"Where are you going, Steve?"
"California."
She must have thought I was joking, because she didn't sound the least bit alarmed. "Don't be gone long."
I didn't have the faintest idea how to get to California. I only knew it was somewhere west and I'd have to cross the Hudson River. I took the subway to the George Washington Bridge and walked across to the other side. It was a cold December day, but it was exhilarating. The thought of sexy California girls in bikini bathing suits kept me from freezing. I stood at the side of the road and looked at the numbers and letters of the different New Jersey highway entrances. I decided to start hitchhiking and ask whoever picked me up for directions.
I started waving my thumb at the passing cars until one pulled over and I got in. The driver was thin, pale and mousy looking. He asked in a nasal voice.
"Where are you going?"
"California."
"What a fine place that is for young boys, especially in winter. They can expose their bodies to the sun."
I nodded politely and watched the road as he droned on about the good time I would have there. He kept asking dumb questions.
"Do you like girls?"
"Sure."
"Do you like boys?"
Before I could figure out what he meant he put his hand on my leg. I knew we had gone far enough together. I pushed it away and prepared for a struggle.
"Pull over and let me out, please."
He slowed down and stopped without a fuss. He didn't meet my eyes when I got out. He drove off and never looked back. Undaunted, I stuck out my thumb again and slowly shuffled along backwards, so I could keep an eye on the oncoming cars while waiting for the next ride.
A car went by at high speed. The driver jammed on the brakes and stopped short, sliding a bit on the icy road. I trotted to the car, looked in the window, saw four neatly dressed young men and got in. The driver stepped on the gas, raced off and was quickly doing eighty or eighty-five. I sat back to enjoy the ride. A shrill, high-pitched voice in the back seat informed me of another poor transportation selection.
"He's pretty, very pretty, and you're not getting this one, Mary. Now pull over to the side so he can join us in the back seat. We'll make him welcome."
Mary stopped the car and I climbed out. The young man next to me realized that I was leaving and tried to grab me. I pushed him in the chest, throwing him back in the car. They drove along side, cursing and threatening. "Get in here, you little shit, or we'll drag you in.”
I turned and went back the other way. They actually followed me, driving backwards, until the traffic got heavier and concerned drivers honking their horns forced them to give up. They drove off cursing. Two of them shot me the finger, fondly gesturing farewell.
I walked for a while without anyone stopping. I wondered if I had alienated the New Jersey cruiser's union. Perhaps my dissatisfied rides had spread the word not to pick me up, because I wouldn't cooperate. It was getting dark and colder. Snow began to fall again. I walked further and came to a Newark airport sign. I decided to wait there for a while and try to get a ride from someone leaving the airport. I kept moving around enough to stay warm.
Two hours went by without a single car stopping. I was chilled, wet and stranded. It was too late to head home. My best choice was to go to the airport, get warm, and spend the night in a passenger terminal. Then I could decide how to continue this unexpectedly difficult journey.
My soaked feet plodded along and felt colder than the rest of me. I imagined the police finding my frozen body in the snow, the first winter victim of the New Jersey Turnpike. After setting out with such anticipation, death by frostbite seemed a likely end.
Finally a dented green 10-year-old Ford pickup truck stopped, the passenger door opened and a very reassuring voice offered help. "Get in, son. You shouldn't be hanging around out here in this weather."
I jumped in, figuring whatever his gender preference he would be easier to deal with than the snow. He was a husky looking man in his late thirties, with a strained, unhealthy looking pale face and sagging features. He was unshaven and sad eyed, wearing shabby worker’s clothes. There was something lost and anguished about him. I could feel his pain, without even knowing him.
"I'm a factory worker in a machine shop," he said softly. "I'm heading home after the four to midnight shifts."
I nodded politely.
"You look hungry. Open my lunch pail and help yourself."
