Day Two (Monday, June 28, 1971)

I rested but never fell asleep, due to the ceaseless engine grunt, diesel scent, and uneven tug and pull. Tom told Otto about the time Tom’s brother caught him in bed with his brother’s wife, and how his brother came after him with an ice pick.

I was dazed and confused as daylight leaked into the compartment. I climbed back out to the bench seat. Tom was gobbling away, briefing Otto on the ways truckers communicate to each other using beeps and lights.

Miles passed. My world was pretty much contained to the interior of Tom’s cab. Beyond the windshield seemed like a movie. Otto was holding up admirably. We were already in Indiana (state thirteen). We arrived into the outskirts of Indianapolis via the broken concrete of the old highway. Rumbling past older stores and shopping centers, Tom craned his head at each corner, looking for a phone booth. He rumbled into the parking area of a dry cleaning store, idling the rig across every slot the place had available. What news would Tom bring this time? We laughed at the elderly clerk peering out the window. She had a fit.

“Well boys, it looks like we’re at the end of the line,” Tom announced upon his return. “I’m pickin’ up my pappy down here to the county garage, and there ain’t gonna be no room for youse. He’s a big whore, with a temper like a billy goat.”

He let us off at I-465, the interstate bypass around Indianapolis, which was fully complete according to my map. We thanked him, collected our gear, and Tom chugged out of sight. The venture was in the past before I had a chance to realize I had been living it.

“What’s with these truck drivers anyway?” I said to Otto from a lazy field of yellow grass, swigging water from our canteens. “Always changing plans!”

“Haven’t I told you before, sons? Never count on bein’ somewhere until you’re there. Especially with thumbin’. The in’s and out’s of this trip are gonna torch your last nerve if you let it. I can see that already.”

“I thought we snagged us a big one.”

“Don’t be so hard on yourself. It’s a nice day.” Otto stretched out in the high grass. He was 6'3", 130 pounds, a hopeful for this year’s varsity basketball team.

“Don’t you think he was purposely trying to get rid of us with that line about his pappy?”

“Naw, he was too dumb to be a liar.” Otto slipped a blade of hay between his teeth.

“Why would anyone want to be picked up by their son in a rig?”

Otto shrugged his shoulders. “That’s probably the family car.”

Less imposing vehicles bending northward in a never-ending curve whizzed across flat, open fields. Clouds were light, high, and puffy. The air was still. We joked about our ride as if we had just filmed a documentary, “Tom Pavallow and His Semi-World of Tractor Trailers.”

An old guy with a prosthetic device picked us up. He had only one leg. He was going to a small town on the west side of Indianapolis, named Plainfield.

“You’re looking for America? It’s right here,” he said, driving along a boulevard decked out in patriotic banners of baldheaded eagles. “We win all the awards for civic pride and federal allegiance.” We decided to explore the place ourselves. Spend an easy day resting and soaking up atmosphere. Take the day off. Tomorrow we’d go back to work; that is, get up toward Chicago and onto our preplanned route, I-80.

“No sense in rushing to California,” I reasoned. “With thirty-nine days left, it almost seems like we’ve come too far.”

The name Plainfield caught my ear because I lived the first ten years of my life in Plainfield, New Jersey. I liked geography and knew this Plainfield wouldn’t be a thing like the burned-out, old money, divisive Queen City from my childhood. But then I had to keep in mind that neither were all towns suburbs of New York.

There was no way you could spend a hectic day in this Plainfield. All businesses closed at five o’clock. The main excitement was a weekly farm auction. Pedestrians waited for green lights. The radio gave hog and cattle prices. There were lots of shade elms and fertile fields. Was this what they called the Midwest? Whoever was responsible for naming it had to be mistaken. From what I could tell, we were still in the eastern time zone.

A grammar school principal kicked us off the front lawn of his school for sitting in the sprinkler system. I tried saying we were visitors from Indianapolis, but it didn’t work.

We split a Plainfield, Indiana, pizza for dinner. It was terrible, ranking among the worst pies I’d ever tasted: thin, flaky crust, bland sauce, skimpy portion of mozzarella. I had been suspicious all along because the name of the pizzeria was “Larry’s Spot,” and Larry was blond and bland. Our taste buds were acclimated to the chewy, spicy, cheesy pies of Dominick’s Pizzeria in Whitehouse, where we were loyal patrons for years.

