Day Four (Wednesday, June 30, 1971)

It felt good to take showers on the morning of the fourth day. The funny design of these city apartments placed a window directly above the ceramic tub. That allowed you to soap up with a clear view of the apartments across the air-shaft. There was no shade or curtain, or even glass in the frame.

“Did you see that family in the next apartment building?” Otto asked back in the purple room, a towel wrapped around his tenders. He was flush with embarrassment.

“Yeah,” I laughed. “I hope they enjoyed their breakfast with my organ hanging out the window the whole time.”

Chip gave us run of the house, which meant to finish our cereal breakfast, pack up at our leisure, and lock up when we left. He chuckled to hear about our previous night’s civil disobedience with the protesters. In fact, he was scheduled to appear in court himself next week.

“A wee scrape with the law,” he explained, adding, “I’m not sure if I’m going to show up.” He waved and tramped down the stairway.

It took me little time to feel at home. I went directly to his stereo, found a good Chicago FM station, and got the apartment rocking. Otto joined me on Chip’s balcony for a spell of sitting and writing. We had a great view of urban activity; artists walking their dogs; cars in search of a parking space; kids bouncing a ball off a stoop, garbage collectors emptying the trash. It wasn’t hard to imagine the place as ours.

I updated my list of top ten favorite groups:

1. The Beatles
2. The Rascals
3. Sly and the Family Stone
4. ThreeDogNight
5. Rolling Stones
6. Chicago
7. Beach Boys
8. Blood, Sweat & Tears
9. Bob Dylan
10. The Doors

(Then I crumpled up the paper. After all, the Beatles had broken up.)

“How’s your beard coming along, man?”

“She’s fillin’ in nice.” Otto stroked barely discernible reddish fuzz under his chin. I rubbed my own shadow. Our beard contest was in full swing. Deep within our friendship, a rivalry still remained.

When we absorbed everything we could at the apartment, we used Chip’s instructions and headed out to I-94. Many times we flashed back to our sumptuous kissing with Paula and Theresa in Indiana and jostled over who was the bigger stud. We agreed to another contest: Tally who got the most girls on the trip.

“One-one, right? That’s our starting handicap. You had Theresa. I had Paula. One kiss minimum. No cheating.”

“Even par, I’m game.” Otto nodded. “But let me tell you, sons, you’re gonna be lickin’ your wounds by the time we get home. Makin’ romance with the fair sex is this kid’s forte.”

“We’ll see about that!”

One of our rides out of downtown was with a driver who looked like Stevie Wonder, with whom we talked about jerk chicken and soul food recipes.

An air conditioner installer, who said he lived “a block away from 80,” was good to his word. This area of Cook County, southwest of Chicago, was faceless, homogeneous, wall-to-wall developments built cheaply over fields and woods. It lent weight to another one of my Roger Winans mottos, “Give me city or give me country, but a subdivision—never!”

The air conditioner installer treated us to a glass of lemonade outside his home for helping him lift an unusually large unit off his truck.

A Mexican migrant worker offered to sell us his car for a hundred dollars, on the spot, claiming that he would start thumbing. No gracias, senor.

We pushed forward onto flat, open Illinois. I was aware that New Jersey ranked 46th in land area among the states, but you had to discover these distant lands to believe it. You had to think twice to realize that the hot, beating sun overhead was the exact same energy source that was shining in, say—Georgia. It no longer seemed like a stroll away to California, either. In fact, it seemed farther away now than it did when we started.

The massive junction between I-80 and I-55, laid out across an endless meadow, was the single worst place I’d ever hung out my thumb. It was impossibly busy. Cars weren’t designed to stop. There were too many doofus suit-n-tie workaholics with stressed faces, shooting out in all directions over mile-long ramps, like battery-operated zombies.

We set up on a secondary approach ramp—one on which the volume of traffic wasn’t so bad. Otto worked from the left side, using his left thumb, while I stood across from him, working my right.
An old Coronet stopped. Sitting behind the wheel, all alone, was a girl.

“It’s my turn for the front!” We ran up.

The girl was at best plain-looking, though sporting a curvy figure. She had glasses and dirty blonde hair, acne, and small, thin lips begging for Chap Stick. She was twenty-eight and studying for her doctorate in Psychological Behavior at Northwestern University.

“Come on, guys, how’d you get permission to go on your trip from your parents? Give me the straight poop.” She rolled over the question twice with her tongue, almost suspiciously.

“It was easy for me, because I would’ve gone whether my parents gave me permission or not,” I said.

