Part II: Desert Poker and Knee-deep in Porn

 Solely for my own benefit, I am recounting here my 1982 hitchhiking trek from CA to the Bread Loaf Writers' Workshop in Middlebury, VT. This is Part II.

There's a spot in the middle of Nevada where several smaller highways intersect the interstate, and there I found a group of hitchhikers patiently waiting their turn for an eastbound ride. One fellow stood thumbing a ride on the shoulder while four more played poker in the dust. The gamblers were the next four in line to hitchhike, as I found out from others who sat in the desert heat waiting for their opportunity to lose money while waiting for their opportunity to proceed eastward. Those were the rules.

 (The fellow on the left is cheating.)

I sat in the dirt anticipating a Reno-like eight-hour stretch here when a car pulled over and picked up the designated hitchhiker, quickly replaced by a card player, and the longest-tenured guy in “the bullpen” moved into the game. Soon the whole process repeated itself until I found myself next in line for a card game I wanted no part of. My funds were limited, as were my poker skills.

The game seemed to be heating up as an RV pulled over—the one guy running to jump in—followed by another car that also pulled onto the shoulder. The pot seemed to have grown too big for any of the participants to risk leaving, so I ran to the waiting vehicle.

Tossing my pack in, I jumped in and found my own knees in my face—the floor of the backseat full of nudie magazines. I thanked the two guys in the front for stopping while shifting magazines till my feet found their way to the floor. They asked where I was going.

“First Minneapolis,” I said. “Ultimately Vermont.”

“You're in luck, we're goin' to Sioux Falls,” said the passenger. Luck indeed! I had friends in Sioux Falls and a roof over my head for a night or two. Having seen enough of Nevada's scenery, I picked a magazine off the pile.

“What's in Sioux Falls for you guys?” I asked, just to be sociable.

They both laughed. “See that RV up ahead?” the driver asked. “That's my old man. He come out to take me back to go to court.” He eyed me in the rearview mirror. “They wanna put me away for a real, lo-o-ong time.” The two had another laugh over that.

They didn't elaborate. I didn't ask. I did slip my handy map book inside the girlie mag, figured I had parts of three states and twenty-some hours—barring stops—to spend with a guy facing a stretch in prison and a buddy who found that hilarious. I picked the next good-sized town on the map.

“Come to think of it,” I began, “my brother's got a friend in Winnemucca he wanted me to look up because the guy owes him some money.” As the Winnemucca exit and a Motel 6 sign came into view, I said: “Just dump me here and I'll cut across this field.” The field stretched out maybe 150 yards between the interstate and the motel, a chain-link fence cut across at about the halfway point.

Dusk had set in. I trudged through thigh-high grass to the fence, climbed it and splashed down into knee-high water. Marshland in Nevada? Climbing back over, I sloshed back to the highway and a mile or so to the Winnemucca exit, then the same distance down main street—passing 'No Vacancy' signs along the way—and got the last room at the Motel 6. I believe I was overcharged. Seems there was a rodeo in town.

Back out to the interstate the next morning, I passed a couple also looking for a ride, so I moved on toward an entrance ramp that might offer me more opportunity. Before I could get there a guy pulled over. “Don't like picking up couples,” he said as I climbed in. “Nothing but trouble.” He was 35 – 40 and heading for New York City.

“Wow... Tom Waits,” I said of the music coming from his tape deck. “Haven't heard anything but lousy country music since I left California.” He seemed like a great guy. One I could've traveled all the way to New York with—except that I still had two months to kill before Bread Loaf began.

“Got some groceries in back,” he said. “Oughta be a melon on top.”

I reached back into the bag and pulled out a cantaloupe.

He reached under his seat and pulled out a two-foot-long machete.

This is what they call, in the biz, a cliffhanger. Next time: Lawnchairs are everywhere.

All Just to Get to a Writers' Workshop

 

Mostly for my own benefit, I'm gonna chronicle my 1982 hitchhiking trip from California to Vermont and back on this page. Judging from the frequency of past posts, I may complete the task by its 40^th anniversary next summer.

My roommate Din Din and I stood in our San Jose, California kitchen trying to figure out our plans for the upcoming summer—or more precisely my plans. Din had house painting jobs lined up back in Minneapolis while I was clinging to a longshot of getting a scholarship to the Bread Loaf Writers' Workshop in Middlebury, Vermont. It was my last day to decide whether to stay on with our somewhat dodgy third roommate—which I didn't want to do—or scramble for temporary quarters—of which there were none.

“I won't hear from Bread Loaf till July,” I said. “And it's a pipe dream anyway.”

Then the phone rang. Honest. A woman asked if I'd like a working scholarship to Bread Loaf. “Are you serious?” I said. She asked if I'd be arriving by plane or bus. “Hitchhiking, I guess,” I said. I had little money and two-and-a-half months to kill before the workshop. She wished me luck.

I climbed into a pick-up truck headed for Sacramento. It would be the first of twelve straight pick-ups to deliver me through northern California that day. This first one dropped me off on the highway resulting in the police ordering me off and I walked most of the way through the capital city before a second pick-up gave me a lift.

The day's last pick-up dropped in Reno and—though I'd swore I wouldn't spend money on lodging—I checked into a cheap motel for the night. I did not take advantage of the free gambling chip they gave me.

photo: newtoreno.com

The next morning found me eagerly standing, thumb out, on an entrance ramp heading east.

That afternoon found me still in that same spot, eight hours later. A car finally pulled over. “I saw you in this same spot this morning on my way to work,” the guy said as I crammed my backpack into the backseat. No shit, I muttered. “Of course, I'm turning to go to Carson City.” The Carson City exit was maybe 100 yards up the road.

Now forced to cross rush-hour Carson City traffic, I finally settled under an overpass on the interstate—where the police frown on hitchhikers. Another pick-up stopped. A cowboy. “Only going as far as Sparks,” he said. I could see the exit just ahead. I took the ride just to get off the highway.

“I can offer you a beer and a bunk,” the cowboy said. “Course I'm a gay guy.”

It was late afternoon. “No, thanks,” I said and ended up on the Sparks ramp till the sun went down. I trudged over to a nearby park. Though tempted to walk back to Reno and that motel, I climbed atop a picnic table to sleep.

Next installment: Desert poker, knee-deep in porn, and a machete.