Beach Magazine August 2016
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<strong>August</strong> 11, <strong>2016</strong><br />
Volume 47, Issue 1<br />
Easy Reader 46th Anniversary Writing & Photography Contest
am
GRAND PRIZE<br />
PHOTOGRAPHY<br />
COVER and 17 “Serenity”<br />
by Homer Hernandez<br />
<strong>August</strong> 11, <strong>2016</strong><br />
20 “Hermosa Happiness” by Ute Roepke Lorenz<br />
30 “Hazel Street” by Dave Siemienski<br />
32 “The Little Man in the Cabinet” by Nancy Skiba<br />
34 “Naughty Maggie” by Nicholas Gustavson<br />
38 “Zika” by J.E. Marshall<br />
42 “Bar Hopping’s Glory Days” by Pete Whalon<br />
48 “Marriage, Houses and True Love” by Mori Biener<br />
50 “Business 101: The Paper Route” by John Cody<br />
52 “1 Ocean 20” by Don Ruane<br />
STAFF<br />
Volume 47, Issue 1<br />
PUBLISHER Kevin Cody, ASSOCIATE PUBLISHER Richard Budman, EDITORS Mark McDermott, Randy Angel, David Mendez and Ryan McDonald, ARTS &<br />
ENTERTAINMENT Bondo Wyszpolski, DINING EDITOR Richard Foss, STAFF PHOTOGRAPHERS Ray Vidal, Brad Jacobson and Gloria Plascencia, CALENDAR Judy<br />
Rae, DISPLAY SALES Adrienne Slaughter, Tamar Gillotti, Amy Berg, and Shelley Crawford, CLASSIFIEDS Teri Marin, DIRECTOR OF DIGITAL MEDIA Daniel Sofer /<br />
Hermosawave.net, GRAPHIC DESIGNER Tim Teebken, DESIGN CONSULTANT Bob Staake, BobStaake.com, FRONT DESK Judy Rae<br />
EASY READER (ISSN 0194-6412) is published weekly by EASY READER, 2200 Pacific Cst. Hwy., #101, P.O. Box 427, Hermosa <strong>Beach</strong>, CA 90254-0427. Yearly domestic mail subscription $100.00; foreign, $175.00 payable in<br />
advance. POSTMASTER: Send address changes to EASY READER, P.O. Box 427, Hermosa <strong>Beach</strong>, CA 90254. The entire contents of the EASY READER newspaper is Copyright <strong>2016</strong> by EASY READER, Inc.<br />
www.easyreadernews.com. The Easy Reader/Redondo <strong>Beach</strong> Hometown News is a legally adjudicated newspaper and the official newspaper for the cities of Hermosa <strong>Beach</strong> and Redondo <strong>Beach</strong>. Easy Reader / Redondo <strong>Beach</strong><br />
Hometown News is also distributed to homes and on newsstands in Manhattan <strong>Beach</strong>, El Segundo, Torrance, and Palos Verdes.<br />
CONTACT<br />
Endless insights<br />
If the Grand Prize cover photo looks familiar, it’s because the underside of the<br />
Manhattan <strong>Beach</strong> pier is a magnet for photographers. If this month’s stories<br />
sound familiar, it’s because bars, crime and nostalgia are magnets for writers.<br />
But no matter how many times photos are reshot and stories are retold, if skillfully<br />
executed, new insights are possible.<br />
If that were not true, reporting on the cities, schools and businesses for 46<br />
years could get tiresome, as would reading about them. It never does.<br />
Each anniversary issue, we celebrate the reason for a newspaper by inviting<br />
readers to offer their insights about our community. The Easy Reader staff thanks<br />
this issue’s contributors and apologizes to those whose submissions we did<br />
not have room to print.<br />
– Kevin Cody, publisher<br />
GRAND PRIZE WRITING<br />
24 “Thank you, Mira Costa” by Spiros “Steve” H. Mikelatos, M.D.<br />
HONORABLE MENTION WRITING<br />
n Website www.easyreadernews.com Email news@easyreadernews.com n Mailing Address P.O. Box 427, Hermosa <strong>Beach</strong>, CA 90254 Phone (310) 372-4611 Fax (424) 212-6780<br />
n Classified Advertising see the Classified Ad Section. Phone 310.372.4611 x102 n Email displayads@easyreadernews.com<br />
n Fictitious Name Statements (DBA's) can be filed at the office during regular business hours. Phone 310.372.4611 x101.<br />
SECOND PLACE<br />
PHOTOGRAPHY<br />
16 “Calla”<br />
by John Peterson<br />
THIRD PLACE<br />
PHOTOGRAPHY<br />
17 “Falcon Family Hour”<br />
by Tim Tindall<br />
HONORABLE MENTION<br />
PHOTOGRAPHY<br />
20 Crystal<br />
by Gus McConnell<br />
25 Old Souls<br />
by Steve McCall<br />
30 Redondo Pier<br />
by Edward McClure<br />
32 Barrel envy<br />
by Paul Roustan<br />
34 Windy sunset<br />
by Joe Carson<br />
37 Tower sunset<br />
by James Boyd<br />
38 Fire in the sky<br />
by April Reppucci<br />
40 Waves and firelight<br />
by Beverly Gates<br />
43 Talking seagull<br />
by Jerry Averill<br />
44 Solstice moon over the Roundhouse<br />
by Joel Gittelson<br />
46 Fireworks Landscape<br />
by Daniel Sofer<br />
48 Cloud waves<br />
by Jeff Wright<br />
50 Reflections<br />
by Kathy Miller-Fujimoto<br />
BEACH FEATURES<br />
3 <strong>Beach</strong> Calendar by Judy Rae<br />
20 Growing Great<br />
54 Home Services<br />
6 Easy Reader / <strong>Beach</strong> magazine • <strong>August</strong> 11, <strong>2016</strong>
<strong>August</strong> 11, <strong>2016</strong> • Easy Reader / <strong>Beach</strong> magazine 7
10 Easy Reader / <strong>Beach</strong> magazine • <strong>August</strong> 11, <strong>2016</strong>
S O U T H B AY<br />
CAL ENDAR<br />
THURSDAY, AUGUST 11<br />
Search for the Perfect Wave<br />
Surfer <strong>Magazine</strong> writer Kevin Naughton and photographer<br />
Craig Peterson discuss Search for the Perfect Wave, their book<br />
about their exploratory travels through Mexico and Central<br />
America during the 1970s and 1980s. The talk is part of the<br />
Hermosa <strong>Beach</strong> Historical Society Happy Hour with History<br />
series. Peterson will present a slide show of his now iconic<br />
photos. 6 p.m. 710 Pier Avenue, Hermosa <strong>Beach</strong>. For more<br />
information visit Search-For-The-Perfect-Wave.com.<br />
Redondo Pier blues<br />
Tonight’s Redondo Pier concert features bluesman Darrell<br />
Mansfield. 6 to 8 p.m. 100 Fishermans Wharf, Redondo<br />
<strong>Beach</strong>. Redondopier.com.<br />
Surfer Eric Penny at Petacalco in Mexico, a break that writer<br />
Kevin Naughton and photographer Craig Peterson discovered<br />
on their way back from Central America while writing<br />
for Surfer <strong>Magazine</strong> in the 1970s and 1980s. Naughton<br />
and Peterson will talk about their new book, based on their<br />
travels, at the Hermosa <strong>Beach</strong> Historical Society Happy<br />
Hour with History Thursday, <strong>August</strong> 11 at 6 p.m. The museum<br />
is at 710 Pier Avenue. For more information visit<br />
Search-For-The-Perfect-Wave.com. Photo by Craig Peterson<br />
FRIDAY, AUGUST 12<br />
Baking bread for your health<br />
Cancer Support Community-Redondo <strong>Beach</strong> (CSCRB) hosts<br />
cancer survivor Pam Braun, former chef, restaurateur and author<br />
of The Ultimate Anti-Cancer Cookbook. 1 - 2:30 p.m. Attendees<br />
will make dough and bake bread to take home.<br />
Advance registration required. 109 West Torrance Blvd, Redondo<br />
<strong>Beach</strong>.Call (310) 376-3550 or visit the website at cancersupportredondobeach.org.<br />
SATURDAY, AUGUST 13<br />
The Endless Summer, in the sand<br />
Hermosa <strong>Beach</strong> Friends of the Parks and the South Bay Art<br />
& Film Festival present a free screening of “The Endless Summer”<br />
on the sand, south of the Hermosa <strong>Beach</strong> pier. Fun begins<br />
at 6 p.m. Movie begins at 7:30 p.m. sharp. “Goonies”<br />
screens <strong>August</strong> 20 and “Top Gun” on <strong>August</strong> 27. Bring blankets,<br />
picnics and beach chairs. Refreshments, tee-shirts, caps<br />
and blankets will be sold on-site. The event is free. Donations<br />
welcome. hbfop.org.<br />
12 Easy Reader / <strong>Beach</strong> magazine • <strong>August</strong> 11, <strong>2016</strong><br />
Get funky<br />
The Fab Five present “The old and the<br />
new, a different kind of revue.” Free. 3 p.m.<br />
Joslyn Center, 1601 N. Valley Drive, Manhattan<br />
<strong>Beach</strong>. For more info contact Warren<br />
Rohn at (310) 372-8453 or<br />
mrktplnwjr@aol.com.<br />
SUNDAY, AUGUST 14<br />
Venice plays Hermosa<br />
David Crosby called Venice the best vocal<br />
group in America The group performs on the<br />
beach south of the Hermosa pier as part of<br />
the the Hermosa <strong>Beach</strong> Summer Concert Series<br />
presented by St. Rocke and Subaru Pacific.<br />
5 p.m., on the south side of the<br />
Hermosa <strong>Beach</strong> Pier. The next three Sundays<br />
will feature Venice, Robby Krieger of The<br />
Doors and Moustache Harbor. Best to bike<br />
or walk. For more information visit HermosaBch.org.<br />
Semper Fi Car show<br />
The 9th Annual Wounded Warrior Car<br />
Show benefitting the Semper Fi Fund features<br />
pre-1974 show cars, trucks and special<br />
interest vehicles. Gates open at 7 a.m. Cars<br />
parked by 9 a.m. Limited to the first 250 entries.<br />
9 a.m. - 3 p.m. Redondo <strong>Beach</strong> Performing<br />
Arts Center, 1935 Manhattan <strong>Beach</strong><br />
Blvd, Redondo <strong>Beach</strong>. For show information<br />
call (310) 343-9634 or email<br />
threenthre@yahoo.com. Or visit woundedwarriorcarshow.com.<br />
Concert in Polliwog Park<br />
The widely acclaimed duo of keyboardist<br />
Lao Tizer and violinist Karen Briggs bring<br />
their melding of classical, jazz and rock to<br />
Manhattan <strong>Beach</strong> popular Concerts in the<br />
Park series. 5 to 7 p.m. Concerts continue<br />
Sundays through September 4. Polliwog<br />
Park, 1601 Manhattan <strong>Beach</strong> Blvd, Manhattan<br />
<strong>Beach</strong>. Citymb.info.<br />
Sunday market day<br />
Riviera Village’s new Farmers Market<br />
gives followers of fresh fruit and produce a<br />
place to celebrate on Sundays. Triangle parking<br />
lot along S. Elena Ave, Riviera Village. 8<br />
a.m. - 1 p.m. redondo.org.<br />
MONDAY, AUGUST 15<br />
Get connected<br />
"Triumphs and Tragedies: A True Story of<br />
Wealth and Addiction" by Karl B. McMillen<br />
Jr. and Bill Hayes will be discussed by the<br />
authors at Pages bookstore. McMillen will<br />
distribute free copies of the book, the chief<br />
benefactor of the Thelma McMillen Center<br />
for Drug and Alcohol Treatment in Torrance.<br />
The event will be moderated by Karl and<br />
Carol McMillen and Moe Gelbart, PhD, Executive<br />
Director of the Thelma McMillen<br />
Center at Torrance Memorial. Visit southbayfamiliesconnected.org/book-club<br />
to RSVP<br />
and reserve a spot.<br />
WEDNESDAY, AUGUST 17<br />
Summer nights<br />
The Point’s open-aired plaza will be filled with the<br />
tunes of a different genre of music every Wednesday<br />
through <strong>August</strong> to ring in summer nights. Tonight it’s<br />
Gold Rush Country, contemporary country. 6 - 8 p.m.<br />
850 S. Sepulveda Blvd, El Segundo. thepointsb.com.<br />
FRIDAY, AUGUST 19<br />
Outdoor movie in Manhattan<br />
Manhattan <strong>Beach</strong> and Nikau Kai Waterman Shop<br />
present “The Incredibles” at 6 p.m. in the Manhattan<br />
<strong>Beach</strong> Library Courtyard. Bring beach chairs & blankets.<br />
Come dressed to impress and win the Super<br />
Hero Costume Contest. All proceeds go to the Mira<br />
Costa Surf Team. 1320 Highland Ave, Manhattan<br />
<strong>Beach</strong>.<br />
SATURDAY, AUGUST 20<br />
Jester Benefit Tennis Tournament<br />
The Jester & Pharley Phund’s 4th Annual Doubles<br />
Tennis Tournament will help kids suffering from cancer<br />
to receive “The Jester Has Lost His Jingle” book<br />
and Jester & Pharley Dolls. No need to find a partner.<br />
Just come and enjoy a day of great tennis. 8:30 a.m.<br />
at Alta Vista Park,. Silent auction, raffles, prizes, and<br />
giveaways. 801 Camino Real, Redondo <strong>Beach</strong>. Call<br />
(310) 544-4733 for more information. Entry forms<br />
may be printed out from thejester.org.<br />
Grammy award winning saxophonist and the<br />
biggest selling instrumental musician of all time Kenny<br />
G makes a repeat performance at the “30th Annual<br />
Honda Evening Under the Stars For Children’s<br />
Healthcare.” The food and wine festival will be held<br />
Saturday, <strong>August</strong> 27 at the Honda North America<br />
headquarters in Torrance. For tickets call call 310-<br />
517-4703 or visit<br />
torrancememorial.org/Giving/Foundation_Events<br />
SATURDAY, AUGUST 27<br />
Kids under the stars<br />
The “30th Annual Honda Evening Under the Stars<br />
For Children’s Healthcare” combines two of the South<br />
Bay’s most popular food and wine events -- “Evening<br />
Under the Stars,” benefiting Torrance Memorial’s pediatric<br />
department, and “For our Children,” benefiting<br />
Providence TrinityKids Care and Vistas for Children.<br />
Tickets are $200. American Honda is at 700 Van Ness<br />
Avenue, Torrance. For tickets call Call 310-517<br />
4703 or visit torrancememorial.org/Giving/Foundation_Events.
