Danny Aguirre's Books

Get Your Soul Back

Excerpts Spanky was a member of the Lynchmen gang, who were known for being crazy, and regarded by many as the toughest car gang in the Valley. They earned their reputation by fighting a prolonged war with a vicious gang based in San Fernando called the Undertakers. They were an older gang, who were feared throughout the Valley. As a rule the Undertakers were physically bigger than the Lynchmen. Many of them resembled the Hells Angels in size and appearance. The Lynchmen fought the Undertakers at a hot dog stand in San Fernando, which was one of the Undertaker hangouts. It was an all-out brawl with fists and weapons, and was the last of a series of battles that spanned a couple of years. In the aftermath of the fight, it became apparent that the Lynchmen had worn out the Undertakers, who requested a meeting in order to make peace. As the leaders of the two gangs met, one of the Undertakers summed up the character of the upstart Lynchmen gang with these words, “The difference between us big guys and you little guys is that you guys are crazier.” After that war, the Lynchmen felt invincible. They took on any gang who got in their way. Their membership and associations were primarily made up of troubled youth from Sun Valley and North Hollywood. With few exceptions, the Lynchmen club became like a magnet drawing anyone with a dysfunctional domestic background to become part of their gang. They were composed of numerous cliques: an older set of Sun Valley/North Hollywood guys founded the gang; some of the older Branford Park Boys were received into the gang; a number of tough guys who hung out at Sun Valley Park became Lynchmen; a Sun Valley club called the Townsmen merged into the Lynchmen; and a Mexican clique called the Little Gents either became Lynchmen, or associated and fought on their side in gang fights. Unofficially, the Lynchmen had a hierarchy of toughness: on the lower end were guys who, when pressed, were crazy, but outsiders weren’t intimidated by them, except that they belonged to the Lynchmen. At the top were guys who became almost legendary for their fighting prowess and craziness. There was a guy named Sammy Martinez, possibly the most notorious of them all, who was around 5’10’’ and weighed about 240 pounds. Even his fellow Lynchmen were uncomfortable partying with him. They were always concerned that at any moment he might go off on them, especially when a glue rag was hanging out of his mouth.

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That evening, we visited our one contact. They lived in a cabin amongst a cluster of cabins located in a large square lot of dirt and pine trees. We knocked on their door, and a young couple named Gil and Toni answered. They initially looked puzzled and somewhat reserved. I mentioned that Jeri Aguirre was my sister, and her name was like a magic password for entrance. They warmed up to us, and I introduced them to Jesse and Joel. While still standing on their small, wooden front porch, I asked them if they knew a guy named Bill. I rehearsed what went down in LA and how upset my sister Jeri was with Bill’s habitual lying. I mentioned that Credence Clearwater played live at the festival I attended, but Bill was nowhere in site. They invited us into their modest cabin living room, which was actually a combination kitchen-living room. The knotty pine walls and unvarnished, secondhand furniture made it the most rustic house I had ever been in; common for Tahoe, but non-existent in Sun Valley.

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It was during this time that an old acquaintance, Tom Jackson, became one of my all-time best friends. We had grown up in the same neighborhood, attending the same elementary, junior high, and high schools, but we were never close. Tom was a freckle-faced redhead, standing over six feet tall, weighing well over 200 pounds, with huge forearms. His big, thick head of long, florescent-like red hair matched his lion-like personality. When aroused, Tom was like the untamed, rip-roaring lion of the jungle. But when calm, he was more like the gentle, playful lion of the Wizard of Oz. The difference was Tom never lacked courage. He was the type of guy who would jump out in front of a train for those he loved. Tom possessed more heart and sincerity than almost anyone I’ve ever known. The Brazilian proverb, inspired by what many regard as the most loyal dog in the world, was a fitting description for Tom: “Faithful as a Fila.” We began hanging out together in the North Shore. Tom had moved there around the same time Spanky and I did When we relocated back to the South Shore, Tom followed. We became inseparable. He affectionately nicknamed me “Mexican,” and we began taking many memorable hitchhiking trips. Our journeys were usually spur-of-the-moment decisions leading to sudden action. Once at a house around midnight, amidst a roomful of people, I hollered across the room, “Hey Tom!” He answered, “What?” I said, “Let’s go to LA.” We immediately gathered our belongings, walked up the street to Highway 50, and stuck out our thumbs toward LA.

