Tripping Businessman, & Flagstaff Flatfoot.
Veering off from "SECRETS" (after #10/27)––my stories about hitchhiking across the country and back (1968) to work out my first marriage. Excerpts from memoir <https://www.amazon.com/dp/B0777FHXX2>.
Hitchhiking stories from “TWELVE DEAD FROGS AND OTHER STORIES” by Rick Schmidt (©2017).
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TRIPPING BUSINESSMAN (May, 1968)
So, like in the movie “Groundhog Day,” I repeated my hitchhiking trip exactly, leaving again from the same Ashby freeway entrance, heading the same direction (toward Mojave and beyond). But this time I was determined to discover the real truth. No tricks of the mind. No falsified thoughts. And I would be traveling alone, without a friend like Dickie, who could help me keep my identity in check.
The first ride I scored out of Berkeley, at the beginning of my second hitchhike trip in less than two days, was with a businessman in a Chevy Impala. He looked very straight, dressed in a white shirt that was heavily starched and pressed, gold- rimmed glasses, a brown briefcase by his side, the back seat filled with samples of some kind. And he seemed rattled in some way, looking forward out the window at traffic, then looking over at me in my pea coat, beard, shades. Finally the words bubbled up in his mind and came out his mouth.
“Why are you...you all doing this?," he asked. I remember thinking, How can I answer that question? He wanted me to be some kind of spokesman for my entire generation. I had been given a ride so that I could fill him in on the entire youth movement? The song from Bob Dylan, came to mind, about how, “something is happening here, but you don’t know what it is, do you Mr. Jones?” I was in the car with Mr. Jones! I said that I didn’t know what other people were hitting the road for, but that I was trying to sort out my life, mainly figure out if I should stay married or not. He mentioned something like, why didn’t I seek out a church or counselor or therapist instead of looking like a hippie, taking drugs or whatever, hitchhiking. I told him that I had absolutely no interest in any of that, that I wanted to rely on myself, not a bunch of half-baked religions or therapists who acted more confused than I was.
I related the story of going with my wife to a therapist for our daughter (from her first marriage), and finally telling the man at the third or fourth session that I thought he was more screwed up than our daughter, who simply had learning problems. He broke down crying in front of us, admitting as much. So much for professional therapy .
The businessman gave me about a forty-mile ride, dropping me just the other side of Livermore Lab, where all those secret scientific military experiments take place (I could imagine laser beam weapons for future “star” wars). Watching him speed away from the side of the freeway I wondered where he was really heading. While waiting for my next ride I enjoyed fantasizing about how the guy might pass up his next regular haircut, let his hair grow out to the consternation of his wife and boss. It certainly could have happened. He seemed like a good candidate for dropping out.
Whenever the driver of the car or truck I rode in heard me explain what I was doing, that I was hitting the road to “work out my marriage,” they almost always inevitably opened up, turning the conversation back to their real life and their own difficulties. I didn’t realize at the beginning of my trip that I had signed on for an eight-day, 6000-mile cross-country group therapy on wheels, that I would be sharing emotional secrets with strangers all the way to Providence, Rhode Island and back.
FLAGSTAFF FLATFOOT
After a series of good long rides, out past the California cities, past Mojave where I had suffered through that sand storm, rolling through the desert overnight, I arrived early on a Sunday morning in Flagstaff, Arizona, dropped off at the edge of town by a truck driver who was heading south from there. So I started walking east toward some tall buildings I could see in the distance, assuming those skyscrapers represented the center of town. The temperature was chilly but I didn’t mind, because I had a warm coat and I knew that I was lucky to be cold instead of broiling in a typical Arizona summer. Whenever I saw a car or other motor vehicle I stuck out my thumb, but no one seemed inclined to stop. While I hiked along I noticed a couple of police cars cruising by, first from ahead, then passing me from behind, slinking along like a couple of hungry sharks just waiting for the right moment to strike.
After about half an hour of walking, I unbuttoned my coat to let some air circulate. The temperature was quickly rising, already having edged into the warm zone. The tall buildings still seemed quite far off in the far distance, floating up ahead as part of a mirage. Suddenly a passing police car pulled a U-turn and accelerated right up to where I was walking, jerking to a halt at the curb next to me. It was probably already about 9:30AM, but we were still the only people in sight, either up or down the street. Everyone else must have been asleep or in church.
I heard the squawking of his car radio, then watched as the officer got out of his patrol car and sauntered over to where I was standing at curbside. By his dark complexion and facial features I figured he was Native American or Hispanic, and from the look on his face it was obvious that he was out for blood. After he spent a few drawn-out seconds eyeing me from top to bottom, he said he would have to search all my luggage.
He ordered me to open everything up. So for the next few minutes I complied, unrolling my sleeping bag right on the sidewalk, showing him the insides (he patted it down himself feeling around for drugs or whatever), unpacking my suitcase and letting him examine the various items it contained. Then he did a thorough frisking of my person, patting down my legs, checking pockets, taking a thorough look at everything I carried.
Finally, satisfied that I was clean...had no illegal contraband, he told me that it was illegal to hitchhike. He said that if he saw me make even so much as one little gesture with my thumb or head to a passing car, he would haul me to jail. And he added that if I ended up there I wouldn’t like it one bit. I was told to keep walking straight through town, in the same direction I was headed, instructed not to look anywhere but forward, and not to stop for any reason. As soon as I passed under a gray overpass at the outskirts of town, he explained, I could resume hitchhiking. With that he got back in his car and drove off.
By now , sometime around 10:30AM, it was getting hot. I shed my coat, opened up my shirt and started going.. During the next four hours I was constantly monitored by passing patrol cars. Avoiding eye contact, I couldn’t tell if it was the same policeman who had hassled me, or some of his buddies. All I knew was I was walking into an oven (the temperature was climbing into the 90s), and my suitcase seemed to be gaining weight by the minute. After about five hours of hiking, I reached the designated overpass.
Exhausted, I put down my stuff and tried to rub the life back into my suitcase-carrying hand. Some patrol car eased over to the roadside about two hundred feet away and just sat there, as if stalking prey. I hoped I had made it to the correct overpass and not some other one that would get me in big trouble. I was still scared that these tough Arizona cops weren’t quite done with me. If you’ve seen the movie Rambo, where small town cops arrest the long-haired Sylvester Stallone character, hassle him until he becomes as crazy and mean as they are, you’ll know the kind of mentality I was dealing with.
Finally , the patrolman floored it, wheels spinning recklessly, churning up a dust storm before the sedan caught the edge of the pavement, then burning rubber as it jolted back toward Flagstaff, its image reflecting off the hot asphalt. I can’t remember what kind of vehicle finally picked me up there, rescued me out of that hellhole, but I felt very fortunate to leave that town that afternoon.