My Best Halloween Story

The first year I worked Halloween in Huntington Beach, California as a taxi driver, I really wasn't expecting much.  My first call of the night came from an apartment in the city/state streets, a few blocks from downtown.  My customers came walking out, laughing, already a couple drinks into the night's festivities.  The two 20-something women were both really attractive, and dressed as sexy Catholic school girls.  Their boyfriends followed them out, both in what looked like black choir robes.  "What are you guys?" I asked.  One of the guys answered, "They're naughty Catholic schoolgirls, and we're priests."  Both guys held up small wooden paddle ball paddles they had on lanyards around their necks."  The women bent over, allowing the guys to give them a couple taps on the butt with the paddles.  They were a fun group to talk to, and as I dropped them off, I realized that driving a taxi on Halloween might be a really cool thing.  It was.  Everyone was in costume, joking around and laughing, with a lot less drama than most nights. Halloween became one of my favorite nights of the year to be a taxi driver.

The next year, I was living in my taxi, working 7 days a week, and thinking about dressing up.  The best idea I could think of would be to dress up as a crash test dummy.  I thought that would be pretty funny in the cab all night.  But I worked way to many hours a day, and couldn't get it together.  So I decided to dress up as Travis Bickle, the crazy role Robert Deniro played in the 1976 movie Taxi Driver.  That's him in the drawing above, I drew that to commemorate by time as a taxi driver.  I went to a hair salon, and an Asian lady had a hell of a good time shaving my head into a Mohawk.  She'd never been asked to do that before, and couldn't believe I really wanted it, even for Halloween.  To be honest, she cut it a bit long, and I looked a little more like Howard Jones than Deniro.  I bought a camo T-shirt, because I was too fat for the Army field jacket that Deniro wore.  Then I got a cheap pair of "Unabomber" mirror sunglasses, to finish it off.  I drove around downtown HB, waiting for my first call.  A lot of people noticed my costume and got a laugh out of it as I drove around.

But, apparently not everyone was laughing.  My first call was at a real nice house in the suburbland near Springdale and Talbert.  A solidly built guy, not in costume, walked out.  As I drive him downtown, he immediately asked about my look.  I told him I was dressing as Robert Deniro in Taxi Driver, the most iconic taxi character of all time.  The man told me he was an off-duty HB police officer.  "You're not going to wear that costume around Huntington Beach."  I thought it was a question, so I responded, "Sure I am, that's where the business is."  In a much more forceful voice, he repeated, "Your ARE NOT going to wear that costume driving a cab in Huntington Beach."  I realized he was being serious.  If you lived in HB in the 80's or 90's, you know what I mean.  "C'mon, man, I said, "it's Halloween!"  I dropped him off downtown, and he obviously wasn't happy I was there.  But most of my passengers loved the costume.

Later that night, about midnight or so, I picked up a guy dressed as a pimp.  He was a 20-something white guy, in a crazy purple suit, with a huge, large brimmed hat with fur around the edge.  He'd drank his fill, and was heading home to Costa Mesa early. 

I headed up Adams street, and had a green light to cross Brookhurst when a raised, Toyota pick-up came screaming out of the parking lot on the left, about 100 yards in front of us.  The truck peeled out to the right, hit a median strip he apparently didn't see, then shot across three lanes in front of my cab.  The truck hit swerved back to the left, side swiped the curb, and rolled over onto its side, then its top on the sidewalk.  I hit the brakes as we approached, and the truck rolled back onto its right side. 

The pimp and I both screamed, "Oh Shit!"  I looked back at him.  "Sorry man, this is serious, I gotta stop."  He nodded, and I pulled over near the truck and turned on my flashers.  Nobody thinks of it, but when you're driving around constantly as a taxi driver, you wind up being the first responder to accidents on a regular basis.  I was afraid I'd walk up and find an arm or something hanging out of the truck.  The roof was partially smashed in, but not completely.  Before I could even get my phone up, a skinny kid, about 18, slid out the right passenger window, upside down, head first, which was right by the ground.  Much to my surprise, he jumped up to his feet, and yelled at me, "Help me get my truck rolled back over before the cops come, I got an empty 12 pack in the cab."