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One time an older guy picked Tom and I up and had a truck full of fruit. He stopped at every trailer park on the way to Tahoe, ordering us to sell his fruit from trailer to trailer. After a number of these parks we became frustrated with this guy. We complained that we didn’t want to sell any more fruit. “Then I won’t drive you to Tahoe,” he declared. He won the argument, and we sold fruit all the way to Tahoe. Once we were picked up by two guys in a souped-up GTO on Highway 1. They were driving like race car drivers on the winding Pacific Coast Highway. When they picked us up, they warned us that they drove fast. Our desperation compelled us to exclaim, “We don’t care if you drive 100 miles an hour, just as long as you get us out of here.” The driver’s nickname was Captain Satellite. They weren’t bluffing, as they drove like race car drivers along the hazardous curvy roads from Half-Moon Bay to San Francisco. Sometimes we found ourselves in delicate situations, such as when a young lady took us to her home in San Jose to feed us. She kept fretting about her boyfriend getting home. We weren’t too concerned, since we hadn’t done anything improper. While waiting for our meal, I noticed some pictures hung on a wall in her living room. Many were pictures of her with a man I assumed was her boyfriend. He was a bear of a man, a biker, and was wearing some sort of a club jacket. When I focused on the lettering, I realized it was a “Hells Angel” jacket. She didn’t tell us that! We became more concerned than she was about her boyfriend coming home. We rushed her to feed us, inhaled our food, and had her whisk us back to the closest freeway onramp. Still, for the most part we were assisted by lovely people, who showered us with undeserved kindness. We were often fed, given places to stay, and driven by our hosts much further than where they were actually going. Tom and I were on the same page as far as never requesting anything from anybody. People responded much better to this. Often they’d ask if we were hungry. We’d thank them for the offer, but decline. Almost every time, they’d insist on feeding us anyway. If we stayed at their home, we practiced what I began to refer to as the “American Indian” approach, which was to leave no trace that we had ever set foot in their house. I noticed when hitchhikers asked people for things—money, food, or a place to stay—people were turned off, and were less apt to help them.

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The summer of 1971 became the summer of mass migration from LA. Literally hundreds of people from my old high school moved to or visited Tahoe that summer. From my old school came hippies, jocks, Lynchmen, and Park Boys. There were many other cliques from other parts of the Valley as well. It all contributed to one rip-roaring summer in Tahoe. Some of my closest friends from LA rented a house on Los Angeles Street, which quickly became the center for the multitudes from the Valley. There were unplanned parties of over a hundred people, happening without the consent of the renters. On one occasion there were many Lynchmen and former Undertakers (a past rival gang of the Lynchmen). This produced some tense moments. One of the guys from our high school, Tom D, formerly a jock, whispered to some of us, that if a fight broke out, he could climb onto the roof with his shotgun and start picking off Undertakers like ducks in a carnival. Fortunately, nothing happened that day. I didn’t know Tom well enough to know if he was to be taken seriously. He certainly didn’t look the part. Tom had a conservative, clean-cut image with short, light-blonde hair, a slight beard, and he usually wore plaid shorts and sandals. He resembled a Huntington Beach tourist more than a menacing hood. But looks can be deceiving.

