1969—HITCHHIKING TO FLORIDA—Part 2—

A continuation of a tale told here:

1969—HITCHHIKING TO FLORIDA—Part 1—

Sometimes I marvel at the sheer egotism involved in being a writer. Fifty-four years down the road I can say with some authority few really care what my opinions are. So what compelled me to write them down at age sixteen?

Even at the time I confessed I didn’t know what I was doing or why I was doing it. It was in some ways a search, and it is in the nature of some searches that the goal is unseen. I certainly wasn’t seeking God, or wasn’t doing so in any conscious manner. I was looking for something worth looking for. And I was so naively sincere about my exploration that I sat down at the end of a long day and labored late into the night scrawling the following travelogue. As I recall all I had to go on, in the way of notes, was markings on my road atlas.

Here is a list of my rides.

Ride 1  From: Weston starting place to: Last exit before Trogs neck brige how far: 214 miles who Two high school boys what happened They didn't talk much but they picked up another hichhiker who gave me a lot to worry about. "Watch out for those South Carolina cops and Georgia cops, they hate hitchhickers and don't get picked up by any niggars, there sure to knife you." Then he told me a story about a hichhiker friend who had been picked up by a guy and his girl. The guy said "How'd you like to fuck her" The friend said sure. They got in the back and the girl undressed and the friend started to lay her. The guy pulled a gun but the friend pulled a knife and held it to the guy throught before he could shoot. Then he slowly got out. If you think those storys didn't scare me, your all screwed up.

Also as we aproached New York it poured. Cars stalled and crashed all over the place. We saw a jacknifed truck and then we saw, this put us in hysterics, A man whose car stalled in the down pour, in water up to his ankles, He was trying to light a flare.

Not the most auspicious start. Now, hearing such a tale, I would immediately suspect the other young hitchhiker was “full of it”, but I was still in the process of developing my B.S. detector at age sixteen.

I should mention that hitchhikers were not yet common. One reason I was picked up was because a hitchhiker who wasn’t a military man on leave, wearing uniform, was a rarity. People were interested. However by the end of 1969 hitchhiking had become a fad, and there were far more of them, and it became harder to get rides unless you were wearing a uniform. Hitchhikers were often hippies, and didn’t have a good reputation among non-hippies.

As I recall the fellow hitchhiker was my age, very nervous and, in my eyes, rude, because he wouldn’t let anyone else get a word in edgewise. I had a sort of deference to drivers, as a hitchhiker, but the young hitchhiker seemed in a hurry even when sitting still. He seemed “on the lam”, as if he was running away from something, but I didn’t yet know how to draw such a story out of a stranger, so instead we got a tale I suspect was largely fantasy about his “friend”. I seem to recollect the driver looking annoyed, when I caught his glance in his rear view mirror. The fellow was dropped off just before we drove into the torrential rain. The rain was connected to a strong cold front that pursued me all the way to Richmond.

Ride 2 from Under Bronx Street on 95 to N.J. side of Washington Bridge how far 6 miles who Brooklen man and woman. what happened They were real "toidy toid" and all. They were in a minor traffic jam and saw me under the bridge so they picked me up.

I got off from the ride before and was completely lost. I wandered towards N.J. and ended up in the center strip of a highway. I felt like a fool. I was scared to cross so I just kept walking. Then I saw another kid cross so I did. It was easy. I started walking. That thunder storm was catching up to me. Then plunk plank, thud, it started hailing Like this >O Soon it changed to rain as I ran to the bridge where I got picked up.

Thanks to the “Brooklen man and woman” from 54 years down the road. Every time I’ve crossed the George Washington bridge from the east since then I’ve marveled over what a hideous place that was to attempt to hitchhike from. There is no breakdown lane to pull into, and the traffic is often traveling at over fifty mph. If the downpour hadn’t reduced the traffic to a stop-and-go crawl it would have been impossible to stop and pick me up. The couple pulled from the heavy rain to the stopped traffic under the bridge, saw me standing there, and came to an instantaneous and merciful decision.

