Day Five (Thursday, July 1, 1971)

Bright, warm sunlight caressed my face as I woke. It was great to look across at Illinois and think of “the East” as finally behind us. Chicago seemed like days ago, let alone Ohio and Tom Pavallow. Now
this was what I considered the Midwest.

I popped right up, though it was some time before I coaxed Otto awake. He could be so lazy and slow-moving!

Now that it was daytime, nothing picturesque stood out about the river. The famous Mississippi was brown and murky, bordered by heaps of metal scraps and broken slabs of concrete. Assembled across the waterfront were a bunch of shacks too ugly to look at. On our side you could see the rears of stores and buildings with disintegrated chimneys, chipped paint, creaky stairwells, and windows covered with cardboard. You also had all those homes-on-wheels people around making you feel uneasy.

“You can’t get away from it all when you bring your home with you!” I yelled (out of earshot) to a man of leisure, watching him disconnect an electrical cord from his Winnebago, careful not to get his white pants dirty. “I’m glad our rule is we don’t pay for transportation or for sleeping. Thank you, Otto, for convincing me of that. We go as the wind goes.”

Otto was starting a project to rearrange the clothes in his pack, so I went off and explored the town on my own. One swing around made me an expert. All you had to know was that things were sleepy. I knew why LeClaire had that free campground: to bring in outside dollars. It gained thirty-five cents from me when I stopped at a bakery for a jelly donut and cinnamon bun.

Otto was topless and sitting on a picnic table top when I returned. He had paper towels wrapped around his foot, and a disgusted look on his face.

“Hey man, what happened to you?”

He painfully winced. “Nothin’.” He cautiously unwrapped the wound. “Just this.”

My good friend’s tender white skin was slit about an inch down the side of his big toe, yielding a slow ooze of blood.

“Yeech—where did you get that?”

He rewrapped the towel, and clutched his hand over the wound. “I went swimming.” He didn’t elaborate—just like him. Right away I thought of that debris protruding from the banks of the river. A sign strictly prohibited swimming.

“Do you know you’re not allowed to go swimming here anyway?” He didn’t answer. “How bad are you hurt? Can I help?” “It’s deep but not as bad as it coulda been. Hand me my first aid kit.” “What happened to your eagle eyesight? Look at all that sharp stuff poking out of the water.”

“I saw it.”

“But why ignore it?”

“At least I’ll be able to say I been swimmin’ in the famous Mississippi!” Otto the Opaque suddenly got snarly. I let it rest, but in this case swishing your hand around from the bank would’ve sufficed. While he repaired himself, I did exactly that.

I wore only my green cut-offs, Yankees cap, sneakers, and 32" Fruit of the Loom underpants for our hottest day yet. We normally showed drivers a hatless face, because visibility is truth, but you couldn’t adhere to that policy in ninety-degree heat. Our health came first. I laughed at Otto under his heavy, metal jungle hat. He looked like Dudley Doolittle on a moose expedition. He entertained me with an impersonation.

I felt displaced and a little scared when I realized no major cities were coming up. Even the capital, Des Moines, with its hundred thousand population, stirred no emotion. “Iowa” conveyed only one word: cornfields.

That’s exactly what we witnessed as we worked our way across the state. Long, sloping fields, packed with stalks in all stages of growth, extended in all directions. I remembered being astonished when my
fourth grade teacher told our class how Iowa was landlocked. Shocker. No place called “the shore.”

“What are the girls up to now?” Otto asked between rides.

“Hopefully longing for us.” Amy Weisburg was the girl I was dreaming of, based on the strength of three solid dates as school was coming to a close.

“They’re the best reason for stickin’ with our 40-day, 40-night plan.”

I watched a tractor grind up black earth. “No offense, man, but this would be the ultimate All-American story if Amy was my campmate. Guy-to-guy leaves a few needs unmet, you know?”

He laughed. “And I’d gladly substitute the name Laurie Daub for your slot on our travelin’ roster.” Laurie had been his main squeeze since winter. “A romantic duo is the perfect hitchhikin’ pair anyway.”