“That’s the best we can do. Sorry if you don’t like it,” Larry said sheepishly when I complained. “There’s no Italians in Plainfield.”

Hummel Park was a recreational haven on the edge of the woods. Its old fashioned gazebo, open-air pavilions and band shell, and clean, unsullied walkways conjured up visions of the movie Pollyanna.

We attended a co-ed softball game. We got to talking with the girl sitting next to us on the grass. Her name was Paula, a free-spirit whose eagerness to play was curbed by a sprained wrist. She was interested in hearing all about our adventures. Before we knew it, Paula offered to have us camp in the back yard of her family’s house for the night.

“My father won’t mind,” she said, round eyes jumping and maroon hair jelling to her lipstick. “He used to be a hitchhiker himself. He likes to tell everyone how meaningful it was.”

Sure enough, once we met Paula’s dad, Francis, we knew there’d be no problem lodging in the back yard. He looked younger than his age, but with lines on his face and keen eyes. Paula was engrossed herself as Francis described how he used to hitchhike back and forth from Brownsville, Texas, while he was in the army. He worked on the side as a stunt pilot. “I had a ballyhoo of a time, boys. All of life is in front of you, so reach out and grab it while you can.”

“We hitchhike even when we’re not together,” Otto offered. “I hitchhiked to my father’s office in New Brunswick last week.”

“And I hiked seventy miles to White Plains, New York, to see a concert,” I said. “That was tricky. I had to cross the Tappan Zee Bridge around midnight. But I got home not much later than if I had driven.”

“Now you’re out on national tour. That’s great. Welcome. You guys are heroes,” Francis said.

After awhile, a younger daughter, Theresa, came out and joined our ring. Her wire was just as alive as the others, with a sweet, devilish smile to boot. I was having a great time, but then Francis really did us a favor. Saying, “I’m sure the younger generation has things to talk about that the old man wouldn’t be interested in,” he supplied everyone with lemonade, asked if we needed anything else, and then disappeared into the house.

Whoever thought a meeting between us four would take place on this starry, starry night! In tribute to Francis, I vowed to taste all the life I could while I was able. His daughters were educated and playful. We bandied over some discrepancies in language that already started seeping up, like ‘sneakers’ vs. ‘tennis shoes;’ ‘wallet’ vs. ‘billfold;’ ‘dungarees’ vs. ‘jeans,’ and ‘soda’ vs. ‘pop.’

“Why did I start to hitchhike in the first place?” Otto laughed, fluffing out his long blond hair. “Hmm, lemme see.”

“. . . Fighting the mentality of ‘gas, grass, or ass,’ ” I said.

“. . . I guess ’cause free is me.”

“. . . ’Cause it’s better to stay inside of a dream than out.”

“. . . ’Cause less is best,” Otto said. “Gluttony don’t cut it.”

Paula burst out, “You guys are so alike!”

“We’re body, mind, and soul manifest,” I said, nudging up to Paula’s straightforward energy.

“We’re enlightened spirits one and two,” Otto said, making inroads with innocent, daring Theresa.

“You’re best friends,” Paula said.

“Twin brothers of different mothers,” Theresa said.

“I’m his guru,” Otto said.

“And I’m his swami,” I said.

Before we knew it, the four of us were making out! Theresa and Otto. Paula and myself. Heaven touched earth; angels fluttered when I placed my pucker on warm, willing, moist lips. Otto sweetly caressed Theresa’s hair and neck.

The girls showed no signs of wanting to leave. That is, not until their mother yelled to them from an upstairs window, “Now you girls get on to bed!” They scampered into the house.

Alone in our sleeping bags, under heavenly constellations, I asked my philosophical friend a few questions pertaining to the matter at hand.

“Hey Otto? How could Francis be such a nice guy and the old lady be a witch? Francis wanted to lend us his daughters.”

“Did you have a good time?”

“Best of the best. Paula’s kisses were wanting.”

“That’s the reason,” Otto sighed. “So were Theresa’s. The old lady was afraid we were gonna sign ’em up.”