America is a beautiful thing…
As a young man just out of high school, I rode my thumb across this country. That was 1974.
I slept in bar ditches alongside gravel country roads, in U-Haul trailers parked behind gas stations wrapped in moving blankets. I slept shivering in the backs of pickups and sweating in the rear seats of VW bugs. I slept on picnic tables at freeway rest stops and in front of a fifty-cent cup of coffee in a truck stop café. I slept on freeway on ramps, my back against a steel post for the ubiquitous black and white sign describing all things PROHIBITED, hitchhikers listed specifically. I slept in the sleepers of semi tractors, the air thick with the stink of bad breath, armpit sweat, ass and diesel, and sitting upright in the passenger seat feet braced on the dash against the buck of the cab. And I’ve not slept, because of fear, cold, hunger, or lack of opportunity in every possible combination.
Under freeway bridges, just below the deck, up and to your right as you drive under, there’s a concrete shelf four feet wide or so, three feet high, spanning the width of the bridge. Flat, clean, dry and mostly uncluttered with trash, they’re snug and tidy. I’ve laid out my sleeping bag on that shelf many times, maybe rolled a cigarette or a joint, and watched the trucks and cars coming out of the dark on my left, the twin beams flickering over the horizon growing brighter and more intense until the concrete path below is a ablaze in a dazzling brilliance so bright I reflexively blink and in that instant the brilliance is replaced by the ogre-roar of the diesel, a blast of oily air and the twin yellow streaks of the clearance lights all gone in an instant, and then the red fog of taillights twinkling into tiny red dots as they disappear into the dark on my right. And then I lie down in the deep shadow in my sleeping bag my jacket for a pillow and let the ogres lull me to sleep, dry, safe, invisible.
On September 8, 1974, Evel Knievel jumped the Snake River on his steam-powered “Skycycle.” Or tried to. The river canyon is a mile wide at his launch site, his parachute ‘malfunctioned’ just as his tires lifted off the ramp and he floated unhurt to the bottom of the canyon where he was “plucked from the river.” I was there but I didn’t stay, the entry fee was twenty-five dollars and I only had seven.
I spent a fine night under a bridge spanning the southbound lane of Interstate 5 in northern California. By dark, I was on the coast highway almost to Big Sur. I was standing on the shoulder thinking about where to sleep when Duck and Jimmy pulled over in a dusty red Cadillac Eldorado convertible, white top, red leather seats, New York plates. As I was trotting up, Duck opened the driver’s door and waved me over to his side. The car was a two-door, Jimmy was passed out drunk in the passenger seat so I had to climb in behind Duck.
It was dark, but climbing in under the dome light I could see Jimmy leaning unconscious against the passenger door, a bottle of Jim Beam in his lap. His mouth open, a string of drool dangling from his bottom lip and puddling on his suit jacket. He was snoring loud enough to hear over the sound of the car idling and me clambering in, shoving my bedroll in front of me. The car stunk like sweat and whiskey and new leather. I told Duck I was headed to San Diego.
He must have seen me looking at Jimmy because as soon as he was back in his seat, he reached over with his hand and gently wiped the spit off Jimmy’s mouth then wiped his hand on his jeans. He did it like he’d done it before.
Duck’s driving was slow, even for the curvy coast highway, braking the big car gently into the turns, the headlights lighting the stone barrier walls and beaming out over the black ocean hundreds of feet below, sweeping across stars and blue planets in a grand arc until the wheels were straight and Duck eased on the throttle and we motored gently on. Duck was just back from Viet Nam, Jimmy had picked him up in Ohio four days ago and bought him a pair of boots in Iowa.
Duck told me he thought Jimmy was a business guy. Something went wrong and he drove away. I asked if anybody was looking for him and he said, “Jimmy’s afraid of cops.”
Duck didn’t know what kind of business Jimmy was in, “I think he’s he’s got a wife.”
“He drunk all the time?”
“Until he sleeps it off enough to start drinking again.”
Not waiting for my questions, he said, “I sleep here,” he tapped the steering wheel , “if I say I’m hungry, Jimmy hands me twenties.”
“Him?”
“He eats whiskey. Case in the trunk.”
“Where’s he going?”
“No idea.”
“You?”
“I’m just driving.”
I woke up and we were in Morro Bay. The car stopped in a parking lot along the beach, Duck asleep behind the wheel. Jimmy was awake, sitting in his seat blinking at the ocean turning blue in the morning sun.
I told him I was getting out and he opened the door and leaned against the side of the car in his socks and crumpled suit while I climbed out, the drool stain dark and shiny on the lapel. He stood hunched over and swaying, gripping the window post with the hand that wasn’t holding the whiskey. “America’s a beautiful thing, remember that, son,” his words were quiet, slurred and clear. And I have remembered them, although for many years I didn’t think he was serious. He unscrewed the cap on the Jim Beam and looked out across the blue as I turned and walked away.