Hot Winds Blow in San Bernardino
100 degrees in the shade was different in 1960
By Ms. Pamela Lightener
Relentless blasts of hot desert air rocked the city bus rumbling north on D Street as sand punished the windows, keeping them shut tight. I was sweating though my work shirt and jeans in that rolling metal box, and as I looked out the left side tumbleweeds flew by, headed south. These were the infamous and hated Santa Ana Winds I had been told about.
I live in a goddam episode of "Wagon Train,"
I thought, miserable after a long day on the receiving dock. Out on the sidewalk a yellow cat got lifted a foot in the air, then hit the blazing sidewalk and darted off between buildings.
This new bus driver must have been last in his class, because he was busy making hamburger out of the gears and jolting us back and forth as he earned while he learned. The baloney on white I had at lunch didn't care for the ride much either, but at least it didn't make a return appearance.
I had to admit Carole was right when she said we needed to get out of Huntington Park in Los Angeles County. I made OK money but she could only work part time, and we couldn't stand the rent that close to the city. So we ran out in the middle of the night, late two months but giving up the last month and security, so I didn't feel too bad about it. That's why they make you front it.
So here we were in this backwater shithole 60 miles east. We weren't technically in the Mojave Desert but you couldn't prove it that day. It was a hard choice, but for people like us life is just a series of hard choices.
Two punks got on at the next stop, dumb enough to own leather jackets out here but smart enough to be carrying them. Hair grease, DAs, studded belts, the whole nine yards. They probably saw themselves as Brando in "The Wild One," but all I could make out was two skinny losers, and when they sent attitude my way, what I sent back with one look made them take their seats like good little boys. I have never been accused of being subtle.
It said "Patricia" on my birth certificate, and when I was little Mom said I was Patty, but I only remember being Pat. The scale at the Rexall said I was 175 or so, and I could look most of the men around here in the eye. I kept my short blonde hair under a cap most of the time because I didn't need any more funny looks than I already got. It would have been fun to tell the punks that they got put in their place by a girl, but I've learned not to look for trouble because I get enough of it looking for me. Minding my own business has become one of my favorite pastimes.
Carole was my "roommate," or my "cousin" or whatever depending on what we needed to tell people who won't mind their own business. She was actually my sweetheart and we loved each other for almost four years. She was the only one I ever loved and the only one who ever loved me. You can take that or leave it.
I was supposed to put her on a Greyhound the next morning to visit her sister Gwen in Escondido like she did every year. They didn't get along very well since Gwen figured out Carole was "that kind" of woman, so it probably wasn't going to be a long stay. But you never know.
"She's still my sister and my only family since Mom passed," insisted Carole that morning. "We don't have anyplace for her to sleep, and she wouldn't come up here to visit us anyway, Pat. So I have to go. Please don't be cross."
Carole had this annoying habit of always being right, and so I was looking forward to lonely nights in our one-bedroom apartment above a row of garages on an alley until she got back.
The next stop was mine, and I passed by the punks, almost hoping one of them would get smart with me, but they didn't. Like Carole just seemed to radiate sweetness and love, I seem to broadcast free knuckle sandwiches. I got out and left the driver to whip up a nice rebuild job for a mechanic.
The sidewalks were mostly empty, people generally opposed to getting blown into the street or sandblasted. I hustled to the door of Ray's Bar and went inside. "Shut the damn door!" several voices yelled and I pushed it shut and latched it. A cold Hamm's was on the bar when my butt hit the barstool because I was a regular after work and Ray liked me. Paying cash and tipping might have something to do with that and I put 35 cents on the bar. Like all neighborhood bar owners, Ray had to extend credit to keep customers, but he didn't like doing it. I didn't want to owe anybody anything.
Funny story: The name on his liquor license is actually George Georgiades, but when he bought the bar the sign said "Ray's" and he couldn't afford to replace it. So eventually we just started calling him Ray. The guy he bought the bar from was Irv Pritsker, who actually bought it from the real Ray. We called Irv "Ray" too.
The first half of the beer washed the grit out of my throat, and then I nursed the second half, enjoying what Ray had added to his tavern: A box air conditioner in the wall, noisily laboring to push out something a little less miserable than the air outside. When he didn't raise his prices, business increased by about a third, which soon paid for the box. Smart.
Ray came by and so quick nobody else noticed it, he put a head on my beer and winked at me going away to serve other customers. He's a good guy. And damn that cold beer was great.
I took my time before going back to poor Carole in our steam bath of an apartment, and I'm not proud to say that my thoughts drifted to Penny, who pretty much ran the office upstairs where I work...
*
The first time I saw her I thought, young Rita Hayworth. Gorgeous red hair, brilliant smile, and what a figure. What was she doing here working in this dump and not in Hollywood making movies and marrying some big-time producer and getting drilled by the pool boy? But here she was.
She had finally got promoted to Assistant Office Manager after doing her own work and most of the Office Manager's work for months.
There was some gossip at the time she got her promotion last April, with some of the catty broads upstairs saying she was probably performing some "special overtime" for Mr. Spindle in addition to her regular job. I'd heard it too. I caught the biggest blabbermouth, Gladys, in the lunchroom when I started to hear the rumors getting repeated by my guys on the dock. I put an end to that first, and went upstairs.
Gladys seemed surprised when I started up a conversation, because usually I ate at a table with my crew, or sometimes just on the dock. In the middle of that tense conversation I said wasn't it great that Penny finally got her promotion, and you know the dumb broad couldn't resist telling me what she thought, which is what I wanted her to do. That was my chance to set her straight, so to speak.
"You know, Gladys, that's some really nasty stuff you're spreading around the company. Just because you're not great at your job, and you're jealous of Penny because she's so good-looking, doesn't mean you ought to be tearing down that girl's reputation. Didn't your mother raise you better than that?"
