Day Thirty-Six (Sunday, August 1, 1971)

When daylight brought me to life in my rocky cove on top of the hill, overlooking the interstate, Otto was there, too, sleeping on the ground next to me. I threw my arm around him.

“Don’t get too lovey-dovey or I’ll knock your block off.” He pushed off with a smile.

Our luck with rides continued to be unbelievable. We went from Rock Springs to Rawlins—snap, like that. In a cafe we crossed paths with a guy with a sheep dog hitchhiking to Alaska. We no sooner lay our gear on the shoulder of the interstate when a maroon truck with a white trailer cap pulled over.

“They like us out here, George, they like us.”

The driver was a crusty, retired horse breeder with steely hair. He wore a checkered shirt, dirty white pants, and cowboy boots. The outside of his truck had designs of leaping horses. He was going to Severance, Colorado.

“Be careful with this buckaroo,” Otto whispered as we boarded. “He ain’t our type.”

After a half hour of stifling, non-air conditioned silence, the man’s face brightened with a topic. “You boys like the rodeo?”

Otto grimaced.

“Don’t know,” I answered. “Never been to one.”

“You oughta stop to Cheyenne the next coupla days. They been havin’ a rodeo in there, the granddaddy of ’em all. It’s the biggest gatherin’ of cowboys in the whole west.”

Otto poked me in the ribs with alarm, on full alert. I swallowed.

“Ever’ Joo-lie they invite the best cowboys from all the country, gold buckles ever’ one of ’em, ’n they have this here festival, Frontier Days. It’s a-been goin’ on all this week. Ever’ night down to the arena all them big names go fer broke in all them competitions—the saddle bronc, steer wrasslin’, bull ridin’, calf ropin,’ barrel racin’ . . .”

“Is that right.” It was a clarification, not a question.

“My grandson likes them spinnin’ wheels. My other little guy goes for those scary rides. Me, ’n my old gal Dot, are hooked on the rodeo. They git some frisky one-year old in the ring, buckin’ dirt, and them professionals rope ’em up good so’s they can’t git nowhere. I kin sit there all day watchin’.”

“I can imagine.”

“Yes-s-s-s-s sir.” He was now smiling. “They’s got somethin’ for ever-one up t’ Frontier Days.”

Otto poked me again. The more we heard, the more we had to get beyond Frontier Days any way we knew how.

The horse breeder thought he was doing us a favor by dropping us off at the city line, on Cheyenne’s west side. The interstate was incomplete. We stared through the dust at a cobbled two-laner. The bulk of Cheyenne stood straight ahead. Its wooden, low-lying skyline resembled a fort.

“I’ve got a premonition, Otto.”

“Damn it to hell, Roger. This spot sucks.”

Carnival noises permeated the wind, as did country music, brought to life with screams and cheers. Vehicular activity was heavy, with lots of bubble-motored, oversized pickup trucks rumbling across the plain. People aboard looked loose and unruly. Most wore cowboy hats. Most cocked their heads at us as they passed.

I looked up U.S. 30. “What’re we doing, Big O?”

“I vote for gettin’ outta here as fast as possible.”

“But you’re not going to walk all the way to the other end of town, are you? That might be hazardous to our health.”

“Hell no. We don’t wanna set one foot inside that festival. Let’s see if we can’t have some luck right here. Instead of walkin,’ let’s stand.” His Adam apple twitched. “I don’t wanna be buddies with no more cowboys.”

Otto no sooner finished talking when a red Camaro, jacked-up, with the inscription, “Teaser Boy,” painted across the door, honked his horn and skidded to a stop. “Hey pardners—git on in!” We scrambled inside with our gear, myself up front and Otto in the back.

I was second-guessing my judgment immediately. This was a cowboy without the hat! He was a strapping bulk, built of mortar. He had thick, blemished skin, all muscle; and a slaphappy face. His eyes were bloodshot silly. He wore a silver-red, Western shirt. An opened can of beer sat between his legs. More empties lie on the floor in front of me. So did a pair of polished saddle boots with steel toes.

