was no longer friends with John Robertson. But I had already driven out to 29 Palms when Dennis Zito was temporarily stationed at the massive desert Marine base. He'd left his wife back in Ohio and had driven out to California, renting a trailer near the base. I still owned my Mustang when I visited him there. While waiting for him to show up from the base near by, I took the top down and stared up at the star-filled sky that night.
While at the base, Den and a friend visited me in South Gate; and we all had piled into the Mustang and drove down to San Diego to see the sights. (I believe the third guy in the picture immediately below was Den's twin brother, David Zito.)
We stopped by the Marine training base in San Diego and had lunch at the El Cortez Hotel rooftop restaurant. The photos below were from a later visit Den made to 8940 Cypress. His little Fiat had hit a coyote on his way and got a bent bumper out of the collision, and I had just acquired the '73 Camaro parked out in front of our house.
A few years ago, I did find that Dennis's wife, Beth, had a profile on Face Book. I sent out a friend request that was not answered. Recently, I could not find that profile. From 1973 onward, we would keep in touch for several years, just into the 1980's before we lost touch. They were good friends back then, and when everything fell apart with the Air Force in 1979, Beth would be such a kind and decent listener when I called and explained how the entire situation was tearing me up. I would spend hundreds of dollars on phone calls to friends in 1979, trying to cope with the humiliation I experienced being yanked out of the closet, forced to defend myself and my reputation. But in 1973, I was getting ready to leave for OTS, and all the joys and recognition and awards and assignments were all ahead of me.
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