“Male and female combo, you can’t beat it.” We shook hands.

Drivers continued to laud California. “A great place to hang loose.” “A freakin’ gas.” “Lots of cool heads.” “Great peeps.” “No worries—just peace, love, and fun.” Everyone longed to be in our shoes, to drop everything and come along, to “share in the experience of a lifetime.” Funny how we were nowhere near California, yet everyone knew all about it. If I asked about, say, the state bordering to our south— Missouri—the people were mum.

The longest ride of the day was a college kid driving an air- conditioned Chevelle Malibu. He was on his way to get his father, so his father could watch him play in a football scrimmage. He had bristly hair, azure eyes, and a good build. Naturally, he said everyone in Iowa hated the Yankees. I was getting used to that. Most of the people rooted for the Des Moines Hens, a minor league team, “if they look at baseball at all. Out here, people eat, breathe, and sleep college football.”

He was astonished to hear Otto was a member of the high school basketball team.

“They let you play ball with hair down below your shoulders like that?” He gaped. “Out here you would be considered a sissy. My father, if he saw you, would refuse to get into the car.”

“Ah, that’s the old viewpoint,” Otto said.

We hammered the kid playfully about his lack of urban stripes—he didn’t even know his own ZIP code. He didn’t know that large cities had commuter trains from the outlying towns. Had never seen a woman police officer or a lady lawyer. Didn’t know the meaning of “viaduct.” Never had eaten ziti. Didn’t know that Manhattan was an island, let alone could name the five boroughs.

“Golly. You always hear things are different on the two coasts. Like taking off for California. Where I come from, that would be unheard of.”

“Do you know that the turning point of the Revolutionary War was when Washington crossed the Delaware in 1776?” (My taunt.)

“Can’t say I do. I don’t need all that jibber-jabber. All I need to know is how to play tight end for the Iowa State Cyclones.”

“I know you gotta like eatin’ corn every night for dinner, or else you’re outta luck in this state,” Otto said.

I decided—again—that blond Otto with his height, wit, wisdom, and passive manner; and me, with my darker complexion, harder slant, stamina, aggression, and economy, appealed to people at every bend of the spectrum. That’s how teamwork works. We complemented each other’s strengths and made up for the weaknesses. Our national web would be like that, too. Diverse yet unified. Otto was still hobbling from his foot injury but was recovering. I thought he set a good example by not complaining, and by treating his injury with care.

Two long-haired freaks in a beat-up four-door picked us up after I finished peeing. They had dazed smiles, red eyes, and seemed to be sailing through some kind of euphoria. They were going to the last town in Iowa, Council Bluffs, which I presumed was the name of some old Indian chief.

“Like wow, you guys are awesome for cuttin’ out to California. You’ll have a rowdy time. Party on. I hear it’s like, bitchin’ cool out there. Are you guys surfers?”

“No, but we like the beach.”

“A couple of my pals drove out to Redondo Beach last summer and stayed with some hot chicks they knew out there. They said the mountains and the ocean and the people were unreal. Say, wanna catch a buzz? We were just gonna light up another joint.”

Thwack! I knew that question was coming sooner or later. Was this the right time, though? I felt utterly unprepared.

My lone drug experience was May 15, 1969, two years ago. The controlled substance was hashish. During our high school’s annual “Night of Music,” our chorus was shuttered in the lab room, killing time prior to singing. Five mutual buddies huddled together and pointed at me, laughing, “It’s about time Winans got stoned.” They coaxed me outside to the football bleachers, convincing me I wouldn’t hallucinate or blow my mind. As the chunky brown “hash” was dropped onto the screen of a pipe, all I could think about was being arrested and jailed. I managed two tokes while everyone else had five or six. Who knows if I got “stoned” or not, but my friends turned into space cadets. One guy ran around in circles, flapping his arms and making sounds like a loony bird. One girl hummed monotone Georgian chants. The rest were laughing over jokes I didn’t get. When we got back to the school building I threw up in the hallway and gave a feeble yarn to a teacher about being sick. Otto was one of a very close circle of friends I told about this.

