Fork in the Road

I'd taken a lot of road trips in college- a couple to Canada, one to Montana, one to Grand Coulee Dam for a class project and, of course, the long sojourns to California and back at Christmas and spring breaks. But I remember one late summer excursion to Seattle in particular as it came a few months after graduation and just days from starting my first season out in the real world.  I looked at it as my last weekend of 'innocence' before having to get serious and "grow up" (although most who know me now are still wondering when that's going to happen).

My traveling companions, all a year or two behind me, were a week away from returning to Whitworth for the fall semester. I, on the other hand was counting down the hours before beginning my first full time radio job. Unfortunately, the job was located some 800 miles away in Lake Tahoe, California. I was expected there in ten days, and would be moving in five. So, with August '78 ticking away, I found myself lamenting the loss of my once carefree college life and worrying whether the unknown- and certainly not carefree- life lying in wait for me at Tahoe was the right thing to do. What I dreaded most, though, was saying goodbye to my friends. So, a weekend away with a few of them sounded like a pleasurable way to avoid thinking about any of that stuff at all.

Setting off in two cars, there were 6 of us on the trip. Me, Dennis Bossingham and Keith Ward were in my car; Kelly McEachran and Jim Porter rode in Paul Christensen’s car. Spokane to Seattle is around a six hour drive, and out in the middle of the Washington state outback, cruising on I-90 is almost like cruising the German Audubon. In other words, what speed limit? So as our cross-state adventure unfolded that Friday morning, we were making real good time. But maybe too good, because just outside the little town of George (and I'm not making that up; there really is a George, Washington), I lit up a Washington State Patrolman’s radar gun. 

Naturally, Paul didn't stop (though I'm pretty sure he slowed down). But with flashing blue lights in my rear view mirror I had no choice and, for my trouble, was awarded a moving violation ticket, valued at about 200 dollars in fines. The officer said I was going 89 in a 55 mile an hour zone. I didn’t doubt him, although I didn't know a VW Rabbit could go that fast.

Unfortunately, my bank balance- like the car's speedometer- often fluctuated somewhere between zero and ninety, as well.  Every spare nickel I had was budgeted for the weekend in Seattle and moving expenses to Tahoe. My two passengers didn't have a lot of money either, but they both promised to help with the fine. And knowing both, I knew they'd flake. (But I was wrong. 6 weeks later I got two 50 dollar checks, which helped pay half my fine. My friends really were my friends). 

In Seattle, we found a cheap hotel near the waterfront in the lower Queen Anne section of town. The place was kind of a dump, but was within walking distance of everyplace we wanted to go, except the Kingdome. Fisherman's Wharf was a fifteen minute march south; Seattle Center and the Space Needle were just five blocks to the east.  We paid for two rooms then drew straws to see who got to sleep in the one with Bossingham.

 

Now, don't get me wrong. Though he was kind of a rube and a running joke, we all liked Dennis. We called him "Buddha" because, with a protruding mid-section that appeared to be hiding a bowling ball, and well, he kinda looked like one of those little round statuettes. But he also snored heavily and had major flatulence problems. This was particularly true after any greasy, gas inducing meal, which had been our standard bill of fare while on the road.  Over the years, nearly everybody in the dorm had witnessed  'Buddha's' gluttony first hand and, later, been smothered in the waves of foul air he let loose. The noises coming out of that gut were legendary. And I, for one, had little desire to room with him. However, both times I drew one of the short straws and spent two nights in a noxious hell.

The first day was spent at the Aquarium at Fisherman’s Wharf and up at the Seattle Center area where the World’s Fair had been. We ate lunch there, visited the Planetarium- which was way cool- and took a ride on the Monorail. In the evening, we retrieved our cars from the motel and drove to the Kingdome where we sat in the left field bleachers and watched a Mariners-Yankees game, which the M’s won, 4-1.  But the real highlight came the next morning, before heading back to Spokane, when we ate breakfast at the top of the Space Needle.

 

It was an overcast day, but the revolving panoramic views of Seattle and surrounding geography was mind-blowing. More interesting than the view outside, though, were the people inside- particularly the ones in the booth directly behind ours. Bossingham spotted them first, and after he started making a fuss for us to turn around, we all became aware of the folks brunching in the adjacent booth. There was a small partition separating us from them, but clearly visible and seated left to right were, Tony Danza from the TV show, “Taxi”, and Tom Bosley, Donnie Most and Anson Williams from the “Happy Days” TV series.