“You wranglers in?” He roared onto the two-lane, grinding and flinging stones, racing behind another jacked-up pickup truck. He chugged the last of his beer and flipped the can at my feet.

“That’s one six-pack gone, but now that we’re in town, we can sponge up some more!” He thrust his head out the window. “Ya-hoo!” He slobbered spittle and banged the wheel with his palm. Veins pumped in and out of his neck, eyes flowing with abandon. “You guys in town for the rodeo?”

Otto leaned forward from the back. In a very controlled, serious manner, he said, “Uh no, we’re not. We’re passin’ through.”

The guy was stunned. “What say? You ain’t goin’ to Frontier Days?”

“We’re here by mistake,” Otto said.

“Yeah, we’re heading East,” I said. “To New Jersey.”

I never saw mere vocabulary rock a person harder. It was like he’d been felled through the heart. The cowboy momentarily dropped his hands from the wheel. “You’re lyin’. Ya can’t be serious. I just drove eight killer hours to get to this damn town. Naw, you’re lyin’. Say ya ain’t serious.”

“We’re on a tight schedule,” I added.

Mere words were knocking this cowboy cold. His was almost emitting tears. “W-why, I’m goin’ right into town, where everythin’ is. Naw. Ya can’t tell me you’re gonna pass through and not stop. This is Frontier Days, 75th anniversary! These last two nights are the rowdiest, most shit-kickin’ nights of the whole year. I wouldn’t miss it for the world! What’s this talk, you ain’t stayin’?”

“It’s a shame,” I said, trying to laugh.

“Yeah, we gotta get home,” Otto added. “We got jobs startin’ at the county fair, shoutin’ out Bingo numbers.” (which was true)

“Shoot, can’t be nothin’ more important than the hell-raisin’ we got here. Where in tarnation did you-all say you were goin’ to?”

Otto said, “New Jersey.”

He frowned. “Piss on New Jersey. Ain’t nothin’ more fun than this week right here right now. You like the rodeo, don’t ya?”

“Never been to one.”

“Well hell, you’ll never see a better one than the one they got here! Singin’? Ya like music, don’t ya? They got Mel Tillis and Donna Fargo and Merle Haggard and every one of them stars. They got a carnival and Ferris wheel; a parade for Casey Tibbs; good eats, Miss Frontier 1971—geez!”

“We’re burnt out,” I said. “If it were only some other time . . .”

“. . . except this lifetime,” Otto said.

“New Jersey.” He shook his head and snickered. “If I were you, I’d piss right on it.”

Flapping banners and colored flags welcomed us to Frontier Days. Front yards were converted to parking lots. A whole lot of “kin folk” were streaming in toward the center of town. Little kids in cowboy hats sold teeshirts and rodeo programs. Other vendors sold caramel popcorn balls, ice cream, and guns—real ones. Posters were stapled to telephone poles.

The cowboy, meanwhile, spilled forth all he could to convince us.

“. . . Them bars is filled with all kinds of crazy, wild motherfuckers. Most places sell drinks at half price, or some drunk skunk’ll get up and buy the whole place a drink. They got all kinds of broads runnin’ around, any kind ya want, and they’re loose and easy.”

I studied the doorframe and its handles. I examined the latch, how it opened, the window lever, the lock. My Jeri-Pak was within reach. Energy wound up in my legs as sweat ran down my back.

“I got to piss real bad, but then I’m gonna buy you guys a beer. I know a wild bar where we can drink for almost nothin’ and I’ll show ya how to go after beaver. Then you’ll be wantin’ to stay, real quick! That’s the least you can let me do.”

He maneuvered over a bumpy, makeshift parking lot adjacent to the business section. He paid a dollar to an attendant who wore a ten-gallon hat. Another cowboy directed us where to park.

“I don’t drink,” Otto said.

“Oh piss on you, you smart aleck.”

“Neither do I.”

He jerked into an empty slot and stopped in a whirl of dust. “You guys is better bullshitters than I am! Now come on! I ain’t gonna let you out of this car ’til you say I can buy you’s a drink.”

