RED CONVERTIBLE, DEAD MEAT.
Hitching back to Berkeley/1968/3K miles to go. Got a $ gift, and rubbed shoulders with a highway patrolman, middle of night, who used me as his confessor. Almost typical stuff when on-the-road!
RED CONVERTIBLE
I hitched a ride out of Providence, and started working my way west. At some point I was picked up by a sporty-looking guy in a flaming-red Chevy convertible. Wearing a brightly-flowered Hawaiian shirt, he seemed very cheerful and eager to chat. It didn’t take long for his questions to draw me out, to my explaining the ’why’ of my journey. He got quite serious when he heard about my strife, telling me a little later that he was a Navy chaplain. At the point when we parted, he crammed a bill into my hand during our farewell handshake. I explained that that wasn’t necessary, that I had money, but he got just as adamant, insisting that I keep the extra money. He won, and drove away with a wave and a smile.
When I un-crinkled the paper I was shocked to discover that he had given me a ten spot which, added to the cash I had left, brought me back up to $17 out of my original $20. It felt wonderful to get that kind of positive validation from a total stranger. The thought of that unexpected gift warmed my heart, made me feel like I wasn’t completely alone.
DEAD MEAT
After another 24 hours of hitching, catching naps in cars and waiting for rides, I ended up at a truck stop near St. Louis around 1:00 AM in the morning. Because of the extreme cold I could only stand out at the road and hitchhike for about a half-hour at a stretch, returning to the warmth and comfort of the glassed-in gas station office whenever it got unbearable. Fortunately the attendants weren’t put off by my repeated comings and goings. There was also a restaurant in the truck stop across the street, where I managed to part with $.75 for a plate of two eggs, hashbrowns, toast and coffee. It was a strange experience returning to the cold outside, standing in the total darkness, waiting for a chance to stick out my thumb for some as yet unseen vehicle. Finally, a far-off headlight beam would appear as a speck of light in the distance, then slowly approach, the light beam widening, finally tires screeching by me at seventy or eighty miles per hour within just a few feet of where I was standing. I would play a mental game of ‘chicken,’ imagining that there was no highway (this wasn’t so hard since I couldn’t even see the ground until the headlights illuminated it), no distinct markings, hardly a yellow line. When the cars or trucks passed at deadly speed it was just a fluke that they missed striking me down. How long could my luck hold out?
It must have been around 2:00 AM when a Buick Riviera sped passed me and then slammed on the brakes. As the car backed up I wondered what whacko would pick up a stranger in the dark at this time of night. But as the big wide door of the large coupe swung open, revealing the friendly face of a college kid, Jefferson Airplane music at high volume, warmth blowing from the heater, I thanked him and settled into the plush seats. Another lesson in life. One second you’re freezing your butt off in the dark, stranded, standing alone, the next you’re warm, in friendly company, hearing ethereal music, and speeding toward your goal.
A few hours later, I was dropped off in the dark again, where the college guy had to turned north toward campus. I thought I was alone out there, at the single-lane crossroads somewhere in rural Kansas, but soon found that wasn’t the case. The Buick was barely out of sight before I was suddenly jolted out of my hitchhiking stupor with an unexpected beam of light coming from somewhere nearby. I had to shield my eyes against the illumination to make out the source – a highway patrol cruiser – and see a hand signaling me to come over. Oh my god, I thought, my gut tightening, now what? It was probably 3:30AM, no moon, and cold as hell. Reaching the patrol car, I was ordered by the officer to get into the front seat, around the other side, and I did. At least it was blissfully warm inside. The patrolman looked me over (beard, mustache, 24-year old ruddy face) and started asking me a lot of questions: “Where do you live? What are you doing here? Are you in the military? In college?”
When I told him I was in college he sneered, saying he had caught me in a lie...that it was too early for college to be let out. But I explained that my school, The California College of Arts and Crafts, Oakland, California, ended earlier than others – May 11th to be exact. He seemed satisfied with my answer.
After answering a few more questions, I explained that I had hit the road to try and figure out my marriage. It was then that he totally changed his authoritative stance, revealing a softer human side not usually revealed by people in his line of work. He offered advice on the subject, saying that I should ‘stay married at all costs.’ How would I like it to have another man being called “Daddy” by my own kids.” He revealed that he was divorced and that his life had been a living hell ever since. He added that it was no fun giving money to a woman you hardly knew or remembered anymore, more than half of everything you earned.
“Your life is gone,” he emphasized. “You will never have any money again.
And your kids will hardly know you.”
About twenty-five minutes into our discussion, he received a call over the police band radio. There had been a bad wreck a couple of miles up the highway. After jotting down the location he signed off and told me in a melancholy tone he had to get going. As I was getting out he mumbled, mainly to himself, “One second you’re a person, the next a dead piece of meat.” With a roar and skidding tires his car accelerated up onto the asphalt and rejoined the other dots of distant lights and blackness.
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NOTE: Some may ask why I was carrying a normal suitcase instead of a backpack or duffle bag on my hitchhike trip. The answer is that contents were shined shoes, dress socks, a tie/tie clasp, pressed slacks and belt, an ironed white shirt, a dress suit jacket, a T-shirt & couple pairs of underwear. I figured that if I was arrested (as hippies often were, passing through mid-America in the late 60s), I’d have proper attire to appear before a judge. In the above case, with the self introspective highway patrolman, I got lucky. The previous cop in Flagstaff came closer, for me needing its potential usage.