I looked back at the pimp, ten feet behind me on the sidewalk.  He, too was shaking his head, wondering how this kid had even survived.  I looked across the street, a woman was already on her cell phone calling 911.  I looked at the kid, "Dude, there's no way your getting out of this one... seriously, are you OK?" 


The pimp really wanted to get home, but we stayed, taxi meter turned off, until the police showed up a few minutes later.  As I drove off, the pimp said, "I'm glad we weren't 100 yards farther up the road, that crazy fool would've T-boned us."  "Me too," I replied.  The rest of that Halloween night in the cab was fun, but my Halloween story trumped all those of my passengers that night.

The Story Of My Key Chain

I've been carrying the same key chain for 30 years now.  Here's the story of that key chain.

As many of you already know, I got into BMX in Boise, Idaho, and began to focus on freestyle there when BMX freestyle was just turning into its own sport in 1984.  My family moved to San Jose, California in 1985, and I started my first zine there as a way to meet other riders in that area.  I became a part of the Golden Gate Park freestyle scene, which included Dave Vanderspek and the Curb Dogs, Robert Peterson, Maurice Meyer, Hugo Gonzales and the Skyway factory team, and the Ground Control amateurs.  I sent copies of my zine, San Jose Stylin', to the magazine editors, including Andy Jenkins and Lew at FREESTYLIN' and Gork at BMX Action. At the AFA Master's Velodrome contest in SoCal in early 1986, I went up and introduced myself to Andy J., and told him I had been sending them my zines.  Much to my surprise Andy actually remembered my zine, and said they really liked it.  I was stoked beyond belief.

A month or two later, Andy called me up out of the blue.  I seriously couldn't believe that the editor of FREESTYLIN' magazine actually called me.  Keep in mind, I was from IDAHO.  I was blown away by the fact that I actually knew and rode with a few pro riders, and the magazines seemed like this far away alternative universe to me.  It never really occurred to me that I'd ever work there.  So Andy asked me, "Hey Steve, are you going to that next AFA contest in Oklahoma?"  I told him I was.  "Would you like to write about that contest for us?"  I think I grabbed a knife from the kitchen to scrape my jaw off the floor.  I could not freakin' believe that phone call was actually happening.  Andy told me they couldn't pay my expenses, but they could pay me for the story when it came out three months later, which would reimburse most of my expenses.  Somehow, I wasn't sure how, I had just landed a freelance article for FREESTYLIN'.  I was in shock.

So I used my Pizza Hut money to pay my way to Tulsa, Oklahoma in the spring of 1986 for the first AFA Masters contest held in that state.  I couldn't afford a motel room, but I was sure I could crash on somebody's floor.

I flew solo, and had a layover in Dallas.  Somehow, every flight west of the Mississippi seems to layover in Dallas.  As I was walking up to my gate, I saw none other than Eddie Fiola, Martin Aparijo, and some blond guy standing nearby.  I checked in, and went over to talk to them.  The summer before, my Idaho teammate Jay Bickel and I went to a contest in Whistler, BC, Canada, and hung out for a week.  As luck would have it, Eddie and Chris Lashua were on tour there, and hung out a few days.  So I already knew Eddie a bit.  I said "Hi," and reminded Eddie about meeting him the summer before.  He introduced me to Martin, and the blond guy, a ramp rider GT had just picked up named Josh White.  We were all on the same flight into Tulsa.  I honestly couldn't believe I was hanging out with those guys before the flight, it was a total fanboy moment for me.

