Day Three (Tuesday, June 29, 1971)

By mid-morning Otto and I were treated to breakfast by Francis and family, washed up in their bathroom, and were back on the road. Led by maps, we took local highways to I-65 north, with connections in Gary, Indiana, for I-80 west. I got caught up with my diary while sitting on a metal railing. Otto pulled out the pack of pre-stamped postcards that his step-mom gave him to send, one-per-day.

“She’ll never be able to track me down using this system.” He cheerfully scribbled one out.
I sang a song appropriate for our location, “Indiana Wants Me,” by R. Dean Taylor. In the open air, you could belt it loud. I donned the roadside stage with a Coke bottle microphone and performed all of side two of The Rascals’ Greatest Hits. Otto practiced his vampire laugh, a high-pitched falsetto squeal which always struck me with a sense of horror, as if something (to his audience only) was hysterically funny.

A state cop blew us down via an overhead speaker. “Get off the interstate! Restrict your thumbing to the entrance ramp! Or get a ticket! Move it! Now!”

A wavy-haired, female hippie pulled over in a VW van. She wore a crushed red leather vest and necklaces of seashells, and no shirt underneath. She was an unmarried mother with a two year-old child in the front seat.

“Thanks for showing us some trust,” I told her. “You didn’t even look us over.”

“Well, I figure hitchhiking is more art than science. So I thought I’d give it a whirl. Say hello to my son, Nate.”

She asked a lot of questions, which had Otto whispering for me to watch out—she might be an undercover detective looking for runaways. “You left from New Jersey last Sunday? Your parents didn’t even give you the first ride? What if you can’t make it the whole way to California?”

It all made sense during the last mile when she asked, “How’d you like a place in Chicago to stay for the night?” She took out a piece of paper and wrote: Chip Bolshakov, 117 Waveland, #3.

“That’s my boyfriend, Chip. Just go to his apartment. I guarantee he’ll let you crash for the night. It’s not hard to find. Tell him Judy sent you. He’ll laugh when he hears it was me, but I know he’ll put you up. He’s the nicest, most sincere guy I know. Just go up and knock on his door.”

No matter how valuable that ride was, it was overshadowed a few rides later, when a big black man with massive hands picked us up in a Cadillac near a construction site. He was as big as a soda machine, had oily skin, a thin mustache, and Asian ambience. He could have passed for Odd Job from the James Bond movie, Goldfinger.

The very first thing he said to us—even before hello, “Do you guys want a hamburger?”

He opened a Mr. Quik bag and pulled out a burger apiece for us, then one for himself. He lifted out a couple of sodas. “Here, you might as well have these, too.”

Great. I was ready for a snack. On top of that, he was going into the heart of Chicago.

I was so glad that somebody of a different race, particularly a black male, wanted to be part of our new social order. Just like the fine print says, “We take on all comers without regard to race, creed, color, religion, national origin, age, gender, orientation, or disability.” It would be people like him, like Otto, like Judy, even Tom Pavallow—melding together to make the world anew. We needed it. Together, we could improve not only the image of hitchhiking in the United Sates, but its cultural milieu. Humanize the landscape. I always struggled to understand why foreigners hated America. Sure, the Vietnam War was still raging and we had a jerk in President Nixon, but what did I witness in the trenches and byways of everyday life? Friendly and generous people. Kind, intelligent, resourceful people. Hitchhiking itself was severely misunderstood. All the warnings that it was dangerous were bogus. I silently said “right on” to the big black man. In his unique, individual way, he was contributing to make our society better.

We traversed over flat, broad farmland. I studied signs and billboards avidly, kind of awed that the English language extended out so far. We laughed at how most New Jersians figured Chicago was halfway across the country. For the record, it’s one-third across.

We got dropped off on the south side of Chicago, in an urban neighborhood across from a blighted row of stores, tenement buildings, and vacant lots. It was noisy and littered. The air smelled of fruit. I was confident we could maneuver in a strange city. I was also confident Judy’s suggestion was reliable.

“So this is Mayor Richard Daley’s city?” Otto saluted in all directions. “Hello Chicagoland.”

I yelled out, “It’s not as big a place as you think, people! Try New York sometime.”

