Marty needed something to distract him from his love problems, and figured it was time to get a car of his own. Every week, he’d get the Classified Gazette hot off the press near the pet store, and circle anything that was remotely interesting. He used different color pens based on a complex ranking system. Most of the circles were blue, which were at his ‘B’ level. He called the ads for the red, “A” circles, but didn’t like the sound of the cars or their owners, so he waited. He had almost eight hundred dollars saved up, which was enough to get something. Then one day he saw an ad for a 1967 VW bus, and they were only asking $650! He nearly fell off the bench where he’d been eating his sandwich. As an added bonus, the phone number was in the Valley, so he hurried back to the pet store to call right away. A kind-sounding man said yes, the van was still available, and he could see it that afternoon. Marty cleaned out his bank account (just in case), and Mike drove him to Forest Knolls where the owner was waiting in the street, greeting them with a cheery wave.
The van was entirely off-white in color, and in pretty decent shape on the outside. It had split front windows that slid open, and no middle seat. It had a really cool rack on top, for camping stuff, and barn-style doors instead of a slider. Marty asked if it ran, unsuccessful in his attempt to hide both his excitement, and his lack of knowledge about cars. The owner perked up, “Sure, it runs great!” he affirmed with friendly enthusiasm. “Take it for a drive!” He tossed Marty the keys. He and Mike scrambled inside, oohing and ahhing about the van’s cool windows and functional funkiness. The seats were high up and springy.
Mike turned around and noticed a few rips in the ceiling lining, but otherwise the interior was fit and cozy. The rubber mat on the floor was stained, but in one piece. “You could fit a kegger back there,” he observed pointedly.
“Did you leave your keys in your car? It would be a fair trade,” Marty jousted with equal jocularity, and drove off. Mike checked his pockets and looked out the rear of the bus worriedly at his parked Stanger. With speculative thrill, they drove the rickety old bus back down to the three buildings that passed for downtown Forest Knolls. The gear shift felt a little spindly, and the clutch dragged some, but overall the VW handled very well. Marty puttered it past the Slodge where he knew the owners of all 3 of the cars parked outside. Satisfied with his test drive, he drove it back up the hill to where the owner was waiting expectantly with a big smile. Marty knew he could tell from the look on his face that it was a done deal. He paid him the full price in cash, not even bothering to haggle because he couldn’t wait to drive His Own Volkswagen Microbus. The nice man wrote out a bill of sale, and the proud new owner drove back to the Rusty Bucket Ranch with an ear-to-ear grin. The funky vehicle fit perfectly in the gallery of beaters like an egg in a carton. Marty leaned on the horn and the ol’ bus squawked as if someone stepped on a duck, but nobody came out of the cabin.
Mike parked the Stanger and suggested, “Let’s drive to Fairfax!” So the two new beach boys turned their microbus around and chugged it over the hill, wishing they had surfboards to tie on the top. Or at least a radio playing some surfer music. One of the first things Marty wanted already was a car stereo to go along with the pair of speakers he’d salvaged from one of the junked cars in the driveway.
They stopped at Boobers’ house and picked up him and his brothers, and they all squeezed happily in the back seat. The gang was most definitely stoked about the radical pop-up parties that could be facilitated by this bodacious beatnik bus. Before heading up to the Bolinas ridge, they stopped at the 7-11 store on the corner. Dennis had a fake ID, and because of the excessive quantities of beer he purchased, the owner was always happy to see him and didn’t care that the picture looked nothing like him.
“Dennis, my man!” He was a grumpy old fart most of the time, but seeing one of his best customers cheered him up. He looked at the rest of the gang suspiciously as Dennis put two 12-packs of Coors on the counter. Everyone had given him their scraps of bread, which he counted out while the owner watched like a hawk – one eye on the money, and the other on the boys, to make sure they didn’t steal anything. Marty swore that his eyes could move independently like a chameleon’s. He grinned broadly when enough nickels and dimes had been counted. “Thank you! Come again!”
“That’s what whores say,” snickered Dennis, as they all tried to exit through the single door at the same time, and got tangled up from being in a hurry. They piled back into the van like clowns at a circus, laughing and acting silly. Boobers tried to take over the front seat, arguing that Mike already had his turn, but yielded to the brother of the new car owner. Marty reflected that one of the best things about owning a car was you didn’t have to fight over where to sit! Boobers lit up a joint, and they puttered up Bolinas Road, hampered by the extra weight in the back, which made the bus slower. It didn’t feel as peppy as it did back in Forest Knolls. They chugged on up to their party spot, and had a great time except for the lack of music. The younger guys planned a trip all the way down Highway 1 to Los Angeles, where they could learn to surf and live on the beach all summer.