I flung the door open and piled out, Jeri-Pak in tow. I reached for Otto’s rear door latch; he was already storming through. I was set to run, yell, defend against the reverberation. But all the cowboy did was sit behind the wheel in astonishment. I peddled backwards on the gravel, gripping my bag, monitoring all movement while Otto whipped on his pack. The cowboy stood in the doorframe and shooed us away.

“Hell if I’m gonna make friends with youse guys. The hell with ya. Youse guys don’t like to get blitzed, I can see that.” He urinated on the ground.

“Thanks for the ride,” I called.

“Yeah, see you later,” Otto said.

The streets and sidewalks were swarming. It was sneer and jeer, noise and atrocity, with hundreds of roughnecks shuffling about. A jacked-up vehicle entering the parking lot tried to run us down. A group of cowboys feigned throwing a bottle at us. Another bluffed drawing a gun. A cowboy purposely banged into my shoulder to see if I’d retaliate. Another one wanted to trip me. Otto got pushed into a metal pole. Passing cars revved their engines. Horns honked. People yelled out windows. Pedestrians yelled back.

Otto led the way, using long, regulated strides. Wherever the edge of town was, that’s where we wanted to be—fast! Daylight was fading. The streaking red of the darkening twilight spread out overhead. Instead of serenity, beauty, and peace, it spoke turbulence, uncertainty, and violence.

“Don’t look no one in the eye. Even if someone asks you somethin’, don’t say nothin’. Keep a movin’ target.”

We heard a shotgun blast. “Quicker!”

A shiny metal object came riveting from a car and hit the sidewalk at Otto’s feet. Empty beer can. He danced away as it splattered. “Andale! Andale!” We jumped in haste.

Someone heaved a firecracker at my head. It exploded near the back of my ear. I was on a curb yielding to a carload of cowboys, who clipped the corner on a sharp turn. A little cowboy in the back seat stuck his face out the window. “Hey hippie!”

He spat in my face.

We hustled faster now, running full speed, under attack, both of us straining from the weight of our gear. “Somebody, please . . . where is the edge of town? Please . . . somebody . . . ” I pitched sweat off my face with the crook of my arm. Clamor and fright swirled outside and inside my head. My mind and shoulders prickled with pain.

Two cowboys gestured at us in front of a saloon. “Hey slick, come here once.”

“Run, Roger.”

“Get your balls over here, now!”

We sprinted, again for blocks. My endurance was stretched to its limit. I was ravaged. Only after we lost the carnival and were huffing past residential houses did my tension dissipate. The homes gradually spaced out the farther we jogged. An encouraging message was tacked underneath a U.S. 30 sign: “TO 80-EAST, STRAIGHT AHEAD.”

“We’ll make it yet,” I said.

“I bet we ran four miles.” Otto was gasping and moaning, still alarmed.

The sidewalk ended. He and I hiked side by side in the roadway, panting and wheezing. The siege seemed to be over. Local cowboy traffic was gone. The only disadvantage now was it was dark.

“Hey, look up there.” Otto indicated something under a streetlight. “I think we got company. It looks like two other hitchhikers.”

Under a lamppost stood two male figures talking and smoking cigarettes, as if reposing from a long day. They definitely weren’t cowboys. They had backpacks and flannel shirts. Already I could see one with very long, wavy hair.

“I think you may be right.”

For once was I glad to meet the competition! Likewise, the hitchhikers turned and welcomed our arrival. The one with very long hair was built like a lumberjack, tall and grizzly, broad-shouldered, deep-grained eyes, and wore his beard and mustache untrimmed and patchy. His cohort was lean and callow, just as tall as the other, but with greasy black hair swooping down across his forehead; large, bulging eyes, and pockets of acne.

“Well, well, well. Two others. Just like us.” The big one spoke in a burly voice. “How you doing tonight? You trying to get out of this hellpit, too?”

“You know it. We wished we never had to go through it.”

