Index

Not often do I look back. I believe that to move forward, I cannot spend too much time looking over my shoulder into the past. Recently I made an exception to that rule and, with my friend Bill, returned to Sunset Beach California, the setting for my book SUNSET TOMORROW.

Although I braced myself for a shock, I knew true freedom could never last, the reality was worse than I expected. The town I knew is gone, vanished, rebuilt in Yuppie beige, and money green. But it wasn't just the town that died, it was the lifestyle, one that will probably never again be possible. I am reminded of a line from the song Bobby Magee, Freedom is just another word for nothing left to lose, a phrase that summed up the attitude of most beach bums, especially those of Sunset Beach. Freedom grew there like wild grass, but no more; it has been choked out by trimmed lawns and tiled patios.

SUNSET TOMORROW is set in that almost mythical age that spanned the late sixties and early seventies, a time when I lived–and I do mean lived–in Sunset Beach. I grew to love that scruffy little beach city like a friend. But it wasn't just the town, real estate isn't all that important, it was the people, a magical gathering of lost souls that when fully assembled transformed themselves into something more than a mere community. Without thought or planning a fellowship grew, a fragile, unspoken bond that drew individuals of incredible diversity and cross-grained independence into friendship. But ultimately the amulet was lost and that delicate brotherhood fragmented, driven from their sanctum by a society whose high virtue is greed.

I was a part of that company of lost souls.

I think Bill noted my melancholy because he suggested, actually he insisted, that we visit MOTHERS, the small bar renamed THE SHACK in my book. I was at first hesitant, apprehensive and maybe even a little frightened. My first thought was that MOTHERS would have gone the way of the rest of Sunset Beach. I envisioned it remodeled into a yuppy watering hole with cute slogans and carefully posed pictures on the wall. A well heeled clientele, would sit at a wood-grain Formica bar, drink white wine, talk of stock options and at the same time try to pretend they were beach bums.

My first sight of MOTHERS, the first in thirty-five years, was a sudden reversal in time. Outside it didn't look all that different. Painted red with white trim, it sat back a few feet from Pacific Coast Highway in pretty much the same condition as remembered it. My apprehensiveness evaporated and gave way to excitement. We were a few minutes early and the bar wasn't open, so I peered in the window.

Nothing had changed.

When, a few minutes later the bar opened, I stepped through the familiar dutch doors and into my past, a gentle shift, but so swift, that I felt disoriented. The regular customers lined up at the bar were the same kind of people I remembered, although they wore different faces and new names. I felt comfortable, at home; thirty-five years became a mere wink of time. Then the owner of the bar broke the bad news. Their lease has run out and soon Mothers will cease to exist. The end is near.

I am saddened, because now, Sunset Tomorrow, is a headstone, an epitaph to those days of leisure, adventure, and the purest form of freedom I've ever known. I loved you Sunset Beach and I mourn your passing. With the razing of MOTHERS you will live only in the hearts of those who gave you life and in the pages of one small story.

MOTHERS
BY
Bill Wilbur
A truly gifted writer invites you into their world and makes no excuses for it. The words lead the way and you follow, trusting the author to know the path. Through the twists and turns of the dark highway of their minds you emerge out the other side, better somehow than you were when you entered. And if you’re lucky, the story and places they present will resonate within you for a long, long time. Thus was the case with SUNSET TOMORROW by E. Ervin Tibbs. Within those pages I discovered new friends who felt familiar the moment I met them, and their haunts and hang-outs became mine for a time. The Shack, a tiny dive bar on the beach, became a sort of Mecca for the characters in the book, all were welcomed and more importantly for the invisible people of our society, they were accepted.

I was so moved and affected by the story of these people and this bar, that I took a pilgrimage to Sunset Beach, my quest was to find The Shack and have a beer. Of course, the name had been changed in the novel, and in order to find the bar, I needed to find the author. Erv Tibbs is an unassuming man with a simple ease about him and he informed me that the place I was looking for was actually named MOTHER’S, and then he offered to tag along. It was a place of legend for me, and I was going to be guided through by the man who brought it to life.

Pacific Coast Highway is a long meandering road stuffed with cars controlled by angry drivers. But where it cuts through Sunset Beach, a feeling hangs in the air, an epiphany waiting to happen, as if the town as a whole wants to say, “What’s the rush?”

We arrived at MOTHER’S ten minutes before the doors opened, and I was awed just leaning against the freshly painted red building. As we stood there, Erv recanted a few wild stories from his days on the beach and all but one took place right here at MOTHER’S Bar. Cupping our hands against the glass we peered through the tinted windows, he with eyes of remembrance, and me with eyes fresh and new. What I saw was a place of legend – hallowed ground upon which he and his characters had walked.

A shack it truly was, a rough-hewn bar jutted in a u-shape from one wall, a juke box stood opposite, and covering the walls, every square inch of them, were photographs of people, patrons old and new, past and present.

“I can’t believe it,” Erv said. He pulled away from the window and glanced at me with a grin. “I helped build that bar 35 years ago, and it’s still standing.”
At that moment, a local resident came around the corner. He tried the doorknob and said, “They’ll be open in a minute. I heard what you said about that bar. I been coming here 20 years myself, and helped ‘em re-do the floor a few years back.”
From inside, the jukebox sprang to life and a few minutes later, the doors opened. I let the others go first because I wanted to take my time. I steeled myself for disappointment for I had learned that in life the legend is rarely so legendary in the light of day. Just as the junkyard dog…a bloodthirsty hound of legend, usually becomes playful pup in harsh light of reality.

MOTHER’S Bar was the exception, for in the hands of an honest storyteller, she had been faithfully documented. The air felt electric cool and full of promise. Everywhere you looked, there was life. The photos on the walls, the TV over the bar, the bras hanging from the ceiling, autographed and hung by adventurous women throughout the years. The regular patrons took their seats and studied us as we entered. They seemed to peg Erv as one of their own immediately and accepted him, but as for myself me…well, I was an outsider and therefore subject to scrutiny. Further judgment was held until more data could be collected. I asked Erv which stool was his back in the old days and he pointed at the one closest to the door. “Easier to crawl outta here when my legs were rubber,” he said. I took his original seat and, for the first time in over twenty years, I ordered a beer. It was the right thing to do. I could not, with good conscience, leave this hallowed ground without sharing a beer with my friend.

At some point, the locals figured I was ok and we all talked. They discovered Erv had written about the place they loved so, and he became a bit of a celebrity for a bit, but when he bought a round for the house, he was nominated for sainthood. “This is a comfortable place,” I thought. Inside those walls all pretense was swept aside, and you were suddenly stripped bare of preconceived notions about social classes and political views. Inside MOTHER’S you were who you were, naked inside your own skin and if you found discomfort there, you didn’t stay long.

There aren’t many places left where pure honesty and simple means coexist in our violent, money-hungry world where everyone is hurrying through life. MOTHER’s lost their lease and, at the end of the year, will simply fade away into the mists of memory, marking the end of an era for a way of life that is misunderstood by society’s upper crust, and so revered by the invisible people among us.