14 Easy Reader / <strong>Beach</strong> magazine • <strong>August</strong> 11, <strong>2016</strong>
<strong>August</strong> 11, <strong>2016</strong> • Easy Reader / <strong>Beach</strong> magazine 15
S E C O N D P L A C E W I N N E R<br />
Calla<br />
by John Peterson<br />
July 5, <strong>2016</strong>. South Coast Botanic<br />
Garden. Taken during the<br />
Creative Photo Academy First<br />
Annual Foto Fest. Nikon D800<br />
16 Easy Reader / <strong>Beach</strong> magazine • <strong>August</strong> 11, <strong>2016</strong>
G R A N D P R I Z E W I N N E R<br />
Serenity<br />
by Homer Hernandez<br />
May 20, <strong>2016</strong>,<br />
Manhattan <strong>Beach</strong><br />
pier. Photographed<br />
using a dark, neutral<br />
density filter that<br />
allowed a 15 second<br />
exposure. This<br />
caused the waves to<br />
blur and give the<br />
peaceful serene look.<br />
Nikon D810<br />
T H I R D P L A C E W I N N E R<br />
Falcon family hour<br />
by Timothy Tindall<br />
June 15, <strong>2016</strong>, Palos<br />
Verdes. A lady asked<br />
me if I saw the family<br />
of falcons in the cliff<br />
area and I said no.<br />
Then I saw them.<br />
Canon T3<br />
<strong>August</strong> 11, <strong>2016</strong> • Easy Reader / <strong>Beach</strong> magazine 17
Welcome to the South Coast Botanic Garden -<br />
an enduring community treasure for the South Bay area and beyond.<br />
The South Coast Botanic Garden is an<br />
urban refuge, encompassing 87-acres<br />
and offers a wide variety of blooming<br />
trees, shrubs, and flowers all year.<br />
Visit SCBGF.org<br />
for details and more events.<br />
We provide a place of beauty, serenity,<br />
and learning for thousands of visitors<br />
each year. There are also many fun things<br />
to do throughout the seasons: plant<br />
sales, community celebrations, concerts,<br />
art exhibits, movie nights and much more!<br />
18 Easy Reader / <strong>Beach</strong> magazine • <strong>August</strong> 11, <strong>2016</strong>
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<strong>August</strong> 11, <strong>2016</strong> • Easy Reader / <strong>Beach</strong> magazine 19
H O N O R A B L E M E N T I O N<br />
Crystal<br />
by Gus McConnell<br />
January <strong>2016</strong>, El Porto. El Nino surf created giant sandbars, which created a powerful backwash. Canon 7D<br />
H O N O R A B L E<br />
M E N T I O N<br />
HERMOSA HAPPINESS<br />
by Ute Roepke Lorenz<br />
Dedicated to Turner, Ty, and Kalea Conrad<br />
Hermosa is a lovely place.<br />
For some it is a perfect space<br />
Enjoying work and play each day<br />
Where ev’rybody wants to stay.<br />
Let’s go to see Hermosa <strong>Beach</strong>!<br />
Here’s a town in easy reach<br />
For surfing, volleyball, and fun<br />
While some enjoy a ‘Greenbelt’ run.<br />
The Strand is busy ev’ry day<br />
With bikes and strollers on the way,<br />
And standup paddlers in the ocean<br />
Delight the eye with perfect motion.<br />
For just a couple weeks each year<br />
There are tall dunes beside the pier<br />
Kids of all ages slide and play,<br />
While parents have a lovely day.<br />
Swimming along the beach is fine –<br />
Especially in summertime.<br />
A whale might join you any day<br />
While going southward faraway.<br />
Enjoy your fishing at the pier –<br />
And meet with friends from far and near.<br />
Then watch the dolphins going by<br />
And all the seagulls flying high.<br />
Lovely sunsets bring peace of mind –<br />
And take away the daily grind.<br />
When sailboats drift across the sea<br />
It’s happiness for you and me.<br />
Let’s not forget Hermosa Fair —<br />
Or race excitement in the air.<br />
At Christmas time with lights so bright,<br />
Pier Plaza is a joyous sight.<br />
The Plaza sparkles by day and night –<br />
An evening out is a true delight.<br />
Old friends – new friends – enjoy the food<br />
Which is so plentiful and good.<br />
A million thanks, Hermosa <strong>Beach</strong>!<br />
I’m glad you are in easy reach.<br />
For sports and fun all through the year,<br />
And memories so grand and dear. B<br />
20 Easy Reader / <strong>Beach</strong> magazine • <strong>August</strong> 11, <strong>2016</strong>
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22 Easy Reader / <strong>Beach</strong> magazine • <strong>August</strong> 11, <strong>2016</strong>
<strong>August</strong> 11, <strong>2016</strong> • Easy Reader / <strong>Beach</strong> magazine 23
G R A N D P R I Z E W I N N E R<br />
Thank you, Mira Costa<br />
My English became the responsibility of<br />
Miss Jean Swain, my English teacher.<br />
She was young, cute, sweet, and innocent.<br />
by Spiros (Steve) H. Mikelatos, MD<br />
Lt. Colonel, USAF, M.C. (Ret.)<br />
It was <strong>August</strong> of 1952, I was 15 years old and<br />
close to enrolling in Mira Costa High<br />
School. My school name was Steve, my<br />
Greek name Spiros.<br />
Mira Costa, its teachers and students taught<br />
me to read, write, and speak English. They gave<br />
me an education above and beyond my expectations.<br />
The young high school was opening its doors<br />
wide to welcome students for only its second<br />
year. The students were anticipating some difficult<br />
classes but were also eager to have some<br />
fun. My sister Helen and I were new and a bit<br />
different. I did not speak English. Truthfully, I<br />
spoke 2 words “yes” and “no”. English conversation<br />
was not possible for me.<br />
My sister, mother Angeliki and I had recently<br />
joined my father Harry and older brother Jerry<br />
in Manhattan <strong>Beach</strong>. My father and brother<br />
had left our Greek Island of Kefalonia to come<br />
to America five years earlier. In Manhattan<br />
<strong>Beach</strong>, my brother assumed responsibility for<br />
our reunited family as my father was over 65<br />
years old and my mother did not speak English.<br />
Before entering Mira Costa, Helen spoke<br />
some English from lessons on the island. The<br />
money was not enough for my lessons. I tried<br />
to learn some words by myself from a dictionary.<br />
Soon I realized self-taught pronunciation<br />
may sound ludicrous. I decided to postpone my<br />
English learning until I reached America.<br />
In Manhattan <strong>Beach</strong>, Greek-American ladies<br />
advised my mother and brother not to place<br />
Helen and me in a regular high school. My 20-<br />
year-old, macho brother Jerry was a man who<br />
could think for himself and was fluent in English.<br />
He decided to talk with Principal Lloyd<br />
Waller and Vice Principal Carl Fisher face to<br />
face.<br />
When Jerry returned home, he told Helen<br />
and me that we were enrolled in Mira Costa, in<br />
the same grade we were enrolled in when we<br />
left our Greek high school. Helen was a junior<br />
and I a sophomore. Classes would begin in<br />
three days. Jerry did not forget to mention how<br />
cute and smart Mira Costa boys and girls were.<br />
I did not ask any questions. I had some faith<br />
that “The Lord is my Shepherd…”.<br />
The administration tried to make my life easier.<br />
They gave me a class in woodshop, one in<br />
Glee-Club, and one in Algebra. There was less<br />
need for words in these classes. My classes in<br />
History and English would certainly, expose my<br />
ignorance of words.<br />
For the first day of school, my mother gave<br />
us the Greek equivalent of a brown bag lunch.<br />
She gave us a piece of bread, 2 tomatoes, some<br />
olives, lettuce leaves, and a piece of feta cheese<br />
that looked like a bar of soap.<br />
During lunch break, Helen and I sat together<br />
on the green grass to eat. Our class impressions<br />
were positive and the food tasted good. In a<br />
brief interval, a pretty blonde girl came to sit<br />
with us. Her name was Maureen and she was<br />
a stranger. She asked to be excused by her<br />
friends, then asked permission to join us. On<br />
that day and ever since, I could only believe<br />
that Maureen’s lovely face was a reflection of<br />
the beauty of her soul.<br />
My English became the responsibility of Miss<br />
Jean Swain, my English teacher. She was young,<br />
cute, sweet, and innocent. In the beginning, it<br />
was difficult for her to believe that my English<br />
did not exist. She was more interested in making<br />
learning fun and interesting. She gave me<br />
an elementary school book to read about cowboys<br />
and Indians. She was amazed that I had to<br />
look up every word in the dictionary.<br />
That approach was very, very slow. Miss<br />
Swain quickly changed strategies.<br />
She decided to teach the whole class for 45<br />
minutes, and then gave the class 10 minutes of<br />
work in the room. During those 10 minutes, she<br />
asked me to sit next to her by the class window.<br />
There she introduced her audiovisual method<br />
without an instrument:<br />
“The wall is white”,<br />
“The grass is green”.<br />
She pointed to the object, spoke slowly, and<br />
asked me to repeat every word. From that moment,<br />
I began to learn English. In retrospect, I<br />
was not sure if Miss Swain’s new method was<br />
miraculously effective. Perhaps, it was more the<br />
inspiration of her presence next to me.<br />
As I struggled with English in school, no student<br />
laughed at me or bullied me. No student<br />
complained that I was a burden on a class. Perhaps<br />
this helpful, positive attitude stayed with<br />
me until time came for me to give society some-<br />
thing in return.<br />
When homework allowed, I helped in the family<br />
business of growing and selling flowers. There was<br />
still agricultural land around local cities. Flowers<br />
were beautiful and they made so many people happy.<br />
Early in the fall of 1952, I began looking for school<br />
sports. There was no soccer team, but there was a<br />
track and cross country. Coach Ryan and later Coach<br />
Ray accepted my modest ability. I did some running<br />
and some long jumping too. I began running barefoot<br />
on the uninhabited hills around Mira Costa. Some of<br />
my fellow runners had more speed and grace. I participated<br />
and did my best. Though I was realistic<br />
about my ability, I was often daydreaming about the<br />
immortal runners Louis Zamperini, Emil Zatopek,<br />
and Paavo Nurmi.<br />
I had some good luck in the long jump and the 660<br />
yard run in a meet in Beverly Hills High School. I<br />
was not sure if my effort that day was motivated by<br />
Coach Ryan or was inspired by the Beverly Hills<br />
beauties watching on the track infield.<br />
I also recall my barefoot race on the traditional<br />
Cross Country Course of Mount San Antonio College<br />
(MT SAC) in Walnut/Pomona. I still feel the hard<br />
earth under my bare feet.<br />
Two years after I graduated from Mira Costa,<br />
Coach Ray and his runners won the State Cross<br />
Country Championship. I can only imagine the spirit<br />
of Zamperini, Nurmi, and Zatopek leading their<br />
steps.<br />
It has always been a pleasure to know champions<br />
bloom in Mira Costa and in the South Bay.<br />
My sister Helen did not participate in sports, but<br />
did well in Mira Costa academically.<br />
In my three years in Mira Costa, my English improved<br />
but did not become fluent. I could not hold a<br />
long conversation to my satisfaction. The Greek at<br />
home did not help my English.<br />
Schoolmates, teachers, and administrators showed<br />
support and understanding.<br />
Mr. Waller, Mr. Fisher, Miss. Swain, Mr. Brigham,<br />
Mr. Roy, Miss White, Coach Ryan, Coach Ray, and<br />
others were there for me.<br />
Schoolmates and teachers asked me what was my<br />
family’s relationship with America before I left<br />
Greece. I would have said my father was a naturalized<br />
American citizen before 1930. I was born and<br />
raised on the Island of Kefalonia when Hitler and<br />
Mussolini were preparing for War. I lived in WW II<br />
and have known the hunger and suffering that a war<br />
can bring. I was 7 years old when the Americans<br />
stormed Omaha <strong>Beach</strong> and Normandie to bring the<br />
peace.<br />
After the War, the US State Department located my<br />
father in our small island village. They invited the<br />
whole family to America.<br />
Schoolmates and teachers asked me to talk about<br />
my island Kefalonia. I could have said the natives<br />
love this island and its nostalgic songs. They adore<br />
the high mountain, the magical landscapes, the idyllic<br />
seashores, and Santorini sunsets. The natives love<br />
the poet Homer who wrote in the Iliad: Legendary<br />
“Ulysses was leading the great-hearted Kefalonians”<br />
to rescue beautiful Helen in the War of Troy.<br />
Sometimes, schoolmates and teachers asked me<br />
about my trip from the island to California and to<br />
Manhattan <strong>Beach</strong>. My English did not allow me to<br />
24 Easy Reader / <strong>Beach</strong> magazine • <strong>August</strong> 11, <strong>2016</strong>
H O N O R A B L E M E N T I O N<br />
Old Souls<br />
by Steve McCall<br />
April <strong>2016</strong>, Ruby’s Redondo <strong>Beach</strong>. My daughter and her two friends in Ryan Jensen's classic car at the Ruby's Car Show. Canon T3i<br />
tell them then.<br />
