3/7/23
Newsletter #268
The Crack of Dawn
Back in the summer of 1975, I continued to hitchhike to L.A. After many rides of varying distances, I found myself in the middle of the desert in Utah with nothing in sight in any direction, and absolutely no cars going either way. There seemed to be no point in just standing there with my thumb out, so I began hiking. It was a hot, clear, sunny day, and I just marched along through the seemingly endless desert. And perhaps this is where I started my habit of singing as loud as I could, where I knew no one could here me. I recall walking over a rise in the road, while singing The Moody Blues, and a gorgeously lit, mile-long butte came into sight. And I thought, being sixteen, going on seventeen in a month, “This is great. Spectacular. Why would anybody ever be unhappy?” I swear to God.
I’d had so many good rides the day before, one after another all the way across Wyoming, and now there was absolutely nothing. Was I going to have to walk the rest of the way to L.A.? And then an old pickup truck drove up and stopped. There were four young men, all wearing cowboy hats, smashed into the cab. They drunkenly demanded that I too get into the cab with them – I was perfectly happy to ride in back – causing one guy to have sit on another guy’s lap, which seemed weird. They were all drinking beer and eating pizza and offered me both. Having not eaten since breakfast, I was famished. Gratefully, I accepted a slice of cold pizza and a can of warm beer. This was great. I asked, “How far are you going?” They said, “We’re getting off right here.” They turned onto a dirt track that led God knows where, stopped and let me off. It had only been a two-mile ride, and I was still in the middle of the desert, but now I had a slice of pizza and a beer.
I had planned on taking Interstate-70 through the middle of the country, like Kansas and Colorado, but had somehow ended up on I-80, the more northerly route. I didn’t care, I was still going west.
There was almost no traffic going either way, so I walked and walked and walked. I felt alive and free and adventurous; full of piss and vinegar. I sang all of my favorite songs, as well as the total ear-bug hit of that summer, Black Water by the Doobie Brothers. “Oh, black water/Keep on rollin’/Mississippi moon won’t you keep on shinin’ on me/Keep on shinin’ your light/Gonna make everything all right . . .”
Then an overstuffed VW wagon stopped. A severely drowsy young man rolled down the window and asked, “Have you got a driver’s license?” I said yes. He said, “Good. You drive,” got out of the car and went around to the passenger seat. I got in and the guy was already curled up and ready to pass out. I asked, “Where are we going?” He said, “San Francisco. I have to get there as soon as possible,” and passed out. OK, San Francisco. I was in no hurry to get to L.A., although I’d only left Detroit maybe sixty or seventy hours earlier. The whole trip was going way faster than I anticipated.
I drove this guy’s car a thousand miles: across Utah, all the way across the vast, empty expanse of Nevada, and through the steep, scary, tortuous, Sierra Nevada Mountains, and the guy never woke up. He woke up enough to give me a credit card, but he was out. When we got to San Francisco I woke him up and he begrudgingly took over driving. And since he was grumpy and had no idea where he was going, I just got out of the car in downtown San Francisco.
I marched through the city wearing my backpack and hiking boots. I decided that I would spend the night at the YMCA. I looked it up in the phone book, then got on a city bus. Sitting across from me was a young hippy guy with two cute hippy girls. They questioned me and were all fascinated by my trip. They lived in a commune in Haight-Asbury and said, “Don’t stay at the Y, stay at our place.” I said, “Sure.” They said, “We’re just going to play Pachinko in Chinatown, come on along,” and I said, “Sure.” And off we went. At that point I didn’t know how long I had been awake. Probably since a few days earlier at Virgil’s house, with his lovely daughter, Amy, who was sadly only getting Cs and Ds.
Ding-ding-ding, flashing lights, and there I was playing Pachinko, which is a gambling game. I felt like I was tripping. And one of the two hippy girls, named Hope, clearly liked me . . .
Now I’m telling serials.
It snowed like a mo-fo here in Motown, so now I’m gonna go to Florida tomorrow. Fun and adventure await me. But the Crack of Dawn will go on, if I have anything to do with it.
And you have fun, too. Please. And whatever you do, don’t touch blasting caps. They will hurt you.