With the Ipod connected and at full blast we drove in short
spurts until we were forced to pull over and sleep in Southern California. Parys continued to sleep, and while
awake helped herself to Veronika’s phone and our food. Either way she was occupied and quiet
so we let her. She asked us to
drop her in North Hollywood to which I replied “We’re only taking you as far as
San Diego.” This had been made
clear during our conversation, but she knew we were headed to LA in a couple of
days and so had decided in some internal dialogue that we were responsible for
her somehow. I let her know she
was not invited to stay in Anza with us and we’d be happy dropping her off at
the bus station in San Diego.
Veronika looked up ticket prices for various modes of transportation,
and we agreed to help her out with a few dollars for a ticket. When we finally released her back into
the wild in downtown San Diego’s Greyhound station and handed her $10 towards
her $19 ticket, we realized she’d only given us $35 for gas, so she ended up
taking advantage of us in the end.
Relieved to have the car back to ourselves we laughed through the city
streets and headed towards Camp Pendleton.
Veronika lit up at the sight of her home of four years while
serving in the Marine Corp. She
wound skillfully through the giant town sized base complete with every fast
food chain a soldier and his family could ever crave, bars, gas stations,
shopping and recreation. I was
able to see the places where Veronika worked in PR as a journalist for the
newspaper and then the television station where she was promoted several times
and had the opportunity to see every branch, protocol and event on the entire
base. She pointed out firewalls
they’d dangerously climbed in Hummers and four wheelers, shooting ranges that
cease fire when so much as a bird landed or a buffalo wandered in, rock
climbing walls and obstacle courses, the singles association where unmarried
Marines went on bad ass field trips.
We passed the Deadliest Battalion to which Veronika mumbled something to
the effect of major ego tripping tough guys. She even remembered the place she threw up before a
drug test and another spot where she broke down in front of an officer she was
close to; who hasn’t spoken to her since.
I was surprised to learn if you see an officer’s vehicle, no
matter who in the family, a son, wife, etc, was driving, you must salute, or be
pulled over and yelled at. In
fact, you are yelled at for about anything you do or don’t do outside of the
rigid collection of asinine rules.
She recalled feeling rebellious one day, drawing the gasping and excited
whispers of classmates as she wrote her assignment in blue pen as opposed to
black. She was torn a new asshole
for that smart-ass move. ??? I twisted my thoughts and perceptions
of my gentle hearted free spirit sister and still could not place her in
fatigues and a straight line. Nor
could she, she cooed, and mentioned the day she was honorably discharged was
the happiest day of her life.
Hooping on the beach at lunch time, we took some amazing
pictures of a very happy ex-marine and her hippy accompaniment. In the parking lot and having lunch we
watched four cars full of young Marine men hop out, remove shirts and approach
us. “Look! Hippy chicks!” One
exclaimed. The invited us to grill
and drink on the beach with them.
We declined, but challenged them to a hula hoop contest instead, which
everyone of them lost to me. When
I won I asked, “What do I get for winning? Besides the satisfaction of bruising
your ego in front of your military buddies that is,” I teased them in that Boston sarcastic way and they ate it
up, just happy to be speaking to females for a change. One revealed he works for Chippendale’s
while not serving the country, he proceeded to attempt the hoop while gyrating
his hips towards me in a terribly offensive (wink wink) way, but dropped the
hoop to his feet. We didn’t join
their party but set out for Anza with ego’s boosted and spirits lifted!
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