I left my island with tears in my eyes but an<br />
optimistic spirit. Loved ones wished me a<br />
brighter future in America. I sailed the Atlantic<br />
Ocean for two weeks. Then, I gazed at the Statue<br />
of Liberty with the torch held high. Someone<br />
read the inscription: “Give me your tired, your<br />
poor…”.<br />
My brother Jerry traveled from Manhattan<br />
<strong>Beach</strong> to New York to meet us.<br />
My mother, sister, and I were happy to see him<br />
there. From that great city, we traveled by train<br />
over the mighty Mississippi, across the Great<br />
Plains, and the Wild West. We reached Los Angeles<br />
and in Manhattan <strong>Beach</strong>, it was a joy to<br />
meet my father and see the family reunited.<br />
Schoolmates and teachers had asked me how I<br />
liked Manhattan <strong>Beach</strong> and the South Bay. I<br />
could have said, I often walk The Strand. The<br />
ocean reminds me of Homer’s “Odyssey.” In the<br />
Odyssey, Homer describes the Elysian Fields, the<br />
paradise of the Greeks: “A place where no snow<br />
falls and very little rain. In the afternoon, the gentle<br />
breeze comes from the sea to refresh the people.”<br />
This description of paradise best fits<br />
Manhattan <strong>Beach</strong> and the South Bay.<br />
In my junior year in Mira Costa, a counselor<br />
made appointment for me to discuss my field of<br />
interest. I was not prepared. I thought of becoming<br />
a priest, a monk, an actor and a life science<br />
teacher. Finally, I thought of helping people in<br />
pain and suffering applying medical skills. I had<br />
a feeling the counselor could have hinted that the<br />
study of medicine is long, difficult, and expensive.<br />
Instead, counselor Bernardi said, “Medicine<br />
is a nice choice.” Relatives were supportive. My<br />
orientation was set. I did not broadcast my<br />
choice.<br />
Before graduation from Mira Costa, I was<br />
happy to be accepted by UCLA as a premedical<br />
student. I was also happy to receive two substantial<br />
monetary scholarships. One came from the<br />
beautiful people of the Bank of America. The second<br />
came from the beautiful humanitarian group<br />
Sandpipers and Sandebs. A few years ago, I had<br />
a chance to thank the Sandpipers and Sandebs in<br />
person. I was impressed how they walk in style,<br />
grace, and beauty and have compassion in the<br />
heart.<br />
One evening in June 1955, an idyllic sunset appeared<br />
on The Strand horizon. It was graduation<br />
day for Mira Costa High School. It was time for<br />
me to say a silent “Thank you, Mira Costa”.<br />
Many people were at the school to see students<br />
receiving diplomas. Some of my loved ones were<br />
far away but vivid in my memory.<br />
My loving family was present.<br />
Schoolmates, teachers, administrators, friends,<br />
and well-wishers were there for me and for others.<br />
The beautiful people of the Bank of America<br />
and the beautiful Sandpipers and Sandebs were<br />
there in person or not far away.<br />
Some people wished me the best.<br />
Some wished me good luck at UCLA.<br />
Someone simply said, “Vaya Con Dios!” B<br />
<strong>August</strong> 11, <strong>2016</strong> • Easy Reader / <strong>Beach</strong> magazine 25
Hermosa <strong>Beach</strong> Sidewalk Sale <strong>August</strong> 13 - 14<br />
Join us for small bites and wine<br />
50% off<br />
Select Spring<br />
and<br />
Summer Apparel<br />
beach food<br />
GROWING GREAT FARM TO TABLE GALA<br />
G<br />
rowing Great, the non-profit that teaches gardening and nutrition in local<br />
schools, held its annual “Farm to Table” gala on May 2 at the ad agency<br />
72andSunny’s Playa Vista campus (the former offices of Howard Hughes).<br />
More than 200 people attended the event, which featured celebrity chef demonstrations,<br />
a live auction, and a locally sourced, farm-fresh dinner.<br />
321 Pier Ave.<br />
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Summer Hours 10:30-6:30<br />
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• Serving the South<br />
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of Manhattan<br />
House. Stavardis,<br />
whose restaurant<br />
includes a garden<br />
and an emphasis<br />
on farm-to-table<br />
cuisine, also gave<br />
a cooking demonstration.<br />
Photo by<br />
Mark McDermott<br />
Ellen and Mike<br />
Rosenberg, cofounders<br />
of<br />
Fresh Brothers<br />
Pizza, received<br />
Growing Great’s<br />
“Green Fork”<br />
award. The couple<br />
have been<br />
key contributors<br />
to the non-profit<br />
since its founding<br />
in Manhattan<br />
<strong>Beach</strong> in 1999.<br />
Photo by Mark<br />
McDermott<br />
28 Easy Reader / <strong>Beach</strong> magazine • <strong>August</strong> 11, <strong>2016</strong>
<strong>August</strong> 11, <strong>2016</strong> • Easy Reader / <strong>Beach</strong> magazine 29
H O N O R A B L E<br />
M E N T I O N<br />
Redondo Pier<br />
by Edward Mcclure<br />
November 26, 2015,<br />
Redondo <strong>Beach</strong>. Early<br />
morning sunrise at the<br />
Redondo <strong>Beach</strong> Pier.<br />
Canon 5d Mark ii<br />
On our block, everybody knew everybody.<br />
That’s the way it was in the 1950s. I never<br />
had a key to my house. We never locked<br />
it. The kids played in the street or in the backyards.<br />
We went to the park without supervision.<br />
People were like extended family up and down<br />
the street. We knew all the names, and we knew<br />
all the stories.<br />
Nobody moved in, and nobody moved out. I<br />
loved engaging in conversation with the oldest<br />
residents on our block. I would soak up their wisdom<br />
as if it was from Aristotle himself. My neighborhood<br />
had the most profound and brilliant<br />
philosophers on the planet at just the right time<br />
for me.<br />
“Ole Man Shannon” was a crotchety old guy<br />
who pulled no punches. He told me secrets most<br />
people never knew, and I never shared with anyone<br />
else. Mr. Chapman knew the whole history<br />
of the goat farms that existed before our homes,<br />
and Mr. Clemens knew where “all the bodies<br />
were buried.” Mrs. Zink gave us perspective<br />
along with lunch on a tray of sandwiches, and<br />
Merton told us how all those animals became<br />
30 Easy Reader / <strong>Beach</strong> magazine • <strong>August</strong> 11, <strong>2016</strong><br />
H O N O R A B L E M E N T I O N<br />
Hazel Street by Dave Siemienski<br />
My neighborhood had the most profound and brilliant<br />
philosophers on the planet<br />
pets hanging around his yard. Old Charlie Coyle<br />
and I argued who was better, Stan Musial or Ted<br />
Williams.<br />
Mr. Nicholson gave me the most joy. Although<br />
he had his own son, he treated me like his second<br />
one. And he was like my second father. His boy<br />
was always gone (being seven years older than<br />
me), so he reserved a lot of his wit and wisdom<br />
for me. I first began mowing his lawn when I was<br />
only 8 or 9 years old. That was my first job.<br />
As my work ethic emerged with this new responsibility,<br />
so did my appreciation for money<br />
and the satisfaction of a job well done. Mr.<br />
Nicholson taught me many things about working<br />
around the property. I got to know his garage as<br />
well as I did my own. We lived right next door to<br />
each other.<br />
I remember the first day I saw the small little<br />
wood “treasure chest” on his work bench. It was<br />
no bigger than a box of Kleenex, and it had a<br />
small lock on its latch. The lock was so small that<br />
it looked like one hard pull would break it apart.<br />
I asked Mr. Nicholson what was in it?<br />
“The thing that means the most to me, Davey.”<br />
He always called me “Davey.” Nobody else did.<br />
It was always Dave or David to everyone else.<br />
“Can I see it?” I naively asked.<br />
“Some day” came the reply.<br />
Irvin Nicholson was an exceptional man. He<br />
worked as hard when he got home as he did<br />
while at the lumber yard where he earned his living.<br />
He had a great sense of humor, and always<br />
made me and everyone else laugh. He loved his<br />
wife, and always put her priorities first in his list<br />
of duties. Although he had a fine relationship<br />
with his son, their busy schedules seldom<br />
synced. I would fill that void when the occasion<br />
called for it.<br />
I learned from Mr. Nicholson that my work for<br />
him gave me credibility in our neighborhood.<br />
Soon I was cutting almost every lawn on the<br />
block, and my business model was booming. A<br />
dozen years later I would buy a new sports car<br />
with the cash I made mowing lawns on Hazel<br />
Street.<br />
No matter what other responsibilities I had, the<br />
jobs for Mr. Nick were always the top priority.<br />
We enjoyed spending this time together, and the
apport was a natural extension of the relationship. He always expressed<br />
his appreciation for this time I spent with him, but I just thought he was<br />
being nice.<br />
The lots on Hazel Street were exceptionally long for the residential properties<br />
of that town. Our yard had gardens and fruit trees in the back, but<br />
the Nicholson lot next door was much more barren. Since our families<br />
were so close in every sense of the word, I was able to use both yards as<br />
my private playgrounds. This included almost every sport, including golf.<br />
The Nicholson yard provided enough open space for me to really work on<br />
my golf game, and Mr. Nicholson did not fail to notice my passion. One<br />
day he asked me, “would you like a putting green in my back yard?”<br />
Before I could even comprehend what I was hearing, a dump truck deposited<br />
two tons of dirt and gravel in his back yard. Then Old Nick proceeded<br />
to show me how to construct a real golf green, and I was forever<br />
in debt for one of the best gifts in life I was ever given. My friends came<br />
from everywhere in town to play in our back yards, and this just amplified<br />
the incredible euphoria of growing up on Hazel Street. This was heaven<br />
on Earth for young boys of that era.<br />
As I got older, my tasks included every variety work imaginable. If a<br />
family locked themselves out of their house, and I was called upon because<br />
of my notorious skinny body (even as a teenager). In the ‘50s, some homes<br />
had small milk passages on the outside wall, where the milkman would<br />
deliver the bottles. I could slip through that tiny opening, to the always<br />
amazed onlookers. I did whatever was necessary to get a job done.<br />
The work ethics learned in my neighborhood lasted a lifetime. There<br />
were no better teachers on the planet than my mom and dad, Mr. Nicholson,<br />
Mr. Chapman, Mr. Shannon, Mrs. Zink, and all the rest of the great<br />
generation which populated this country in the middle of that century.<br />
I moved away from Hazel Street in my early twenties. My parents still<br />
lived there, and so did the Nicholsons. Whenever I would visit my folks, I<br />
would make sure to go see Old Nick next door. Nothing seemed to change<br />
much, but it was always good to see him and the old neighborhood again.<br />
On a phone call one day, Mom mentioned that Mr. Nicholson had not<br />
been feeling well lately. I told her I would probably stop by soon to see<br />
him. Sadly, that would never happen. Two days later I was told that Irvin<br />
Nicholson had a heart attack, and died suddenly. I regret not going to see<br />
him immediately to this day. That was another lesson learned, and in the<br />
most difficult fashion.<br />
After the funeral, we went over to the Nicholson home. It was hard for<br />
me to speak to anyone, as my emotions were still raw, and the place was<br />
crowded with relatives. When I eventually exited through the garage, as<br />
was my custom, I noticed that little wood treasure box was gone.<br />
Three days later, I received a package from a familar address on Hazel<br />
Street. Inside, was that small wood box with an enveloped attached. With<br />
great trepidation, I opened the letter. It was from Mrs. Nicholson. It read:<br />
“Irvin asked me to mail this to you if he died before me. I have taped the<br />
key to his box here on the bottom of this letter, and I trust you will know<br />
what to do with it. I have not opened the box myself, and I feel no need to<br />
know what is inside. I only know that he wanted to make sure you had it<br />
after he was gone.<br />
Thank you for all you always did for us, and I know Irvin greatly enjoyed<br />
having you around.<br />
~ Warm regards, Bernice”<br />
My hands trembled, and I had to dry my eyes before even removing the<br />
key from the letter. I held the box in my lap, and paused to think of what<br />
might be inside. When I finally opened the box, there was just a Thank<br />
You card inside. I opened it and read:<br />
“Davey, I want to thank you for the time you spent with me. It meant so<br />
much, and it was the most important thing I wanted you to know. Nick.”<br />
My eyes were now swelling, and the emotions uncontrollable. It took<br />
me a while to assemble my thoughts, but they became more coherent as I<br />
calmed down.<br />
