4/16/23
Newsletter #308
The Crack of Dawn
It was probably about 1980 and I was hitchhiking from L.A. to Detroit again. I was in Utah somewhere and it was about 110 degrees. I was dropped off at the bottom of a freeway exit ramp, then I walked over to on-ramp and headed back up the ramp to the road. At the end of the ramp I found a fellow already there hitchhiking. Well, hitchhiker’s etiquette says that if you find another hitchhiker on the ramp, they have the right of way. You wait until they get picked up before it’s your turn, although some people will hitch with you, but the more people there are the harder it is to get a ride. So, I was about to turn around and head back down the ramp when I noticed that this fellow was hopping around crazily, apparently freaking out. As I drew closer I could see that he was only wearing black socks, and the pavement had to be 120 degrees. A pair of black platform shoes sat on the shoulder.
The hitchhiker was a screwy-looking kid of 18-19, with wind-blown, tousled blond hair, and wearing a blue jean vest. As I neared, watching him hop around like maybe there were spiders I couldn’t see, I asked, “What are you doing?” He flashed a goofy smile and said, “I just wanted to see how hot it was.” I said, “Why don’t you put your shoes back on,” and he said, “Oh, OK,” and put on his silly platform shoes. I asked if he minded me hitching with him. No, no, he was all for it. I said, “Hi, I’m Josh,” and put out my hand. He said, “You can call me,” then turned around revealing the back of his homemade blue jean vest (he had cut the sleeves off a shirt), where it was very poorly embroidered, “The Partyin’ Fool.” He stated proudly, “You can call me the Partyin’ Fool.” Using my rapier-like wit, I said, “Can I just call you fool for short?”
It turned out the Partyin’ Fool was going to his home in Cleveland, and was a seriously stupid young man. They had recently built the Rock & Roll Hall of Fame in Cleveland, and the kid kept returning to and reiterating, “Cleveland rocks!”
After hours in the broiling sun, we were finally picked up in a piece of crap, 1966-67 green Chevy Nova with Ohio plates. In the front was an early-twenties white hippie couple, and in the back was a big Golden Retriever that, due to the heat, was drooling uncontrollably. The Partyin’ Fool got in front with the couple, and I got in back with the dog. There were empty beer cans and booze bottles everywhere, as well as crumpled fast food wrappers, and various other crap. It turned out that they too were from Cleveland and that’s where they were going. The Partyin’ Fool was ecstatic, and said, “Cleveland rocks!” The couple, who were no brain trusts themselves and were both drinking beer, joined in, “Cleveland rocks!” and off we drove into the Utah sunset.
At a point the dialogue between these idiots was so stupid, and wouldn’t stop with the Cleveland rocks thing, that I said, “But Detroit is the real home of rock & roll. We have Bob Seger, Motown, and Iggy Pop. You have a building called the Rock & Roll Hall of Fame. Detroit rocks.” They honestly became furious. That was too easy.
The long-haired fellow driving lit a joint and it smelled funky. It got to me and I took a tiny test hit – it was Angel Dust. I said, “No thanks,” and passed it back. The idiot driving, now fucked up on Angel Dust, decided to see how fast this old piece of crap car would go. As we were up to 80 or 90 mph, swerving all over both lanes, I petted the panting dog and made my peace with the universe: we were going to die.
But the universe intervened. Our car suddenly filled with beautiful, flashing red and blue lights – it was the Utah Highway Patrol, come to save my life. There were two police cars, they wore tan uniforms and Smoky the Bear hats, and all looked like straight-shooter Mormons, which was fine with me.
Seriously, when the white, hippy-dude driver got out of the car, beer cans fell out onto the pavement at the booted feet of this cop.
I took three steps away from the car, pulling out my Michigan driver’s license, trying to differentiate myself. No, I’m not with those idiots from Ohio.
The cop asked the driver, “Have you been drinking?” The driver said, “No, and I haven’t been smoking Angel Dust, either.” The cops all looked at each other and said, “Who said anything about Angel Dust?” The driver said, “Well, I haven’t been smoking it.”
All four cops turned to me. I showed them my license, told them I was a hitchhiker and completely sober of alcohol and Angel Dust. The cops conferred, then gave me back my license and said, “Get these people out of Utah.” I said, “Yes, sir.”
They let us go with me driving. Within minutes everybody passed out, including the dog. Luckily there was gas in the car. I drove all night to Denver, which was where I intended to go. I was going to see my old pal Stan from Detroit who was attending law school in Denver.
It was dawn as got off the freeway in Denver. Everybody was still asleep. I pulled into a gas station and parked the car at the back. I turned off the engine, took my pack, got out of the car, then quietly pushed the door closed. I tip-toed away.
I did see my buddy Stan in Denver. But I do think of those Clevelanders, the Partyin’ Fool, and the hippy couple, and the dog, waking up in a car having absolutely no idea where they were. Cleveland rocks, indeed.
Well, at least my day is starting off well.