Tell Me A Story

WILD CHILD – PART 1

“This Bud’s For You”

Nicholas Shane sat back in his seat, gazing out the window of the bus as it rolled through the tidelands and salt marshes along Highway 37. They were on their way back from San Rafael, from a baseball game against San Rafael High. Nick had finished his sack lunch: the soggy bologna sandwich, a bag of chips, a red apple and a chocolate chip cookie, all of it washed down with a small carton of milk. It had been a sunny day in late March of 1959, a small taste of the warm spring weather ahead. He could see the lights of Vallejo in the distance as the bus negotiated the gently winding road in the gathering dusk.

Nick loved the trips to Marin County to play against the high schools there – San Rafael, Tamalpais and Drake. The communities nestled against the eastern slope of the coast range, watched over by Mt. Tamalpais, were quaint and beautiful, reeking of money, both old and new. In Nick’s mind, when he tried to picture heaven it looked a lot like Marin.

They were getting close to Vallejo now and Nick focused his attention on the apron of the road where the wild growth had been cut back to form a clear green strip between the roadway and the cattails that grew at the edge of the slough. Then he saw it up ahead, their target for later that night: the metal sign caught in the headlights, a white background with bold red script that spelled out “Budweiser,” and in smaller block letters “King of Beers.” The sign was mounted on what looked to be 4” x 4” posts cemented into the ground. Darin and Hank were in the seat in front of Nick. He tapped them both on the shoulder.

“There it is,” he said. “Right up ahead. There!”

The bus rolled by the Budweiser sign and sped on into the night. The boys looked at each other and grinned.
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The dark green ’51 Chevy sedan headed west across the Napa River and out onto Highway 37, beyond the turnoff for the north gate to Mare Island. Though the car belonged to Nick’s mom, Darin was at the wheel as the designated driver for the evening. It was after 1:00 am and there was no traffic in sight. The three boys watched intently, looking for the Budweiser sign on the left apron of the road. Then suddenly, there it was, ready for the taking. Darin brought the car to a quick stop just off the pavement.

Nick and Hank jumped out and crossed the road to the sign, Hank carrying the hand saw from his dad’s tool shed. Darin pulled away, heading west. He would turn around a couple of miles down the road and swing by to see if the sign was down and ready to load into the car. He would switch the lights off and on so they would know he was coming.

Hank immediately went to work with the saw on one of the 4” x 4” posts. The posts had been soaked in creosote and the cutting was tough. When Hank began to run out of steam, Nick took over and continued the cut.

They saw headlights approaching from the east and knew it could not be Darin. They scrambled down the bank toward the slough and lay flat on the ground until the car passed. Then it was back to work on the post.

Headlights approached again, this time from the west, winking off and on. They continued working, looking up as Darin rolled by, craning his neck to see their progress, his eyes as wide as saucers. Nick and Hank saw the look on Darin’s face and laughed so hard that the sawing stopped for several seconds while Nick composed himself. It’s amazing how things are so hilarious after a couple of beers.

The first post was cut through and they quickly moved to the second one. Darin rolled by again, heading west this time, the same wide-eyed look on his face, and again Nick and Hank roared with laughter. Finally, the second post snapped and the sign toppled to the ground. After a few minutes, they saw headlights approaching from the west, turned off and then on, and they got ready to load the sign into the trunk. Darin pulled off onto the apron, jumped out and headed to the rear of the car.

“Oh, my God! Look at the size of that thing! It will never fit. Just leave it and let’s get out of here.” Darin looked east and west, checking for traffic, his face panic stricken.

“Open the trunk, man, we can get it in there. Come on!” Nick and Hank were not about to leave their prize.

The trunk lid popped up and they shoved the sign in as best they could. It just barely fit side to side, and it was clear that it was going to hang out of the trunk by about two or three feet. They pulled the lid down and secured it with a length of rope. All the while, Darin kept up a steady stream of objections, met by continuous laughter from Nick and Hank. They jumped into the car and Darin pulled back onto the roadway, heading toward Vallejo.

“Okay, assholes, what happens if we get stopped?” Darin was beside himself.