The fact that Mr. Nicholson attached the most importance to spending<br />
time with me would never be forgotten. I was always thinking in those<br />
early years that the elderly folks I was spending time with were teaching<br />
me, and giving me great gifts of wisdom. It never occurred to me until now<br />
that I might have been giving something back to them. B<br />
<strong>August</strong> 11, <strong>2016</strong> • Easy Reader / <strong>Beach</strong> magazine 31
H O N O R A B L E<br />
M E N T I O N<br />
Barrel Envy<br />
by Paul Roustan<br />
January 8, <strong>2016</strong>,<br />
Hammerland,<br />
El Segundo. Surfer<br />
Cassio Pereira and<br />
friend watch Tyler<br />
Hatzikian plow<br />
through a giant wave.<br />
Nikon D70<br />
The little man in the cabinet<br />
He had been an odd, mysterious sibling of her mother's,<br />
long separated from the family<br />
Katie looked around the hillside beach<br />
view house one last time. Her stained<br />
glass lamps, paintings, cook books, potted<br />
plants and the rest of her clothing were<br />
packed in her white Rover in the driveway. It was<br />
good timing. Jared was at his job site at his latest<br />
renovation project. She didn't need another unpleasant<br />
scene. It was over. She was relieved as<br />
she drove away.<br />
The Victorian mansion in South Redondo was<br />
an oddity. As peculiar a curiosity as the belongings<br />
and its former owner, her uncle Seaghan O'-<br />
Doyle, the magician. It was beautiful yet<br />
somehow forbidding. He had been an odd, mysterious<br />
sibling of her mother's. Long separated<br />
from the family, he passed away a while back,<br />
and surprisingly had left the home to Katie, a<br />
niece he had only met as a child. One of the provisions<br />
in his will was that she live in the home<br />
for a year.<br />
It would take that long to sort through all of his<br />
strange memorabilia.<br />
As she brought her things into the home she<br />
had the sense of not being alone. The interior was<br />
dark. Dark wood, dark floors, dark Oriental rugs,<br />
32 Easy Reader / <strong>Beach</strong> magazine • <strong>August</strong> 11, <strong>2016</strong><br />
H O N O R A B L E<br />
M E N T I O N<br />
mahogany antiques everywhere.<br />
And tall paintings of Uncle Seaghan in his various<br />
magician poses, all peering down at her.<br />
There were bronzed figures of ravens and Egyptian<br />
cats, cartouches, magical paraphernalia of all<br />
kinds. Closets filled with costumes. And many<br />
shelves of books on the occult, magical arts, secret<br />
societies, clairvoyance, and the Egyptian<br />
Book of the Dead.<br />
Katie ran a bath, and sank into the soothing<br />
aromatic herbal water, lighting a scented candle<br />
and sipping some Chardonnay. To new beginnings.<br />
She thought of the old song lyric......"when<br />
a lovely flame dies, smoke gets in your eyes...."<br />
And how.<br />
Katie carried her wine glass as she walked<br />
around the house in her cuddly robe. She wandered<br />
into her uncle's study. A huge antique desk<br />
and chair, more magician's collectibles. Celtic art.<br />
An old gramophone. An old family album was on<br />
a shelf with pictures of relatives in Ireland. Old<br />
homes, farms. Uncle Seaghan as a lad, and later<br />
as a young man with his arm around her mother<br />
Rose, and as a man in a severe black suit, standing<br />
with a little girl looking very very sad.<br />
by Nancy Skiba<br />
It was a cemetery. There was a picture of her<br />
mother's headstone. She set the album aside, and<br />
looked around the room. There was an antique<br />
cabinet about five feet high, with a beveled glass<br />
door. It was locked. She yawned. She'd have to<br />
find the key but for now was tired and went upstairs<br />
to bed. There was a full moon. The only<br />
sound outside was the ocean's rolling roar.<br />
An antique grandfather clock ticked somewhere<br />
in the parlor. The cabinet door softly<br />
clicked open. Inside the cabinet stood the small<br />
figure of a man, perhaps three and a half feet tall,<br />
dressed in dark pants and an old-style jacket and<br />
a flat cap. He appeared lifelike, with ginger hair<br />
curling from beneath the cap. His rough features<br />
were Gaelic.<br />
A black Dodge Ram pickup was making its<br />
way down the hill. The pickup inched along, the<br />
driver looking toward the house and the white<br />
Rover. The driver parked halfway down the<br />
block, got out and walked quietly toward the<br />
Rover.<br />
He was visible in the moonlight, a handsome<br />
man of 35, muscular, with a determined look on<br />
his face. Looking around, he pulled a folding
knife from his belt, and deftly jabbed the tires on the Rover. The man was<br />
Jared, Katie's ex-fiancé, and for him it was not over. The tires had not satisfied<br />
his anger.<br />
The little man in the cabinet opened his eyes.<br />
Jared quietly made his way to the side of the house and peered in<br />
through the windows and found them to be locked. He walked around to<br />
the back of the Victorian, until he reached the garden outside the study.<br />
As he reached for the window pane, his light jacket opened and a larger<br />
knife was visible in a sheath on his belt.<br />
The little man's eyes moved toward the sound.<br />
Jared inserted the knife into the window jamb. But the lock held. He<br />
looked up toward the bedrooms.<br />
The cabinet was now empty. The little man was not in sight.<br />
Jared was outside, looking in the beveled glass front door. There was<br />
murder in his eyes. The little man stood in the darkness to the side of the<br />
door, unseen. Finally Jared, frustrated, left but not before he stomped on<br />
the flower bed for good measure. He moved quickly toward his truck, and<br />
got in.<br />
The door of the Victorian was open a crick. The little man was standing<br />
under the shadow of a tree, watching as Jared started the engine and slowly<br />
rolled past the manse. He began walking after the truck. Then began jogging<br />
after it. The truck stopped at a stop sign, and continued left toward<br />
the hills.<br />
The little man followed, unnoticed. He continued following the truck up<br />
the hilly twisting roads all the way to its own driveway. He stood in the<br />
darkness as Jared went into his hillside home. The little man watched him<br />
through the window, on the dark side of the house. He watched Jared<br />
throw framed photographs in a trash basket, breaking the glass. Jared carried<br />
the basket outside and dumped it in a recycle bin at the curb, then<br />
went back inside.<br />
The little man peered at the broken picture frames -- pictures of Jared<br />
with Katie.<br />
He stared after Jared as he went back inside. In a few minutes the lights<br />
were turned off. The little man waited.<br />
Jared was asleep in his bed. The house was silent. Suddenly he awoke,<br />
at the sound of running water. He picked up a baseball bat on the way and<br />
headed toward the bathroom, where the tub was filling up. There was no<br />
one in sight. He turned off the tap. A moment later, he heard the television,<br />
but when he crept toward the den, it turned off. He looked around nervously<br />
and waited. He heard the microwave in the kitchen go on. He went<br />
to look. The microwave dinged. He saw no one. He opened the microwave<br />
door, and found nothing inside. There was a soft rapping at the front door.<br />
He peeked out through the peephole. No one. He pulled the door open and<br />
looked around the porch and front yard and into the street. He heard a<br />
scratching sound.<br />
The little man was walking around the pickup, scratching the paint with<br />
a shard of the broken picture frame glass. Jared raised the baseball bat and<br />
rushed after him. When he got to the other side of the truck, the man had<br />
vanished. He stood there in astonishment, looking at the damage. He<br />
turned in time to see the little man rush back into the house. Jared ran<br />
after him. He switched on the lights. No sign of the little man. He heard a<br />
singsong voice from his bedroom. The voice was speaking Gaelic. As he<br />
stepped into the room, the little man leapt down from the top of a dresser<br />
and clung to Jared's back. He tried to shake him off. But it was useless.<br />
The little man was strong. He held Jared tightly, and would not let go. Jared<br />
dropped the baseball bat, and tried to pull the man off him. He tripped<br />
and fell, and the little man was on top of him again. Jared saw the wicked<br />
shard of glass in the man's leathery hand.<br />
Neighbors thought they heard a moaning sound in the night but went<br />
back to sleep. One of Jared's crew came by when he did not show up at<br />
the work site, and saw the evidence of what had been a terrible struggle,<br />
and a futile one.<br />
That morning, Katie went outside and got in her Rover, and left for work.<br />
Her tires were fine and the paint of the Rover as perfect as it had been the<br />
day before.<br />
The cabinet door was closed now. The little man was back in his place,<br />
still and life-like as before, eyes closed.There was the slightest of a smile<br />
on his lips. B<br />
<strong>August</strong> 11, <strong>2016</strong> • Easy Reader / <strong>Beach</strong> magazine 33
H O N O R A B L E M E N T I O N<br />
Windy Sunset<br />
by Joe Carson<br />
January 31, <strong>2016</strong>.<br />
Strong onshore winds<br />
at the Manhattan<br />
<strong>Beach</strong> pier.<br />
Nikon D800<br />
Naughty Maggie<br />
H O N O R A B L E M E N T I O N<br />
by Nicholas Gustavson<br />
Things got sloppy. A spilled drink. Chip wearing the trucker hat askew, the girl tossing it on the bartender’s head.<br />
After his flight home, Chip decided to get<br />
sloppy drunk. Teenagers could treat each<br />
other this way, he reasoned, breaking up<br />
via text messages, but grown-ups? Specifically<br />
Trina, texting him about a trial separation? Have<br />
the decency, he’d typed, to talk in person. Her<br />
reply?<br />
You’re never home.<br />
How was that an excuse? He’d been busting his<br />
hump all year, frequent flying Sunday through<br />
Friday to Chicago. For what? To pay their Manhattan<br />
<strong>Beach</strong> mortgage and finance her South<br />
Bay lifestyle. He explained it again. She didn’t<br />
reply.<br />
Trina wasn’t home when the Uber dropped<br />
him off. He checked their garage. Yup, she’d<br />
taken her yuppie cart somewhere. She couldn’t<br />
have gone far, he figured, not with the cart’s maximum<br />
distance of 30 miles on a full charge. Probably<br />
SoulCycling class, or busting out thrusters at<br />
that outdoor gym on Harbor Drive. That made<br />
him chuckle. Trina obsessively purchased<br />
Groupons for new exercise classes; CrossFit,<br />
Bikram Yoga, Contemporary Pilates, G.I. Joe<br />
Bootcamp. Hell, she’d probably join Stroller<br />
Strides if she could borrow someone’s baby.<br />
Baby?<br />
There’s a word he hadn’t spoken since forever.<br />
He said it again. Still sounded bad. It hadn’t<br />
sounded good since last summer, when they’d<br />
spent a hot Saturday night in the emergency<br />
room at Little Company of Mary. The waiting<br />
room sucked, crowded with nightlife casualties,<br />
and their hysterical friends in party dresses and<br />
blood stained blazers, no one anticipating this<br />
conclusion to their night. When the nurse called<br />
Trina’s name, they went in and listened to a harassed<br />
physician read out Trina’s dropping HCG<br />
levels like a sailor sounding out ocean depths.<br />
4600 yesterday. 68 today. Mark goddamn Twain.<br />
What happens, he’d wanted to ask, when she hits<br />
bottom?<br />
He knew the answer of course. The egg breaks.<br />
And after the egg broke, after they’d driven home<br />
to their immaculate house, where they’d presumptively<br />
assembled an heirloom-style crib<br />
from Pottery Barn (stupid, he knew, stupid) he<br />
heard the shell around their marriage cracking<br />
too.<br />
He left the house on foot, not bothering to shed<br />
his work clothes. Half hour up the Strand, sweating<br />
through his slacks, he turned uphill. Time for<br />
that drink. He spotted a trucker hat lying on the<br />
curb. It looked new. What the hell, he thought,<br />
and picked it up. The hat fit nicely over his thinning<br />
hair.<br />
He didn’t realize he’d reached El Porto until he<br />
surfaced on Highland and saw the <strong>Beach</strong> Hut<br />
across the street. Except it wasn’t the <strong>Beach</strong> Hut<br />
anymore, just some hair salon. Funny how things<br />
change. He used to inhale loco moco there after<br />
surfing, back when he was single.<br />
Single?<br />
He hadn’t used that word in forever. Last summer<br />
they were destined to become a smiling trio.<br />
But now? He’d been on board for trying again,<br />
for a rainbow baby, but she wouldn’t have it.<br />
Eighteen weeks in, Chip. What if it happens<br />
again? He’d told her he was willing to take that<br />
34 Easy Reader / <strong>Beach</strong> magazine • <strong>August</strong> 11, <strong>2016</strong>
chance. She couldn’t bear it, she’d told him, before disappearing into her<br />
phone.<br />
