Day Thirty-Eight (Tuesday, August 3, 1971)

Eric had good wake-up news. Much later into the night, he and Matt talked with a guy who stopped over at the rest area on his way to Seattle. For whatever reason, the guy agreed to backtrack about a
hundred miles east into Nebraska, where I-80 connected with the main spur from Denver. He had a VW bus, and would be able to take all of us.

“Nice guy!” I said, stretching and yawning. “No strings attached?”

“That’s all there is to it,” Eric said. “He’s just about ready to leave, so I’m telling everyone to pack up as fast as they can.”

“We’re gettin’ out of here, dudes, finally.” Detroit was busy relacing his boots.

It was a happy moment crossing Wyoming eastbound into Nebraska, but like always, filled with equal amounts of rue. This was definitely it for our octet. Who knows if we’d bump into each other yet again, but the lineup as it stood now was headed for dissolution.

As we rolled across the hot prairie, I looked over the group one last time. What a reality check. Four out of the eight weren’t even known by their real names. That included me. From the moment we bonded on the Cheyenne range, nobody called me Roger; it was always ‘Jersey.’ At least Paul McCartney and Detroit established basic rapport with me. Eric thought he was too advanced for me; Jake and I never found a groove. Tennessee was good only for joking. Matt didn’t talk to people; he talked at them, and never to me. He was in the front row seat now, exchanging primetime adventures with the driver.

When things were at their best, I pictured everyone becoming lifelong friends. I imagined living close to each other; socializing in groups with our wives and kids; joining the Knights of Columbus; going together to rock concerts, sporting events, amusement parks, campgrounds . . . even working at the same company. Well, shelve those expectations. Currently I was hoping to salvage just letter writing back and forth. If nothing more, I could encourage the guys to carry the hitchhiker’s freedom torch into the future.

As the driver began to let us out, Eric said, “I need everyone to open their wallets and give this guy what you can. He went out of his way for us, and I’m not going to send him back with nothing more than a thank you. So dish it out, guys. I know you all got something.”

A few of the guys reluctantly reached for their pockets. Otto and I felt baited.

I said to Eric, “My thank you will stand on its own. I have money, but none to spare at your command.”

Eric’s devil horns rose out of his skull. “Why aren’t you a pompous little son of a bitch.”

I said to the driver, “Thanks for the ride, sir.” Then to Eric, “That’s all I’m going to do.”

The van hushed immediately. You could feel the tires pressed to the earth.

“He didn’t say anything about taking money. Neither did you.”

“Yeah, we didn’t hire no car service. We don’t pay for rides.” Otto chimed in with his hand on my shoulder.

“Pay the guy five dollars, punkass!” Eric cocked his fist.

“I’m not against the driver. I’m against you.”

“Why you goddamn sour little ass-wipe.”

“Punch me if you want, but I’m not chipping in.”

I pushed my way out of the bus. The others tumbled into freedom behind me. Eric and maybe Jake were the only ones who wound up chipping in (at 27 cents per gallon). Matt certainly didn’t pay. The others scattered; a remarkable quick act of disappearance.

Detroit shook my hand from the sagebrush of the massive interchange. Like everyone else, he understood that from here we’d be laboring separately. “Thanks, Jersey. You saved me from embarrassment. I agree with you anyway. Hitchhikin’ is free. We didn’t sign no contract.”

“You can’t mess with philosophy. Aye?” Paul McCartney laughed to himself.

“Somethin’s wrong with hitchhikin’ when you gotta pay,” Otto said. “It don’t square in my book.”

“I enjoyed your company. Both you guys.” I stepped forward. “What do you think about joining forces with us down the road again— meaning the road of life?”

Before I could rip out a piece of paper from my pocket notebook and hand them a pen, Detroit was waving goodbye. Paul McCartney drifted behind him.

“We might catch up with each other again.” Detroit smiled with his scratchy voice. “I wouldn’t doubt it. Let’s see what happens. Chances are we will.”

I waved to Paul McCartney. “Keep the venture rocking, man!”

Otto and I limbered up our muscles. We stretched our calves and twisted our torsos; did all kinds of calisthenics in the shoulder. Miles of hot, yellow western Nebraskan prairie lay before us. It felt like starting over.

Otto established our station under the furthest overpass. It was a mile from the others, at least. I stood on a rock and observed oncoming traffic from Denver. Yes, it seemed more favorable: a van here and there, old cars, small trucks. Yes, definitely better. At least my attitude was rejuvenated. My spirit never disappeared but it ebbed there for awhile. I made a new ‘NJ’ sign to replace the lousy original which had been lost days ago.

It was crackling hot, even when shaded by the overpass. My beard felt like cactus needles. Just as I started to feel disparaged, a muscular young farmer picked us up. I clocked the wait at two hours, seventeen minutes. Considering fourteen hours of futility yesterday, that was nothing. Even more importantly, none of the other guys passed us.

“Did we prove ourselves yet, Eric, you fathead?” I yelled outside the open window. “He’s no leader, to me or anyone. I’d rather go out on tour with Paul McCartney.”

