Day Fifteen (Sunday, July 11, 1971)

I wasn’t cognizant of anything until washing up at a Mobile gas station the next morning. It had been some kind of task walking out the pain in my legs. My head felt lodged with a brick. My sacroiliac ached. No amount of rubbing quelled my burning eyes. Every part of my being, from mind to marrow, yowled. I felt peeved toward the notion that “everything was happening” in Santa Cruz. Maybe it was . . . okay! The town looked beautiful. It probably was a wonderful place. But its charms would be lost on me. Not even the bright morning sun swayed my opinion.

Highway One narrowed back down from built-up street to a cliffhanging, two-lane blacktop after our first ride got us beyond city limits. The interplay of forest versus ocean; rocky outcrop versus fertile cove; and weathered treeline versus restless shoreline, was varied and unforgettable. You’d better believe I respected nature—like the crashing waves below. All you could do was sit tight and be trusting—of the driver who trusted the passenger, who in turn trusted the hitchhiker, who in turn trusted the network, who in turn trusted the concept, who in turn trusted the instinct, who in turn trusted humankind.

It all arced back to God.

An art gallery owner brought us to Monterey. That was a quaint, dignified town. Worth a nod. We bought hard roll sandwiches at a deli and ate them atop high beach grass overlooking the ocean and a shopping wharf.

Everytime I examined Otto’s pain-stricken condition I knew my muscles were no better. We responded to it like a couple of laughing hyenas. What else could you do but laugh? Sleeping in road beds does that. Every time I blinked, my eyes pinched. Spasms seared my arms, shoulders, and legs. My hair was a greasy tangle. My only source of pride was my facial hair. Even though my beard was uneven and my mustache blondish-red, you could tell something was there.

A radical hippie-soldier, stationed at Fort Ord, became our ride to Big Sur. He was a glass blower at a factory and drafted against his wishes. All the windows of his station wagon were painted black except for the windshield. He was outspoken and defiant against the war.

“’Nam is the worst fiasco this goddamned government has ever gotten into, with fascist Nixon and pawn Agnew leading the fuckheads. Kissinger’s got his head up his ass. So does John Mitchell. So does Melvin Laird. I ain’t goin’ over there to die, period. I’ll tell you guys straight, I’m lookin’ for a way to go AWOL.”

Pfeiffer-Big Sur State Park was not on the ocean at all, he said. It was inland—a sprawling mountainous retreat, with campsites, trails, and scenic gorges, “a rad place to kick back and let out your swag.”

“That means it’s nice?” I said.

“It’s tits, guy. The redwoods are mind-blowing. You don’t even need to drop acid.”

He said, “I like you guys, so let me do you up.” That meant to conceal ourselves and our gear under a blanket at the park entrance so we could get in for free. He broke out Beef Jerkys and a Coke apiece from the day-use area parking field, smiling about his covert operation.

“Am I a bad motherfucker for doing that? You couldn’t get a campsite anyway. They’re all filled up through Labor Day.” He stood next to his car tugging a cigarette. “But watch your ass—the main job of the rangers is to sweep the park of freeloaders. That’s the only advice I’m going to give you.”

The Big Sur setting was indeed radiant: giant redwoods inlaid through a mountainous valley; a forest deep with pine trees nestled under a dense thicket of green. I loved the woodsy fragrance. The chirping birds seemed happy. It was good to see people in the woods; its rustic primitiveness appealing to people to “get back to basics.” A wide range of folk made me feel welcome: back-to-Eden freaks; tourists in Bermuda shorts and cameras; spunky preteen girls; gangs of urban transplants seeking nature; serious hikers carrying backpacks twice the size of Otto’s; visitors from India with dots on their foreheads—everyone.

Each and every person in this wondrous setting said hello. They sought out eye contact, smiled, or nodded hi. No exceptions. Every person gave a greeting.

“How weird is that?” Otto said. “People actually know how to live.”

Big Sur girls were outrageous. Most wore nothing except bikini tops and micro-cutoffs. Their hair, suntans, and open nature gave me a gong. Guys were shirtless and barefoot. The Grateful Dead rocked through the trees. So did Crosby, Stills, Nash & Young. A lot of out-of-staters knew about this place: Connecticut, Virginia, South Dakota.

“Know what, Roger, it might look better if we get in with a group that has its own campsite, instead comin’ in and out of the woods.” He scanned the scene while hip-hopping. “That way we look legit. We don’t wanna be tossed out by our collars.”