A score of people steered us uptown near Wrigley Field after we showed them our address. I never did find out what “the Loop” was. We had to take a “loop” subway to get to Waveland Street.

Chip’s apartment was on the third floor of a five-story walkup. The buildings on this quiet residential street were older but well-maintained with large windows. Trees were full without blocking views.
A nonchalant, bearded type opened the door, yawning and scratching his belly, wearing wrinkled clothes.

“Chip Bolshakov?” I said. “Your girlfriend sent us. She picked us up hitchhiking. She said you’d let us crash for the night.”

Chip seemed puzzled to have two teenagers adorned in full travel attire standing before him. For a moment I feared disaster. “Yeah, I’m Chip.” A smile broke across his stubbles. “Don’t let me bother you. Come in. By all means, you can stay for the night. I was just wondering which girlfriend.”

Chip gave us a tour of his apartment, which was filled with beat-up furniture, plants, and a great sounding stereo in his living room. His windows faced the street. He brought us into one room devoid of all objects except for a shiny oakwood floor and deep purple walls.

“Here’s your bunkhouse. Anchor down, guys.”

I liked Chip’s come-what-may approach. He said we were courageous for undertaking such an ambitious trip while still in high school. “Who says nothing is impossible?” he asked. “I’ve been doing nothing for years.” I was envious that he was thriving in a city on his own. He winked when he said, “I’m keeping busy being single.” He had never been to New York, but said Chicago was big enough for him. I had been waiting all day to hear a song by the rock group Chicago, in honor of our arrival in the city. Finally, the disc jockey on a free-form FM station played an excellent two-fer, the new jazz song by The Rascals, “Nama,” followed by the live version of “Questions 67 and 68,” over Chip’s giant speakers.

“So, you’re on the loose in Chicago for the night, huh? What are you going to do?”

He said nothing about the closet in the living room whose shelves were stocked with alcohol. Nor did he say anything when Otto sniffed a marijuana pipe resting in the ashtray on his coffee table.

“I’ll tell you the good spots for two seventeen year-olds,” he said.

We took the subway back downtown, which wasn’t called a subway or the loop, but “the El.” We found Grant Park and walked along Lake Michigan’s sand beach. We watched the nightly light show at Buckingham Fountain. There were all sorts of people out—not just tourists with cameras, but students, office workers, and freaks.

We plopped down on a bench near a bicycle path, getting a good view of the skyline, when kazoos sounded our way. “Hey hey / Ho ho / Nixon’s war has got to go!”

A parade of protesters, several dozen of them, came marching by. They were carrying signs, “Out of Vietnam,” “Down With Mind Control,” and “Tank the System.” As they passed by, some guy gestured, “Join us.”

We hopped up and tagged along at the rear, clapping and chanting. I never contemplated Vietnam much, but when you came right down to it, what were we doing over there anyway? Public opinion was firmly against it. I knew Otto and his girlfriend, Laurie, were against it.

“What do we want?”

“Peace!”

“When do we want it?”

“Now!”

We advanced to South Michigan Avenue when . . . look out, jack! A line of cops were waiting behind a clump of trees, and charged us. They had shields and billy clubs. Some were on horses.

There was an instant scuffle. The militants bumped and kicked; the cops pushed and shoved. Everyone was yelling and grunting. Before we got crushed, we dispersed. Fast. We scooted down several side blocks in a wild, erratic pattern (on purpose, not to be tailed), hoofing at full sprint.

We shored up at a Basking Robbins ice cream parlor in a whole different neighborhood.

“We ain’t fool enough to tangle with no cops.” Otto was still panting, ice cream melting in front of him.

“We could have gotten our cans arrested and thrown in jail.”

“Next time we stop, look, and listen.”

“Those guys wanted to lay down in the street.”

“They weren’t merrymakin’, sons.”

“I get your gist.”

Still buzzing, we took “the El” back to Addison. We walked around the perimeter of Wrigley Field as a calming gesture, checking out girls and couples at open-air restaurants. I kept an eye out for first baseman Joe Pepitone, former Yankee and one of my favorite players, who had been traded to the Cubs this year.

“Joe loves the nightlife, and so do I. Cheers, Otto. We’re free and we know we made it at least as far as Chicago.”