Once upon a time I had the best job in America. At 16 years of age, I was the gas jockey of Orinda Union 76.
At closing time, it was my job to swab the bay, which was more fun than you might think. I weighed 140 pounds at the time, so when I spread the slippery solvent on the surface of the bay and started mopping to the beat of “Itsy Bitsy Teenie Weenie Yellow Polka Dot Bikini,” well, the mop stood still, while I slid back and forth in my slippery PF Flyers. People started stopping by at closing time to watch this ridiculous scene. I actually considered charging admission. But best of all, I got to drive the tow truck.
A heavy rainfall in that year of 1960 flooded the Caldecott Tunnel, and several vehicles were abandoned in three feet of water. The California Highway Patrol closed traffic to the tunnel and it became my job to haul out the half-dozen or so vehicles that were marooned.
It was my first real grown-up job, so I took to it like a duck on a Junebug. I hooked ’em up and hauled ’em out, drumming on the dashboard to the Everly Brothers singing, “Cathy’s Clown” on the radio.
It was ‘round ‘bout midnight when I got that last car out, and was struck with a burning idea. I drove over to Sneaky Legs’ house, parked my truck a few doors down, and knocked on his bedroom window, which he opened with half-shut eyes.
“Wanna go waterskiing?” I asked.
What’s a sixteen-year-old going to say to an offer like that?
Legs grabbed a slalom-ski and a tow rope, and off we went in our four-wheel ski boat to the Caldecott Tunnel.
We drove in silence past a California Highway Patrolman, who waved us on, and disappeared into the empty tunnel, where we glided across the inky waters, and parked. There wasn’t anything to say. Legs was out the door and hitching the towrope to the back of the truck while I turned the radio up. It was obvious he wanted to be first, and I had no objections, as he was my esteemed guest.
I hit the gas and hauled Sneaky Legs a hundred yards or so, grinning into the rearview mirror as he splashed rooster tails up onto those solemn old walls of the Caldecott. When we ran aground, I turned the tow truck around, and took my turn at washing the walls of the Caldecott with rainwater, smiling in ecstasy as I went. It wasn’t Artemis Two, but it was the next thing to it.
I might not have been the best gas jockey who ever worked at Orinda Union 76, hell, I might well have been the worst, but to this day, I think Sneaky Legs and I might be two of the luckiest people on the planet to have waterskied the Caldecott Tunnel, and are alive today to smile about it.
— Want to hear McAvoy Layne tell the story in his own spoken word? Go here for an audio version of this column.
For more than 35 years, in over 4,000 performances, columnist and Chautauquan McAvoy Layne has been dedicated to preserving the wit and wisdom of “The Wild Humorist of the Pacific Slope,” Mark Twain. As Layne puts it: “It’s like being a Monday through Friday preacher, whose sermon, though not reverently pious, is fervently American.”
