Sex, Skunks, and Rock ‘N Roll En Route to Saving Bob’s Big Bob

Hell no! We refused to let sentimental burger caricature go

I was on a family outing at Bob’s Big Boy in Torrance when the headline caught my eye, “Vote Now! Should Bob Stay or Go?”

What?

He’s a national icon and has so many sentimental connections.

We ate there every Wednesday and every visit I’d either high-five Bob’s balanced burger, rub his belly, or Three Stooges-style poke his eyes.

Bob was practically on school mascot. Every Homecoming we’d decorate him in rustic brown bed sheets, aluminum foil, and make a cardboard sword to resemble Spartacus — our school nickname was the Spartans.

There was no way he was going anywhere if my merry band of buddies could prevent in.

Flyers, editorials, and hilltop messages

We passed out ‘Save Bob’ flyers at school, I wrote an editorial in the school paper, we even turned the South High “S’ atop a hill (think mini Hollywood sign) into a ‘SAVE BOB’ message.

Local prognosticators forecasted a close vote with the election deadline nearing.

We convened in my friend Jake’s garage — made sure his folks were out for the evening — cracked some Coors Lights and began deliberating.

“We could stuff the ballot box with ‘Save Bob’ votes,” piped in Jimmy.

“Bunk!” Reynolds interjected.

“We can picket with ‘Save Bob’ signs,” Lincoln suggested.

“Bor-ring,” Jake chimed in.

A wonderful, awful idea

Then I jumped off the bench press and shouted, “I got it! We can steal the ballot box from Bob’s Big Boy.”

“Dangerous and yet hilarious,” added Jake.

“Righteous and fun,” said Reynolds.

“Rad. I like it,” Lincoln responded.

It was a unanimous vote. So on Friday, November 2, 1984, at 9 p.m, we planned to pilfer from the polling place: Bob’s Big Boy.

The Big Bob Bandits

There were four of us, The Bob’s Big Boy Bandit, and no we weren’t going to leave the bathroom sink running. I was the driver in my puke-green Gremlin. Jake was the 6-foot-2 muscular football player. Reynolds was wild, unpredictable, and spontaneous. Jimmy was short, fast-talking, and full of energy.

At 9:09 p.m, we arrived at the scene of the heist. Think Ocean’s Eleven meets Breakfast Club.

“Keep the car running, man. We’ll make it snappy,” Jimmy barked at us.

“Dude, we’re not robbing Caesar’s Palace,” Jake quipped.

“Yeah, don’t take any hostages,” I joked.

“Dude, I will if they’re hot,” added Reynolds.

Getting hosed

Jimmy and Reynolds, with beige pantyhose as face covers, would sprint into the Bob’s Big Boy restaurant, grab the cardboard ballot box, race out and jump in the backseat.

“On three, fucker,” Jimmy instructed, squeezing the hosiery over his crew-cutted head. “One, two, three. Go!”

Jimmy jetted out. Reynolds didn’t move a muscle — just started laughing, then ran out, “Wait up, Baby Face Nelson,” casually sliding the nylons over his blonde wavy surfer hair as he jogged to the door.

Seconds later, the two emerged, bolting towards us with Jimmy caressing the box like a blowup doll.

“Dude, I locked the door,” Jake said to me, laughing.

“Fuckers! Open this shit. Hurry up,” Jimmy wailed.

“Hold your pecker,” I said, and Jake and I pulled up the locks.

“Riders on the Storm” rocked on the radio as the Gremlin went growling onto Hawthorne Boulevard, past Pacific Coast Highway, then turned uphill on curvy Via Valmonte. Our destination was Cindy Shannon’s house high on the hilltop.

The night the Gremlin died

Another left turn, a quick right, and then the engine sputtered and died.

Stranded. With a dead Gremlin and a paper-packed Bob’s Big Boy’s ballot box. And Paul McCartney’s “No More Lonely Nights” playing on the car radio

“Oh, Dudley Dipshits,” Jimmy exclaimed. “The car died.”

“No shit, sherlock. Thank you, Captain Fucking Obvious,” Jake said.

“You guys are bonk! David Lee (Roth) has a plan,” said Reynolds pulling a dishwater blonde wig out of his backpack.