Marty used up most of the gas in the tank on that first day, just moseying around the hills above Fairfax. The bus handled differently than other cars he’d experienced. It reminded him of the Mad Hatter’s Teacup ride at Disneyland where you can spin the cups around with a wheel, except there was a whole hippie bus attached to it. He was sure there was a cartoon to be drawn from that image, but it plumb escaped him at the time. When he finally got back to the Rusty Bucket Ranch, everyone was excited about his new “surfer bus,” and Marty was elated. He was already planning what psychedelic designs he could paint on its inviting canvas. Best of all, he finally had his own set of wheels! He called Julie right away because he knew she missed having her VW hatchback, and it would please her to tinker with his bus. There were a few things that needed looking at, especially that funny noise that was developing in the back. Marty hadn’t really heard it until he dropped all his noisy friends off at their house, but there was a flapping sound he didn’t like, which he had mistakenly attributed to Derek’s lips. Boobers’ little brother was his carbon copy in looks, but was much more animated and talkative. They tried calling him “Mini-Boobers,” but the nickname didn’t quite fit him. That was okay, the pundits could bide their time. They’d eventually come up with something that would stick like a wet bikini on tits.
Speaking of appellations, Marty decided to call his bus Voyager, after the recently launched space probe that was in the news. He fantasized that someday NASA’s intrepid interstellar probe would meet up with some extraterrestrials… or at the very least, that the earthbound Voyager bus might rendezvous with some cute chicks. He proudly drove his freshly cleaned VW microbus to school the next day, arriving early so he could get a prime parking spot on Fern Lane close to the school gate, where everyone was sure to see it. This time, his car was the one around which the girls were crowding! “Aww, it’s so cute!” They smiled and peered through the windows, sliding them back and forth, and cranking the little handles to open the louver glass. Many others couldn’t even get close to the sliding door, due to an impromptu experiment to see how many bleacher babes could fit inside a VW bus. The mob of girls in tight shorts and halter tops pushed their hips up against the sides of the bus and jostled for position.
Mike dug Marty in the ribs. “Forget the kegger,” he advised seriously, “You need a mattress back there!” He gestured approvingly at a very nice pair of buns that were sticking out of the door. Annie glared at him. He would pay for that later.
Marty blushed, partly because he’d already thought of making a foam bed in the back, but hadn’t developed that notion to its highest and best use just yet. The bell rang, and the crowd dispersed reluctantly to attend classes, when all anyone wanted to do was go to the beach. At lunch, Marty opened the gated side door to make an instant dais on which those who were worthy could assume positions of honor. His exalted friends worked out who got to sit where, and the lesser creatures buzzed around that bus like bees on a blooming blackberry bush.
“I think we have a new chick magnet,” Annie kidded him, and jabbed him in the side too hard with her elbow. Marty was getting tired of all the sexual innuendo. He was still wounded from Lisa’s rejection, and wasn’t quite sure how he’d work up the nerve to ask a girl if she wanted to ride in the van… with just him. But that’s what he wanted more than even a car stereo: a companion for his journey. Marty felt utterly alone at the intimate levels where most of his thoughts took place. He fantasized that having a cool surfer bus might make him more attractive to someone who needed more than a ride! Lunch ended, and he snapped out of his daydream, holding his head high as he walked to class. He was now officially a “catch.”
Julie drove out to the Rusty Bucket Ranch that afternoon with a surprise of her own. Mike and Marty were in the driveway cleaning the interior of the microbus, and they heard it before they saw it. The ground seemed to tremble beneath their feet, and birds took flight from the trees. Unexpectedly, a brown, hunched-up grizzly bear of a hot rod rolled into their driveway on super-fat tires. The snappy rumbling sound it made reminded Marty of dragsters at the county fair. The most astonishing thing about that muscle car was, his sister was driving it! Mike recognized it as a Barracuda, and Marty could see Julie’s happy face behind the windshield, and then she hopped out with a victorious grin. Her new car was better than his new car!
Julie’s dogs, Che and Shirelle, bounded out and sniffed around the driveway. Che quickly left his calling card on a few canine message boards. He was a laid back, handsome blonde that resembled a small golden lab. Shirelle was the color of buckskin, and had the energy of a dozen squirrels in a basket. Her lean body was wiry and athletic, in contrast with her goofy head and face, which looked like a cartoon. Julie walked around her little brother’s hippie bus approvingly. “It’s in way better shape than I thought you’d get for $650,” she announced, then opened the rear compartment. “The engine has been rebuilt recently… it’s nice and clean, and… uh oh.”
That was not the sound Marty wanted her to make when examining his new ride! “What do you mean, ‘uh oh’?” he blurted. She got a flashlight from her trunk, and shined it on the aluminum engine block that had a thick, welded scar all the way from top to bottom, like Frankenstein’s face. “What the hell is that?” Marty cried.