It didn't occur to me to say no. The thermos of hot coffee was more precious than Aladdin's lamp. I ate, drank, and thawed a bit. He talked about himself with the confessional attitude of temporary companions, who sometimes reveal personal burdens to strangers that they would rather die than disclose to their loved ones. He didn't look at me as he talked.
"I have a small farm in western Pennsylvania. Ever since my son got sick with cancer, I had to work at the factory to pay for the medical expenses."
As I digested his food, I realized from the tone of his voice that he wasn't bitter, just resigned to a painful existence. We drove through the snow-filled night, isolated from the life and suffering around us. I felt his doomed strength and knew that he would be defeated, but not degraded by his desperate struggle.
"My wife cries all the time when I'm at work. Her eyes are always red and swollen when I get home. She used to be a nice looking woman until our boy got sick, and then she aged overnight."
I nodded, not knowing anything to say.
"I didn't appreciate how simple life was when I was in the Army during the war. I was just a kid on an adventure."
I was finally able to say something. "My father was in the war. He was killed in action in North Africa."
He had a flicker of interest. "That's where I was stationed. What outfit was he with? I wonder if I knew him."
It turned out that they had not been in the same outfit, but this coincidence of serving in the same area reminded us of the ties that sometimes bind people together. He drove past his exit so he could leave me at a good spot to get another ride. He stopped the pickup, handed me five dollars, wished me good luck and drove off. I did not even know his name. He was another stranger, met for a moment, who revealed his endurance of life's afflictions, then was gone forever.
I stood by the side of the road, thinking about my departed friend. It was almost 4:00 A.M. The snow had stopped falling. The sky had cleared. The blazing stars flashed through the desolate night with shimmering beams of light. They started from I know not how far away, hundreds of thousands of years ago. They would continue past earth to I know not where and light some future traveler on his way, hundreds of thousands of years from now.
New visions possessed me as I shuffled up and down in the darkness, trying to keep warm. I saw the fragile trail of human history, with humanity struggling for tomorrows, falling by the wayside, their children surviving to possess the future. I was in a dream-like state.
Dense fog settled in. I looked down and could not even see my feet. After a few minutes, the fog slowly began to lift. Across the road, I saw a sign. I walked closer until I could read it. At first, I could not believe what I saw: Valley Forge. In grade school, nothing had moved me more than reading about the Continental army during the bitter winter at Valley Forge. And in the distance, where the fog still obscured the valley, I saw the ghosts of suffering soldiers, wrapped in rags, enduring all privations, surviving to snatch the promise of the New World. I heard drums beat, calling weary troops to assembly. For a few moments, I marched with my shivering comrades in their threadbare coats. I saw their rusting muskets, ill prepared for battle. I called out to the gathering dawn.
"May I be worthy to find a cause to test my spirit."
As I walked on, I saw two soldiers and a sailor, carrying duffel bags, standing where I left my bag. A car came by, stopped and the driver offered the boys a lift. I raced across the road, grabbed my bag and jumped in last. The driver did not know I was not with them and they did not know how to object, so off we went.
The driver was a small town Pennsylvania politician and the sailor was from his hometown. For the next few hours, they spoke: "Do you know so and so," punctuated by jokes and farts. They only required me to smile or nod occasionally. They mostly cursed and yelled at each other. They were not my kind of people. They were bragging to each other about their hunting skills, when a deer sprang across the road. Councilman Nitwit swerved the wheel and tried to hit him with the car. I reached over, grabbed the wheel and turned the car back on the road to an instant storm of protest from the good old' boys. The deer escaped the mighty hunter, so I was quick to apologize when they started to call me names.
"I'm sorry. I thought you were losing control of the car. I was only trying to help." I don't think they believed me and we drove on in sullen silence. We reached a rest stop with some ridiculously inappropriate name like the General William Tecumseh Sherman rest area. I doubt that General Sherman ever tasted any of the 27 flavors of ice cream. Councilman Nitwit said "You can probably get another ride here."
