Day Thirty-Seven (Monday, August 2, 1971)

The horseshoe was alive with movement when we descended the mountain in the red sunrise. Cars checked in and out. Picnic tables were in-use. Bathroom facilities were clean. Washing your face, I discovered, can be one of life’s greatest pleasures. Paul McCartney’s main concern was that his Beatle haircut was combed right. He wet it down with the aid of a quarter-full bottle of wine that he pulled out of his parka. Jake groomed himself with a greasy comb missing some of its teeth.

Breakfast was hosted by the Pine Bluffs truck stop, off the westbound exit of I-80. The truckers scoffed at our tagteam for barging in on their private world, but we weren’t hurting anyone. We slid two tables together and pooled extra cream, napkins, salt and pepper shakers, and silverware off other tables. “This is like attending a business meeting of the A.H.A.—the American Hitchhiker’s Association,” I joked, though no one seemed to understand what I was saying.

What better way to discuss how to get out of Pine Bluffs! Detroit spent half of his dollar on a pack of cigarettes. Paul McCartney bought a large glass of orange juice. Neither would accept anyone’s offer to lend them money for a decent meal.

“I don’t wanna owe people money,” Paul McCartney said.

“Yeah, it ain’t worth it, goin’ into debt,” Detroit said. “We lived this way the past three days and come out all right. No thanks.”

My ham and cheese omelet was delicious, but I was miffed how no one supported any of my exit strategies, even though I presented them in a kindred manner. I might have been the youngest but I had just as many miles under my belt. My ideas weren’t trite; they were road-proven. The others were still jollying over their stories, by now mostly warmed-over reruns of the ones yesterday. Otto and I didn’t plan it purposely, but I was glad he happened to be sitting across from me. He was the only one serious about securing transportation and the manner in which we were going to do it.

Those guys were hardly being “time efficient.” They kept getting their coffee refilled, telling more stories, joking about the waitress’s fat ass, and smoking cigarettes. The laughter and undertone got so loud that we were becoming rude to the truckers.

Finally I said something. After securing Otto’s approval, I made an announcement: “My friend and I are going to begin the days’ hitchhiking activities. We’ll see you guys up there.”

That brought surprised looks from everyone.

“Dude, you don’t have to go yet.” Detroit flicked ashes onto a dirty plate.

“Yeah, where you going?” Paul McCartney said.

“To see what the traffic looks like.” I dug into my pocket for a small tip.

“Don’t rush it. You have all day,” Eric said.

“All week, if we don’t do something.”

I guess you could say the novelty of hanging around those guys was wearing off. I didn’t want to say it, but I was afraid with their attitude, we wouldn’t get a ride at all.

“We’ll let you know if we get something,” I said.

Otto said, “Yeah, we’ll come and get you.”

Eric scowled. “Sure you will, pals.” He muttered something nasty underneath his breath, as if two of his comrades were defecting under his watch.

Otto gave me the reassurance I needed, via one sincere look, as I fumbled to open the vestibule door.

We set up on the eastbound shoulder of the interstate proper, east of the rest area, to stay in full view of everything. Cars approached down a long, tilted straightaway.

“Forget worryin’ about cowboy-plowboys,” Otto said. “We got dire straights here.”

“You’re right, we need all the traffic we can get. If the cops come, stay ignorant about entrance ramps. We didn’t see a sign anyway.”

— That had been my first point at breakfast: “Make sure no opportunities pass . . . catch cars from both the interstate and rest area . . . don’t worry about signs.”

Heat rose from the pavement early. The back of my neck was clinging damp. I didn’t like the vibes of the cars screaming by. No one even looked our way.

“I’m starting to lump people into two categories.” I lowered my thumb during a lull. “Human beings who are sensitive to the needs of others, and those who aren’t. The nonsensitive ones are all that’s out here. They seem so settled and cozy. You want to press an ejector button under their seats to shake them up.”

My frustration kept shooting up. “Come on, folks! I know you see us. Make my day. Don’t you know you have a duty to help us out? Come on, it’s your responsibility to share and react.”

“Roger Winans is facin’ his greatest hitchhikin’ challenge of all time. How will he react, fans?”

“It’s a dog day in August, dear friends.”

