Day Nine (Monday, July 5, 1971)

A sparkling blue sky shone over creation in the morning. The brown mountains winked in crisp, cool air. I stretched my limbs and yawned, creaking but still oiled well for seventeen yearly cycles. There were hardly any trees around, just spiky shrubs covering towering upheavals of land. Brown bumps slanted in the long shadows.

Otto pulled his backpack out from underneath the car in his stocking feet. Starla stood disheveled and withdrawn on the sidewalk, bundled in the blanket.

“Good morning, Starla.” She replied nothing. “Shouldn’t you ask Bill to take you to a hospital?” Still receiving nothing, I went to get a cup of coffee from a vending machine.

‘WELCOME TO UTAH’ came as a surprise, mainly because I started to accept that Wyoming was endless. But early on, the Impala came upon the border and crossed it. Here was more new territory to conquer, not to mention my state total pressed onward to nineteen.

Bill gave up on Starla. He changed during sleep. He said little to anyone after we got back in the car, and abruptly dropped the three of us off at the Utah Tourist Welcome Center. He continued alone through Idaho and Oregon.

Meanwhile, Starla looked bad. Her skin color, which wasn’t good to begin with, turned purplish. Heaving, gasping, and moaning, she drifted away from Otto and me, only to sit atop a grassy hill, away from cars and people.

Suddenly, I put it together. “Holy cripe, Otto, she’s having her baby!”

I dashed up the berm, which was covered by clumps of jagged ferns. She was drenched in sweat and loosening her pants.

I whipped off the rest of her pants without asking permission. She wore nothing underneath, but this was no time for modesty. She was bleeding and groaning like a tortured cat.

Otto ran in the direction of the welcome center, shouting, “Get an ambulance. A girl over there is havin’ a baby!”

I planted Starla’s feet in the dirt with her knees bent, and pulled her legs apart, facing right into her soiled canal. “Breathe big and steady if you can.” I couldn’t stop and observe; it was happening as I worked.

The baby’s head came first. It was bloody and covered in mucus. I cupped my hands together, guiding out the head and keeping it level. At the same time I gently wiped away slime from its eyes and mouth and ears.

The shoulders and torso came next. The arms popped up.

Starla was sweating and wailing. “Almost, Starla. You’re almost there. Push.”

The baby was born breathing. It was a boy.

People gathered in a circle over my shoulder, letting me complete the task. I took off my teeshirt and used it as an undercloth. Still on my knees, I wrapped the baby in it, and handed the whole package to Starla, with the cord attached. “Congratulations Starla, you’re a mother!”

I almost laughed. Starla looked relieved and softly said, “Thank you.” The onlookers applauded.
Otto came back into view, smiling but shaking his head. After checking on the crying baby he said, “Roger, you’re the Eighth Wonder of the World. You got tricks up your sleeve that would baffle Houdini.”

The police showed up incredibly fast and took over. They smiled in appreciation once they saw mother and child were not in danger. “Job well done, son,” the chief said, shaking my stained hand. The emergency unit followed and whisked away Starla and baby to a hospital. My throat was choking. Tears flowed down tourists’ faces.

I wiped my hands with a towel and got hold of myself, still not quite cognizant. Many of those present shook my hand, expressing thanks and amazement. A guy gave me a brand new teeshirt out his suitcase. I put it on and everyone applauded again. Cameras clicked.

“We got our Fourth of July celebration, man. It came a day late, but we got it all the same,” I said to Otto, who slowly moved into the center of action with me.

He and I gave separate statements to the police. They didn’t care in the least we were cross-country hitchhikers. In fact, once that came out, it became part of the folklore. The chief radioed for a staffer. A lady in uniform showed up. She drove us a dozen or more miles west, to the next village along I-80.

“The state of Utah is proud of you,” she said, smiling and laughing about the details. “You guys are an inspiration to us mortals, both of you.”