“Are we glad to see you,” Otto said.

They nodded unanimous agreement. “They don’t like longhairs, do they?” the lean one said.

“That’s some scene. I don’t think I would’ve believed it if I hadn’t seen it with my own two eyes,” the big one said.

We exchanged our respective Frontier Days experiences. The hitchhikers shook their heads. They had tumbled through the same labyrinth.

“It’s a pity these cowhands need an excuse to go out and give innocent people a hard time,” the big one said. “As you can see, I ordinarily handle myself quite well, but not when I’m outnumbered like this. I’m glad to see two others come along. By the way, my name’s Eric.”

“Jake,” the lean one said.

“Roger.”

“Otto.”

“Nice to know you. Where you going?”

Eric and Jake were on their way back home to Rhode Island after having spent most of the summer in Idaho, where Jake had family. They had broad road knowledge, withstood their share of confrontations with the cops, and like us, carried no tent, only sleeping bags inside their huge packs. Their output for the day was hard to fathom. It totaled a scant thirty miles, spread over five rides.

“. . . and I certainly don’t like the looks of this place. It reminds me too much of the O.K. Corral.” Eric studied the headlights of a passing car.

“It gives me the willies,” Otto said.

“Let’s get a move-on and start thumbing,” Jake said.

“Yeah, don’t give them a chance to notice us,” I said.

We loaded up and trundled down the shoulder single file, Eric, Jake, Otto, and myself. Warmth spread over my body where panic and fear had been. A modicum of enthusiasm returned. In fact, it was cool indeed to commingle with like-minded freedom fighters. Several thumbs got thrown out whenever a vehicle went by, but top priority was safety via relocation.

The houses eventually thinned out to nothing and the trees thinned out to fields. Things were much better now. The open road beckoned and glowed. Eric stopped in his tracks and pointed as we came upon a conglomeration of intersections and newly-built roads. “Say, look. Across that field. We got two more with the same idea.”

Two silhouetted figures stood about a hundred yards away, faintly illuminated under the half moon.

“Hitchhikers are out tonight,” Otto said.

The duo spotted our group and indicated for us to wait up. They lifted their huge packs and began trotting across wet grass.

Otto was ecstatic watching them approach. “Hey Roger, know who these hitchhikers are? Detroit, and the guy who looks like Paul McCartney!”

“What?!” I jumped as high as I could, snapping my fingers at the same time.

“Who, what?” Eric looked around.

“Good golly Miss Molly,” I said. “This is unreal.”

Otto explained, “We know these guys. We hitched with them before, back in California.”

Presently materializing, live and in concert, was the dirty, blond-haired figure of Detroit, cigarette firmly clutched between his lips. Right in back of him, struggling, was his partner and foil, Paul McCartney. They walked up and Detroit heaved his pack to the ground. He took a lungful of smoke and exhaled with a broad smile of recognition. “Hey dudes, what’s happenin’?”

Paul McCartney set his pack down, mumbled something, smiled and nodded. The four of us shook hands, using the “right on” handshake. “Meet Eric and Jake,” I said, and there was more “right on” handshaking.

“You shoulda seen us back there.” Detroit spoke in his wonderfully scratchy voice. “We rode into town with three generations of plowboys— some prairie boy, his old man, and the old man’s old man. They told us about their rodeo, about how much fun it was. We said bullshit. They got ornery and dropped us off right in front of the arena. We spent all evening workin’ our way out.”

“So did we.”

“It must blow you guys’ minds to see each other again,” Eric said.

“It ain’t bad.” Detroit coughed. “I’ll take it.”

Again, everyone went through the process of finding out destinations and origins. The casual way distant towns and cities were bandied about was ultra cool. I stood tightly inside the circle. This was getting good.

“So, we got two going to New Jersey, two going to Detroit, and we’re going to Rhode Island.” Eric looked beyond our ragged troop into the black geometry of roads and mountains. “The only thing we’ve got to figure out now is how to get out of here. 80 starts somewhere in this mess, I’m sure of it.”

