Day Fourteen (Saturday, July 10, 1971)

Every time the slightest noise drifted through, I lifted my bones, sniffing for danger. Usually it was lovers, Asians, a drunk, or my imagination. Every time I’d lie back on the cobblestones and think,
“When is this trance going to be over?”

“Hours like these ain’t for restin’,” Otto declared. “They’re for passin’.”

Disturbing dreams kept me tossing and twitching. In one I had a ticket for a train to Chicago, but after arriving at the station I realized I forgot to pack my bags. I was stuck. In another I was surrounded by killers. My legs felt like lead, and I couldn’t run. Dreams and reality kept mixing together. Every time I peeked over the retainer wall, the streetlights burning through the fog swept me away to fifteenth century England. The Ghirardelli building looked like a baron’s castle.

He and I were up for good at dawn anyway, due to an automatic sprinkler system spurting between the flowers. Otto wrested in his bag as though he was in a straight jacket. “What the . . . ?”

“. . . Frig.” I grunted. “We’re drenched.”

Soft velvet sky brushed underneath thin morning clouds. The grounds were wet and fresh. Ghirardelli came back into focus as a stately, preserved landmark. The bay was calm. Long, weak shadows cast off the apartment houses. The quiet signified weekend. And this was still San Francisco, California, a place that had me believing, “This town is amazingly tolerant!”

Otto and I yanked and moaned our way to the bench across the walkway. We sat with wet bags wrapped around us. I felt chilled and deranged.

“Your face looks off-center.”

“You don’t look so cute yourself.”

“You bleary-eyed bastard. He-he-he.”

“You spleeny, dizzy-eyed wagtail. That’s Shakespeare, remixed.”

After it got considerably warmer and brighter I went to 7-Eleven for donuts, orange juice, and a San Francisco Chronicle. Otto aired out the sleeping bags across the backs of the walkway benches.

Hung over a third bench was my tattered piece of polyethylene carried in case of rain. I took one look at that dirty, wet, ripped ten-by- ten piece of garbage and knew it had to go. I flung it sideways across the lawn like a flying saucer. I kicked it, punched it, tore it into pieces, and stuffed it into a trash can.
I plopped down next to Otto with an exaggerated clunk. It took awhile, but he laughed.

“The things you don’t need, man, you get rid of.”

He disappeared into the public restroom and approached me while my head was buried in the paper.

“So Roger, you ain’t gonna take up permanent residence in San Francisco, are you? How much more you gotta see?”

“Let’s stay awhile. I like San Francisco. It has a good feel. Let’s stabilize a little before we fling into something new.”

“California’s a big state, sons. Don’t pigeon-hole me into somethin’ here when we got all those things to see out there.”

His tone sounded as if another one of his “moods” was going to manifest if I didn’t let him be the boss.

“Do we stick with the gigantic loop I devised before the trip? If so, we head south toward Los Angeles.”

“I heard Big Sur is supposed to be the most beautiful place in the world.” He studied the map.

I pointed to central California, near Fresno. “Would you accept visiting my Aunt Betty and Uncle Ralph, who live in Hanford? If we send them a postcard it’ll be redeemable for free food and unlimited showers.”

“Ditto.” Otto folded up the map. “Well, that’s enough plannin’. We been on the road fourteen days and got twenty-six more to go. That’s all we need to know.”

I dissected the San Francisco Chronicle.

“You and your cities, Roger! You’ve seen everything here, sons. This ain’t no sight-seein’ bus tour. The things you missed you’ll catch the next time around. You been on this earth only since 1954.”

“The Jefferson Airplane got a good review at the Fillmore West last night. But it looks dark tonight. Hmmm, I guess I’ll let you persuade me.”

“The only thing I gotta do is place a free long distance phone call to my woman.”

“Laurie Daub? How’re you going to do that?”

Otto pointed to a phone booth and smiled. “Abbie Hoffman told me how.”

Sly rascal Ottoman pulled it off. He got hold of Laurie, spoke for the basic three minutes, and was laughing and joking the whole time, thrilling her to no end with his cross-country antics. All for free.