The fanfare now over, Otto and I strolled into a tavern called the Spring Chicken Inn. We ordered a late breakfast, the biggest platter we could find. Otto fluffed out his blond hair and laughed. I swiveled back
and forth on the stool, singing, “Zippitty-do-dah, zippitty day . . . ” “Roger, that was a performance for the ages. You’re livin’ in your own universe, sons. No one can touch that. Sometimes I’m embarrassed to know you, but after seein’ that, I wouldn’t trade you for nothin’. You’re a pip.”

“We still have to pick up and keep going. We’re not even to California yet.”

“Not so fast. Your breakfast is on me. Let me enjoy this.”

The Spring Chicken Inn was a funky converted barn with cathedral windows letting in good light. We sat at the rectangular bar, underage Jersey dudes, eating ham and cheese omelets, sausage, home fries, and drinking extra large Cokes. A leather-clad gang sitting across from us looked like Ben Cartwright, Hoss, and Little Joe from Bonanza. Making Ponderosa jokes and talking more about the baby kept us occupied.

“That killed my knees.” I referred to my ligament injury I’d had last year playing JV football. “If I’d known ahead of time I was going to deliver a baby, I would’ve packed my knee pads.”

“Dr. Spock ain’t got nothin’ on you, sons.”

“It may be tougher for you and me to stay incognito after this. We’ll be hounded by the paparazzi.”

“Just as long as we arrive alive, I’m good as gold.”

Our next two rides were shorties. Talk about coming down off Cloud Nine! We had to face the reality of having to work again to move our troupe over the miles. Nothing was given in life; it was all earned, bit by bit, in accumulative fashion.

The first shorty was a singer in a barbershop quartet; the second was an Audi with two soccer players from Brazil and their sheep dog. Both drivers assumed ‘CALIF.’ meant Los Angeles, which Otto and I couldn’t understand. Wasn’t this Interstate 80, whose terminus was San Francisco?

Torment ruled our latest spot. We dipped into a hot, dry valley, where the surrounding Rockies faded into a steamy haze. Traffic was thinner than Wyoming—almost zilch on the main artery. The air was soundless. The road stretched out so far that it disappeared before it reached the horizon. Did I mention it was brutally hot? The hairs on my legs prickled. I was glad Salt Lake City wasn’t that far away. We stayed shielded from the sun by an overpass.

“You dopey jerks!” I shouted to a car with an academic-looking couple in the front and an empty seat in back.

“They were too busy contemplatin’ themselves.”

“Despicable, guys, despicable,” I yelled to its successor, two young dullards headed for conservative decades.

In my scavenging I came across an abandoned Styrofoam lid. A message was scribbled in pen: ‘Hitch Hikers Depot, Mike and Noah, Madison Wisconsin-to-Simi Valley California, May 17-18-19.’

I showed Otto. “God, we better not be here three days.”

“We might.”

A comfort bus passed by with a bearded freak driving. “You had room!” I cried.

I stripped down to the legal limit: shorts, shoes, Yankee cap. Otto donned his jungle hat. He eventually stripped down like me.

Minutes multiplied.

“Damn them!” I yelled to an air-conditioned Pontiac. “Why is the public so unwilling? Can’t they see I’m the guy who delivered a baby this morning?”

Otto sat on his rolled-up sleeping bag, not even bothering to answer. He pulled out Steal This Book and narrated ways how to stowaway on an ocean liner. A desirable van came up and zoomed by.

“All I yearn for is a ride to Salt Lake City,” I pleaded to the burning sky. “That’s all I ask.”

For the first time in my hitchhiking career, I sat down, too—except when a car approached. Then I got up. I couldn’t feel good about looking lazy in the face of people on whom you depended. Already I was topless and coated with sweat.

“Those simple-faced bastards! We could’ve fulfilled them! Why didn’t you stop? Tell me! Why? Why?”

Otto was silent and resigned. I jumped around, socking my fist into my palm. “These ignoramuses, Otto. Why do people do the opposite of what they should be doing? What, they need conflict in their lives that bad? I’ve come to the conclusion that people try to avoid their own destiny.”

