(Part III of my series on a hitchhiking trip from CA to VT and the Bread Loaf Writers' Workshop back in 1982. Chronicled here before I forget it entirely.)
Okay, maybe it was only 18-inches long, but a big knife. Okay, maybe a foot. Anyhow, the guy could slice up a cantaloupe at 60 mph, played a steady stream of good music out of his tape deck and provided interesting conversation clear into Utah.
Things get hazy here—it has been 39 years. I guess I decided to kill some time in Denver, having a couple of friends living there, so we parted company in Salt Lake City. The ride out of Salt Lake was memorable for its creepiness.
I wanna say it was a Corvair. Went by me as I exited a gas station with some snacks and directions. I followed those directions out onto a highway that went easterly on by the airport and out of town. And there was the Corvair again, the driver had to be in his 70s—picture Edmund Gwenn in Miracle on 34th Street or The Trouble with Harry. Small talk quickly led to this kindly old gent talking about a girl he knew in his teens.
“Maria was always good for a blowjob,” he said with an old-guy giggle—all of which caught me completely off-guard. Then he started talking about her brother Mario. “And if you couldn't find Maria, Mario was always available in a pinch.” Another giggle. “After all, when it comes to blowjobs, it doesn't really matter whether its a Maria or a Mario, now does it?”
“I'm strictly a Maria kind of guy,” I responded as politely as I could, and he let me out near the airport.
Spent some time with buddies in Denver, I'm sure, but I can't distinguish it from other times I've been there.
Got one long ride through Nebraska, four frat boys crammed into the front of a pick-up. I was alone in the truck bed when the rains came. It poured but—tucked up against the cab—I barely got wet. I think they bought me lunch and said they'd drop me near the entrance to I-29 heading up to Sioux Falls. Though nowhere near any freeway, they did drop me in the middle of the stockyards and it stunk like hell. I'm sure that they had a good laugh over that.
Passed on a ride from a Charles Manson-looking fellow in a rusty, white station wagon—the only ride I turned down on the trip—and got a ride from a blonde—the only woman to stop the whole way. Older than I, probably in her mid-30s, she was very nice and missed the Augustana College exit—my friends Scott and Lois lived nearby—and I settled for downtown.
Found a bar, a couple beers and directions to their street. No one home. Having no schedule myself, I may not have given them any indication that I might be stopping by. I dragged my pack through their fence gate to the back porch. Fully aware that the neighbors could've called the police, I napped—prepared to be awakened by the authorities. Didn't happen. I walked to find a six-pack and some food and returned—the neighbors thinking nothing of some guy coming and going from the back porch next door.
I left Scott and Lois a note, attached to a lawnchair, containing the lyrics to a song called “Lawnchairs are Everywhere”. Din Din, my old roommate, had received a $1,500 grant from DaAnza College to shoot a film of a short story of mine—one of three I sent in to get the Bread Loaf scholarship—starring me. Instead, he decided to remake a music video of the Lawnchair song he'd shot in the summer of '81—before MTV. It had featured our dodgy roommate's girlfriend, who tried to take over the remake and was fired. Replaced by me. In drag. I've never forgiven Din Din for not doing my story.
First ride the next morning was in a limousine. No kiddin'. I don't recall who the guy was but he had a young boy along and we ate breakfast in the back. I think they were headed for Clear Lake, Iowa, so the ride wasn't a long one.
I'm guessing it was a late 50s Thunderbird, red, classic car plates—my next ride. I admitted I didn't know much about cars but told him my dad would go nuts over his. A very nice guy. I don't recall where he was headed but it was not the Twin Cities. Before I knew what had happened, he had decided on a detour and ultimately drove me right into my parents' driveway.
Sure 'nough, Dad stepped out of the garage, gave me—the son he hadn't seen in a year or two—a wave and started checking out the T-Bird.