Two female specimens drove by in a tan VW bug. Naturally, they waved hello with long dark hair and smiles. After their bug puttered past a second time, we felt propelled. My libido rose higher than my eyes.

There was the bug. Campsite 129. Doors flung open. One of the girls sat idly on top of the picnic table. She was eating a candy bar with small hands. She looked chubby—curses—but it was too late to divert inertia now. The other one was pulling a box out of the back seat. She was tall and lean with long straight hair and a good hind end. Mounds of camping accessories were piled on the black, grindy ground.

I walked up to the edge of their space and set down my bags with a smile. “Hi again. Would it be too much trouble if my friend and I borrowed a seven-by-seven piece of land from you so we can have something to rest our bodies on tonight?”

Otto was poised with a story about how we had all our money stolen, but we didn’t even need it.
“Sure!” “Come on.” “We don’t mind.” “Sounds good.” “You sure?” I was almost mystified.

“Sure. Erica, don’t you think so?” The tall one by the car smiled as she held a canvas bag in her arms. She had cute hazel eyes and full lips, a pronounced forehead, and pale skin.

“It’s fine by me,” the chubby one said. She had wavy hair and a soft, puffy face. She sat hunched forward like a squirrel.

“This absolutely is a friendly place,” I said. “Appreciate it, ladies.”

Otto stepped into the campsite with a single pronounced stride, as if crossing a border. “Yeah, thanks. Ain’t nothin’ wrong with havin’ company to pass the hours, is there?”

The pretty one watched Otto drop his pack next to her while he served up a smile as wide as Montana. Right away I knew there was going to be trouble over which girl to take.

“Hey, don’t let us stop what you’re doing,” I pleaded. “We didn’t mean to barge in.”

“You’re not interrupting a thing,” the chubby one, Erica, said. “I’ve been telling Jill to forget about unpacking for awhile and relax. Come on, Jill. We’ve got guests.” She hopped off the picnic table with her flabby breasts.

“We’ve been staying in motels every night and didn’t even bring a tent. The Big Sur Lodge was too expensive, so here we are, with our sleeping bags, trying to bear the elements,” Jill said. “You’ll find out how inexperienced we are.”

“Sleeping out under the stars is great,” I said. “We don’t tent it, either. We’ve got everything we need on our backs. We’re long distance hitchhikers. We hitchhiked cross-country here from New Jersey . . .”

Their startled looks made me wish I hadn’t spilled out so much. But it was said and duly noted.

“That’s us,” Otto confirmed. “Travel-By-Thumb Incorporated.”

The two of us sat across from the two of them at their picnic table. I didn’t like Otto’s positioning. He was supposed to be across from Erica, but sat facing Jill.

“So both you girls are twenty-two?” Otto’s paternal voice came out. “We’re twenty ourselves. We’ll be sophomores at Princeton University in the fall. That is, if we passed our final exams. Can you believe how long they make you wait to get your final scores? What’s wrong with them, Roger?

The girls were from Minnesota, on a monthlong driving tour of California. They were unemployed college graduates, still living at home.

Otto enlarged his lie by saying he was at Princeton on a basketball scholarship, and expected to make the starting five. He pointed at me, “This guy here wants to be a disc jockey. He’s already got his own show on the campus radio station. So if you hear him talkin’ through his hat, you’ll know why. He-he.”

When they asked how we got the idea for our trip, I had no choice but to jump in. “I wrote a paper titled, ‘California—Real Deal or All Hype?’”

I didn’t even listen to what I was saying. I was too busy studying Jill for any signs that she liked me.
“Weren’t you scared hitchhiking all the way cross-country?” Jill shook her head. “I couldn’t go anywhere without my car. Even when I run down to the drug store, I –”

“We did it for the fun of it.” Otto brushed his fingernails. “I got an old car at home, but it never woulda made it out here. It woulda made it about as far as Illinois. Say Roger, that’s what we shoulda done. Drive that dog until we had to abandon it.”

“The Holiday Inn circuit can be a lot safer,” I said, moving to safer ground.

“Guys travel differently than girls,” Jill said nervously. “Guys don’t need to worry about what’s out there.”

“It’s easier for guys to go to the bathroom,” Erica said.

“Guys don’t get hit on,” I said.

“Unless some fruitcake wants to make you his boyfriend,” Otto said.

“That might happen to you, not me,” I said. “A drunk picked us up once. I could talk to you for an hour about a guy named Archie,” Otto said.