My confidence was already in a tailspin when the rest of the group slowly appeared on the interstate. They took up residence about fifty yards to our west, on an inhospitable stretch dangerously obscured by an overpass.

My second strategy back at the truck stop had been, “Keep our groups small,” spread out in groups of two plus freelancer Nathan.

None of them separated. All five set down their packs together in the tall grass off the shoulder. Everyone except Jake sat down. Jake moved into the shoulder and halfheartedly stuck out his thumb.

“Those jerks.”

Big Eric, especially, went down in my eyes. He had not shown the leadership ability I thought he had. He had nothing going for him, really, except his size.

Hours clicked away. Dozens of cars turned into hundreds, then thousands. The more I thought about our predicament, the madder I got. The momentum was lost. Nothing was happening. It was a dead issue. People were not interested.

“I feel beached,” Otto said.

Our estranged friends were pathetic. They chuckled and cajoled their way through the morning, pulling at strands of grass, hitting each other with pebbles, smoking cigarettes, snoozing with hats covering their faces. Every so often one of them would get up, go over to the side of the hill, and take a leak.

“They’re giving hitchhiking a bad name!” I rubbed a kink in my neck. “That’s not kosher with me.”

“Ah, who’s gonna stop when they’re goin’ seventy miles per hour anyway?”

We hitched for five straight hours. Then we knocked off for lunch. Five straight hours! That was my new record. My head was flattened. My back was sore. My thumb was worn out from extending it for so long.

I ate a cheeseburger, extra pickles, and a large cherry milkshake at a café. “We need a scheme. The vice-president of Travel By Thumb is too young to be mulling retirement, President Otto.”

As my frustration scaled upward, Otto the Optimist came up with an ingenious plan. Why not construct a series of signs around a common theme? The centerpiece would be ‘EVEN U CAN STOP.’ (An Otto Original) We also made ‘PLEASE’ and ‘SLOW AHEAD.’

“I think it has potential.”

“This’ll lasso ’em in faster than the cowboys down at the rodeo.”

I ran my finger down the index of my Wyoming map. “The population of Pine Bluffs is 937. Greyhound must surely make a couple stops a day here as well. Doesn’t that have to be an option at this point?”

“Don’t go to that limit yet, Roger. Don’t spend your money on a crutch if you don’t need to. Remember our rule—no money for travel, no money for lodging. I’m stickin’ to that no matter what. We’ll get a ride, you’ll see, on some form of free transportation.”

“I trust you, Otto.”

“You’re good most of the time, sons.”

We went back out to the road, only for our hearts to drop out of our shirts. Our homies were gone. All five of them. They had snuck out of Dodge without a trace.

“Holy goddamn smoke.”

“That stinks.”

“It’s not fair. Lord. Why did they get a ride faster than us? That doesn’t make sense. Come on, Otto, let’s get your signs working for us.”

‘PLEASE’ was a teaser. ‘SLOW AHEAD’ was ignored. ‘EVEN U CAN STOP’ was laughed at.
‘PLEASE’ was eventually lengthened to ‘PLEASE STOP,’ to no avail. It was shortened to ‘STOP.’ No one did.

“Ah, we’re just part of the scenery,” Otto said. I thrashed about.

We displayed a ‘HELP’ sign. A green Fiat, filled with two people and possessions, stopped. “Hey bub, I thought you really had trouble. Where’s your manners? You think I’m some kind of monkey’s uncle?” He sped off.

“We need help, but none of this traffic is gonna be able to give us none.”

“It’s been eight hours.”

“I don’t wanna know.”

A distant voice garnered my attention from the lower part of the overpass. “Hey yo! Yo there! Jersey!” Presently reappearing onto the uplands were Detroit, Eric, Paul McCartney, Jake, and Tennessee. They headed toward their former (bad) spot on the west side of the overpass. Otto and I walked over.

“Hey Jersey, what’s goin’ on? Got any more ideas?” Detroit called to me from his sitting position. I nodded to Eric and Jake. Tennessee was lunging at a grasshopper. Paul McCartney was designated hitchhiker, the only one of the five.

“My friend and I thought you got a ride.”

A collective groan circled around. “See that railroad track on the other side of the highway? We went down to see about hoppin’ ourselves one of them freight trains. Jake here has done it before,” Detroit explained. “And guess what? The damn railroad is on strike! There ain’t no trains runnin’!”