“Dudes, we’re only a few blocks from Via Corona where we toilet-papered the ‘S.’ Let’s ditch the ballot box there.”

“What about the vote?” I asked.

“Quick. Stuff them in our backpacks and let’s go, ” Reynolds responded.

He-Man, mini marine and David Lee Roth

Teenage He-man (Jake) hoisted the ballot box over his head, a mini marine (Jimmy), and David Lee Roth (Reynolds) and I dashed ala Ferris Buehler’s Day Off. At one point, a black Cadillac turned its high beams on from behind us, causing us to dart into a backyard with the lights off. Reynolds immediately did a flip on their trampoline.

“What the fuck are you doing, Reynolds,” Jimmy hollered out of breath.

“Dude, I just always wanted to do that, take a chill pill.”

We all breathed a sigh of relief upon reaching Via Corona. We heard a rustling in the bushes, stopped, then heard an eerie moaning and accompanying slapping sound.

“Shhhhhh,” instructed Jimmy.

We tiptoed ahead, hid behind a tree, and saw a teenage couple fully nude engaging in loud, animalistic sex.

“Dude,” Jake said.

‘Girl you really got me now’

Then, Reynolds, er, David Lee Roth, bolted toward the couple, pulled down his aqua blue shorts, exposed his ass, and started singing:

“Girl you really got me now/you got me so/I don’t know what I’m doing.” — David Lee Roth.

And took off.

He ran right past us and announced, “Run, bitches,” and then disappeared in the same bush we heard rustling from earlier.

Not happy about an energetic, intruding long-haired rocker invading his area, an irritated skunk popped out and stomped his front feet. Jimmy yelled “Shit!” and took off right. Jake ran left. I stood frozen trying to decide which way to run, and decided to follow Jake. Too late. I could smell the rotten-egg stench and feel the thick, yellow sulfur compounds zapping my whole back.

A stinky situation

Fifteen exhausting minutes later, I arrived at Cindy’s house.

“Dude, you stink,” Jimmy said.

We threw pebbles at Cindy’s window, because, well, why start doing normal things like ringing the front doorbell now?

Luckily, Cindy was home. Her mom was a nurse and knew what to do. I doused myself with her dad’s deodorant. Her mom drew me a warm bath with six cups of baking soda, some hydrogen peroxide, and a tablespoon of dish soap, then instructed me to soak for 20 minutes.

Those who were not skunk sprayed counted the ballots on Cindy’s back porch, listening to English Beat.

And the winner is…

I emerged in oversized gray sweats belonging to Cindy’s dad. Jimmy could hardly contain himself.

“Well, Dr. Skunkenstin. The results are in ‘Bob Stays’ received 349 votes. And ‘Bob Goes?’ Drum roll, please. Only 77.”

“Damn. A landslide,” I said.

“Gnarly. We robbed the ballot box for no reason,” Reynolds laughed. “It would’ve been better if the box stayed at Bob’s.”

“Dude, did we have fun?” Jake asked.

“Besides the skunk encounter— totally rad experience,” I said.

Whatever happened to Bob?

My folks thought I was staying the night at Jake’s, but that wasn’t happening since I still sunk. I figured I’d say we were decorating the ‘S’ in honor of Bob — when the car died. The skunk thing played in my favor as I had their sympathy.

Sadly, Black Bear Diner now occupies the spot where the nostalgic Bob’s Big Boy used to reside.

Where our favorite, friendly hamburger-holding buddy used to stand is now a not-so-welcoming scary big black bear.

However, black bear or burger boy, every time I drive by I reminisce about this silly — and stupid stunt — we pulled off during my senior year. Why’d we do it? I don’t know. I guess because teenagers do stupid shit.

The night the Gremlin died lives on as a pungent memory and bonding experience involving a heist with four friends that we still laugh about every so often on social media and relive at reunions.

Thanks for reading my rad, stinky story, dudes and dudettes!

Tagging some gnarly, 80s-loving, totally tubular followers and friends: Scot Butwell, Scott Younkin, Evon, Klara Jane Holloway, Lu Skerdoo, Sreese, Adelina Vasile, Nicole Wallet, Laurie Livingston Nave, Mary Chang Story Writer, Ruby Lee, MarkfromBoston 🐾🍻, Sarah Jean, Victoria Valentine, Ning Choi, Kristine Laco,

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