 

They, and other cast members from both shows, were in town to make guest appearances on  a "Love Boat to Alaska" episode. The 'ship' would be leaving from Seattle. But we didn't know any of that. All we knew is that we were this close to famous people!  However, when the floor manager observed that the party of potentially unruly college kids had noticed the party of high priced entertainers, he dashed over and discreetly warned us to back off or find ourselves 're-located' elsewhere. And he could do it, too. It was 9:00 on a Sunday morning and the place was remarkably empty. But with only five other occupied tables scattered about in our section of the dining area, the TV guys were hardly inconspicuous

And 'Buddah' was practically wetting his pants to strike up a conversation with the actors and get some autographs. It was kind of embarrassing, although the same thought was likely going through each of my friends’ head- how cool it’d be if we could all say 'hello' and rub elbows. But nobody really wanted a hassle from the fussy little manager guy, although it wasn't our fault he'd placed us next door to them. And we weren't being completely uncivilized; except for Dennis, all anyone had done so far was stare. But the maître d’ was still watching us and probably champing at the bit to escort us to another table. Or boot that ‘band of rowdies’ out altogether if we so much as breathed in the direction of Tom Bosley and company.

So we asked- no, we threatened- Dennis with bodily harm if he didn't stop acting like a 13-year old girl and wait till the performers were at least on their way out before accosting them.  But self-control and restraint were only minor rungs in Bossingham's DNA. And after quietly telling us to go "F" ourselves, he got up and strode confidently to the TV stars’ booth as if he actually belonged there. Half embarrassed to know him (but half impressed he had so much nerve), we watched him attempt to open a dialog. But it was obvious that Mr.’s Bosley, Most and Williams didn’t appreciate the interruption. However Tony Danza seemed real engaging and friendly. And when it was clear Danza wasn't going to punch Dennis out for disrupting his breakfast, we figured it was okay to join in the uninvited meet and greet, too. 

But when the floor manager spotted our group gathering around the “Happy Days- Taxi” table, he rushed over again and, like scattering a gaggle of park pigeons waiting for bread crumbs, shooed us off. However, before being unceremoniously dispersed, I did get to shake hands with both Tony Danza and Tom Bosley. Tony said, “Hey good to see ya” and signed a couple napkins for us. Mr. Bosley nodded and flashed an insincere smile, but declined to part with an autograph.  Donnie Most and Anson Williams continued to pretend we weren’t even there. They both seemed kind of snotty, though Anson Williams was worse. When Bossingham stuck his paw out to shake, "Potsie" just looked away. So the rest of us left them alone. But as we filed away, except for Danza, the other three gave us an insincere "Bye" and dismissive wave as we went back to our own table. The actors finished their breakfast and left before we were done eating and it was hard not to notice that none of them paid, though meals were likely part of their per diem or outright comped by ABC Television.

 

Though we'd annoyed Tom Bosley and been clearly blown off by the great thespians, Donnie Most and Anson Williams, I was kind of proud of Dennis for having the chutzpah to get us a brief "in" with the TV guys. When they left, Bosley, Most and Williams ignored us but, trailing the others, Tony Danza,  said, “See ya, guys” as he walked by. He genuinely seemed like a real nice person. But the rest of 'em were kind of stuck up. However, to be fair, I knew damn well they were there simply to eat a meal in peace; not to be cornered by a mini-horde of star-struck college kids.

 

But I'm glad we did it and it made for good conversation the rest of the trip. We left Seattle around 11 and took our time getting back to Spokane. Stopping to gas up in Ellensberg, we pooled our money and shared a couple plates of onion rings at a greasy spoon across from the gas station. Everyone but Dennis, anyway. He used his own money to gorge on a large double cheese and onion burger, fries, chili and a very large Coke. And, predictably, he was disgusting the rest of the way home. But by then, it was pretty damn funny. And even though an egregious odor was emanating from the back seat, I was starting to wish the weekend didn't have to end.

Eventually, though, Spokane came back into view and we returned to our starting point, at the house Greg Neff and I shared on North Wellen Lane. It was around 8:00 in the evening and the shadows had begun to lengthen when we pulled into the driveway. Everybody yawned and stretched their legs and then, after final handshakes and hugs all around, they left. And when they'd all driven away and I was finally alone (Greg was gone that weekend), a sadness came over me that I couldn't quite wrap my head around. I was only 23, but it felt again like my life was over- even though it was really just about to get started. I didn't realize it though. Not then, anyway.

Sure, life B.C. (before college) was really over, and the sun had set on the final weekend of being wild and free. The two days in Seattle was the period at the end of that sentence. But soon, a new chapter would begin and the sun would come up on the first day of the rest of my life, to steal a phrase that was merely corny then, but choking in banality now. Yet always a glass half-empty guy, I can't say I could hardly wait for this new season to start. However, I wouldn't have to wait very long.

When my friends drove away that Sunday evening, there were less than 36 hours before I'd have to get back into my Rabbit, this time alone, and put the guys and Spokane behind me, and face whatever was waiting for me at the end of the next road.