“I wondered why that line was silent.”

“Bummer, eh?”

“I would’ve helped lead the charge on that one.”

“We noticed your signs.” Eric spoke from his rock in the weeds. “Think they’ll work?”

“You never know what trick in your hitchhiker’s bag will do it.”

“Let me give you a piece of advice, Jersey. Don’t try too hard,” Eric said. “We want to get out of here just as bad, but where did all your hustling get you?”

“Right,” I nodded. But inside I thought, “Wrong. All wrong, Eric.”

The latest gimmick Otto and I tried was to rip up my last pair of shorts, my white ones, stick them on the end of a stick, and flag down cars. We included a new sign, ‘PICK UP AREA AHEAD.’
A family filmed a home movie of us as they drove by, but no one stopped.

On my insistence we climbed a mountain and prayed to God. “I know your timing is perfect, Lord. Even so, can’t you please get us get out of this wacky predicament? Come, God, please holy spirit, come soon.”

These shenanigans were now ten hours old. I was numb and punchy. “Is this still Monday?”

Otto no longer stood straight, his thumb lower by the hour. “Is this still August?”

“Is this still 1971?”

The next time I checked, most of the guys were up and milling about. A new hitchhiker over there had them stirring.

Yes, it was a single addition: a small, chunky guy with dark, slinky features who moved like a cobra.

Even from my distance, he seemed to be seeking inclusion as a member of the group. Otto and I went over and brought our stuff with us. The group seemed glad to have us back.

“. . . yeah, I hitched in Australia once, and they said putting your thumb in the air is like saying, ‘up your ass.’ It’s all different over there,” the guy was saying.

“These guys were on the mountain with us,” Eric said.

The new guy scrutinized me from head to toe, though he was quick to show a smile when our eyes met. He was hairy and well-fed. A large golden earring dangled from his right ear; a feather around his neck. His blue road outfit was fashionable and newly-bought. “This gets more incredible every minute,” he said.

Detroit stepped between us. “This here’s Matt.”

Matt and I exchanged uneasy nods. This guy was slick. He reached out to accept Otto’s hand when it shot across.

“Yeah, this hole is about the last place anyone would want to be. I got stuck down in Mobile along the Gulf coast once for three days, but this might be worse. The people are dumb and mean and you might as well be a nigger. I wouldn’t trust anyone, not even the white trash down at that rest area.”

“Well, those people haven’t given us trouble yet,” Detroit said. “It’s the plowboys I’m worried about. Half the traffic on this road is plowboys.”

Matt claimed to be working his way home to Massachusetts after a year and a half on the road. But with his clean clothes, tiny travel bag, and the way he seemed to materialize from nowhere—with no explanation of where he just came from—I was skeptical. He seemed anxious to get a ride, though, and stirred the other guys into action. Jake and Tennessee now got over into the shoulder and stuck out their thumbs with Paul McCartney, tripling our force.

I didn’t mind remaining with the group, now that they showed a little pluck. Matt had charisma. He had a smooth, confident way of talking. His rogue observations about the human condition kept me amused. He seemed well-seasoned in handling spontaneous combustion. His stories were a notch more suspenseful than the previous stories told last night on the mountain. He had been locked in a box car for three days in North Dakota, jailed for trespassing in Arkansas, and washed office windows for Sears and Roebuck in Chicago while crisscrossing the country several times. He had international hitching experience covering three continents. You couldn’t keep up with him, but I think that’s the way he liked it. He smoked cigarettes even faster than Detroit.

“Funny how we all arrived here from the four corners of the earth, but now the only thing we want to do is hotfoot it out of Pine Bluffs,” he said.

He excused himself to “examine” the rest area, and we all agreed that Matt—though somewhat unorthodox, was decent enough.

He returned to our encampment running up and radiant, happy and breathless.

“Hey guys, guess what? Guess what? I just called my girlfriend back in Massachusetts, to see if she was still keeping my side of the bed warm. Goddamn fellas, it’s our day. She’s so anxious to get me home, she’s gonna rent a van and drive out here and get us! Can you believe it? She’ll be out here sometime tomorrow night!”