Ride 3 where to where end of last ride to somewhere in Philly How far 91 miles What Happened He was darkish, mabey Italian and talked about two things. How much money he and his father made trucking ($180 and $400 after taxes) and broads. He was in a tow truck and he said one of the reasons he liked trucking was because the cab is so high he could look down into girls laps. I could see that to. When ever we passed a car with a girl in it he would slow down so we were driving at the same speed for quite a time. The girls on my side smiled and looked a trifle embarassed but they never pulled down their skirts. The truck driver said that meant they wanted to be fucked. He said he would give me some telephone numbers in Philledephia but he thought they were too old for me. Shit. I wonder if...

As I recall the tow truck was enormous, likely built for rescuing tractor trailers, but was hauling nothing so the driver could really fly. We got ahead of the thunder and drove in warm spring sunshine. He seemed a very happy man, likely because he was young and making good money. $180.00/week after taxes was considerably more than minimum wage, which in those days paid 64.00/week before taxes.

In my journal I fail to mention my dishonesty, when he talked about women. I didn’t want to mention I was a virgin, and so I fabricated a tale about a suburban housewife. I remember him looking at me with a sort of grave respect and telling me how lucky I was.

Ride 4 where to where a rotery by the Philly airport to the junction of 95 and 13 how far 25 what happened Two kids picked me up and drove me to the intercection. One had a beard and long hair and reminded me of Libby's friend, whats his name, the one who got heptitis, if he had a beard. The other was more conformed. All they talked about was cars. The car was little and sporty with almost bald tires. I could see how the tires got that way.

Shit, I forgot to say in ride 3 what I thought of Philly. Bleah! We rode on a imencely high road on stilts over the city. You could see smoke stacks belching flame, fantasticly poluted rivers, and these wierd helecopter things (Fig 3) I think they had something to do with oil refining. The air was shitty, the whole town looked real sad. Mabey if I lived their I could see the good points but from my view I just couldn't. Also  there were automobile grave yards every where. Maybe Philly is an anti-Detroit.

The two kids droped me off and I sat down on the red clay-mud ground that seems to dominate this reagion. As I fixed my napsack (shit my spelling sucks) and sleeping bag I happened to start watching 3 girls. They were 12-13 years old, to young to be anything. I was in the plush part of Philly and all the yards were surrounded by fences. The three girls were trying to climb over a fence. The skinny one made it over easily but the other two had trouble. One made it over after a stuggle but the other, fattest one just couldn't. So they just sat there talking through the fence. Finally they walked, 2 on one side one on the other, to where the fat one could use a tree to get over,

After resting I started hichhiking again, then noticed I was right next to a sign that said
No Hich Hikers
No Pedestrians
No Horses
I walked 100 ft away and started again.

I have no idea why I wrote the observations I noted down. Certain things impressed me more than others, I suppose, but there seems to be no coherence, no commonality that could gather all the observations under a single banner such as “geology”.

Ride 5 where to where intercection of 95 and 13 out Philly to intercection of 95 and 695 out Balt How far 75 miles who AfroAmerican Black, rich, had a tape cartrige thing in his car, that's about all.

The fact I struck out “AfroAmerican” is an indication that even in 1969 I was uneasy about being politically incorrect. A that time there was some big difference between calling someone Afro-American and African-American, but I could never remember which one was correct and which one meant that, by using it, you were a racist pig. Using “Negro” definitely meant you were a racist pig, but “Black” was still safe, or so I apparently felt.

Tape cassettes in cars were still a new and noteworthy thing. Apparently that is how I decided the man was rich, along with the fact the car was big and roomy. Apparently we didn’t talk much. Some rides were like that, as if you were wanted as a presence more than a voice. I don’t remember what music was on the “tape cartrige thing”.

Ride 6 where to where intercection of 95 and 695 outside Balt to intercection of 95 and 1. How far 45 who neat kid, sort of intellectual. He seemed to know where he was at and just exzactly what he wanted. He even had a little book of quotations he made so he wouldn't forget what he wanted. A lot of his quotes came from what  Zorba said in "Zorba the Greek". He gave me a tour of Washington D.C. I saw marble and brick and trees but that's all. I saw the front of the Capital, it was shored up to keep it from falling down, sorta ironic, it represents our country.

The Capital was actually undergoing restoration work.

Thanks from 54 years in the future to this “sort of intellectual” person. It was a very kind thing to take a stray hitchhiker right through the heart of Washington, rather than taking the circle-route around the periphery of the city. He also must have let me look through his book of quotes. It seems the sort of event that happened a lot in 1969, but which is far less likely to happen in 2023.

