Old Friends and Love Stories

The other day was a rainy day in Southern California. I get rather pensive on days like that.

I was working at my computer, doing job searches, looking for work and hoping for the best. I don’t know why I thought about it. Something in the weather, I guess, must have reminded me of the story. It was a love story. The kind of endless, undying love, with lovers too young to know any better and dumb enough to give their hearts so fully. They relied on each other too much. They were kids, they were unprepared. This was my friend’s story.

Reggie was an independent spirit. I met him about 25 years ago. We met by chance. We worked in the same hotel. We became friends. We were about the same age. I was married, he was not.

I had been working at the Italian Restaurant in the hotel when Reggie was hired. He was immediately assigned to our restaurant as a prep cook. We hit it off immediately. He had a wonderful sense of humor and lots of great stories to tell. He was a pleasure to work with.

He had come to the lake to start something new. He was tired of his old life and needed something different. He had been chasing a living running a deep fried vegetable concession truck at county fairs, carnivals and craft festivals. He needed a change. I think the economy had something to do with it. The money just wasn’t there.

I remember he rolled into Tahoe in his camper truck. He lived like a turtle, with his home on his back. Come to think of it, he was kind of built like a turtle too, kind of round and hard, about 5 foot 5 (or 6) inches tall, 240 to 250 pounds, not fat, muscular. He used to tell us stories of his traveling to carnivals and festivals, the people he’d meet and things he had seen.

At one time during his travels in the early 80’s, at the height of the mud wrestling popularity, Reggie and a buddy went to a bar one evening. There was a huge sign over a mud wrestling pit that advertised that wrestling would begin that evening at 7PM. There were pictures of nice looking young women all around the pit. After a few beers, as Reggie told it, and with some cajoling from his friend, Reggie was ready to sign up for the wrestling. He figured he would need a few beers to get into a mud pit with a couple of bikini clad waitresses and make a fool of himself.

Seven PM rolled around and Reggie, slightly inebriated, eagerly awaited the girls and the mud. Soon, an announcement was made to the now-crowded bar that the mud wrestling would soon begin. A small cheer went up as the crowd moved to gather around the small pit and arena. As luck would have it Reggie’s name was called first. Reggie stepped forward, was lead into the arena and, beer in hand, yelled, “Bring on the girls!”

Right on cue, Reggie’s opponent was brought in to the arena. No girls. His opponent was to be a six foot alligator with duct tape around his snout and carried by two attendants. The crowd let out a cheer.

“Had I been sober, I would have backed out,” Reggie told us. But since he had “several” beers he really didn’t care about the outcome. He stepped up to “rassle the gator”.

The bell rang and the gator was let loose. Reggie pounced and grabbed the gator. The first two times the gator wiggled free. But the third time Reggie held on for dear life. The gator was having none of that and swung his tail in the air, with Reggie precariously attached, and whipped Reggie completely out of the ring. Reggie did not get back in. Getting thrown out of the ring once was enough.

This was Reggie. He was fun-loving, hard drinking and had a great sense of humor. He was also a very passionate guy. Reggie had been married, to the love of his life he said. They married young, just after he had established himself in the carnival food business. He would winter in Yuma, Arizona, a hotbed meeting place of fellow carnies and fair food service types. The mild winters made Yuma an excellent place to rest in the off-season, to repair machines, and to get ready for the next season.

Reggie met a local girl. They fell in love and married in the spring. He moved her to his home in Modesto, California where they lived a life as idyllic newlyweds.

Reggie and his wife moved into a working class neighborhood in Modesto. He had a small house with a carport. Life was good.

One night Reggie heard a noise coming from his carport and, upon investigating, found someone (or two) breaking into his car. He confronted the individual(s) only to be beaten severely. Reggie told me he spent several weeks in the hospital with multiple broken bones. His young wife was so afraid to stay in the house alone, and not having any relatives in the area, went home to her family in Yuma.

When Reggie finally got out of the hospital he divorced her. “She wasn’t there when I really needed her,” he told me. He also told me it was one of the great mistakes of his life. He never married again.

I knew Reggie 20 years ago. I haven’t seen him since. I have tried to find him a few times over the years. But not for the last five years or so. Internet searches, but to no avail. But just recently, after being laid off, I started my search again. I had an idea for a lunch truck as a last resort, if my current career path doesn’t pan out. I have not been able to find a job. So, I thought a lunch truck, working for myself, might be the route to go. I knew Reggie had that experience. I needed his help for my lunch truck business venture. I needed advice.

I tried searching again. His name came up. I hit the link for the Stanislaus County District Attorney’s office, Crime Victim’s Unit. Yes. There was Reggie’s name, listed on a plaque honoring the homicide victims in Stanislaus County for 2004-2005. This bit of news broke my heart. I should call the DA’s CVU (I have the number on my desk) to verify the identity of my friend but I am too afraid of the truth. It is a scary proposition. Is it better to know? Or should I cling to the hope that it is a coincidence? Perhaps a different Reggie? I do not know what I am going to do. I may never know.

He was a good man. Such a shame.

Keep in touch.
D.