“Did you see that car?” Jake wheeled around. All six of us coiled.

“What about it?” Detroit said.

“The driver gave us the finger.”

“Is that all?” Eric said. “I thought it was something bad. Don’t scare me like that, Jake. Save it for emergencies. We got to be extra careful they don’t gang up on us. Bloodshed means nothing to these people. I feel better being six strong rather than just two, though. We have more weight to throw around.”

“Any cops yet?” Paul McCartney’s question.

“Those bastards won’t try anything, either, not with six of us,” Eric said. “I don’t think we’re doing anything illegal now anyway. As far as the cops are concerned, we’re just six people out here talking. They can’t get us for vagrancy; we’ve all got money, right?”

“Try again, man.” Detroit flicked the last of his cigarette into the gravel. “We don’t have any dough left. Not a cent. Some dude back in Vegas took us around to all the strip clubs, and we blew it on g-strings and slot machines.”

“Well, that’s all right, too,” Eric said. “Stand in the background if the cops come. Let me deal with them.”

The sound of feet against pavement broke the flow of conversation. Great balls of fire, yet another hitchhiker appeared from out of the dark. The seventh! He was short and simple-faced, with mussy, grimy hair, wearing an old overcoat and baggy pants. He reminded me of a mischievous Disney character. A green duffel bag, similar to my old one, was strung across his back.

“Howdy,” he said with a Southern twang. “You-all thumbin’ a ride?”

“You’re in the right place, stranger,” Eric said. “Set that bag down.”

“I sure do appreciate it. All this walkin’ gets a feller tuckered out. Don’t know who you’ll run into next in this town.”

“You come walkin’ through Frontier Days, too?” Detroit asked.

“For a fact, I did,” the guy said. “A coupla times I didn’t know if I was gonna come out alive.”

“Plowboys,” Detroit said. “Plowboys and cowboys,” I said. “Goddamn.” The guy shook his head.

“Whoever it is, they sure are a mean-lookin’ breed. Why, I was walkin’ down the street, not doin’ nothin’ to nobody, and some fellers started throwin’ rocks at me. They prit-near busted my skull wide open.” He lifted a grimy hand to the back of his head.

“That pisses me off,” Eric said.

The country bumpkin’s name was Nathan C. Springfield. He was going to Memphis, Tennessee, after having been out to “Caly-forn-ya.”

“So what now?” Paul McCartney stood hugging himself. “Are we gonna find a place to sleep, hitch, or what? My feet are gettin’ damp.”

Consensus was to keep moving and hitching, rather than sack out and risk a charge of trespassing.

“The further we get from Cheyenne, the better.”

“Yeah, the air stinks like swine anyway.”

“All them sharp thorns and cactus on the ground ain’t good for my ass, neither.”

“Majority rules. It’s awesome either way,” I said.

“I’m glad someone thinks so.”

Eric headed our caravan, as was proper. But surprise! Roger Winans moved into position number two! It felt appropriate, so I did it. The rest followed in single file. No driver on earth would pick up seven hitchhikers at the same time, but we had each other. It was stupendous to feel the flow, and to enjoy the constant stream of comments.

“Hey Nathan, ain’t you stayin’ for Frontier Days?”

“Hell no. They’d just as soon hang you from a tree than to look at you.”

“Say, there goes a sweet piece of nooky. Silver Chrysler.”

“That piece of work? No way. Chintzy bitch.”

“All’s I know is these holes in my shoes are givin’ me fits.”

“Hell, forget women. At this point I’d settle for a hot dinner—roast beef, mashed potatoes and gravy, and succotash.”

A heavy sedan going our way slowed. Its cherry top flicked on; the siren bleeped and brayed. “Be cool guys—the law.”

The cop was right in character as well: tobacco chewing and double-chinned, wearing a wide brimmed hat and a chest full of medals. Eric planted his feet firmly in the stones and the rest of us grouped in back of him.

“Let’s see identification!”

“Were we doing anything wrong, officer?” Eric mildly removed his wallet from his back pocket.

