Caucasian Trash Rememberance # 44 - James, Dirt, the Desert Bus Stop

Growing up in Apple Valley, California meant riding the bus to school, for a long time. For whatever reason, where we lived was right within the border of Apple Valley school district lines, one block away from Victorville school district lines (a neighboring, rival town), so our family had to go to Apple Valley Schools. Neither school was that far away, but because we had to pick up some kids way far out in the boondocks, the entire bus ride to school and home each way was over an hour long. Even as a small kid, it was a long ride in the desert, a desert with not much to look at other than a very large and wide open landscape. A lot of time to do nothing but look at the long dirt fields and open skies and think.

People often ask me where I am originally from, and I say "the desert, Southern California." And when they ask what town or city, I say Apple Valley. Invariably they will say: "Apples? In the Desert? HAWHAWHAWHAWHAWHAW." They always think that's very funny.

So many of my memories from 6th grade (when we first moved to the desert) onwards are about walking down in the bright desert morning to the bus stop. I quickly made a friend named James, who lived across the street from us. His parents for some reason called him "Toby," which was also the name of our Irish Setter dog. I always felt a little awkward about that. James was a nice guy - quiet, shy, adopted. Chinese, I think, though I never asked him. Even in the 6th grade, he had the beginnings of a very thin but noticable pencil moustache. His parents were old white people, senior citizens. To this day I have no idea where he came from or what his origins were. He wasn't much for words. We sort of became pals, by default.

We never really became deep close friends; just the kind of friends who hung out because we rode the same bus and lived across the street from each other. I think I went into his house once in the 6 years I knew him, but as little 6th grade desert dudes we would walk around the large desert fields together and break beer bottles, run from wild dogs, throw rocks at jack rabbits, build little dirt caves and make candles. We had discovered a small ditch in the field by our houses, put plywood and over the top, then brush to hide it, and we'd hide out there in the summer and dig holes in the ground to melt candles into them in order to make weird shaped desert dirt candles. I think I gave one of them to my mom once, and she being the great mom that she was, pretended to be very pleased with my misshapen dirt gift and put it in her bedroom, on the window sill that looked out over the old cactus path outside my parents' window. "It's very nice, Pat. Thank you."

I only remember small things about James, about meeting at the bus stop each day for school. I cannot to this day recall anything I said to him, or anything we really had in common. He was quiet, solitary, introverted, not a popular guy. Had big glasses. Not the most fashionable clothes. Eventually in High School became he blended into the stoners and heavy metal crowd. He started smoked pot and had a dazed look on his face, and made him even quiter. Sometimes as we got in high school, he'd smoke before the bus came. He never warmed up to punk rock, as I did. I tried to enlighten him to the Sex Pistols, but back then to like such a band was heretical to a head banger. I could tell he did not like them.

When we rode to school on the bus, as soon as we got on the bus he would sit neare the front, where the quiet and nerdier kids sat, safer and closer to the bus driver. All the cooler kids and tougher kids sat in the back, to be rowdy and wild and talk and laugh. I sat in the back, being more of a popular kid. I used to watch James sometimes as he sat by himself, and he'd sit and stare out the window, looking down, sort of sad,watching the desert dirt ground pass by.

One morning, in 6th grade we all had to bring a present to school for a gift exchange for Christmas. I forgot to bring something, and so James and I improvised a terrible gift out of an emtpy Coke bottle filled with dirtand rocks. James ran back to his house to got some wrapping, and when we got to class, I quickly put the dirt gift under the tree. I remember the kid who got it crying and then the teacher, Mr Mandolini (who had huge black eyebrows eternally encrusted with chalky white dandruff) lecturing the class on what a mean thing this was and how it's a bad thing to hurt people's feeling and that no good would ever come out of such actions. For shame, he said, For shame. James and I did our best not to look at each other during the public shaming addressed to the whole class, but secretly meant for us.

Another day, when our bus stop had changed when we went to high school, there was a stop sign right by the stop. James and I got bored, so we picked up a bunch of rocks and started chucking them into the stop sign at close range. BAMMM!! BAMMM!! BAMMMM! A lady came out of her house in her bathrobe and a cup of coffee, glaring, and said, "What the FUCK are you doing????" We dropped the rocks in our hands, and silently turned around. We were not very brave vandals.

One of my last memories of James was when we had a party at our house. We had started playing guitars and jamming with various musicians, when parties and girls were just starting to become big in my life. Within hours of my parents leaving for the weekend, we had rolled a chilled keg into the garage and set up our band in the living room, and the party was in full swing. Girls everywhere. Friends slamming beers. Me and my brother and our usical crew jamming loud music. The house was packed. I noticed James show up and saw that he had a special beer mug. I smiled at him and said "right on, dude." I knew he was shy and wondered if he would mingle with the girls. From time to time I would see him, standing alone with his special beer mug, observing the groups of people laughing, the crowd at the kitchen table playing quarters, couples making out, burly older dudes doing beer bongs,people shooting tequila. More and more I would notice him near the keg. As the night wore on and we became more and more drunk and blurry, people had been telling me, "Pat your friend is passed out on the front lawn." I hadn't really paid attention to it much, because someone else had told me, "Pat, your friend is passed out in the bathtub." How could I expect to be responsible for all the passed out people? Were these the same person? Two different friends? I had lots of friends.

Later around 4:00 a.m., I remember going on the front lawn and seeing James there, all rolled up and dirty and grassy, twisted up and mumbling in a small dusty heap. His special beer glass was a few feet away, as were his glasses. Both were caked with dirt, as were his clothes, apparently from spilt beer and his own vomit. I picked up his mug and glasses and went to him. I tapped him and we looked at each other. I handed him his glasses and asked him if he was OK. He said yes, and then got up, I handed him his special beer mug and he walked across the street in the night to his house. That's my last memory of James.