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As for Armando, who was my first close friend of childhood, our tightness was renewed in Tahoe. Armando had sharp Latin features with prominent, wild-looking eyes that could make outsiders nervous. Indeed, he often gave them the impression of being scary, crazy, and dangerously unpredictable. When Armando was in one of his hyper moods, he’d bounce off walls and speak obnoxiously loud, with his words almost indistinguishably running together. If you weren’t accustomed to him, it was difficult to understand him. If Armando didn’t like you, he’d constantly harass you until things escalated into a physical conflict. Armando made many enemies, but he loved his friends. He could be extremely funny, uninhibitedly emotional, thoughtful, and giving. For some reason, Armando turned me into his hero. He expressed his affection and admiration for me with special gifts. Whether it was a unique shirt, a turquoise necklace, or a cool hat, Armando was always blessing me with something nice. He treated me the way the George Kennedy character treated Luke in the movie Cool Hand Luke. It could get a little embarrassing when a new person came on the scene and approached me with a question Armando deemed unworthy of a response from me. Before I could reply, Armando, acting as my bodyguard and spokesperson, would menacingly snap back at the newcomer, “The man is beyond that.” I’d feel conspicuous, but if the person was somebody I didn’t particularly care for, then it was convenient having Armando around. Strangely, it sometimes appeared that Armando had an almost telepathic communication with me. I remember sitting on a couch with a roomful of people, including Armando. I was high on hallucinogens, and was in a total-silence state-of-mind, with barely a trace of bodily movement. Armando was preparing to do something antagonistic to somebody in the room. In my motionless, expressionless state, the thought passed through my mind, “I wish Armando wouldn’t do that.” As Armando rose up to carry out his mischief, he suddenly turned to me and asked, “No?” I ever so slightly nodded my head no, and he sat back down restraining himself. That happened on more than a few occasions.

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We set our thumbs toward Tahoe and began our journey. This was back in the days when it was not uncommon to encounter literally hundreds of enthusiastic, youthful, hitchhikers along Highway 1, which was the route we were on. In Santa Barbara we were hitchhiking on a grassy island area at a rare stoplight along the highway. The grassy area was filled with over a hundred hitchhikers, which increased the difficulty of securing a ride. Despite the challenging conditions for successful hitchhiking, I usually had no problem catching a ride. The more I hitchhiked, the more confident I became that I was probably one of the better hitchhikers in the state. I incorporated many techniques along the way. If you didn’t, you’d never make it out of places like Santa Barbara, where multitudes hitched rides. I learned from previous hitchhiking trips how critical eye contact was. Unfortunately, most drivers and passengers intentionally avoided eye contact, but hitchhiking at stoplights on highway routes presented greater opportunities. Half the battle was to somehow get their attention. That’s why I carried fruit with me. Allow me to explain. I discovered that sudden animated movements could startle unsuspecting drivers into involuntary eye contact, and when you had their attention, humor was the pathway to their back seats. When cars were compelled to stop at a red light, I went into action. I’d go from a mannequin-like motionless hitchhiking position, standing upright, right arm extended, thumb out, with zero movement, to becoming wildly animated, waving my arm up and down and from side to side, and jumping up and down. This would startle them into noticing me amongst the sea of countless other hitchhikers. Once I had their attention, I’d clasp my hands together acting as though I was begging—all in humor—quickly followed by pulling out my banana and orange, extending them toward my prospective drivers. I’d have a huge smile on my face throughout the encounter. I had to do all of this within the forty to fifty seconds we had with our captive audience. If they smiled or laughed, I had a 50 percent chance of obtaining a ride. I’d carefully watch for the slightest signal from them inviting us into their car. If they did, in one sudden motion, I’d run, open the car door, jump in, and close the door. Many aggressive hitchhikers were not past capitalizing on our success and attempted to get in the car with us. If the driver and/or passengers became concerned that too many people were forcing their way in, they’d usually be scared off.

Excerpts The following three months, Los Aguirres became the center of my life, which wasn’t so bad when you considered the camaraderie we enjoyed there. To walk into the Los Aguirres kitchen in the morning was a piece of community magic. The place was a continuous flow of close-knit relatives working in unison, not unlike the Fiddler on the Roof scene where the Russian Jews are performing their community duties in the town square to the song “Tradition.” In the case of Los Aguirres, the song “La Bamba” would more fittingly capture the warm, spirited environment. Aunt Georgia was the morning radio deejay, who insisted on cheerful music, to make it easy for the staff to move their feet. Every working morning Georgia, along with my mom, dad, and Uncle Foster diligently diced tomatoes; chopped lettuce; grated cheeses; rolled enchiladas, taquitos, and chimachangas; fried chile rellenos; and prepared the refried beans, Spanish rice, and mole. The restaurant suppliers took their daily or weekly turns visiting, adding to the circle, where impersonal businesslike interactions were not allowed. Everybody was known on a first-name basis, along with alternate nicknames, corresponding to what they supplied. Thus, you had the Oxygen Man, the Meat Man, the Vegetable Man, etc. Nobody was in a hurry, and if they could have gotten away with it, they probably would have stayed all day. Many freely shared their joys as well as their personal problems.