“No thanks, man, not me,” I told the stoner, when he held the funny cigarette in front of me.
“You sure?” The guy held down the smoke, puzzled. The ends of his fingers were hard and rough and I wondered how many joints he needed to get through the day.

I sat back in the seat, frustrated. The freak turned to Otto, his arm like a crane, the smoky bone smelling like peat moss. “You?” he exhaled. “You want a hit?”

“Naw, I don’t need that stuff.”

That surprised the freak and me alike! Part of the reason I felt I could abstain was because I thought liberal, alternative-lifestyle Otto the Open-Minded wouldn’t. Before the trip and during, he was always filling idle moments with outrageous stories of him and his band of nonconformist friends. His many drug experiences produced supernatural visions and “voices from the crypt” (I had never seen him smoke personally). You just couldn’t predict that human being.

Now I felt stupid. Neither of us accepted their offer, and they had been so delighted to pick us up. It was like not complying with our end of the bargain.

As the weed floated back to the driver, I said, “Hell, give it to me.” The party was expanded to a threesome. They were happy to get a recruit.

The skunky illegal weed went down mildly, smokey but not like a cigarette’s awful cinder and ash. Luckily I didn’t cough. Nothing much came out when I exhaled. By now the two freaks had retreated into their own conversation and didn’t seem to notice. I copied the way they smoked, and felt halfway comfortable by my fourth or fifth toke, as we got down to the “roach.”

Now . . . when would my mind be altered? And how? I felt straight as a razor. I had to think about something, so I thought about The Beatles. I thought about their volume of work, how their unique sound matured and developed over the years, how it took dedication and patience to create something worthwhile. Rock music’s orchestra. Yes, the Beatles. I daydreamed about Amy’s milky, full-figured body. Her breasts, her taut belly. I imagined her moaning and cooing, all of which bid me inside to her private chamber of delight which made me crave her more, more, more. I thought about California. Its size, its collective philosophy, its mental posture, its soul. I listened to the revolutions of the wheels. I tried to calculate the number of spins made in one mile, and then imagined that figure multiplied by three thousand.

Next to me in the back seat, Otto rummaged through his pack and began cursing. He whispered, “My canteen—it’s gone! I must’ve left it in that football guy’s car!”

I laughed at his rare display of emotion—Otto was usually more deadpan than Dr. Spock of Star Trek. I said, “Don’t worry, here’s mine.” I handed over my World War II canteen which my father gave me to use on the trip. Everyone took a swig of warm, metallic water.

We got out in Council Bluffs. The deepening lavender sky smelled of hamburgers. We were on one of those strips that have stores, restaurants, motels, and gas stations built up next to one another. Cars bumped along under a string of red lights. Straight ahead was the bridge into Omaha, Nebraska.
Otto was still venting about his canteen. He seriously wanted to detour to Sioux City, ninety miles back, track down that football player, and retrieve it.

“Without a name or any clues to his whereabouts? No way! You can’t break our rhythm like that, man. Why don’t you buy a new one at one of these department stores? That’s the sensible approach.”

“On our daily budget of four bucks? I’d blow it all in one shot. No can do.”

“Don’t sweat the small stuff, Otto. Swig from mine when you want. I’ll make sure it’s filled. Come on, I’m hungry. Let’s eat at the Little Red Barn for dinner.”

“Why don’t we just go to McDonald’s?” Otto stopped in his tracks. “We haven’t been to a McDonald’s yet, and I feel like a Big Mac.”

“Didn’t we agree to always go alternative? The road less traveled? We’re on a cross-country trip, man. The Little Red Barn probably has Big Macs, only they call them something else. You can’t learn anything at a McDonald’s.”

“We can, too! We can learn what it’s like to eat at the McDonald’s in Council Bluffs, Iowa!” Otto donned a fast testy. “Plus a McDonald’s will always give you free water.”

“Stop thinking about that canteen, will you? Forget it. It’s gone.”