Otto the Onlooker agreed. “If people ever tried doin’ the right thing, they wouldn’t know what to do. That’s why America can’t pull outta Vietnam. The politicians are afraid peace’ll break out.”

With his sharp eyes, Otto spotted a backpack lying in the weeds on the opposite side of the interstate. It belonged to a guy napping on the hilly field, a hitchhiker going to St. Louis.

“How’s it going?” I yelled over.

“I was asleep,” the guy yelled back.

“How’s it going for you?”

“Not good enough,” Otto yelled.

“You’ll be lucky to get picked up,” he yelled. “I’ve been standing here . . .” His voice trailed off in a gust of wind.

“Did you say two hours?” I yelled.

“No, I didn’t,” he yelled back. “I said ten hours.”

Woe. This three-hour wait for Otto and me was already my all-time record. It was too much—the weight of the sun, the hard pavement, the dead location, the comedown from this morning’s accolades, and the misery of no momentum. “My tan is deep enough, Lord!”

At long last, a beat-up AMC Ambassador Wagon with three guys inside pulled off. They were going to Salt Lake City.

My exhausted body collapsed in the back, despite this potpourri of new oddfellows. Sitting next to Otto and me was a midget, about 3'10" and 85 pounds. He wasn’t a jovial ham like at the Flemington Fair freak show, but a sour faced marionette, unshaven, with flabby jowls and unsociable eyes. The driver was a greaser out of the 1950’s, with sunglasses, Brill cream, and a pack of cigarettes rolled up under the sleeve of his white teeshirt. The passenger—not to be outdone—was a goofy-looking student with a gaping smile, large ears, and an overbite.

I felt better once we ascended the dry valley and got back into some green via the upper elevations. Air blew cooler as we twisted through lush, forest-laden thickets. The evergreens smelled like Christmas. Waterfalls thundered into natural pools below. Broad, rustling aspens painted the slopes. The driver sped down one crevice and up another.

I never figured out the relationship between our carmates. The guy with the large ears, who introduced himself as Phil, was the only one who did any talking. He asked the standard questions: names, hometown, and why we took this trip. I answered him honestly except to say we were from Princeton, New Jersey, instead of Whitehouse.

“Hey man, you’re a Salt Lake denizen,” I threw out. “Do you know any place where my friend and I can bunk for the night without getting caught?”

Phil rolled some thoughts around without speaking. Finally he said, “Are you Christians?”

What? Otto was Catholic and I used to attend a Presbyterian Sunday School, but how could that possibly tie in with the topic of sleeping quarters? I gave him the answer I figured he wanted to hear: “Yes.”

“Well, then I do know a place.” Phil exhaled. “It’s called Fellowship Mission. I’ll sign you up, but you’ll have to go to the Bible study tonight. If you’re Christians, you’ll have a real good time and meet tons of fellow Christians. Everyone is friendly and it’s a good chance to grow in your faith. I go every week.”

“Yeah?” I said.

Otto stuck his tongue in his cheek. Back in Whitehouse, a group called the Christian Coffee House
met at the former Grange Hall every Friday night. This past spring, whenever Otto and I had nothing else to do, we wandered over and took advantage of the free hot dogs and root beer. Born-again Christians were there, to be sure, singing, jamming with instruments, reading scripture, and telling wholesome jokes. But the local freaks—young teenagers who hung out on Main Street and whose names were synonymous with mischief—also frequented the place and gave it some flavor. It was fun except when you had to deal with the chaperon: this squat, round, candy store owner, who was always there walking around, warning you of God’s wrath “if you didn’t take the step and have yourself saved.”

From my exposure to this perspective, I couldn’t help but think: Was salvation through Jesus Christ the best way to God? Hadn’t most of the world’s population been proclaiming that for two thousand years? And by opting in, didn’t people have everything to gain and nothing to lose? After all, if Christianity was no more than a figment of the imagination, a human invention, then we’d rot in the ground after death anyway. But if it was true, if this was the way, the truth, and the life, I sure as holy heck wasn’t planning to spend eternity in hell.

