Chapter Twelve

We still had one last gift from my Aunt Kay to enjoy that afternoon: Tickets to The Tonight Show.

The show aired at 11:30 every night…but was recorded at 4 PM. We had VIP passes. A page walked up, pulled us out of line and seated us early in the studio. The Tonight Show set was much smaller than it looked on TV. But being in the audience was very exciting.

The bad news: Johnny Carson was off that night. The good news: George Carlin was guest hosting.

Carlin was terrific. Unfortunately, he’d suffer his first heart attack the next day.

We spent that night in a seedy no-tell motel on Sunset Boulevard. It was cheap, it was creepy, and they had free porn running on the room’s 19-inch color TV all day and night. It was the kind of motel you wouldn’t want to be caught dead in. But if you were, you certainly wouldn’t be the first. Or the last.

We were relieved to find the truck still parked outside our room the next morning.

We quickly ticked off several boxes on the LA tourist “Must-Do” list. John and I followed the stars on Hollywood Boulevard’s Walk of Fame to Mann’s Chinese Theater, then let ourselves be lured onto a bus tour of the stars’ homes. I’m sure we even got a peek of the “Hollywood” sign before climbing back in the truck and jumping on the Pacific Coast Highway north.

The ride up the coast was gorgeous, with amazing views around every bend.

After our extended visit in La Jolla, taking regular showers, sleeping in beds, wearing clean clothes, and using non-public restrooms, we’d gotten a little spoiled.

We found a fabulous campground on Morro Bay, about 200 miles north of LA.

It was July 4th and we were hoping to find fireworks somewhere nearby.

Someone we’d asked mentioned “Atascadero.”

We had been using a soft cover Rand McNally road atlas for navigation. It belonged to my parents and had been a trusted guide on many family road trips while growing up. I opened up to California map and found Morro Bay. Then looked a few miles inland.

It was hard not to miss. Someone had circled Atascadero with a blue ballpoint pen.

“Okay…this is fucking weird, man. Look at this!” I handed John the atlas.

“When did you circle it?” he asked.

“I didn’t.”

We took it as an omen. The gods were pointing us to Atascadero.

It was a beautiful drive through the hills and chaparral. Atascadero was a blink-and-you’ll-miss-it little burg. But they had a tavern or two and we felt we should make a small contribution to the local economy. We met a friendly “older” couple (probably in their late 30s) who explained that it’d been so dry, and the risk of wildfires was so high, 4th of July fireworks were cancelled for most of central California. We were disappointed but understood. Our new friends asked how we ended up in Atascadero. We gave them a brief synopsis of our adventure so far.

“That is so cool. I’m envious. When you get up north of San Francisco, look for mile marker Mendocino 999. The view is incredible.”

In 1943, Camp Roberts, located roughly ten miles north of Atascadero, was the home of the U.S. Army’s 89th Chemical Mortar Battalion. A 25-year-old 1st lieutenant from Perth Amboy, New Jersey, was commander of Charlie Company. His wife and newborn son lived with him in a small rental nearby. He would always have fond memories of that year of his life. Decades later, reminiscing about all of the places he’d lived during the war, he circled that little town near the coast — halfway between LA and San Francisco — on a map of California in his Rand McNally road atlas with a blue ballpoint pen.

Chapter Thirteen