“Yeah, you can talk about being ‘gone’, can’t you? I saw you in that car. How about it? Are you stoned or are you alert?”

“What’re you asking me that for? I stepped up just to keep those guys happy. You’re the long-haired party guy who should’ve been smoking. What about all your drug stories?”

“I fly high in the sky in other ways,” Otto quipped. “I’m not on an ego trip, like you.”

Before it got worse, we split up. We ate at the restaurant of our choice—Otto at McDonald’s, myself at the Little Red Barn. Believe it or not, this was our first out ’n out spat, ever. I was jarred because it came from out of nowhere. Bickering wasn't part of our arsenal, I had always believed. Best to keep a little distance going forward. I skirted across the highway with a duffel bag dangling from each arm. I sat down at a window seat with two Barnyard burgers, Idaho fries, a Daisy-the-Cow chocolate milkshake, and a Coke.

Halfway through I spotted Otto, in full regalia, jockeying past cars with a take-out bag in his hand. In his timid, gentle manner, he pulled open the door of the Little Red Barn, walked up to my table, eased off his pack, and slid into the seat across from me. Without looking up, he opened his McDonald’s bag and began eating.

“Hey!” I laughed, though I was glad to see him back. “Are you here or are you there?”

“I’m here but I was there.” He looked flustered but laughed, too. “I wanted to see what kind of takeout service that McDonald’s gives. Pretty good, pretty good.”

Otto delayed our departure at the last second by purchasing a Daisy- the-Cow milkshake. But I’d take that than remain at odds with him. Some heavy-duty urban maneuvering lay ahead.

Omaha’s skyline looked dark and imposing from the base of the bridge, with more tall buildings than I counted on. To boot, pedestrians were prohibited. How to cross over? We had to pace single file along a tiny ledge between heavy traffic and the railing, with our backs to oncoming traffic. It was more than just illegal, it was hairy. You had to keep your left arm tucked into your body or else lose it. We must’ve climbed to an altitude of 200 feet.

At the dark, windy crest, high above the Missouri River, my hair blowing, my mind clicked from “fifteen” to “sixteen.” A new total. The Cornhusker State. Nebraska, U.S.A.

The Omaha skyscrapers sat bold, dark, and silent along the waterfront. It was late, true, but you’d think some activity would be going on somewhere. Shouldn’t a few buildings keep their lights on?

The bridge branched off into three or four elevated arteries and I felt hexed. We couldn’t stretch our luck against the law much longer. Where to find a patch of open grass to sleep? Where to find a makeshift lean-to?

We could do nothing except bore down through the concrete of downtown. We hiked on grit. I-80 swept around a clump of buildings and disappeared. If only this was New York. We could go from the Battery to the Bronx in a snap.

I knew we were asking for trouble, two teens without bearings in a strange city late at night, lugging conspicuous travel gear. I was alarmed by the number of tramps lining the streets. Who were these lonely, downtrodden guys anyway? It seemed like every bum, drunk, pimp, thief, and pervert was out roaming. We walked past giant corporate headquarters: Western Manufacturing, Greater Omaha Packaging, Burlington Northern Railroad.

“I got rooms for ten cents a night, brothers,” one black guy called behind us.

We ignored him and increased our gait. Down the street Otto explained the guy was renting a flophouse. He warned me to keep to ourselves.

Another guy, white, with tattoos and a sleeveless jacket covered with fishing lures, stepped out in front of a doorway. “Let me carry those bags for you. You look a mite tired.”

“I can take mine.” Otto quickly sidestepped into the street.

I hesitated and nearly let my bag go. Other than stealing it, what interest would this guy have in carrying our gear?

“Roger!” Otto snapped from ten feet away. “C’mon!”

“Huh?” I was confused and peaked. My eyes burned bloodshot. The contact with that guy’s bony fingers jarred me to my senses. I jerked away my bag from his tug.

“Ye gads, when are you goin’ to smarten up?” Otto was furious. “That guy wasn’t no good Samaritan.”