North Platte, Nebraska. It felt good to return to Central Time, get back into some civilization, and into a town where people might choose college over livestock, where theater might be a consideration
rather than herding cattle. Getting back into another town where I’d been before made me feel seasoned. I felt peaceful and confident, surer than ever that “The Trip” which started thirty-eight days ago had been worth it.

Thinking of Vicki and Marti and the escapade with the trunk key on the way out seemed like decades ago.

Otto and I lunched in the shade on a tree bench at a roadside café, where the banner of my preferred beverage, Coca-cola, was three times as big as the name of the cafe. I was quite dirty and my hair and beard were reaching new lengths, but I bowed my head to no one. I felt mature, steady, and good, able to discern the course of my destiny and to accept responsibility for how I shaped it.

“I still don’t know what my God-given talent is, but one trait would have to be stamina, don’t you think?”

“This kid is happy just to keep havin’ a chance. Or to keep takin’ one.”

“My sentiments exactly.”

As I carried my burgeoning new attitude out to the entrance ramp, it sank just as fast. A set of eight new hitchhikers were bunched along the shoulder!

“Ah, Carumba.”

“Jeepers creepers!”

“Shit in my pants.”

No one was from the previous group. This was a whole new compilation. These guys weren’t the mingling type, either. They all had a dark, Spanish / Oriental look about them, brooding dispositions, and knots between their eyes. I wasn’t surprised to learn that all eight hailed from New York City. It didn’t matter if they were hitching as a team or just wound up like that; either way was plausible.
I didn’t have the heart to ask how long they’d been waiting. Nor did I win any buddy points when I told them we were their neighbors from New Jersey. Neither seemed to matter.

“You ’n me gotta stay one step ahead of the obvious, Rog.”

Otto set us up on a clever piece of real estate, ahead of the other guys, on the concrete island of the local road, next to the turning lane of the entrance ramp. We could barter and negotiate with every driver whose window was open. I looked down on the severe New Yorkers. They had intellectualized too hard and neglected this ideal spot. They were too shrewd for their own good.

“On to victory, New Jersey!”

“Let’s keep this one to ourselves, Roger.”

“Why do I brag up New York all the time anyway? I’m from New Jersey. That’s a separate state and deserves a lot more respect than it has. State of New Jersey, county of Hunterdon, town of Whitehouse, with the best ZIP code in the book—08888.”

An auto transport carrier rumbled past the New Yorkers. Slowly, it came to a halt at the end of the ramp. It was the kind of truck that hauls new cars, but empty. The closest New Yorker ran down and negotiated with a plain-looking lady at the passenger side of the cab. Everyone held their breath. He jubilantly waved, “Come on!” The New Yorkers picked up their backpacks and raced over there. Otto and I picked up and got our fannies over there as well.

Not just a few, but everyone—all ten of us—would be transported in the hauling back section of the truck, in the open, rushing air.

I flipped ‘NJ’ in the air.

The lady came around to the side of the truck in a cobalt blouse and ill-fitting stretch pants, walking with an uneven gait. She smiled through missing teeth. “Do we have everyone? Do we have the boy with the red duffel bag?”

“I’m here!” I waved big.

“My husband will be traveling seventy miles an hour, so hang on.”

“Where you going?” asked the tiniest New Yorker.

“All the way—to Omaha.”

This ride immediately assumed the number one position on the trip. No doubt about it. This was the winner, from inside the open framework of an empty, multilevel auto-truck. For something like this, even the albino’s magical ride coming out of Cheyenne three days before had to be bumped down to number two.

You couldn’t beat something like this. Bustling along on a warm, cloudless afternoon. Sweet country air. Unconventional transportation. Hurtling past farms and small towns with the wind pinning your hair back. Sharing the buzz with other deserving souls. A whopping three hundred-mile advancement.

This was my country, and I was flying.

Those ethnic New Yorkers weren’t so bad. If you lived amidst eight million others and tried to live a purposeful, independent life, you might be called rude and insolent sometimes, too. I held no grudges against anyone on this trip. Not against the cowboys in Nevada; not even Duffy of Hanford, California. All forgiven, never forgotten. Certainly nothing against Otto. I loved him before and I loved him even more now.

The floorboard was greasy. Oh, it was greasy. Two long black rudder marks ruined my dungarees. An unsecured container bag streaked gunk up my arm like baby lotion. I blotted it up with my teeshirt, but so what? Our speed was so fast the only thing you could do was cling to the chassis and laugh at the miniature-looking cars alongside us in the other lanes. If you wanted to talk, you had to shout.

The truck driver was all right, too. When everyone had to take a leak, he stopped at a rest area for us to go.

Only did the last leg turn unpleasant. After six hours of jubilee, a royal sunset drained into quick darkness. The air that had been so invigorating flipped. It got cold and harsh, fast. The orange steel girders turned moist. The floorboards got slippery. It smelled like rain.

“Brace yourself, here it comes.”

“Man—you can see it unfolding across the field.”

Within seconds, rain came teeming down. It drenched us. Pelted our faces and arms and necks. Splattering hard and heavy.

