In watching this movie and especially this scene, visions of some of my experiences screened like a kaleidoscope of images and feelings sprang up within the memories in my head. And, in a silent and clean way, I cried. 
I remember holding my father's hand as I read aloud from Psalms 71, "In thee oh Lord do I put my trust, let me never be confused…" And I as did, I felt him squeeze my hand tightly as he grasped for his last breath of air and held it until he could not hold onto it any longer and then, he gave into death what he had given into life, himself, fully. 

I also remember Mary, a girlfriend in Iowa, who had taught me so much and who was so generous with her time and interests in me, while I lived perfectly self-interested as Monte Walsh seemed to be. I thought about where she might be and what she might be doing. Was she well? Is her life fulfilling? I could imagine many great things she must have done and still is doing and how I have missed out on her seeing joy. 

I also remembered by best friend in Hayward, California. Bill Garcia showed me what a great friend could do. When I was leaving from California State University at Hayward for graduate school at the University of Iowa, I had no financial means of getting there. I was an actor/writer/director who had no assistance from my family, at that time. And my own personal wealth was contained inside my brain and my athletic body. All other forms of wealth were my wonderful friends who did their level best to assist me, if not financially, then, spiritually and by way of encouragement.

I was acting at PCPA (Pacific Conservatory of the Performing Arts) in Santa Maria, California when I received the letter from the University of Iowa. Dr. Oscar Brownstein, the Head of Playwriting in the world renowned Writer’s Workshop offered me a graduate position in the playwriting program. When I asked Allen Fletcher, a director at PCPA and ACT (American Conservatory Theatre in San Francisco), what I should do, he said without hesitation, “Go.” Since I respected Allen immensely, I called Dr. Brownstein and informed him that I would accept his invitation if he could allow me to complete my commitment with Allen and Donovan Marley at PCPA and allow me to register three weeks late. He corrected me by saying, “Call me “Okkie” (pronounced “Ahkey”) from now on.” “Thanks Okkie.” Thus began an adventure of a lifetime. 

For one thing, I had no money. Go figure. I was acting in theatre for a living. And my car was shot. Another story, painful but true. I junked it and picked up a hundred bucks. Everything I owned, besides the cloths on my back and the guitar I carried everywhere, was locked in a girlfriends old cellar up in Hayward, California. 

Jane was terrific. She offered to drive down from where she worked in Yosemite Lodge, Yosemite Valley to Santa Maria and pick me up. A couple of hundred miles. What a girl. Beautiful natural white blonde and a body Jennifer Aniston would die for. Sleek without being anorexic. Generous as generous could be, she picked me up in Santa Maria… first words out of her mouth was, “I loved your red Carmon Ghia! I’ll miss that rusty old convertible…” and then dropped me off in Hayward, while I arranged for a ride east as far as I could get without costing a fortune. “When you drive east, stop in Yosemite. You can sleep in my tent,” Jane said as she left to go back to work 150 miles away. 

I had arranged a good deal. At least it seemed like one when I arranged it. I was to pick up a brand new sports car in San Francisco and drive it east to Salina, Kansas. Salina was the oldest city in Kansas, other than the thousand years of Native American campgrounds. The first original woodened houses built by the first European pioneers to settle there were still standing together in a small community a few miles from the center of town. And I was driving a car owned by the son of one of those original descendents. Pure blooded Kansan. He had graduated from Stanford University. He dreaded the idea of driving thousands of miles when he could fly home. So, he advertised in the San Francisco Chronicle for someone to drive his car to Salina. He paid for gas. All I had to do was drive. Sounded like the perfect ride at the time. He’d fly, meet me at his old log cabin, and take me to a bus stop. I’d catch Trailways from there to Kansas City and then up to Iowa City and the University. Well, at least I’ll get to see the country. 

Before I left the Bay Area, which wades at the shore of the San Francisco Bay, I decided to visit every one of my friends who still lived there. A quick but certain way of saying “Bye” with few regrets. At the same time, I started selling everything I couldn’t carry on a bus, since that would be the final mode of transport to the cornfields of Iowa. And almost too verbatim all of my friends and friends of friends said in exclamation point, “Why the hell are you going to Iowa? That’s for hicks, cowboys and corn pickers. You’re used to Berkeley, hippies and free love. Not theatre in a barn.” 

True. They had a point. I had long hair. I was golden tan. A surfer kid. I had surfed Mission Beach in San Diego, Pacific Beach, La Jolla. I had lived on the beach in summers. Body surfed the big ones in Santa Cruz and Natural Bridges. And although the free love was never as free as anyone says it was, I did like California girls. “I wish they all could be California…” So, I considered the fact that they may just be correct. Maybe I was about to step into corn and cow shit. But everyone who knew about the best schools for writers said that the U. of I. was the best. Tennessee Williams and Kurt Vonnegut went there. Wow, pretty impressive for a hick surfing actor from California. So, I did my level best to laugh at their Iowa jokes and sold everything from my radio, telephone, cloths and other junk. Packed the old letters I had in my old army trunk. Stored it in my girlfriends’ sisters’ basement and counted my money before I left. I had about $100 dollars. Just enough to pay for my bus ticket from Salina to Iowa City. Nothing to eat on though. 

