In the late summer of 1971 my college friend Paul Deseret and I were hitchhiking from Boston to San Francisco. Our friends were living in the Haight. They were girls. I had had sex with one of them and sleeping with Marilyn again was enough of a reason to cross a continent, especially since neither of us had ever been farther east than the Adirondacks.
Paul and I were longhairs. We got rides fast from vans and truckers. West of Des Moines a Dodge Super Bee stopped for us. We ran to the muscle car, expecting the driver, to patch rubber and pop a middle finger out the window. The motorhead waited instead. The engine throbbed with low intensity. I ran to the passenger side.
"Hi." Acting friendly was part of hitchhiking.
"My name's Lucky. I'm going to LA." The driver's long red hair was slicked back with Brylcream. His arms were stained with old tattoos. His jaws were grinding teeth.
"We're heading to San Francisco." I yanked open the door.
"I don't know." Paul clocked Lucky as a speed freak.
"It'll be night soon."
Paul was a math major same as me. He calculated the odds of surviving this ride.
"San Francisco is in the different direction than Los Angeles." His girlfriend was waiting for him in Milwaukee. We were stopping there on the way back from the coast.
"There's only one road here and it's heading west." I shoved Paul in the back and sat in the front.
"I'll take you as far as Winnemucca." Lucky revved the engine and broke from the shoulder in front of a piggy-backing long-hauler.
"Great." I had no idea where Winnemucca was, but Lucky's muscle-car version of the Coronet had a 440 cu in V8 engine.
It was more than fast.
He drove 110mph from Omaha to Nevada. He had one 8-track for the stereo. We listened to BAD COMPANY probably fifteen times before he nodded at the wheel. His foot was on the gas.
I steered from the passenger seat.
"Was I out for long?" he asked west of Laramie.
"About two hours." I released the wheel.
Paul was asleep in the back.
It was better if he didn't know about my co-piloting.
"Thanks for keeping us on the road." Lucky's hands seized the steering wheel in a death grip. His foot crushed the pedal to the floor.
Wyoming became a blur.
"You want me to drive?"
"Naw, I'm good."
He stopped only for gas and Coca-Cola to wash down beanies.
When he missed the Winnemucca turning, I said nothing.
"What the fuck am I doing in Reno?" Lucky snapped out of his speed trance upon seeing the Sierras. It was a little after dawn. He turned south on US 395 and stopped the car.
We got out.
The sun was bright. "Have a good time in Frisco."
"You too."
Paul and I stood on shoulder of the highway leading into the mountains. Back in 1849 the Donner Party had eaten each other in those steep heights. This was not winter and thirty minutes later a shiny blue 1965 Riviera stopped for us.
“My friends just got out of prison. I want to celebrate with them. Can you drive?” The dark-skinned driver was sweating behind the wheel. The fifty year-old Mexican smelled of hard alcohol. A bottle of whiskey was held by a bleary-eyed Indian in the back and a scarred black man was leaning against the window.
"Yes." I had reservations. "But you look full."
Not full, only drunk. You wanna to drive. My two brothers just got out of the can in Nevada. We want to drink our way to Frisco." He opened the door and stepped out of the car. He was only five feet tall. "You can drive right?"
“I'm stone-cold sober."
Paul was shaking his head.
“Cool, but I wanna you to drive fast. I want me some pussy,” the black man replied before downing a long slug of bourbon. “It’s been a long time. Maybe I’ll get me some hippie pussy.”
“Maybe you will.” I sat behind the steering wheel. The Riviera had only 2000 miles on the speedometer.
“This car isn’t stolen, is it?” Paul got into the back on the hump.
“The keys are in the ignition.”
Paul shook his head.
"You don't have any guns?" They looked the type, especially the old black git in the back.
"No, only whiskey." The Mexican smiled with two gleaming gold teeth filling a gap in his grin.
"Sure." I was a sucker for a fast car after the ride with Lucky.
"This is not a good idea." Paul was jammed in the back between the indian and the black man.
"I'm driving. How bad can it be?" I was also a Math major.
"Just don't kill us."
The gas tank was full. The highway was recently paved. I stepped on the gas.
The Riviera's nailhead V-8 easily produced enough power to motor up the steep Sierras. I had checked out the price of one last summer. The dealer had asked for $5000 and now one was in my hands.
It hit 100 without any strain.
The convicts talked wildly about their years in prison. The first bottle of whiskey was replaced by a second. I had a sip. The outside temperature was in the 90s. The AC chilled the interior of the Riviera to the coolness of a summer day in Bar Harbor, Maine.
Once we topped the pass, I caught a radio station from San Francisco.
KAZU.
The DJ played HP Lovecraft's WHITE SHIP
Paul and I were into the home stretch.
The Riviera's top speed was 115.
East of the Bay the driver said he wanted to take over the rest of the way.
"I don't need some white ass long-haired chauffeur to take me home." The whiskey was turning him mean.
"No worries." I pulled off I-80 into a service station. Paul and I got out of the car.
"You white boys ain't comin' with us." The Chicano was wavering in his wide-legged stance.
"You're not in any condition to drive." I felt responsible for them.
"Fuck you, gringo." He sat in the front seat.
"Have a good day." His epithet had negated my obligation.
The Riviera pulled out of the gas station.
“I’m glad to be out of that car.” It had been a long ride for Paul. The Indian and old black man had been feeling up the long-haired math major the entire distance, figured him for stick pussy.
"Me too."
We walked to the onramp. A sign warned against hitchhiking. ChiPs in California hated hippies.
"So we're walking to San Francisco?" Paul was wearing heavy Frye boots.
“”Maybe not.” I pointed to a Riviera back at the gas station.
It had stopped half in and out of the road.
The reverse taillights lit up and the car backed into the gas station to ram the gas pumps. Both exploded and engulfed the Riviera in flames. The driver jumped out of the car. His two friends were struggling to open the passenger door. Paul and I ran to the driver's side and pulled out the two ex-cons. The station attendant extinguished the fire with an extinguisher. He was not happy. His two pumps were trash.
“Why you leave the car in reverse?” the driver asked with a whiskey-thick tongue.
“Me?” I stepped up to him. He might have been a convict, but I was younger by a good 30 years. “I didn’t do nothing wrong.”
A state trooper pulled into the gas station. The convict told him his side of the story and I told him mine. The cop came over after his radio call and said, “That car is stolen. Best you go unless you want to spend more time with your friends.”
“We’re going.” Peter picked up his bag and we went over to the highway. A hippie gave us a ride ten minutes later. The VW van's top speed was 60.
"Now I'm happy." Paul lit up our last joint.
"We're in California."
The trip from coast to coast took us 47 hours. It could have taken a lifetime if it hadn't been for the cop.
That evening we partied with the girls. Marilyn had a guitarist boyfriend. Paul and I crashed on the floor.
The next day we wandered through the Haight.
We were three years late for Frisco’s Summer of Love. Groovy was gone and after two days Marilyn hinted at our leaving. We were third wheels on a scooter.
Paul and I walked to the Golden Gate Bridge. It was our starting point home.
I stuck out my thumb.
Late or not for the Summer of Love we were still long-hairs and the road north was open all the way to Alaska.
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