“A van, comin’ to get us? Are you playin’ with our heads?”

“It’s the God’s honest truth.” Matt beamed from ear to ear. “She said there’d be no problem taking seven along, or even more. All she has to do is jump in a taxi to Avis and head out.” He stomped the ground and marched around. “Goddamn, guys! She’s sure anxious to get me home, don’t you think?”

“Can this be happening?!”

Joy kept multiplying, layer upon layer, to heights I didn’t think possible. Eric was swinging his partner round and round, dos-a- dosing, “I don’t believe it! A van, coming out here, just to get us! From Massachusetts. Damn, that’ll get us most of the way home!”

“Shit, it’ll get me all the way to Michigan.”

“Aye!”

Eric threw his arm around Matt. “If you’re on the level, we’re the luckiest lot in the world. Glad to have you with us, Matt!”

“I’m happy I held onto this broad while I was away.” He chuckled. “A couple of times I almost bagged her.”

“Our ship’s coming in!” Jake yelled.

“She’s gonna sail right into this rest area, maybe in twenty-four hours if we’re lucky. She doesn’t sleep much, as I remember.”

We were one united group. All the frustrations and disappointment in dealing with the calloused majority—finished! So was uncertainty and disillusionment. Now I could relax and enjoy myself. Appreciate the surroundings. Put down my guard. Good ol’ Pine Bluffs, Wyoming. A fine community.

“Strange and wonderful things happen in small towns like these.”

We marched down to the rest area in great triumph. Matt patiently answered all questions concerning his girlfriend’s offer. We could convert the van into a “people’s bus,” picking up every hitchhiker in sight, and transporting them down I-80. Plenty of food and drink would be on hand.

“Does she know where Wyoming is?”

“I told her to get on 80 and don’t get off once!”

“Will she bring reefer?”

“If I know my girlfriend,” Matt emphasized, “she’ll come with anything you want—grass, hash, LSD, cocaine, speed, quaaludes— anything. We’ll be riding in high style, all the way to the Boston Back Bay!”

We celebrated with a feast. Bread, baloney, Hershey bars, cheese doodles, a gallon of soda; we either pooled items together from our packs or bought them at the local grocery store. Otto and I bought a watermelon and split the difference. We got back and joined up with an interracial couple going to Yellowstone National Park, who dished out bowls of chunky chicken stew. Eric proposed a toast to Matt. More road stories were exchanged and we got to know each other better. Detroit would make the first day of his job. Paul McCartney would try and patch things up with his American wife. Jake and Otto volunteered to help with the driving.

“This is our Frontier Days,” I said. That was my first comment that connected with everyone, and brought cheers.

For all his sterling efforts, Matt, trip coordinator, captain of the ship, star performer, flamboyant new leader of the group, was absent for much of the party. He came trotting back at dusk, just as we started to wonder where he went.

“I was trying to get hold of my girlfriend again before she left, but she’s gone. I remembered this giant metal bong with eight long tubes she used to have in the basement, the best drawing bong I ever toked from. I wanted to remind her to bring it with her. I don’t think she’ll forget. I think she knows we all want to get good and wasted.”

In a blink he was off again, this time to buy cigarettes, a bottle of rum, rolling papers, and other travel accessories, somewhere in town. The rest of us hung around the rest area spending time feeling good.
By now it was dark. Otto and I reminisced about other incredible moments we’d spent together, on the road and off. Eric and Paul McCartney engaged in a card game. Jake juggled tennis balls. Detroit was demonstrating his domestic prowess by running a needle and thread through a badly torn flannel shirt.
Tennessee moved into the center of activity plagued and confused. “Say now, isn’t that the feller up yonder?”

He pointed toward the overpass. A small, chunky figure who looked shockingly familiar was waving into car headlights, frantically thumbing with both hands beneath the streetlights.

Eric looked up from his cards and became extremely serious. We gathered round. Something was very wrong.

“That’s him, all right. What’s he doing up there?”

“He said he was going to town.”

Detroit stood up. “Just what is that dude doing up there, eh?”

“Hitching a ride,” Paul McCartney said.

We watched in disbelief. A sick feeling churned in my stomach. Yes, it was Matt, moving along the shoulder, waving his arms and keeping himself visible, trying his utmost to flag down a quick ride. A ship filled with gold sunk off the coast of Cape Cod. All our anticipation went down with it.