I went in and ordered pancakes, bacon and eggs and coffee. A young man, who looked about my age, was sitting at the counter next to me. He nodded pleasantly when our eyes met. I looked around the restaurant, which was new. The place wasn't crowded. The pastel orange and green colors of the walls and plastic furnishings were already fading, as were the female servers in their shabby, pale pink ruffled uniforms. I finished breakfast, paid my check and left the remaining change for a tip. I walked out and figured that I'd hang out in the parking lot until I got a ride. The young man from the counter came out and got into a Volvo with California plates. I quickly walked to his car and asked him for a ride.
He looked me up and down. "How far are you going?"
I didn't think he would take me all the way to California, so I picked a place part of the way, hoping we’d become friends and continue the rest of the trip together. "Chicago."
"Hop in."
We were somewhere in western Pennsylvania. The countryside was dark and frozen. We passed large, prosperous farms, with sparkling white houses and sturdy red barns. All the farmers were on the same schedule, driving tractors in the fields, breaking up and spreading bales of hay. I wondered if they had the same kind of schedule for sex and sleep. I was eager for conversation after my recent companions.
"This is so different from where I grew up."
"Where was that?"
"Hell's Kitchen."
He nodded. "I know where that is."
"It has all the luxury of the big city just around the corner. But it's not for the poverty stricken Irish and Italians who take their frustrations out on each other."
"I know what you mean. I grew up in the Bronx and it was just like that."
I remembered one of the unpleasant episodes of childhood. "I had to pass a parochial school on the way to my public school. There was always a gang of Irish boys waiting after school to beat me up for walking through their neighborhood."
He said sympathetically. "I used to get chased by this gang of Italian kids. I hated them. My name's Danny Haggerty. What's yours?"
"Steve Genelli."
We awkwardly shook hands, assessing each other. "Do you know how to drive, Steve?"
"Of course. I've been driving since I was thirteen years old."
Danny offered me a cigarette. I started to say I didn't smoke, when I saw it was a joint. I took a deep toke, held the smoke in and passed it back. I got an immediate rush that pulsed through my body and put my mind on another track. Danny turned on the radio. A rock and roll song blared out about racing down the highway doing 105, with your arm around your favorite girl and the cops in pursuit. We sang along at the top of our lungs, without knowing the words, pounding out the rhythm on the dashboard. I knew I was stoned because I didn't like rock and roll, yet I was really enjoying the song.
Danny passed the joint to me again. We grinned at each other, completely comfortable, as if we had been friends for years. We sang along with other songs until they started playing Elvis Presley. Danny said, "I hate Elvis Presley," and shut off the radio.
We drove along for a while in companionable silence. Then we suddenly began to babble whatever came to mind back and forth. He told me all about his sister who he lived with in Los Angeles. I told him about my adoptive family, the Pierces. I heard myself saying intimate things that I never told anyone before. I was shocked at my glowing description of Lorna, her grace, her beauty, how sexy she was. It felt peculiar to admit that I really liked her. I pretended to Danny that she was my sister. He said jokingly.
"We'll have to double date, you with my sister, and me with yours."
"How much will you take for your sister?" I asked in a fake Spanish accent.
"I don't know. How much do you want for yours?"
"Five pesos."
He sneered at me. "You cheap bastard. Her rate should be ten pesos."
"Can you give me a loan?"
"Forget it."
It was weird. We had just met each other and we were already becoming good friends. We had been driving through Ohio for a while and it looked just like Pennsylvania. We stopped for lunch at a roadside stand. Their sign claimed they had the best burgers in the area. We hadn't passed a restaurant for miles and we couldn't see anything ahead, so they had the only burgers in the area. It was hard to tell if their origin was animal or mineral.
Once we were on the road again, Danny told me his travel timetable. "I was planning to drive straight through to Chicago, and then go a little further before I stopped for the night. I can drop you off just outside the city."
I said hopefully. "I'm not really going to Chicago."
He looked confused. "Huh?"
"I'm going to California."
