The ne’er-do-wells continue to rule in Cayucos

October 7, 2024

By DELL FRANKLIN

Editor’s Note: The following series, “Life in Radically Gentrifying Cayucos by the Sea,” to be posted biweekly includes the notes, thoughts, and opinions of an original American voice: author Dell Franklin. 

Franklin’s memoir, “The ballplayer’s Son” is currently on Amazon.

Over five years ago, when I started this column, the so-called ne’er-do-wells of Cayucos, who hung out near the now extinct Smokehouse at the downtown lot, were threatened extinction by local stuffy officialdom and accused of being bad influences on teenagers and tots who might witness their rollicking, beer guzzling revelry during late afternoons and early evenings.

Certain members of officialdom were so infuriated by the sight of such a motley yet seemingly joyous crew, pack, gang, clan, colony or coterie, that late at night they stooped to lopping off empty beer cans the ne’er-do-wells used to decorate a lonely small bush/tree clinging to the edge of the parking lot.

Well, after the tree/bush was re-decorated with more empty beer cans a few days later, members of officialdom sneaked around in the wee hours (Christmas Eve of all times!) and chopped the entire bush/tree down, apparently feeling such a damning yet despicable act would show the ne’er-do-wells just who exactly was boss in Cayucos.

Well, today, I am happy to report, the same original members of the ne’er-do-wells remain and have not only drawn new members, but also younger people with surfboards and dogs.

These ne’er-do-wells, almost all of whom are employed (some create unusual and often brilliant art forms). They are very likely the most interesting people in town as well as the most accessible, have no named leader, though nobody in town disputes that Patrick, in his sometimes rumpled formal outfits that go so perfectly with his sneakers; is indispensable to the ne’er-do-wells as well as their fountain of unassailable wisdom and go-to guy in almost all instances.

A person dedicated to the art of leisurely and guiltless slumming, Patrick could appear to be the envy of the increasingly new breed of stress-pressed locals driving by in their high-end vehicles while he holds court near the seawall or relaxes in various spots, like a well-fed stray cat, where the sun shines early mornings.

Early evenings he often leads his charges to the stoop of the new doughnut shop (after it is closed) that has replaced the Smokehouse. Continually cheerful and nonjudgmental, Patrick is nevertheless piqued at the increasing tension brought about by the hectic influx of summer tourism, local ownership fanaticism, and the increasing sight of health nuts jogging or power walking while toting water bottles and checking smart phones.

At one time, about five years ago, officialdom colluded with the sheriffs to try and tow Patrick’s ancient rattletrap of a vintage auto, which he often left parked in the same spot beside the liquor store adjoining the parking lot.

The sheriffs would yellow tag the jalopy with a threat to tow it at a certain date, but Patrick always moved it across the street the night before, and, a few months later, he acquired a newer, almost cherry version of the same model and began parking it around town, receiving more yellow tags.

Patrick always moved his cars just in time and began to leave offensive messages to officialdom in their windows. Then, suddenly, he began driving around in a big dusty SUV that had both officialdom and the sheriffs so baffled, and I suppose demoralized, that they gave up and pretty much left Patrick and the ne’er-do-wells alone to their sometimes rollicking after work, boozing.

Is this a sign of Patrick’s unintentional leadership prowess? You betcha!

Today, the so-called ne’er-do-wells, once accused of being horrible influences on kids growing up in town, are thriving, possibly because they have drawn younger and admiring townies long enamored of the raggedy lot rejoicing with half pints of Pabst Blue Ribbon while their parents savor expensive and delicate wines on the balconies of their roomy new homes.

What is the attraction of the ne’er-do-wells? Well, while none of them appear even slightly stylish, and some have teeth missing, or copious tattoos, or scars from saw hacking, and limps from falling off ladders, there is this air of freedom about the simplicity of their life style, as well as a lack of tension in their gatherings.

But make no mistake, not everybody in town, even the most anxious and needy, can join this group. Oh no. And though it costs nothing to be a kind of member, it’s an extremely minute slice of the local populace that qualifies, and especially in radically gentrifying Cayucos By The Sea.

In fact, they appear to be the last real stronghold in this last beach outpost and remind me of “Mac and the Boys” in John Steinbeck’s small, great novel, “Cannery Row.”

Mac and the boys were the last stronghold in the last outpost of Monterey’s seaside cannery section in the 1940s, and estranged from stuffy officialdom. The main protagonist of the book, Doc, who long suffered this crew, mused over them during a parade where Mac and the boys sat nearby.

“Look at them (paraphrased)…… I think they survive in this particular world better than other people. In a time when people tear themselves to pieces with ambition and nervousness and covetousness, they are relaxed. All our so-called successful men are sick men, with bad stomachs, and bad souls, but Mac and the boys are curiously clean. They can do what they want. They can satisfy their appetites without calling them something else.”

Dry from this speech, Doc takes a drink of beer, and exclaims, “There’s nothing like that first taste of beer.”

Lift your Pabst Blue Ribbon half quarts, Patrick and the boys, and have a big quaff.