Otto’s falsetto laugh rang clear and annoying when he emerged from the booth, singing thanks to “comrade” Abbie Hoffman.

“Nothin’ to it, sons. I got a woman waitin’ for me when I get home. How ’bout you? A little too quiet on the homefront with Amy Weisburg? Heh? She still rootin’ for the Winans connection?”

“Let me into that phone booth.” I brushed past him with a smile. “Let’s find out if I’ve got a woman waiting for me.”

I dug out a dime, thinking of Amy’s bright cheerful face; her fragrant, herbal hair; her wide, feline eyes. Would she be surprised!

But I was the one left holding the grenade. After the gullible operator apologized that the phone “ate my money,” and checked with the party on the other end, I had an awkward exchange with Amy’s mother, Mrs. Weisburg.

“Didn’t she tell you? She’s been living in West Orange with her cousins since school let out. She works at her father’s chiropractic office there. She also does babysitting in Maplewood for her nephews. Let me give you the numbers.”

“Euu.” I pressed the receiver to my shirt and opened the door. “George! Throw me the magic marker, please!” I whipped off my belt in semi-Superman fashion.

It wasn’t much consolation, but for the remainder of the trip I had three phone numbers written in magic marker on the inside of my belt. I bitched after the receiver was in place. Amy said nothing about moving the last time I talked with her, nor about quitting her job at the Flemington Fabric Shop. I slammed the door and stood staring at George.

“Get Amy?” He laughed because he knew better.

“I’ll catch her next time around.”

A gush of cold, salty wind curled up my nostrils when we stepped off the city bus platform at the five-way intersection south of the Twin Peaks district. Freezing air blew up the ends of my pants. My cheeks felt numb. My black winter nylon jacket was whipped on in short order. Otto followed with his brown plastic space-age jacket. Brrr!

“California” was evident in the homes. They were large, modern villas, white stucco sidings and Spanish rooftops, with curved tile. Well- manicured lawns set off each property, all adorned by flowers, framed by hedges and/or iron fences. The boulevards were car-friendly (i.e. wide). Freshly-poured sidewalks. Everything new.

Highway One would prove to be a trusty companion for many days ahead. Otto and I detoured around a band of kids enjoying the latest West Coast craze—skateboarding. We hiked a considerable distance under palm trees, through a college neighborhood; past the San Francisco Golf Club. “Do You Know the Way to San Jose” by Dionne Warwick played in my head during two dinky rides.

Otto skipped out of a soda shop with a hot cheesesteak hidden inside his jacket. “My stomach was talkin’. Come on, sons, let’s get crankin’!”

Our greatest hindrance was other hitchhikers. They were visible en masse, standing, walking, being picked up and dropped off, passing through in cars. I never saw such clogged arteries. Any decent stretch of roadway contained at least three or four hitchhikers. Signs read “Santa Cruz,” “LA,” “San Jose,” “Watsonville.” It was fantastic to see a mutual force of kindred spirits out there, but not when you’re slashing each other’s chances.

Predictable, almost monotonous exchanges took place during each hobnob. “What’s going down with you, boss?” “Oh, you’ll dig it up there.” “That’s where we just got back from.” “Oh yeah, we’ll have to get out that way real soon.” “Things are really happening down there.” “It’s a good place to let go and be.”

If I had any common sense, I would’ve packed a pair of gloves. As we stood on a barren hill with the Pacific Ocean partially visible in the distance, I clamped my hands under my armpits to keep warm. Otto blew air onto his fingers. I tried a little-lost-boy strategy in front of the public, on the verge of crying. Disgruntled looks and road rage is what I got in return. They informed me, “I’ve seen too many freeloaders today. Dump your ass somewhere else, buddy.”

Pacifica was the name of the town where we ran out of land. We had been curving along sand dunes, past bungalows in a decal-laden, souped-up van. I was sitting on a spare tire in back, cold with goose bumps, while Waldo the Driver blasted electronic distortion on his audio system through open windows. Suddenly the ever-present clouds gave way. Appearing before us was deep blue aqua and bleachy whitecaps, crashing against a rocky beach.