Excerpts My dad was the Godfather of the restaurant. Many thought he looked the part as well. He effortlessly commanded respect, running the business in a hands-on way, including plugging holes in staffing. In that department, he took a by-any-means-necessary approach to what became a perpetual need. We might be lounging at my parents’ house and my dad would tersely ask us if all the shifts were covered for the remainder of the day. My sisters and I used to joke that my dad didn’t care who covered the shift, as long as it got covered. He almost gave the impression that it didn’t matter if it was covered by a ten-year-old nephew, a street person, or even a chimpanzee. Put an apron on them and cover the shift, was his unspoken policy toward remedying the situation. This of course was an exaggeration, but sometimes it wasn’t that farfetched. My mom was the heart of the restaurant. The workers and regular customers adored my mother. Whoever walked into the kitchen area, be it family, employees, suppliers, or customers, they were sure to receive a warm greeting from her. She was also the queen chef. It was her recipes that the menu was based upon, which had been passed on to her by my grandmother, Mama Concha. There were many menu favorites, but it was the chimichangas that we became most famous for. Traditionally, a chimichanga is deep fried, but my mother came up with her own concoction, baking it instead. It was one of those dishes where the whole was more than sum of its parts, and the parts weren’t too shabby. The melting cheeses and sour cream, smothered with mole, topped with shredded beef, chopped lettuce, diced tomatoes, grated cheddar cheese, homemade guacamole, and fresh salsa, overwhelmed the taste buds, causing customers to shout for more. They were sure to go tell their friends to come experience the Los Aguirres chimichangas for themselves.Aunt Georgia was the other half of the dynamic duo. Georgia and my mom were as close as two sisters could be. She added an artistic flair to the menu, creating the renowned pizzaguirres; a deep-fried corn tortilla topped with refried beans, tomatoes, chili, onions, jack cheese, cheddar cheese, and guacamole. Aunt Georgia was often playful, zesty, and frisky. She not only added spice to the meals, but she was the spice of the Los Aguirres family. Then there was Uncle Foster, although middle-aged, he was more youthful than

Excerpts Richard and his brother Gary had horrible relationships with their parents. I didn’t know many details, except that they were cut off at an early age. Richard was usually soft-spoken and smiled often. He wasn’t belligerent or loud, but would never back down from a fight. When Richard did fight, he was ferocious, throwing powerful punches with either hand. He was around 5’10”, 200 pounds, barrel-chested, and naturally strong. But more than his strength, Richard was a pure warrior. He had a will of iron, and his rage knew no bounds. Still, if outsiders were respectful toward him, they’d never have a problem with Richard. If you were his valued friend, Richard would back you up even if the Italian mafia was after you. Richard was also very sensitive. He had no inhibitions about expressing his deep love for those he was close to. He was not argumentative or difficult whatsoever, making him pleasurable to be around.

Excerpts I met Rick while living in LA, shortly after reading about him in the newspaper—he had stabbed a guy up the street from my house. He was seventeen at the time. On Rick’s thirteenth birthday, his mother committed suicide, and his relationship with his dad was rocky at best. It contributed to his junkyard-dog attitude. Rick was a man of many sayings, seemingly having one for every occasion. Most of them were related to what a mean, tough guy he considered himself to be. Rick’s saying for expressing his eagerness to tangle with anybody asking for trouble was, “There ain’t no stop sign on my chest.” When Rick recounted one of his past scuffles, he might describe it in this manner: “The dude said something stupid, so I planted my feet, and we went toe-to-toe until I put him on his back.” Rick had dozens of similar expressions and sayings. He stood around 5’10”, weighed about 175, but carried himself as though he were 6’4” and 275. Rick had thin, brown hair and a mustache. Later in life many claimed he was the spitting image of the actor Robert Duval. Despite Rick’s propensity for violence, he had a warm, tender side as well. He could be soft-spoken and sentimental toward those he counted as loyal friends. His moving to Tahoe was his effort to become less violent. Alcohol and drugs did not assist him in his noble goal.

