Day Thirty-Nine (Wednesday, August 4, 1971)

The rain started again, that was the only sour part. It came heavy at times. I lamented for my bag and for Otto’s backpack, propped out in the open truck bed. There’s that balancing force again—you can’t take the good without the bad. Tribulation never fades. Challenge is part of life. I accepted it grimly, like a New Yorker, and went right on enjoying myself.

Everything worked out anyway. As we pulled into Des Moines, Jackie Gleason checked his watch and said, “It’s one-thirty and I’m getting hungry. What do you say we stop into a restaurant for a bite to eat? I know a good place at the next exit.”

“Sure.”

“It will give me a chance to thank you for riding with me.”

“Wait a minute. Shouldn’t that be the other way around?”

“You don’t understand, boys,” Jackie Gleason said. “Most of the hitchhikers I pick up don’t give a hoot about who I am or what I think. They couldn’t care less about real conversation. Most of them just curl up and go to sleep. Not only didn’t you go to sleep, you made this the most memorable ride I’ve ever had.”

When we inspected our gear at the truck stop plaza, a miracle occurred. Everything was perfectly dry. The floorboard and sides of the truck bed were dripping wet, coated with liquid film. The toolbox was sopped. But not a square inch of our gear was the least bit damp.

I checked and rechecked. Nothing was covered or protected.

I dedicated my California burger to Big Sur. I dedicated my fries to San Francisco. I dedicated my salad to Uncle Ralph and Aunt Betty. I dedicated my spicy cole slaw to the Grand Canyon. I dedicated my coffee to Southern California. I dedicated the ketchup to Wyoming. I dedicated the salt and pepper to all the byways, two-laners, state highways, sidestreets, and trails. I dedicated my water to Omaha, for showering me with rain both coming and going.

We shook hands twice. The first was at the restaurant cash register. A quarter mile away, where Jackie Gleason dropped us off at the ramp, he reached over again.

“I hope you capture this trip forever; you’ll never have another like it. Thank you again for making me part of your adventure. You made me feel like I took the trip right there beside you.”

The night air was thick and soupy. The ground was spongy. Otto and I stepped carefully, having entered the dark, brooding hours known as “the middle of the night.”

About as much traffic as could be expected trawled past, coming up quickly out of the fog. Were they conscious of two glowing souls on the side of the road?

It drizzled harder. I led the way to the end of the ramp, single file, forging ahead, far as I dared.

“Keep an eye out for quick shelter,” Otto said. “I’m glad the truck plaza is open all night.”

“Let’s see what happens up here first.” I pointed toward the interstate. “I’ve got a funny feeling we were meant to be here.”

I was analyzing traffic patterns when a small car with a clean- sounding engine, amber-colored taillights, and brightly illuminated Colorado plates, pulled over.

The door swung open, activating a safety light. Behind the wheel sat a blinking, squinting male. Otto and I got in; myself in the front and my partner in the back.

“Where you going?” The eternal hitchhiker’s question.

He sounded bored as we started down the road. He had a long, sad face, framed by light brown hair, combed across his forehead.

“New Jersey.” I emphasized the last word to make it a rallying cry.

A dumbfounded expression rose through his cheeks. It flicked into his eyes, then dropped through his mouth. He made no response while squaring me face-to-face. “That’s exactly where the bleep I’m going.”

I looked back at Otto. We all looked at each other.

Otto matched the guy’s deadpan style. “Tell him, Roger, why doncha? We’ll take the ride.”

The guy seemed to have more purpose in his life than a moment ago.

“Yeah, that’s right. New Fucking Jersey. I’m reporting to the army for basic training. They got me in for a two-year hitch. MacGuire Air Force Base, Fort Dix, New Jersey. Know where that is?”

“I certainly do.”

“Down in the Pine Barrens.”

“Burlington County. Where the hills of Central Jersey level off and hit the flat coastal region.”

“That’s right where I’m going.” He pulled a letter down from the sun visor. “I left Colorado Springs late last night, and I got to be in uniform at six in the morning on Friday.”

“We’ll help you get there,” I said.

“Trust us.”

“Yeah, we’re going to turn the tables on you, man. We’ll blaze your path on this one.”

“Show you the high road to China,” Otto said.

“Passengers usually rely on the driver. But this time you’ve got to listen to us.”

“All right, help me find my way, then. I need help.”

“You picked the right two to pick you up.”

“Ain’t that a kick in the head, mates. I didn’t know when I picked you up that you were gonna pick me up. But I guess it happened, didn’t it?”