There was something about this new guy at the party, this laughing mulatto veteran that reminded me of my old Navy friend. Bruce Berglund was his name. Like Chuck from my ship, Bruce was similar sounding and unflappable and generous with the bounty he had.

He was just back from ‘Nam’ and looking for a place to crash. I had an extra room in an apartment above a Sherman Williams paint store several blocks on the wrong side of the tracks. Bruce moved in and we listened to ‘Yellow Submarine’ on his stereo he brought back from the war and they took apart the speakers and found something called ‘Park Lanes’. Cigarettes obtained in Saigon and were on the whole, very pleasant to smoke. Quite a few soldiers brought home trinkets and other things from the wars. No one minded.

Bruce knew some people, had connections as it is said, and soon both of us were working for yellow cab. It was an interesting job. Both of us being extroverted helped a lot with tips or ‘scale’ as it is referred to in the cab business. Chatting up customers was not only a good way to get a good tip but it also was a bit of an education on the world.

Those cabs had 4 cylinder Continental engines and were heavy and crash resistant. Slow. That left a lot of time to converse with your fare as the mileage and time clicked by on the dash meter.

A new friend that Bruce introduced to me was one of those connections. David Johnson. He used to be a city alderman in Minneapolis. He had a nickname, Oily. He was rather slippery and loquacious and ran an after hours joint in our happening neighborhood. The West Bank of Minneapolis. The beer was cheap and imported from Wisconsin. Leinenkugel’s. Tastier than Hamm’s or Grain Belt. Life was easy and since we played guitars and sang, we were the entertainment. Free beer for us as payment. What a gig.

We had attitudes and were known as vets with experience. David liked us being there just in case. it was a shoe-in to hang out late at night, drive cab (any hour) and as a bonus, David drove cab and showed us tricks of the trade. The cab queue line at the airport was the social event of the day and ‘connections’ were made there as well. Not Vietnamese Park Lanes but similar smoking herbs were on sale.

We were Vets and Up and comers associated with Oily. Many interesting things changed hands at the cab stand. No one minded.

Several weeks after Bruce moved in I asked him why his skin was getting lighter. ” I’m a black Norwegian with curly black hair!” was his answer. China beach in Nam has a lot of sunshine. He spent six months there after his 6×6 was blown up, recuperating from injuries incurred. He was assigned to Psy Ops (psychological operations) and had a big loudspeaker on his trucks roof and would blast through the area playing ‘sunshine of your love’ by Eric Clapton and Cream. Then he would stop at one of the ‘vills’ and show movies from the trucks projector and loud sound system. Hollywood had a lot of fans over there in spite of the war. Evidently there was a music critic in one of the villages.

Soon their friendship began looking for more adventure which led them to riding old motorcycles to California.

Another story. Lives lived with the Grace of God saving us all for His purposes It’s pretty good. ‘Motorcycle pilgrimage‘ is the title of the series about that.

( Five chapters at Gator’s Grace Notes. Com)

Norm Peterson / Jack Gator