“Hey, if we get stopped, you stay with the car. Me and Nick are making a run for it.” Nick and Hank made saucer-eyed faces at each other and howled with laughter, which only added to Darin’s stress level.

They had to make it home to Steffan Manor and Darin was frantically trying to choose a route with as little traffic as possible. After crossing the Napa River, he started south on Sacramento Street, but quickly decided that was too risky. They veered off through neighborhoods they’d never seen before and would never see again, avoiding the major thoroughfares – Redwood, Sonoma Boulevard, Tennessee, Broadway, Springs Road.

“I know we’re gonna get stopped. We should dump that damn thing right here and now.” Darin was picturing himself in a police lineup, a headline in the newspaper screaming “Local Boys Busted in Bizarre Incident.”

“If you get stopped, just say, ‘Sign? What sign, officer? I don’t know about any sign!’” More laughter filled the car, much to Darin’s chagrin.

They crossed the freeway at Georgia Street and made an immediate right on Miller. At last they reached the corner of Buss and Russell. Hank’s house was situated on the corner and they unloaded the sign and hid it as best they could in a small alleyway, overgrown with shrubs and wild rose bushes, which served as an easement to the adjoining property. There was no way to conceal a sign that size – they judged it to be about 4’ x 7’ – so Hank knew he’d have to deal with it in the morning, coming up with a plausible story to tell his father. As soon as the sign was unloaded and the car was safely parked in Nick’s driveway, across the street and down the block a couple of houses, Darin headed for home.

“Hey, don’t you want to stay and celebrate a successful mission?” They had a few more beers on ice.

“I got you dummies home. Now it’s all yours. Good luck. You’re gonna need it.” And with that, Darin was gone.

Nick looked at Hank and shrugged. “So, more beer for us, right?”
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The sun was up and the morning dew was rapidly burning away when Nick stepped out onto the porch to retrieve the Saturday Times-Herald. He knew there would be an article in the sports section recapping yesterday’s game. Across the street at the house on the corner, the garage door swung open and he saw Hank emerge pushing a lawnmower. Nick sat in the front room, reading the sports section, glancing out the window every now and then to track Hank’s progress.

Hank finished mowing one section, and then began a long pass that would take him close to where the Budweiser sign was stashed. Nick put down the newspaper and watched intently to see what would come next. Hank stopped the mower near the overgrown bushes that shielded the alley. He turned and walked quickly back to the house, entering by the front door. After a minute or two, he emerged with his father close behind him. They walked over to where the sign was hidden. Nick watched as a brief but very intense discussion ensued. Then Hank’s father turned and marched back toward the house, his eyes straight-ahead, obviously not happy with the situation.

Nick went out onto the front porch and whistled in Hank’s direction. Hank motioned for him to come over and Nick trotted across the street.

“What did you tell your dad?”

“I told him, ‘hey, look, somebody left this sign here last night.’”

“And he bought it?”

“Nah, not really. He’s pretty pissed. I asked him if we could put it in the shed. He didn’t like that at first, but then he said to go ahead and just get it out of here.”

There was an old shed in the backyard that had been built by the previous owner as a workshop. Hank’s dad stored tools there, but otherwise, the space was unused. Hank and his friends turned the shed into a clubhouse over the years. They hauled in an old couch and a couple of rickety chairs and decorated the walls with pictures of their sports heroes. Gradually the sports heroes gave way to Playboy centerfolds. The Budweiser sign would be a great addition.

Nick and Hank carried the heavy metal sign into the shed and admired the way it looked propped against the wall. In the cold light of day, they were amazed that they’d been able to cram it into the trunk of a ’51 Chevy.

“Are you sure your old man is okay with this?”

“Well…” Hank paused for a moment. “He did say that if the police come looking for a missing sign, he’s bringing them straight to me.”
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The police never came, there was no call for a lineup, and the Times-Herald never mentioned a missing sign. Two years later, Hank joined the Air Force and left Vallejo for good. Eventually his parents sold the house and moved to Utah. Nick was living in Minnesota at the time and Darin was busy around town doing his own thing.

They never asked what became of the Budweiser sign.
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