“That son a bitch.”

“Look at him.”

“Goin’ to town, like hell.”

“That dirty liar. There isn’t any van coming to pick us up.” Eric jarred the picnic table and kicked the bench over. “That bullshitter up on that bridge was giving us a bunch of bullshit!”

“That’s what it looks like.”

“He’s trying to sneak outta town.”

“Son of a bitch asshole.”

Eric was furious. “He made up a story to keep us off the road.”

“Yeah, ’n free it for himself.”

“We’ve been fooled,” I said.

“Bamboozled,” Otto said.

Eric slammed his fist on the picnic table. “Well, if he thinks he’s getting away with it, he’s got another thing coming! Come on, men, let’s go up there. Confront the son of a bitch!”

We marched up there with all our gear in tow. My heart felt pierced, stabbed, gouged out. All that potential pleasure gone, gone. We cussed out Matt left and right. Eric was mad enough to get violent.

“Hey, you son of a bitch!” He burst up the incline in a rage. “What the hell you think you’re doing?”

Matt jumped three feet back. He wheeled around with wild fright in his eyes, raising both arms and hands. “Hey! What’ddya mean? Doing what? Who’s a son . . .”

“You know what I mean!” Eric advanced close enough to slug him. With his backpack in place, he was twice the size of Matt. “What the hell you doing up here when you’ve already got a ride?”

“Where’s the van?” Detroit demanded. Everyone huddled around, saying, “Yeah.”

Matt backed away, keeping his eyes pinned on Eric, and kept his palms raised. “I was afraid to tell you what happened. I knew you’d get mad. The ride fell through. My girlfriend couldn’t get the van. I felt embarrassed. I never felt so bad in my whole life.”

“I thought everything was arranged,” Jake growled.

“Yeah, she already left.”

Matt didn’t know who to address. “I, I called again, a third time. She was balling her eyes out. She couldn’t get the van tonight, or anytime for another week. There was some mixup. We, we got into a fight and she hung up on me. Yeah, that’s what happened.”

“You bullshitter,” Eric said.

“Hey, I’m sorry about getting everyone excited. I really am. I thought she was coming. I really did. She swore she’d be out here. I didn’t think there was a chance in the world that something would go wrong. That’s the God’s honest truth.” He scanned each of us individually, still holding his guard.

“Well something did go wrong, and it started with you coming around,” Eric said.

“Girlfriend, shit,” Detroit said.

Matt pleaded for understanding. “Hey, can you blame me for not wanting to be seen again? I didn’t know if I could face you guys again. I feel horrible. I’m sorry, but what can I say? I wanted to be on that van as much as you.”

“There wasn’t any van coming.”

“You didn’t go into town, neither.”

“That’s something else you guys should know!” Now more composed, Matt ambled over to unstrap his travel bag. “I’m glad you brought that up. I was walking down the street when some old redneck weasel sitting on his porch told me to get out of his sight. I looked him in the face and he pulled a rifle from under the sofa. Guys, this place is filling up with those bad . . . what do you call them? . . . plowboys. We’re not out of the woods yet. Can’t you hear those sounds?”

I had to admit, the sounds were real: a stampede with shooting, whistles, jeering, yelling, gunblasts, a lot of rough action. It was louder now that the sun was down. The western horizon was lit in a fiery glow. That distance very well could have been Cheyenne’s Frontier Days, forty miles away.

“If that don’t make your head crazy, I don’t know what does.” Matt lit a cigarette and relaxed. “Hey, I’m glad you guys are around. Eight’s better than one. Ain’t tonight the grand finale of that hoot-nanny? This place’ll be swarming with roughriders when they leave to go back to their ranches.”

“You son of a bitch,” Eric said. “If we still didn’t have to deal with that, I’d punch your face in. I still will, if you give us any more trouble. But that rodeo is real and can’t be ignored. You should’ve seen the mess we had last night. We have to avoid plowboys at all costs, or be ready to fight.”

“A buddy of mine got scalped with a beer bottle and was left for dead about a year ago. They thought it was the plowboys,” Matt said.

“Let’s start thumbing now, aye?” Paul McCartney stuck out his thumb for a passing car.