“I was trying to bewilder him,” I said meekly. I smiled but felt miserable. My feet ached in their sneakers. My arms felt like lead. My heart pumped wildly through my shirt. I felt like a grub ball.
Not two blocks later, a sophisticated black with a goatee and white turtleneck gestured as we stepped into an intersection. “Gentleman, you want girls? I’ve got a couple of nice ones waiting down the street. Pretty as peaches and eager to meet you.”

Otto walked ahead as if he heard nothing. I looked the guy in the eye—he looked mistrustful—and said, “How are you this fine July evening?” That stopped him cold. We kept our pace.

“How’d I do?” I asked when we were out of earshot, smiling, trying to keep the atmosphere light.
Otto shook his long, raggedy head. “You wanna know? I think one of these days you’re gonna get the livin’ stuffin’ beat outta you.”

Nothing I saw in Omaha projected a positive image. It was cold and confusing, only steel behemoths towering above us. Manholes clanked as cars rolled down the avenues. Steam smelled like smoldering rags. The few people we saw were misfits, bitter transplants from the farm. Men had three day-old beards, worn-out shoes, and untucked shirttails.

Ladies were smart enough to stay inside. It was spooky. No place to lay a sleeping bag. If there only was a wooded park, even a secluded clump of shrubs. There weren’t even any open restaurants.

We walked for blocks, past many a dark building, aware of the stares from people in passing cars. Where was 80? I had no clue.

Ahead five or six blocks on the left, surrounded by more dark buildings, was the flashing yellow and white lights of a theater marquee.

“Hey, we can go to the movies,” I cried.

Otto used his good eyesight to read, “Bordello Cinema, Open 24 Hours, Adults Only, XXX.”
Admission was a scant dollar to a double feature: The Swinging Swappers and The Nine Ages of Nakedness. We expected trouble concerning our age, but the withered old lady in the ticket booth had but one objective—to receive our greenback. I dropped into my seat as a naked woman was being chased around a castle by a guy with a sword.

It was fun stuff. I emerged from the theater grateful to have anything to occupy my mind besides “The Trip.” Otto’s mood improved as well, though he mentioned, “Sex isn’t a spectator sport; you gotta be in the game.”

“What we need is an open restaurant.”

I was perturbed that Omaha—surely vying for respect among American cities—had nowhere to get something to eat at night. Finally we came across the Topaz, a twenty-four hour spot where waitresses were replaced by telephones. I bought a hot pastrami sandwich and vanilla milkshake. Otto ate corn chowder and a grilled cheese sandwich.

Sitting in the booth, Otto began mourning the loss of his canteen again. I never heard anyone whine about such a minor loss, lamenting how we should’ve spent an extra day backtracking to Sioux City and all that. He bellyached like a cackling goose. Personally, I was still reminiscing about the lustiest parts of the skin flick. Finally I sent him to the lavatory with my canteen. “Keep it. That bulky can is taking up needless space in my bag anyway. This is the United States. I’m not going to dehydrate.”

Don’t ask me how things worked out this way, but I-80 was only a three or four-block walk from the restaurant. A miracle. Something, somewhere, was taking care of us. Half an hour later we secured a ride.

A NASCAR fan, driving a jacked-up Dodge with decals, recklessly raced another idiot down the highway to the outskirts. My nerves got strained all over again.

At 3:10 a.m., raindrops hit the windshield.

Aqua, lots of it—streamed down. What a strange phenomena after going so many miles (and days) without. It felt sticky and sweet on my skin and lips. Otto and I retreated to a nearby Texaco station, where it plummeted even harder. We watched some all-night mechanics tinker with an engine.

Our latest blueprint, devised at the Topaz Cafe, had been to hitch through the night. But in the damp air, back at the entrance ramp, no spirit existed in either of us to catch a ride. My bones felt creaky and my seventeen year-old mind—normally dependable—was deteriorating into a lump. My eyes pinched every time I blinked. We resigned after ten minutes. We set up camp behind a leafy bush between the ramp and an adjoining housing development. We wrapped my sheet of polyethylene around us like cocoons.

Rain sluiced down.