ERROL FLYNN'S SON? - The Danistan

FREEPORT, CALIFORNIA

Under a tree, out of the blistering sun, sits an old truck on the defunct railroad tracks. Photo-op!

In the truck is Jim. He wants to sell me some jerky. I resist, but he still let’s me take a photo. He just want to put his teeth in first.

I compliment him on the teeth and how they make his whole face come alive.

-I know, he says. These are nice teeth. I had them specially made. You know I have to look good coz Errol Flynn is my dad.

I laugh, thinking he’s bullshitting me, but he insists.

-I am ninety percent sure Errol Flynn is my father. I haven’t been able to prove it, but my family thinks that’s the case. They called me “Flynn” when I was little. You know, Errol Flynn got around. He was all over the place. Malaria eventually killed him. Back in those days they couldn’t cure it.

Then Jim and I talk about cars for a bit, and I give in and buy some jerky. It’s salmon and Jim says it’s great mixed in with rice.

I get back in the Volvo and continue up north.

Errol Flynn’s son. WOW!