![]() I imagine the dimly lit path lined with comfy seats, the air sweet with the smoke David Lindley was blowing from the hookah built into the four-neck, 32-string bouzouki he was playing. Now, Chuck claims to not remember what he saw inside the bus (and I believe him-we humans only have so much space in our brains, and all those Phillies statistics have to go somewhere), but one can just imagine what went on in there-these were, after all, the kings of Laurel Canyon at the height of their powers (Browne’s Hold Out had just been released, and was about to take him to Number One on the album chart). ![]() The driver said it was, and invited my cousin to climb inside and meet the band. ![]() One night, a tour bus pulled into the station, and as he filled the great steel horse with diesel, Chuck asked the driver whether the vehicle was carrying Jackson Browne, who he knew had played the nearby Garden State Arts Center that evening. On occasion, he also got to wipe the windows, check the oil and pump petrol for someone he recognized from the movies or TV or his album collection. It was mostly night work, and during his shifts he doubtless encountered nocturnal nomads of every stripe and social position, from vacationers to gangsters to working folk, to party-goers racing the dawn. In the summer of 1980, between a short stint in college and a longer (27-year) stint in the New Jersey State Police, my cousin Chuck held a job pumping gas at the 10S Service Area on the Jersey Turnpike.
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