“And my parents are pushovers if you get tough with ’em.”

“Don’t they have rules and regulations you need to follow?”

“Not me. I come and go as I please. I create my own disasters.”

“Basically, I don’t put up with their guff,” Otto said.

Like everyone else we’d met so far, the girl assumed New Jersey was one big factory filled with smoke stacks, high tension wires, and oil refineries. It was starting to irk me.

“No way,” I told her. “Over half the state is forestland. My friend and I live where there’s rolling hills and miles of farms between towns. Ever hear of Hunterdon County?”

“I love California.” She ignored me. “I have people in Encinitas. What an oasis. Sunshine every day. The ocean is marvelous. My friends are so creative. They cultivate avocado trees up the side of their hill. Everything they do is organic. They’re great cooks. They eat vegetables and drink tea. They spend every morning at the exercise spa and always have a suntan.”

“Disneyland for the privileged populace?” I volleyed.

She looked me over without smiling. “Are you prepared to meet all the free thinkers out there? I’m afraid their open-mindedness is going to shock you. People are into their own thing. Some of the residents might seem spacey, but they are expressing who they are. California is the closest thing we have to a modern utopia.”

I bubbled up. “Well, that’s what we’re all about, sister! Freedom! Who do you think you’re talking to?”
She gave us “western” tips, on everything from wearing our hats and keeping our canteens filled to dealing with poisonous snakes and what to do in case of bear attack. Otto pulled out his snakebite kit from his backpack and had the girl examine it.

“Two boys from New Jersey need to explore one of our Illinois state parks. We have a wonderful one at the next exit. We deserve at least one afternoon, don’t you think? It’ll be a crucial part of your cross-country education.”

She dropped us off at Starved Rock State Park, an area bristling with woods, sandstone canyons, and wandering streams. Her house was two miles away. “I’ll come back at five o’clock and give you a lift back to the highway.”

It wasn’t until the door was closed and she was motoring away that I realized we entrusted her with all our gear.

“Hey man, our duffel bags!” I began to chase after her.

“Ah relax. She ain’t the type to pull nothin’ like that.” Otto held me back. “Besides, you got traveler’s cheques in your pocket and a shirt on your back, don’t you?”

“Yeah, I guess . . . ”

Otto laughed. “You also got a brain in your skull. Or maybe we shouldn’t assume?”

“It’s there, I think.” We laughed in merry unison. “But it’s scary to imagine being stranded with no possessions.”

The park occupied us. All sorts of nature trails led to overlooks high above fertile flatlands. We checked out rock formations and waterfalls. We rowed a paddleboat past a deep canyon. We hung around the concession stand. An ice cream supply truck making a delivery left its latches open, and we swiped a couple free toffee bars.

The girl was fifteen minutes late in coming back.

“I thought about that, too, after I left—the theft factor.” She still wasn’t smiling. “I was interested in observing your reaction. Normally I’d be a little more careful about who you trust your packs with. Protect your innocence, boys. Seventeen is awfully young to be in charge of your own life.”

“Step aside, sister,” I said. “We got a trip to complete.” Otto lectured me after we were dropped off at I-80. “If you wanna survive this trip, sons, you’re gonna have to read people a lot better than what you been doin’. Some people we put our faith in. Others we play along with until we got them felt out. Got it? Make distinctions. You get flustered too easy. The good we embrace. If they’re rats, we scram. That’s the secret.”

We sat on a guardrail above the interstate. I felt unschooled compared to Otto, maybe not in raw knowledge or I.Q., but in savvy. Discernment. I needed to learn tact and poise. When to accept advice? When to follow your gut? When to speak my piece? When to keep my big trap shut? I observed the lower angle of the sun and felt the heat ease a degree.

A luxury car slowed while an automatic window rolled down. A man with a thick crop of graying hair and a thick, bushy mustache stuck his head out. “Where the fuck you going?”

Otto said, “Uh, California.”

The guy sweetened. “Well ain’t that something?” He smiled. “I’m going all the way to Davenport. Let me do you the pleasure.”

We did. Davenport was either in Iowa or at the end of Illinois—a good hundred miles, regardless. Otto followed our rotation system and waited for me to climb in the back. I loaded my red Yucatan bag and green gunny sack, topped off by Otto’s tan backpack. I took care not to scrape the metal frame against the interior. It was soft and lush, equipped with the latest 1971 accessories. As we started on our way, the seat automatically adjusted to my weight.

