The next morning brought hope. A kind and helpful cacophonist set me up with a broken down old CB radio. Though it failed to transmit my voice, I could at least monitor the banter of the caravan. Breakfast was at the L.A.-famous Pantry downtown. Thanks to door proceeds from the party, Harrod picked up breakfast for the whole caravan crew. This was to be a common occurrence throughout the journey, with earnings from various appearances along the route buying meals or accommodations for all. A real boon for the broke, which I imagine most all of us were.

Idling at a red curb awaiting the departure of the group, I'd quickly moved at the sight of a meter reader approaching in my rear view mirror. When I got home two weeks later, I discovered a $55 parking ticket in my mailbox from that day! I couldn't believe it. L.A.! What a whore, with all her badge-wielding boys playing the role of pimp enforcers. Only a place as self-possessed as L.A. would ticket you for pulling out.

I never paid the ticket. A year later, I would be unable to register Duke in California anyway due to smog regulations. I would drive the 1996 Caravan with expired tags, eventually registering Duke in another state. After I, too, had moved out of state, I would come to see how grossly anti-poor the Golden State really is. Full medical & dental care, easy food stamp qualification, no sales tax, way cheaper DMV costs, all these things and more benefit the poor in all the states surrounding California, but not in it. But all that is, of course, another story!

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Last update April 1, 2004