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The intersection of Virginius and Lemon Way could only provide so much entertainment. Close to the homes of Jim Cannon and Kevin Krest, both of whom started to drift away after a time, it was also within constant sight of Andy Reid's parents and the whole Midgette clan(about whom, more later). It was also nearly a mile to 7-11. In addition to these inherent disadvantages to Virginius and Lemon Way, there were important benefits for all to hanging around closer to my apartment. My mother was liberal about the teenage vices of the seventies. She bought wine and liquor for us if she happened to be going to the liquor store and we happened to have money, she didn't raise an eyebrow over my friends' cigarettes or my pipes and cigars, and, being from that part of the country from whence it was easy to vacation in Mexico, she smoked pot ten years before I did. In summer, the apartment complex pool beckoned.
At neither the Palms nor the border of Kings Forest and Malibu did we lack for woods. A five minute walk, as inconspicuous as half a dozen teenage boys with shoulder-length hair, crackbrimmed hats and fringed leather jackets could achieve, would take us into the cool privacy of the young forest which had made a good start in reclaiming farmland before residential development conquered all. Away from adults, especially police, we lost ourselves for hours drinking a little whiskey, smoking a little dope, lying a little about sex, climbing trees, throwing rocks and dirt clods at one another, slaughtering birds, rabbits and squirrels, and building shelters for camping trips.
The apartment complex fronted Virginia Beach Boulevard, border between two school districts, thus giving us easy access to a wholly exotic and mysterious second world. Occasionally, we stayed out all night, napping under highway overpasses, drinking Paisano wine, walking through fog-dripping pre-dawn meadows until our hands shook with exhaustion, drunkenness and discomfort. We saw paths through wooded sections and followed them, unless the railroad tracks beckoned us first. Twenty-five cents bought a carton fruit drink and two feet of bubble gum. Shoplifters weren't prosecuted. Marijuana could be bought from sailors just back from Viet Nam for $105.00 a pound, divided into sixteen $20.00 bags and sold in a weekend. The streets were clear of glass and nails, so our bike tires never went flat.
Trusting milkmen still delivered early in the mornings and always honored the
written requests we left on other people's doorsteps for extra orange juice,
chocolate milk and yogurt, useful supplies on our frequent camping trips. Drug-crazed
bully Dean Kline stunned a duck with a bb shot to the side of its poor, feathered
head, then caught it and decided to train it for the circus in my camping tent,
so I had to chase him away. On another expedition, several of us were chased
up into the campsite monkey bars we had constructed of saplings weeks in advance
by wild dogs, who rooted through our packs and tents until Dirty Andy tossed
a can of Raid into the campfire, creating an awesome blue ball of flame which
left the oily scent of insecticide, singed dog hair and zapped nylon tent, and
very little else in our camp for most of the weekend. Had we paid for the tents
instead of stealing them from yards on the way to the campsite, we would have
actively tortured Andy instead of just carving "Andy Sucks" into trees throughout
Kings Grant with the huge skinning knives we considered de riguer for weekend
outings. 
