3/10/23
Newsletter #270
The Crack of Dawn
Meanwhile, back in 1981 on my cross country hitchhiking trip, when we left off I had just somehow managed to escape Denver. After a number of nameless rides I found myself in Salinas, Kansas. It was a clear, warm, sunny day, and late afternoon, so I decided to call it a day. I hiked off the freeway, up a hill and into a little wooded area, where I set up my tent and casually camped for the night. There were a million stars visible in the vast, clear, Kansas night sky, and I felt alive and vital and glad I’d gotten out of the hell out of L.A.
The next day I hiked back down to the freeway and stuck out my thumb. Soon I got a ride from a friendly, thin, upbeat black fellow of about forty in a yellow sweater with a tie beneath. After a pleasant, convivial hour the fellow asked, “Would you like me to suck your dick?” I said, “No, thank you.” Once we got past his discomfort of both coming out and being rejected, then finding that I wasn’t the slightest bit offended, which was probably uniquely surprising in Kansas in 1981, I asked what he did. He said that he was an elementary school music teacher. I said, “I’ll just bet you know some Broadway songs?” He lit up, because of course he knew all the broadway songs, and he and I happily sang My Fair Lady and Cabaret as we drove across Kansas. Along the way he bought me an all-you-can-eat pancake lunch.
In Nebraska I was picked up by a forty-year-old white guy in a shirt and tie. He was friendly and conversational and after an hour – I swear – he asked, “Can I suck your dick?” I politely refused, and once again we went through the poor guy’s shameful apologies until he realized that I didn’t care. My placating explanation in both cases was, “I’m from Hollywood.” I asked what he did for a living, and he said, “I’m an elemenary school music teacher.” I said, “I’ll just bet you know some Broadway tunes.” He said, “Are you kidding, I know all the Broadway songs.” And off we went across Nebraska – “I could have danced all night/I could have danced all night/And still have asked for me . . .” This guy bought me dinner.
Next I was in a rainstorm at night right in the city of St. Louis. A white Mustang picked me up. It was driven by a heavyset fellow in a stained white jumpsuit. And once again we went through the painful ritual of him asking if I wanted my dick sucked, me saying no, but it’s OK, him asking what I was you doing there? Hitchhiking to New York. So he drove me through St. Louis in a storm and told me about being a jet fuel loader at the airport. We didn’t sing Broadway songs, but he was happy to get me through the city, which I found difficult to navigate.
Cut and I’m in a big lonely stretch of Pennsylvania at night and it’s still raining. Only now it’s cold. Still, I’m prepared – I’m wearing a t-shirt, a flannel shirt, and an army coat, and I have gloves in my pack should I need them – and I just hiked along the freeway singing songs. I recall trying to get through the multitude of verses of American Pie, and failing. Finally, I was picked up by a 1964 Mack truck driven by two white, redneck, assholes on speed. Shifting gears was a Herculean task with this old tank, which included double-clutching while pulling and pushing two grinding stick shifts. And all these two knuckleheads could talk about was “trucker’s whores.” Apparently, at big truck stops along the interstate, prostitutes plied their trade. Since they had recently purchased this old truck, they were new to the experience of trucking, and coming up in the next hundred miles was a big truck stop. It was a huge lot and there were a hundred trucks. These idiots were absolutely giddy by the time they found a parking place and worked their way in. When we finally stopped and were now part of the truck community, where trucker’s whores were undoubtedly to be found, I snuck off and returned to the road.
It was the middle of the night in a chilly storm and there was no traffic. I just hiked and hiked and hiked. I don’t recall feeling any discomfort. I felt like the cold rain whipping me in the face was why I was there. Finally, an eastern Indian guy driving a car pulling a U-Haul trailer took me all the way to Hobken, New Jersey. From there I took the bus into the city.
When I arrived at Union Station I called my sister Pam who was working at Ann Taylor clothing store. She said to come and meet her. I could take a cab. I said, “Are you nuts? I’ll walk.” And it’s not that far, like thirty blocks, from the 20s to 57th St. Plus, I was a bit of a sight, even in NYC. This bearded mountain guy with a big pack huffing it through the city.
And this was where, as I passed Carnegie Hall, I found myself astride with a short, older, white-haired man with a big nose. We stopped at a light and we looked at each other. It was Elia Kazan. His expression said to me, “OK, you know who I am, now what are you going to do?” I smiled and kept going. I did look back, and there he was standing there. Wow. I came to New York, and I didn’t meet Elia Kazan, but I happened upon him. And in retrospect, it occurring around Carnegie Hall makes sense.
So, I made it from Los Angeles to New York City, and maybe it took four days. I loved hitchhiking.
Morning has broken over Delray Beach, Florida, and it’s glorious.