"But you said...."
"I know. I didn't think you'd take me all the way."
He smiled cheerfully. "Well you lucked out. I'll take you to L.A."
We alternated driving through Indiana and Illinois, and then we headed southwest. We had been exceeding the speed limit all the way, but there wasn't much traffic and we were zipping along. I was dozing when we got to Joplin, Missouri, but I woke up when the cop pulled us over. Danny was a bit too belligerent.
"What's the problem, officer?"
"You were speeding. Let me see your driver’s license and registration."
"We were just a few miles over the limit."
You were doing seventy-five when I clocked you."
"I don't think so."
The cop was getting impatient. "I told you how fast you were going."
"That's bullshit," Danny said.
"What did you say?"
I tried to signal Danny to shut up, but he ignored me.
"You heard me."
"Step out of the car, please. I was just going to give you a ticket, but now you can try the hospitality of the Joplin jail."
"What for?" Danny snarled.
I tried to be polite and defuse the situation. "Can't we just pay a fine, officer?"
"If your buddy didn't open his big mouth that's all it would have cost you."
We spent the night in the drunk tank. The smell of alcohol, vomit, urine and shit kept me wide-awake. Our roommates were oblivious to us – snoring and farting all night long. In the morning, a guard brought us into a small, seedy courtroom. The judge sitting behind the bench didn't look friendly. He glared down at us.
"Daniel Haggerty?"
Danny had come to his senses during the night and answered respectfully. "Yes, sir."
"How do you plead?"
"Not guilty, your honor."
"You are fined fifty dollars."
Then Danny forgot to keep his big mouth shut. "But you didn't give me a chance to explain."
"That will be seventy-five dollars."
"Don't I have a right to be heard?"
"One hundred dollars."
Danny finally got the message, paid the fine and we got out of there. We stank of jail. Driving strictly at the legal limit, we got out of Missouri as quickly as possible. We didn't talk much for a while. Danny finally apologized.
"I'm sorry I got us into that, Steve. I just don't get along with cops."
"Yeah."
By the time we reached Oklahoma, the memory of the night in jail was fading. We didn't stop until we were in Texas. We stopped to eat and get gas in a small town somewhere near Sweetwater. After we ate, I decided to send a postcard to Dahlia. I went into the general store, bought a card, filled it out and asked where I could mail it. The post office turned out to be two cigar boxes on the counter of the general store. One box had a little sign: 'White only.' I knew Dahlia wouldn't want to get segregated mail, so I decided to mail it somewhere else and walked out.
Danny was trying to pry open the car window without breaking it. He had left the keys in the ignition and locked the door. He borrowed a coat hanger from the store and used it to pop the fly window and open the lock. Once we were in the car, I told him about the post office. I was still pissed off. It didn't seem to bother him. We drove off and passed through the rest of Texas without stopping. I didn't see any ranchers, or large herds of cattle, or anything that resembled my idea of Texas.
We reached New Mexico late in the afternoon. We went through Albuquerque just before it got dark. It was a colorful town, with adobe houses with red tile roofs. We kept going until we were in the desert. Between the night in jail and the long drive, both of us were very tired and we decided to stop for the night.
According to the map, the nearest town was fifty miles away, so we decided to rough it and camp out. We pulled off the road into a little arroyo. We got out of the car and lay down on the ground on some old blankets that Danny took out of the trunk. It was chilly. I looked up at the sky and saw more stars than I ever saw before. Brilliant meteor showers flared every few minutes. I watched the heavens until the stars started to fade before dawn. Then it began to rain and we jumped into the car. We heard a growing roar in the distance that got louder and louder. Suddenly a wall of water rushed towards us. Before we could do anything, it picked up the car and carried it off. We tossed and spun around for about a hundred yards, completely out of control, until the water just as quickly ran off. We were stopped right side up, on level ground.