I saw them again in Tulsa, but they couldn't give me a ride because their car was packed to the gills.  I loaded my big box full of "camping equipment" onto a luggage cart.  Most airlines charged $50 to ship bike boxes in those days, but if you took your bike apart, put it in smaller boxes or suitcases, and called it camping equipment, there was no charge.  I learned that trick from Robert Peterson.  As I wandered through the airport alone, I discovered my first problem.  I didn't actually know where the contest was in Tulsa, and I couldn't really afford a cab to get there.  So I just hung out and figured I'd see other riders flying in.  After a while, another solo guy with a bike box showed up.  I'd never seen him before.  He was a clean cut, dark haired guy from the East Coast named Joe Johnson.  He told me he'd just been signed to Haro, but I didn't believe him.  But he was cool, so I hung out with him, and we took turns doing infinity rolls on our luggage carts.

Finally his ride showed up... the Haro Factory tour van.  Ron Wilkerson jumped out from behind the wheel, "Hey, Joe, how'zit goin'?"  I realized that kid Joe Johnson really was a new Haro rider.  Joe told them I didn't have a ride... or a place to stay, and that I was writing the story for FREESTYLIN', the Haro posse said, "Hop in."  I sat on the frame tubes of Wilkerson's, Blyther's, and Dave Nourie's bikes on the way to the hotel.  The Haro team manager, a big guy known as Billy Hop, was sitting shotgun, and Jon Peterson, the assistant team manager was sitting in the back, and we started talking.  Once again I was sitting there thinking, "Is this really happening?"  We stopped at McDonald's on the way, and I tried a sausage biscuit, and new thing McDonald's just introduced.  It was awesome.  But not as awesome as sitting on the frame tubes of the Haro Factory teams bikes as Ron Wilkerson drove like a maniac to the hotel.  By the time we got there, Jon Peterson told me I could crash on the floor of their second room, where him, Joe, and a couple other people were staying.  Ron, Brian, Dave, and Billy Hop were in the other room.

The hotel was the classic 1980's Holiday Inn Holidome.  It was a U-shaped hotel, with the inside of the "U" closed in.  In that area was the pool, a small miniature golf course, and pool table and a ping pong table on a higher level right by the huge wall of windows.  I unloaded myself in the Haro room, and wandered around.  The same thought kept replaying in my head, "Holy crap!  I'm part of the freestyle industry... at least for this weekend."  I wandered around, talked to different riders, and caught a ride to the contest site with the Haro guys for ramp practice that night.  It literally felt like a dream. 

I got on top of the Haro ramp during practice, and started shooting photos with my Pentax ME Super, a camera I was just learning how to operate.  As it turned out, I set the ASA wrong, so all my photos turned out really grainy.  I did learn that those new guys, Josh White and Joe Johnson really could air on the quarterpipes.  I also got introduced to Windy Osborn, the very attractive photographer for BMX Action and FREESTYLIN' that nearly every young rider had a crush on.  She gave me a few hints about keeping notes and taking photos.

I'll be honest, most of that weekend is a blur.  I rode as a 17 novice, and I don't remember my run at all.  Here's what I do remember from that weekend.  The first night, I followed someone into the hotel room being shared by Mike Dominguez and Brian Blyther.  A few of us were talking to Mike when Blyther came out of the shower wearing a towel.  Suddenly, the door on the hallway side of the room rattled.  The door started to open and it caught on the security lock.  Some guy trying to open the door started cussing.  At the same time, Mike yelled at us to grab everything and run out the door on the Holidome side.  We pulled their half built bikes, luggage, clothes, and stuff out as Brian followed... still wearing nothing but a towel.  Once we were safely in the main Haro room, Mike and Brian filled us in on the story.  They decided to nab a room key from the front desk so they could have their own room.  None of us hanging out realized that were were talking to Dominguez in a stolen room.  Since I was the guy who appeared most unlike a BMX guy, I was appointed to go to the front desk and see what was going on, under the guise of getting some change for the Coke machine.

Nervous but emboldened by the faith these top freestylers put in me, I headed to the front desk.  There I found a young couple, still dressed in their wedding clothes, screaming at the desk clerk because someone had been in their room.  It was all I could do to keep a straight face.  I patiently waited my turn to ask for change, soaking in the story.  The clerk apologized, having no idea who the hell had been in their room, and gave them another key.  Then he apologized to me for the wait, and gave me change for a dollar.  I meandered back into the main Haro room and filled them in.  Lesson for the night, don't take your bride to Holiday Inn when there's a BMX freestyle contest in town.  We actually met the couple in the Holidome later and acted surprised when they told us their crazy story.

