Asses on the Move
There were five of us—Danny, Ken, Phil, Robbie, and I. We called ourselves the Asses Anonymous, named for the hikes we took, not along mountain trails but on the roads of Los Angeles, past twenty-five miles of gas stations, liquor stores, discarded magazines, and old tires, a series of trips so ridiculous that we called them Ass Hikes.
(Here are Danny, Ron, and Ken on one of those hikes.)
I did lots of things in high school without the Asses, but those activities were like treks away from home. There was always the anticipated return—whether from a Sunday at church, a trumpet lesson, or a date with an actual girl—to that close circle of friends whose wisdom equaled that of Walter Cronkite, the Supreme Court, and certain obviously misguided parents, combined.
Besides hikes, there were other trips. On Saturdays we sometimes would take the bus into L.A. for lunch or a movie. We occasionally went to Langer’s Delicatessen, near downtown, where you could get an amazing pastrami sandwich with Russian dressing, accompanied by insults from waitresses apparently recruited from the U.S. Marines.
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