“Name’s Archie. What’s yours?” Immediately ‘Archie Bunker’ from the TV show All In The Family, came to mind, though there wasn’t enough of a resemblance to make the connection work. This Archie was old as Archie Bunker, but more handsome and sophisticated, despite the profanity.

“How the fuck you guys doing? I’d shake your hands, but look.” He suspended his right hand in the air. It was curled in a metal brace and covered in bandages.

“You want a drink? I’ve got whiskey sours here for you, if you’d care to join me.” He pointed to a miniature bar on the dashboard with his injured hand. Everything was included: a pint of Southern Comfort, plastic glasses, an ice bucket, packets of mix, wooden stir sticks, and beverage holders.

“I’m not thirsty,” I said dryly. Otto declined, too, but in a much lighter, pleasant tone, as if he was a binge boozer who just didn’t care for one at the moment.

“You sure?” Archie glanced at both of us. “You don’t mind if I have another one, do you? I’ve got to fucking unwind.”

He picked up speed, moved into the extreme lift-hand lane, and adjusted his cruise-a-matic to eighty miles per hour. My body started to sweat. He ripped open a whiskey sour packet, carelessly added the bourbon, and stirred.

“I’ve got to be careful the next few days.” Archie gulped down a good half of the drink and set the glass in the holder. “Over here I’m okay, but I’ve got to watch it on the other side of the stream. They’ve got a warrant out for my arrest. Concealed firearms. Every cop in Iowa is after me. Do me a favor and watch for any officers, just in case I need to burn rubber. It’s a rough life, fellas. I can’t keep a job, can’t stay off booze, and can’t stay away from the law. I’m a pathetic mess, aren’t I?”

Tremors of dread splashed across my body. I couldn’t believe Otto! While I was going hysterical, he lounged comfortably in the front with no tension, casually smiling in Archie’s direction or glancing out the window. I was ready to evacuate! Yesterday! This was the negative side of hitchhiking, plain and simple. My debut with a drunk driver. Already I knew the destiny of this ride: A high-speed chase and a fiery crash, culminating in all our deaths.

“I’m a brick layer for the union, right? We’ve been on this new job over in LaSalle the past couple of weeks. Real good place to work. Not too high up, all fire brick, new municipal building. I can’t work today because of this, though, right?” He held up his bandaged hand. “But I can’t tell the foreman how I got it, so I figure I better show up anyway, right? The foreman calls me over and says, ‘Archie, you drunken lout, you can’t work today with that hand,’ and I says fine. So I go down to the bar to wait for my buddy to get off, because I promised I’d give him a ride home. I drink five, maybe six beers, nothing heavy. But my fanny gets tired sitting there, you know? So I get a six pack to go and bring it down to the job, innocent as a church mouse.

“Now I know you’re not supposed to drink on the job. That’s the number one rule. But I figure, hell, I ain’t working today. Besides, I’ve got to nurse this hand. The foreman went through the roof when he saw me. ‘Goddamn it, Archie,’ he says, ‘what do you think you’ve doing? Your ass is fired.’ And I said, ‘Nuts to you, jerkweed. You don’t have to fire me, because I already quit!’

“I stormed out of that place and hit the fucking highway. I got ten miles down the road and thought, ‘Archie, you horse’s ass, you’re going the wrong way. That’s when I saw you guys.”

My eyes gummed the white lines. My body was in a manic froth. Archie was hustling plenty fast, but wasn’t swaying from lane to lane or haphazardly passing, like you’d expect. I longed for Davenport. It had to be close, if he commuted.

Displaying his injured hand again, Archie said, “I got this beaute from a fight I was in last night. God, it was senseless. So stupid. I was down at the local bar, which we call Smokey’s, right, to unwind with
some of the guys I know down there, right? So we’re talking about harness racing when this ugly-faced creep walks up to me from over in the corner. I’d seen him staring at me all night, but didn’t pay him any mind. He’s got this long scar running down the side of his face and probably a shriveled up pecker.
“Well, he’s drunker than me and he starts with the cheap shots, saying what a disgrace I am to society and how I’m better off in jail and all this malarkey. Then he starts shoving me, getting up my gander, and he keeps up that lip. I stood up and said, ‘All right, Jack Frost, you stinkin’ pig in the sty.’

“I hit that guy three times as hard as I could. But you know what? He wouldn’t go down. He was solid as iron. I was furious. My buddies stopped me; I wanted to bust a chair over his head. By that time the owner threw me out and warned me never to come back.”

I was shaking. Otto laughed his falsetto vampire laugh.