We hugged the coast, high on a cliff, shouldered against the world’s biggest ocean. The road made a series of sharp bends through the wooded hills, peeking in and out from the coastline.

It was colder than ever thumbing outside on a rocky cliff with no shelter around. But I had my victory.

“The Pacific Ocean.” I inhaled big.

Otto turned stiffly. “What d’ya think we should do about it? Go snorkelin’?”

Waits were long; rides were excruciating. You hardly got a chance to defrost when you were thrust into the raw wind again. Highway One moved into position along a mountain ledge, hundreds of feet above the ocean, and stayed there.

“Thank God for guard rails.” I stuck my nose out a window. “In my next prayer, I’m going to mention guardrails.”

Pigeon Point Lighthouse was one such horror location. It was on a spit of land at the end of a long curve. Gusts swept around our bodies, actually howling. I zipped my jacket over my head and hitchhiked headless for awhile, appealing for mercy. Why didn’t I bring my wool knit New York Jets beanie? Between cars I was jumping and swinging my arms. I pressed my hands against my ears.
Waves thundered against the rocks below. Traffic came lickety-split around the curve, only to disappear just as fast. A common gesture was “no room.” I cursed all the compact sports cars and fun-loving beautiful people. They loved to participate in the sport of hitchhiking by gesturing “no room.”

The foghorn blew and I nearly died of a heart attack. “I hate this spot!”

Otto was running in place and exhaling thick breaths of steam. My fingertips were tingling. My nose was dripping.

Three middle-aged stooges in a pickup truck partially saved us. Believe me, there is little joy riding outside on a metal pickup bed with the windchill near freezing. The slaphappy stooge driving careened off shoulders, screeched around sharper curves, tailgated slowpokes. He often passed near a bend or with a car coming the other way. I sat paralyzed in the back, my hands clenched in fists up the inside of my jacket. At some of the most treacherous curves I expected to go bolting over the side into tranquility.

The truck braked and my spine was thrown against the metal siding, hard. Otto and I tumbled overboard. The driver turned up a private lane and scurried back into the hills.

Were we motionless? I felt dizzy. From dark woods we had emerged onto bright, level, sandy land. Large dunes angled up on both sides, like pyramids, away from the very edge of the United States.

Warm, gentle sun caressed my face. The hostile ocean was shielded. The juxtaposition was startling.
Otto looked pale and out of breath, like he had run the distance we rode. “My ears are ringin’.”

“My hair hurts.”

We cast smiles on each other and laughed. He was still my best friend.

For such a rugged, uninhibited coastline, there was a glut of cars passing through. This time we got lucky, with a red International Scout. A young family inside was going to Santa Cruz.

It felt good to be with some educated human beings. The stocky, wiry-haired daddy was Professor of History at the University of California at Santa Cruz. The slender-pale mommy was a botanist. Not to be excluded—an enthusiastic baby voice joined the discussion from the front seat. “Mommy, I’m sweaty!”

Their little blond-haired daughter awoke from her nap. She adjusted herself on her mother’s lap, and lifted her eyes in my direction. She peeled her sweatshirt overtop her fluffy pigtails and rolled up her sleeves.

“That wool was gagging me, Mommy.” She said looked around with pure green eyes, not a bit shy. “I was too hot.”

“Be a good girl, darling, we’ll be home soon. You were getting restless in your sleep, weren’t you?”

The little girl stretched her arms over her head and yawned, unheeding the question. A second later she was singing and content. “Mommy, I want to invite Missy over to play dolls when we get home. Can I? Can I?”

“Yes, you may, dear, but only after you’ve eaten din-din.”

“Mommy, don’t use baby words with me. Besides, that doesn’t make sense. I’m in the mood to play dolls now. After din-din I’ll want to listen to records. Don’t you know my habits by now?”