I had declared my allegiance to Jesus Christ back in May, but dismissed doing it at the Coffee House, to avoid becoming “Convertee of the Evening.” Instead I went home one night, behind closed doors, and held a conversation out loud with the Almighty. “God,” I said, “I can’t handle this life without help. I know I’m unworthy, but could Jesus please forgive my sins? I would appreciate it. Thank you.” Done. To appease the fanatic chaperone, I signed and dated a statement attached to a pocket New Testament which had been given to me, “May 8, 1971.” That put it in stone. Roger Winans was a Christian. I actually felt pretty good about it.

In typical fashion, Otto never said whether he was saved or not, but acted like he had special inroads to Christ long before and didn’t need to waste time dwelling on religious matters that he took care of years ago.

“So then we’ll see you there?” Phil asked, handing me the address of the mission.

“Will we?” I turned to Otto. “We ain’t square, we’ll be there.” The vast, gleaming city of Salt Lake cradled the side of a mountain range like a magic valley. Towering shrines, monuments, and government buildings rose bright on the north slope. Commerce and industry conglomerated in the middle—featuring some of the most attractive skyscrapers I’d ever seen. Streaming out in all directions below were the residential areas. Toward the western horizon—the only side not enclosed by mountains—stretched the silvery-blue Great Salt Lake.

“Look out, Salt Lake City, Roger and Otto just hit town,” I shouted from the sidewalk.

There was no tension around anywhere in this city, nothing frantic or crazy. Cleanliness marked the wide, tree-lined boulevards. You could jaywalk without worrying that you’d get struck.

“Haven’t you heard about this place as havin’ nothin’ but Mormons in it?” Otto bit into a meatball sandwich under a polka-dotted umbrella at a takeout stand. “What’s their official name, the Church of Latter- Day Saints? Is this group part of them? Or maybe they’re against them?”

I shrugged my shoulders. “Damn, maybe you and I are in the middle of a spiritual revolution.”

Fellowship Mission’s headquarters was in a turn-of-the-century Victorian house, three stories high, dilapidated, with rusted awnings and a sinking roof. An open-air porch in front was engulfed by monstrous, large-leafed plants. The yard was overgrown with grass and dandelions.

I knocked on the door. Loud sounds were buffered behind it. The door swung round and three cute girls beckoned. “Oh, you must be tonight’s guests of honor! Welcome, guys! Come on in!”

The house was crammed with teens, and I mean about two hundred. They were gabbing in the kitchen, up the stairwell, in doorways, along window sills. A vivacious brunette explained that Fellowship Mission was a nondenominational Protestant group run by a cooperative body called Interfaith Connection, not connected with the Mormons, “though we co-exist just fine.”

Before long, bunches of people packed around me, asking, “How’s your trip been?” “How’d you hear about us?” “What do you think of Salt Lake?” “What kind of people picked you up?” Otto was encircled on the far side of the room, essentially doing the same thing. Our clothes were rags compared to these kids’ neat attire. Almost no one wore dungarees. I looked around for Phil, to thank him, but never saw him again.

“Folks, are we ready?” A booming voice rose above the salutations. “Terry, pass out the hymnals. Everyone come into the living room and bring your Bibles. Have a seat, if you can find one. We want the Lord to feel our presence tonight. We want to let God know we’re around!”

The throng jammed into the living room. Bodies were stacked. Otto inched over toward me and we sat cross-legged on the carpet.

What pretty girls! If Connie Francis sang “Where The Boys Are,” in 1961, then I devised my own updated version, “Salt Lake Is Where Cute Girls Are.”

The guy doing the shouting was named Mr. Singleton. He was tall with a disproportionate small head, and whose stomach was coming out of his shirt. “It looks like we got a real good bunch of faith seekers on hand tonight.”

