I ran into Jack and Tim LaRue, who had come to the fair that evening along with Frank Jimenez and Ron Halderson. I had not seen Ron since my incarceration at Glen Helen over the holidays, and it was good to catch up on old times. Eventually, we met four young ladies who lived in Apple Valley, and we were happy to escort them for the duration of the evening.
As the night progressed, I shared the rest of my cross-tops with the others, and we drank a few more beers to chase them down as well. Eventually, we all came to the conclusion that we should retire to the LaRue Ranch for the remainder of the evening.
Once the nine of us had arrived at the ranch we became better acquainted with the ladies we had brought along with us. Tim and I were kindred spirits when it came to the consumption of hard liquor, and this evening was no different. We split a fifth of Jim Beam for old times' sake, and felt good about our chances with the ladies.
We had promised to return our companions to Apple Valley, but unfortunately all the gas stations in town had long since closed for the evening. We concluded the only viable solution was to drive into town and siphon some gas for the trip.
Siphoning gas was something I was familiar with, and I knew exactly where to get it. Eager to get on with the task at hand, the nine of us piled into Jack's early 1950s era Chevy Apache pick-up truck and began coasting into town. I stood on the step side of the pickup truck as we drove down the highway.
About halfway down the hill from the LaRue Ranch we ran out of gas, and that's the honest truth.
As we began our long walk back up the hill toward the ranch, time for idle conversation had come to an end. There were five of us along with the four young ladies. One of us was going to be the lonely dog for the evening, and none of us wanted to be. I considered returning to Apple Valley before the trouble started, but only for a moment.
As we were walking up Highway 18 toward the LaRue Ranch, Larry Kadessi pulled up alongside us with a couple of ladies of his own in tow. One of them had forgotten her purse at Kaiser Permanente, and they were driving up there to retrieve it. Larry was 21 years old, and, like me, he was driving on a suspended license. At that time he owned a beautiful metallic green 1972 Chevy Chevelle, complete with hood scoop, sidepipes, and bucket seats. One of his female passengers sat beside him and the other one sat in the left rear seat of his impressive looking car.
Frank Jimenez and one of the young women jumped into the back seat of the Chevelle. Everyone else jumped up on the hood. As Larry yelled for everyone to get off his car, I walked over to the passenger door. Frank quickly reached over and locked the passenger door, giving me his middle finger. He then sat back in his seat and laughed tempestuously.
Frank and I had always had problems with each other. He was a spoiled kid from a modestly affluent family, especially for the confines of Lucerne Valley. He had stable, caring parents whereas I had come out of the dregs of society and had long since accepted my fate.
The problem with Frank was that he had a tendency to be petulant about it, and that is what created the friction.
The only sensible thing to do at that point was to become the odd man out and return to Apple Valley. I thought about walking the rest of the way to the LaRue Ranch, which would have given me enough time to cool off. But the whiskey was in control, and I decided that Frank and I had to square things up with each other once and for all. I stepped over to the right front fender of the Chevelle and climbed up on to the hood alongside Tim.
Larry drove up the highway much faster than anticipated, and I quickly realized that Tim and I were in deep trouble. Neither one of us had a way to break our fall once our momentum shifted.
Disaster loomed ahead.
As we neared the last bend in the road before the LaRue Ranch, I realized this was where Tim and I had narrowly avoided colliding with a semi-truck several years before. It was also the same bend that Jack's mom had fired into as I sped away from the LaRue Ranch in 1977. Ultimately this location was where disaster would ring true to its mark, holding no quarter on that early Saturday morning of August 20, 1982.
Larry entered the bend in the road, overcorrected, and swerved. Tim and I rolled over our respective quarter panels in an attempt to avoid the momentum of the onrushing car. Tim was able to successfully roll clear of the Chevelle with only inches to spare.
I was less fortunate.
The young lady sitting next to me grabbed me in an attempt to recover my fall. As a result, I was thrown directly in front of Larry's Chevelle.
My head cracked hard against the pavement as the lower half of my body was collected up underneath Larry's car. The low-lying sidepipes of the Chevelle then drug me along the pavement, embedding skin and denim into the highway for approximately 14 feet before I cleared the underside of it.
The next morning, investigators from the California Highway Patrol office would testify to the evidence of that fact.
As I lay unconscious on that stretch of desolate highway complete pandemonium ensued. Jack later told me that he ran up to me thinking I had already died. He grabbed my shoulders, shook them violently, and started to scream.
"VANCE!"
The quiet night in the foothills of Lucerne Valley became utter chaos as I began to scream in agony. This was further punctuated by the hysterical screams of the young ladies who were with us.
Jack yelled out an epithet of profanities, concluding with, "Don't you die on me brother!" Then, as he held my head in his arms, he watched in horror as my head swelled up to twice its size.
In the midst of all of this, Ron Halderson overheard the distant whine of a semi barreling down the highway at 70 mph from Kaiser Permanente. He quickly understood the implications of this and pulled me out of the highway by my heels. Unimpeded by our presence, the semi cruised along smoothly, leaving us in the howling blast of its wake.
At that point Larry left the scene and sped down the mountain with his two lady friends to report the accident. At 2:37 in the morning, the metallic green Chevelle screeched to a halt in front of the Lucerne Valley Fire Department next to Pioneer Park. He ran inside and notified them that somebody had been hit by a car up on Highway 18 near Geetam. The Lucerne Valley Fire Department responded with prompt and professional efficiency.
One problem: Geetam was two miles downhill from the actual scene of the accident.
We watched helplessly as the fire department scoured the mountainside on the highway below. Miraculously, a lady only known as "Mountain 4" drove up to the scene in a green Ford station wagon, and I was quickly thrown into the back of it. Ron Halderson jumped into the passenger seat of her vehicle, and as "Mountain 4" drove down the mountain toward the rescue vehicles below she began hailing them on her CB radio. The two eventually met up with each other, and I was transferred to the ambulance, which then transported me 16 miles to Saint Mary's Desert Valley Hospital in Apple Valley. I was in excruciating pain.
After reporting the accident, Larry drove back up Highway 18 only to watch as the ambulance raced down the highway in the opposite direction. He then drove to the Ace Motel and sat down, unsure of what to do next.
I have spoke with Larry on numerous occasions about this. He has apologized to me every time, and every time I have forgiven him. It was my decision to jump up on the hood of his car, and I hold myself accountable for the consequences of my own actions.
After arriving at St. Mary's Desert Valley Hospital, I was transferred over to the care of the emergency room staff on duty that evening. I was still extremely intoxicated, and I began attempting to tell jokes in hopes of easing the gravity of the situation.
Dr. Thomas, the emergency room physician, eventually placed a chest tube into the right side of my chest. He visibly paled as bright red blood flowed freely into the drainage system below.
When Dr. Su, the surgeon on call, finally arrived I was immediately prepped and rushed to the operating room. While en route to the operating room, I signed consent forms for emergency surgery. It was then that Dr. Su somberly advised me of my chances of survival.
He told me, "I don't think I can save you, young man! You had better make your peace with God!"
I went into surgery that evening with little hope for survival. I cannot describe what it felt like not having a chance to say goodbye to family or friends. As the anesthesia began to take effect, I barely had time to say a quick prayer for mercy.
I took complete advantage of that opportunity.
FOR MORE ON THIS STORY, PLEASE REFER TO MY BLOG, "TESTIMONY."