“Smart move.” Matt did the same. “Plowboys have no misgivings about killing. Any reason they have, they’ll kill.”

Without delay I extended my thumb. Now we had to hitchhike for our lives! What a flipflop! My stomach thrashed and tumbled. I tasted bile. My eyes couldn’t accept what I saw. Not only wasn’t I on my way home, but the awful possibility existed that I’d have to fight the plowboys.

It got hectic when the rodeo let out. Traffic swelled. I-80 became a slow moving traffic jam, swamped with bubbling vehicles. We got gestured at, taunted, and smeared, though no one pulled over. I couldn’t believe that within a twenty-four hour period—though I’d tried my hardest—I hadn’t moved anywhere.

Everyone was furnished with a weapon. I didn’t know where they came from, but we got them. Tennessee was handed a baseball bat. I got a hockey stick. The others had hunting knives. It was like being in a battalion. I was being readied for war.

“I’m not worried about anyone except you guys.” Eric pointed at Otto and me.

“Don’t worry about us, we’ve got mettle,” I said.

“You got what?” Detroit said.

Everyone rattled off their ages. Matt was the oldest at 28. Detroit
was 24. Jake, Eric, and Paul McCartney were 22. Tennessee was 21. Everyone was shocked to learn Otto and I were 17.

“See why I’ve got to look out for your ass, Jersey?” Eric said.

“We can handle anything—even you.”

“Why you little . . .”

I turned away. I wanted a ride; that was my overriding mission. I demanded that
a responsible citizen of the world stop immediately and transport us a long, long way east. Working with fright and tension like this was so repulsive that it had me thinking, “If I ever get out of this alive, I’ll never hitchhike again.” (Even though I knew I would.)

At several points, all eight of us had our thumbs out.

We plugged away until midnight, until fatigue numbed my mind, body, and soul. All hope for a ride vanished. Neither had any plowboy attacks come. We had a few false alarms, resulting in back and forth yelling. Nothing escalated. Matt threatened fisticuffs to a driver who stopped to change a flat tire, who refused to give anyone a lift. Myself, I’d never tangle with a driver who didn’t show basic willingness.

We quit for the night, tired, disappointed, and cranky. Otto and I lagged behind the others as we retreated to the rest area. This kind of luck was humiliating. We were due for a long gainer but were snuffed for no gain. I ran out of fingers as I counted the number of hours Otto and I devoted to getting out of confounded, intolerant Pine Bluffs, Wyoming. Fourteen! That’s subtracting time out for lunch and dinner. It still stands as my all-time record.

“Where is the person who will turn into our next escort?” I asked the urinal, shaking off the last drops.
“What is this person up to now?”

My feelings for Matt were mixed. He was a bastard for leading us to believe we had a van, and I sided with those who believed he was lying. Yet he was a direct, gutsy communicator. He wasn’t afraid to bang heads or take risks. Even with his crafty little plan a suspected fraud, he still was leader of the group to me. I was a fringe member at best.

“No one wants to go back on that mountain tonight, do they?” Matt called out. “Let’s take over that section in the back of the rest area behind the tables; we’ll be concealed enough.”

We bedded down for the night, though my mind withdrew from tonight’s round of road stories. They had gotten predictable and redundant. My outlook on travel, and possibly life, was so different than everyone else’s. Who was I? It almost made me shudder. Even though I tried to blend in and be normal as possible, “one of the guys,” to the others I was an unconventional oddity. I was a daunting curiosity whom they tried to turn into a runt so I could be controlled. It made me ask: Where did I fit in? What was my ilk? How could I live? Sometimes it seemed like I didn’t even belong in the American Hitchhiker’s Association.

I found comfort remembering my seventh grade teacher’s inscription in my yearbook, “Keep your personality as is, and the world is yours.” Thank you, Mr. Terence Bevilacqua.

My mind faded as newfound buddies Matt and Eric went over to flirt with two cowgirls who were coming out of the restroom. The last thing I remembered before sleeping was Otto’s latest words of wisdom.

“I figure it this way: If you’re out where the buffalo roam, where the deer and the antelope play, don’t mess with a plowboy’s woman. Because they’ll track you down. One way or the other, you’re gonna get your butt kicked.”