Mr. Singleton led us in song for what seemed like an hour, “to get warmed up for the Lord.” The arrangements were jaunty—sharp melodies like rock, but communicating their point just as well or even better than church hymns. One of the few black people, a girl with tight braids, banged on the piano as we sang. The sheer number of people jammed inside the small space made the sound thick and amplified; we sounded good. Otto publicly sang, too—a rare occurrence. Between songs, people shouted, “Praise the Lord Jesus!” or swayed their hands in the air.

Strange stirrings rumbled inside me. A physical and emotional swelling.

“Hoon?” Mr. Singleton got up with a film of sweat on his face. He introduced the guest speaker, somebody from South Korea. “Where are you hiding, Hoon?”

This short, skinny Oriental guy, with steel-rimmed glasses and a seaweed-colored leisure suit, emerged from the masses. “Hello Salt Lake City, how is gentile population?” He was a traveling evangelist who bid us in broken English not to address him by his given name. “Foreign name twist tongue. Just call me Hoon. Make me easy.” He joked about his poor singing. “Good thing my work outside native country. Korean minister without sing is shameful.”

It’s amazing how Christians will dig up somebody like this. I remembered how the candy store owner at the coffee house in Whitehouse once had an ex-con up there talking about the joys of repentance.
Hoon asked everyone open their Bibles to Romans 12:9; “Let love be genuine. Hate what is evil, rejoice in hope, be patient in suffering, persevere in prayer.”

“Many people pray, but pray for wrong thing. We ask selfish. Instead give thanks. Show grateful,” Hoon said. “We are children of God, not other way. We are creation of God, but have fallen short of glory. None of this world is ours, except Jesus Christ died on cross for sins. He made good bridge.”

Hoon quoted Romans, Timothy, Matthew, Exodus, Proverbs— half the Bible. The way he elaborated big ideas in simple, chopped-up terms had me erupting. It reinforced that faith wasn’t a game. It wasn’t something you could add on when you wanted, nor detach when convenient. It was a commitment whose prospects had me spellbound.

“Be saved. Spend eternity with Lord. Do not get left behind. No one want to go to hell, right? Jesus is answer. He will solve problems. He will protect from harm. He will stop hardship. He will deal frustration. All you need—make Jesus personal savior. Ask Jesus to forgive sins. Be humble. Be servant. Future assured. Day is coming when Lord comes again. Jesus will sit on throne, at right hand of God, and make judgment. Yes, good times can be yours, all eternal. But name must be in Book of Life.”

“My name’s written in the book,” I whispered to Otto. “Roger Jonathan Winans, Whitehouse, New Jersey.”

Otto seemed startled. “It is? When did you do that?”

Everybody in that room was ready to cry out for Jesus. The Holy Spirit trumpeted victory. You could feel it soaring and roaring.

I began to realize something. The way I had been living was so much less than my potential. I lived without morals, without ethical boundaries, without a spiritual center. Hoon was legitimate. I could see vital reasons for my being present.

Hoon asked us to pray. The group broke into more songs. Mr. Singleton laboriously rose from his position. Slightly out of breath, he said, “Has anyone come to this Bible study tonight a lost soul, and needs help from Christians who love you in accepting Jesus?”

No one responded. Not me. I was golden, via my signed proclamation two months earlier. I knew right where that statement was, safe at home in the top drawer of my clothes dresser.

Otto, though, was trembling. He was deep in prayer, head bowed and eyes closed.

“There’s nothing to be ashamed about. Being born again is the best thing that could ever happen to a person,” Mr. Singleton said. “I’d hate to see someone leave here in the same shape they came in. I want everyone to close their eyes, so the ones in the room who want to be saved can come forward and not be embarrassed.”

After a moment of silence, I heard, “Praise God! Here comes a gentleman now!” I opened my eyes and peeked. Otto!

“Son, what is your name?”

“Otto Brackston George, Junior, sir.”

“Brother Otto,” Mr. Singleton addressed, “do you accept Jesus Christ as your personal savior and ask that your sins be forgiven?”