The mother winked at me. “This is Cecelia.”

“How are you, Cecelia?” I spoke politely, taken back by the intimacy.

“A little sticky and woozy from sleepytime.” Her formative voice was somewhat squeaky. She flipped blonde hair off her shoulders. “I still I need sleepytime in the afternoon, or else I get too tired to make it to eight o’clock beddy-bye.”

Our eyes glued upon one another in a mutual, wondrous stare. “Mommy, you never grew whiskers on your face like that, did you?”

The dad laughed the loudest. “No, Cecelia, men are the ones cursed with that problem.” He stroked his daughter’s hair. “But you’ll see, there’ll come a time when you’ll find growth on your legs and underarms. Then you’ll have to decide what to do with it.”

“Cross your fingers and hope to die?”

“Truth.” I replied on behalf of everyone. I couldn’t keep my eyes off this beautiful baby. We smiled and stared at each other with tilted heads and gestures and open mouths.

“You know what?” she said to me. “Let’s play patty cake.”

“If you can you teach a dunce like me, sure.”

Between reciting rhymes and clapping, which I mostly flubbed, Cecelia said, “I want to tell you something.” “What?” I kept time as best I could. “My name is Cecelia Reinhardt, and I’m four years old. My mom is Dr. Kathleen Reinhardt and my dad is Dr. Jim Reinhardt. We live in a brand new house two blocks from the beach that has fourteen rooms in it. Real estate don’t buy what it used to. But we have a trust fund cushion. Mom’s pregnant again and I want a sister.”

“She’s four?” I asked the parents.

“I am, really,” Cecelia affirmed. “You don’t believe me, go to our safe deposit box and read my birth certificate!”

A sprinkling of stardust passed through my body. This girl had all the gifts in the universe.

“Four years old with permission to start kindergarten a year early in the fall,” Mrs. Reinhardt said. “We’re trying to give her as normal a childhood as possible, but it’s getting hard. Her I.Q. is 135.”

“Wow, Cecelia—I’d better kick it into high gear.”

“Tell me three questions, please.” She sat up. “One, how did you get in this car? Two, what’s your name? Three, how old are you?”

“I’m seventeen. My name is Roger, and I’m from New Jersey. This is a friend of mine, Otto.”

Otto said “hello” with a formal nod, then went back to looking out the window.

“I never met anyone from there.” She was brimming with wonder. “Daddy, what’s it like in New Jersey?”

“New Jersey? It’s a tiny state in the northeast. That’s where all the immigrants from Europe settled back in the 1800’s. The residents have a giant ego and a bit of an inferiority complex. Whenever anyone says they’re from New Jersey, you’re supposed to make a joke.”

“Dirty jokes?”

“Mean jokes. About its industrial apocalypse, its crime and decay,” Dr. Jim said. “I went through there once and I saw my share of factories and oil refineries and high-intensity wires. But I also remember quite a few rolling hills and farmland.”

“—That’s right,” I said. “My friend and I live in those rolling hills, in what I call West Jersey. To this day I like it. Everybody’s got to be from somewhere.”

“He sounds like Bertie, don’t you think, Jim?” Mrs. Reinhardt said.

“Very much so. You guys are dead ringers for Easterners, if you don’t mind me saying. You’ve got the accents, the defensive pride, and the persistent dogmatism that makes conversation for an unexposed Oregon boy like me unique. I must say, Kathleen, I find it delightful. You don’t find that level of awareness out here. Californians take the painless route. Most of my so-called students are studying for their degrees in beach bumming.”

“Say off and on,” Mrs. Reinhardt said.

“Off and on.”

“New Joisey all the way.” She clasped her hands and laughed. “Bertie would be heartened to make your acquaintance.”

“Bertie’s a good friend of ours,” Cecelia explained. “He’s a twice-divorced transsexual with a heart of gold.”

Cecelia gazed at me with eyes aglow. This was the most comfortable I’d ever felt with anyone in my life. My heart melted completely. She returned the passion, wanting to know why we took this trip; its motivations, its planning process.