He headed south. Sharkeez was gone, replaced by a fish restaurant undergoing<br />
construction. Still open during remodel! the sign said. Sorry, he<br />
thought, don’t want sawdust in my beer. He forgot how much El Porto had<br />
transformed itself. Then he remembered Sharkeez, where he’d cruise girls<br />
with his friends in that low ceilinged, pirate ship of a building, had sailed<br />
across the street and commandeered Harry O’s.<br />
Harry O’s! They’d elbow their way to the long rectangular bar, Joe’s<br />
Band playing, and the women’s bathroom door opening on the dance floor,<br />
offering up embarrassed girls straight from the toilet. Then he’d stumble<br />
down Harry O’s steps and run to Hillary’s Hole in the Wall for a last drink<br />
before stumbling home.<br />
Chip wanted to try Hillary’s for old times, but he remembered it was<br />
now Bora Bora steakhouse. No, that was gone, replaced by Four Daughters,<br />
a breakfast place he loved walking to with Trina on weekends.<br />
Then it hit him.<br />
Pancho’s.<br />
Pancho’s hadn’t changed. There was a bar, and entertainment too. He<br />
walked through the rustic doors, into a dim lobby and felt a thrill. He’d<br />
celebrated so many birthday dinners here, and danced to the house band,<br />
what was its name, Day After Daze?<br />
The cantina was mostly empty. He took a seat at the bar. Crossfit Games<br />
played on mute (maybe Trina had tickets). The bartenders looked the same,<br />
maybe with whiter hair. He removed his new hat and placed it on the bar.<br />
He ordered a Corona, nice and cold. The bartender chatted with an older<br />
couple at the end of the bar. They looked like regulars. He downed his beer<br />
and ordered another.<br />
When the Crossfit stuff ended, the bartender switched on the Dodgers.<br />
The bar began to fill with the evening crowd, and Chip felt embarrassed<br />
— he was that solo guy at the bar. He checked his phone. No messages. He<br />
texted Brian. Brian responded, something about a babysitter and he and<br />
Kathy had reservations on Abbot Kinney. Chip texted Alex, but Alex didn’t<br />
respond. He ordered another Corona and a lobster taco plate. Alex texted<br />
back, something about working. Great. He almost texted Trina. She hadn’t<br />
texted him, so forget it.<br />
He heard giggles. He swiveled around, his loafers catching on a girl’s<br />
purse. She glanced his way. He realized she was mid-selfie, arms around<br />
her best friend, a stick raised with a mounted miniature camera.<br />
“Hey girls,” he said, louder than he wanted, “I can take your picture.”<br />
“That’s what my selfie stick is for,” she said. “So I don’t have to ask you.”<br />
Rusty. What’s it been? Twelve years, since he’d asked out anyone besides<br />
Trina? He finished eating. The crowd filled in behind him, elbows and<br />
purses pressing against his back. He decided to close his tab. Walk home.<br />
You can’t go back, even though Pancho’s menu, with its glorious history<br />
printed on page one, says you can.<br />
He needed the restroom. When he finished, he made for the lobby. Then<br />
he remembered the trucker hat. He’d left it on the bar. Forget it. But he<br />
wanted to go home with something tonight, some memento. He squeezed<br />
passed shoulders. His old seat already occupied — the hat gone. He<br />
scanned the crowd, spotting a girl wearing it cockeyed, her ponytail poking<br />
through the back.<br />
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“My hat!” he said, pointing.<br />
“No, my hat!” She clutched the bill. “I lost it<br />
today.”<br />
“I found it. But you can have it back.”<br />
“I already haves it back.”<br />
He realized she was slurring. Not drunk, but<br />
getting there. She looked youngish, maybe midthirties.<br />
Pretty eyes, but peeling skin, and he<br />
wondered how many sunburns she had left before<br />
skin cancer. “Hat thief!” she shouted, poking<br />
his shoulder.<br />
Someone cheered, and the opening chords of<br />
“Jessie’s Girl,” ripped through the cantina. Chip<br />
saw the band, the drummer tapping the hi-hat,<br />
the guitarist launching into the first verse about<br />
Rick Springfield’s changed friendship with Jessie.<br />
The crowd bubbled. Normally Chip turned off<br />
Jessie’s Girl, but when the band reached the chorus<br />
and the crowd joined in, Chip decided he<br />
loved it. And the hat girl was still watching him.<br />
“Want to?”<br />
He didn’t know how to ask.<br />
“Maybe I should thank you,” she said.<br />
He took her hand and they forged a space for<br />
dancing. Her ponytail whipped him and he liked<br />
her hands on his shoulders. She didn’t seem to<br />
mind his awkward feet. The Outfield’s “Your<br />
Love” followed and Chip sang all the lyrics.<br />
When the band covered “Little Red Corvette,”<br />
Chip watched in amazement as the guitarist<br />
burned up the fretboard.<br />
“He’s good,” he shouted.<br />
“He should be,” she replied. “He’s Eric Dover.”<br />
He didn’t know that name. Maybe he could tell<br />
Trina—<br />
After “Boys Don’t Cry,” the girl needed a margarita,<br />
and not a skinny one. He led her to the bar<br />
and ordered Naughty Maggies — Pancho’s version<br />
of the Cadillac.<br />
Things got sloppy. A spilled drink. Chip wearing<br />
the trucker hat askew, the girl tossing it on<br />
the bartender’s head. They ordered more<br />
Naughty Maggies. He remembered leaving with<br />
her, skipping out the door, down the hill. Once<br />
barefoot in the sand, the darkness blanketed<br />
them and the waves roared louder than the Pancho’s<br />
band. Her mouth tasted like Margarita salt.<br />
He didn’t get very far before the thing pressed<br />
against his back. A man’s voice in his ear.<br />
“Get down, face in the sand.” Strong hands,<br />
pushing him down. “Don’t look up.”<br />
Sand in his eyes, Chip didn’t dare move. Stupid<br />
cops. Busting them for indecent exposure. Hell,<br />
they didn’t even get indecent yet.<br />
The girl screamed. The man hissed. Struggling<br />
sounds. Something seemed off. The cops<br />
wouldn’t do this, would they?<br />
He felt lopsided. Spinning. He stole a glance<br />
and saw a guy, more like a boulder crushing the<br />
girl. Didn’t look like a cop. Bulky jacket. Chip<br />
shut his eyes, heartbeat hammering in his ears. A<br />
wave crashed. She screamed again.<br />
Something popped. He felt sobriety clawing<br />
back. Wait. He’d heard about this before, in the<br />
news. Didn’t the bad guy escape?<br />
Chip sat up. The man wasn’t watching him. He<br />
figured he could run away. He might even make<br />
it. Trina. Gotta stay alive for her.<br />
But the girl. He couldn’t just leave her, could<br />
he? The man looked like he was crushing her, and<br />
that’s when Chip reacted. He lunged, clumsily,<br />
and the man caught him with a cocked elbow.<br />
Chip’s nose spurted, but the motion whipped the<br />
gun hand from the man’s pocket, and Chip saw<br />
the barrel-shaped index finger, and the hammer<br />
was the guy’s stupid thumb.<br />
Embarrassed, enraged, Chip swarmed him,<br />
hammering sloppy punches on the man’s head,<br />
kicking him with stockinged feet. Chip’s middle<br />
finger snapped. The girl landed a kick against the<br />
man’s jaw. He had enough and scurried away.<br />
Chip wanted to follow but the girl needed help.<br />
He crawled to her, but she kicked him. “Don’t<br />
touch me!” She took off running down the beach.<br />
Chip chased her but she was fast. She reached<br />
the Strand and disappeared up a side street. He<br />
tripped on something. Lying on the sidewalk, he<br />
dialed the police with a shaky thumb. He shouted<br />
details into the phone, but the dispatcher only<br />
wanted his location and the victim’s name, and<br />
he realized he didn’t know her name.<br />
“She’s got a trucker hat,” he said, before passing<br />
out.<br />
When Chip regained consciousness, he found<br />
himself in the waiting room at Little Company of<br />
Mary. This time in a wheelchair. Someone pushing<br />
him outside into the sun. When he squinted,<br />
he saw Trina’s yuppie cart parked arrogantly on<br />
the sidewalk. Trina, in her Lululemon, sitting behind<br />
the wheel. She helped him into the passenger<br />
seat.<br />
“Nice parking job,” he said.<br />
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36 Easy Reader / <strong>Beach</strong> magazine • <strong>August</strong> 11, <strong>2016</strong>
H O N O R A B L E M E N T I O N<br />
Tower Sunset<br />
by James Boyd<br />
June 7, <strong>2016</strong>. Taken on<br />
Redondo <strong>Beach</strong> Esplanade<br />
with global filters used, but<br />
no spot manipulation.<br />
iPhone 6+<br />
“Nice face.”<br />
“You should see the other guy.”<br />
Despite the nose brace, he could<br />
smell her body butter. He decided<br />
he liked it. Smelled like breakfast.<br />
“The nurses say you’re a hero.<br />
Did you really save that girl?”<br />
He felt weird talking to her<br />
about it. He didn’t know where to<br />
start.<br />
“Look, about last night—”<br />
“Save it.” She started the cart’s<br />
motor. “Let’s talk later. You need<br />
sleep.”<br />
Sleep sounded good. But, breakfast—<br />
“I’m hungry. Let’s get breakfast.”<br />
She seemed sympathetic. An<br />
outpouring of sympathy before she<br />
turned him out?<br />
“Okay, sure,” she said. “Where?”<br />
“Hillary’s.”<br />
“Who?”<br />
“Bora Bora.”<br />
“Huh?”<br />
Naughty Maggie. Hospital<br />
Drugs. The open cart, sun baking<br />
his immobilized arm, his finger in<br />
a brace. Eric Dover.<br />
“I mean that breakfast place—<br />
Four Daughters.”<br />
“You want four daughters?”<br />
“Yup.”<br />
“How about we settle for one?”<br />
Jessie’s Girl. What was she saying?<br />
Trina removed her sunglasses.<br />
She’d been crying.<br />
“Look, after this, I—” she said.<br />
“Maybe, okay?”<br />
She drove off the curb, jostling<br />
his broken nose and finger. Chip<br />
didn’t feel pain. The fluffy wind<br />
blew like powdered sugar through<br />
his nose brace. The cart’s electric<br />
motor purred. Magic gas, he<br />
thought, maple syrup and honey<br />
butter. B<br />
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<strong>August</strong> 11, <strong>2016</strong> • Easy Reader / <strong>Beach</strong> magazine 37
H O N O R A B L E M E N T I O N<br />
Fire in the sky<br />
by April Reppucci<br />
July 2, <strong>2016</strong>,<br />
El Segundo. An<br />
LAX flight soars into<br />
the smoke from the<br />
Santa Clarita Sand<br />
Fire, 45 miles away.<br />
Canon T5i<br />
H O N O R A B L E M E N T I O N<br />
Zika by<br />
Sage was under Darling’s skin. It wasn’t supposed to go<br />
down this way, but Sage was in control, completely.<br />
J. E. Marshall<br />
July 1, <strong>2016</strong>, MANHATTAN BEACH MARRIOTT, Room 431<br />
Special Agent-in-Charge, Roy Starky reviewed the profile of suspect Jacob<br />
Sage with Special Agent Francis Darling.<br />
“You know why you were selected?” Starky didn’t look up.<br />
“Because I was lead singer in my high school band, sir,” Darling replied.<br />
“Correct. What we want from you is swagger. You’re a barfly. You sing<br />
karaoke with attitude, but you sing badly.” Starky looked up and smiled.<br />
“How bad, sir?” She was amused.<br />
“Fingernails on chalkboard bad. You will butcher every note. Special<br />
Agents Scott White and Daniel Dorsey have established cover as lounge<br />
lizards. You will be fawned over. You will mooch off everyone. Sage hates<br />
karaoke. He complains because his band has to endure it while they set up<br />
their equipment at the Starboard. Sage hates barflies. He especially hates<br />
people who can’t sing but think they can. Special Agent Thomas Dufay has<br />
been living undercover in the same El Segundo flop house as Sage for six<br />
months and the only thing he learned was by accident last night when Sage<br />
got his hand sliced open by a junkie who tried to steal Sage’s Gibson Les<br />
Paul. Dufay drove Sage’s van to the emergency room. Sage didn’t say a<br />
word. No ‘thank you.’ Sage takes off without giving Dufay a ride home.<br />
What’s your take, Agent Darling?”<br />
“My impression, sir, is maybe Sage didn’t say much because he has nothing<br />
to say. He’s a loser. His roommate may have hacked into the CDC during<br />
their dorm days but Gabriel Tyler’s skills did not rub off on Sage. With<br />
all due respect, sir, if Jacob Sage had been paired with a different roommate,<br />
I don’t believe he’d be on the watch list today. He flunks out of Harvard.<br />
He alienates his rich parents. He can’t maintain a relationship. His band<br />
has different members every week. I’m amazed he can complete the task<br />
of performing an entire song. He’s a drug addict, just end-stage-Elvis-damaged-goods,<br />
sir,” Darling gave her opinion.<br />
“Well then, it might surprise you that he drove to his gig right after they<br />
sewed up his hand last night and played a hell of a set. What might surprise<br />
you even is more what Agent Dufay did find.” Starky pushed away his<br />
lunch, took a swig of cold coffee and grimaced. “We got a blood sample. I<br />
wish my blood was so pristine,” Starky shook his head, “All the footage of<br />
Sage shooting up under the pier, all the meetings with his dealer, all the<br />
