The day I turned 18, I left home. I had saved some money, and despite my parents' strong objections, I packed a few things in my Volkswagen and headed for California. Just outside of Needles, California, a man at a rest stop pulled a gun, took my wallet, and drove off with my car. I had not been in the state more than 15 minutes, and I was broke and on foot. I made a report to the California Highway Patrol, but the officer said there was little chance I would ever see my car or my stuff again. As a final warning he said, "It's against the law to hitchhike on the interstate." I walked to a truck stop and finally convinced a driver to give me a ride to Los Angeles. The driver listened to my story, and then as he let me out, he gave me a $20 bill.
I walked 32 blocks to the beach. I was thrilled to see the waves beat up on Will Rogers Beach. It was more beautiful than I had ever imagined. I sat there in the bright day, and considered what to do. As the sun began to set, I spent part of my $20 for something to eat. Determined to get a fresh start in the morning, I slept that night in a park where I could hear the pounding surf.
The next few weeks were not pleasant. Within a few days, I was dirty and reduced to asking strangers for money. For two months I slept wherever I could. I searched behind restaurants and grocery stores for food. One day I spent a precious dollar on a picture postcard to send to the folks. "Having a great time. Found a good job, and have rented an apartment near the beach," I wrote. All lies, but I was too embarrassed to tell my folks of my situation.
I got into a routine. Every morning I would walk down Santa Monica Boulevard and hold out my hand and ask everyone I passed, "Do you have any extra change?" One day, a lady gave me a dollar. I quickly stuck it into my pocket, and approach the next person coming down the street. I stuck out my hand and looked at him, -- but didn't say anything. I couldn't. I stood there in shocked silence. I was staring at my own father. I was instantly embarrassed, and then I realized he didn't recognize me. As he fumbled for some change, I realized that I had lost a lot of weight, and behind the beard and dirty clothes, he could have easily passed me by.
Then without really thinking about it, I said, "Dad! It's me. Scotty." Tears came instantly to both our eyes. He stood there in silence for a few moments; then said, "Son, I've been looking for you." Despite the filth and the smell, he hugged me close to himself.
To shorten a long story, within 24 hours I was clean, shaven, wearing new clothes, and on a plane heading for Nebraska. I was sitting beside my dad, and I was going home. I feel very good knowing that once he had received my postcard, he came looking for me.
I was not really like the boy in the Prodigal Son parable. I just wanted to make my own way in the world. I was not really a bad kid; I just got into a lot of trouble because of my naive, youthful outlook on life. And then I stayed in trouble, because my
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