Not long after that, I was hanging out in another room, and witnessed my first pro caliber fart lighting contest.  I won't name names, but one of the guys explained why we should never light farts naked.  He still had the burns to remind him as he told us his harrowing story.

The next morning, I rode to McDonald's with the Haro guys, and scarfed a couple more sausage biscuits.  To this day, that's still my favorite breakfast at McD's.  At the contest, I took my camera bag and wandered around, taking notes for the magazine story.  Much to my surprise, Eddie Fiola walked up, recognized me from the airport the day before, and started talking to me.  It was yet another fanboy moment.  We were talking for a few minutes when a couple of goofy looking kids rode up and interrupted.  The kid with the curly, dark hair said, "Hey Eddie, have you ever seen anyone do an air like this?" and he put one hand on the opposite side of the handlebars, then took the second hand off.  It was a variation neither of us had seen before.  Eddie laughed, "No... I've never seen that one before."  The two kids looked at each other, as I was mad at them for interrupting my talk with Eddie Freakin' Fiola.  The kids got ear to ear grins, and rode off.  A couple years later I was telling someone this story when it finally clicked... wait, the air that kid showed Eddie was a switch-handed air.. those kids were Mat Hoffman and Steve Swope!

That night, there was a crazy thunderstorm, which put a damper on the jam circle in the parking lot.  Woody Itson won a game of pool, and beat everyone for about an hour straight.  Finally I got up the nerve to play him.  I'm by no means a pool shark, but my friends and I in Idaho used to sneak into the Boise State student union when we were in high school and play pool a lot.  I gave Woody a run for his money, in yet another fanboy situation.  Woody hit all his pool balls in, one ball ahead of me, then made his shot on the 8 ball... and he scratched.  I beat Woody Itson at pool.  I managed to win one or two more games before Woody wanted a re-match.  He beat me soundly the second game, and took over the table for much of the night.

About that time a Haro rider named Rick Moliterno said he needed some help waterproofing his truck to the rain wouldn't get inside the bed.  So I hopped in the back of the truck in the thunderstorm with a couple other guys and rode with him to a gas station where we helped him use duct tape and garbage bags to cover the area between the cab and the cap so the water wouldn't leak in.

That whole weekend, I talked to Jon Peterson quite a bit.  On Sunday morning he said, "Hey, follow me."  I followed him back to his room, and he dug into one of his bags.  "We had a ton of these we never sold," he said, "so we made them into key chains."  He handed me a black, plastic, two fingered brake lever key chain.  I was stoked.  I think I put him on my zine mailing list after that.  I put all my keys on it that day, and rode with the Haro team to the arena again to watch the pros ride.  I can't remember much of that day, I was still overwhelmed at just being there and talking with all the guys who'd been my heroes 48 hours earlier, as well as the Skyway guys I knew from home.  I literally felt like I had accidentally won some prize vacation all weekend.

On Sunday afternoon, the Haro van dropped Joe Johnson and me back at the airport, and they headed back out on tour.  I flew home alone, still kind of wondering if it had all been a dream.  Then I remembered the key chain.  It was real.

Every time I've gone to a concert or through any kind of security, the guards always look at my weird key chain and wonder how you smoke pot with it.  On two different occasions I've actually asked if there were any BMXers in line behind me.  Each time, a guy said he was, and I asked them to tell the guard what my key chain was.  Both times the guards gave me the OK after a complete stranger told them it was a two finger brake lever for BMX bikes.  One time, a guard himself was a BMXer, and asked me where I got it.  He was stoked to hear my story.

So... why have I carried an old brake lever as a key chain for over 30 years?  I guess it's to remind me that amazing things can happen if you keep working hard and smart.  That weekend was my start in the BMX freestyle industry, which led me to lots of great times.  That's the story of my key chain.