squalor…. staged. Find out what he’s up to,” Starky tossed the coffee in the<br />
trash.<br />
“Yes, Sir,” Darling ate the pickle from Starky’s plate.<br />
“I was going to eat that,” Starky grumbled.<br />
July 2, <strong>2016</strong>, STARBOARD ATTITUDE, REDONDO BEACH PIER<br />
Agent Darling roller skated around the pier at King Harbor all afternoon.<br />
She climbed the stairs to the Starboard Attitude Cocktail Bar when her partners<br />
signaled that Sage’s van had pulled into the pier parking lot. As Sage<br />
and his band were setting up their equipment, Darling sang the worst ever<br />
rendition of Patsy Cline’s “Walkin’ after midnight.” Agents White and<br />
Dorsey clapped and whistled. Darling beamed with pride. Dorsey demanded<br />
an encore. Not to be outdone, White gave Darling a standing ova-<br />
38 Easy Reader / <strong>Beach</strong> magazine • <strong>August</strong> 11, <strong>2016</strong>
tion.<br />
Sage was not afraid to deliver a mean comment to anyone who earned<br />
it but bit his tongue when he got a good look at Darling. He trusted his instinct<br />
to keep his disgust to himself.<br />
Dorsey bought Darling drinks and left with her just before Sage’s gig<br />
was up. Sage didn’t bat an eye.<br />
July 2, <strong>2016</strong> CROWNE PLAZA HOTEL, REDONDO BEACH<br />
Darling waited in Dorsey’s hotel room until Agent Scotty White finally<br />
ambled in.<br />
“It’s about time,” Dorsey blurted.<br />
“You two are a sight. Why so glum?”<br />
“When you sober up you might realize we didn’t exactly make an impression<br />
tonight,” Darling sighed.<br />
“I wouldn’t say that. After you left Sage said some pretty nasty things<br />
about ‘Patsy Cline’” White smiled.<br />
“Really….” Darling leaned in. “Tell me every word he said.”<br />
July 3, <strong>2016</strong> STARBOARD ATTITUDE, REDONDO BEACH PIER<br />
Darling sat on Scotty White’s lap while she sang Patsy Cline’s “Crazy”<br />
as off key as possible. Once again Jacob Sage ignored her.<br />
Darling’s rear was jutting out of her daisy dukes. She leaned on the bar,<br />
shifting her weight from one foot to the other so that her see-sawing butt<br />
cheeks hypnotized every man in the bar except Sage.<br />
“This is the martini James Bond really drinks,” Darling rudely shouted<br />
over Sage’s rendition of Stevie Ray Vaughan’s “Tightrope.” Darling dragged<br />
White to the dance floor and upstaged Sage so seductively that Agent White<br />
blushed in spite of himself.<br />
Sage made his Gibson squeal like a pig and transitioned from “Tightrope”<br />
to a jacked up rendition of the opening riffs of “Immigrant Song.” He nearly<br />
ripped the strings off his guitar. His normally deep, buttery voice gave way<br />
to an earsplitting falsetto as he called out at the top of his lungs: “Ahhhhhh<br />
ah Ahhhhhh Ah!”<br />
“Mother of God!” a startled drunk fell off his stool.<br />
Sage looked at his frozen band as if they were stupid.<br />
“What the f...?” The new drummer was pissed.<br />
“Roll with it. It usually works out,” the bass player said, kicking the<br />
drummer’s foot.<br />
Sage just kept ripping the opening riff from of his Les Paul until his band<br />
caught up with him. When everyone was on the same page, Sage tore into<br />
the body of “Immigrant Song” like a jackhammer. Sage’s guitar was so terrifying<br />
that everyone stopped dancing. Sage jumped off the stage and spun<br />
in circles on the empty dance floor, screaming in the incredible high octave.<br />
His guitar made sounds no one had heard before. He used his teeth as a<br />
slide. He blew on the strings so that his breath caused magical sounds. His<br />
grip on the neck tightened and the stitches on the palm of his hand burst<br />
open. Blood gushed down his arm.<br />
Sage stomped out of the bar. He abandoned his band and drove off without<br />
them.<br />
Agent Darling heard Sage mumbling under his breath, back in his sweet<br />
and low buttery voice, “Dance to that, bitch!”<br />
The bartender mopped the blood off the dance floor before anyone could<br />
slip and break their neck.<br />
July 4, <strong>2016</strong> STARBOARD ATTITUDE, REDONDO BEACH PIER<br />
“Ladies and gentlemen, we’re early tonight so you can enjoy the fireworks,”<br />
Sage purred in his deepest, sexy voice as if nothing insane happened<br />
the night before.<br />
Agents White and Dorsey were called away suddenly. Darling was on<br />
her own. She sipped her trademark James Bondish martini that the waitress<br />
gave her before she could even order it. The waitress nodded towards<br />
the band. Sage bought her a drink. Sage never bought anyone anything.<br />
Darling was excited. She wished White and Dorsey could see this.<br />
Sage’s band kept repeating the opening riffs of “Zombie” by the Cranberries<br />
for a long while to create more tension in the crowd.<br />
“Alas, no karaoke tonight,” Sage grinned. “Ya’ll know what karaoke<br />
means to me. But hey, I’m not mean. I won’t deprive you of your darling.<br />
Darling, don’t disappoint your fans. Come up here and help me sing this<br />
song.” Sage stared over the crowd into Darling’s bewildered face.<br />
Darling fought to stay in character. Did Sage call her “darling” or did he<br />
<strong>August</strong> 11, <strong>2016</strong> • Easy Reader / <strong>Beach</strong> magazine 39
H O N O R<br />
Waves and Fire Light<br />
by Beverly Gates<br />
July 23, <strong>2016</strong>,<br />
Redondo <strong>Beach</strong><br />
The red glow was<br />
caused by the<br />
Santa Clarita Fire.<br />
Sony Mirrorless A7RII<br />
say her name, Darling? The crowd squished together to clear a narrow<br />
path for Darling. Mercifully the loop ended. The song began.<br />
Sage was under Darling’s skin. It wasn’t supposed to go down this way,<br />
but Sage was in control, completely. Without warning he handed Darling<br />
the mic. She picked up the next line. It did not come out bad. It felt good.<br />
It felt like when she was young and the world was hers. She belted out<br />
“Zombie” with the force of a volcanic eruption. Sage chuckled and nodded<br />
to the band. “Let’s see what she does to Adele.”<br />
Sage yanked a chair from a customer and put it on stage because Agent<br />
Darling was soon going to fall on her ass from what Sage put in her drink.<br />
He didn’t hate her enough to let her suffer that indignity.<br />
Darling’s rendition of “Rolling in the Deep” had the crowd bouncing in<br />
place like a single organism. The new drummer stopped bitching and let<br />
all hell break loose. The old timber of the Starboard Attitude creaked.<br />
Drinks bounced off the bar like lemmings leaping into the sea. Young girls<br />
wept. Outside the crowd completely blocked all passage surrounding the<br />
bar.<br />
Sage glanced up at the police station across the way and saw White and<br />
Dorsey waving their arms in the air, shouting. They were trying to fathom<br />
what happened to the East Coast and the Midwest. All the information<br />
was coming from drones and automated feeds. There was not one person<br />
left who could answer any of the questions White and Dorsey were frantically<br />
screaming. Sage knew they must be watching the Times Square<br />
loop of Sage performing “Purple Rain.” Yep, they saw it. They both looked<br />
up and glared at him with hatred in their eyes. They would never make it<br />
through the crowd in time.<br />
“Ok, Darling, let’s try some hellacious harmony, ‘Don’t Call Me Up,’<br />
Mick Jagger,” Sage purred.<br />
Sage pulled Darling to her feet and kicked the chair into the crowd. Sage<br />
and Darling sang “Don’t Call Me Up,” as if they had practiced it together<br />
a million times. The crying girls began blubbering when Sage and Darling<br />
crushed the lines, “I will hold my head high and just gaze at the sky. I was<br />
under your spell! Ya took me to hell!”<br />
40 Easy Reader / <strong>Beach</strong> magazine • <strong>August</strong> 11, <strong>2016</strong>
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“We’ll be back after a short break,” Sage dragged Darling to the bar’s<br />
tiny restroom. The band played an extended all instrumental version of<br />
“Purple Rain.” Sage and Darling made mad love. Afterwards their lips<br />
softly brushed for a moment. Darling couldn’t help herself. She pressed in<br />
for a deep kiss. Sage stabbed her in the neck.<br />
He plopped her outside on the narrow balcony.<br />
“White! Dorsey!” Darling cried out, panting into her no longer hidden<br />
microphone.<br />
“Two thirds of the country is down” were the crackling last words she<br />
heard from Dorsey.<br />
“I made you when you showed up with that ridiculous sunburn trying<br />
to pass yourself off as a wharf rat. You people put the wrong guy in prison.<br />
Gabriel Tyler took the fall for me in exchange for immunity. I just gave<br />
you immunity.” He pulled the syringe out of her neck and flicked it into<br />
the ocean.<br />
“Thar she blows!” Sage pointed to the purple fireworks in the sky. The<br />
crowd suddenly started milling about aimlessly. “I call it ‘Purple rain,’ but<br />
marketed it as “Purple mountain majesties’ to be patriotic. I undersold<br />
competitors and gave away the firecracker and sparkler forms in every<br />
neighborhood across the country. The coastal eddy and fog make a nice<br />
extended delivery.”<br />
“What does it do?” Darling cried.<br />
“It’s a weaponized version of the Zika virus. It doesn’t kill. It doesn’t pass<br />
on to the next generation. It only affects those exposed and reduces them<br />
permanently to a two year old mentality.”<br />
The next firework launched directly through the crowd and into the<br />
parking structure where it caused cars to explode.<br />
“Ok, it doesn’t directly kill but if you are driving a car when you inhale<br />
it, it’s probably not going to end well for you,” Sage corrected himself.<br />
“I’ll be back, Darling,” Sage went back into the Starboard. Everyone had<br />
wandered off to find their ma-ma. The new drummer was sitting on the<br />
floor playing with a tub of maraschino cherries. Sage took up his Les Paul<br />
and played “Purple rain” while civilization fell all around him. B<br />
<strong>August</strong> 11, <strong>2016</strong> • Easy Reader / <strong>Beach</strong> magazine 41
H O N O R A B L E M E N T I O N<br />
Bar hopping’s glory days<br />
by Pete Whalon<br />
For those fortunate enough to have lived<br />
through those hazy, booze-filled glory<br />
days, I’ve got a serious question.<br />
How many of these joints did you<br />
frequent back in the day?<br />
Travel back in time with me for a nostalgic journey to the ‘70s and<br />
‘80s in the South Bay. The classic beach cruise in the ‘70s and ‘80s<br />
began at 45th St. and Highland Avenue, dipped down to Manhattan<br />
Avenue and then to Hermosa Avenue, which turned into Harbor Drive,<br />
culminating at the Redondo Pier. I received my honorable discharge from<br />
the Army in 1971 after spending 22 months in Vietnam. I had just turned<br />
22 and for the next two decades that hallowed stretch of pavement would<br />
be my “adult playground.” The bars, clubs and restaurants offering music<br />
and dancing littered those streets of the three beach cities. For a young single<br />
male on the prowl, it proved a mecca for meeting nubile, perky, suntanned<br />
chicks (yes, that’s what we called them before the invasion of<br />
political correctness). And for most of that period the Red Onion on Harbor<br />
Drive was, hands down, the quintessential stop for achieving that goal.<br />
If you arrived at the “O” after 9 p.m. on a Friday or Saturday evening<br />
you would find a line of enthusiastic young mavericks zigzagging out the<br />
front door and down around the mosaic water fountain near the parking<br />
area. Ladies, however, were never turned away and never had to wait in<br />
lines. The whole process reminded me of fishermen throwing chum into<br />
the ocean to attract fish. As the guys stood anxiously in line waiting their<br />
turn, a steady stream of hotties in body-hugging shorts and skin tight tank<br />
tops sashayed into into the restaurant. A high school friend of mine<br />
worked as a bouncer and allowed me immediate access anytime he was<br />
working. Of course, whenever you mix alcohol, macho men with raging<br />
hormones and desirable females, chaos occasionally ensued. Over the<br />
years I did witness some of the most vicious and brutal fights in barroom<br />
brawl history. They usually involved a damsel in distress.<br />
The most notorious bouncer working the front door during those years<br />
was a mammoth, fierce, callous looking Hawaiian dude with an impressive<br />
Fu Manchu moustache, shoulder length black hair and arms the size of<br />
telephone poles. One evening as I sat outside at the fountain talking to a<br />
hot blonde chick with perfect teeth, Fu Manchu appeared from the building<br />
dragging an unfortunate drunk by the neck. As he shoved him to the<br />
ground, Fu demanded, “Stay the f- -k outta here asshole!” As the Hawaiian<br />
returned to his position at the front door the drunk awkwardly arose from<br />
the brick walkway and made a painfully costly mistake. “Who the f- -k is<br />
gonna make me ass face!” Fu turned around as the ill-fated idiot staggered<br />