I think I went and grabbed a vending machine dinner at this point, and lost my pen in the process, for the notes switch to pencil during Ride 6.

Ride 7 where to where end of last ride to 495 (around Washington) on 95 How far 10 miles who buisnessman quiet orderly comuter. Blah.

Ride 8 where to where On 95 - 495 to wood bridge. how far 19 miles Who can't remember, either old couple or comuter. Not very membrible.

At this point I appear to be fading fast. It had been a long day and the dinner likely made me sleepy. However perhaps the food got some sugar into my bloodstream for my description of ride 9.

Ride 9 where to where On 95 - wood bridge to Richmond How far 71 miles Who 3 black brothers. well, all up north people had been telling me about two things to watch out for. Southern police and southern blacks. "They'll knife you for sure", they said. 

The car stopped way out in front of me. I ran up, looked in, hesitated and then clambered in. Oh God what a way to die, why didn't I listen, any second they'll knife me...Shit, at least these guys were O.K. They talking with a slur so I couldn't understand much they said. They had a nice car and pressed suit. One was like rob, well, he occupied the spot rob took when only rob could drive. The next youngest was a arogent loudmouth sort of like Chris. He joked the most. The youngest I identified with me, he was quieter, his jokes and stories lacked the piszass of his older brothers, he just was sort of a flop, like me, at least compared to his brothers.

They had the black was of expressing themselves that the controled suburban white can never achieve.

We had one hell of a hail storm with hail like marbles. They had to stop the car. It made drumbeats on the roof. Pongkata pankata pantata Bangk Pankatata Plink Pangkata Pangkato plink pong Chang Pangkata Pangkato... Wicked loud.

It was hailing in Richmond when I got off. (I wasn't mugged). I walked all over the damn place looking for a Y.M.C.A. and finally found one.

Thanks from 54 years in the future to the three black brothers who picked up the white kid as night came on and the horizon flashed with lightning. Perhaps they hesitated a bit, which was why they pulled over so far down the highway, but they did do the kindly deed, and now they get to be famous in a small way on an obscure blog.

Also thanks to God. I’ve read there are no such things as coincidences, but it does seem coincidental, almost contrived, that the three brothers were so much like me and my two older brothers. I can think of few better ways to get over racial preconceptions.

It is impossible to avoid preconceptions. The only way to avoid preconceptions is to be brain dead. The trick is to get over them.

Round up  546 miles in 10 hours
54.6 mph ave.  60.7 miles per ride
Damn good if you ask me.

I ate food from this neat machine that cooks the food right in its cellophane package by microwave. Shit I'm tired, good night.

In Richmond I experienced my first microwave oven.

At the risk of belaboring the point, I remind you that teachers found getting homework out of me was like pulling teeth, yet here in my “Private Files” you see me doing Math and English and Social Studies, voluntarily, for hours, after a long day. There is even a little Science in the margins of the page, for had I noticed that along with the hailstones were blobs of slush.

How did school crush these tendencies in me, while the freedom of the highway unleashed them? I’m not sure. In the 54 years since I’ve seen schools try very hard to be “inclusive” and to avoid any sort of “bullying”, but all they seem to do is make a bad situation worse. Why does this happen?

In some way I suppose education administrators have doubled down on their preconceptions. In 1969 I wanted to escape all that, and to rush towards Truth.

Truth includes people in all sorts of predicaments. It includes tow truck drivers who slow down to look down at lady’s laps. (I should mention that the fashion of that time involved the shortest skirts ever seen before), (or, when I think of it, since.) You can’t disallow certain behavior without denying the Truth. This does not mean you encourage such behavior; you just don’t deny it.

I’ll conclude this post with the end of my long, hard day, which I didn’t describe, and which involved taking a shower in the Y.M.C.A. showers. Adolescent bodies produce amazing amounts of musk, and by that point a shower was very necessary. While drying off afterwards I met a man with thick glasses and a kindly face, who made me strangely uncomfortable. I wasn’t sure why, but with the brutal frankness of youth I felt “he might be queer.” I backed away as he chatted, and he noticed I was backing away, and with a slightly hurt look he stopped being so friendly. I was glad to be rid of him, and staggered off to bed.

Truth includes people in all sorts of predicaments.

(Post continued here:)

1969—HITCHHIKING TO FLORIDA—Part 3