“I should say so.” The cop eyed all of us. “Don’t you boys know that hitchhiking is illegal in my state?”

“None of us know the laws of Wyoming, sir. We’re just passing through and plan to be gone as soon as possible.”

“Well, you ought to know them. You’re here now, ain’t you? It’s illegal to walk, stand, or solicit a ride on the federal interstate system.”

Otto B. George protested. “We weren’t on the interstate!”

“Don’t talk back to the sheriff, boy!”

By the time he got to my license he wasn’t even reading them anymore. “Now all of you, walk along the lefthand side of the road, facing traffic, and stay off my interstate!”

“That son of a bitch.” Eric growled after he drove away. “They’ll gladly come and boss you around, but never give you any help.”

“A cop’s never given me help yet, only trouble,” Detroit said.

“Come on, let’s get walking and obey the law.” Eric pushed his hair off his face. “I don’t want to provoke them, especially out here in the wild west.”

“Who needs a cigarette?”

Detroit opened a new pack, and passed them out. Everyone except Otto and me lit up.

“This’ll hold us over until we can score a joint.”

“Don’t make me think about nothin’ we don’t got.”

“Aye, a nice doobie could sail me out of here on a dream,” Paul McCartney said.

We trooped along the left side shoulder. We had no idea where we were going or what would happen five minutes into the future. It was the most fun I’d ever had in my life. It was thrilling to be on the inside of this ragtag caucus; unscripted and spontaneous. Though I had no idea how I was being perceived, I looked at myself as “the young apprentice.” I laughed at the endless jokes, helped keep the mood strong and the line straight, did my own modest share of participating, and studied personalities. I could barely contain myself. This life-fest kept trumping itself.

“Anyone get picked up by any broads today?”

“Not nobody not wearin’ a cowboy hat and gold on her finger.”

“Hey man, we made it to the Grand Canyon and back in twenty-four hours. What do you say about that?”

“You didn’t fall into any holes out there, did you, Jersey?”

“My friend had a TM session with the Buddhists, right, Otto?”

“Roger, Jersey.”

“Some native guy coming down from Boise dropped an ounce of weed on us. We partied our asses off. Those eskimos are always ready for gettin’ off. Good nation up there.”

A streamlined luxury car bound in the opposite direction stopped. A well-tailored man stepped out, pulled a long billfold from his suit jacket, and handed Eric a dollar bill.

“Here boys. I know this isn’t much, but you’re going to need something to get out of this town.”

Big Eric could hardly find the words. “Thanks man. You know what you’re doing?”

“Sure I do. You guys are carrying the torch for the rest of us. You’re the brave knights in shining armor risking your necks. Not me, I’m playing the game. But you can’t do it without a buck in your pocket, and I know what it’s like trying to deal with this town. So just take it with my gratitude. I wish I could help more.”

He got next to a gorgeous escort in the middle seat, and drove off.

We crowded around Eric, staring at the piece of legal tender that he stretched out at its four corners.

“What do you know? There’s some decent people left in the world after all. I believe that guy was trying to help.”

“Someone give us money?” Paul McCartney peered in.

“Yes, and here, why don’t you take it?” Eric slipped the bill into Paul McCartney’s open fingers. “You guys need it the most. Everyone agree?”

“You fellers don’t got no money?” Nathan Springfield asked.

“We got a dollar now,” Detroit said. “Here, give me that thing. I’ll put it in my breast pocket where I know it won’t get lost. Yeah, this’ll be good enough to hold us over for another day or two.”

We started again, waltzing up a bold, open incline. I was humming on cruise control, bubbling with zip.

“Hey man, despite everything, this is cool. We’re treading on the edges of life. Hitchhikers walk the ordinary and meet the extraordinary. I don’t know about you, but this is exactly where I want to be!”

“Don’t tempt us to enjoy this shit, Jersey.”

“I smell skunk, aye?”

“From your own jeans, you peabrain. This dude went to take a leak at suppertime, eh? He came face to face with one of them furry critters, and got all stunk up.”