toward him. One swift, powerful punch and Mr. drunk hit the bricks like<br />
a sack of flour right in front of Blondie and me. He was out cold. A few<br />
minutes later three of flour-sack buddies came out looking for him. By this<br />
time the drunk was mumbling and moaning simultaneously. His pals<br />
began asking about who had hit him. Between spitting out blood and attempting<br />
to balance himself he agonizingly replied, “Bouncer dude with<br />
the whiskers.” His clueless toadies started talking tough. “Let’s kick his fu-<br />
- -ing ass.” Since they were only a few feet from where I sat and I wanted<br />
to impress what’s-her-name, I attempted to do the humanitarian thing by<br />
offering some sound advice. “Hey dudes, if I were you I’d just go home<br />
now. I’ve seen guys challenge him before and it did not go well for them.”<br />
Now, you’d think they would be grateful…they weren’t. The three stooges<br />
started flipping me off and firing f-bombs at me as if I had decked their<br />
comrade. So much for impressing blondie. I just sat there silently, questioning<br />
my poor decision to get involved as the trio scooped up their dented<br />
playmate and began carrying him toward the parking lot. Of course they<br />
42 Easy Reader / <strong>Beach</strong> magazine • <strong>August</strong> 11, <strong>2016</strong>
maintained their verbal assault toward me. I took away a valuable lifelesson.<br />
Discretion is the better part of valor. In other words, keep your<br />
trap shut.<br />
Besides the Red Onion there were a variety of hangouts close by the<br />
Redondo Harbor. One of the all-time classics, The Flying Jib, was only<br />
a few blocks away but light years removed from the clientele at the “O”.<br />
The Jib was on the corner of Broadway and Catalina, which today is<br />
part of Dive N Surf. It was a rendezvous point for hardcore druggies<br />
and alkies. The born losers. They were the wayward souls of our first<br />
generation of serious drug addicts. Inside the Jib the scraggly, motley<br />
crew were either in search of drugs, passed out on narcotics or selling<br />
the stuff. I did have some druggie friends and visited the Jib five or six<br />
times. Frankly, it proved too depressing for my taste and smelled like a<br />
pile of moldy, dirty laundry. Everybody knew that it was unwise to<br />
drive too close to the Jib on the weekends since most of the burnouts<br />
were totally wasted when they staggered out of the bar and they were<br />
usually driving ratty looking, banged up cars. It was truly an accident<br />
scene waiting to happen. On Friday and Saturday night it was commonplace<br />
to see cop cars, fire trucks and flares as you drove up or down<br />
Beryl Avenue or Catalina Avenue in Redondo.<br />
If you grew weary of the crowd and loud music at the Onion or just<br />
wanted to go somewhere less jam-packed for a short break, you didn’t<br />
have to look far. Across the parking lot from Red Onion was Castagnola’s<br />
Lobster House. I swear, almost every time I walked into that place<br />
the house band was playing Sweet Caroline by Neil Diamond. I had<br />
nightmares with that song pounding in my head. The crowd at the Lobster<br />
House was older (boring) and more subdued (boring). Although I<br />
enjoyed the atmosphere, after a short stint I would get bored and return<br />
to the raging party next door. One of the best parts of visiting the Lobster<br />
proved to be the free gifts. Their drink glasses had a cool Lobster House<br />
logo on them, so every time I left the building I would grab a glass or<br />
two off of a table and put them in my car to later add to my growing<br />
collection at home. Although the glass was cheaply made and would<br />
crack if you played loud music, I still have one intact glass. At one time<br />
I possessed over 30 collectables of their faulty glassware.<br />
H O N O R A B L E M E N T I O N<br />
Talking Seagull<br />
by Jerry Averill<br />
December 12, 2015, Manhattan <strong>Beach</strong> pier. I was shooting the surfers and<br />
noticed this seagull opening his mouth really wide.<br />
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<strong>August</strong> 11, <strong>2016</strong> • Easy Reader / <strong>Beach</strong> magazine 43
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Pier Roundhouse<br />
and the solstice<br />
moon<br />
by Joel Gitelson<br />
June 20, <strong>2016</strong>.<br />
Got up early,<br />
hoping for a clear<br />
moonset. Not until<br />
2062 will there be<br />
another solstice<br />
full moon. Canon<br />
5D Mark III<br />
On the other side of the “O” was <strong>Beach</strong> Bum Burt’s (now the Cheesecake<br />
factory). With its tiki décor and their retractable roof, Burt’s was a classy<br />
place and perfect location to take a date. However, their Sunday afternoon<br />
beach parties were out-of-control with bikini-clad bombshells everywhere.<br />
If you arrived too late chances are you wouldn’t get in. Unfortunately,<br />
Burt’s closed in the early ‘80s, probably because it couldn’t compete with<br />
its big brother the Onion. Around the corner from Burt’s was Ruben’s (now<br />
Joe’s Crab Shack) and the Portofino Inn (still there). Both offered decent<br />
bands with ample parking, however, much like The Lobster House, a little<br />
too laid back (boring) for me.<br />
Another bygone treasure, the Blue Moon Saloon, sat just behind the<br />
rocks at Redondo’s breakwater. Unfortunately, it didn’t have a splash-wall.<br />
In 1988 it was wiped out by a violent storm. On Saturday and Sunday afternoons<br />
in the summer you couldn’t find a better place to party in the<br />
South Bay. If you enjoyed chicks in bikinis, reasonable drink prices and<br />
promiscuous women, it proved the perfect spot. Due to my notable work<br />
ethic, I often pulled a triple shift on weekends — Friday night until 2 a.m.<br />
at the Onion, then up for my second shift on Saturday from noon until<br />
around 5 p.m. at Blue Moon, then home to take a nap, shower and return<br />
to the scene of the crime, The Red Onion, for the Saturday night debauchery.<br />
44 Easy Reader / <strong>Beach</strong> magazine • <strong>August</strong> 11, <strong>2016</strong>
One afternoon while drinking at the bar in the Blue Moon with a friend<br />
we noticed the bartender snorting cocaine in the far corner of the bar area.<br />
He returned at least three times within 20 minutes for a quick blast. A few<br />
minutes later we observed him in a heated argument with an irate customer<br />
a few seats down from us. The snorter began dropping f-bombs as<br />
he stormed away from the agitated barfly. The bartender was clearly pissed<br />
at something the dude had said and he looked ready to explode. We were<br />
laughing thinking he was putting on an act until suddenly he grabbed a<br />
glass and hurled it into the sink shattering it into hundreds of pieces. A<br />
split second later I felt a slight pinch to my chin. I touched the spot and<br />
came away with blood on my fingers. There was a tiny sliver of the glass<br />
buried in my chin. The bartender never noticed that I had been hit by<br />
shrapnel. Twenty-two months in Nam and never wounded — now I’m hit<br />
by friendly fire at The Blue Moon Saloon. The manager, standing nearby,<br />
noticed that I had been injured. Before the manager confronted the cokedout<br />
bartender sulking in the corner he stopped to apologize to me. He asked<br />
me what had happened, although he already knew. The boss then offered<br />
me and my buddy free drinks for the day. However, the absolute best part<br />
of the fiasco was that he forced my goofball assailant to apologize to me,<br />
which he begrudgingly did. A few weeks later at the Blue Moon I asked a<br />
waitress if the short, stocky bartender was working and she informed me<br />
that he had been fired.<br />
There were so many fantastic nightspots to party at during those memorable<br />
two decades, I can’t begin to recall them all. For those fortunate<br />
enough to have lived through those hazy, booze-filled glory days of the<br />
South Bay, I’ve got a serious question. Including the above mentioned establishments,<br />
how many of these joints did you frequent back in the day?<br />
Critters, Orville and Wilbur's, The Lighthouse, The Attic (Santa Monica),<br />
The Bull Pen (still standing), La Paz, Tequila Willies, Shellback Tavern (still<br />
standing), The Rain Tree (Torrance), Pancho & Wongs, Cisco's, Buccaneer,<br />
Besties, Pier 52, The Flagship, Ercoles (still standing). My apologies for the<br />
classic haunts I’ve omitted, due to my severely fading memory. B<br />
<strong>August</strong> 11, <strong>2016</strong> • Easy Reader / <strong>Beach</strong> magazine 45
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Fireworks Landscape<br />
by Daniel Sofer<br />
July 4, <strong>2016</strong>, Hermosa <strong>Beach</strong>. Seaside Lagoon and Rat <strong>Beach</strong> fireworks.<br />
Sony a7rII/70-300mm<br />
46 Easy Reader / <strong>Beach</strong> magazine • <strong>August</strong> 11, <strong>2016</strong>
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<strong>August</strong> 11, <strong>2016</strong> • Easy Reader / <strong>Beach</strong> magazine 47
H O N O R A B L E M E N T I O N<br />
Cloud Waves<br />
by Jeff Wright<br />
June 2, <strong>2016</strong>,<br />
below Del<br />
Cerro Park,<br />
Rancho Palos<br />
Verdes. Taken<br />
after sunset<br />
with low<br />
clouds over<br />
the ocean.<br />
Canon 5D MkIII<br />
H O N O R A B L E M E N T I O N<br />
Marriage, houses and true love by<br />
Mori Biener<br />
SAs she yells, she opens the drapes and points to the balcony. The tour must go on!<br />
48 Easy Reader / <strong>Beach</strong> magazine • <strong>August</strong> 11, <strong>2016</strong><br />
o I’m entering a better than average house on a bad street in a nice neighborhood. That would be Realtor talk. I’m here on<br />
a listing appointment with Gracie, who was referred to me. She’s a very nice lady, short, thin, attractive but I can’t understand<br />
half the things she says because she has a very thick accent and she speaks in broken English. But I can tell Gracie<br />
is sharp. I sha you hos…I bild it, she says proudly. I follow her as we tour the lower floor and I try not to say, what is that?<br />
too many times. The feture fo sal too; is ver spensive, she says. What was that?, I say. It took me three times to understand<br />
that the furniture is for sale too. Why are you selling the house? I ask. Husban no good bum get divos, she says. I’m sorry<br />
to hear that, I say. I like to think I’m pretty good in divorce situations. I’m quick on my feet and have handled warring<br />
parties in the past with aplomb. We go upstairs and she opens the master bedroom double doors. We step into darkness.<br />
She turns on the lights. Up pops a man from under the blankets dressed in pj’s, night mask and an attitude. He tears off<br />
the mask. Squinting intensely he yells, I sleap why you tun on light?! I freeze. My heart stops. I bring Retor, show bedroom,<br />
sell hos, she yells back. I want out in the worst way but I’m frozen. He blurts out a barrage of foreign words and she<br />
counters with her own. As she yells, she opens the drapes and points to the balcony. The tour must go on! You go see masa<br />
bath now, she tells me excitedly. But I’m frozen! You go! she commands curtly and I unfreeze. I take a quick look and rush<br />
out of the bedroom fearing to cast an eye toward the bed. Gracie’s behind me, words unknown to me flinging out of her<br />
like poison arrows toward whom I presume is her husband. She slams the door behind her, big breath and slowly turns toward<br />
me. I’m at a complete loss for words, red in the face. She apologizes, gives me the listing and I sell the house without<br />
ever seeing him again. Gracie handled everything. When the house went into escrow she decided to buy a nicer house<br />
where she now lives happily with that very same no good husband she tangled with in that bedroom. Go figure. Sometimes<br />
sharing an uncomfortable situation with a stranger can be a bonding experience, which can result in a sale…or two. B
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<strong>August</strong> 11, <strong>2016</strong> • Easy Reader / <strong>Beach</strong> magazine 49
H O N O R A B L E M E N T I O N<br />
“Reflections<br />
by Kathy<br />
Miller-Fujimoto<br />
December 27,<br />
2015, RAT <strong>Beach</strong>. I<br />
decided to go to<br />
RAT <strong>Beach</strong> and was<br />
blessed with a<br />
spectacular sunset.<br />
Canon 5D Mark III<br />
In our small town there were about 10 paper<br />
routes. Only one or two would turnover annually.<br />
Typically, paper boys, only boys,<br />
would start around 11 years old and quit when<br />
they started high school. To get the job, one hung<br />
around the drop off area. The drop off area was<br />
a central point in town where the circulation<br />
manager would drop off bundles of the newspaper<br />
each afternoon. The aspiring paper boy<br />
would help rubber band and bag the papers<br />
Eventually, he would help carriers with delivery,<br />
get to know the manager and hopefully be given<br />
the route of a departing carrier.<br />