Erica giggled. “I could never go anywhere without my hair blower and makeup kit, my razor and my curling iron and toe nail polish, my moisturizer, and . . . what else, Jill?” They tittered.

This game of Otto and me topping each other was getting old. It was like the Alvah and Natasha fiasco all over again. I looked for an out. But neither did I want to hand over Jill on a silver platter.

The girls left—brashly—to drive to town and pick up food for dinner. At the last second they added, “We’ll buy enough for you, too.” With a charge of the ignition they were gone.

Evening hunkered down in the Big Sur forest. All we did was argue over which girl to take.

“Hey man, I delivered the opening line!”

“Well, Jill don’t wanna be hangin’ out with no pip squeak.”

“Otto, you already got your rocks off with Alvah. Give me a chance.”

“What for? When love’s on the vine, you gotta pick it.”

“You’re leading 2-1.”

“Well, you can always use an insurance run. It gets late early out there. Yogi Berra would tell you that. Now keep your place, sons, or else we’re gonna cut you from the squad!”

A rustle in the bush ceased this battle. Otto’s jaw dropped. I turned around and beheld an angel emerging through the darkness between our campsite and the next one over, 127.

She was a tall, glowing, female girl woman who could’ve stepped off the pages of the Sports Illustrated swimsuit edition. She stood bright and plucky with a perfectly curving back. Long blonde tresses streamed from her shoulders. Her bright, confident face abounded with raw, natural beauty—exactly the Big Sur spirit. She looked unadulterated and pure, a breathing example of innocence and ruggedness.

“Do you guys like spaghetti?” Her smile was warm. “My mother cooked too much, and we couldn’t finish it. They sent me over to ask if you wanted to eat it.”

Her family was gathered around their own picnic table, faces flickering against their campfire. Mother, father, kid brother. I was out of my seat before I answered yes. Otto rose, too. I had been so mired with Jill and Erica that I hadn’t even noticed neighboring campers.

“Welcome. We had some spaghetti left over,” the father said. He was a strong, good-looking man with a healthy waistline. “You guys looked hungry, so we decided to let you work on it.”

I smiled widely in the direction of their daughter—the prize, the trophy, the treasure. “You certainly picked the right two.”

“Oh, I didn’t think you’d refuse.”

“Have a seat, boys.” The mother’s hands were covered by giant hot pads. “Arnold, shove down so these boys can take a seat. These are leftovers but the noodles are still warm, and I reheated the sauce. I hope it doesn’t taste too bland.”

No sooner had Otto and I finished our first helping when the plates were taken and set down again with another steaming helping, just as huge and mouthwatering. A tall glass of iced tea and a salad rounded out the feast.

“That’s the thing about homemade spaghetti when you’re out camping.” The father laughed. He now had a toothpick in his mouth, swaying back and forth. “You got to get rid of it the same day you cook it. Nothing keeps.”

It was a relief not to be bombarded with questions about who we were and where we came from. All that mattered to these California natives was that the spaghetti tasted good, the salad wasn’t soggy, and there was enough iced tea to wash it down. The most complicated subject we tackled was the nuisance of washing dishes while out camping.

I felt like a role actor in a stage play who had a small but important part, one that called for devouring of two big plates of spaghetti. Otto kept pace.

I kept family matters first, but did my share of dreaming toward their daughter. In all honesty, she was the most beautiful object I had ever seen in creation. Ground zero beauty.

“Later tonight we’ll call you over for some chocolate cake,” the mother said.

“Call us, we’ll be right over,” Otto said as we left.

He and I went for a slow, nighttime walk through the park to appreciate the world at large. The air was piney as ever from campfire smoke. Even in the dark, people kept saying hello and the music kept rocking. It was something.

“Where were you fuddy-duddies?” Erica demanded when we got back. They were halfway through dinner. Their meal was Franco American Spaghettios, out of a can. It tasted like dogfood compared to the other meal, but we had to eat.

Dish cleanup, building a campfire, roasting marshmallows, and glow-in-the-dark frisbee was all right, but my heart wasn’t into it. I kept stargazing to 127. Hard to believe, but being called over for chocolate cake never came to be. The family forgot all about us. At a sufficient hour they gathered inside their camper-tent and the lights went out.

Jill-Erica faded as well. The way the girls laid out their tidings on the far side of the campsite, arranged so perfectly, looked like a bedroom. They jabbered on about Gucci handbags, L.L. Bean shirts, Revlon makeup, and Italian shoes. With Otto struggling for words, I got in my sleeping bag and went to sleep.
Yes, that’s right, folks. I bagged it.