Wednesday, October 8, 2014
Day Forty, Thursday, August 5, 1971
‘Davey’ was a dweeb. After we settled in, he said virtually nothing for eighteen hours, except to complain about radio reception, the ignition buzzer system, the all-in-one seat harness, and other “newfangled unnecessities” of his four day-old Dodge Colt.
He stopped about six times, never to eat, only to gas up. I zoned out. By the final stretches I was seeing dinosaurs romping in the median and brick walls strung across the roadway, hallucinating without any external stimulant at all.
Davey had no goals, no foresight, no emotions, no noteworthy personality traits. He planned to make extra money in the army by selling barbiturates. His mouth was foul and his disposition negative.
We hit Illinois somewhere near dawn and were on the Ohio Turnpike about noon. We faced the endless Alleghenies of Pennsylvania in the afternoon. Most of the time I didn’t know if I was awake or asleep.
Crossing the Delaware Water Gap and getting back onto New Jersey soil perked my soul. I could smell the swampy river rocks outside the window. Even though I might live in other states in the future, I would always be pro-Garden State. Why? It was homeland. My birthing ground. My hitching post. The state that gave us Thomas Edison, Annie Oakley, salt water taffy, Abbott & Costello, baseball, Frank Sinatra, and Felix the Cat. It didn’t deserve its stigma of being all muscle and money, of shady underhanded deals, strong-armed tactics, and decaying values.
“Did you hear the one about the intelligent New Jerseyan?” Davey asked at one point. “It was just a rumor.”
Otto was asleep as we carved through the highlands of Warren County. For ceremonial purposes at least, I made sure I was awake for that!
When the Whitehouse, New Jersey, exit appeared on I-78, my resolve to keep going teetered. It was getting dark. My body stank of dried perspiration, and I had gone so long without sleep that my eyes were slithering in their sockets. My groin felt like moldy cheese.
“Hey Otto, what do you say we call it a trip? Crash land at home.”
“Uh, what did we talk about from the first, Roger? When we got back, we were gonna do what? We were gonna wind up down at the Jersey shore. That way we could honestly say we went from coast to coast. Ain’t that what we agreed?”
“Man, I’m itching to go home. You’re right, but . . .”
“You start somethin’, you gotta finish it, sons. Sea to shinin’ sea is me. Coast to coast. That’s the way it’s gotta be. Don’t start.”
We spent the evening camping out in the weeds of Princeton, New Jersey, near the university fieldhouse. We nestled in with the mosquitoes, gnats, flies, ticks, deer, lightning bugs, groundhogs, and other northeast suburban wildlife. After planning out the trip at forty days, we schlepped back onto New Jersey soil—without numbering or measuring—exactly after forty days.
Importing ourselves the next morning from Princeton to Beach Haven was a stroll. My thumb lost none of its giddy-up in its absence from the local drawing area. I cruised the whole way. I splurged on a teeshirt (“Jersey Shore—For Locals Only”) and khaki-colored Levi shorts, which doubled as bathing trunks (standard procedure the whole trip). The Atlantic Ocean broke waves over my head at a refreshing seventy- two degrees. Plus I stood in the right direction—east!
I told Otto everything—about my going to Hollywood, about meeting Joe Namath, and tenderly, about my experience with Gwen. Needless to say, the shock left no loss for words.
“You’re the cat’s meow, Winans. That goes without sayin.’”
You had to admit, this trip brought about some strange convergences. It was almost like too many of my predictions had come true. On the eve of day forty-one, the weirdest event of all happened: I had a spontaneous rendezvous with my parents, on a congested beach road one hundred miles from Whitehouse.
Otto and I were walking in the sand to get an ice cream cone after a full day of frolicking. I looked out over Barnegat Bay and studied the sun’s fiery orange as it lowered toward the water. I visualized it extending across the nation, shining at different angles—Ohio, Kansas, California.
An approaching 1966 Ford Falcon wagon, frog green, puttering slowly, looking exactly like the family car, crept up Long Beach Boulevard. My father was behind the wheel. My mother was in the passenger seat. My sister, Nancy, age ten, was in the back.
My muscles tweaked and I welled up with sweat. I needed a few more days to prepare myself for this scene. I cracked my wrists and ankles and pressed back my curls with a cough.
Seeing my father gave me the creeps. I was not the cleancut, all- American boy he wanted me to be. I was about to stand before him with long hair, a beard, and a layer of life no outdoor shower could ever wash away.
He pulled the car to the shoulder in his usual taciturn manner.
“I know what he’ll say,” I said to Otto, who likewise put on apprehension. “He’ll take one look and call me a hippie with no self- respect. Or say I’m a filthy animal with no morals. He’ll order me to get a shave and haircut. And he’ll threaten to kick me out of the house if I don’t comply with his rules.”
Mom would be no problem. She was the compassionate one, always willing-to-be-understanding, able to see the good side of things. It was the old man I was worried about.
Both parents got out on either side of the car. Nancy stayed hidden in the back. “Oh no, here it comes.”
His expressionless face broke into a rare smile. “Hello, Roger! How’s it going? Good to see you.”
Huh? He shook my hand, and Otto’s, too. There were no snide remarks nor threats. No unspoken agenda.
Only a hearty welcome back and many inquiries about the trip. He listened with interest and seemed pleased. What a switch. He acted like he was behind me all the time.
“Now you know what it feels like to go out and accomplish something.” He stood not much taller than me in the sand.
“I thought we just might see you down here,” my mother said. “I told your father ten minutes ago, ‘Wouldn’t it be a coincidence to see Roger and Otto?’ I had a feeling.”
“You’re psychic, mom. Hi, Nancy.”
They were on their way to a neighbor’s beach cottage to spend the night. I remembered mom mentioning that possibility when we talked on the phone from San Francisco.
All the lectures my father always gave me, about reaching your potential, about what separates the kids from the adults, rang true. I was on his level now, a man, and he was letting me know it. I didn’t know he had it in him. I was always the dunderhead, the pain in the buttocks, the reckless filly who crashed through a gate instead of waiting for it to be opened. But now, for the first time in seventeen years, I was proud to be his son, and he was proud to be my father.
We shook hands again, I got kissed by my mother, I waved again to Nancy, and they were off.
I was numb. Here in this random location marked the scene of our reunion.
“Travel By Thumb Watches Family Car Disappear From View.” I reported the tickertape headline. “All systems normal.”
“One thing’s for sure. The old man ain’t worried about where his son is gonna sleep tonight.” Otto looked pleased.
“I hope your reunion goes well with your folks. Your dad is a tough cookie, too.”
I reminisced about the meeting for several more minutes, remaining oblivious to traffic, time, and weather. All the things that everybody else goes through, up and down, I would touch and feel and taste, too. But I wasn’t everybody, I was me. There was room in the world for me. But dern—it was a fine feeling knowing I was on the right side of my father.
“No, I guess I’m not dreaming. My father likes me.”
“Maybe even before June 27th.”
“Everyone needs a bolt of lightning to keep them charged up.”
“Or a free pass to Hearst Castle.”
“Or a skinny dip at Big Sur.”
Right when I was beginning to wonder what Otto and I were going to do next, a mellow sun was setting in the west. We stood in the sand gazing silently, until it was completely down.
THE END
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