When I started to fumble for words, Cecelia said, “You wanted to develop yourself as a person, didn’t you? You wanted to give yourself a challenge. You wanted to build your character.”

“That’s the answer. To show the world you can get by on a lot less than people think.”

“Daddy, I want to sleep outside the tent the next time we go camping. Just like Roger. A tent is too hot and yucky. Can I, please? Can I, can I?” “Good question, Cecelia. But wait until we go camping next time.

I’ll talk it over with you then.” “I won’t be scared,” she said. “I promise. Nighttime is just like
daytime but without the sun. Right, Roger? Right?”

Dr. Jim, meanwhile, was asserting to Otto the merits of California after realizing he might have painted a negative impression about his students. “. . . Santa Cruz is an excellent place to raise a family. We get a lot of Easterners drifting through. It’s lenient, with lots of radical thinkers and alternate lifestyles . . . There’s a great nightlife . . . You can’t beat the location . . .”

Cecelia, meanwhile, showed me the pin she won at nursery school for being jump rope champion. Her main interests were coloring and playing with dolls.

We reached Santa Cruz. A succession of red lights delayed the inevitable. Dr. Jim drove into the parking lot of a McDonald’s and stopped. The ride was over. My female soulmate sat peacefully on her
mother’s lap, feeling the same sense of impending loss. Otto and I got out. I succumbed to the power of time. The ride was over. Kerplunk. You can’t linger in the same sweet spot long, because everybody in the world moves one space at a time, like a chess match. Everything at every moment gets reordered, endlessly.

“That’s the tough part about life.” Three Big Macs apiece helped me sum it up. “Peak moments end.”

“Come back to earth, Roger.” Otto patted me on the back. “So, Santa Cruz is an excellent place to be? Looks like bad headlines to this kid.”

The business district was closing down for the night. The surfboard shop, record store, motorcycle dealer, tattoo parlor, hoagie take-out— all shuttered tight. But this was Saturday at 10 p.m., shouldn’t there be some pedestrian activity? Dark clouds infiltrated the evening and undermined the day’s warmth. The palms and Spanish rooftops were cast in a low, dull mist. An approaching coastal storm flattened beach grass along the foothills. Roadways seemed devoid of cars.

Otto balked at my suggestion to mill around for a brew pub, try to get served a beer. “Let’s get to the heart of downtown, man.”

“Can’t you see with your stone head? Nothin’s open. You ain’t gonna find no girls down there tonight.” He looked irritated. He pointed to a sign I couldn’t read. “Turn right for the University of California at Santa Cruz. Let’s try that. At least you know a college will have some people around. I can’t be walkin’ aimlessly, Roger. I’m ailin’ for female comfort. I’m festerin.’ If there’s any girls around, it’s gonna be on a college campus. There’s probably some parties we can crash. We can talk to a couple swingin’ swappers, and grab ourselves a place to bunk at the dormitory at the same time.”

The sign Otto saw was just the beginning of an endless walk through leafy, prominent real estate. The sky turned black. The wind swirled. I was completely beat. My body assumed a weighty, leaden feeling. Posters stapled to telephone poles scared me. They demanded the release of John Linley Frazier, a mechanic who murdered five people last October and who had been sentenced to death.
The entrance road to the university curved around a steep, grassy hill. Fog shrouded visibility. I felt queasy, burdened, sore. No clues were given as to dormitories. Otto and I would be considered trespassers. I lumbered through the dark with increasing agony. Mist stung my face. My feet stabbed with pain. The ground was slippery.

“There has to be a reward for this kind of effort. You would think.”

“Where are those parties?” Otto gazed around into nothingness.

My head was lost inside a fog. My biceps were screaming. My knees groaned with every step. Otto walked with his head down and mouth open, as if rigor mortis was about to set in.

I forgot who made the suggestion, but our exercise was called off. He and I retreated downhill to a secluded grove of trees. We hid ourselves just as campus security drove by in a golf cart. We crawled into our bags and zipped up tight.