We drove all that morning and by early afternoon, we were well into Arizona. We stopped for a bathroom call in the desert and I walked a little ways off the road. I sensed something behind me and I spun around. An Indian in a shapeless felt hat and a khaki World War I long army overcoat was standing an arm's length away from me. I looked around nervously. The nearest cover was a giant cactus that was at least a hundred yards away.
He asked in a rough, grating voice. "You got cigarette?"
I told him regretfully. "Sorry, I don't smoke." Then I turned to head back to the car.
The rest of the trip was uneventful and we got to Los Angeles that afternoon. Danny offered to drop me on the highway north of Los Angeles, where I could hitch a ride, but I decided to take the bus. He left me at the bus station, where we exchanged addresses and promised to stay in touch.
"Here's the address and phone number of a friend of mine who runs a hotel in San Francisco. Call him if you need anything."
"Thanks for taking me all the way, Danny."
"That's okay. See you around."
I went inside and bought a bus ticket that seemed very expensive for only a fifty-mile ride to San Francisco. I didn't find out until much later in the bus ride that it was five hundred miles to San Francisco. I fell asleep as soon as we pulled out. I dreamed that something heavy was pressing against me and woke up. There was a man sitting next to me and he was leaning against me from shoulder to leg.
I yelled at the top of my lungs. "What are you doing?"
He jumped up like a shot and moved to another seat. Everyone turned around to look at me.
I slept the rest of the way. I woke up when the bus pulled into the station and stopped. I grabbed my bag and got off. My former seatmate got off behind me. I was tempted to punch him in the face. I walked into the terminal and stopped at a newsstand for directions. He rushed out into the street, obviously not interested in conversation. I told the news dealer the address I wanted. He looked at me strangely.
"That's in San Francisco."
I knew that. "So?"
"This is Oakland."
I yelled over my shoulder. "Thanks."
I raced back and got to the bus just as it was pulling out. The driver let me on and we drove off. I saw my ex seatmate running after us, but the bus pulled away, leaving him behind. I cheerfully waved good-bye.
I bought a map of San Francisco at the bus station. I intended to see the Pacific Ocean. Although I never told anyone, the Pacific always fascinated me. I had read about it in books and magazines. I had seen movies that made me yearn for the clean, blue waters. I could only locate two beaches on the map, which surprised me. I thought all of California was beaches.
I selected the closer one and picked the most direct route to Baker Beach. I had to take two buses and it took a while to get there, but I got a good look at the city. When I finally got there, it was after midnight and the beach was deserted. The roar of the surf called me. I took off my clothes, dropped them on the sand and ran into the water. I got the shock of my life. It was freezing cold. I dashed out, ran up and down to get warm and dried myself with my shirt.
By the time, I got dressed and reached the street it was too late to call Randy. I remembered that Danny had given me the name of a hotel. I found the paper with the address. It was the Hotel Wentley. I decided that might be the best place to spend the night. I called and asked for Richard.
"I'm a friend of Danny Haggerty. He said you might put me up for a few days."
"Any friend of Danny's is welcome. The place is half-vacant, so I have plenty of rooms. Do you know how to get here?"
I said confidently. "I'll find it. I've got a map."
"How enterprising. What's your name?"
"Steve."
"Don't get lost."
I took another long bus ride. I was really getting to see a lot of the city. The Wentley was a large box of a hotel in North Beach. It was a block long and a block wide, with six floors. I went in and introduced myself to Richard. He flirted with me and when I didn't respond he said: "Oh, well. Perhaps another time." Then he gave me a room on the third floor.
The hotel had an open quadrangle in the center, so it was a major expedition through the corridors to go in and out. When I went upstairs, it felt like I was walking through the Parthenon. The room reminded me of hotel rooms in movies, where the good guy was in trouble and had to hole up before he had to get out of town. There even was a red and blue neon sign outside, flashing on and off. The room was tawdry, but clean. I liked it. I lay down on the bed to read a worn Life magazine and fell asleep before I even finished the first page.
photograph by Jeff Crouch