“Gosh dang it, I shoulda just stayed in the back of that cabbage truck. I was nappin’ good in the sun all afternoon.”

A long, black GMC van crept past. Break lights activated.

“Hey, is that guy stopping?”

“Your mind’s playing tricks.”

“It’s true! It’s for us!”

“What, we got a ride?”

“All right!"

Oceans of joy gushed through my head. It swept through my eyes, hands, feet, and spine. Backs were patted. Hands were shaken. Yes, a ride! A van was honestly and truly stopped on the side of the road, inviting us to board.

An albino with white hair and pink eyes, looking like a freaked out Andy Warhol, slid off the driver’s seat. His laugh sounded sinister as his glowing eyes took us in. Unlatching the back door, he unveiled an uncluttered, carpeted, auto living space.

“Good people! Thanks!”

“We were due!”

He laughed along with the rest of us. “Yes, miracles happen.”

Through the layers of jabber, we learned we were bound for Pine Bluffs, Wyoming, a town just a hair to the west of the border with Nebraska—forty miles distant.

“Good enough!”

“’Bout time!”

“We need to party!”

“Unthinkable,” I said. “Thanks, Andy Warhol!”

“Relax and enjoy your ride.” He turned up the radio.

“This ain’t happenin’, eh? But it is.” Detroit raised his arm in solidarity. “Let’s hear it for the driver. Give me three cheers for Andy Warhol. Hip-hip-hooray!”

The rest area at Pine Bluffs, Wyoming, was a horseshoe design snuggled into the side of a mountain. Being 11:30 p.m., most vehicle slots were filled and travelers were asleep for the night. The restrooms, picnic tables, grills, and wooden shelters were quiet. Even so, Eric decided we should camp on the summit of the mountain. That would provide a bird’s eye view of the layout to monitor suspicious activity.

Up we climbed. The guys griped about scaling the mossy, slippery grade. I scampered up first no problem; Otto was second.

The chatter started again as we settled down on the plateau.

“Remember that welder from Rawlins who talked down in the throat like Popeye? He let hot ash from his Lucky Strikes burn right down to his nails.”

“—Ford Customs drink awful kind of oil, don’t they? That guy in Rock Springs kept a case in his trunk. I saw a puddle just stoppin’ in traffic.”

“I spilled gasoline all over my bag in Vegas. Had to chuck it out and buy a new one.”

“—Didn’t that one crackpot, Rory, say he was on his way to harvest magic mushrooms? He had a bad vibe that said keep back.”

“I’ll never forget his eyes, like pools of fire.”

“Ha-ha, that broad who worked for Kreske’s had a nice custom- made T-bird convertible. She looked ready to go down on us in the back seat. Bought us lunch right at the counter.”

“Let me know if anyone hears any cowboys lurking in the dark,” I said.

“Not cowboys, sonny. Plowboys.” Detroit corrected me. “Those boys don’t got nothin’ to do with cows. They been workin’ in the fields all day with their plows. They’re plowboys.”

Nathan emerged as the main joke teller. He had a cousin in Mississippi named Thelma Lou Ritter Sweetjack Weston who let all the farmers “lick her griddle,” himself included. He was quite experienced: He had fooled around with married women, divorced women, and knew migrant workers who copulated with farm animals.

“Hey Tennessee,” Detroit asked, “how do the chicks screw down South?”

“I reckon we make out as well as you boys up North. Why, you’ll be drivin’ down a country lane, and all the barn rafters’ll be a-shakin’.”

“Hey Tennessee—would a good Southern boy say it’s all in the pecker?”

“That’s what my Uncle Vernon always told me. He said, ‘If you can get ’em mounted, you can get ’em squawkin.’”

Through a cacophony of snoring, I remembered a saying from a mural on the side of a building in Cheyenne, “A fool says what he knows. A wise man knows what he says.” Therefore, I declined—again—to tell Otto about Gwen, Joe Namath, and about going to Hollywood by myself. The time would come, but not yet.