“The Little Mexican Washington Palm in a Rusty One-Gallon Can”
by Randall “Ted” Berkeley
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| [2013 instagram paulharris8] |
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| Randall “Ted" Berkeley’s articles often appeared in the Los Angeles Herald Examiner’s “Saturday Story” section. [1983-07-28 Messenger, photo by Anthony P. Verebes] |
The assistant director yelled, “That’s a wrap,” and I lined up my stage chairs, put away the guns and other props, locked up my boxes and left the stage. It was dark as I started for my car in the parking lot; and as I rounded the corner of the stage, I almost stepped on a thirsty little palm in a one gallon can. This little tree had served its photographic purpose to the industry and now had been left to die of thirst, so I picked it up and took it my car and drove to my shack on the coast highway in Malibu.
It was a beautiful evening as my wife held a flashlight while I planted the little palm. I could almost hear it say thanks as I sprinkled it gently with the hose. We bade it good night and went into the house.
I had gone to bed early because of having an early call for the morrow and had had slept several hours when I was almost jolted out of my bed by a violent shake of the house and a thunderous crash. My scared wife said, “My God, what was that?’’ I sprang out of bed, slipped on my bathing trunks and ran out of the bedroom. When I looked down the hall I saw something that I could not believe. There was a ray of light coining from under the bathroom door, so bright that it could have been the sun, but it was dark outside. I carefully opened the door and there in the room was the hood of a Studebaker automobile, almost back to the windshield, with its lights still on.
I sped out the front door and there in the car was a very intoxicated middle-aged woman. I dragged her out of the car, carried her over my shoulder into the house, and laid her on the couch. Between Sylvia and myself, we managed to get the car properly parked and returned to the house.
I checked my watch. It was time to go to work, so I dressed, kissed Syl good-bye and departed. I called home at lunch time and Syl told me that the intoxicated lady had sobered up and had driven away, apparently all right.
The next morning I overslept, so with no coffee or anything, I dressed, kissed Sylvia and charged out of the house, around my car, opened the door and threw myself in, to be startled when there was a loud scream and a body jumped up, opened the passenger door and ran helter-skelter down the Pacific Coast Highway. The last I saw was a very scared sailor high-tailing it down PCH.
The poor guy had probably been walking back to base at Pt. Mugu, and, being cold and tired, thought he would take a rest in my broken-down Ford.
I have often thought of that sailor. I found his cap in my car when it got light, and inside it, printed in large letters was H. H. Stoner.
That night I arrived home from work, entered the house, poured myself a drink. “Sylvia,” I said, “ever since I brought that palm tree home from work, strange things have been happening. I think on Saturday I’ll pull it up and throw it in the ocean.” How, Sylvia wanted to know, could a grown man be so stupid as to think that a tree could have any bearing on the weird things that had been happening. I agreed, had dinner, took my shower and retired for the night.
The alarm sounded; I looked at it. It said four-thirty. I turned it off, jumped up, dressed and left for work. As I got into my car, I noted my box trailer looked strange. I walked over to it and found that one of the wheels had been stolen. It’s that tree again, I said to myself. Driving to my day’s toil at the studio, I wondered where I would find a second-hand wheel to replace it.
On Monday, I had my usual aggravating day at work. Shortly after getting home, I answered a knock on the door. Two men were standing there with my missing wheel. “Hey, great,’’ I said, “thanks for returning it.’’
“I’m sorry,” said one of them, “we are detectives and only wanted you to identify it. You must be in court next Thursday to help prosecute the culprit.” I told them that it would be silly for me to lose a day’s work for a five dollar wheel. They thanked me, took the wheel and left.
Before leaving, they told me how they captured the crook, a hopelessly crippled teenaged kid on crutches. He and his sixteen-year old girl friend and another young couple had had a flat tire almost in front of my house. The kids took my wheel and drove to the first gas station at Sunset Boulevard and asked the attendant to install the spare. It would not fit because my Ford wheel had one less lug bolt. He asked the driver if he had ever used this wheel before and the kid said yes. The attendant, being suspicious, called the police and they were arrested.
It was a beautiful Saturday morning and I was pruning a vine on the front of the house when a car pulled up and stopped. A nice looking young man got out and walked over to me with a paper in his hand. “Good morning,” I said “something I can do for you?” “Are you Randall Berkeley?” “Yes, I am.” With that he handed me the paper. “What’s this?” I asked. “Subpoena,” he said, and left.
I don’t want any part of this whole thing, I thought to myself as I ascended the steps to the old Malibu Courthouse. When I arrived at the top of the stairs there stood a beautiful middle-aged woman crying like a baby. Next to her stood a fine-looking man and behind them stood a pathetic looking boy on crutches. As I passed, the man gently touched my arm and asked if I was Randall Berkeley. When I told him I was, he introduced himself, and his wife and boy, and then very sadly asked me to do all I could to make it easier on the boy. I assured him that I would. I entered the courtroom and sat down. What could I do, I pondered, as I heard the muffled sobbing of a brokenhearted mother behind me.
It was my turn on the stand. I had no idea what to say, but when the prosecuting attorney (or whoever he was) asked me if this was the wheel that had been stolen from my trailer, I suddenly blurted out that it had not been stolen but borrowed. I told the court I had known the boy for a long time, knew he didn’t have much money, that he often went riding to the beach, and I had given him permission to use a tire off my trailer any time he chose. There was a murmur in the courtroom and the man who had been questioning me flew into a rage. He turned to the crowd, and pointing his finger at me, said that I was the kind of person who encouraged criminals by aiding and abetting them, that this boy should be locked up and taught a lesson before he became a hardened criminal.
When he had finished the Judge asked me if I had any more to say and I replied that I did not. I was frightened, thinking I might be charged with perjury. The Judge gently tapped his gavel on the bench and said, “Case dismissed.’’ I gulped a sigh of relief and left the court with my head hanging low. I crossed the highway, entering the old Las Flores, where now stands the Sea Lion Cafe for a much needed drink.
I hadn’t been there long when two favorite friends walked in—Jimmy Dunn and Allen Jenkins. We had a few drinks and discussed the motion picture business, a livelihood for all of us.
I felt better, crossed the highway toward my car, and was almost to it when down the courthouse steps came the greatest little man I have ever known—Judge John Webster, who had presided at the case of the wheel. I would have liked to have avoided him, but I couldn’t. I blurted out, “Isn’t it a beautiful day, Judge?’’ With that ever present glint in his eye, he said, “It’s the most beautiful day I have seen in a long, long time.’’ He smiled as though he approved of my disposition of a sad case.
Now in 1977 as I pass my palm tree, grown to a 30 foot specimen, on my way to Hollywood each day, I wonder if God was as good to that poor crippled kid as he was to The Little Mexican Washington Palm in the Rusty One-Gallon Can.