“I think somebody tried to weld a cracked block recently,” Julie theorized, and Marty was stunned. What a deviously unusual way to try and sell a lemon! He asked her to explain all the details while they walked down to the house to call that guy who sold him a car with its engine cracked in half! The former owner didn’t pick up the phone. He didn’t answer for a whole hour, and Marty couldn’t stand it anymore, so he, Mike, and Julie drove over to Forest Knolls where he lived. Except that the man didn’t live there. The people who opened the door of the house in front of which the vehicle had been parked had no idea who Marty was talking about. Neither did the folks next door, or across the street. He’d been hoodwinked! Bamboozled! Swindled like a sucker!
Back at the Ranch, he examined all the paperwork for the con man’s address, and they all matched that house in Forest Knolls. Either those people were excellent liars, or the address he was using was bogus. Considering the moral caliber of someone who would weld a cracked engine together and sell it to a teenager, Marty presumed the latter. No wonder the damn thing had been so cheap! He’d sold it the same day it was listed, to the most gullible greenhorn in the county!
“Look at the bright side,” Julie offered, with the air of commanding practicality that was her gift to the world, “The body’s in great shape, and that alone is worth $650. It’s got good tires, too.”
“But a cracked motor,” Mike added morosely, “Boy, I’d like to get my hands on that…” he glowered, making made vengeful gestures with his square hands.
“Hey, Julie’s right, look at the bright side,” Marty said, “It runs now, so I can enjoy it for a while and only drive it on downhill streets.” It was a natural by-product of his sense of humor to always try and find the caption for the cartoon of the moment. Sometimes it worked; sometimes it didn’t.
That weekend they loaded up the bus for a trip to Stinson Beach, which was less than an hour’s drive. Mike, Annie, and Derek were in the back, and Boobers finally got the front seat, wearing his new sunglasses and trying to look cool. It was easy for Boobers to look exceedingly hip, with his copper-colored afro and striking green eyes that were always laughing. They cruised through the twists and turns of Sir Francis Drake Boulevard, out to Highway 1. About 10 minutes south of Olema, the bus suddenly stopped running. Or rather, the engine ran at an idle, but was unresponsive to the gas pedal. Marty wondered if the crack had opened up on the engine block. He coasted to a pullout spot and opened the engine compartment. There was a cable on a lever that must have been attached to the gas pedal, and he pulled out the broken end. They weren’t going anywhere in the bus that day.
The turnout where he’d pulled over had other cars parked in it, and people were coming down a trail. Mike asked them where the trail led, but they were massively stoned and could only point towards some unseen ponds back in the trees. They mumbled that they were good for swimming, then laughed and drove off. The gang was all geared up for an adventure, and the bus wasn’t going anywhere anytime soon, so they grabbed their beach stuff and walked up the trail. They found the ponds directly, but they weren’t much more than large, muddy watering holes for cattle. The remarkable thing was, of the dozen or so folks lounging around the ponds, or swimming in the murky brown-green water, all of them were naked. They had unwittingly stumbled upon a clothing optional mud resort! No wonder those stoners had laughed when they left! Four chocolate-covered naked ladies dangled their muddy legs in the muck, and one guy was completely wallowing in it like a water buffalo. Everyone was real friendly, and two nearby Rastafarian dudes passed a joint their way, so they spread out their blankets and made as if they were at the beach… except that they were actually at a muddy pond in the woods, surrounded by cow chips, flies, and naked hippies.
The gang of aspiring surfer dudes failed to see the attraction. Marty wondered, if you wanted to get naked somewhere, why do it next to a shitty cow wallow? They ate their sandwiches carefully, and tried not to get any of the nasty mud on them. When their dubious treats were finished, they discussed their options. Mike & Annie wanted to continue on to the beach, and the others just wanted to return to the Ranch and get more beer. Luckily, the two formerly naked Rasta dudes were still hanging out in their car, too stoned to drive anywhere. Fortunately, it was customary to put your clothes back on when leaving the ponds. They happily agreed to let Mike be their chauffeur for the day. Boobers and Derek bailed and hitched a ride going back the other direction, towards Fairfax. Marty went with them as far as Olema, where he used a pay phone to call a tow truck, which cost more money than he made in a day! It turned out that having a car was expensive in more ways than just gas and insurance! The tow truck driver was amiable and skilled enough to negotiate the hazardous dirt road to his house, and dropped the inert van off in Marty’s driveway. He called Julie right away, and she promised to come out with a new accelerator cable from the auto parts store.
When she got there, she looked behind the seat for the jack, and found a spare accelerator cable coiled up and waiting, as if the same thing had happened before! Marty was upset that he could have fixed it himself, but happy that it was easy to fix, and after stringing the new cable, it worked the same as before. He didn’t know it at the time, but the Voyager was his first victim as a “car virus.” At least, that’s what Julie called him after his bad luck with his new VW bus.