Mondays and Tuesdays, when the paper was<br />
thin, the paperboys boxed the papers, folding<br />
them without using rubber bands. They had to<br />
buy their rubber bands. The downside to boxing<br />
was the papers did not always fly straight when<br />
tossed. On a long toss, boxed papers tended to sail<br />
into the bushes or on to rooftops.<br />
Capital expenditures and<br />
operating expenses<br />
Capital expenses were minimal. One needed a<br />
bicycle with high, butterfly handlebars. Butterflies<br />
allowed the paperboys to drape their heavy<br />
carrier bags over the handlebars. A bicycle with<br />
drop handlebars would not work. The large bags<br />
were able to carry 70 to 100 papers. The bags had<br />
front and back pouches, with a hole between<br />
them. Some carriers preferred to wear the bags<br />
like a poncho, pulling papers from the front and<br />
back to keep the bag balanced.<br />
Since most routes were five to six miles long<br />
and the papers were delivered six days a week,<br />
50 Easy Reader / <strong>Beach</strong> magazine • <strong>August</strong> 11, <strong>2016</strong><br />
H O N O R A B L E M E N T I O N<br />
Business 101: The paper route<br />
the paperboy would incur operational costs, such<br />
as bicycle brake pads and bicycle tires.<br />
Operations<br />
Routes had 90 to 95 subscribers, so carriers had<br />
to memorize which houses to deliver to and<br />
which to skip. About 40 percent of the houses on<br />
a route were customers. Carriers quickly learned<br />
all their names. Carriers rode down the middle<br />
of the street, tossing papers with either hand. It<br />
helped to be ambidextrous. There was little traffic<br />
to worry about, though occasionally carriers got<br />
hit. Some customers insisted their papers be<br />
porched. Extra papers were always carried and,<br />
if not needed, brought home for our folks. If a<br />
customer complained that their house was<br />
missed, or their paper was thrown in the bushes,<br />
or soaked by a sprinkler, the circulation manager<br />
would phone us at home and we would hop on<br />
our bike, ride to that customer’s house and hand<br />
deliver one of the extra papers. Too many complaints<br />
were the main cause for dismissal.<br />
The paper had to be delivered daily, except on<br />
Sunday. If you were unable to work, it was your<br />
responsibility to find a substitute.<br />
Receivables<br />
At the end of each month the paper boy would<br />
go to each customer’s house to collect. My paper,<br />
the Santa Monica Evening Outlook, cost $1.50 a<br />
month. Since I had 90 papers, I paid the Outlook<br />
$90 at end of each month and I kept $45. I collected<br />
in the evenings and never worried about<br />
my safety. The customers would usually give me<br />
$2 and expect change. Only during Christmas<br />
Everything I needed to know about business,<br />
I learned on my paper route by John Cody<br />
would I receive tips, often as much as $50 to $60.<br />
We carried the cash, no checks, in a pouch and<br />
paid the circulation manager on the first of each<br />
month. No exceptions, which meant we had to<br />
be diligent in collecting from our customers.<br />
Marketing<br />
Because only about 40 of the people on a route<br />
subscribed to the evening paper, the circulation<br />
department was constantly encouraging us to get<br />
more subscribers. Every year, the newspaper<br />
would hold a circulation drive and reward the paperboys<br />
who increased the number of customers<br />
on their routes. The most effective motivation<br />
was not money, but an outing or a trip. For us, it<br />
was usually an all expenses paid Sunday at Disneyland<br />
with the other winners. We learned that<br />
recognition and trips are stronger incentives than<br />
plain cash. Failure to increase market share was<br />
also grounds for dismissal.<br />
Conclusion<br />
One can see why a paper route was a great introduction<br />
to business. The barriers to entry were<br />
low capital and investment costs were minimal,<br />
as were operational costs. Efficient distribution<br />
was the responsibility of the paperboy and required<br />
memorization and logistical skills. Increasing<br />
circulation was stressed, so constant<br />
marketing was important. Collecting receivables<br />
was necessary for survival. I’m sure not all successful<br />
businessmen of my generation had paper<br />
routes as boys, but I’ll bet many did. I learned<br />
more business skills as a paperboy than I did during<br />
two years in MBA School. B
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<strong>August</strong> 11, <strong>2016</strong> • Easy Reader / <strong>Beach</strong> magazine 51
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The sound of burning rubber,<br />
tires peeling, and engine belts being<br />
pushed way beyond their limits,<br />
could be heard<br />
that? Never seen them before."<br />
Hermosa Sgt. JD Clements mumbled to himself as he<br />
"Who's<br />
drove North along PCH, past the Four Star gas station and<br />
repair shop, "Lemme just have a quick look."<br />
Clements did a quick right turn and blacked out, no interior or headlights,<br />
killed the engine and rolled down the driveway of the all night filling<br />
station.<br />
<strong>August</strong> 6, 1953, not only was the planet Mars the closest it’s been to<br />
earth this century, there was a Super Moon event that evening. The brightness<br />
from the east-rising moon lit up the ocean like a search light .<br />
The officer got out of his car and called out to the night attendant,<br />
"Jimmy, need to talk to you!" There was no response, but he thought he<br />
heard someone in the manager’s office. Not a voice, but some shuffling<br />
and a muffled response. Clements unleashed the holster of his sidearm<br />
and walked towards the open door of the office.<br />
As he got closer, he saw the moonlit silhouette of the night attendant,<br />
bound and gagged, prone on the oily floor. Holding his .45 in his right<br />
hand, ready to shoot at anything that blinked, Clements whispered to<br />
Jimmy, "Just nod your answer, is he still here?" Jimmy's head went up and<br />
down like a jackhammer. That rapid cranial movement somehow loosened<br />
the gag covering the attendants mouth, enough for him to blurt out, "He<br />
has a gun!"<br />
At this exact same moment, the sound of burning rubber, tires peeling,<br />
and engine belts being pushed way beyond their limits could be heard from<br />
the south end of the building. Clements ran back to his patrol unit just in<br />
time to see the 1951 Plymouth Seville pull out of the driveway and head<br />
north along PCH.<br />
"Sorry, Jimbo, I'll have to come back for you later," the officer said to<br />
himself as he grabbed the mic from the dash and told anyone who was interested<br />
that he was in pursuit. This was just months before all the South<br />
Bay cities were brought onto one emergency frequency, so when there was<br />
an incident like this, the neighboring cities’ police units were already in<br />
position along Sepulveda Boulevard.<br />
"1 Ocean 20, I'm now crossing Manhattan <strong>Beach</strong> Boulevard, approaching<br />
Marine, speeds at 100 plus."<br />
Clements looked in his rear view mirror and what he initially thought<br />
was a firefly making erratic horizontal movements, was actually none other<br />
than Hermosa Chief Holly Murray, on a city motorcycle — riding at an incredible<br />
speed.<br />
"1 Ocean 20, crossing Rosecrans, speeds at 100 plus,” radioed a Manhattan<br />
unit driven by Sgt. Mike Martin. Then a two man El Segundo unit<br />
joined in the pursuit. Its wide open road from this point north, and everyone<br />
instinctively knew that this incident was going to end in the next<br />
minute or so. The adrenaline of the chase wears off quickly with the realization<br />
that the pursuits never end well.<br />
1 OCEAN 20 cont. on page 54<br />
52 Easy Reader / <strong>Beach</strong> magazine • <strong>August</strong> 11, <strong>2016</strong>
H O N O R A B L E M E N T I O N<br />
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<strong>August</strong> 11, <strong>2016</strong> • Easy Reader / <strong>Beach</strong> magazine 53
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As the parade continued past El Segundo Boulevard, Sgt. Martin held his<br />
service revolver out the window and shot out the rear tires of the suspect’s<br />
vehicle, right wheel first, causing the driver to over-correct by turning the<br />
steering wheel to the left, with the second bullet prompting the Plymouth<br />
to cease all forward motion. Unfortunately for the suspect, the Hermosa<br />
unit was still in "forward motion" at about 50 m.p.h. when it impacted the<br />
front left area of the Plymouth, knocking it into the gully that adjoins the<br />
strawberry fields. The force of the collision launched the black and white<br />
up on its two left wheels for about 20 yards before the unit rolled over on<br />
its side and skidded to a stop.<br />
About 20 yards from the termination of the pursuit the two El Segundo<br />
officers pulled Clements out of his wrecked vehicle and hauled their seriously<br />
injured patient to Gardena Hospital.<br />
Sgt. Martin and Chief Murray each grabbed one arm of the suspect and<br />
yanked him out the driver’s side window and placed him, knees folded,<br />
into the mud. As Martin did a pat down for weapons, Murray leaned over<br />
to pick up a piece of paper that had fallen out of the suspect’s vehicle. It<br />
revealed a floor plan of the Mermaid Restaurant. He motioned the Manhattan<br />
officer over. "I stopped some guy earlier this evening, down at the<br />
waterline, got a call that he was behaving weird, using a flashlight to signal<br />
someone off the coast. As I rolled up I could see a guy in a small craft,<br />
about 50 yards out, just south of the pier. He took off when I walked down<br />
towards flashlight guy.<br />
“I asked the guy who was sitting in the sand for his ID, and who his<br />
friend with the panga was. He said he didn't have anything and didn't see<br />
any boat. I told him he's not going anywhere ‘til he gives me something<br />
w/ his name on it. He was fumbling around his pockets, pulled out the<br />
map, then quickly shoved it into his jacket pocket. I grabbed his arm and<br />
reached into his pocket to grab the map.<br />
Same one as this clown has. He started to get up so I shoved him back<br />
down and cuffed him. Let’s go find out who this guy is.”<br />
The officers walked back towards their suspect and laid it out for him.<br />
"We have your friend. You wanna tell us your version, ‘cause his story<br />
throws you under the bus.”<br />
After about 15 seconds of the seven stages of grief, the suspect spoke up.<br />
"I knew this wasn't gonna work, the whole thing was so stupid. My idiot<br />
cousin saw it in a movie, and we just tweaked the plot to fit our plan. We<br />
were gonna knock over the Mermaid. It's a Saturday night, the owners<br />
can't go to the bank ‘til Monday, so it makes sense that there'd be a ton of<br />
cash there. We hired this kid and paid him to drive away from the Mermaid<br />
as fast as he could, blacked out around 11 p.m. figuring he could keep u<br />
guys busy chasing him down, while we scooped all the cash from the tills<br />
and customers.”<br />
“Then we were gonna run down to the beach and get aboard a dinghy<br />
to take us to a bigger boat, maybe hide out at the isthmus on Catalina. But<br />
the kid called and said some cop ran my cousin off the beach and then off<br />
to jail.”<br />
“So our plan was on hold. I didn't want to go home empty handed, so I<br />
stopped off at that gas station you saw me at, was gonna knock that over,<br />
but you guys ruined that plan, too.”<br />
Martin lifted the guy to his feet and walked him back to his unit as a<br />
message from the Hermosa desk was relayed to Murray.<br />
"Clements called from the hospital, he's gonna be fine, but thought it’d<br />
be wise to mention that the victim in the gas station robbery is most likely<br />
still tied up in the office and will probably lash out at anyone who shows<br />
up to free him.”<br />
Murray radioed back that he'd head over to the station and take care of<br />
that, but on his way, he did a slow roll by the Mermaid, looking at the lot<br />
full of locals and rummies, heading in and out and thinking to himself,<br />
"You people have no idea how two nosy, suspicious civil servants made<br />
your life a lot more pleasant tonight."<br />
As he turned his motor west and headed up Pier Avenue, he rode by but<br />
didn’t recognize the kid who was gonna drive the car away from the Mermaid<br />
and now was walking back toward the restaurant, seeing if there was<br />
any way to salvage the evening. He glanced towards Pier Ave at the fading<br />
light of Murray's motorcycle, with its back and forth excessive changes,<br />
and thought to himself, "That looks like a drunken firefly." B<br />
54 Easy Reader / <strong>Beach</strong> magazine • <strong>August</strong> 11, <strong>2016</strong>
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56 Easy Reader / <strong>Beach</strong> magazine • <strong>August</strong> 11, <strong>2016</strong>