Everett, Washington
At the Beehive Café one egg is 25 cents. It’s $2 for an egg at Denny’s.
Yesterday we were picked up by two fishermen, Ed and Reilly. Then we got a ride with Mark, who let us sleep in his trailer. At six this morning, he bounded into the living room naked and said, “Let’s go!”
He had just returned from his high school reunion. He was in the band.
October 27, 1977
Blaine, Oregon
Some asshole stopped last night and pointed at Ronnie, saying, “I’ll take the girl.”
October 29, 1977
Portland, Oregon
Ronnie and I are at the Broadway Hotel, a cheap and depressing place. Scary. There is a real poor and a funky poor. This is the real kind. The lobby is full of dying old people, cripples, and a girl who ate hamburger after hamburger, pouring ketchup on every bite. Toilets are down the hall. Our carpet has vomit on it. We have a torn-up kitchen chair and a nasty bed. The second floor smells like doughnuts, but ours smells like puke and piss. Our fellow guests, winos and the down-on-their-luck, are the ones our parents always warned us about.
November 6, 1977
San Francisco, California
I called home and talked to Mom. It was so nice to hear her voice, I didn’t want to hang up. She said Paul was hurt that I hadn’t written to him, but I just did a few days ago.
November 9, 1977
Bakersfield, California
We finally made it to Bakersfield. The countryside here is flat and scrubby. A guy named Doug gave us a nice long ride and told us about his cousin who got stabbed.
Last night under the stars in a pasture in our sleeping bags, I poured my guts out and said things I was afraid to admit even to myself. And you know, it felt good and not as hopeless as I thought. All that had been inside for so long.
November 11, 1977
Kingman, Arizona
Last night we crawled into the dry, sandy riverbed next to the Texaco station across the road from the Liberty Bell Lounge and slept. It is warm, and we are waiting for Al, the Apache guy who rescued us from the Hoover Dam. Ronnie and I were there for hours. At one point a patrolman stopped and told us we were in a bad place to get a ride. Duh.
It got dark. Camping meant climbing sharp rocks to more sharp rocks. By the Coke machine at the Mead Lake lookout point, we ate a can of kidney beans. I can’t recall the brand. No change, so no Coke. Then Al and Phil stopped. Their car was packed, but Al said he couldn’t bear to see anyone stranded like that. They spent the night at the B&R Motel but promised to fetch us this morning and carry us on to Phoenix.
Someone said a few days ago, “Whatever you do, don’t get stuck in Kingman,” but Phil says, “Don’t believe everything you hear or fifty percent of what you see.”
November 12, 1977
Tucson, Arizona
There are a lot of older hitchhikers in Tucson. At the urinal I met Jimmy Buck. He offered us a ride to Texas—six hundred miles—if we’d help him unload a truckful of grapes. We did and are on our way.
November 16, 1977
Temple, Texas
Civilization means not waiting five hours for a ride. Round Rock is civilized, Austin is too, but I’m not sure about Temple.
Right after I wrote that, a Scientologist in a Rambler drove up, a mural painter from Dallas. A good guy. Ronnie left her guitar in his car. So long, guitar. The Scientologist played tapes. We smoked pot. In Austin we were picked up by an alcoholic. He’s been arrested for drunk driving four times. “SOL,” he said. “Shit out of luck.” He said he wasn’t drunk now but would definitely be arrested if they gave him a Breathalyzer.
November 21, 1977
West Virginia?
Ronnie and I went our separate ways in Cullowhee. She’s heading to Raleigh, and I’m underneath an interstate bridge waiting for the rain to calm down. Several of the drivers that stopped today took off laughing just as I reached their cars looking grateful and relieved. There are a lot of dead birds down here. I feel itchy.
November 23, 1977
Kent, Ohio
I got here yesterday afternoon. Then Todd and I each took three hits of sugar cube acid. Too much. It was a real bad trip, like torture, enough to turn someone into a Christian. I’ve been up for two days.
Coming here by myself from Cullowhee, I had my first bad ride—a thirty-five-year-old with flag decals on the windshield of his pickup truck. Ray T., his name was. He picked me up in Knoxville and said he’d take me forty miles. First he spent three hours playing pool and drinking beer. I waited outside in a rocking chair and smoked a joint. I should have left, but the highway was deserted. No cars, and I was twenty miles from the interstate.
After Ray T. left the bar, he was weaving and slurring his words. I figured I’d get out once we hit a busy road because you really don’t want to be in a car with a drunk. His conversation was hard to follow, and he stopped every mile or so to pee or light a cigarette. When he saw two girls hitchhiking, he picked them up and gave them a ride to their door. Then he had a cheeseburger. It started to rain. When we hit the interstate, I said, “You can just let me out here.”
He said no, he couldn’t let me hitchhike in this weather. He said I had to spend the night with him. He was drunk and yelling, “Ray T. always gets what he wants, and this is what I want.”
I asked him again to let me out, and he said no. Then he started asking me questions. “When was the last time you jacked off? Sometimes does it get hard just thinking about it?” He told me to move close to him, and when I said no he grabbed me and yanked me over and stuck his hand down my pants. I was afraid. It was late, raining, and he was speeding and drunk. If I’d hit him or tried to get away, we could have had an accident. I was scared and humiliated. When he pulled off onto a smaller road, I opened the door and jumped out. He stopped and I grabbed my wet knapsack from the back and ran.
It was cold, and I heard him come after me. Then he got back in his truck, and when I saw it heading in my direction, I hid. After he drove off, I turned and ran onto the interstate and waved my arms. In a few minutes three assholes stopped and took me to Cincinnati. They were from Illinois and threw cans out the window. One of them said that niggers should still be slaves. I thought, Oh, boy. What a day.
December 1, 1977
West Virginia
I’m in a seafood place drinking coffee. I need to get to Raleigh, but so far rides are sparse. I have a joint and $3. I remember being appalled when David Larson hitchhiked to North Carolina with $1 in his pocket, and now here I am. I started the day with a ceramic pig but abandoned it after it got to be a drag to carry.
December 15, 1977
Chapel Hill, North Carolina
I found a job today, just like I told myself I would. Three dollars an hour washing dishes at the Carolina Coffee Shop.
1978
January 13, 1978
Chapel Hill
1. I’m cold.