“You think I got this broken hand for nothing? I’m gonna get that guy tonight. He’s going underground. I’ve got a tip where to find his ass, and I’m gonna track him down and plug him. I couldn’t punch him and make him go down, so I’m going to plug up that blabbermouth.”

My insides were screaming stop . . . stop . . . stop! Otto the Oscillator was encouraging him, toying with him, keeping him gabbing.

“Plug him?” Otto smiled. “You mean with a gun?”

“That’s right, boys. I’ve got my forty-four on me, and tonight I’m going out and murdering that fucker.”

The car banged over a pothole. Archie lost grip of the wheel. Gravel spewed. We rumbled into the left-hand shoulder. Archie eased the vehicle back onto the pavement. My forehead was cold and saturated. My underarms smelled like rotten fish. Slowly I worked Otto’s backpack across my lap. That was my buffer for the crash I knew was coming.

“Nice packs you got.” Archie’s smiling eyes studied me through the rear-view mirror. “I wish I was on my way to California.”

To my complete disbelief, Otto was still all giggles and smiles. “What does your wife say about these activities?”

“Oh, she knows about them, but she doesn’t care. She loves me.”

“Yeah, but your job, Archie. Won’t she say nothin’ about losin’ your job?”

“Not a thing. I just told you—she loves me. Haven’t you ever had someone love you? Why, when I get home, she’ll take me into the bedroom and rape my fucking body.”

A single male hitchhiker appeared on a lonely curve. Archie slowed down and picked him up. It was a small guy wearing round, steel- rimmed glasses, carrying a small backpack and a tiny, crumpled sign, ‘COLO.’ He took a seat in the back next to me.

“Glad to have you aboard, buddy. My name’s Archie. Join the party. I’d shake your hand, but you can see I’m an invalid today with this fucking broken hand. You want a drink?”

The hitchhiker froze. Archie slipped off the pavement again, this time for much longer, generating a stormy trail of dust behind the car. The hitchhiker said, “Here’s my exit.”

“What?” Archie gritted his teeth. “You just got in. Your sign says you’re going to Colorado.”

“It does, but this is my exit.”

“You granola fuckstick,” he sneered. “I can’t stand weaklings.” Yet he stopped and let the guy off. The guy threw a sarcastic wave as we sped away. Archie grumbled. As soon as we returned to the fast lane, he resumed his affable air.

“He didn’t enjoy our company very much, did he?” Archie winked to Otto, ready to laugh.

“That boy got a pair of cold feet.” They both laughed. “Would you hire him? In your company?” “No friggin’ way. He was a wuss,” Otto said. More laughing. I readjusted my barrier (Otto’s pack) across my lap. I wanted out, too, but with Otto’s jovial attitude, that was out of the question.

A moment or three of silence prompted Archie to lean over toward Otto. He whispered, “You’re not scared, are you?”

“Hell no.” Otto was insulted he was even asked.

“Well, I knew you weren’t.” Archie smiled big. “But my little buddy in the back seat is scared shitless.”

Both of them burst out laughing. My face turned scarlet.

“Well then, come on guys, unwind a little and have a drink, will you? Have one for the old Arch. You know, I just hate to drink when my friends aren’t.”

On this point, however, Otto was firm. He refused drinks for the both of us.

“Well I’ll be. All right, that leaves all the more for me. I won’t even ask permission this time because it’s my car and my booze, and I guess I’ll pretty much do as I damn please. Agree or disagree?”

“Your word is law, Arch.”

Archie passed the long stretches by talking about the “black sugar” of Louisiana, the “inconsiderate” Florida highway patrol, and the importance of owning your own firearm. I honed in and out at different intervals, peering out from behind my padding, keeping my eyes fixated on the road.

I rolled out prayer. Except for my daily bedtime ritual, that was unprecedented. But I needed it now. I asked God for divine assistance.

“Say Arch, are we gonna make the Mississippi?”

“Yeah, we are, and I hate to say it, but I’m going to have to let you off there, because that’s as far as I’m going. I’d drive you all the way to California if I could.” Dusk softened the sky into a soothing orange haze. For the first time I felt like we might come out of this mess alive.

“Thank you for having the guts to ride with a fucking drunk like me for two hours. Hell, I wouldn’t trust my can behind the wheel for nothing. But you guys stuck it out. You didn’t give me mouth, and you didn’t get out when I let off that other snot nose. You hear that, little buddy in the back seat? Thanks.”

I begrudged a smile.