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Manfred was employed at Los Aguirres for a long time. He was eighteen but appearance-wise he looked twenty-five. The ladies loved Manfred. He had a pit bull named Billy, who was the most famous dog in Lake Tahoe. The dog fought in the pits when he was younger, but not while Manfred owned him. Everybody loved Billy. He was a gnarly, scarred up, and white, with the most human personality of any dog I’ve ever encountered. When Manfred left Billy for a while at a house, Billy would sniff the front door for his master, and from a longing heart, Billy would moan the syllables, “Man—Fred.” The dog would speak Manfred’s name—I have many witnesses. Billy loved humans with all his heart, but didn’t get along with dogs. If it came to a fight, Billy never lost. He eventually fathered two sons, Parker and BC. Gary owned BC and Wayne (another Park Boy friend) owned Parker.

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A new employee named Craig was hired at Los Aguirres. He was one of the Christians from the Crossroads house, and was the first Christian outside of our family to work at Los Aguirres. He’d stick out like a sore thumb in our midst. Virtually all the younger employees partied together. The current night staff was Manfred, Glen, Richard, Gary, Jeff, Brenda, Crazy Carol, Uncle Art, Rael, Kim (a long-term employee), and myself. We were a wild bunch that Craig was inserted into. From the Christian vantage point, which I later discovered, Craig was strategically assigned there. He was like their green-beret Christian sent on an impossible mission. We had no idea that this one who seemed to be a lamb that we supposed was being fed to the lions, was a lion in a way we’d soon come to understand. Craig’s first day was my birthday, November 11. I immediately picked up that he was an intense Christian. As some of the employees were wishing me happy birthday, Craig interjected his good will. When he opened his mouth, I paid close attention to every word, waiting for some insult or challenge. Instead he spoke a carefully worded, inoffensive blessing.

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I went back to Desolation Valley to clear my head. I bolstered my resolve to never become a Christian. I did yoga and meditation, which I had recently been neglecting. On the Fourth of July, after spending a few days in Desolation, I descended into the town for the annual Los Aguirres beach picnic held at Pope Beach. I felt spiritually renewed and was in a great mood. All the Los Aguirres employees and relatives were in attendance. It was a festive time. Many close friends also joined our celebration, as well as some of the Christians from Crossroads. Rick Carlson greeted me, saying he heard that I was considering becoming a Christian within a year. He caught me off guard, since I had shared this with Spanky and Mary in strict confidence. I had also changed my mind soon after uttering those words. I was inwardly seething at Spanky and Mary for breaking confidence. The best I could offer in response to Rick was a lukewarm nod. I assumed the next thing out of Rick’s mouth would be some type of congratulations. I imagined him saying “That’s great news Danny.” Or, “What a great decision you’ve made.” Or, “You won’t regret it.” Instead Rick sternly reasoned with me about the uncertainty of life. He asked how I could be so sure that I’d be alive in a year. Rick urged me to receive Jesus right now, and that to procrastinate was an insult to God. I couldn’t believe he was confronting me this way. I was boiling inside, but I was keenly aware that Rick was dying. The medical prognosis didn’t give him much longer to live. I knew Rick wasn’t pulling any punches, and out of respect, I kept silent. I became convicted because I knew he was for real and wasn’t a fair-weather Christian. Rick was playing for keeps, and I felt the weight of his faithful life. The man standing before me wasn’t flinching, even in the face of death. Suddenly my pursuit of enlightenment seemed shallow. As Rick was awaiting my reply, I felt embarrassed and ashamed. My strength drained from me, and I couldn’t even lift my head to look Rick in the eye. Fortunately, I was delivered from our conversation by some friends calling me. I awkwardly thanked Rick and walked over to some friends for more lighthearted interaction. Afterward, the more I dwelt upon it, the more furious I became, and deliberately let the Christians know my feelings. I told them that their leader Rick really blew it with me, and turned me off to Christianity.