“A piece of the truck fell off on my way over,” Miranda told me when she swung by to pick me up. “It wasn’t an important piece-just some rust.” It wasn’t her ’78 Chevy truck, it was her mother’s boyfriends. His name was Mark but we called him Egg Man because he was bald. Not a creative nickname, but descriptive with a little mean thrown in.
Miranda hated him.
She hated him because he smoked pot with her mother. No one wants to know that their mother smokes pot.
She hated him because he kissed her mother in front of her. No one wants to watch their mother kissing someone.
She hated him because he stole her mother away and left the four kids to raise themselves. No one wants to raise themselves.
Los Angeles in 1987 wasn’t a good place for kids to raise themselves-especially without a community to rely on. I was Miranda’s support system and I was barely hanging on myself.
Egg Man loaned Miranda the truck so she could move out, move away, move on. At 19 years old, it was time.
Miranda and I met the spring of our junior year of high school and fell in love fast. Her biting humor, her wild curly hair, her willingness to dive into the waves while all the other girls sat in their beach chairs brushing their long straight blonde hair watching the boys surf. She was fearless. She was intoxicating. She was alive, smart and dangerous. And I was her rock. I was her conscious. I was her lifeline and a ride home when she was too stoned or drunk to remember how cool she was.
We met on Student Council. We became friends because we both knew Student Council was full of crap and we could work it to our own advantage. Miranda wanted the hall pass and an easy A. I wanted a recommendation for college. We both got what we wanted. The friendship was a bonus.
She was the popular girl, in a bad way. I was the smart, funny girl, in a boring way. We were an odd pair. She had all the testosterone ravaged boys eating out of her playful hand. I was her bodyguard keeping them in line hoping that maybe one might be interested in me.
She moved up to Santa Cruz to go to the state school-but really it was an excuse to get away from the bad situation at home and to have freedom to drink with no interruptions. I was home for the summer from college a few states away and I helped her move into her apartment because that was my role. The helper. The organizer. The explainer. The bridge between her world and the rest of the world.
We drove the rusted truck with the flatbed loaded with a boom box, stuffed animals, a single bed and a Pier One rattan chair north on Highway 5. We fell into our comfortable roles on the drive. Miranda sat shot-gun and was in charge of the music and making sure no cops saw the open beer. I was behind the wheel because I could be trusted with the bumps in the road and am good with directions.
Once we unloaded the truck in Santa Cruz, we said our good byes and I drove back to Los Angeles. Alone. I returned the truck on time with a full tank of gas to Egg Man–minus the piece of dangerous rust.
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