Lee dashes from the store. An apology, a fifty-dollar bill, and I'm right behind him.

He's not out of our sight even ten seconds but amazingly, somehow, he's managed to open the rear of the Woody, remove a cardboard box of towels and cans, and start waxing the beige-colored paint. Horns are orchestrating from the cars behind the Woody as the customers in line observe this ludicrous spectacle.

"Come on, Lee! Let's go!" Joel says.

"NO!" he shouts with sudden fury. "I NEED TO WAX!"

We back away a few steps.

Twenty minutes later, all but the wood panels covered in powdery white swirls, Lee's aggressive pace is interrupted. The cashier, followed by a group of angry customers, informs us that she's just called the police.

Oh shit!

"COPS!" Lee screams, twitching and jerking uncontrollably.

Joel and I know what's coming next. We jump in the white-swirled Woody as Lee floors it out of the gas station. And as the woody whips to the right, the back end fishtailing, the passenger door swings shut on its own.

And we're off! Screeching and swerving in and out of traffic. I can't even keep track. Joel's screaming in my right ear. Lee's howling in my left. We zip through a dark alley. A moment later we're tearing through an industrial park. Another dark alley. A construction zone. We plow through some orange cones. And then we're driving over the grass in a public park. Homeless bums scatter as Lee plows through their makeshift camp. Finally, we're ten minutes from the Chevron station. Where we are and how far we've gone, I have no idea. Just another commercial business district somewhere in Los Angeles.

"Lee! Get to a phone booth!" Joel stammers, trembling.

"Sure, no problem," he says.

Pine View Drive. After all the evasive maneuvering, I'm afraid to tell Lee that somehow he has taken us in a near circleŚwe're only a couple miles from Venice Beach.

Pine View DriveŚwhere we're at anywayŚis a popular strip. Bars, taverns, and nightclubs, along with nude female dance clubs, line the street. Off the many side streets, blocks and blocks of apartments and houses are jumbled together. From some, large parties spill out onto the sidewalks. In this densely populated area of residents and tourists it doesn't take long for us to locate a pay phone. But finding a place to park proves almost impossible.

We convince Lee to accompany us to the pay phone. And please be calm. The phone is outside a club called Dos Palms, named such, I'm guessing, because of the two tall palm trees that grow along each side. Lee takes a Butterfinger from his tool belt and starts munching.

"You know, bro," he says with a mouthful. "A lot of people on crank hate to eat. I don't know why. Sometimes I don't like eating though. But sometimes I do. Sometimes I can just keep on eating."

He tears the wrapper off another Butterfinger, takes a large bite, and then points to my hand holding the notebook. "Hey, take notes. This is good shit I'm giving you."

Yeah, sure. I choke back a laugh.