I realized it was time to truly decide how badly I wanted to go back to school. You see, the dormitory costs were about $1200 a semester. Out of state tuition was $1150 a semester. That came to $2350 a semester and that’s not paying for books or any other essential items, such as tooth paste, deodorant and clean under ware. And where would I sleep and what would I eat along the road on the way to Salina. I could sleep in the car and I could sleep on the bus. And on the way east I could stop by Jane’s tent. That could be fun. Once I got to Iowa I could find a job. Any job. And I could ask for student loans. And I could ask for government assistance. I also still had the GI Bill. That paid $200 a month. Maybe the dorms would accept payment by the month? One step at a time, I said. One step at a time. 

The day I left, all of my friends came to see me off. They had a sign made, “IOWA OR BUST! And the girls handed me food baskets and the guys laughed and said, “You’ll go crazy out there. There’s nothing to do. You’ll miss California. The girls are the size of pigs. Don’t get one pregnant. They shoot writers like you.” 

Bill Garcia, my best friend in Niles Canyon, just south of Hayward, had graduated undergraduate school in Hayward the same year I did. Although he was a 6’2’ over 200 pounds, a great left-handed baseball pitcher who could throw in the high 90s with a curve ball that would snap your head back and still cross the plate on the back end, he was a new high school football coach. And he had come to see me off. He pulled out $150 and said, “You want to sell your guitar? I’ll buy it. Here. I always wanted you to teach me how to play.” And then, he handed me the money. “I’m sorry I haven’t got anymore.” 

Now, this was a big step for me. My guitar was a rosewood Yamaha build in the late 1960s in mint condition and had traveled with me throughout the USA from singing on tour in Rhode Island, Massachusetts, New York City, North Carolina, South Carolina, Texas, Mexico, and California. As much as it had a history I would never forget and I had written many songs on it, I thought to myself, how badly did I want to go back to school to learn how to be the writer I wanted to be? I took a breath of fresh air, slightly shook my head in the significance of the decision and almost but not quite cried. Instead, I smiled knowing how wonderful my friends where to do everything in their power to help me to my goal. None of them were rich kids. In fact, most of them struggled as I did to get through life. Two of them were single parent moms. Bill had student loans he was paying and struggling with the wealth he was receiving from the California School system that paid him little for teaching full time the kids of our nation’s future. 

“Thanks,” I said as I took the money from his hands and handed him my guitar. “You were a good friend,” I said to my guitar. Then I packed all my bags and headed for the BMW I was to drive to Salina. 

Before I could leave, the girls brought out some more food to go and a bag full of juices and chocolate milk. It seemed like I was never going to leave and then suddenly, it was getting to be an overkill and I said my goodbyes. Fine. I was resolved. I was going to drive to Jane’s tent in Yosemite, stay for the weekend and then head for Salina and Iowa pig farm country. I turn the key on the engine. Everything seemed fine. Then, Bill called out. “Wait, I forgot your present.” I watched Katie hand Bill a big large and long package wrapped in colorful wrapping paper. Bill lifted it up to stick it through the window, but it was too large. He opened the back door and slid it in on top of the stuff on the back seat and said, “Don’t open it until you get to Jane’s place. Promise? You’ll need it up there.” “Yeah, Thanks.” A winter sweatshirt or coat, I thought. He’s was always telling me I was going to freeze my balls off in Iowa. Good. I can use it. What a friend. 

The ride was easy. Driving into Yosemite is something everyone in the world, rich or poor, should have the opportunity to do at least once in a lifetime. Our eyes were made for such things as this. Our nose was made for such smells as this. Our ears could not be clearer than to hear the sounds of Yosemite. When Jane and I sat down for dinner at the Lodge where she worked, my taste for food accelerated by the atmosphere. My skin awoke with the feel of the breeze that blew through the gap in the earth. When we got to the tent she wanted to open the big present that lay quietly in the back seat of the car. When we got inside and sat on the cots the camp provided for their workers, Jane picked up the present and carried it inside. “Wow, it’s heavy. What’s in there?” “I don’t know. I thought it was cloths or food or something.” “Open it!” she said with that delightful childlike enthusiasm she always had. When I took it from her and felt the weight, I panicked. I almost didn’t want to open it. The package was beautifully wrapped. The girls must have helped Bill. It had ribbons twirled and a card. I read it. Then read it softly out loud so Jane could hear. “Break a leg. And write me a song when you get the chance.” 

My guitar sat smiling in the bottom of the protective and padded case. I will never forget what it is to have a friend like Bill. I have written many songs, since. But I have never been able to achieve the greatness he showed in his gift to me. 

Copyright 25 June 2004 Roy Ayers Baxter, Jr. All Rights Reserved. Reproduction of any kind without the permission of the copyright owner is prohibited by international copyright laws.
 
Roy Ayers Baxter, Jr. is available for seminars and teaches a Writer's Lab in Pasadena, Venice and North Hollywood. You may contact Ayers Baxter by writing roy@nohoartsdistrict.com