The driver persisted. The western outskirts of Omaha already had sprouted up. Everyone knew we were almost at the driver’s destination. What a strange sensation to feel rain. I let it splash cool and sticky on my chest. Besides Yosemite National Park, the day I got struck by lightning (7/17/71), the only other rain we got on the whole trip happened right here in Omaha, on the way out. I kept my eye out for the Texaco station where Otto and I spent part of a night dodging the rain, the place where the ‘CALIF.’ sign was made.

Damn if the driver didn’t exit right at that interchange.

There it was, the Texaco self-serve gas bays; the shopping center where I bought a magic marker, the laundromat where we washed our clothes; the row of bushes where George and I spent one of our more miserable nights.

The New Yorkers decided to endure the weather and continue thumbing. I couldn’t see going to that extent. I had just come off the greatest ride of my hitchhiking career. Let me savor, please.

Otto and I visited the Texaco station to buy a Coke, with curiosity and nostalgia a part of it as well. The cheerful all-night mechanics remembered us. We told them enough Americana 101 to capture their fancy for days.

When the rain stopped, Otto and I headed back toward the ramp. “Look, Roger.”

A Chevrolet Sportvan was idled on the shoulder. The eight New Yorkers were boarding! We streaked across the damp, slick pavement, our gear flopping and wet clothes wringing.

The New Yorkers closed the sliding door just as the last guy crammed in. One of them snickered as the van started in motion. Several more, all laughing, flashed us the “there’s-no-room” hand motion.

“Dammit!”

“Send the bastards.” I said.

“Off with ye.”

“Ahoy, captain. Off with their heads, those swashbucklers.”

Ten minutes later, Otto and I secured first-class transportation of our own. It was a brand new, GMC Sierra pickup, full-sized and shiny, four-wheel drive, eight cylinders under the hood. It was courtesy of a driver who looked like Jackie Gleason.

Jackie Gleason was a building engineer. Rotund and cheerful. Loud voiced, but a softie at heart. He was coming from Beatrice, Nebraska, to oversee work on a public library that had just broken ground in Minneapolis, Minnesota.

The eight hitchhikers advanced only three minutes. You could see them hovering under a streetlamp, huddling in the mist and dank, keeping themselves visible, doggedly thumbing. Otto flashed them his own type of hand motion: “See-You-In-Times-Square, Damn Otto-mutations!”

Jackie Gleason was about fifty-five. He resembled the real Jackie Gleason not only in face, weight, and command, but had thin, wavy, greasy hair, and a pencil-thin mustache. I could picture him at the start of his variety show in Miami Beach, standing in front of the June Taylor Dancers, cup of coffee in hand, saying, “How sweet it is!” Other times I reverted back to “The Honeymooners,” the classic twenty-nine, and imagined Ralph Kramden on his bus route, behind the big steering wheel, with Otto playing Ed Norton next to me.

Minneapolis sounded like a far-off, exotic place. With its locale being far north of I-80, I didn’t know how far the ride would be good for. Initially Jackie Gleason mentioned something about Sioux City and angling toward Minneapolis from there. But as his eyebrows raised at the sound of “cross-country trip,” “New Jersey to California and back,” and “still in high school,” he rubbed his chin and said, “You know what, boys? I just remembered. State highway 60 is under construction thirty miles north of Sioux City, and I don’t want to go through all that mess, especially at night. Why don’t I go the other way, up I-35 through the center of Iowa? That way I can stay on 80 longer, and get you halfway through Iowa, to Des Moines.”

He had a wife and a couple of kids and everything, but his job took him to neighboring cities for several weeks at a time.

“I pick up hitchhikers every time I take a long trip. I need somebody to talk to, so I won’t get too lonely.”

I was worn out and smelly from the full day. My clothes were damp, ripped, and stained with grease. My spine needed a deep rub massage. But since we were picked up to pick him up, I picked up. I provided him with all the conversation he could handle. Otto joined right in.

We talked about Nixon, Vietnam, hippies, voting, women’s lib, long hair, Woodstock, love, jobs, labor unions, road building, education, sports, children, farming, the population explosion, and everything right down the line. You could differ with the guy and not feel like he was a making a judgment.

“What is hitchhiking?” he asked as things stretched out. “Tell me, each of you, in one sentence.”

“It’s putting your life on a public thoroughfare and advancing your position through direct eye contact.”

“Sounds reasonable. How about you?”

“Roger put it good, but I’d say it’s also . . . travelin’ on somebody else’s trust.”

“Those are both good answers. Driver and passenger both play a part in the bargain, wouldn’t that be fair to say?” Jackie Gleason drummed his thumbs at the top of the wheel. “We need each other as cohorts. What do you guys think?”

“I’ve never looked at hitchhiking as a free ride only. Any hitchhiker worth their keep knows that. I consider it my responsibility, even my profession, to adjust my needs to whatever the driver needs. Sometimes it’s conversation. Sometimes it’s to move time, or kill time. Exchanging information. Sometimes people need to confess something bad, or share something good.”

“Sometimes their car breaks down in the middle of the Mojave Desert and they need you to push.”

“Thank you, boys, for your assessment. It rings true.” Jackie Gleason bounced in the seat with a rollicking laugh. “When you know the road, I guess you know almost everything a person needs to know.”