“I do.”

“Will you love Jesus and let Him direct your life and allow Him to live within you and to work in your life as He sees fit, and for you to conduct yourself as a Christian and to uphold the Word of God?”

“I do.”

“Brother Otto, if you should die this instant, do you know where you would go?”

“Up to heaven?”

You don’t have to guess about that one, son. You’re absolutely right! Open your eyes, everyone. Meet God’s newest humble servant. Brother Otto, congratulations. You’ll never regret your decision.”

Wild applause rocked the room. The vibrating walls and chandeliers gave me goose bumps. Mr. Singleton shook Otto’s hand. Others rose with similar congratulations. Poor Otto was flushed. The way people pulled and tugged at him, saying, “Way to go, Brother Otto,” patting him on the back and shoulders, they nearly knocked my good friend over.

Everyone rose, mingling and hugging each other like after a wrestling match. I remained on the floor, tingles splashing up and down my spine. It was like I was watching the credits roll of an inspirational movie. Otto was backed into a corner, blabbing to a cute female worshipper, “If I wasn’t no good Christian before tonight, I am now.”

A lump rose to my throat for Otto. Glory be to all the times we shared together, still unfolding. If he wasn’t my best friend, who was? He was my compatriot, my pal, my mentor. All the passion of friendship I could ever devote to someone of the same sex was directed toward humble servant Otto Brackston George, Jr.

I was elevated by so much power and emotion, swept so deeply into a joyful state, I didn’t realize how quickly the room emptied. It was like emerging from a vivid dream. I helped move chairs back in place. The change in complexion was startling.

A guy pointed at me. “You’re one of them hitchhikers, right? You’ll be up on the third floor with us guys. Get your stuff, I’ll show you where it is.”

The large attic room contained eight or ten iron beds, supplemented by beat-up dressers. All of the beds were filled, mostly by Christians who were in their underpants reading the Bible from the light of their pinup lamps. I wondered . . . did any of them ever sneak down to the girls’ room on the second floor and—whoops, I checked myself—that wasn’t a very Christian thought. I unrolled my sleeping bag on a vacant hunk of floor down the broad middle aisle.

Otto came bounding through the lavatory with his hand formed into a microphone. “The Lawd is comin.’ The Lawd is comin.’”

“Congratulations, George.” I reached up and we shook.

There sure were a lot of responsibilities in being a Christian. Too many, almost. Right away I felt bogged down by questions, starting with: What is the definition of a sin? Were “virtuous” and “righteousness” synonymous? What if you didn’t believe every word of the Bible was the literal truth? Who was the historical Jesus? Where is heaven, exactly? How would a scientist explain the infinite layers of intelligence known as God?

My lying and stealing would have to stop. That was wrong. Abbie Hoffman’s book might not be the best influence. I would have to stop badmouting my parents and try to muster love and understanding toward them even if I didn’t feel like it. I would stop playing the rebel or the maverick, which my father always called “bull-headed;” and my mother, “obstinate.”

Then the really major questions hit me. What if you favored premarital intercourse? How do you prevent sexual fantasies from coming into your head? How were you supposed to control yourself over any topic you felt strongly about? And what’s the point of blocking out natural instincts? Weren’t those “God given,” too?

Otto tucked himself in on the floor next to me, in a radiant mood—I made believe I was asleep. For better or worse, this was a whole new world, to be lived by no one except me. Christianity sure made you feel lonely. I felt awash in solitude.

The last light in the room went off. For the first time in my life I changed the wording of my nightly prayer:

“Dear God, I accept you and love you. I acknowledge your power in the universe. Thank you for bringing Jesus into my life. I’ll be depending on you from now on. Okay? Don’t let me down, Lord. Please! Keep my feet moving in the direction of the good. That way I won’t have anything to complain about. Amen.”

I reached down under the blanket and flogged my log. To climax. I made no excuses for what I was doing. If I was going to be a Christian, I was going to be a freethinking one.