“And for riding with a drunk, know what I’m going to do? I’m going to repay you, that’s what. I’m going to let you off at the best damn restaurant on this highway, and give you the money to go out and have a decent meal.”

I sat back, stunned.

Martha’s Home-Style Cafe sat perched over a patchwork valley with a modest view. Archie whipped into the parking lot and got out of his luxury car along with us. He opened his wallet, exposing a thick wad of bills, peeled off an Abraham Lincoln, and gave it to Otto.

“There you go, fellas. Eat all you want, with my compliments.” Even with his bad hand he reached out and wanted to shake.

“Stay healthy and don’t let anyone stop you from having your fun. Don’t get like me. Keep yourselves out of trouble and you can’t lose. I went the other way, and look at me now. I’m one hurtin’ soul. I’ve got the whole state of Iowa on my behind. Yeah, I wish I was going with you. Teach you the ropes.”

He shook both our hands again, then shook my hand a third time. “Little buddy, take care.”

On second thought he stepped back out of his car.

“You guys probably don’t think I’ve got a gun on me, do you? You think I’m not only a drunk, but a lying drunk. Want me to ante up?” He reached into his jacket for his holster.

“No, no that’s all right. We believe you, Arch.” Otto raised his thin, hairy arms, finally showing a little fright. “We’ll take your word for it. I got a jock strap on me that I carry around. You probably don’t wanna see that, neither.”

Archie laughed. “Hah—I knew you had a sense of humor. Just give some of that to my little buddy over here—” he pointed to me—“and you guys’ll be set.” He shook our hands again, my fourth time.
“So long, fellas. Have fun but don’t get into trouble.” He lowered the stick shift and squealed off.

We were five dollars richer, and intended to spend all of it. I ate honey-dipped fried chicken. Otto ate fishwiches with cole slaw and chips. We sopped up unlimited soda and padded around the soft carpet in our stocking feet.

“Archie’s probably a better drunk driver than most because he’s crocked most of the time.”

“How many lopsided buildings has he put up, I wonder?”

“I think Archie’s the type of guy you call ‘friend,’ but only if you don’t see him too much.”

“The Arch sure knows restaurants. Martha served us an excellent meal.”

“What’s the bill?”

“$4.72. Put down that five and I’ll put another dollar on top of it, for good measure.”

Dew wet our sneakers as we hiked off the grounds. Honeysuckle tinged the air. The sun was down. Deep blue hues coated the upper sky. The fields were verdant. I felt sorry for the people rushing east and west along that concrete thoroughfare. They had no time to “be in the moment.”

Otto marched forward in his classic hip-hop bounce. “The Mississippi’s only down here a mile or so. Let’s get one last ride before it gets too dark, and see if we can’t find a place to camp out next to the river. You know, Huckleberry Finn style.”

Not five cars later, we snared the slowest vehicle on the road, a puttering, rusty truck, with muddy tools in the back. A sun-roasted farmer with a dry, rippled face, and sharp, gray whiskers, sat alone. “I ain’t goin’ far. Only to LeClaire.”

“We just wanna get out by the Mississippi.”

The farmer sat lethargic in his frayed clothes. His fingers hung like stalactites, dark circles under his eyes. If this guy represented agriculture in America, it was in sad shape.

“You guys campin’?”

“Yeah.”

“What you got, a tent?”

“Sleepin’ bags.”

“We’re star gazers. Open air aficionados. Life seekers,” I said.

Just then we crossed the modest arch that spanned the Mississippi River. It would have been easy to say, “One short ride for Otto and me / One giant leap for the annals of hitchhiking,” but I didn’t. Too dorky.

The farmer let us off on Main Street, LeClaire, Iowa, at a cruddy trailer park grown over with weeds. Mobile homes and camp vehicles sat resting at water’s edge. Free or not, we walked right in. We trudged past Jet Streams and Horizons and Coachmans and Fleetwoods, while crickets made a fracas.
We laid out our sleeping bags three feet from the river, which flowed without a ripple.

Everyone in town was tucked in. I’d never read any Mark Twain books, but I knew their storylines,
and it wasn’t hard to imagine two boys waving to an ornate showboat floating downstream, carrying goods and supplies to the market in New Orleans. The sassy trumpet of Louis Armstrong, “Hello Dolly,” played loudly between my ears.

Otto’s blond, stick-like body was decked out next to mine, face up, eyes closed. Constellations beamed above. I was almost asleep when my partner’s voice drifted through my ears.

“How di’ya think Archie’s murder went?”