Man with a Van

As a father of two, I am always living in constant anxiety that someone will abduct my children or that something, like a wild tiger attack, will hurt my kids. I take 50 mgs of Zoloft a day, but that doesn’t always lessen the craziness in my head that exists because of them. Perhaps a sign of the times? I don’t know. It seems there is always some story I read about Internet predators or shopping mall creeps…something that brings back to mind the story of Steven Stayner, a child kidnapped at 7 and forced to be a sex slave for 7 years for a dude that liked little boys, I guess. I can’t imagine how I would feel if something like that happened. Homicidal I guess.

Of course, in the 1970’s, nothing like that existed, right? (Or did the Steven story happen in the 70’s…uh oh.). But I digress.

While 99% of the homes on Ingraham Street were occupied by the same families from the day I was born to the day I moved into my own apartment, there was one house that was a rental, and therefore sheltered a tri-annual stream of folks who either didn’t want or couldn’t afford their own home. For some reason, that house attracted a host of people that, while all very nice and fit in well with our street, could be described as…different. We had the black family whose husband became good friends with my Dad. They even entered a local “lumberjack” competition at a new local hardware store. Chuck, the father across the street, won the contest and every time I would go over their house, I would see the yellow hardhat inscribed with the words “84 Lumber Lumberjack Champion”. I surely wanted my Dad to have won that, but Chuck was a good guy so it pained me less than someone I didn’t know would have.

Chuck had decided to buy a new car for the family, ended up after much looking at a place called Toyota West. Well, I guess that chuck wasn’t too happy with his purchase, having to take the car back several times before he gave up, painted a piece of plywood with the words “Toyota West Will Screw U” and in the place of the word screw, he had laminated a picture of a giant screw. Chuck affixed this to the top of the lemon and drove that thing around for weeks. At some point he took it down, whether at the behest of his beautiful wife or for legal reasons, I’ll never know. Not long after that incident, Chuck and his family moved on to not sure where. A very cool family.

Another family we got to know had a son named Tony who I spent several years being friends with from Junior High to High School. They were African-American having recently moved from England. Tony, his mom, sister and grandparents all lived there. The grandparents lineage was from somewhere like the West Indies, Jamaica or something. Not sure. What I am sure of is the fact that I could almost NEVER understand the grandparents due to their accents. But they were very sweet, very generous people: with their time, their love of children….and their food.
I pause here to tell you that I love food. I have been in the food business for two decades, and am willing to try anything once. But something I will never, ever try again as long as I live is goat.

Yes, I know that a lot of cooking in certain parts of the world include goat. I know that in Texas, barbecued young goat, or cabrito, is something that makes my wife swoon. However, I will chew my own hand off my body than be faced with what I tried 25 years ago.

Tony's grandmother had prepared dinner for the family and while I was there, she have me a small bowl of something that looked foul, smelled worse and was a grainy green mess.

What is it?

“Its jerked goat, Day-vid” she replied in her singsong lilt.

What?

“Give it to your mom and dad to try”, she smiled.

OK

I walked it across the street and set it on the counter. Curiosity, the damnation of all small boys, got the best of me. I delicately picked a small piece out of the bowl and, holding my nose, put it in my mouth.

Mistake.

I won’t bore you with details such as throwing up in my mouth, and then into the sink, but it happened. It was the foulest, nastiest thing I had ever tasted. I wondered if I had been poisoned. Perhaps the folks across the street practiced the voodoo I had read about in one of my Dad’s many National Geographics. Please God make this go away.

I survived, although I am still nervous about what alterations jerked goat might have done to my young chromosomes. I twitch every once in a while, and my eyesight isn’t as good as it should. The smell of burnt cumin still rings in my nose. Oh well…

But, the most unique, interesting, strange and eccentric human that ever graced 1819 Ingraham Street was Sergio Lewis Santana.

The house was empty for some time after Chuck and his family left our neighborhood, until a bright red-orange van pulls up INTO the yard across the street and out pops Sergio. To describe Sergio, you have to imagine the bus driver from the Simpsons, mixed with a little Keanu from Bill and Ted’s Excellent Adventure and a dash of Carrot Top. Sergio was a character living among us in a time in history (the 70’s) where characters were commonplace. He seemed to be a free spirit, and you wondered if he lived in his van when he wasn’t renting houses.

His van. Picture a 1970’s era good times van but with a twist: Sergio let anyone paint on his van anything they wanted. On almost every surface of the van, people that Sergio knew; friends, family, lovers, people he just met…you name it. “Hey Sergio” was a popular one. “Hang Loose!” was another. It seemed as though they all flowed into one, unending diatribe of cool. Being a Ray Bradbury fan at that age and time, I instantly thought of The Illustrated Man, his astonishing collection of short stories. Here was Bradbury’s masterpiece on Detroit metal, traveling for the world to see.

“Stay Cool!”

“Sadie was here, but don’t tell my old man”

“Come home soon!”

“You owe me money, Sergio!”

“Oye Como Va” (possibly a Santana song reference, in part because of Sergio’s last
name)

“Brett from Rialto ‘74”

They went on and on. Sergio didn’t seem to mind us kids gawking at his van. He seemed proud of where he had been and what he had seen. Being a child who couldn’t wait to get out into the world beyond Las Vegas, and who later in life who steal his Dad’s prized road cycle to pedal to the airport every day during the summer to see the planes take off to unknown destinations, I was mystified and amazed.

I still don’t know how old Sergio was. Initially I think he was in his 20’s, living free and easy on the highways of life. But when you got closer, you saw the wrinkles and age and wondered if he wasn’t another aging hippie trying to be the last pilgrim of the past times…no one to minister to in a changing world.

Sergio was cool. Since we were boys, and Sergio was a dude NOT our Dad’s, he was like the crazy uncle who comes over to babysit and lets you stay up past midnight even though he knew the parents would flip out if they knew. The crazy uncle who lets you try a sip of beer or a hit from a joint. The crazy uncle who drives an orange good-times van with poetry written on it.

Sergio would allow us the run of his house. Even better, he had porn. Now before YOU flip out, understand that he didn’t sit us down, put on movies and make us watch them as he sidled over closer and closer to us. He wasn’t some weird creepy dude. What I do mean is, stacks and stacks of Playboy and Penthouse with the occasional Hustler or Screw thrown in. Being prepubescent teens, it was all we could do NOT to go to Sergio’s every day during the summer.

“Where are you headed, honey?”

Over to Sergio’s to hang out with Troy and Brad. Over to Sergio’s to help mow the grass. Over to Sergio’s to watch the game. Over to Sergio’s to look at porn.

That last one never escaped my mouth, of course.

Being a father of two boys, I can’t IMAGINE ever letting that happen, but this was the 70’s, and times were innocent and free back then. However, if my Dad ever found out we were hanging out looking with undiminished awe at “nudie mags” I am sure he may have separated Sergio’s head from his body….or at least an arm or leg.

Sergio only lived among us for about a year, then moved on to somewhere only he knows. I hope to come across his again someday, just to see what he is up to, what the van looks like, and to borrow a magazine or two.